Chapter 23
Those Left Behind
She had a great deal to listen to; all the particulars of past sad scenes, all the minutiae of distress upon distress, which in former conversations had been merely hinted at, were dwelt on now with a natural indulgence.
Jane Austen, Persuasion
The Kinsdale sisters were in the same gold and amber salon where Rosalind and Adam had been received before dinner.
It seemed a hundred years ago now. Rosalind might have expected to find the young women huddled together, trying to comfort one another.
Instead, however, the sisters had spread themselves out as far as possible.
Elizabeth stood at the window, arms folded.
Cynthia hunched on a chair on the opposite side of the room in front of the empty hearth.
Clara stood between them, clutching her handkerchief.
“Oh, m… Mrs. Rutherford!” Clara cried when Rosalind entered. “Thank you for coming!”
Rosalind met her as she crossed the room and took both her hands. “I am so, so sorry this has happened.”
“What is she doing here?” demanded Elizabeth.
“Casselmaine thought she might be able to help,” replied Clara.
“Help?” Elizabeth cried. “What could she possibly do? Father is dead. It was a stupid accident. We never should have taken this house. Never should have come here. Never—” She stopped and pressed her hand against her eyes.
“You all must be exhausted,” said Rosalind. “Let me get you some tea, and something to eat.”
Elizabeth barked out a laugh. “That would be lovely, thank you. And some biscuits. Perhaps some sandwiches?”
Rosalind blinked. “If you like. I’m sure …”
“The servants have left,” Cynthia told her.
“Shortly after Father …” Clara stopped, swaying slightly on her feet. “Shortly after Father was found. It’s just us now.”
Cynthia giggled, the same high-pitched sound she’d made last night when she was talking about the admiral. Her sisters stared at her.
“I’m sorry,” Cynthia whispered. “I don’t know what’s got into me.”
“It’s the shock,” said Rosalind. “You must not mind it.”
“What do you know of it?” demanded Elizabeth. “Why are you even still here? I told you to go!”
“Oh, no. Please,” said Clara. “I’d much rather she stayed.”
“Why?” snapped Elizabeth. “Because Casselmaine wants her here? Because with Father dead, we must obey him now?”
The force of Elizabeth’s exclamation froze them all. To Rosalind’s surprise, it was Cynthia who recovered first.
“Tell her, Clara,” she said wearily.
“Tell me what?” demanded Elizabeth.
“She’s Rosalind Thorne,” said Cynthia.
“What?” shouted Elizabeth. “You lied to me? To Father?”
“We had to,” said Clara. “You wouldn’t listen to us when we tried to warn you about Mrs. Lynn.”
“And given the way things have gone, can you say we were wrong to be suspicious?” asked Clara.
That stung badly, and Clara had meant it to. Elizabeth looked away. Her chin trembled. It was obvious she was holding back her tears.
In the silence, a soft knocking sounded on the door. Every head turned. A moment later, Devon opened the door.
“The coroner’s come,” he told them. “He’s upstairs with Mr. Harkness.”
“Who invited him here?” demanded Elizabeth. “This was an accident!”
“And I’m sure he will say so,” said Devon. “But the formalities have to be observed.”
Elizabeth’s glower said she did not agree, but neither did she make any additional objections.
“I know I am not welcome here,” said Rosalind, softly. Devon clearly wanted to protest, but thankfully, he decided it would be better to hold his peace. “And I know that you are all suffering from multiple shocks, but I still may be able to help.”
“Are you going to use your miraculous powers to find out what happened to our father?” growled Elizabeth.
“Father fell,” said Cynthia. “He fell.”
Rosalind pretended not to have heard any of this. “With your permission, I can have some new staff brought in,” she told them. “To help until you can arrange for your own people.”
“How soon?” asked Clara.
“Immediately, I should think.”
Clara crossed to her sister. “Elizabeth? Please. We cannot manage without staff.”
Elizabeth looked away, clearly thinking furiously. But in the end she threw up her hands. “Very well. If she’s going to be here, she may as well do something useful.”
“Thank you, Miss Thorne,” said Clara. “Whatever help you can find us will be most welcome.”
“There’s something else,” Rosalind said.
“Lord!” cried Elizabeth. “What?”
“Admiral Walsingham is expecting Sir Anthony’s man of business at ten o’clock this morning.”
Cynthia clapped her hand over her mouth. “I forgot. How could I forget …?”
“It’s not your fault, Cynthia,” said Devon. “How could you remember such a thing with everything that’s happened?”
“We can send him a note,” said Clara. “Someone—”
“I can go,” said Devon.
“I can’t ask—” began Clara.
“You’re not. I’m offering,” said Devon. “I can deliver whatever message Miss Thorne needs carried to make sure there’s staff in the house, and then go straight on to the admiral.”
“If we’re lucky, he’s left a card on the tray,” said Rosalind. A writing desk waited in the corner of the salon. Rosalind found paper inside, and useable ink in the bottle. She quickly drafted and signed the message. “Thank you, Casselmaine.”
“I’ll walk out with you,” Clara told him.
“And I will go see what may be done in the kitchen,” said Rosalind. “With your permission?” she looked to Clara and her sisters.
Elizabeth deliberately looked away.
“Yes, thank you,” said Cynthia. “That would be greatly appreciated.”
Rosalind let Devon and Clara leave ahead of her. As much as she wanted to linger in the hallway to catch what they might say to each other, she did not. Such behavior would be too close to real eavesdropping for even Rosalind’s lax standards.
Instead, she found the traditional green baize door that was the portal to the world of “belowstairs” and took herself through.
Belowstairs was a maze of rooms for work, storage, and even living. Generally, in a town house such as this, the female staff was lodged under the attics while the male staff slept in the basements.
Fortunately, one of the first rooms Rosalind found off the main corridor was the servants’ hall. There, an ancient man whom Rosalind assumed was Sir Anthony’s valet sat on a scarred bench with his head in his hands.
She cleared her throat. His head jerked up.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, erm, miss.” He struggled to his feet. “I didn’t see you there. …”
“I do apologize,” said Rosalind. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s Thrush, isn’t it?”
“Yes, miss. How can I help? I’m afraid … well, I’m afraid I’m all there is.”
“Yes, and I hope we will be remedying that shortly. I have sent for some additional help. In the meantime, perhaps between us we can manage some tea and some food for upstairs? The Misses Kinsdale are very much in need of some sustenance.” As I suspect are you.
“Yes, yes, of course, I should have thought. …”
Rosalind stopped him. “It has been a hard time for everyone. We can only do our best.”
“Yes, miss.” He agreed, with only a hint of dubiousness.
Thrush showed Rosalind through to the main kitchen.
There, he checked the firebox of the great iron stove and discovered there were still some smoldering embers inside.
While Thrush coaxed the fire back to life with kindling and coals, Rosalind investigated the pantry.
The results were more heartening than she had dared hope.
She found several loaves of bread in useable condition, along with a crock of reasonably fresh butter, and, much to her surprise, an excellent country ham.
Thrush pulled a face at her expression of surprise.
“Cook sometimes decided there were better uses for certain victuals than putting them on Sir Anthony’s table.”
This was much less surprising than the existence of the ham.
With the stove burning, and the kettle on to boil, Rosalind and Thrush set about making a considerable pile of ham and butter sandwiches.
The valet tried to insist this was no task for a gentlewoman and that Rosalind should go back upstairs.
Rosalind returned that the sooner the ladies were fed, the better able they would all be to face what was sure to be a difficult day.
“Well, I can’t argue with that, miss, can I?” murmured Thrush.
“You could, but it would only delay matters,” said Rosalind as she spread butter on another slice of bread. “So, perhaps we can note your objections, agree that this situation is most unusual, and get on with the task at hand?”
That earned her a ghost of a smile. “Yes, miss.”
They finished the sandwiches in short order. Thrush even allowed her to carry the tray with the sandwich platter and tea things, so that he could remain in the servants’ hall to greet the fresh staff that would (hopefully) be arriving shortly from the Green Briar.
“We are promoting you to butler, Thrush,” she said.
He bowed solemnly. “I shall endeavor to give satisfaction, miss.” He paused. “Miss, do you know … Sir Anthony’s will … has there been any … word?”
Clearly he’d been promised an annuity or inheritance in return for so many years in service. Rosalind hoped that in this one thing Sir Anthony had kept his promise.
“Not yet,” she said. “But I’m sure you will be notified as soon as the details are known.”
“Thank you, miss.”
The tray was heavy, the stairs were steep, and the upstairs corridor a long one. Rosalind made a quiet note to herself to increase her parlor staff’s wages as soon as opportunity permitted.
Finally, she reached the salon. Taking a deep breath, Rosalind shouldered open the door.
“… we do not know she had anything to do for Father’s accident,” Elizabeth was saying, her voice shaky, but insistent. “We don’t know anything!”
“Then why has she run away?” asked Clara. Two spots of red colored her pale cheeks. “If Mrs. Lynn is such a harmless, charming innocent, why isn’t she here, condoling with the rest of us?”
It was Cynthia who turned her head to see Rosalind. The other two noticed her standing there a heartbeat later, and closed their mouths.
Rosalind carried the tray forward as briskly as she could manage, and set it down on the tea table. “Shall I pour?” she asked them.
“I’ll do it,” said Elizabeth. She plopped herself down onto the sofa and began splashing tea into cups.
“If you do not mind, I’ll take something up to Mr. Harkness.”
“Yes, yes, please do,” said Clara.
“Do you—” stammered Cynthia. “Do you know what will happen now? I mean, now that the coroner’s been …?”
“You’ll be asked to give statements,” said Rosalind. “As will I. So will Casselmaine, and all the servants.”
“We are all of us suspected of wrongdoing now?” Elizabeth’s words dripped acid. “Did we all conspire to kill Father?”
“No one is suspected,” said Rosalind. “It’s a matter of law. Sir Anthony’s death was unexpected, therefore the coroner must determine whether to hold an inquest. To make that determination, all those who were nearby must say what they saw, or did not see.”
The sisters looked at each other. The silent communication that passes between those who know each other well vibrated through the air between them.
There were times, Rosalind knew, when silence and time could serve better than any other form of persuasion. Now, she sensed, the Kinsdale sisters needed each other, and, even more than that, they needed to remember who they were to each other.
So, she took her plate of sandwiches and left them together. When she came back, she would understand more of what had happened, and know better how to help them all.
Perhaps it would prove true that Sir Anthony’s death was only a tragic accident, but somehow, Rosalind could not bring herself to believe it.