Chapter 28

“Is it possible that Jane was the one who was supposed to die this afternoon? Could the poison have been meant for her so that Lady Conyngham might procure the letter?” Lucy asked. She was leaning her head on one fist and staring into the dying embers of her fire. “Is the Marchioness so vicious?”

Sounds from the nursery drifted down to us. Directly overhead, Adèle played a game with Rags. While Lucy had been visiting us, Williams had taught Rags to dance on two legs. My children benefited immensely as the French girl dressed the pup in gay ribbons and Ned watched the animal perform like a tame bear.

I was not afraid of dying. My old friend Helen Burns had shown me how to face the end of my physical life with courage. Ferndean had taught me that life was an endless cycle. But I did want to raise my children to adulthood, to give them a proper start in life, that beginning that they could return to over and over, if only in their minds. Did that letter really put me at risk? And worse, did it endanger the people I loved?

“Doubtful. It would be stupid to kill Mrs. Rochester before knowing where the letter is,” said Mr. Douglas. As an inquiry agent, he often put his mind to such conundrums, with good result.

“However, once I knew the Duke of Cumberland was involved, I did become fearful for Mrs. Rochester’s well-being. There are many ways to pry information from an unwilling person. None of them are pleasant. In the event, your reasoning is sound, Mr. Douglas,” said Waverly. “I predict that the Marchioness will demand the letter from Mrs. Rochester. It’s possible she’ll resort to threats, though I cannot tell you what shape those might take. I do fear for Mrs. Fitzherbert’s life, as her removal would make all of this somewhat of a moot point. Without the lady to point to, the problem of the King’s illegal marriage is greatly minimized.”

While we had been talking, the shadows had shifted, moving the crossbeams of the mullions nearer my feet. The sun was completing another day’s work and fading behind the trees. Slowly the room chilled and became uncomfortably cold. Mr. Douglas stirred the fire with the poker, but most of the coals had long since spent their heat.

For a while, none of us spoke. Silence is an empty vessel that cries out to be filled with words. But words can—and often do—betray us. Better to hold one’s tongue and let others expose their weaknesses than to rush forward into the fray.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Brayton. I bid you all good evening.” Waverly got to his feet.

“You cannot go, Mr. Waverly, without telling us where your investigation stands in the matter of Lady Ingram’s death,” said Lucy.

He turned his empty hands palms upward. “You know everything that I know. At this juncture, I cannot even prove she ingested poison, but the doctor sent a message ’round to me last night. Seems he took the coffeepot back to his clinic. There was a slurry in the bottom, and he thinks he can use scientific methods to determine if there’s poison in it.”

“Then what?” Edward asked.

“Then we open an investigation into the murder of Lady Ingram,” Waverly said.

After the Bow Street Runner left, Edward and Mr. Douglas smoked cigars in the drawing room, while Lucy and I went into the library. Borrowing paper from my hostess, I penned a quick letter to Mrs. Fairfax, requesting a report on John’s condition. I knew that my letter would probably cross a letter of hers in the mail, but I still made the effort. When I was done, I sprinkled blotting sand on the note. After returning the sand to the box, I folded the note, added a wax seal, and set it on a silver tray so Higgins would post it.

By candlelight it was hard to see to our projects—my drawing and Lucy’s sewing— so my friend lit several oil lamps that cast a cheerful illumination. I continued to fill in around the letters of Evans’s name, adding flowers and insects, vines and leaves. On my lap was an illustrated guide to English gardens, one of the many beautiful books that Augie and Lucy had purchased from Hatchards Bookshop on Piccadilly. I hoped to have my gift done and framed before the boy’s arrival, but the work took much time and patience, as it was easy to spoil by dragging my wrist across the damp ink.

Meanwhile, Lucy stitched smocking on a tiny shirt. At eight o’clock, Amelia brought the children down to say good night. After dispensing kisses and hugs, I sipped a cup of cocoa. Lucy held up her work for my inspection. “I hope it’s not too small for Evans. Polly helped me shape it. We cut it slightly bigger than what might fit Ned. I would rather that he grow into it than have it not fit.”

“I am sure it will be fine,” I said, noticing how a tear dripped down her cheek and onto the blue muslin blouse. “What is it? Are you frightened, Lucy? Do you want me to remove the King’s letter from your house?”

“I wasn’t even thinking about that. I was thinking about what happened today to the Ingram girls, and how sad it is that Evans has also lost his natural mother.”

“Do you remember yours?” We’d never discussed this. She knew I’d been orphaned at an early age, but I knew very little about Lucy’s youth.

“I’ll never forget her; she died when I was thirteen and Bruce was eight. Of course, Evans isn’t even nine months old, so he won’t have vivid remembrances of his mother, but still . . . I wonder if he’ll always sense his loss? I imagine he will. No one can replace your mother.”

“But Lucy, he will have you and you’ll be the world to him.”

She waved away my comment, causing the wooden spool of thread to roll off her lap and across the floor. “Perhaps. I hope so. I shall certainly do my best, but I am frightened, Jane. What if I can’t take his mother’s place? Since Evans is not my natural child, what if I won’t know how to care for him?”

Putting my pen aside, I sighed at her. “Look around you. Everywhere you go, you see people. All of them had mothers. Some did a splendid job. Others stumbled along the way. But even so, their children survived. You are applying your mind to matters of the heart, and the fit is poor. I know for certain—and I can say this because I’ve been in Evans’s place—all a child wants is someone to love him! Someone to believe in his or her innately good nature. That is it, simple and straightforward.”

Her face brightened. “You are right, so right. I guess I am being silly. Thank you for being such a good friend,” Lucy said, giving me a brave smile. “That reminds me. Tomorrow, I shall try to locate a singing teacher for Adèle. Who knows? We might succeed in turning our dear little cuckoo into a nightingale!”