As Alexander's horse stepped up the gravelled path of Bromley Park, a heaviness settled upon him. His family's estate was only two hours out of London at a good trot. Yet it felt worlds away from the glittering vivaciousness of the ton. Bromley sat quiet under the greying skies, silent, subdued. Was there no life here?
The entire house held its breath, from the quietude of the stables to the emptiness of the hall.
Alexander entered his father's bedchamber on soft feet. Doctor Foster was in attendance. He had drawn back the heavy curtains on the large, four-poster bed. Lying there, in gentle repose, was the unconscious form of his father. Someone had been thoughtful enough to brush out his hair and wash his face.
The room brightened as Isabella moved about, lighting candle after candle. At any other time, she would have been under orders to conserve them as much as possible. Alexander was grateful for the light, so that he could look upon he beloved father one last time. “Has he woken?”
Doctor Foster, a stocky man with gentle hands, shook his head. “He's never waking. It's too late. We can only wait until he passes. I'm sorry.”
So that was it. No final words from his father, no last goodbyes. Just unconsciousness and death.
“Who found him?”
Doctor Foster jerked his head towards Isabella.
Alexander took her by the hands in a gentle manner. “Did he suffer much?”
Her eyes were red and she sniffled her running nose. She shook her head and dropped her gaze. Alexander put a finger under her chin and lifted it up. “You've always been so kind to him.”
Isabella nodded in acknowledgement. “It was her what did it.” Grief had hoarsened her voice.
A chill ran down Alexander's spine. “What?”
“That Amanda Mack. She's been what's been poisoning him the whole time.”
Poison. “Are you sure?”
“‘At's what Mrs Powell said. She must ha’ poisoned it!” Isabella broke out into a fresh set of tears and collapsed into Alexander's arms. “We ne'er knew Amanda was up to no good. Then we all got sick.”
A cold, dark suspicion fell over Alexander's heart. “What do you mean, you all got sick?”
There was no more to be had from Isabella, who'd collapsed in her grief. To Doctor Foster he gave orders to fetch him, should his father take a turn for the worse.
Alexander headed to the kitchen to have a word with Mrs Powell.
~*~
“It's true. She's been p'isoning him the whole time.” Mrs Powell sat alone on a solemn chair by the stove, crying quietly into her cup of tea. The kitchen was all dark, save a single candle near Mrs Powell's elbow. Still, it was warm and close and full of pleasant smells. Alexander had fond childhood memories of this kitchen. He hoped to draw some comfort from its dark familiarity tonight.
His father had been right. Oh, why had he not listened to his gut and stayed? Why had he let them talk him into going back to London?
Alexander pulled a chair close. He wished he had a pocket flask to offer her, but as alcohol was an unnecessary expense, he did very little drinking. Chances were there wasn't a drop around the house either. “How'd you discover she was poisoning him?”
“It was just after he'd first fallen ill. Amanda came. After she showed up, he never rightly recovered.
“But then Camilla and Susannah came home for the holidays, and your sisters—bless 'em—they doted on him on that first day. Amanda couldn't get near His Lordship. He got better. As long as the young ladies were here, he was fine. But then they went back to school. Amanda got back in again.”
Mrs Powell took a sip of tea for her constitution. “Honestly, why His Lordship didn't dismiss that chit on the spot, I will never know. If it was up to me, I'd have her gone in a trice, p'ison or no p'ison.”
Because Amanda had behaved herself, that's why. She'd wormed her way in, sweet talked Mrs Gregory and made it look like she was doing her best to care for his father.
Instead, she'd been slowly poisoning him the whole time.
Mrs Powell needed another sip of tea. “It's not like he owed her anything. If anyone could make a claim, it'd be that bastard Xavier.”
Alexander's breath caught in his throat. It stung, hearing the open acknowledgement of his brother. Why did his father's sin have to plague him so?
“But Amanda? She's no connection of his.” Mrs Powell snorted as if purging her nose of the smell of bad blood.
Regarding Amanda and his father's failing health, “How did you know it was poison?”
Mrs Powell tapped the side of her nose. “Ah, your father was wise to her. He stopped eating anything she brought him. Still, he didn't dismiss her.”
He hadn't dismissed her because nobody had believed him when he started ranting about poison. Why did the staff so blatantly ignore him?
When he expressed his desire to have a word with the housekeeper, Mrs Powell informed him that Mrs Gregory was out He would have to have a painful conversation with her later.
“We noticed last week, when you showed up. Isabelle brought back a tray of uneaten food. First one ever. I tossed it out to the chooks for scratch. Three died that day.” She drained her cup and set it down on the stovetop. “Well, no use wasting them chooks, so I cooked 'em up for servants' dinner.
“Well, wouldn't you know it, but the lot of us got sick, what like His Lordship was. That's when we cottoned on to what she was doing.”
A gleam of cleverness glinted in Mrs Powell's eyes. “But I reckon we have her now.” She chuckled. “When our Isabella found His Lordship on the floor, she called Mrs Gregory. Then she brought the trays back—his, and Amanda's.”
“Amanda got a tray?”
Mrs Powell nodded. “Normally she don't get one. But that day, she came to the kitchen and insisted upon one.” She shook her head. “Had to be some sort of trickery.
“With his tray full and hers empty and him on the floor and whatnot, I figured she'd tricked him into eating that p'ison. I saved the contents of those trays. In the morning I was going to feed them to a couple of chooks. If one of 'em died, I'd figure it was p'ison again.”
Alexander blinked at Mrs Powell. What a clever woman. If he had the money, he'd raise her salary.
If his father died, they could pin his murder on Amanda. “Mrs Powell, can you wait until I summon the Magistrate in the morning? I'm sure he'll want to see this.” Sir Peter Andrews had received his letter about Xavier and had sent back a tepid reply. Perhaps now Sir Peter would get off his fat bottom and actually do something useful. “And should Amanda show up again in the morning, send her straight to me. I will make it very plain her services are no longer required.”
~*~
Merrybelle cried off whatever social event her family had been invited to. She pleaded a headache—quite a real one from all the crying—and stayed home, to sleep the night away.
She felt a bit better in the morning, albeit rather puffy. Another dream about the robbery didn't help much either.
Yes, she'd really bollixed things up with Alexander. Now he was gone.
It hadn't been her fault, his father near death, but they could have parted under better terms. That was entirely her fault.
At least, they could have parted friends. If they had, he might have been convinced to come back to London, after a suitable period of time.
No, that wouldn't have worked. The Season would be over by the time he could leave off mourning.
Merrybelle watched as the door to her future firmly closed. There would be no Lord Alexander for her now. So much for the dream of Lady Merrybelle Rochester. Well, Merrybelle, Countess of Bromley, if his father passed over.
Even if Alexander had made an offer and she'd accepted, there would be no wedding until after the mourning had passed. Nothing at all until next year.
But at least she would have had a promise.
So what was to become of her? A month into the Season was awfully early to have one's dreams shattered.
After a morning of coming up with no answers, she turned to the penultimate person who'd know what her future held: her father.
She found him in his customary library, poring over far too many piece of paper. Accounts and reports, most likely. Her father never got this much correspondence unless it was estate business.
He greeted her when she entered the room. “Are you in higher spirits this day?” He shoved the papers away in relief.
Was she? Not really. “I'm sorry I ruined everything. I know you had great plans.”
His smile faded. “Is that what has you worried?”
“You had your hopes pinned on me and I dashed them all.”
His good humour returned. “No more so than for Clarice.”
Merrybelle blinked. What had her sister to do with this? “But she's married.”
“Yes, to someone else. She had her chance with Lord Alexander.” A chance her father dismissed with a shrug.
Had she? Her sister never mentioned Lord Alexander once in her letters. Merrybelle leaned forward. “What happened?”
“Absolutely nothing. They simply didn't suit.”
Then Clarice met our Baron Anson. Even if Lord Alexander had carried a torch, its light would have been as naught compared to the delightful Baron. Merrybelle liked her brother-in-law; Clarice loved him silly.
A tiny corner of her heart delighted that Clarice and Lord Alexander hadn't taken.
“Also, Elizabeth.”
“What?” Merrybelle exclaimed. This was news as well. “Her too?”
“You mean, her neither? Of all my daughters, you are the only one to have given him the time of day. And,” he added, “you are the only one Lord Alexander has noticed.”
Her breath caught in her throat.
“So,” her father continued, “there you are. Only a love match would do. If all we cared about was the connection, we would have married Clarice or even Elizabeth to Lord Alexander and not taken into account either's feelings. But that is not the basis of a happy marriage.”
Merrybelle swallowed. “But I'm the youngest daughter. If he and I don't suit, there's no one left.”
He wiped an invisible speck of dust off his forehead. “Don't be such a martyr. There is still George.”
Merrybelle's jaw dropped. “Lord Alexander can't marry George!”
Her father blinked at her in surprise. “I was thinking more along the lines of Susannah or Camilla.”
Merrybelle blushed. Of course.
And the possibility for her own marriage? “Papa, if Lord Rochester dies, what will that mean for me?”
“Ah. Yes. That is something to think about.” He steepled his fingers and tapped them against his chin. “I believe the question to ask is, was Alexander about to make you an offer?”
She shook her head. He'd given her no indication to that direction. “If he had, I may have ruined my chances.”
He stood and came around the desk. His hands settled comfortably on her shoulders before drawing her into a fatherly hug. “I know.” He held her while she deflated. It was hard to let go of one dream. “I meant to ask you before; why did you accuse him of being the highwayman?”
She shuddered as the memory rose in her mind. “It was how he kissed my hand. Then he looked up at me. Oh, Papa, his eyes were just like the highwayman's.”
She buried her face into her father's shoulder.
He held her. “Just like them? Same colour?”
Merrybelle nodded. “Same shape, same everything.” Only the Highwayman's were avaricious. Lord Alexander's eyes have always been kind, even as a child. No wonder she'd always loved him.
“I see.” He stroked her hair. “Interesting.”
Merrybelle pulled back. “What?”
Her father shook away whatever thought had been tumbling in his head. “Rest assured your highwayman was not Lord Alexander.”
“I know. Silly of me to make such an accusation. He's been nothing but a gentleman. Far more than I deserve.”
Her father only nodded. He dropped a paternal kiss on her forehead. “Let us await news from Lord Alexander before making any decisions. The Season is only begun.”
As her father wished. Lord Alexander had come and gone on family business. The Hales’ themselves had dashed off once, and that had come to naught.
He released her and pushed her to the door. “Off you go. Do not hang your hat on one man for the nonce. Go be social. Visit your friends and make connections. Simper and fan and bat your eyelashes.”
She nodded; her father was right. She may have gotten her hopes up over Lord Alexander at the beginning of the Season, but if he'd backed off, it was too foolish to lay hopes on dwindling chances. As she shut the door to the library behind her, her heart ached. It wasn’t like he'd made her a promise.
Oh, but wouldn't it have been wonderful if he had?
Perhaps she could write him a letter?
Or not.
Oh, fickle heart! Merrybelle stomped up to her room. There, at her desk, she pulled out a piece of paper and started a very important letter. Perhaps Alexander had thrown her over. If that was so, then she was doing herself no favours by sitting around and moping. If she expected even a modicum of success this season, she would have to circulate among the best company. Right now, that meant one person.
‘Dear Lady Jane,’ her letter began. ‘I do hope this missive finds you well. It was so good to visit with you the other day...’