A Brazen Curiosity, page 14
part #1 of Beatrice Hyde-Clare Series
As Bea spouted banality after banality, she thought it would serve her right if Emily remained as silent as a clam. Putting oneself in the middle of a heartbreaking fiction to manipulate a young woman into telling her own sad tale felt contemptible to her. In the beginning, it had seemed like an amusing lark: their meeting at Hatchards when they both reached for A History of Ships and Sailors by Thomas Culver, her showing up every day at the same time for a week in hopes of seeing him again, his writing poems in celebration of her smile. But the more involved the story grew—as Mr. Davies progressed from Theodore to Ted to Teddy—the more unsettled she became, and by the time Teddy refused to accept marriage to the daughter of his father’s oldest and dearest friend, she felt miserable about the deceit.
And yet she remained hopeful that the exhaustive lie would bear fruit because murder was rather despicable too.
“It’s true, about the heart,” Emily said sadly, “for it does make very poor decisions indeed.”
At last, Bea thought, relieved that her story of thwarted happiness had not been invented in vain. “Have you fallen in love with someone unsuitable as well?”
“Me?” Emily asked, her eyes wide with surprise as she started to laugh. “Miss Hyde-Clare…Beatrice, have you not looked at me recently? I’m an exquisite young lady with stunning features, magnificent hair and a figure of such pleasing proportions it cannot fail to appeal to all men. I’m what is commonly referred to as an Incomparable, and I do in fact defy you to find a woman who compares to me. I can aim as high as I please, and I intend to set my sights on a duke or a marquess. Can you believe my parents hoped to make a match with Mr. Skeffington? As if I’d settle for a lowly baron. It’s almost as if they hadn’t looked at me recently either.”
Bea was grateful Emily relished talking about her perfection so much because it gave her time to recover from the shock. Despite evidence to the contrary, she was not besotted with her father’s associate. Indeed, she’d revealed herself to be the type of woman who could not be besotted with any gentleman whose rank did not comply with her expectation.
How, then, to explain the letter from the young man swearing his eternal devotion? Had he created an entire romance out of thin air? Had Emily greeted him kindly the first time they met and he assumed it was mutual and enduring love?
“Naturally, Emily, I never doubted you would make a brilliant match,” she said flatteringly. “In fact, the moment I first saw you, I actually thought to myself, Now there is a beautiful woman who will make a brilliant match. I was merely responding to the sympathy with which you spoke about the heart making poor decisions. It seemed as if you’d acquired that knowledge firsthand.”
“I’m desolate to inform you that I have, for my suffering knows no bounds,” she said, confusing Bea further. “But ’tis not my heart that has caused a great pain but my mother’s, which, as you can imagine, is considerably worse because it demonstrates a weakness one does not wish to observe in a parent. She has always been forceful-minded and more passionate than kind, but her recent behavior indicates a total want of respect and decency. I only hope Papa remained ignorant of it to the end, but I fear the shame was more than he could bear.”
Bea was so astonished by the information she could do nothing but say she was astonished by the information.
“Of course you are,” Emily said sympathetically. “She’s short, fat and wrinkly, and her lover is short, fat and wrinkly, with a hideous wart on his left cheek. He used to be Papa’s steward, you know, until he was sent to supervise the India operation, as the previous agent had died because of some unpleasantness with the locals. I don’t know the details because nobody tells me anything. It’s maddening. The only reason I found out about Mama’s scandalous relationship with Mr. Wilson was I discovered her correspondence while rifling through her things trying to find out information about Papa’s business. I was so distraught to discover her true nature, I cried tears of rage as I read the letter,” she said, drops forming again in the corner of her eyes as she recalled the moment. “You have no idea how lucky you are to have two parents who are deceased, for one cannot be mortified by the dead.”
“Yes, being an orphan has many compensations,” Bea said with more than a hint of sarcasm.
To Bea’s surprise, the other girl recognized how horrible she sounded and was instantly contrite. She grabbed her hand again to offer another comforting squeeze. “What a wretched thing to say. My father has been dead for only two days and I already miss him more than I can bear. Please do accept my apology. Talking about my mother has made me all out of sorts, and you are a kind and thoughtful friend to listen to me rattle on. I knew you were kind and thoughtful the moment you brought me the mob cap. I realized then that you were a woman who valued my appearance as much as I did.”
As appalled as Bea was by the girl’s towering self-regard, she was more fascinated by the way beauty had corrupted her perspective. A lifetime of being appreciated only for her looks had taught her to appreciate only her looks. Were all Incomparables as vain as she, or was Emily particularly susceptible?
Bea rather suspected it was the former and wished the Duke of Kesgrave the best of luck with his tableau.
“Of course I forgive you,” she said as they approached the top of the hill, which presented a clearing with the manufactured ruin of a medieval castle, its stone walls—half-fallen, half-standing—seemingly ravaged by the passage of time, though in fact the edifice had stood for less than twenty years. A Gothic tower, tall and topped with a crenellated turret with a half-moon carved out, as if it had survived a mortar attack centuries ago, brooded over the landscape, adding a soupçon of hopelessness to the otherwise jovial scene. “I would never hold a grieving woman’s rash comment against her. I’m sorry for how much you have to suffer. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Actually, there is, yes,” Emily said gratefully. “A small thing. Your cousin Russell’s infatuation with me, though understandable and in many ways inevitable, has grown tiresome. He follows me around like a puppy, offering to fetch and carry and asking almost constantly if I’m all right. It was sweet at first, but the charm has worn off. Would you mind hinting him away?”
The only thing that surprised Bea about her cousin making a pest of himself was how long it took for it to happen. “I will talk to him as soon as we get back,” she promised.
“You are a darling,” Emily insisted just as Mrs. Otley called her away to admire the folly. The young lady rolled her eyes to show either disgust for her mother or for her level of eagerness, then pasted a bright smile on her face as she turned around. “Yes, Mama, I’m coming.”
While Lady Skeffington directed the servants to set up the picnic under a large willow tree and Flora took out a notebook to sketch the folly, Bea quietly observed Mrs. Otley and her daughter. Whatever the latter’s true feelings for her parent were, she hid them skillfully behind a beautiful mask of polite interest. Nodding enthusiastically, she looped her arms through her mother’s and strolled with her through a ruined archway.
As they disappeared from view, Bea marveled at the discovery that it was Mrs. Otley, not Miss Otley, to whom Charles Wilson had pledged his undying devotion. A revelation of that magnitude required a tremendous amount of thought, for it cast a new light on information previously assumed to be true. If Mrs. Otley had been conducting an affair with Mr. Otley’s business associate, then her name must be added to the list of suspects. Her husband’s premature death would provide her with the freedom to marry again while remaining in possession of his assets. The same motive applied to Mr. Wilson, who would stand to gain a wife and an estate in a single stroke—assuming the pesky barrier of Mr. Otley could be removed.
But Kesgrave had thrown up another obstacle to their success, as having the constable deem the event a suicide guaranteed that all monies would go to the Crown. If Mrs. Otley was in any way involved in the scheme, she would be desperate with anxiety and frantic to have the ruling overturned. As far as Bea could discern, she’d accepted the judgment without complaint and seemed no more distressed by the fact of suicide than she was by the death itself. If she was involved, she would be eager to get her hands on what was left of the estate, including all that lovely money her husband had swindled out of their friends.
Or was she simply happy to be free of the constraints of her marriage and confident that Mr. Wilson had saved enough money during his time in India to keep her in style?
“Appalling, isn’t it?” Lady Skeffington said.
Startled, Bea turned to find her hostess standing beside her and staring at the gloomy ruin. For a moment, she’d thought the woman was talking about Mrs. Otley’s behavior and found herself curiously at a loss for how to respond. But even when she realized she referred to the folly, she still could not think of an intelligent reply, for this was precisely the sort of facile conversation that had dulled her wits during her multiple seasons.
The silence stretched as Bea felt herself accosted by her old anxieties. How could she still be this person—this dullard who balked at a polite question? Had her verbal duels with the Duke of Kesgrave meant nothing?
Unsure of the answer, she responded with another question. “Is it?”
“I’m afraid I’ve never really understood the point of creating something new that looks old,” her ladyship explained. “Skeffington and the architect spent months on the design, agonizing over every little detail and weighing its effect on the building’s sensibility. Would one more window make it too desolate? Would one less make it too cheerful? Honestly, months and months of conversation over cheroots and brandy, which, to be fair, I actually found quite amusing, for they let me partake in all three. I always enjoy a vigorous debate, however trivial the subject. And now we have this grandiose edifice, like scenery in a play that is always just about to start.”
Bea empathized with her point of view, for it could not have been inexpensive to build such a structure on the top of a hill, and decided the conversation was not facile at all. “I must admit it is strange to create something whose sole function is to decay,” she said easily. “But I also must admit that I do like the feeling it evokes. Please tell your husband that he chose the perfect number of windows.”
Lady Skeffington smiled and patted her gently on the shoulder. “You must tell him yourself, as he loves compliments on his folly. Now, refreshments are served. Do help yourself.”
At the mention of food, Bea felt her stomach gurgle and realized she was quite hungry indeed. The strawberry jam tea cakes had been several hours ago.
The picnic spread, which was modest in its options but lavish in its quantity, consisted of cold meats, cheeses and fruit. Bea made herself a little plate of chicken, sliced ham and cheddar. The Otleys joined her soon after, while Flora continued to sketch and Aunt Vera stood at her shoulder commenting on how skillfully she’d rendered her subject. Her admiration was so effusive, Mrs. Otley felt compelled to appraise the work for herself and agreed that Flora’s drawing was competent. Naturally, Aunt Vera, who had not now or ever used such faint praise to commend her daughter, took exception at the understatement, and the two old friends indulged in a vigorous exchange of increasingly underwhelming taunts about the other’s offspring. By the end, Miss Otley’s appearance was “passable” and Miss Hyde-Clare could “draw a straight line if she put her full concentration into it.”
“I think it will amuse you to know they were always like this,” Lady Skeffington said. “At school, when we were younger. We all were, in fact. I fear competitiveness is essential to the nature of female friendship.”
Bea thought it was incredibly gracious of their host to lump herself in with the two bickering women. “I find it very hard to believe that you were competitive.”
Her ladyship laughed, pleased by the compliment. “Well, just between us, I will concede that I was never as bad as those two, but I did have my moments. I’m genuinely delighted that despite all the dramatics—and I assure you, there were some monumental Cheltenham tragedies enacted in the study hall of Mrs. Crawford’s School for Girls—we remained friends. It was touch and go for a while, especially after Amelia nabbed Thomas from me right under my nose.”
Although Bea found this disclosure unexpected, recent revelations about Mrs. Otley’s morals ensured that she wasn’t entirely surprised. Nevertheless, she was taken aback by the betrayal of friendship.
“You are right to stare. It’s quite shocking but mostly, I think, because it’s clear all these years later how poorly Thomas and I would have suited each other. He and Amelia were a much better pair, peas in a pod, as they say. And I’ve done remarkably well for myself. Skeffington and I are ideally matched, folly and all,” she said with a gentle sigh, her expression suddenly serious as she watched her friend lick the crumbs of a second pear tart off her fingers. “I’m grateful now for her interference, of course. But, oh, you should have seen Thomas then, freshly returned from India: handsome, confident, sophisticated, worldly. I was a little in awe of him, which is never good for a relationship. I’m not surprised he chose Amelia. Everyone said it was because she was the daughter of a baron and he wanted the noble bloodline, but I think that’s too simplistic. Amelia had her own appeal. She sparkled back then the way her daughter sparkles now, and I’m sure it was irresistible. I was always a little more plodding.”
Having heard the same description applied to herself by her own uncle, Bea strenuously objected. “Not plodding. Thoughtful.”
Lady Skeffington smiled but shook her head at the distinction. “You are too kind,” she said, sighing as a sad expression overtook her face. “I’m so sorry for Amelia’s suffering. If I could have done anything to prevent it…”
The sentiment was expressed so simply and sincerely, Bea immediately recalled her ladyship’s lone directive that morning during Aunt Vera’s etiquette session: Consider the comfort of others to be of paramount importance, and everything else will fall into place.
She reminded Lady Skeffington of her advice now, for she thought it was tailor-made for a situation just like this. “You are offering comfort to a dear friend during a terrible time. I believe that’s all you can do.”
Lady Skeffington tilted her head and looked at Bea with surprise. “You’re not at all what your aunt described. You’re quite insightful and very lovely indeed. Thank you, my dear, for considering my comfort. Now let’s get you a pear tart before Amelia finishes them all. If nothing else, I owe it to her not to let her gorge herself in grief. In a few years, perhaps, she will look for another husband and she won’t want to be saddled with a third chin.”
Although Bea much preferred chocolate cake to pear tart, she happily ate the entire pastry because she didn’t want to seem ungrateful to her hostess. She’d had little expectation when she discovered they were going to spend a week in the country with one of Aunt Vera’s old school friends, for she did not consider her relative to be the best judge of character, but Lady Skeffington had turned out to be a true delight.
Bea was still marveling at the day’s development a few hours later when she retired to her room to change for dinner. How fantastic that the kind Lady Skeffington had once been romantically linked with the venal Mr. Otley. That moment when she’d observed how poorly they would have suited each other, Bea wanted to grab her shoulders and say with heartfelt solemnity, “Good gracious, ma’am, you have no idea.”
And Mrs. Otley!
It struck her as highly appropriate that a man who swindled money from elderly fools and callow youths would have a wife who dallied with his underling. It was a case of like attracting like.
Two peas in a pod, Lady Skeffington had said.
She couldn’t wait to tell Kesgrave, for she knew he would be just as astonished. He’d read the letter, the same as she, and had drawn the identical conclusion. The truth changed the entire complexion of the situation, and she was eager to hear what he would make of it. More than ever, she was convinced Mr. Wilson was their chief suspect, for he had as strong a motive as Mrs. Otley and the strength, no doubt, to carry out the crime.
Dinner was an interminable ordeal, for she had to wade slowly and politely through four courses, including fish, when all she wanted to do was lean across Lord Amersham and Flora to the duke and say, “The letter was to the mother. The mother, your grace, can you believe it?”
Obviously, there could be no opportunity for such a communication during the meal or after, for when the women withdrew to the parlor, the men stayed in the dining room to drink their port. She hadn’t expected to have a revealing conversation about one of their fellow dinner guests in the presence of all of them, but she had hoped to communicate the need for one. Her attempt at conveying urgency by blinking her eyelids several times in rapid succession in his general direction was thwarted by Flora, who intercepted the look and asked if she had sand in her eye.
“Would a cold compress help remove the grains?” she asked solicitously. “Here, let’s ask one of the footmen to get you a cold compress.”
Bea, slightly disconcerted by her cousin’s thoughtfulness, thanked her for the offer and said her eye already felt better.
With no hope of conferring with Kesgrave, she had little interest in remaining in the drawing room and, as soon as it was appropriate, excused herself to go to sleep. Smothering a yawn, she explained that the walk to and from the folly had worn her out. “It must have been all that lovely fresh air.”
