Chapter 17 #3
“I do not believe that to be such an anathema,” I assured him. “Not like some members of society do.” My lips twisted as I dared to voice a thought I often had. “In fact, I daresay, a bit of proper employment would do a number of gentlemen I know a bit of good.”
This made Milngavie grin, however briefly. “Aye, well, some of my family members cannot even cling to the edges of the genteel professions.”
I turned to him, realizing what he was saying. “Some of them work in mills or factories.”
He nodded. “Some of my cousins work in a cotton mill, and the conditions I’ve been told of…” His face flushed with anger. “And the number of children who work there, the injuries some of them have suffered…” He inhaled deeply, trying to squelch his fury. “It would turn your stomach, my lady.”
I’d heard some tales. Enough that I could well imagine. I pressed my hand against his arm, letting him know that I understood, that I empathized.
“Yet men like Birnam insist it’s good for them.” His Scottish brogue had begun to creep into his accent again, and I took that as a sign he was growing comfortable with me.
A house sparrow sang in the branches overhead as we neared the end of the path and the line of topiaries emerged. Soon we would be in the gardens, and the opportunity to converse in private would be over, so I slowed my steps and then stopped. He looked at me in query.
“I know you said you’d never met Mr. Birnam before three days ago, but what of his secretary, Miss Whitlock?” My tone hopefully conveyed this was not an accusation but rather a bid for information.
He clasped his hands behind his back, turning to survey the upper facade of Bevington Hall rising above the topiaries.
Seeming to come to some sort of decision, he lowered his voice before confiding, “I had not met her, but I knew of her.” The manner in which his mouth had set in a grim line made my stomach dip.
“I heard she was touring the mills and factories, speaking to the workers.”
“She was gatherin’ information,” he confirmed. “Information I’m not certain her employer wanted her tae know.”
“Was she planning to…expose something?” I murmured.
He shook his head. “I dinna ken. Once I realized Birnam was here, and her wi’ him, I’d hoped she’d speak wi’ me and Strathblane. Obviously, we never got the chance. But I can tell ye that if Birnam had suspected she meant tae betray him…” He grimaced. “Weel, you witnessed his temper.”
This information corroborated some of our suspicions, but it was far from proof.
“But what of the arrow fired at Mr. Birnam yesterday?” I asked, curious if he would go farther in his theories than he had yesterday with Lord Strathblane.
“Doesn’t that suggest that Birnam is also in danger?
That perhaps he was the intended victim rather than Miss Whitlock?
” I didn’t mention the note Birnam had allegedly received or Miss Whitlock’s request that I meet her.
“I must confess, I’ve been pondering what happened yesterday. In fact, I’ve thought of little else. And I simply cannot comprehend how another archer could have fired an arrow without my noticing.” His jaw firmed. “Indeed, I would go so far as to say that I think it impossible.”
I nodded. “Then you think it came from the woods?”
I couldn’t tell whether I’d given my intent away or he was trying to decide how much to entrust me with, for he hesitated, scrutinizing my features intently. “Or…Birnam planted that arrow.” It was spoken carefully…as if the suggestion might be snapped back in the next moment.
“I admit,” I said, equally as hesitant, “the thought crossed my mind.” The sound of voices in the distance drew my attention toward the gardens beyond our view. “The trouble is proof.”
“Aye.” I could hear the deep disgruntlement in this acknowledgment.
I began strolling toward the house again, trusting him to follow. “That first evening,” I broached after a few steps, “you left the dining room while the men were still taking port.” It wasn’t a question precisely, but I hoped he would answer it.
“I did. I…needed a moment to myself.”
I recalled how Birnam had tried to dominate the conversation and how agitated Milngavie had seemed. Now knowing his history, I could understand why he would wish to escape Birnam.
“I stepped into the blue room. The one that’s been closed off since…” He didn’t finish that sentence but frowned to himself.
Then Mr. Thorndike had undoubtedly departed before him, and Milngavie was unlikely to have witnessed whether someone was standing on the balcony over the great hall or to have seen Miss Whitlock and me conversing.
I was beginning to think that Miss Whitlock’s anxiety about being overheard was just what I’d initially believed it to be—nerves.
Perhaps no one had been eavesdropping on us after all.
But then how had the attacker known about our planned meeting? Had Miss Whitlock informed someone else? Either someone she trusted for support or someone she thought should also hear what she wanted to tell me? Or had she been followed?
I was beginning to think we might never know.