A broad, sturdy woman in a gray dress and crisp white apron trimmed in black answered the door. I handed her my card and asked to see the lady of the house, only to be informed that she was indisposed. Over the maid's shoulder I saw a small boy, who couldn't have been older than six, pulling a wooden train through the hallway. Although I had met David Francis only once, there could be no question that this was his son. The boy was the image of his father.
"It's urgent that I speak with Mrs. White," I said. "Do you know when might be a good time for me to return?"
"The house is in mourning, madam. I will give Mrs. White your card." My mother would never have stood for such a response. I could picture her walking past the maid, telling her to announce the Countess Bromley. This, however, was not something I was prepared to do. I would give Mrs. White a few more days to mourn in peace, then call again.
Frustrated, I returned to my carriage. I stood frozen as the footman opened the door for me. Inside, on the seat, was a large bouquet of wilted roses.
13
"Did you put these here?" I asked my footman, who immediately denied all knowledge of the flowers. He removed them from the seat and held them out to me; I did not take them but ripped open the note tied to the bouquet. "These are from the man who broke into my house. Did you see him put them in the carriage?"
"No, madam," the footman replied, looking distressed. "I was sitting up with Waters." My driver, recognizing that something was amiss, came down from his perch. His face went pale when I told him what had happened.
"I saw nothing unusual. We should have paid better attention. It won't happen again." I had no reason to doubt my servants but was surprised that such a thing could have happened under their watch. Waters in particular had been exceedingly cautious since the burglary, and it was he who had noticed the coach following me from Richmond. I tried to shrug off the incident; it was, after all, harmless, but I did not like the knowledge that this unknown man could have such ready access to me. More disturbing was the fact that he was following me.
How I wished that Cécile was still in London. Not wanting to go back to my empty house, I directed Waters to take me to the Taylor residence, where Margaret was staying with her parents. Here, as at Mrs. White's, I was rebuffed. The butler took my card, made me wait a considerable time, and when he returned, told me that Miss Seward was not at home. I could tell from his cool expression that this was not true. Had I done something to offend Margaret?
I returned to Berkeley Square rather depressed. Refusing to submit to this unwelcome emotion, I sat down at my desk in the library and took out a blank notebook; it was time to organize the information I had gathered so far about the death of Mr. Francis. First I cataloged facts: the date he had died, that he was killed by nicotine, that Jane had put the poisoned lotion in his room, that the murder occurred after the papers reported the theft of the pink diamond. Then I started a list of questions. Who benefited from his death? Who had access to the lotion once it was in his room? Who knew he was having an affair? And, perhaps more important, who knew he had an illegitimate child?
Heeding Colin's advice, I made a careful effort not to phrase my questions in a manner that would necessarily implicate Charles Berry. Colin's wisdom in this matter was apparent. There didn't seem to be much evidence against Mr. Berry. Still, I was troubled by the correspondence between him and Mr. Francis. Intuition told me that something not quite aboveboard had taken place; I had to find out what it was.
I was about to pull out the Marie Antoinette letters when Margaret burst into the room, Davis trailing on her heels.
"This is absolutely outrageous!" she said, thrusting her parasol into my butler's hands. "Sorry, Davis, couldn't wait for you to announce me."
"No apology necessary, Miss Seward. It is the ongoing drama of this household that keeps me young." He bowed and left the room.
"Margaret, I was just at—"
"I know. They wouldn't let me see you! Can you believe it?"
"Well, I confess that is a relief. I was worried that I had done something to offend you."
This made her laugh. "Oh, really, Emily, you've been in London too long if you could have thought such a thing. Society is making your brain go soft. I want a drink, and not tea." It was too early for port, but Davis brought us a lovely German wine, and as Margaret drank, she continued her rant. "So, here's how you rank in the Taylor house. My mother, who is generally a reasonable woman, is so taken with aristocrat fever that she's turned against you. She's convinced that the only reason Jeremy hasn't proposed to me is that he is carrying on with you."
"But surely you —"
She continued without letting me speak. "Mrs. Taylor has never been a friend of mine. She was scandalized that my parents let me go to college. I think the only reason she ever lets me stay with her is a misguided belief that exposure to her and her insipid daughters will put me back on track to becoming a dear, sweet thing."
Now it was my turn to laugh. "I don't think there's any danger of that happening."
"Of course there's not. I let her believe what she wants, though. It makes her happy. But now she is counseling my mother, warning her that our friendship may compromise my own reputation with the right sort of people."
"Oh, Margaret —"
"This should be funny. I'm ten times the radical you are, Emily. I should be corrupting you, not vice versa. I'm offended, actually, that Mrs. Taylor doesn't find my own self shocking enough."
"What exactly am I doing that is so outrageous?"
"Let's see...well, your academic interests are inappropriate for a young lady. That's why so many mothers have cautioned their daughters against speaking to you. They're afraid you'll make them want to read obscene Greek myths."
"Well, we can't have ladies reading mythology. Education starts women on a dangerous path. The next thing you know, they'll be fighting for rational dress and the right to vote."
"Exactly." She smiled and picked up the bottle of wine. "Have some more to drink. But it is not just your academic sins that have condemned you. I'm as guilty as you on that count. Added to that is your flagrantly inappropriate relationship with Jeremy, the disgraceful way you lead on poor Colin —" Here, she interrupted herself. "Poor Mr. Hargreaves. It's ridiculous. He's the last sort of man who would ever let himself be led on. He knows exactly what he's doing."
"I don't like that he's being spoken about in such a way."
"Neither do I."
"What I don't understand is these rumors about Jeremy. Where do they come from?"
"The best I can tell, they're all loosely based on fact. A gentleman did once leave your house at five o'clock in the morning. That it was Colin assisting you after a break-in is not interesting. Much more fun to think you were cavorting with Jeremy."
"But mothers love Jeremy."
"They do, but they want him to marry their daughters, not to carry on with a widow who shows no inclination towards remarriage." She poured more wine. "You ran through Berkeley Square calling for him. Fine, fine, there was a reasonable explanation. The story goes that you were wearing a dressing gown at the time."
"I would never — "
"Wait," she said. "That particular detail comes from Charles Berry's retelling of the story."
"Is that so?"
"He has been telling anyone who will listen that he came upon you and Jeremy in a most compromising position that same evening. Says you were both mortified and that Jeremy threw him out of the house in a wasted effort to save your reputation."