Chapter 20
On Thursday morning, while they were still in the breakfast parlor, the postman in his scarlet coat and cockaded hat delivered a letter for Harriet. It was postmarked from Penrith, in the Lake District.
Finally,thought Isabella. But there was no relief, just numbness. How long would the numbness last? Would she be trapped forever in this empty, echoing place?
I hope so. Because under the numbness was pain. She was aware of it, aware that it would hurt more than she could bear if only she wasn’t numb.
She watched without interest as Harriet broke open the seal and almost ripped the letter in her haste to open it. Another letter fell out from the folded paper, falling to lie on the tablecloth. Harriet’s original letter. The one she’d sent to her aunt more than two weeks ago. Unopened.
Isabella’s numbness faltered slightly. That doesn’t look good.
“It’s from . . . it’s from a Mrs. Jayne. She says—” Tears suspended Harriet’s voice entirely. She thrust the letter at Mrs. Westin and ran from the room.
Mrs. Westin read the letter calmly. “Oh, dear,” she said, and then held it out to Isabella.
I don’t think I want to read it.
She put down her cutlery and took the proffered letter.
Mrs. Jayne wrote briefly. Lavinia Mortlock had remarried two years ago and emigrated with her new husband to America. Mrs. Jayne had an address for her in Baltimore, which she enclosed. She apologized for the delay in replying; she had been laid up with the influenza.
Isabella refolded the letter and placed it neatly on the tablecloth. She closed her eyes. What am I going to do with Harriet?
She opened her eyes, picked up the knife and fork, and began to eat her eggs again.
“What shall we do?” Mrs. Westin asked.
“I don’t know.” I don’t care.
But the numbness was beginning to fracture. Dear God, what was she going to do with the girl?
And beneath the worry, pushing determinedly through the cracks, was pain. Pain so intense that her throat closed.
Isabella reached for her tea. She took a sip. A second sip.
“You never said yesterday... how did Major Reynolds take the news?”
Her throat tightened. She drank another mouthful of tea. “Not as well as I had hoped.”
“Ah,” Mrs. Westin said. “A shame.”
Isabella put down the teacup and looked at her plate. She had no appetite. She placed her knife and fork neatly alongside one another and folded her napkin.
“And how are you, my dear? Has your headache gone?”
“Gone?” Isabella said, staring at the congealing egg yolk on her plate. What am I going to do about Nicholas? About Harriet?
“You still look rather pale.”
Isabella looked up at her cousin. She forced a smile. “A slight headache still. I believe I’ll stay at home today.” And tomorrow. And the next day. I shall hide forever.
She pushed back her chair and stood. The door was slightly open from Harriet’s flight.
Harriet.
Dear God, what am I going to do about her?
* * *
Lieutenant Mayhew came to fetch the kittens just before noon. His sunny good humor was painful, as was his cheerful enquiry about Major Reynolds.
“I haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon,” Isabella said. The smile felt stiff on her lips, but it fooled the lieutenant.
For a few minutes they were busy, capturing the two kittens, installing them in a wicker basket that Lieutenant Mayhew had brought with him.
“Wonderful!” the lieutenant said. “Thank you so much, ma’am. I’m indebted to you.” He bowed over her hand, his eyes laughing at her.
“I hope they don’t give you any trouble on your journey.”
Lieutenant Mayhew had no such fears. He laughed and left, running lightly down the stairs, carrying the kittens. Their mews came indignantly from the basket.
Isabella stood at the top of the staircase, Rufus beside her, long after the lieutenant was gone. The conversation with her cousin looped in her head.
How did Major Reynolds take it?
Not as well as I had hoped.
Rufus sat down with a thump. He began to scratch himself vigorously.
“I should have told Nicholas earlier,” she said to him. “He wouldn’t have been so angry.”
Rufus continued scratching, a strained grimace on his face.
Isabella sighed. “I should have never lied.”
So many “should haves.” But she had done what she had done—and the result was only what she deserved.
So what do I do about it?
Isabella came to an abrupt decision. She turned and headed upstairs. Rufus scrambled to his feet and bounded after her. “Partridge?” she said, opening the door to her bedroom. “I’m going out. I’d like you to accompany me.”
They walked to Albemarle Street rather than take the carriage. Isabella told herself that it was because she needed the fresh air, but, truthfully, it was because she needed to muster her courage. Partridge walked silently beside her and Rufus trotted ahead, his ears pricked and his plumy tail wagging.
Isabella halted outside Major Reynolds’ house. It seemed very tall, very stern. She took a deep breath and trod up the steps.
A butler with thinning gray hair and rather startlingly bushy eyebrows answered the door.
“My name is Lady Isabella Knox,” she said. “I would like to see Major Reynolds.”
“I regret that Major Reynolds isn’t in town, ma’am.”
“Not—?” Her momentum and her courage faltered. “Do you know when he’ll return?”
The butler shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
Had he left London permanently? Gone to Devonshire? No, the house would be closed then, the knocker off the door, the servants gone. Unless the servants are packing up the house now. Panic tightened her chest.“Do you expect him back?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Isabella expelled a shaky breath. “Where is he? Do you know?”
“No, ma’am. He didn’t inform us of his destination.”
Is he gone because of me?
“When did Major Reynolds leave?”
“Yesterday afternoon, ma’am,” the butler said. “In something of a hurry.”
Yes, he left because of me.
“Thank you,” Isabella said. She turned away from the door and went back to Clarges Street, where she wandered from room to room—parlor, library, book room—unable to settle. She ended up in the morning room. Mrs. Early found her there half an hour later. “Lady Isabella?”
Isabella looked up from her listless observation of the last two kittens, sprawled on the floor with Rufus. “Yes, Mrs. Early?”
“I know who the thief is.” The housekeeper’s mouth was pinched, her expression grim.
Not now. “Who?”
“Mrs. Tracey.”
Isabella straightened on the sofa. “The cook?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But . . .” Mrs. Tracey had been in her employ for three years. “There must be some mistake.”
Mrs. Early shook her head firmly. “No mistake, ma’am. I counted the wax candles this afternoon, and not five minutes later I saw Mrs. Tracey go down to the stillroom and come back with something in her apron pocket. I checked again and two candles were gone—the best beeswax!”
Isabella bit her lower lip. “You’re certain? You didn’t miscount?”
“I checked twice, ma’am.”
Isabella sighed.
“Mrs. Tracey went to her bedchamber not long after that—to tidy her hair, she said—and when she returned, her pocket was quite clearly empty.”
“But . . .” Isabella said again. But why? The woman earned a generous wage. She closed her mouth and struggled to think clearly. “Please ask her to attend me in my book room. I wish for you to be present, too, Mrs. Early.”
The housekeeper nodded and withdrew.
Mrs. Tracey?
Isabella made her way purposefully downstairs. She sat behind the desk and folded her hands together on its smooth maplewood surface. She didn’t have to wait long. A tap sounded on the door. “Come in.”
Mrs. Tracey entered, followed by the housekeeper.
“Please be seated,” Isabella said.
She watched as Mrs. Tracey sat. The woman was raw-boned, with a gaunt, ruddy face. Her hands were large, their backs knotted with veins. Such clumsy-looking hands to create such dainty delicacies, Isabella thought, not for the first time.
The cook looked at her. Her expression was politely enquiring, not defensive, not afraid.
“Mrs. Tracey,” Isabella said. “We have a problem.” She unfolded her hands and reached for the current ledger. “For several months now someone in this household has been stealing.”
Mrs. Tracey’s polite smile froze on her face.
“Beeswax candles,” Isabella said, turning to the latest month’s columns of figures. She glanced up at the woman. “And perhaps other things as well.”
Mrs. Tracey said nothing. She sat stiffly in the wooden chair. A plain woman, hard-working. And honest, I had thought.
Isabella sat with her hands resting on the open page. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me, Mrs. Tracey?”
“Me, ma’am?” But there was a flat, false note to Mrs. Tracey’s outrage. “Surely you don’t think that I would steal anything!”
Isabella looked at her gravely. “You were observed taking two wax candles this afternoon.”
“Wax candles? Me?” The cook’s voice was affronted, but her expression was scared. Her cheeks, instead of flushing with indignation, had paled.
“I would like to check your room, please.”
Mrs. Tracey swallowed convulsively. Her hands were tightly clenched in her lap.
Isabella stood. “Shall we do it now?”
“But my pastries! I need to get them out of the oven. I’m too busy for this now! Surely it can wait...” The woman’s voice died out as Isabella shook her head.
Mrs. Tracey’s room was downstairs, near the kitchen. The woman’s manner became more flustered when they halted outside the door. “Lady Isabella,” she said. “I can explain!”
Almost a confession. Isabella looked at her sadly. “Open the door, please, Mrs. Tracey.”
The cook began to sob as she unlocked the door to her bedchamber. It was a large room, as befitted her status, with a half-canopy bedstead, a fireplace, and an armchair.
They stepped inside. Isabella glanced around the chamber, taking in the chest of drawers, the washstand, the sturdy pinewood trunk. “Can you open your trunk, please, Mrs. Tracey?”
The cook began to cry in earnest. She made no move to open the trunk.
Isabella turned to Mrs. Early. The housekeeper’s plump face was somber. She’s enjoying this no more than I am. “Mrs. Early? If you wouldn’t mind?”
The housekeeper stepped forward and lifted the lid of the trunk. Blankets lay neatly folded inside. Mrs. Early rummaged with her hand, her mouth tight, as if she found the task distasteful. After a moment she stilled and looked up. “Ma’am?”
Isabella made herself step forward, made herself look. The beeswax candles were tucked down one side of the trunk. She turned to face the cook, but found herself unable to look at the woman. I trusted you.
She turned away. “Mrs. Tracey, you are dismissed. Please gather your belongings and depart this house within the hour.”
“But ma’am, please . . .”
Isabella turned back to her. “You stole from me,” she said quietly.
Mrs. Tracey’s face was tear-stained. “But ma’am...”
Isabella stared at her. Was this how Major Reynolds had felt? This sense of disbelief, of betrayal, of disappointment so intense that it felt as if someone had kicked her in the stomach.
No, he had been angry, too. She wasn’t angry. She was just sad. “Why, Mrs. Tracey?”
Mrs. Tracey gulped and sniffed back her tears. “My daughter’s getting married soon. I wanted to give her a good start.”
Isabella sighed. She turned away again. “One hour, Mrs. Tracey.”
“You won’t press charges?”
Isabella turned back to face her. She met the woman’s eyes, saw the fear in them. No, not fear—terror.
She understood the terror: people had been sent to the penal colonies for stealing less. “No, Mrs. Tracey.”
The cook subsided weakly on her bed. She began to sob again, noisily.
Isabella met the housekeeper’s eyes. She made a slight beckoning gesture. The woman followed her outside into the corridor. “Stay with her, Mrs. Early, and see that she does as I’ve asked.”
The housekeeper nodded.
“Would you like me to send for one of the footmen, just in case...?”
“I don’t think it will be necessary, ma’am.”
No, Isabella didn’t think the cook would create trouble, either. But then she hadn’t thought the woman would steal. “After Mrs. Tracey has gone, can you please go to the registry office and see about engaging a new cook.”
Mrs. Early nodded again. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll speak with the kitchen maids, explain what has happened.” Isabella rubbed her brow. “We’ll dine plainly until there’s a new cook. I think they’ll cope for a few days. They’re competent girls.”
The housekeeper nodded her agreement.
“Thank you, Mrs. Early.”
The housekeeper nodded again, then stepped back into the bedchamber and shut the door.
Isabella sighed. She needed to thank the housekeeper with more than words. A bonus, perhaps? A week’s leave? She turned away. I hate this. To have one’s faith in someone destroyed suddenly and utterly, to know that one’s trust had been misplaced. It made her feel slightly ill.
She had done this to Major Reynolds.
Would he ever forgive her? Could he?
Isabella sighed and rubbed her face with both hands and headed for the kitchen.