Chapter 9 #3
If it was true, my heart ached for the poor girl who certainly didn’t deserve to be attacked, no matter if she was a rival or not.
I wanted to ask what had happened to the jealous assailant and the unfaithful suitor, whether any justice had been done, but I’d long ago learned that the law was far from impartial and that families of high rank rarely suffered genuine consequences for their actions, especially when appearances were everything. Perhaps it was better not to know.
“She probably thought she’d merely disfigure the girl,” Lady Brougham pronounced over the rim of her glass as she stared at Mrs. Birnam, returning to the topic of Miss Whitlock. “That it would discourage her husband’s attentions.”
Lady Lyndhurst seemed to approve. “A vicious plan, especially considering she used the vitriol produced in his own factory.”
Evidently, I’d not been wrong that assumptions would be made about Miss Whitlock’s relationship with Mr. Birnam. Assumptions that were unfair if what Trevor had been led to believe was true. Was there some way to confirm it?
My gaze slid toward where Mr. Birnam stood along the pebbly shore of the river, watching the other men fish for chub and pike.
His manservant, Paget, hovered a few paces behind him, ready to assist should he need it.
The squat, balding man might be the only one who knew the truth, but reports were that he was loyal to Birnam.
As such, it was difficult to believe that whatever he chose to tell us would be fact and not just what Birnam wished him to say.
Leaving the shade of the oak and the persistent chirping of a grey wagtail overhead, as well as the chirping women below the branches, I made my way toward the riverbank, curious whether any of the gentlemen were in a talkative mood.
Most of them stood in clusters of two or three, casting their lines out over the place where the river twisted and widened to form a languid pool.
Here and there, mallards and moorhens dotted the edges lined with fool’s watercress, watching over the nests of their broods.
Water boatmen and whirligig beetles danced on the sun-speckled surface of the water, twirling around the thin fishing lines.
The estate’s gamekeeper had told me that otters swam in the river but cautioned me that they could be elusive. So while I kept my eyes peeled for any sign of their sleek bodies, I didn’t expect to see them. Not with all the noise some of the men were making.
Melbourne, Baron Foley, and Lord Gage, in particular, were making no effort to be quiet.
And Lord Strathblane was prattling rather loudly to Philip, but I suspected that was more to do with his being hard of hearing.
Farther upstream, Lord Lyndhurst kept aiming sharp glances toward the trio whenever their voices carried to him.
It was clear he took his angling quite seriously.
I spied Lord Milngavie a short distance in the opposite direction downstream.
He didn’t have a fishing pole but seemed deep in thought.
Or perhaps just deeply interested in the dragonflies wheeling through the air around him.
Recalling that he was one of the men who had departed the dining room prematurely the previous evening, I began to make my way over to him.
Passing a patch of alder trees growing nearly right up into the river, I caught sight of Alfie with one foot propped against a large rock where Jemmy Birnam perched.
They were tucked out of sight of most of the others.
I was glad to see Alfie doing exactly what I’d suggested and so did not wish to disturb them.
But as I began to move on, Alfie surprised me by beckoning me over.
Jemmy, who was staring perhaps unseeing at a patch of moss, didn’t turn to squint up at me until I was almost upon them.
His appearance was rather ghastly, and judging from his gray complexion and furrowed brow, he was crapulous and suffering for it.
I noticed myself that young Birnam had already been three sheets to the wind by the end of dinner, and Alfie had suggested he had only gotten more intoxicated.
“I was just telling Mr. Birnam that you’d expressed concern about his illness yesterday evening,” Alfie prompted, obviously wishing for Jemmy to repeat something he’d already told him.
I nodded, playing along.
Jemmy grunted. “Don’t mind me, my lady. ’Twas my own doing. Nothing for you to be concerned about.” He sounded melancholy and dejected, his usual surliness and unpleasant demeanor temporarily blunted.
“That may be,” I said measuredly. “But you are our guest. And one who has suffered a great loss. So if there’s anything I can do…”
His face screwed up as if he tasted something bitter. I allowed my words to trail away, hoping he would explain his reaction.
“ ’Tis no great loss.” His dark eyes lifted, pinning me. “I saw Portia speaking to you yesterday evening, and while I don’t know what she said, it was undeniably rubbish.”
I stiffened in surprise, both at the vehemence in his tone and the fact he must have been referring to when Miss Whitlock and I were conferring in the great hall after dinner, for that was the only moment we’d spoken.
The fact he’d so readily admitted to seeing us either spoke to his innocence or revealed stupidity and bravado.
“I learned long ago not to trust a word she said,” he continued. “So whatever she claimed or complained about, it was pure fiction.”