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THURSDAY, 9 AUGUST 1821
Once there, I immediately went in search of a volume of Nicholas Culpeper’s Complete Herbal, a lavishly illustrated book that had been published nearly two hundred years ago. Within those beautifully illustrated pages I felt certain I would find exactly what I was looking for. Of course, until I had conducted a thorough search for the book within the cluttered shelves of the Medley Park library, I was not at all certain that Lord Medley even owned a copy. However, if he did, the author Nicholas Culpeper, renowned in England for nearly two centuries for his study of flowers and herbs, would surely reveal the information I sought.
I knew that prior to publishing his book on herbal cures, Mr. Culpeper had been an apothecary, and before he passed away at the age of seven and thirty, he had successfully treated both the sick and injured with his unique concoctions. I had often perused the gentleman’s book in Marianne Chalmers’ father’s library in what was now my lovely home in Mayfair, and had always come away with a new idea for a remedy or herbal cure.
After I located and carefully studied Mr. Culpeper’s work, I intended to take a nice long walk, or several long walks, about the Medley Park grounds to see for myself exactly what plants were cultivated here. Thus far, the only blossom I knew for certain that could cause death was foxglove. And I had, in fact, seen the spotted magenta flowers mixed in with bouquets of roses and snapdragons in various chambers of the house here. Whether or not it was foxglove petals that had been added to Miss Martha’s soup and consequently caused her death, was now the question uppermost in my mind.
Eagerly I began to scan the profusion of dusty volumes, many lying in disarray on tabletops, dozens of books stacked one on top of another, and more carelessly tossed helter-skelter about the room. I wondered if Lord Medley had any notion as to exactly what books he did own.
By mid-morning, I had made little to no progress in my search for a copy of Culpeper’s work, but whilst searching I found a good many other ancient volumes that would fetch a veritable fortune were one to purchase them from a rare book dealer in London. Because there was such a very great deal of work to be done to not only catalogue the hundreds of books here, but to arrange them in some semblance of order on the floor-to-ceiling shelves lining three of the four walls of the room, I eventually abandoned my search for Culpeper’s ancient tome, and turned my full attention to my work. I began by organizing the unsorted volumes, stacking the oldest and rarest ones on a separate library table, making notes as I went along as to the size and condition of each book. I told myself that to compile my notes now would save precious time later.
Only once during the long morning was my work interrupted and that was when Lord Medley himself entered the library. Hearing the sound of approaching footfalls, I glanced up in time to see him reach into a pocket of his frockcoat and withdraw a pair of armless eyeglasses, which he held up before his face. I noticed that even behind the thick lens, the gentleman was squinting. Was Lord Medley losing his eyesight the same as his sister Miss Martha had done?
“Miss Abbott.” The gentleman gruffly addressed me.
“Yes-sir?”
“Have you any notion how long this book inventory project will take?”
I blanched. “Well, sir, I have only just begun to catalog them.” I flung a glance behind me at the half dozen long tables, all stacked with dozens of books and dozens more lying on the floor between the chairs and pair of sofas sitting in the center of the large room. “As you can see, the entire library is in sad disarray. I assume you wish me to arrange the books into some sort of order, as well as to catalogue them.”
“I am not particularly interested in order, young lady,” he barked. “As you know, I intend to store the rarest books in the new wing for safe keeping. At present, I am far more eager to learn the value of my collection. Were I to sell off the first-edition volumes, for instance, what sum might I expect to receive?”
Drawing breath, I started afresh. “To truly determine value, sir, I really should forward a list of the rarest titles to at least one, or several, rare book dealers in London and request an estimate of their worth.”
He scowled. “I was under the impression that you could determine the value, young lady. Did Phelps mislead me as to your qualifications?”
I gulped as a fresh wave of anxiety beset me. I had, as well, entertained some doubts as to my qualifications, but now did not seem a good time to elaborate on that. “Sir, my . . . expertise does lean more toward objects than to books. I can render an opinion, of course, but to consult with a bookseller would net a far more precise figure. One who deals in rare books and manuscripts is far more likely to . . .” When he held up a silencing hand, I abandoned my explanation.
“Dash it! All that waffling about will take far longer than I wish to wait. Can you not hurry it along?”
“I will do my best to expedite the matter, sir.”
“See that you do. And be quick about it,” he added, although the follow-up sentiment was hardly necessary.
I noticed that after whirling about to exit the room, the older man promptly tripped over a book that lay open at his feet.
“Blast!” he muttered before kicking it out of the way.
I hoped the offending article was not a rare first-edition volume for kicking it would likely serve only to decrease its value.
With his lordship’s impatience now weighing heavily upon me, I opted to skip luncheon that day, only to have my work interrupted again that afternoon, this time by the handsome Mr. Ruston. As he and I had not yet exchanged more than a few words since our talk following Miss Martha’s memorial service earlier in the week, I did not now initiate an involved discussion with him in regard to the secret matter between us.
“Good afternoon, sir. Your father was here this morning and . . .”
The gentleman glanced up. “Ah, I did not see you there. Dusting the books, are you? Carry on, then. I’ll not disturb you.”
Aware that I now wore a somewhat quizzical look upon my face, I merely murmured, “Thank you, sir,” and returned to my task.
A moment later, Mr. Ruston inquired, “Where might I find the oldest and rarest books, young lady?”
“Your father wishes the more ancient volumes be stored in the new wing, so, for the nonce, I am stacking them on that table just there.”
His blue eyes followed my hand as I indicated the long table at the top of the room.
“Ah, yes.” He moved that way and after snatching up two or three of the oldest and rarest volumes, he retreated to the corridor, the precious books held close to his chest.
Seconds later, I realized that I should have asked the titles so I could make a notation on my list that those particular volumes had been removed from the library, but perhaps Cecil would return them before I sent my list to Mr. Phelps in London. Following his lordship’s departure this morning, I had decided it best to request that Mr. Phelps consult with a rare book dealer in Town as he was more apt to be acquainted with the most qualified and highly respected ones.
As the day wore on, and the light in the library grew dim, my eyes grew excessively tired. To remove each and every volume from both the high shelves (with the aid of an ancient rolling ladder that, in truth, gave me pause the first time I climbed aboard) and also the low shelves in order to jot down the book’s title and date of publication, if that information did indeed appear on the frontispiece, was both tedious and tiresome. I opted to not abandon my work today in order to take tea, and near the end of the long day, not only did I feel quite weary but a ravenous hunger had set in. Despite the many hours I had devoted to my project today, it occurred to me that if his lordship were to pose his question to me again regarding how long this task would take, I could offer a far more accurate answer now. “I expect it will extend a good many days beyond forever, sir.”
By the time I adjourned to my room that evening, I was so exhausted that I actually fell asleep upon the window seat mere moments after collapsing onto it. I did not awaken until Tilda rapped at my door, come to help me change into a gown far more suitable than the soiled one I was wearing in order to dine with the family that night.
“Library’s the dustiest room in the whole house, miss,” Tilda announced when I stepped from my gray fustian frock and upon shaking it out, we both promptly sneezed. Wiping the moisture from my eyes, the dust motes dancing in the last rays of sunlight filtering through the window were clearly, and colorfully, visible.
Sniffing, I replied, “I do hope I have a clean frock to wear on the morrow.” With a wry grin, I added, “If not, I may be obliged to borrow one from you, as well as a mobcap to cover my hair.”
“No disrespect, miss, but you do rather look like one o’ us when you’s a-dressed for workin’.”
“I suppose I do.” Heaving another wearisome sigh, my thoughts flashed upon the fortnight I had spent at Morland Manor at my temporary post as a lady’s maid. There I was obliged to dress in servant’s garb every day in order to perform equally tiresome tasks, which I quickly came to realize then that I was ill-suited for. However, sorting through dusty books now sat at the top of my list of Least Agreeable Chores.
Joining the family in the drawing room before dinner that night, I was shocked to find that there were now two Mr. Ruston’s standing before the hearth, one the mirror image of the other. Evidently Cecil’s twin brother Ned had arrived at some point today. Because I had missed both luncheon and tea, I had no notion when the gentleman had returned from his pleasure jaunt to Birmingham or wherever it was he went. However, even from where I stood next to Hannah and Isabella, I could clearly hear the young man complaining that the horse he had wagered on had come in dead last in the race he’d traveled there to witness.
Once the family filed into dinner, I again found myself seated beside Hannah, with Isabella beyond her next to Miss Hutchens; Cecil and Ned directly across from them. I felt a tad bit silly when I realized that the gentleman who entered the library this afternoon was, no doubt, Ned, and not as I had first thought, his twin-brother Cecil. The young man had never once addressed me by name and because he asked if I were dusting the volumes, it was clear that he had mistaken me for a servant since before that very moment, he had never clapped eyes on me. As I sat a fair distance away from him now, I took the liberty of openly studying the two identical-looking young men in order to determine if there was the least bit of difference between them, and if so, what the difference might be.
Spotting nothing noteworthy, I murmured to Hannah, “Your brothers are uncommonly identical. I truly cannot tell them apart.”
She smiled. “Nearly everyone draws that same conclusion. However, I haven’t the least bit of trouble distinguishing one from the other. Perhaps because I am partial to Cecil.”
After a pause, I asked, “Pray, which one is Cecil?”
Hannah giggled. “He is the one who persists in sneaking peeks at you, Miss Abbott.”
“Oh.” Feeling color rise to my cheeks, I commenced to conduct an inventory of the food upon my plate: roast lamb, creamed carrots, new potatoes and rye bread. Consequently for the remainder of the meal, I endeavoured to keep my eyes glued to my plate; mainly because I found the dinner conversation which centered around Ned’s less than stellar performance at the racetrack quite distasteful. Following Miss Martha’s demise and the second disappearance of Lady Medley’s jewels, every member of the Medley Park family seemed to be growing more irritable by the day.
“Did I not warn you, boy, to refrain from squandering your money on horseflesh that you know nothing of? In my estimation, the loss serves you right. Now, perhaps ye’ll make an effort to buckle down and assume some responsibility in managing the estate. Medley Park don’t run itself, ya’ know.”
“Now, Charles. All young men attend horse races. Ned would feel quite silly if he did not place a wager on a horse the same as all his friends do.”
“The boy knows nothing of horses! Consequently he don’t have a clue which one is likely to win! I daresay Hannah could make a far wiser choice that her brother, ain’t that right, Hannah?”
Silence reigned a few seconds before Hannah replied, “I like black horses, Papa. At the next race, Ned, you must bet on a black horse, for it will surely win.”
Lord Medley’s eyes rolled skyward, although the instant he shook his balding head, the action caused the Oxford spectacles perched on the end of his nose to drop into the curry sauce on his plate.
“Blast!”
“Bring his lordship a fresh napkin,” Lady Medley hailed a hovering footman. “Just wipe them off, Charles. I don’t know why you persist in wearing pince-nez when all they are good for is to fall off your nose.”
“I wear pince-nez, madam, because without them, I can scarcely see anything beyond my nose!”
And, on and on it went. Each new topic broached seemed destined to end in a quarrel, or even fisticuffs.
Although I did rather wish to at least make Mr. Ned Ruston’s acquaintance, following the tedious meal, I realized I was far too weary to speak for any length with any member of the family, so before Cecil, or anyone else, had a chance to engage me in conversation, I excused myself to return to my bedchamber and take to my bed at once.
Lying there, I again thought back over the tiresome day. It had begun to appear that everyone at Medley Park, including Lord Medley, seemed in want of funds. Taking a quick inventory of the family, I did conclude that two members of it, and they were not true blood relations, Isabella and Miss Hutchens, were simply guilty of having been too low-born to provide themselves with adequate means to see them well set up. Consequently, that Miss Hutchens and Isabella now found themselves in want of funds was understandable. On the other hand, Cecil and Ned, who were privileged to have been born to wealth, desired more of it simply because they perceived their father as stubbornly choosing to withhold it, and they viewed his actions as being vastly unfair. Clearly they wanted and felt they deserved what was theirs by right of birth.
Lady Medley, the true victim of the theft, was the only one who seemed to be bearing up, but perhaps that was because she had the paste copies of her jewels to fall back on. Most surprising to me was that Lord Medley, who even on a good day, was demanding and irritable, now suddenly seemed obsessed to learn the exact extent of his own wealth. Did he wish me to catalogue his costly possessions merely for the sake of keeping an accurate record of them, or because he wished to divest himself of them in order to . . . what?
Was it possible Lord Medley was near to insolvency, or had he somehow managed to accrue monstrous debts, which were placing not only his family but also the estate, in jeopardy? Or, did his lordship perhaps simply wish to set up his ladylove Mrs. Bertram in high style? Why was he suddenly so intent upon determining exactly how much he was worth? And, if the titled gentleman were such an excellent estate manager, why did he not already know the extent of his own holdings?
At first glance, the only two members of the family who did not have a plausible reason to pilfer Lady Medley’s costly jewels were her ladyship and Hannah, and of course, the two youngest boys, who for all intents and purposes, did not play a part in either the thefts, or the murders, at Medley Park.
However . . . I suddenly wondered if Ned, who did not strike me as the sort of gentleman who enjoyed spending time reading, had now suddenly developed an interest in the rarest volumes in the library simply because he wished to take up the pastime, reading being a more gentlemanly pursuit than gambling, or because he wished to take the ancient volumes in order to sell them to the highest bidder? If the young man had been around when the theft of his mother’s jewels took place, I would add his name to my list of suspects. As it was, he was in London with his parents. Consequently, I surmised that his motives for obtaining his father’s money were purely personal and that he was looking to now take whatever objects seemed to him to be the easiest to steal, planning all along to dispose of them in secret. Since he was away when the theft of his mother’s jewels took place, I really could not look on him as a suspect in the theft. And, surely, he would not stoop to take the life of his own aunt. Still . . . I could not dismiss the young man altogether as a suspect.