Chapter 11 #2
“We do not always know people as we think we do,” said Treadles.
“We do not. But in Lord Ingram’s case, Lady Ingram lost absolutely nothing for confessing that she was a cold-hearted fortune hunter.
She didn’t lose her pin money. She didn’t lose her accounts at London’s leading dressmakers.
She didn’t even lose the yearly birthday ball in her honor.
He continued to extend to her every courtesy and privilege that came of being his wife—and that was the only reason she was able to keep her place in Society.
Because he didn’t withdraw his support.”
“Perhaps he was planning, even as he maintained a facade of gentility, the ultimate revenge,” suggested Fowler.
“And then he chose to make his wife disappear on the night of a crowded ball, in a way that could only ever lead to unsatisfactory answers? You think Lord Ingram couldn’t have done better than that if he had indeed been scheming?”
Fowler had no good answer for that.
“Regardless, this is not the first time I encountered Lady Avery and Lady Somersby since the end of the Season. I can tell you with complete confidence that when I last saw them before this gathering, they weren’t remotely concerned with Lady Ingram’s fate.
Lady Somersby said it was her feeling that Lady Ingram had had quite enough of Society, something deeper than mere end-of-the-Season weariness.
Her sister questioned whether it wasn’t something to do with a latent animosity many felt toward her. ”
Fowler raised a brow. “Latent animosity?”
By now Scotland Yard had received the impression that Lady Ingram had not been beloved, but there was a stark difference between the absence of universal acclaim and the presence of widespread ill will, however subterranean.
“There are very few heiresses among the women jockeying for eligible gentlemen on the marriage mart. And the cost of failure is high: lifelong dependence on disappointed parents and indifferent brothers, perhaps even the necessity of becoming a lady’s companion or, worse, a governess.
No one would have thought any less of Lady Ingram for marrying the richest man she could find, certainly not when he happened to be both striking in appearance and sterling of character.
Her success was a fairy tale, something to aspire to.
“And if that fairy tale was to gradually lose its potency, well, such is life. What was not supposed to happen was her brutal honesty. The unspoken rule has always been that if a woman marries for money, she keeps that to herself and maintains an appearance of interest in her husband. Because that is what his money paid for. She is never supposed to not only confirm that she has never loved him but also denigrate him in the same breath for his said-to-be half-Jewish blood.”
“I didn’t know Society ladies cared that those of Jewish roots should not be taunted for that fact,” said Treadles.
“What? No, they didn’t care about that. They cared that Lady Ingram didn’t just tear the fairy tale in two but spat on it.
They cared that this sent a shiver through all the men of Society.
If a paragon such as Lord Ingram couldn’t find a wife who genuinely loved him, what chance did the other gentlemen have?
That lesson made them more cautious. Which, in turn, meant that unmarried women found it more difficult to land good husbands—and to keep up the illusion once they had. ”
Fowler blinked. “That is an extraordinarily cynical observation.”
Yet highly riveting.
“That was Charlotte’s analysis—she dissects things differently.
I think people didn’t like Lady Ingram because they admired Lord Ingram and felt he’d been treated badly.
And then there were others who simply disliked her demeanor.
When she made her debut, she appeared more genial.
But as time went by, she became more and more unapproachable—and women don’t like women who are too haughty.
“In any case, that was ladies Avery and Somersby’s position earlier this autumn, not that anything had been done to Lady Ingram but that she might have taken the initiative to put herself out of reach.
But here at Stern Hollow they have been consumed with potential disasters that might have befallen her.
“Ask them what brought on this concern, so strongly that they were willing to risk being caught poking into other guests’ rooms. I don’t know enough to make concrete guesses, but my sense is that something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”
With that, Miss Holmes nodded again and left.
“Well,” said Fowler, “I always enjoy a case more once witnesses start quoting Shakespeare, don’t you?”
Livia was still shaking as she climbed up the grand staircase.
The house felt deserted, even though Mrs. Newell’s guests were still on hand.
But the shooting, the games of charades, the play that would have been put on—dear God, to think that she’d rather hoped she might be considered for the part of Desdemona—everything that had been planned lay by the wayside, like so many dandelions trampled by a party of riders.
Instead, the gentlemen played endless games of billiards, making quiet remarks between echoing clicks of cue stick on ivory.
The ladies slipped in and out of one another’s rooms; fear, suspicion, and speculation swept along torrents of whispers.
And the servants, already unobtrusive in a well-run household, seemed to have disappeared altogether.
In the beginning, there had been knocks at Livia’s door, too.
But she’d steadfastly refused to answer, not wanting to see the gossip ladies or anyone else who might either wish to commiserate or glean clues from what she could tell them—certainly not in the wake of all the speculation about Lord Ingram and Charlotte!
Now no one came to call and she felt both relieved and spectacularly left out.
At the top of the grand staircase she met Lord Ingram, dressed as if he were about to go for a ride.
“Miss Holmes,” he said gently, “you already spoke to Scotland Yard, I take it? I hope it wasn’t too taxing.”
“Oh, I dare say I’ll—”
She bit back the last word. She’d live. But would he? Or was he already headed for a rendezvous with the hangman?
“I’ll forget about it by dinnertime, I’m sure. Are you all right? Has Charlotte been able to find out anything?”
Although what Charlotte could do from her cottage, even Livia couldn’t say.
“I’m well. And I’m sure Miss Charlotte will be instrumental in putting everything to rights again. Now, is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, you have so much—”
“You are mistaken there, Miss Holmes. Other than letting the police deploy as they will, there is absolutely nothing I can do about anything related to Lady Ingram’s death.
But if there is some service I may render you, it will take my mind off the situation.
And that would be a welcome respite, however brief. ”
“Oh,” she said. “If—if that is the case, then there is something that’s worried me recently.”
When she had time to worry about anything besides him.
“Please. Allow me to be of service.”
“Well, I don’t know whether Charlotte has ever mentioned her, but we have an elder sister who has never moved in Society.”
Bernadine was thirty years of age and it had been a quarter century since she last stepped out of the house.
As far as Livia could remember, her name had never crossed anyone’s lips in a polite conversation.
When Livia arrived in London, she was presented as simply Miss Holmes and not Miss Olivia Holmes, indicating that she was the eldest unmarried Holmes daughter, and completely erasing Bernadine’s position.
Even Mrs. Newell, who otherwise remembered everyone, always referred to the Holmes girls as a trio and not a quartet as they were in truth.
She could only hope what she was about to reveal wouldn’t come as too much of a surprise to Lord Ingram.
“Miss Bernadine?” he said. “Yes, I know of her.”
Thank goodness. Livia gave a brief account of Bernadine’s change of surroundings, from the Holmes household to Moreton Close, the private institution for women from notable families who suffered from conditions similar to Bernadine’s.
“I don’t trust my parents on important matters.
I’m not sure I trust my own judgment on this, either.
Charlotte has promised to investigate Moreton Close, but she can’t be spared right now. ”
“I will direct my solicitor to make some inquiries, under the guise of representing the prominent family of a young woman who might benefit from their services. That way, we can perhaps gain entrance to the place.”
“Will you? That would be wonderful!”
Lord Ingram smiled, as if her relief had gladdened him. “Consider it done. But please know that it might take some time.”
“Thank you, my lord. Thank you!”
“No, thank you, Miss Holmes. And that reminds me, I have been tasked to give you a message.” He glanced behind himself. There was no one around, but still he lowered his voice. “Please visit the nursery. A mutual friend wishes to speak to you. Good day, Miss Holmes.”
The nursery was cheerfully decorated but silent and empty. Livia paced for a good ten minutes before a knock came. She rushed to answer—Charlotte, it had to be Charlotte.
But when she’d opened the door, a round, peculiar-looking man stood outside, all boutonnière and coiffed mustache, an ornate monocle screwed into one eye socket.
Disappointment and suspicion snuffed out Livia’s eager anticipation. “May I help you?”
“You may indeed, Miss Holmes,” said the man gravely. “I came to inquire after your progress on the Sherlock Holmes story.”
Only three people in the entire world knew that she was working on a story inspired by the Sackville case: Charlotte, Mrs. Watson, and the nameless young man who had recently sent her the moonstone cabochon.
Could this be him, in disguise?