Chapter 9 #2
For a while, neither man spoke. Eventually, Gregory moved away from the mantel and returned to the chair, although he did not sit.
“You were right about one thing,” he said. “There was very little to learn.”
“There was nothing to learn apart from the woman’s employment,” Ronan replied. “The constable knows who she was, yet that knowledge appears to have led nowhere.”
“It tells us that she belonged to Phillipa’s fathers’ household,” Gregory said. “That may not explain her death, although it confirms that Augusta did not stumble upon the body of a stranger with no connection to the gathering.”
Ronan lifted his eyes, “No one said Augusta invented what she saw.”
“No, although several people were eager to treat the absence of a body as proof that she had been confused,” Gregory replied.
“The discovery changed that, yet clearing your name became the end of the matter for everyone around her. Augusta was wrong about the man being you, so society decided she was wrong in every other respect as well.”
“She was not wrong about the body.”
“And you are no longer satisfied with saying only that,” Gregory said.
Ronan’s expression tightened, “I wanted information, and now I have it.”
“You also know that there has been no progress, and I suspect you will dislike telling Augusta that far more than you disliked hearing it yourself.”
Ronan looked towards the window.
“I will tell her what the constable said.”
Gregory nodded, and then he reached for his gloves, although he took his time putting them on.
“You should also tell her that you asked,” he said.
“She will know that when I explain the meeting.”
“She may know that a meeting occurred, although that is not quite the same thing,” Gregory replied.
“You have a habit of presenting every act of consideration as though it arose from administrative necessity. You will say that the investigation concerned your household, or that her statement required clarification, or that your name remained attached to the incident. All of that may be defensible, yet none of it explains why you were waiting at the window before the constable arrived.”
Ronan’s eyes narrowed.
“You have returned to this.”
““I only postponed the discussion while the constable was present, since I assumed you would object if I asked whether concern for your wife had inspired your new enthusiasm for justice.”
Ronan rested his hand on the desk. “You have constructed an elaborate theory from a single meeting.”
“I have constructed nothing,” Gregory replied. “Still, you might avoid insulting both of us by pretending that this was only about the accusation made against you.”
Ronan was quiet for a long moment. Then he glanced at the paper on his desk and spoke without looking at Gregory.
“She should know that the woman worked for Phillipa’s family.”
Gregory walked towards the door.
“Tell your wife what you learned, and try not to sound as though you are reading from an estate report. She asked for the truth, and you went looking for it. There is no need to make the gesture smaller merely to protect yourself from what it might mean.”
Ronan did not answer.
Gregory opened the door, although he paused before leaving and glanced back towards him.
“For what it is worth,” he said, “I do not think your interest in the investigation makes you foolish. I only think your refusal to admit where it began is becoming less convincing.”
He left before Ronan could respond, and Ronan remained behind the desk, with the folded paper lying untouched before him and the constable’s brief answers offering far less certainty than he had hoped to carry back to Augusta.
Augusta found Sarah in the schoolroom with a book open across her lap, although the child was not reading it, and instead she was tracing the outline of an illustrated castle with the tip of one finger while the afternoon light gathered across the carpet and softened the severe edges of the room.
The governess rose as soon as Augusta entered, and Sarah looked up only after the movement drew her attention away from the page.
“Her Grace has come to spend some time with you,” the governess said, smoothing the front of her dress as she turned towards Sarah. “You will remember your manners, and you will answer when she speaks to you.”
Sarah nodded, although her fingers remained curled around the corner of the page.
“I think Lady Sarah and I can manage quite well without instructions,” Augusta said, offering the governess a polite smile before she looked towards the book in Sarah’s lap.
“We already survived one story together, and neither of us suffered any lasting harm, although I admit that my reputation as a reader may not have survived her corrections.”
The governess hesitated, then inclined her head.
“I shall be nearby, Your Grace,” she replied. “You need only ring if you require anything.”
“Thank you,” Augusta said, waiting until the woman had left and the door had closed behind her before she turned back towards Sarah. “Now that we are alone, you may tell me whether your governess always warns you to answer people, or whether she believes I am especially difficult to speak to.”
Sarah studied Augusta’s face, and although she appeared to consider the question carefully, she did not answer at once.
“She tells me that when visitors come,” Sarah said at last, lowering her gaze to the book again. “Sometimes I forget to speak when I do not know what I am meant to say.”
“I often know what I am meant to say, and then I decide that I dislike it,” Augusta replied as she crossed the room and selected a chair near the settee. “That creates a different sort of difficulty, although the result may look very similar from the outside.”
Sarah looked at her again.
“Do you forget your manners?”
“I rarely forget them,” Augusta said, arranging her skirts as she sat. “I sometimes ignore them deliberately, which is far worse, and my elder sister would be very disappointed to hear me admit it.”
“Why do you ignore them?”
“Usually when I think something more important ought to be said,” Augusta replied, and then she glanced at the book in Sarah’s lap. “Although I am trying to behave myself this afternoon, so perhaps we should begin with something less dangerous. What are you reading?”
“Cinderella,” Sarah said.
“Again?”
Sarah’s expression became guarded. “I like it.”
“I did not mean that you should not,” Augusta said gently. “I only wondered whether you chose it again on my account, since I made several errors yesterday and you may have decided that I require another attempt.”
“You missed two words,” Sarah replied, and a faint note of certainty entered her voice. “Then you made the old woman sound sad when Miss Morton makes her sound angry.”
“I remember,” Augusta said. “I still think she may have been both, although I am willing to accept that Miss Morton and I understand her differently.”
Sarah lowered her eyes to the illustration.
“People cannot be angry and sad at the same time,” she said.
“I think they can,” Augusta replied. “Sometimes sadness sits quietly while anger does all the speaking, and sometimes a person sounds cross when what they truly want is for someone to notice that they are unhappy.”
Sarah remained silent for a moment, and then she moved one finger along the edge of the page.
“Father sounds cross often,” she said.
Augusta watched her carefully, although she kept her voice light.
“Does he?” Augusta asked.
“He does not shout,” Sarah replied, and she looked towards the door before continuing. “He never shouts at me, although he speaks in a way that makes everyone become quiet, and then they leave very quickly.”
“Your father has a rather commanding voice,” Augusta said. “I noticed that soon after meeting him, although I also noticed that he does not always understand how he sounds to other people.”
Sarah considered this, and then she shifted slightly on the settee.
“Miss Morton says I must not disturb him when he is working,” Sarah said. “She says he has important matters to think about, and dukes have more duties than other fathers, so I should wait until he sends for me.”
Augusta’s eyes moved briefly towards the closed door.
“Does he send for you often?” she asked.
Sarah’s fingers tightened around the book.
“Sometimes,” Sarah replied. “He asks about my lessons, and once he asked whether my new governess was kind, although Miss Morton was standing there, so I said yes.”
“Was she kind?”
Sarah looked uncertain.
“She is not unkind,” she said.
“That is not quite the same thing,” Augusta replied, and then she leaned back slightly so the child would not feel pressed. “You do not have to say anything you do not wish to say, although I hope you know that you may answer honestly when I ask you a question.”
Sarah looked down again.
“Miss Morton says honesty can be rude when children use it without care,” she said.
“Miss Morton is not entirely wrong,” Augusta replied. “Honesty can be used cruelly, and sometimes people claim they are merely telling the truth when they intend to wound someone, although that does not mean every honest answer is rude. It only means we should try to speak with kindness.”
Sarah thought about that for several seconds.
“Father is honest,” she said. “He tells people things they do not like.”
“I have noticed that too,” Augusta replied, and a small smile touched her mouth. “Your father is very skilled at saying precisely what he means, although he is less skilled at deciding whether the listener is prepared to hear it.”
Sarah’s eyes lifted, and Augusta saw the beginning of curiosity in them.
“Are you frightened of him?” Sarah asked.
The question came so quietly that Augusta almost missed it.
“Not now,” Augusta replied.
Sarah studied her. “Were you before?”
Augusta hesitated, and she knew the easy answer would be to deny it, although the girl had asked with too much seriousness for Augusta to dismiss her.