CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
A Formidable Woman
“. . . and if being indiscreet contributed to her amusement . . . why (situated as she was) should she not be so?”
Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting
“Alice! Dear Alice! Come give me a kiss and sit by me!”
Mrs. Dowding’s rooms were filled with the heavy scents of musk perfume and hair powder. The lady herself sat in the center of the silk-covered sofa, her vast acreage of damask silk skirts spread around her. Her face was painted much more heavily than was the current fashion, and her eyebrows had been drawn so as to give her a constant air of arch surprise. One foot, wrapped in heavy bandages, rested on a padded stool. Apparently, Mrs. Dowding suffered from at least one side effect of a life of excess—gout.
“Dowdy!” Alice pressed her cheek against Mrs. Dowding’s, heedless of the coating of powder she came away with. She sat down next to the older woman and squeezed both her hands. “Dowdy, I want you to meet my best friend in the whole world, Rosalind Thorne.”
Rosalind was just old enough to remember such ladies visiting her mother. Her father had always laughed behind their backs, calling them many uncomplimentary names. As a little girl, she had laughed with him, but the truth was these grand ladies with their broad skirts and elaborate wigs had frightened her a little. She and her sister would whisper stories about those wigs—about how they had almost caught fire or had been found to be full of spiders.
Even now, Rosalind had to swallow hard before she made her curtsy.
“The famous Miss Rosalind Thorne!” Mrs. Dowding gave a girlish shimmy of excitement. “How wonderful to meet you at last!”
“How do you do, Mrs. Dowding?” said Rosalind. “It is very kind of you to see us without—”
“Oh, no, no, no.” Mrs. Dowding waved the silk scarf, which she apparently used as a handkerchief. “I have been asking Alice to bring you to meet me for ages now. But she, naughty girl, has kept you all to herself. Now, sit there, sit there. You will have some wine? I cannot abide tea at midday. Oakley, pour my guests some of the sherry.”
The maid complied. Alice and Rosalind took the required polite sips, while Mrs. Dowding downed half her glass.
Alice set her glass down. “Now, Dowdy, I’m afraid we must come straight to the point. Rosalind has something very important she wishes to ask about.”
“I’d be delighted to tell you anything at all, my dear. But it won’t come for free.” She winked one heavy eyelid.
“Then I’m sorry to have troubled you, Mrs. Dowding.” Rosalind set her glass down and stood up. “I do thank you—”
“Oh, heavens!” cried Mrs. Dowding. “Alice warned me you were one of our righteous sort. Dear me, dear me, you young things do take such a serious view of the world! You would not have lasted a single moment back in my day.” She shook her head. “Such larks we used to have! Such grand affairs. None of this small, sordid stuff. I blame Georgie Porgie,” she sniffed. “All that passion and not an ounce of true romance or, dare I say, imagination. Do sit down, Miss Thorne. I certainly shall not ask you to break any confidence you do not choose to.”
Given what Alice had said about Mrs. Dowding and her willingness to be bribed to spread rumors or suppress them, Rosalind was not entirely sure that was true. Nonetheless, she sat back down and let herself be eyed by Mrs. Dowding.
“Well, Alice, I will say your friend seems to at least have a bit of nerve about her.”
“More than you’ll know, Dowdy,” replied Alice. “She once put a highwayman’s eye out with her mending scissors.”
“She never!”
“He was not a highwayman,” said Rosalind calmly.
“My word!” Mrs. Dowding pressed her scarf dramatically to her cheek, but at the same time, her eyes narrowed. “Remind me not to anger your friend, Alice! It is always the quiet ones, is it not? Well, well!”
“Now, Dowdy, do stop teasing.” Alice patted the older woman’s hand. “We’re here on serious business.”
“How utterly tedious! And I was already bored to death.”
“Ignore her, Rosalind. Dowdy, we need to know about Minney Seymore, Mrs. Fitzherbert’s oldest girl.”
“Oh ho! It’s Minney you’ve caught hold of, is it? What’s happened to the girl?” she asked eagerly. “Has she been caught gadding about with her dashing cavalry officer again?”
Alice shot Rosalind a glance that said I told you.
“Do you know the name of this officer?” asked Rosalind.
“Oh, of course! He’s Captain George Dawson. Quite the romantic hero, you know. Had his horse shot out from under him at Waterloo and heaven knows what else!” Dowdy waved the scarf energetically. “Excellent family, as well. Very well placed—that is, as well placed as an Irishman can be, you know. Son of an earl—but alas, the third son, so lamentably far down the pecking order in terms of inheritance.”
“Not wealthy, then, I gather?” prompted Alice.
“Not a bean,” said Mrs. Dowding. “Worse, he’s got debts. Also something of a drinker. Not a combination to swell the hopes of a mother, or indeed a father, whether acknowledged or not.” She gave another heavy, knowing wink.
Mrs. Dowding clearly wanted her to ask, so Rosalind did. “I gather there have been rumors about Miss Seymore’s parentage?”
“How could there not be?” Mrs. Dowding cried. “It’s all nonsense, of course. The child’s history is a dull, everyday tragedy. Her father is Mrs. Fitzherbert’s older brother, and she was an infant still when her mother died. Once the mother was in the ground, the children were parceled out to their relations, as so frequently happens. Mrs. Fitzherbert got handed Minney, and she positively clasped the girl to her bosom. I personally don’t see the attraction in the maternal bonds. Shackles more like! When I see what my own nieces have put their families through!” She threw her expressive scarf up in an expansive gesture of despair. “I am thankful I was spared. Not that Mr. Dowding wouldn’t have liked a son, but I always told him if he could get himself one, he was welcome to do so.” She paused. “And now I’ve shocked you again, Miss Thorne,” she added happily.
“Alice assured me you and Mr. Dowding have had a long and prosperous marriage. I am always interested to hear how that may be managed.”
Again, Mrs. Dowding gave her that shrewd, narrow glance. “I think I like this girl of yours, Alice. Possibly despite myself. She’s sharp, in more ways than one, if your little stories are to be believed.”
Alice blanched. “I promise, Rosalind. I never—”
“Of course you did not, Alice,” said Rosalind calmly. “It is very plain that Mrs. Dowding enjoys a tease.”
“Yes, I do. It’s the problem with gout. It’s undignified, and it’s dull. So I must take whatever little amusements I can get, and I’m afraid my sense of humor has never been domesticated.”
Rosalind smiled and sipped her sherry and changed the subject. “Do you know what became of Miss Seymore’s relationship with Captain Dawson?”
“Nothing became of it,” said Mrs. Dowding. “The girl is still hooked, to Mrs. Fitz’s utter despair. Her father is not best pleased, either. There has been talk that when he returns to Berlin, Minney is to go with him. They mean to see if an ocean’s worth of distance can drown the girl’s attraction. And,” she added, “if that weren’t enough, Captain Dawson’s to leave for the West Indies to seek his own fortune. Now, what do you say to that?”
“I should not like to say anything until I am certain,” Rosalind said.
“Hmph! Infuriating girl! No respect for your elders, I see. Well, well.” She patted her forehead and cheeks vigorously with her scarf. “I shall have to pine and sigh for my news . . . ah, me!”
“Dowdy, dear,” said Alice, “you’re laying it on a little thick.”
“Yes, I am rather, aren’t I? I’m out of practice, you know. Well, well.” She reached up under her wig and scratched vigorously, threatening to dislodge the entire construction. “What would you like to say, Miss Thorne? Come now, fair’s fair! And trust me, my dear, you do not want to be under obligation to me. I always collect.”
An entirely involuntary and irrational shiver ran up Rosalind’s spine.
“I should like to say thank you, Mrs. Dowding,” she replied. “And I should be glad to call again in the near future, when we may have a longer chat.”
“Excellent. You shall come to dinner. Just write whenever you are ready, my dear. You shall be the highlight of my party!”
Rosalind was not entirely sure about this, but she smiled and agreed.
“But there’s one thing, Dowdy,” said Alice. “We may have been followed here.”
“Followed! How terribly thrilling!”
“Yes, by a gentleman of the press. Ron Ranking.”
“Ranking?” Mrs. Dowding laughed. “My dear, I thought you said it was a gentleman.”
Alice grinned. “He may try to speak with you.”
“He may try all he likes, my dear,” said Dowdy. “But we shall have to see if he succeeds, shan’t we?”
* * *
When Rosalind and Alice emerged from Mrs. Dowding’s house, Rosalind took a deep, relieved breath of fresh air—well, what passed for fresh air in London. She started down the steps and up the busy high street, feeling absurdly as if she had just made a lucky escape.
If Ron Ranking was anywhere nearby, he had made himself scarce.
“What are you thinking, Rosalind?” asked Alice. “You look a thousand miles away.”
“I’m afraid I am, rather,” said Rosalind. “Alice, Mrs. Dowding would not repeat our conversation to Mr. Ranking, would she?”
“To Ranking? Never! Oh, she’ll talk to him. It will amuse her, especially if she can get him to believe something truly outrageous. But she’d never throw you away to such a person, not now that she’s finally got you in her visiting book.”
Rosalind nodded, accepting this reassurance.
“What else?” said Alice. “I know there’s more going on up there.” She reached over and tapped Rosalind’s temple just once.
Rosalind smiled and brushed her friend’s hand away. “I’m thinking that Mrs. Fitzherbert trusts her daughters,” said Rosalind. I would sooner believe my daughters had robbed me. “And I am thinking that one of those daughters is in love with a man who has debts. And that she has recently run away from her father’s house, where she was possibly going to be sent packing to the Continent to get her away from that man.”
“Oh, Rosalind, you don’t really think Minney Seymore and her beau are involved in the theft?”
“I think it is unfortunately very possible,” said Rosalind. “What if Captain Dawson came to her with a scheme to allow them to get the money to elope? What if she engaged Faller to steal the certificate and pass it to Poole, who promised to pay them for it?”
“A cavalry officer wouldn’t stick at violence,” murmured Alice. “But what reason would he have had to kill Poole?”
“Perhaps Mr. Poole tried to cheat him of the money he promised. Or . . .” Rosalind’s stride hitched. “Perhaps Mr. Poole blackmailed Dawson into agreeing to help steal the certificate. Perhaps Dawson decided to end the matter and keep the certificate for his own benefit.”
“But Poole’s keys were stolen, and his rooms searched. If Dawson had the certificate, why would he bother with any of that?”
“There may have been papers that he wanted from Poole, promissory notes or dunning letters. Or”—she paused, remembering Adam’s assessment of the rooms—“he may have done it simply as a way to distract attention from the certificate.”
“There’s another possibility,” said Alice slowly. “Minney herself could have planned the theft from the beginning.”
“And what Amelia saw between them might not have been an argument,” said Rosalind. “It might have been Dawson telling her that their plans had gone very badly awry.” Rosalind felt her jaw tighten. “Alice, I need you to take a note to Adam at the White Swan. We need to know if the name Captain Dawson appears in any of Mr. Poole’s papers.”