Chapter 23 #2
She began to feel apprehensive about their meeting with Mrs. Fenwick.
Helena understood that a gentleman would not ordinarily bring his wife to such a meeting, particularly in a part of town such as that, but she appreciated that Tristan had thought to include her.
Besides, it was hardly usual to investigate whether one's former fiancé had murdered her husband's first wife and younger brother.
The entire situation felt as though it belonged in a Gothic novel, made all the more absurd by the rain that continued to beat against the carriage windows.
Tristan reached for his hat when the carriage came to a stop. A footman descended and knocked upon the door of the house. Helena could not see the door from where she sat, but she watched as the footman exchanged a few words with someone inside before turning back toward the carriage.
A moment later, the door opened, and the footman stepped forward to lower the carriage steps. Tristan descended first, then turned and offered Helena his hand. She placed her gloved fingers in his and stepped down beside him.
Together, they crossed the short distance to the house, where the front door stood open. A woman in her fifties stood just inside, her face pale and fear stricken as she stared at them.
“Please, My Lord and Lady, come inside out of the foul weather,” she said, her voice faltering with nerves.
Helena followed Mrs. Fenwick into the house and was led to a small sitting room overlooking the street. Through the window, she could see their carriage waiting below, rain running in rivulets down the glass.
“Thank you, Mrs. Fenwick,” Tristan said. “Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Lady Blackmere.”
Mrs. Fenwick and Helena exchanged the customary greetings before their hostess invited them to sit.
“Allow me a moment. I shall bring a pot of tea, if that would suit you.”
“Yes, please. That would be lovely,” Helena replied warmly, hoping the familiar ritual might help Mrs. Fenwick feel more comfortable.
Mrs. Fenwick soon returned with a tray and poured the tea, following their preferences for milk and sugar before taking her own seat. Once all three were seated, Tristan began to explain the reason for their visit.
“My apologies for calling upon you so unexpectedly,” he said. “I realize this must come as an unusual surprise.”
“Most certainly. I do not think I have ever had anyone grander in my sitting room.” Mrs. Fenwick shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her eyes moving about the modest room as though suddenly conscious of every worn piece of furniture within it.
Helena understood the embarrassment beneath her words. “It is a most comfortable room,” she said gently. “I imagine you must have winter sunlight streaming through these windows. It must be a joy to sit here on a cold, bright morning.”
“Oh, it is, My Lady.” Mrs. Fenwick smiled, and seemed to relax for a moment.
“Forgive me for being frank,” Tristan said, “but I am here because of my late wife, Elinor.”
He was about to continue when Mrs. Fenwick murmured beneath her breath. “I knew it…” She looked up and drew herself upright. “I thought you might come.”
“You did?” Tristan asked, his brows drawing together.
“Pritchard warned me that he intended to come clean. He urged me to do the same.” She placed her cup upon the table between them. “I had hoped…” Tears gathered in her eyes, and her voice faltered. “I do not know what I had hoped for, in truth.” She pressed a handkerchief to her eyes.
“Mrs. Fenwick,” Helena said gently, seeing the guilt and fear in the woman's expression. “Perhaps now is the time.”
After a long moment, Mrs. Fenwick cleared her throat and nodded.
“When Pritchard told me he intended to come clean, I said I could not. I was too afraid to.” She drew a trembling breath.
“But I have not been able to sleep for the last three years. My dreams are haunted by what I did; and when I am awake, I fear the threats that were made will one day be carried out.” She lowered the handkerchief into her lap.
“I am tired of living in guilt and fear. The day after I told Pritchard I could not confess, I decided that if anyone from your family or the authorities ever came to ask me what had happened, I would tell the truth.”
“Who are you afraid of?” Tristan asked, leaning forward.
Mrs. Fenwick hesitated and closed her eyes, as though summoning the courage to speak the name. “Lord Ravenscroft.”
There it was. Helena placed her own cup upon the table and clasped her hands tightly together.
“Mrs. Fenwick, I wish to know everything,” Tristan said, his voice firm but not unkind.
“It is time.” Mrs. Fenwick dabbed at her eyes before continuing.
“My husband used to work for the baron, and he was well looked after. But shortly before his death, he became nervous and was determined to find employment elsewhere. He would not tell me why, he said it would endanger me.” She drew a shaky breath.
“Then he was found drowned in the river… It never sat right with me that he could simply have toppled over and drowned, but that was what they said. When the baron approached me, offering me work for a friend upon a noble estate, I accepted. I thought it would be good for myself and my little one. I had been without work since my daughter’s birth. ”
She paused, her fingers tightening around the handkerchief in her lap.
“The day I left, he handed me my letter of recommendation and said that instructions would soon follow. He told me that if I spoke out, I would find myself in an institution, and my daughter would be taken from me and placed in an orphanage.”
Her voice dropped. “It was then that I knew what had happened to my husband, and I became terrified of what I was stepping into.”
“I do not recall you having a daughter at Blackmere,” Tristan said after a moment's silence. “Where was she?”
Mrs. Fenwick drew a deep breath. “Before the baron gave me my letter, he said there would be accommodation for her under his housekeeper's care until I was settled in my new employment. Once his housekeeper had taken her away, that was when he gave me the letter and made his threat.”
“He is without morals,” Tristan said, his voice low with anger. “To prey upon a grieving widow and use your daughter as leverage…”
Mrs. Fenwick dabbed at her tears. “I wish I had gone straight to the authorities. But who would believe me over a baron? And I thought the employment was secure, but your butler was none the wiser. I remember hoping he would not hire me, but then he did, and I met your poor wife.”
“Mrs. Fenwick,” Helena said, “who is the Pritchard you spoke of?”
“Mr. Samuel Pritchard.” Mrs. Fenwick swallowed.
“He was the liaison between the baron and myself.” She drew another shallow breath.
“He was the man who instructed me what to put in Elinor's tea. He worked for the baron and came to live in the village not long after I arrived at Blackmere. He made certain I carried out the orders.”
“Did you know what you were putting in her tea?” Tristan asked, his voice filled with grief.
“He would not tell me at first, but it was not long before I knew.” Mrs. Fenwick lowered her gaze. “It was a white powder, and I was told to increase the amount with time… It was arsenic.”
The room fell into stunned silence. Beyond the windows, rain continued to strike the glass, while the distant sounds of the street carried faintly into the room. Mrs. Fenwick's sniffs were the only other sound.
“I…” Her voice broke. “I did not want to do it.” She dissolved into tears. “I am so sorry, My Lord. So desperately sorry.”