CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

A Daughter’s Troubles

“And now admire, my dear, the strange change of opinion that takes place in families . . .”

 

Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting

It was a blatant attempt to startle the truth from her. Fortunately, Rosalind had some experience with this particular tactic.

“Do you believe it?” she asked calmly.

Anger flushed Letitia’s cheeks, but it faded just as swiftly as it bloomed. She sank onto the sofa. “I suppose I deserved that.”

“I very much doubt you deserve any of this.”

“Well, thank you for saying so.” Letitia clearly wanted to wilt under the weight of her feelings, to wring her hands, perhaps even to cry, but she had been trained against any of those things. Was that her father’s doing? Rosalind wondered. Her mother’s? Or had her education in deportment and appearances begun after Melora married Mr. Poole?

It was equally clear to Rosalind that Letitia wanted to talk but had no idea what to say. Rosalind was not surprised. Letitia did not know Rosalind and had no reason to trust her. Well-bred young ladies did not advance any but the most trivial topics of conversation with strangers. A loyal daughter certainly did not speak of her father’s failings or the family’s troubles.

Usually, when she needed someone’s trust, Rosalind would work to build a rapport over several visits, especially when the person still struggled with fresh grief.

But there was no time. The inquest and the need to find the stolen certificate pressed far too close, and the threats from Countess Lieven, and perhaps even from Bow Street, were too real.

This left Rosalind with no option but to tell Letitia a truth and hope the young woman would decide to reciprocate.

Although she had not been invited, Rosalind sat in the chair opposite Letitia.

“When I was your age, I had a very good life,” Rosalind said. “My family was received in the best houses, I had made my debut at Almack’s, and I was in love. My father was a charming and fascinating man. Everyone said so. Everyone was glad to welcome him to their table and their parties. Then one night he abandoned us.”

Rosalind seldom told this story. The pain and humiliation were not something she cared to relive. “I remember feeling there had been some mistake. It was as if I had turned down the wrong corridor in a strange house. I was certain that there must be some way to retrace my steps back to a place where things made sense again.”

“But there isn’t, is there?” murmured Letitia.

“A way back? No. But there is always a way forward.”

For a moment, Rosalind thought Letitia was going to laugh. “I’m sure that’s true, Miss Thorne, but sometimes the way forward is even worse.”

“Is that how it seems to you?”

Letitia looked at her for a long time. Rosalind held her gaze steady and let the silence blossom around them.

“My father arranged my impending marriage,” Letitia said at last.

“Not your stepmother?”

“No. He had become disappointed in my stepmother.” Letitia smoothed her skirt briefly. “He married her in the hopes that she would help him gain the respect in society that money would not. When Melora failed to do so, he blamed her for not exerting herself sufficiently. They quarreled about it. Frequently.”

“What of your mother?”

It took a moment for Letitia to answer. Rosalind watched her arrange her features—carefully angle her head and place her hands—so that she maintained the appearance of complete composure. “Like your father, she abandoned me. Us.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t blame her,” said Letitia quietly. “Not really. I’ve thought of running away any number of times, but . . . well, where would I go?” She looked up at Rosalind, as if to see if she had any opinion on the matter. As if they spoke of dresses or accepting invitations.

“Where did she go?” Rosalind asked.

Letitia shook her head. “I’ve not heard from her since she left. And she’d been gone for only a few months when Papa had me brought to him and said, ‘Well, she’s gone, and we needn’t ever mention her again.’ He then told me I was not to worry, that he would find me another Mama, one just as good. Perhaps better. I was ten years old.”

Rosalind could not speak. Anger closed off her breath and threatened to blind her. She forced it down. She could not permit herself to lose control, not when it would disconcert Letitia.

“That, you see, is, was, Papa’s attitude toward marriage,” Letitia was saying. “It is simply for what one can get. Money. Land. Status. ‘If this attitude is good enough for the highest in the realm,’ he said, ‘then surely it is good enough for the Pooles.’

“So, he arranged my engagement himself, the idea being that my marriage would bring the advancement and acceptance his marriage had not. And the family consented because they owed money, and my father could help them.”

This, it seemed, was Josiah Poole’s general approach to life—save those in debt and then extract favors for the work. Rosalind found herself wondering idly if he had ever known her father. Or Alice’s.

“I will say, objectively, it’s quite a good match.” Sarcasm dripped heavily from Letitia’s words. “My prospective groom is the heir to a baronetcy. The only drawback is that none of the family want anything to do with me.”

“I’m sorry,” said Rosalind, and she hoped Letitia understood how very much she meant it.

But if she did, Letitia gave no sign. “My fiancé’s parents called this morning. They hadn’t even finished laying Father out in the parlor.” Her gaze drifted toward the door, as if she could see through to that other room, with its lit candles and garlands of crepe. “They told Melora in no uncertain terms they meant to break off the engagement. They’d wait for a decent interval, they said, and then it would be announced that I had changed my mind and they had graciously decided to release me from my promise.”

“And what was your stepmother’s response?”

“She said those terms were not acceptable.” Letitia’s voice turned flat and cold. “She said she had reviewed the marriage contract, and that if they broke it off, she would see that the family paid every penny of the settlement they agreed to. She also said she would cause certain letters in her keeping to be sent to persons to whom the baronet owed money.”

Rosalind let out a long, slow breath.

“Did she say this in your presence?”

Letitia looked away, which told Rosalind what she needed to know. Letitia had been eavesdropping.

“I confronted Melora about it afterward,” Letitia went on. “I told her, in no uncertain terms, that I did not want the marriage, that I never had, especially not under the circumstances by which it was being forced on us all. I said I should be glad for the excuse to break it off. She said that’s not possible.”

“Do you know why?”

“She said it was money. She said Papa left us less than he might have. But I think she wants me out of the house.” Letitia’s voice caught in her throat. “Now that Father’s . . . gone. She has to manage things for little Josiah and Henry, of course, but that still gives her a great deal of freedom, especially once the boys go to school.”

Rosalind nodded. A wife was constrained by her husband’s orders, and a daughter by her father’s. But society granted a widow a level of freedom it denied other women. Poole’s will might have been intended to punish and constrain Melora, but with her sons in school and her stepdaughter safely married off, she would still be her own woman in a way she had never been before.

Such freedom could pose a grave temptation, especially in a disastrous marriage, with responsibility for an invalid brother. Rosalind met Letitia’s gaze and saw that the young woman knew exactly what she had implied.

“You tell me there’s a way forward, Miss Thorne,” she said. “I would be grateful if you would tell me what it is.”

Rosalind reached out and touched Letitia’s hand. “Consider this. You must remain in mourning for at least a year, and while you are, nothing can be done about your marriage. That is a long time. Let yourself grieve your father. Yes,” she said in response to the disbelieving look on Letitia’s face. “You can grieve and be angry at the same time. It happens more often than people realize.”

The young woman looked away quickly, but Rosalind was sure she saw something like relief in her exhausted eyes. “Then what?”

“Then more time will have passed,” said Rosalind. “There will be more answers.”

“Is that a promise, Miss Thorne?”

“Yes, Miss Poole. It is.” She paused. “Especially if you agree to help us.”

Letitia’s fingers curled just the tiniest bit. “How can I help?”

“Can you tell me anything about that morning before your father left the house?”

Letitia was silent for a long moment. Then she said, “Papa was not home that morning. We all assume he was sleeping at the White Swan. He did that sometimes.”

Rosalind waited, but Letitia said nothing else. Nor did she look at Rosalind. Instead, she stared into the blazing fire. The room had grown quite close. Rosalind felt her brow growing damp, and she saw beads of perspiration stand out on Letitia’s forehead.

“Then, can you tell me what your stepmother was doing that morning?”

Letitia frowned at the fire. One bead of perspiration trickled slowly down her temple. Her hand flew up, wiped the errant droplet quickly away.

“Melora was up early,” Letitia said. “Her brother had had a bad night. It has been a bad sennight for him. He was in a collapse, and they thought him in a dangerous state.”

“But he clearly recovered.” On that day, he had been sitting up to meet them in the library, just as he had been today.

“Yes,” said Letitia. “That also happens sometimes. He can be at death’s door in the morning and then be sitting up to eat supper in the evening. Melora says the doctors tell her it is a seizure that takes him so.”

“So, the doctors were sent for?”

She shook her head. “He recovered quickly enough that there was no need.”

Rosalind considered this. “So, your stepmother was in attendance on him all morning?”

“I believe so. I had my breakfast on a tray. I did not feel as if I could . . . Well, I wanted to stay out of the way.”

Rosalind nodded. “A last thing. There was a young man who visited here today, a cavalry officer perhaps. Was that your fiancé?”

“No. We’ve had no visitors this morning.” Her eyes flickered to the door. Rosalind wondered if she was thinking of the silent parlor, where people should have been coming to pay their respects to her father.

But Rosalind would have to wait to ask anything further. Adam had returned to the room, and Letitia closed her mouth like she never meant to open it again.

Rosalind saw at a glance that his interview with Mrs. Poole had not been satisfactory.

“Miss Poole,” said Adam, “Mrs. Poole is asking for you.”

Letitia looked from him to Rosalind. “Am I not required to give a statement?”

“Not at this time,” Adam told her.

“Oh.” Her relief was only thinly disguised. She rose with that mature, graceful calm Rosalind had noticed when she first saw the young woman, and rang the bell.

“Lizzie can show you out,” Letitia said. “Unless there’s something else you need from us?”

“There may be more later,” said Adam. “But not immediately.”

“Thank you, Miss Poole,” said Rosalind. “I am sorry for your loss, and your trouble.”

The mute look Letitia returned was filled with doubt and anger. But her only reply was the required modest curtsy.

Lizzie appeared on the threshold. She led Adam and Rosalind to the foyer and turned immediately to go retrieve Rosalind’s bonnet and pelisse.

Rosalind gave Adam an urgent glance and spoke to the maid’s retreating back.

“Lizzie, can you tell me if Judith has left yet? I need to speak with her.”

The girl blinked, two spots of color appearing in her cheeks. Rosalind wondered if she’d been especially instructed to hold her tongue around any visitors. And yet she could not refuse to answer a direct question from a guest.

“I believe she is still here, miss,” whispered Lizzie. “She was packing her things when I came down.”

“Can you take me to her?”

“I . . . that is . . .”

“She has a handkerchief of mine that she offered to launder, and I do not wish to lose it.” Rosalind watched Lizzie make the assumption that what she meant was that she did not wish her property to be stolen.

Rosalind did not correct her. She felt a sharp dig of guilt from working on the young woman’s vulnerabilities in this way, but she had no time for a kinder plan.

“I’ll go see about the cab,” said Adam to Rosalind. “Lizzie, if you can take care of Miss Thorne?”

He showed himself out the door, leaving Lizzie and Rosalind. Rosalind smiled and willed the girl to make up her mind what to do. Mrs. Poole might appear at any moment, or Letitia or even Mr. Considen.

At last, Lizzie bobbed a quick curtsy. “Very well, miss. This way.”

Rosalind suppressed a sigh of relief and followed the girl up the back stairs. Thankfully, no one was about, and they climbed to the attic without being noticed.

Rosalind found herself wondering where Mrs. Poole and Letitia were and what they were doing.

The maids’ quarters were four rooms set directly beneath the eaves. Lizzie knocked on the second door on the left.

“What now!” came a voice from the other side. In the next instant, Judith threw open the door and saw Rosalind.

“Oh,” she said. “It’s you.”

Judith’s face was flushed; her eyes were red. She’d been crying from sorrow or anger. Rosalind couldn’t tell which. A pair of boxes waited on the narrow iron-framed bed. The things had been stuffed in them haphazardly, not at all how someone trained as a parlormaid would be expected to pack.

Her apron and cap had been hung on a peg beside the door, leaving her wearing a plain gray dress. The black mourning band that would have decorated her sleeve had been tossed onto the trunk at the foot of the bed.

“Thank you, Lizzie,” said Rosalind. “You need not wait.”

“I . . . yes, miss.” Lizzie glanced to Judith, who jerked her chin, indicating the other maid should leave.

Lizzie hurried away, and Rosalind felt sure she was glad to go. Hopefully, she was not going straight to Mrs. Poole.

“What do you want?” demanded Judith.

Rosalind stepped over the threshold. The room was low and whitewashed. The floorboards were dark with age but scrubbed clean. “I was sorry to hear you were dismissed.”

“Huh.” Judith turned her back and grabbed a pair of stockings off the bed, which she began rolling into a tight ball. “Good riddance, I say. Wouldn’t stay in this house another minute. Not if they doubled my wages.” She stuffed the roll of stockings into the nearest box.

“Why?”

Judith’s thin shoulders stiffened. “You’ll forgive me, miss, but I think I’m done answering questions.”

“Of course. However, I was hoping I might have my handkerchief back.”

“Oh. Right.”

There was one dressing table in the room. Aside from the beds and a footstool, it was the only furniture. Judith opened the right-hand drawer and brought out the neatly folded square. “I’m afraid there was no time to launder it.”

“That’s quite all right,” said Rosalind. “Judith, I do have one question.”

The young woman rolled her eyes. “I knew it.”

Rosalind ignored this. “A young man was visiting here this morning. Do you know who he was?”

Judith’s hand touched her chest, right above her heart. Rosalind remembered the gesture from their previous conversation.

“I’m sure I couldn’t—” she began, but she got no further. There came the sound of a footstep making the stairs creak and the swish of skirts.

Lizzie apparently had decided the mistress of the house should know what was happening.

“Judith?” Mrs. Poole appeared in the doorway. “Why are you still here? Miss Thorne? What is your business with my maid?”

“I beg your pardon,” Rosalind said. “I had loaned Judith my handkerchief when we were here the other day”—she held up the item in question—“and I did not wish to disturb you to reclaim it.”

“Yes, well.” Mrs. Poole appeared to accept the explanation, but reluctantly. “You have achieved your aim, I see. Thank you, Judith.” The words held far more warning than gratitude. “I will show you downstairs, Miss Thorne.”

Mrs. Poole stood back, plainly signaling it was time for Rosalind to leave.

“Thank you, Judith,” Rosalind said, and she let Mrs. Poole lead her the long way back down to the foyer. Rosalind’s bonnet and pelisse waited on the central table, beside the card salver and the visiting book.

Mrs. Poole picked up her pelisse and handed it to Rosalind.

“Miss Thorne, you will do me a favor and not harass my staff or my stepdaughter any further,” she said bluntly as Rosalind buttoned herself into the pelisse. “They can have nothing to do with this particular matter of yours, this other woman’s property that has gone missing.” Her smile was tight and dismissive as she handed Rosalind her bonnet. “Unless she has also lost her handkerchief?”

“I wish it were that simple, Mrs. Poole. I am very much afraid a violent death changes the questions that must be asked.” She settled her bonnet carefully into place.

Mrs. Poole made a sharp gesture, at once dismissing her husband’s murder and whatever questions it might raise. “What did you really want Judith for?”

Rosalind finished tying her ribbon. “A young man visited your house this morning. I watched him leave.”

“What is that to you?”

“I do not know,” said Rosalind. “Miss Poole could not say who he was, and Judith would not.”

Mrs. Poole glanced away. An expression Rosalind could not read rippled across her face. When she faced Rosalind again, there was a gleam of satisfaction in her eye, and that satisfaction echoed in her voice.

“Very well, Miss Thorne. Let me satisfy your curiosity. That young man had business at one time with my husband. He came to pay his respects. I’m sure Mr. Harkness will want his name for his statements and report. Therefore, you may tell him it was Captain George Dawson.”