Chapter 35
Do you think Jarvis sent her?” Sebastian asked later, when he and Hero sat at the wrought iron table on their back terrace while the boys tossed a small ball back and forth. The day was mellowing toward evening, the sky a surprisingly clear blue, the air filled with the distant clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the rattle of carriage wheels, and the hum of the bees buzzing around an old red climbing rose at the base of the garden.
Hero frowned. “I was in a rage at first, thinking he must surely have done so. But then I realized . . . Jarvis knows me better than that.” She was silent for a moment, watching Simon laugh as he missed the ball and ran to pick it up. “I’d like to think Victoria meant well—although I frankly find it hard to believe she could be so inept. Did she truly think I would be so frightened of what Jarvis might do that I would try to convince you to leave Rhodes alone? And even if I were such a ninny, what makes her think you would listen?”
Sebastian chose his words carefully. “Victoria is a very astute woman. If I had to guess, I’d say her purpose in coming here was something else entirely—except I’m not devious enough to figure out what that purpose is.”
Hero looked over at him. “She is devious, isn’t she? It’s not that I’m irrationally prejudiced against her?”
Sebastian smiled and reached out to take her hand in his. “I have never known anyone less likely to fall victim to irrational prejudice.”
She laughed softly. Then the amusement faded. “I don’t know about that. One could certainly accuse me of being prejudiced against Sir Ivo, although I’m not convinced that in his case it’s irrational.”
“Laura never said anything to you that might suggest she knew he had a mistress?”
“No. But then, as I said, we didn’t typically speak of such things. I considered her my friend and I had tremendous respect for her, but I don’t recall our ever discussing anything that was in any way personal or private.”
Hero was silent for a moment, watching Simon seize the ball and throw it awkwardly back to Patrick. “I’ve been thinking about trying to speak to Thisbe,” she said. “I often used to meet her and Emma walking with either Laura or their governess in Grosvenor Square, so Thisbe knows me as one of her mother’s friends—as does Miss Braithwaite, the governess. Unless Sir Ivo has specifically instructed the woman to keep Thisbe away from me, I don’t imagine she would object if I were to contrive to run into them and stopped to speak with the child. I believe they take a walk in either Hyde Park or the square nearly every morning . . . or at least they did.”
Sebastian said, “If someone had just murdered my wife and elder daughter in Richmond Park—and then attacked my wife’s niece and nephew in Hyde Park—I think I’d be inclined to rule out any casual walks for my younger daughter for the foreseeable future. Not without a couple of armed footmen in tow.”
“Perhaps. Except Grosvenor Square is a private garden surrounded by high iron railings, not a public park. I can see Sir Ivo perhaps thinking she would be safe there.”
“Perhaps,” said Sebastian, pushing to his feet as Patrick’s wild throw sent the ball sailing hopelessly deep into the shrubbery, and both boys laughed. “At any rate, it’s worth a try.”
Friday, 28 July
The next morning dawned warm but cloudy, with a soft breeze that ruffled the leafy branches of the scattered plane trees in Grosvenor Square and carried with it the smell of coming rain. Dressed in a plain muslin gown topped by a sky blue spencer and blue kid half boots, Hero walked the square’s gravel paths. The gardens had been laid out in a naturalistic style in the previous century by John Alston, with broad areas of close-cropped turf interspersed with scattered clumps of shrubbery and stands of trees. As a child, Hero had grown up playing in nearby Berkeley Square, so she supposed it was inevitable that now, as she walked the winding gravel paths looking for a little girl who had just lost her mother, Hero found her thoughts drifting to her own mother.
They had come here so often throughout Hero’s growing-up years: Hero, her brother, David, and their mother, Annabelle. Those memories were a warm, happy glow that shone to Hero from out of the past, a treasure trove of cherished vignettes, of simple pleasures and wondrous discoveries, of balmy summer picnics and frosty snowball fights and endless laughter. So much laugher. It had now been nearly two years since Lady Jarvis’s death, and yet Hero still found herself blinking back a sudden sting of tears. “Oh, Mama,” she whispered softly, then swallowed hard and kept walking.
After another half hour, she had about come to the conclusion that Sir Ivo must indeed have called a halt to Thisbe’s walks, when she spotted the little girl and her governess near the mound at the square’s western corner. Subtly shifting her direction, Hero walked toward them.
The governess, Miss Braithwaite, was a tall, thin woman somewhere in her thirties, with a long bony face and fading blond hair she wore pulled back in a tight bun. She had been Sir Ivo’s choice, and Hero knew Laura had worried that, although gently bred and well educated, the woman was not particularly wise or kindhearted.
Walking beside the governess, Thisbe looked wan and crushed. A sturdy little girl with light brown hair and a round face, she was normally cheerful and exuberant and full of boundless energy and enthusiasm.
There was no sign of that child now.
“Good morning, Thisbe,” said Hero with an encouraging smile as she came up to them. “How are you? You do remember me, don’t you? And, Miss Braithwaite, I hope you are well?”
The governess smiled with shy pleasure. “Oh, yes, Lady Devlin. Thank you ever so much.”
At the sound of Hero’s voice, Thisbe’s head came up. But her desolate expression lightened only slightly, and her voice was colorless as she answered mechanically, “Good morning, Lady Devlin. How are you?”
“All alone, as you can see. Simon’s nurse thinks he might have a cold coming on, so I’ve left the boys at home this morning. I wonder, would you be so kind as to walk with me a ways, Thisbe?” Hero glanced over at the child’s governess. “That is, if it’s all right with you, Miss Braithwaite?”
“Oh, yes; of course, my lady.” Bowing her head, the governess dropped back some steps, allowing Thisbe to walk on ahead beside her late mother’s good friend.
The child was silent until they’d drawn away from her governess. But then Thisbe threw a quick glance over her shoulder and leaned in close to Hero to say quietly, “You know about what happened to Mama and Emma, don’t you?”
“I do,” said Hero, likewise keeping her voice low. “And I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Thisbe. If there is anything I can ever do to help, promise me you won’t hesitate to ask.”
The little girl sucked in a quick breath and nodded. Then her small chin quivered, and she said, “I do so wish Malcolm were here.”
“He is coming home, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I know Papa sent for him and Duncan, but it seems to be taking them ever so long to get back.”
“Scotland is rather far away. But I’m sure he’ll be here as soon as he can.”
“I s’pose,” said Thisbe bleakly, her thin chest jerking with her ragged breathing. “The house is so empty without Mama and Emma. I miss them so much, it’s like this awful heavy weight pressing down on my chest and shoulders that never lets up. It keeps pressing and pressing, until I feel like it’s crushing me. And when I think about never seeing them again—never, ever, for the rest of my life!—it . . .” She broke off, sucked in a shaky breath, then said, “It hurts so much, I don’t know how I can bear it.”
“Oh, Thisbe,” said Hero, reaching out to take the child’s hand in hers and hold it tight. “I do know what you mean. I’ve always thought that’s one of the hardest parts of losing someone you love—knowing you’ll never see them again.”
Thisbe nodded, her lashes wet with tears she refused to let fall. “When I said that to Papa, he said I mustn’t think like that. And then when I asked him what he thought would’ve happened if I’d gone on the picnic—if he thought whoever killed Emma and Mama would have killed me, too—he said I mustn’t think like that, either. Only, how can I not think about things like that? How am I supposed to stop?”
“Were you ill?” Hero asked gently. “Is that why you didn’t go?”
Thisbe shook her head. “Mama made me stay home as punishment for something she thought I’d done. But I hadn’t done it, and I was so angry with her for not believing me that when they left, I refused to kiss her goodbye.” Her voice broke. “And now she’s gone, and I’ll never, ever see her again!”
The little girl was crying openly now, great choking sobs that suspended her voice and shook her small frame. “Oh, Thisbe,” said Hero, drawing the child into her arms to hug her close. Looking up, she met the governess’s anxious gaze but shook her head when the woman would have come forward to help.
“I know your mother loved you, Thisbe,” Hero told the sobbing girl. “She loved you so, so much, and she was so very proud of you. She would understand; I know she would. And I know that even if it only came about because of a misunderstanding that made you angry, she would still be so, so glad that she made you stay home, because it kept you alive. And nothing is more important to a mother than knowing her child is safe.”
Thisbe swallowed hard and dashed the heel of one palm across her wet eyes as she cast a quick, anxious glance back at her governess, now drawn up a respectful distance away. “I’ve heard the servants whispering, you know,” the girl said quietly. “They’re saying Papa must have killed her—killed them both.” The child looked up at Hero with wide, frightened eyes. “Do you think he did?”
“Oh, no, Thisbe,” Hero said in a rush. “You know how servants talk.”
Thisbe let out a shaky sigh and nodded. “That’s what Miss Braithwaite said when I tried to talk to her about it. And then she said I mustn’t even think such a thing. It’s what everyone keeps saying to me, Don’t think about this. Don’t think about that. But what they really mean is, Don’t talk about it. Nobody will talk to me about any of it, so all I can do is think about it.”
They had reached the center of the square, where two wooden benches flanked a rose garden clustered around a crumbling pedestal that had once held a statue of George I on horseback but was now empty. Taking Thisbe by the hand, Hero drew the child over to sit with her on one of the benches. “I want you to know that you can talk to me about whatever is worrying you or making you sad,” said Hero, keeping hold of the girl’s hand. “And I mean that. Anything.” When she said it, Hero wasn’t thinking about the questions Thisbe might be able to answer; her entire focus was on her friend’s lonely, hurting child and all the adults in her life who were failing her so very badly.
Thisbe looked up at Hero with wide, frightened eyes. “Do you think whoever killed Mama and Emma will try to kill me?”
Hero tightened her grip on the little girl’s hand. “No, I don’t think that at all, Thisbe. Why would they?”
“Why would anyone want to hurt Mama and Emma?”
Hero looked down into her pale, wan face. “That I don’t know. But I do know that Bow Street is working very hard to try to figure it all out.”
Thisbe nodded, her lips pressing tightly together. “That’s what Arabella said. She’s telling everyone that Major Finch must have done it, but I don’t believe her.”
Hero looked at her in surprise. “You know Major Finch?”
Thisbe nodded again. “He’s an old friend of Mama’s. I don’t know how Arabella found out about him, but she’s so nosy; she’s always snooping into stuff that’s none of her business.” It was obvious from the face she pulled that Thisbe was not fond of her cousin Arabella.
“And what makes Arabella suspect the Major?”
“I don’t know how, but she knows he and Mama had a fight. Emma heard them and told me about it, but I can’t believe she’d tell Arabella.”
Hero was careful to keep the intensity of her interest out of her voice. “When was this? That they had the fight, I mean.”
Thisbe twitched one shoulder in a shrug. “Late last week sometime. I don’t know exactly.”
“Do you know what the fight was about?”
Thisbe shook her head. “No, because Emma wouldn’t tell me—she said I was too young to understand such things. So I got angry at her, too. And now I’ll never see either of them again!” The words ended on a wail, and Hero gathered the child once more into her arms and held her small, trembling body close.
“Oh, Thisbe,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the side of the child’s hair. “I am so, so sorry.”