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Isabella tried to sleep late, but the shooting disrupted her sleep. Heavy booms from shotguns peppered the air, with one sharp crack closer to the house. After a few minutes with her pillow over her head, she decided to get up. Cecilia’s head was buried under her covers, and she didn’t stir as Isabella quietly moved around the room.
As she came down the stairs, she was surprised to see that it wasn’t yet 9 o’clock. The smell of coffee and bacon drew her to the morning room. One footman moved around, and two women sat at one end of the table. Isabella chose eggs and rashers and browned toast from the spread then joined the women. A footman set strong tea beside her.
“I could become used to this life,” she sighed and cut into her bacon. “Good morning, Mrs. Malvaise, Mrs. Ryder.”
Mrs. Malvaise merely stared at her. Mrs. Ryder gave a little wiggle in her seat. “I understand you live in one of those tiny flats in London.”
“Not so tiny. Cecilia had the flat before her marriage and kept it on afterwards. Luckily.” She jumped at a loud shotgun blast. Neither of the other two women seemed affected by the shooting.
“She kept the flat for her romantic trysts, I assume,” Mrs. Ryder relished.
Isabella didn’t know and didn’t think she could comment. Not lily-white, she remembered Cecilia’s warning to Gawen. Mrs. Buxton came in, her nose pink from cold, and took the chair beside Mrs. Ryder. She didn’t acknowledge any of them. Isabella looked back at friendly Mrs. Ryder. “Cecilia kindly offered to share the flat when we were both somewhat stranded at the end of the archaeological dig, me without any job and—well.”
“And her without her husband since they gaoled him. You hadn’t met the Tarrant brothers before then?”
“Not before the dig, no, ma’am.” She mixed the bacon in with her scrambled eggs.
“How long have you been in England?”
“Since before the war. My father came over to teach at Palmerstoke.”
Mrs. Buxton’s bracelets jangled as she sipped her coffee. Mrs. Malvaise made a business of spreading marmalade on her toast. “I have a friend whose son was at Palmerstoke,” Mrs. Ryder shared. “I had only girls.”
“Are your daughters not missing you, here at Christmas?”
“Oh no. They’re on the Riviera with their grandparents. I couldn’t deny them an opportunity of that nature, could I? I quite enjoyed my own winters there. I’ve haven’t been, of course, since the first years of my marriage. And then the war, of course, interfered. Have you been to the Riviera, Miss Newcombe?”
“To Nice with my former employers the Harcourt-Smythes.”
“Oh. They’re—I understand they were part of the murder investigation.”
“We all were, Mrs. Ryder.”
Madoc slid into the chair next to Isabella’s. “Coffee, Postell, lots of it.” He placed a folded newspaper to the left of his plate.
“What news?” Isabella asked, hoping to turn the conversation.
“Very little of worth, for which I am grateful. I was trying to work out the crossword.”
“May I see the newspaper?” Mrs. Buxton reached across the table.
Madoc gave it up freely. Mrs. Buxton unfolded it, glanced over the headlines, then opened it with much rattling. Isabella noticed the frown crease Madoc’s brow. She touched his knee. He shot her a smile just as another round of gunshots boomed. She didn’t mistake his flinch, and she turned her touch into a grip. He covered her hand and mouthed “Love you.”
“‘Peace, Prosperity, and Progress,’” Mrs. Ryder read over Mrs. Buxton’s shoulder. “That sounds nice.”
Mrs. Buxton huffed and turned the page. She angled the newspaper to prevent more over-shoulder reading.
“Very alliterative,” Isabella agreed, liking Mrs. Ryder.
“I read that one.” Madoc accepted rashers of bacon, kippers, scrambled eggs, and toast from the footman who returned with steaming coffee. Madoc turned the cup to use the handle then pushed it away. “Postell, give me another cup.”
“Mr. Tarrant, sir?”
Madoc pointed to the lipstick stain. The footman reached for the cup, but Madoc blocked him. “Bring me another cup, then take this one away.”
“As you wish, sir.”
When the footman was across the room, Isabella whispered, “That shouldn’t have happened.”
“Service has slipped,” Madoc agreed.
“Overwhelmed,” she guessed. “We are down a little earlier today.”
“Or slipshod. Or very abstracted. Recognize the color?”
That particular persimmon she’d seen on only one woman. “It worries me,” Isabella buttered her toast, “that you can identify which woman wears that lipstick.”
“I didn’t say I could. Thank you, Postell.” He turned the cup completely around then took a sip. The footman waited for his nod before retreating with the used cup. “I asked if you could identify the color. You’re the artist.”
She blinked then nodded across the table at the newspaper-shielded woman. Unasked, she passed the marmalade. He gave her a smile and retrieved his hand to apply himself first to his bacon.
Mrs. Ryder was staring at the back of the newspaper. “A new age for society,” she murmured.
Mrs. Buxton lowered the paper. Her persimmon-colored lips turned downward. “They say that every decade. And at the turn of the millennia—. First, they could not decide if the turn was at the aught or at the one. Then they could not decide if double-aughts spelled doom or good fortune.”
“You sound jaded, Mrs. Buxton.”
“You will become the same, Miss Newcombe. No, take that away. I breakfasted earlier. Just keep my coffee refilled.”
The shooting became more distant, more constant.
Mrs. Buxton turned her head a little, listening to gunfire. “They must be near the bluff.”
“Do you think the 1920’s will be a time of peace, prosperity, and progress?” Isabella asked, just making conversation.
Mrs. Buxton huffed and retreated back to her newspaper, leaving Isabella and Mrs. Ryder blinking at each other.
“I suppose,” Mrs. Ryder offered. “We have had the war to end all wars. If no lessons were learned—.”
“Who should have learned the lessons?” Mrs. Malvaise spoke for the first time. “The ones who wanted to conquer the world, or the ones who tried to defend other nations from attacks? The ones who thought they had a right to break away and rule themselves, when they clearly would have descended into anarchy? The ones who wanted to bully other countries, or the ones who wanted to stop the bullies?” She scooted back. “Good morning to you all,” she said and walked out, leaving Isabella blinking in surprise at her sudden, heated words.
“She lost a son, too,” Mrs. Ryder whispered. “The Malvaise sons did not fare well in the war.” In a normal voice she added, “Prosperity and progress. Our lives should improve in the coming decade, shouldn’t they? We have so many new inventions that help us: the telegraph and the telephone, and the lightbulb and the pop-up toaster. We have one of those at our house. Such a convenience! And automobiles. Where would we be without automobiles? They have quite changed travel, don’t you think?”
“What progress did the article mention, Madoc?”
He swallowed quickly. “The 1920s are to be a new age of advancement. Machines. Conveniences for the modern home. Travel. More borders open than ever before, especially in the Middle East. Ease of communication, with more homes installing a wall telephone. A push for a daily radio broadcast similar to what they have in Hungary.”
“A radio broadcast? Mr. Marconi’s invention?” Isabella tapped her empty cup, hoping the footman would refill it.
“Exactly. Reading headlines, music programs, a children’s hour while the mother prepares dinners, a—.”
“A children’s hour?” Mrs. Ryder shook her head decidedly. “Are we to be glued to some device rather than have real conversations? Why would anyone want constant noise?”
Postell poured her tea then circled the table to top off the other ladies’ cups.
The door to the breakfast room opened. Four people entered, with Gawen trailing them.
“Hold my seat.” Madoc headed for his brother.
Gawen looked over. She pointed to the seat on Madoc’s left, and he nodded. The brothers spoke quietly, then Madoc returned to the table.
The footman looked a little harried as he tried to pour and deliver teas and coffees once the newcomers found their seats. Postell seemed easily flustered this morning. Isabella remembered his error with the used teacup. Did the shooting, less constant now, bother him? Or had something else disrupted his whole morning?
Thompson came in, looking stern. A maid arrived with freshly scrambled eggs.
Under cover of the growing conversation, Madoc leaned closer. “Buxton’s wife is certainly an early riser today.”
“Perhaps she wanted a walk. On other days the maid would carry a tray to her room.”
“But she’s down early today. And that’s not the only interesting change. Did you hear last night’s battle royal?”
“Battle royal?” And she remembered Cecilia venturing out of their room twice during the wee hours.
The door opened again. Philip Buxton came in.
Madoc straightened and watched the older man. So did Gawen.
Isabella guessed the Buxtons had had the battle royal, but she saw no sign of it when Mr. Buxton leaned over his wife’s chair.
Mrs. Buxton automatically offered a cheek for her husband to buss. Then he chose the seat beside hers. He cleared his throat. “My dear.”
She rattled the newspaper then made much of folding it. She handed it over her shoulder. Postell jumped to take it. When she turned back, her husband’s closed fist rested at the top of her forks.
“Look what I have, my dear.” He opened his hand. Two earrings, with a central emerald-cut ruby swirled round with diamonds in a gold setting, glittered in his palm.
She gasped then squealed like a girl. “My earrings!” She snatched them from his palm. The jewels flashed. She dangled them in the air. “However did you get them both back?”
“I have my ways. You should trust me more.”
Mrs. Buxton removed the plain gold disks which she dropped into his still-open hand. She screwed the earrings into place then turned her head quickly. The sparkling jewels brightened the room. “Oh, Philip, thank you. I thought they were lost to me.”
“Have a better care with them in future, my dear.”
“I will.” She leaned over and kissed him, leaving persimmon stain on his cheek. “I cannot believe you managed it.”
“That’s what husbands are for.”
“I must change now. This dress doesn’t match. Thank you,” she repeated before leaving.
Buxton looked down the table at everyone watching. He stood and walked to the laden side-board. Isabella saw him surreptitiously wipe the lipstick from his skin, look at his handkerchief, then fold it over and tuck it back into his coat’s vest pocket. When he returned to the table, he sat near the far end.
More people came in, more than usual—or perhaps not. Perhaps people were returning to their routines. Mr. Ryder joined his wife, taking the seat that Mrs. Malvaise had vacated. In the distractions of greetings and clatter of dishes, Isabella leaned toward Madoc to ask again about the battle royal, but Gawen got in first. “Cecilia is not yet up?”
“She didn’t sleep well. She said something disagreed with her.” Or she had said so the first time she left the room. “Not physically sick,” she added. “She was up in the night. Twice. She couldn’t sleep.”
“I didn’t think sound would carry that far.”
Mrs. Ryder set her teacup down with a sharp click of the china. “You heard it, too? Douglas would not let me peek out. Who was it?”
“Now, Rosamunde,” her husband said. “No gossip.”
Caro Lamont slipped onto the seat that Mrs. Buxton had vacated. “It’s hardly gossip when it’s fact.” Then she lowered her voice. “Greta and Harry Jervis.”
“Aren’t their rooms in the family wing?”
“Hers, not his.”
“Apparently, and this is gossip,” Mrs. Ryder glanced at her husband, “Sir Reginald demanded that separation of rooms. He does not approve of Mr. Jervis.”
“Greta accosted him in the hallway, just outside our door,” Caro Lamont shared. “She accused him of cheating. He was late going to his bedroom where she had been waiting to continue his birthday celebration.”
“Uh-oh,” Madoc said then hid behind his coffee cup.
“Exactly,” Caro said. “But from what St. John and I heard—our room is next to his—she does not know who the woman is. And he wouldn’t tell her.”
“Did he leave last night?”
“Oh, he didn’t leave.” Caro cut into her ham and selected a bite with care. “He’s out shooting with Sir Reginald. Or he was. I think they’ve stopped now. Yes, I was shocked they didn’t break the engagement, but St. John pointed out where the money is in that relationship. And making up is often more ardent than a carefully staged romantic setting.”
“Well,” Mrs. Ryder said while all three men grunted.
“He’ll have to be more discreet in future,” Mrs. Ryder added.
“Or pick a woman who can help him be more discreet.” Caro cut more ham then sipped her tea. “That woman—good morning, darling,” she said as her husband kissed her nape. “I was sharing our front row view of last night’s little contretemps. Did you enjoy your walk?”
“I did and found an interesting perspective of the pond that I would like to explore later.”
“You will need to dress warmly. You know you forget the time when you are sketching.”
As he sat beside his wife, he nodded around. “Did you tell them about the breakage?”
Isabella couldn’t help it. “Breakage?” Then she wanted to kick herself for falling into his suspense-building trap.
“Just coffee and toast,” he told Postell. “Something heavy. Blue and red and green. When I left this morning, the maid was carrying out the shards.”
“I do love a good row from the neighbors,” Mrs. Ryder said while her husband shook his head and sliced his ham into precise fourths then eighths.
The door opened. They all fell into guilty silence as Greta and Alexa entered.
Isabella hurried to find a new topic. “Mr. Lamont, the pond perspective. Are you considering a landscape? I enjoyed that black, white, and mustard painting you did of a wall beside a lane. I thought it a radical viewpoint.” She felt forever indebted when he took up her tossed question and discussed landscapes and the challenges of painting water and ice and his inability—or refusal, he called it—to work from photographs.
After breakfast, she dashed upstairs to check on Cecilia—who was fast asleep, her head still buried in her pillow. She pondered her friend a few seconds: restless, not sick, although Isabella would have blamed another rich meal when they were used to plainer fare. Something twice drove Cess from her cozy bed into the cold hallways.
The butler lurked in the entrance hall. “Miss Newcombe.”
“Good morning, Thompson. Have you seen Mr. Tarrant?”
He almost smiled. His eyes certainly crinkled, but he had had years to control his mouth. “I would ask which one, Miss, but they are both together. They are in the library.”
“I am to meet with the elder Lady Malvaise this morning. If you would—.”
“As to that, Miss Newcombe, her ladyship requests that her conference with you be delayed until this afternoon. Two o’clock sharp, Miss.”
“Delayed?” Here I go again, repeating. “Is Lady Malvaise not well?”
The butler stiffened, and she knew she had crossed a line into what he deemed too personal for stranger. “Her ladyship asks you to appear at two o’clock.”
Ordered, not asked, and she remembered the newspaper’s claim of a new world order. “That time will suit me,” she agreed.
The time didn’t suit. She wanted to return to London. Had they left before noon, they would have arrived in London just after 8 o’clock. The flat’s larder was so empty even mice avoided it. With the heat turned down, the rooms wouldn’t warm for several hours. They would have been cold and hungry, but at least they would be home, away from Emberley’s poison. Happy instead of sharing board with people who sniped and gossiped.
And Guiseppi kept his restaurant open until midnight.
She didn’t expect Lady Malvaise to hurry through their appointment. They would be lucky to pack the automobile by 3 p.m. They would reach London near midnight after hours of driving in the dark. Gawen wouldn’t like that. He had mentioned on the way down that his headlights sometimes didn’t work well.
They were stuck here for another day.
Wondering what had driven the appointment’s delay, Isabella scuffed her heels a little as she headed for the library.
The brothers were not the only ones in the library. Mrs. Buxton talked with Tori and young Lady Malvaise. Isabella offered a polite smile and asked how their morning was going.
“We are considering alternatives to the fireworks which I had planned for New Year’s Eve. Rain is in the forecast.”
“I do like fireworks.”
“Yes, as an American, I imagine you do. However, we may have to put off that idea. That is disappointing.” Lady Malvaise tapped her index finger on the red wallet in her lap. “If it does rain, our alternative is marking the New Year’s entry only with bell ringing.”
“I like your English bells. Listening to the changing being rung—.”
“Is there anything you don’t like?” Greta asked.
The question was intended to send her on her way. “I try to keep an open mind. More American even-handedness, I think you Brits might say. Good luck with your alternatives.” Politeness served, she skirted the sofaes and headed to the windows.
She found Madoc lounging on one of the recessed benches. His brother had left during her short conversation with the women. He didn’t explain Gawen’s disappearance. After explaining about the delayed appointment, Isabella climbed onto the bench and stretched her legs beside his.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, tucking her close. “We can take another walk. Get out of this house.”
She stared at their feet, her polished brogans so much shorter than his leather boots. “I don’t think I’m up for another trek to the pub.”
“Not coming down with what Cecilia has, are you?”
“No. And she’s not sick. She’s asleep now. She didn’t sleep last night.”
Harry Jervis came in. He nodded at them then joined Tori on the sofa. Last night’s battle didn’t seem to have fazed him.
“Have you seen Tommy?” Tori asked. “We had a row last night.”
“You, too?” Greta asked while Jervis chuckled.
Lips compressed, Tori waited a few seconds. In her anger, she looked the oldest of the three sisters. “We had a row. He left after. He left the house. Just threw on his coat and walked out. But he didn’t take his auto. I checked on him several times last night and again this morning before I came down. He didn’t sleep in his bed at all. And he hasn’t returned.”
“What did you two argue about?”
“Greta,” Jervis warned.
Tori hunched her shoulders. “The same as ever. What else would a man and woman argue about besides his attention straying? Don’t you and Harry have this argument weekly?”
“Not us,” Madoc whispered.
“As long as they come back to us,” the young Lady Malvaise said. “It’s never wise to tax them with our complaints.”
“That’s just sad,” Isabella murmured.
“Indeed,” Greta said and smiled at her fiancé.
“But he’s not come back,” Tori complained.
Gawen appeared in the library door. When he beckoned, Isabella and Madoc left their nook with speed.
