But Mr. Cazalet had gone on to a much more important subject. “That was about the time Miss Ormond came to me with her bee brooch. She came into my shop herself, you see. Didn’t send in her maid or footman like she usually did, just her and a companion, her old governess, I believe. No doubt she wanted to keep her visit a secret.”
Julian had brought the bee brooch with him. He drew it from his pocket and fingered it, the refracted light glowing into his eyes. It was a neat little piece, finely crafted even if the jewels were of no great value. Ophelia Ormond had personally brought in this brooch to be repaired because she didn’t want anyone to know of it.
“Ah, ’tis a pretty thing.” Mr. Cazalet nodded his gnomish head towards the jewel winking in Julian’s hands. “Just the sort of thing a young beau would give to the woman he was wooing. Miss Ormond paid me in cash for the job. Didn’t want the account going to her brother. She was very afraid of her brother finding out, and I’m not surprised. Always a hard man, he was.”
“Do you know who gave her the brooch?” Julian sat tensed on his hard stool, barely able to breathe as the old man packed a long pipe with baccy.
Mr. Cazalet wrinkled his brow. “I don’t recall any name.”
Disappointment crushed his lungs. He shouldn’t have hoped; there was no reason why a genteel young woman like Ophelia Ormond would tell a mere jeweller something so personal.
“But that brooch was very precious to her,” Mr. Cazalet continued. “She begged me to take good care of it. Not that it’s worth that much, mind, but it must of meant something to her.”
“And the woman who accompanied her?”
Mr. Cazalet sucked on his lit pipe. “Nay, she were a plain old bird, anxious about Miss Ormond, is all I remember.”
“Did you see Miss Ormond again after you’d mended the brooch?”
“Never again, no.”
“You seem very sure.”
“After you left the last time, I checked my ledger, but there weren’t no more entries for Miss Ormond after that.”
Julian gripped his knee in some frustration. The date in the jeweller’s ledger was less than a year before he, a newborn babe, had been left at the door of Monksbane. Who had given Ophelia Ormond that brooch? A man she cared about deeply. Someone she’d kept a secret from her domineering brother. Someone not suitable to associate with the Ormonds, let alone sue for her hand.
Julian’s imagination roamed down a well-worn path. Disaster had struck Ophelia. She’d fallen pregnant, and either she was abandoned by her lover, or Sir Thaddeus had forbidden her to marry him. Julian preferred to believe the latter. So poor Ophelia had been bundled off somewhere to hide her disgrace, perhaps with only her old governess for support. It was a common, sordid story. Unwanted babies born out of wedlock could be handed off to so-called “baby farms”, to be used or abused as luck would have it. But somehow Fate had intervened on his behalf, and he’d been deposited on Elijah Darke’s doorstep. Ophelia Ormond might not have been able to keep him, but she had done her best for him, and the brooch she’d left with him confirmed that.
Moisture prickled unfamiliarly behind his eyes. He gritted his teeth until the weakness passed. On the street outside, a muffin man tramped by, his raucous bell jangling Julian’s nerves. Using his coat sleeve, he wiped away a rivulet of perspiration from his temple.
Still smoking, Mr. Cazalet, unaware of his turmoil, was rambling on. “That were the last I saw of the Ormonds. Shortly after, I heard tell Sir Thaddeus married a brewer’s daughter with fifty thousand pounds to her name. No doubt he didn’t want to do business with me again, not when he’d used me to sell off the family silver. Eh, I weren’t sorry to lose the business. Sir Thaddeus is a hard sort of gentleman, very hard.” Removing his pipe from his mouth, he sat forward in his armchair, his eyes gleaming behind his pebble-like spectacles. “Young man, would I be wrong in assuming you’re somehow linked to the Ormonds?”
Frowning, Julian contemplated the old man. How far could he trust him? Then again, he’d already revealed so much just by showing him the brooch. He twirled the piece about in his fingers, then pushed it back into his pocket. “I merely seek the truth.”
The old man shook his wrinkled head. “Be careful what you wish for. Especially if it involves Sir Thaddeus. He’s not a man to cross. If I were you, I would be happy with my lot.”
A quick retort rose to Julian’s lips, which he hastily bit off. Mr. Cazalet was an old man enjoying the fruits of his retirement. Of course he’d preach caution. But he, Julian, was young, fit and determined. He wouldn’t let Sir Thaddeus’s reputation scare him off. Nellie’s attack had shaken him, yes, but he wouldn’t allow mere thuggery to stop him.
He rose to his feet. “Thank you for your kind hospitality, Mr. Cazalet.”
“Oh, taking your leave already?” The jeweller looked disappointed. “I hope you’ll return. I have few visitors these days.”
“I will do that,” he promised.
The old man accompanied him to the front door. “This used to be a good neighbourhood,” he said, pursing his lips at a group of rough-looking men dawdling on the corner. “It used to be respectable people only around here, but with all the trouble on the continent this city is being overrun by foreigners.” He shook his puny fist at the loiterers. “Troublemakers, the lot of ’em!”
Mr. Cazalet’s own forbears would have been émigrés, but Julian refrained from pointing this out and instead took his leave. Outside, the setting sun was a dull bruise on the gritty bowl of the sky. His mare snickered at him as if to say she was weary of the city and wanted to return to her quiet stable. He patted her mane as he pulled himself into the saddle. He knew just how she felt. He longed to reach Monksbane too. But thoughts of home only reminded him of Nellie and her acrimonious accusations. As a consequence, he chose not to hurry, but instead kept his mount to a steady walk.
It was afternoon when Nellie ventured from her room, resolved to apologise to Julian. It had taken her less than five minutes to acknowledge she’d behaved appallingly and owed Julian a heartfelt apology. But she needed to calm herself first, and when she had and descended the stairs, there was no sign of Julian or his father in the house.
She entered the kitchen, where Mrs. Tippet and Figgs were sitting at a table. Figgs had been cleaning a lamp, but as soon as she entered he reared to his feet, a hunted look in his eyes as he nervously tugged at his cleaning cloth.
“Oh, Figgs, please don’t let me disturb you.” She attempted an encouraging smile, and he rewarded her by very slowly resuming his seat and warily continuing with his cleaning, using his pincer appendage with remarkable dexterity.
The cavernous kitchen, though thoroughly ancient, was surprisingly neat and well-kept compared to the rest of the house. Mrs. Tibbet sat at the table polishing a vast amount of silverware. The utensils were already gleaming and, by the look of them, a great quantity of their gilt had already been polished off, yet the housekeeper rubbed the silverware relentlessly. She pronounced to Nellie that she was about to prepare oatmeal and smoked kippers, but Nellie suggested that the hungry doctors would really prefer soup, guinea fowl and lamb cutlets. Mrs. Tibbet cocked her head and eyed her doubtfully, and then said, “Very well, missus,” as if Nellie were the mistress of the house. Thinking it was all to do with the borrowed gown she wore, Nellie decided to say nothing more and left the housekeeper alone.
She waited in the drawing room for Julian to return, but it was not he who arrived home first, but his father. When Elijah Darke entered the room, Nellie started to her feet, acutely conscious that she was wearing his late wife’s clothing.