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LONDON, ENGLAND . . . Early January 1822
“If ye’ wonts my opinion, I think ye’ should go,” Mrs. Gant, my elderly housekeeper said, her tone kindly but firm.
Mrs. G has served as my housekeeper here at my lovely home in Brook Street going on a full twelvemonth now; although we have known one another since I was a child when we both resided with Lady Carstairs, I as that lady’s companion, and Mrs. Gant as Lady Carstairs’ housekeeper. Following her ladyship’s sudden demise, and after an alarming interlude that I now think of as a murder in Mayfair, Mrs. Gant became my housekeeper and her husband, Mr. Gant, my butler. The three of us now rub along nicely together in my beautiful town home in London’s most fashionable neighborhood, Mayfair. A place where I never ever thought I would be fortunate enough to reside.
“After all ye’s suffered on them last two assignments for Mr. Phelps, I daresay no one will fault ye’ for takin’ a rest from yer labours. Ye’ deserves a proper holiday, ye’ do,” she added, nodding for emphasis.
A sigh escaped me. “I expect you are right, Mrs. Gant,” I replied, my eyes fixed upon the lilac-scented note in my hand which Mrs. G had just delivered to me here in my cozy sitting room above stairs.
The post had arrived a bit late this cold January morning and Mrs. Gant had hurriedly brought up the sealed missive to me where I sat alone before the fire, my wrapper drawn snugly about me as I sipped a second cup of tea. Of course, I had entertained hopes that my housekeeper was bringing up correspondence from my dear friend, Mr. Sheridan.
If you recall, upon returning from Maidstone a few months ago, I was confined to a wheeled Bath chair. It was a full fortnight before I could manage the stairs on my own. Dear Mr. Sheridan had popped round to check on me several times before Christmastide set in, and I have no doubt that he would have continued to do so throughout the festive season had he not been dispatched by the Home Office, for whom he is employed, to travel to the continent to apprehend an unknown madman who had made a brazen attempt upon the life of the king and vowed that his next attempt to assassinate his majesty would prove successful. Knowing Mr. Sheridan as I do, I daresay the would-be assassin would not live long enough to launch a second attempt.
My thoughts strayed to the last occasion in which Mr. Sheridan had called upon me since Tilda and I returned home from Maidstone. Tilda, my young lady’s maid was presently elsewhere within my three-storey town home, no doubt seeing to Little Georgie, my adorable black and white kitten who was growing up quite rapidly and when he was awake, demanded attention from anyone within earshot of his meows. One never knew when a streak of black and white fluff would fly into a room and unceremoniously hop onto one’s lap for a quick cuddle. It typically only took a few caresses upon his silky backside to satisfy the little mite, then off he’d go again, tearing through the house chasing imaginary foes that only he could see. I was glad Tilda did not mind keeping up with the lively kitten as his antics very often wore me to a frazzle.
I smiled to myself now as I pulled my thoughts back around to the note in my hand, which, unfortunately, was not from Mr. Sheridan. To say truth, I do not believe in my nine-and-ten years of life that I had ever met the sender, a Lady Montford, who claims that she was once a dear friend of my late mother, the former Minette Dubois, which is the name my mother took whilst performing on the stage both here in London and also in Paris. That, of course, was long before she and my father met and married and a good long while before I came along. In the note, Lady Montford declared that she, too, had been an actress, and was acquainted with my mother.
With a sigh, I realized I could scarcely remember my mother or my father. They both passed away when I was a child. Left an orphan, I had resided for a time with my Aunt Jane and Uncle Abbott on their farm in the country, until of a sudden I was packed off to London to serve as companion to the society matron, Lady Carstairs. Quite against my will at the time, I nonetheless resided a number of years in Lady Carstairs’ lovely town home here in London, and in the end felt quite fortunate for having done so, as those pleasant years spent with her ladyship proved a blessing to me. That dear lady saw to my education and instilled in me a desire to better myself. I shall remain forever grateful for her gentle instruction in how a young lady should go on in Polite Society; and also that I was granted full access to the wonderful library in Lady Carstairs’ home.
Another sigh escaped me as, once again, my gaze fixed upon the note in my hand. Interest stirred within me as I began to actually consider the invitation extended by this unknown Lady Montford. A relaxing holiday in the country might be just the thing to chase away the doldrums that had of late beset me. Both of my recent assignments from Mr. Phelps of the New Bond Street Auction House here in London where I served as one of Mr. Phelps’ assistants, had contained far more anxiety and outright danger than either of us could have foreseen. Why, I very nearly lost my life at both Medley Park and Maidstone, and Middlewych inbetween! No doubt, I would not have escaped alive without the heroic intervention of my dear friend Mr. Sheridan, the alarmingly handsome, and oh-so-kind, gentleman whom I now held in the highest regard.
Dear, dear, Mr. Sheridan. Although I knew that he was now engaged in very important work for the Crown, I sorely missed the handsome man. When my birthday rolled around a fortnight ago, he had thoughtfully brought me a lovely tin of chocolate truffles, and a smaller one for Tilda, who celebrated her birthday a mere two days beyond mine.
Even Mrs. G had fallen victim to Mr. Sheridan’s charms. But, what feminine heart would not? Since he’d been gone, I had had to push against thoughts of jealousy when I considered all the pretty Parisian misses who would, no doubt, cast coy looks his way. Errant tears often trickled down my cheeks as I lay in bed at night wondering when, or if, I might ever see my gentleman friend again. Thus far, I’d not had so much as a hastily scribbled note from him, and as the long winter days dragged on, that fact alone caused my spirits to sink lower and lower.
Suddenly, I declared, “I shall do it, Mrs. G! I shall accept Lady Montford’s invitation to attend her house party. Tilda and I shall both go!”
“To be sure ye’ll have a fine time, miss. I doubt ye’ll neither one regret havin’ somethin’ divertin’ to do these dreary winter days!”
That Tilda or I might come to regret my decision to pass a pleasant fortnight in the company of my late mother’s theatrical friends did not once cross my mind. However, as I look back now, I realize that . . . perhaps, it should have. After all, I hadn’t the least notion why, after nearly two decades, this unknown patron of the arts suddenly wished to see me?
* * *
A SEN’NIGHT LATER . . . January 1822
Large flakes of fluffy white snow had begun to fall and cling to the cobblestones outside my doorstep minutes before a shiny black carriage, a gold crest on the side door panel, arrived to collect Tilda and me to carry us off to Montford Hall, a short jaunt from Town, or so we were told.
Already seated within the closed vehicle were two older ladies and a distinguished looking gentleman with thick graying hair who gallantly stepped to the ground, and after sweeping a low bow (a rather theatrical gesture, thought I), declared his name to be Miles Lyttleton, a name with which I confess to being unfamiliar. Since my mother’s passing, I had not stayed abreast of the monikers of past, or even present, theatrical personages. Whilst my mother was alive, I was far too young to take note of her friends or to remember their names. Today, I scarcely cared.
After Mr. Lyttleton had assisted both Tilda and me into the carriage, he presented to us the ladies already seated within, both of whom he said were actresses. One of them, Miss Carlotta Marydale, was busily knitting something blue in color and did not look up from her work. Due to both ladies’ graying hair and wrinkled countenances, I assumed they neither one appeared upon any stage today; they looked far too elderly, to me. After murmured greetings were exchanged, Tilda and I settled on the bench across from the ladies, me alongside Mr. Lyttleton. I idly thought it fortunate the coach was spacious enough to accommodate five adults, two of which (the pair of women seated opposite) were almost as large as three slender ones might have been if they were each wearing less bulky clothing and carrying far less weight beneath said garments.
Miss Marydale, who looked to be about forty or above and whose smile was, indeed, pleasant, addressed me, (without taking her eyes off her clicking knitting needles). “Your dear mother, Minette, and I once played sisters on the Paris stage, Miss Abbott. Goodness, (she did cast a quick glance upward) you are the image of her. You have her smile and her green eyes, but I expect you are aware of your resemblance to your mum.”
Smiling, I felt my cheeks colour. “My mother passed away so very long ago, I confess I can scarcely recall her features. You are the first person I have encountered who actually knew her when she was performing upon the stage.”
“Oh, my.” Miss Marydale aimed a glance at her portly companion, Miss Emma Stevens. “She looks exactly like Minette, does she not, Em?”
It was Mr. Lyttleton, whose penetrating gaze I had felt assessing me, who replied. “Your mother was, indeed, a great beauty, Miss Abbott. Many a gentlemanly heart was lost beneath the spell of her sea-green eyes. I daresay the same holds true for you. Your mother took Paris by storm the season she played Juliette to my Romeo on the Palladium stage.”
I brightened as I turned toward him and exclaimed, “My given name is Julietta, although the English insist on pronouncing it Juliette.”
“Clearly your mother named you after the first theatrical character she played,” declared Miss Marydale.
“The role that made her a star,” pensively added Miss Stevens. She seemed pleasant enough, although with thinning brown hair streaked with gray and cheeks that now displayed a multitude of wrinkles, I thought it possible that Miss Stevens might have never been known as a great beauty.
Openly assessing the ladies, it occurred to me that apparently in an effort to stave off the negative effects of the passing years both aging actresses now thought it necessary to paint their faces, although the rosy smudges on their cheeks could have merely been brought on by the cool air within the carriage, it now skimming over wet cobbles toward the toll road that would take us from the city. Still, I wager the rouge pot had darkened their rosy lips. Smudges of smoky black kohl also outlined their eyes. Had I not known them to be actresses, I might have taken them for . . . ladies of the night. A bit ashamed by the direction my own thoughts were taking, I looked down. I truly should refrain from judging others, I told myself.
Glancing back up, it also became evident that the former actresses’ clothing was no longer the height of fashion. The woolen muffler wound about Miss Stevens’s neck displayed frayed edges and Miss Marydale’s faded blue pelisse had clearly been laundered one too many times. I decided the new blue woolen muffler she was knitting might be her way of brightening up her aged clothing.
I idly wondered how the years might have affected my beautiful mother, and my handsome father, were they still alive. Suddenly I realized that even if one of them were still living, my life would now be quite different from what it has become. Truth was, I felt quite fortunate that things had turned out as they had for me. Apart from my lovely home in Mayfair, I now possess a wardrobe bulging with fashionable garments, most of them newly acquired. I was even now proudly wearing my splendid green velvet pelisse trimmed in spotted white ermine. Even the warm blue coat Tilda wore, a cast-off of mine, was more fashionable than those worn by the aging actresses.
On the other hand, Mr. Lyttleton looked quite smart in a chocolate brown great coat, the long skirt draped about his legs for warmth. He wore smooth brown leather gloves, and a shiny walking stick rested at his side. His handsome looks caused me to wonder if he might still be appearing upon the stage. For an older gentleman, Mr. Lyttleton was . . . quite nice-looking; although it was his deep baritone voice that one could truly not help but notice. No doubt, with that full-bodied timbre, he had no trouble being heard in every box of the most spacious theatre in London.
As the three thespians fell to discussing who else amongst their many stage acquaintances might have been invited to Lady Montford’s house party, I cast a gaze past Tilda from the coach window and wondered what my father’s voice might have sounded like, and if the treble and tone of my voice also put one in mind of my mother? There was no way of knowing the answers to my questions, of course, but it did please me to hear that my eyes and smile resembled those of my beautiful mother.
As the hours slowly passed and the snow began to fall thicker and faster, it became apparent that the inclement weather, now causing our carriage to very nearly creep along, was turning our short jaunt into nearly a day-long journey. Although we did meet up with two or three other intrepid travelers astride horses on the road, their mounts trudging slowly along, plus one shabbily dressed farmer dwarfing a donkey upon which he sat, the man’s legs hanging almost to the ground as the poor animal sludged through snow that covered its fetlocks, there were precious few other humans braving the storm on this bitterly cold winter’s day.
Miss Emma Stevens declared her belief that a full-blown blizzard was in the making. Although Tilda and I said nothing, both ladies anxiously expressed trepidation as to what might occur should our carriage become hopelessly bogged down in a heavy snowdrift.
Beside me, Mr. Lyttleton made an effort to lighten our fears by remarking that he had visited Lord and Lady Montford’s country home upon a previous occasion and that if we did not arrive soon, his lordship would surely send someone to search for and fetch us, should we require rescuing.
“Fear not, ladies. We will very soon abandon the road leading to Basingstoke and embark upon a winding trail that will take us straight up to Montford Hall. We are close on there now.”
Miss Marydale said, “Do you not think it odd that we have not encountered another carriage also on the way to Montford Hall?”
“Perhaps we are the last guests to arrive,” offered Emma Stevens, aiming a gaze beyond her companion in an effort to better see from one of the now quite frosty windows encasing us in our chilly environs.
Miss Stevens attempted to boldly reach across to the window at Tilda’s side to rub a clear spot on the glass in order to better view the snowy countryside our coach was slogging through and had been since we paused at a roadside inn above an hour ago for a bite of luncheon. “Do you think it possible our driver has missed the turn, Mr. Lyttleton?”
“Indeed, not, ladies. Fear not, we are right on track,” he said again.
I, who had no inkling where we were headed or how long it should take us to get there, said nothing, although Tilda and I had both begun to exchange anxious gazes with one another.
“I hope we have not become lost,” Tilda finally said. “The snowflakes seem to be fallin’ a good deal faster the further we get from Town.” Her wide eyes fretfully studied the blanket of thick white snow now extending as far as one could see in any direction.
“The wintry weather has, indeed, worsened,” I agreed, also leaning to look past Tilda from the frosty window on her side of the heavy, lumbering vehicle.
“We should be approaching our turn any moment now,” confidently declared Mr. Lyttleton, also reaching to rub a clear spot on the windowpane at his side. “Our warm breath has caused steam to form on the glass. Even if we should become stranded, we’ll not freeze to death.”
“Oh, sir, do not suggest such a thing!” cried Carlotta Marydale.
Suddenly, we were all startled as the heavy coach beneath us commenced to shudder, the unexpectedness of the motion causing all of us to jostle into one another even as the large carriage abruptly trembled to a standstill.
“Oh-h!” the ladies across from me squealed as they attempted to right themselves and their bonnets which had been knocked askew. I had no doubt that the action also caused Miss Marydale to drop a stitch or two, for her knitting yarn and even the needles had fallen from her hands, the dangling ball of yarn having rolled onto the floor.
“What on earth has happened?” exclaimed Emma Stevens.
Already Mr. Lyttleton had flung open the coach door and cautiously thrown one long leg out. From where I sat, I could see that the deep snow rose almost to his boot tops even as gusts of icy cold air sent a flurry of snowflakes into the interior of the coach.
“Close the door!” cried Carlotta.
The slam of the coach door all but drowned out Emma’s demand to know what was amiss? I slid towards the now closed door to gaze from the coach window, my gloved hand rubbing a larger peek hole onto the cloudy glass.
“What do you see?” asked Tilda, leaning closer to me. I felt the brim of her bonnet collide with mine as she attempted to look over my shoulder in an effort to better see out.
“It appears another coach is blocking the very road that we were attempting to turn onto,” I reported. “Both Mr. Lyttleton and our driver are tramping that way now. I see a footman calming the horses,” I added.
“What of the occupants of the other coach?” Miss Marydale wanted to know. “Are they inside the coach or standing in the road?”
“Mr. Lyttleton has wrenched open the coach door and is now leaning inside,” I replied.
“It appears to be a rather small carriage,” Tilda observed. “Would not hold above two passengers, if that. I do not see the coach driver.”
“Oh, dear, I hope no one has been injured,” murmured Emma.
Tilda strained to look past me. “I see the horse from the other coach.” She pointed. “Just there; beyond that tree. A small brown mare.”
I nodded. “Indeed, the horse and coach are quite small. Appears to be a tidy chaise or some sort of barouche. I see a crest on the door panel, but cannot quite make it out. Oh-h!” Of a sudden, I drew back. “Dear me!”
“What is it?” cried the pair of elderly women seated opposite.
“Mr. Lyttleton is . . .”
“What? What is Mr. Lyttleton doing?” demanded Miss Marydale.
At that instant, our carriage door jerked open and accompanied by a whoosh of icy cold air, Mr. Lyttleton leaned forward to hand in the crumpled body of a . . .
“Make way, ladies. This woman has taken ill.”
Tilda and I slid back to where we’d been seated as Mr. Lyttleton settled the unconscious woman onto the bench beside me. Her veiled head lolled to one side; both arms hung limp. When the woman’s head and shoulders slumped forward, all we ladies again cried out in alarm.
Mr. Lyttleton reached in to carefully lift and reposition the woman’s head, causing it to rest against the back of the bench. “She has lost consciousness. I shall ride the remainder of the way on the bench with our driver. We are only minutes from Montford Hall.” Closing the door, he turned to once again tramp through the heavy falling snow.
“But, what of her coach driv . . .?” Miss Marydale’s question was lost on the howl of the wind and the slam of our carriage door closing.
No one said anything for several seconds. Eventually our carriage began to shudder into motion and slowly slog its way around the disabled coach blocking the very road upon which we intended to travel.
Those of us seated within turned to study the stranger amongst us.
“Who do you suppose she is?” asked Miss Emma Stevens. “Another of Lady Montford’s houseguests, perhaps?”
“But, surely she was not traveling alone,” remarked Carlotta Marydale. “Where is her maid? Or the driver of her coach?” she asked as she leaned forward to examine the unknown woman’s garments, dark in colour and unembellished. A heavy cape covered the woman’s shoulders. It fell beyond her knees, enclosing all but her forearms, which protruded from slits in the cloak, revealing gloved hands. Extending from the woman’s bonnet was a long dark veil that completely covered her face.
Both former actresses seemed far more curious than either Tilda or I regarding the woman’s identity. To us, everyone thus far was a stranger.
“I daresay if she was headed for Montford Hall and she is not an actress, then I suppose she could be a dresser, or perhaps a seamstress,” suggested Emma Stevens. “Lady Montford befriended other folks in the theatre, you know; other than actresses, that is.” After a pause, she said, “Perhaps her reticule is hidden within the folds of her cloak . . .”
“Emma!” Miss Marydale swatted at her friend’s hand as she reached to feel about the unknown lady’s person. “Leave her be!”
“I thought perhaps I might find a calling card in her reticule that would reveal her name,” Emma defended her improper action. Sniffing as she sat back, she added, “I was not meddling.”
“We shall discover her identity soon enough.”
“I did spot a crest on the side door panel of her coach,” I said.
Both actresses glanced up with interest, but neither said a word.
However, Emma remained intent upon learning the newcomer’s identity. Leaning forward once more, she reached to gather, and then lift the woman’s veil, which instantly, and shockingly, revealed a crusty, wine-coloured gash of dried blood encircling the woman’s throat!
“Oh-h-h!” she screamed as we all drew back in horror.
“Her throat has been cut!” cried Carlotta Marydale.
“She is not injured, she is dead!” Emma dropped the veil as if it were on fire. It floated back into place, obscuring the gruesome sight.
Emitting another exclamation of alarm, Emma pressed the back of her hand to her brow in that tragic pose often employed by actresses. Had she not been seated, I expect she would have also swooned.
“Who could have killed her?” Tilda cried, her eyes wide.
“Was her coach driver also killed?” inquired Carlotta Marydale.
“Perhaps he was buried in a snowdrift near her coach,” I suggested, becoming aware of Tilda now pressing closer to me.
Leaning in, she murmured into my ear. “Do ye’ suppose the driver would be willin’ to take us straight back up to Town, miss?”
My brow furrowed as my head shook from side to side. “In this wretched weather, I fear we’d never make it that far.”
Still, given what had already transpired on our ‘pleasant journey to the country’ I confess my heart sank a little more, as no doubt, Tilda’s also did. We had not yet reached our destination and already a mysterious death, or perhaps two, or even three, if one counted the fact that neither this woman’s lady’s maid, or her coach driver, had been observed anywhere near the coach, either dead or alive.
Dear Lord, what sort of mischief had we already become embroiled in?