Chapter 20
“Tea, Miss Fielding?” St. Didier asked, passing Amabel the pot.
Other than a slight nick on his handsome cheek, he showed no signs of having been involved in yesterday’s domestic upheaval.
“You may call me Amabel, and I shall call you Leopold.” That bit of boldness earned Amabel a bashful smile across the breakfast table.
“I would be honored, Amabel. How is Miss Wealtha this morning?”
“I have not bestirred myself to inquire. How are you?” He’d related a tale at supper last night that had fit Wealtha’s usual pattern.
Conversation had burbled along pleasantly enough over the tea service, and then Mrs. Tait had remarked that stripes were apparently no longer in fashion, and piping was once again coming into favor.
The design of Wealtha’s new dress, for which the fabric had been cut that day, had favored stripes, at Wealtha’s insistence. Stripes, she’d declared, imparted a willowy delicacy to her frame.
The tea cups had gone flying shortly after Mrs. Tait’s announcement.
“You ask how I am,” St. Didier said. “I am procrastinating, putting off my next task. I enjoy the country generally and the West Riding in particular. I am developing a circle of acquaintances here such that the life of a perpetual houseguest has developed strong appeal.”
Richard sailed into the breakfast parlor.
“If I recall aright, your circle includes my brother Bernard and his cousin Lord Lorne. Bernard and his bride—she also counting among your acquaintances—are either journeying toward Lorne Hall on this lovely morning, or they are already biding there. We can pay a call in the next few days.”
Richard looked to be brimming with energy, as usual, and yet, Amabel detected a hint of strain behind his words. Wealtha’s displays of temper always took a toll on the household, and Richard had probably never seen an adult female comport herself so violently.
“Lorne Hall is overrun with children,” St. Didier said. “It’s the noisiest stately home in the realm, and Lorne and his lady wouldn’t have it any other way.”
St. Didier clearly liked children. Amabel sipped her tea and did not allow Richard to catch her eye as he took his seat at the head of the table.
She passed him the teapot. “His lordship and I are for the attics this morning. We’re making an inspection of the premises. You are welcome to join us.”
“Safety in numbers,” Richard said, pouring himself a steaming cup. “Wealtha has not been confined to quarters, and Orla hasn’t been spotted since yesterday’s affray.”
“We are refining our plain-speaking abilities,” Amabel said as her last strawberry tart was snatched onto Richard’s otherwise empty plate.
“His lordship and I visited with the Fielding family solicitor yesterday, and I anticipate that Orla will dislike the results of our meeting.” Somehow this topic had not come up at supper yesterday. Too much else to discuss, perhaps.
“I dislike the results of our meeting,” Richard said, tearing the tart in two and returning half to Amabel’s plate. He’d done the same thing at yesterday’s picnic, which seemed a lifetime ago.
“Larceny and chicanery?” St. Didier asked.
“Orla has indulged in forgery, misappropriation, and worse,” Richard said. “We probably can’t prove it, but we can ensure it doesn’t happen again.”
How would they foil her when she’d been pillaging at will for years? Amabel had considered that question for much of a short and sleepless night.
“A thought occurred to me.” She took Richard’s plate to the sideboard and heaped it with omelet, slices of ham, and more strawberry tarts.
“Do tell,” Richard said as she put the plate before him and resumed her seat.
St. Didier’s eyes lit with amusement.
“Orla stole my competence. She tried to steal my house. She has exerted a sort of blackmail over me ever since I returned from London, subtly threatening to reveal the failures of my past should I grow too headstrong.”
Richard whipped his table napkin across his lap. “Threatening how?”
“Reminding me that if word of my unfortunate missteps in London ever reached Yorkshire, I would be ruined. Suggesting that old humiliations could travel on wings of gossip far more easily than I knew. Never admitting that she herself might spread unflattering tales through her familiars, but never promising discretion either.”
“And you,” St. Didier said, “having to rely on her for chaperonage, or what passes for it in these surrounds, did not allow yourself to form that accusation even mentally.”
“True. She apparently has been discreet thus far, probably for Wealtha’s sake.”
“She will continue to be discreet,” Richard said, taking up his knife and fork. “But this begs the question, does she know the particulars of your past, and if so, how did she come upon them?”
Amabel finished her tart. “You asked me that before, and I have been pondering the answer. I never gave Orla any specifics, and I know great-aunt kept mum. Orla does have London connections though, thanks to Miss Gundridge’s Gossips.
I actually met the author of my missteps through one of Orla’s old school chums. I would not say she threw us together, but she certainly fostered opportunities for us to become better acquainted and then played least in sight. ”
St. Didier gazed intently at the sunbeams slanting through the French doors. Amabel would have given at least three more strawberry tarts to know what he was thinking.
“Orla has much to answer for,” Richard said, buttering a slice of toast. “Confronting her will be distasteful. I am more concerned with what’s to be done with her.”
“Lorne sent his aunt to the Antipodes,” St. Didier observed. “A better fate than she deserved. Miss Amabel, should we change the topic? Your expression suggests disquiet.”
Richard set down his utensils. “Tell us. If it troubles you, it troubles me.”
A very fortifying bit of plain speaking.
“Orla is a thief,” Amabel said. “She has stolen coin, property, and to some degree, happiness from me. She has stolen Wealtha and me from each other, keeping us apart when we should have been allies. In the Blackstock books, we found repeated, sizable disbursements without any explanation. I have been wondering if Orla stole from Abernathy.”
In the ensuing quiet, a robin’s cheery song fluted across the morning air. The little bird was in good voice, while the breakfast parlor was otherwise silent.
“Of course she did,” Richard said, frowning at his toast. “Of course she did. She knew Marie was alive.”
“That’s the puzzling part,” Amabel said. “Those missing sums begin well before Abernathy had any thought of remarrying, so why should he pay Orla to remain silent about Marie? Orla did not know where Marie dwelled by then, or not precisely, and Abernathy had no reason to assume Marie was dead.”
“Puzzling,” St. Didier said, “but your surmise makes sense. A woman with a penchant for taking what isn’t hers closely orbits Blackstock’s daughter, and Blackstock’s books show evidence of blackmail or extortion.”
“Three hundred pounds a year,” Richard said. “I did some ciphering. The sum works out to three hundred pounds every year that I’ve examined so far.”
Wealtha chose then to make an appearance. Her demeanor was not precisely meek, but neither was it sullen.
“Help yourself to some strawberry tarts before Swidhelm decimates them,” Amabel said. “They are quite good.”
Wealtha nodded, made a pass along the buffet at the sideboard, and took the seat next to Amabel.
“Am I supposed to apologize?” Wealtha asked, staring at her plate. “I am sorry, but then, I am always sorry when I make an ass of myself. I shouldn’t say ‘ass,’ but Auntie isn’t here to correct me, and I was awful.”
St. Didier or Amabel might have offered an olive branch—you have been under a strain, we all have bad moments—though neither did.
“You behaved awfully,” Richard said. “You are not awful, and you can make amends by improving your future deportment. The family parlor was quite tidy when I looked in on it this morning. Shall I send for a fresh pot?”
Wealtha peered at him. “I do prefer my tea hot. Might I have the butter?”
Amabel breathed a mental sigh of relief. The requisite step forward, away from yesterday’s debacle, had been taken. May it please be the last debacle of its kind, for everybody’s sake, including Wealtha’s.
“I thought I’d venture into the village later this morning, Miss Blackstock,” St. Didier said. “Might you accompany me? I have letters to post and doubtless more letters to collect, and the day is promising excellent weather for a ramble.”
That was more gallantry than Wealtha deserved, but no less than Amabel would have expected from St. Didier. His offer also meant she and Richard would make their house tour without his escort.
She would find the resolve not to inspect the linen closets with Richard too minutely, despite the temptation to barricade herself in one with him until Orla was snatched away by the fairies.
“I’d like a chance to stretch my legs,” Wealtha said. “Thank you.”
The rest of the meal passed peacefully enough, with St. Didier regaling the company with the tale of Lord and Lady Lorne’s decision to move the denizens of an orphanage into one of the north’s finest family seats.
The bannisters of Lorne Hall, according to St. Didier, had never been so highly polished.
Amabel smiled along with Richard and Wealtha, though she was aware that Richard was preoccupied with their earlier conversation.
Orla the thief must be dealt with.
“I am ready to begin my house tour,” she said, folding her napkin beside her plate. “My lord, you are doomed to escort me.”
“It shall be my pleasure. Wealtha, St. Didier, enjoy your outing. If I don’t appear for supper, please have a look in the smugglers’ cellar and the priest hole.”
The linen closets would be a better bet. Amabel led the way up three flights of stairs to the attics, which were a series of connected rooms off a central corridor, each organized to provide storage for different parts of the house.