A Lady's Secret Read online

  Small talk, she thought. That is what we need, something to take everyone’s mind off the sad situation.

  “Ah, Vivian…that is a very pretty bunting. Actually, all the baby things are so lovely. Have you made many before now, or is this your first foray into the newborn-clothing business?”

  As she knew she would, the mother-to-be smiled when asked about anything related to the baby. She put her handwork down, ran a palm across her middle and sighed.

  “I once made a christening gown. It was two years ago, and the mother did not give a groat what the gown looked like. Oh, but that was an interesting commission.”

  Miranda looked up with a puzzled frown. “But if she didn’t care, didn’t that leave you free to make whatever you pleased? I would think it would be simpler if no one had any definite rules for what they did—or didn’t—want.”

  “Ah, but I did not say no one cared what the gown looked like.” She kept a protective hand on her tummy. Amy watched and wondered how it must feel to know—for certain—there was a child within your body. She had so many questions, yet no one to ask. “There was, you see, a grandmother…and this lady was undeniably one of the most difficult customers I ever had. She had so many ideas about that one teeny, tiny gown, it was nearly impossible to get every detail into the fabric.”

  Lady Gregory smiled. “The older we get, the more demanding we become. Is that what you are saying, dear?”

  Vivian laughed. “Not at all. I’m just saying that this grandmother was so excited to welcome that baby that she made it almost a trial to construct a gown suitable for the big moment.”

  Amy was glad she had begun the conversation. Tension eased, and idle chatter was a distraction.

  She had to know. “Did you make the gown? And was the grandmother satisfied?”

  A quick nod. “I did—and she was. There were many good points to her long list of details, so the gown itself turned out very well, if I do say so. The mother still did not seem interested, even when they retrieved the garment from the shop, but the grandmother made up for it. She was over the moon, just so happy her daughter was expecting and almost too eager by far to put the baby in the new gown. It was a touching moment…”

  The thought that a mother could care at all what her grown daughter might do stabbed Amy’s heart. She glanced at Miranda, who was too preoccupied with something to realize they had been denied the caring mothering others took as their due.

  Maybe she wouldn’t be in such a predicament now if her mother had paid them some mind. But, she could not fob off her own poor choices on someone else. No, she was the only one responsible for the trouble at hand. Accountability was a tiresome subject, but the facts were the facts.

  “Is that the only baby garment, then?” Miranda gestured to the fabric in Vivian’s lap. “Aside from this collection, that is?”

  “Yes, that’s all. And now, sweet things for our own baby. Why, I can hardly believe it is true.” Lady Gregory reached over and patted her shoulder, and Vivian reached up to catch the other woman’s hand. They sat, holding hands and smiling, a brightness in the room that had not been present just a short while earlier.

  “It is true, my dear. I remember, though, how exciting it is to expect an addition. It seems only yesterday I sewed little rompers and sleep dresses for Oliver. Then, for Lucie. It is a time in a woman’s life when the rest falls away and your concentration is on the life growing within you. It will never be the same, the life you lead following these days, so cherish the moments you have with your husband. They are soon to be invaded—a wonderful, blessed invasion, but an invasion nonetheless.”

  When Vivian rubbed her midsection, Amy’s own tummy flipped. Then it flopped. A sudden wave of nausea rolled over her. It happened so frequently these past two weeks she had almost learned to accept the unpleasant sensations. Almost. Perspiration turned her clammy, lack of sleep left her less able to deal with the changes within her, and she did the unthinkable. For the second time in as many hours, tears slid from her eyes.

  “Sister, what is wrong?” Miranda hadn’t been so self-absorbed she failed to see her sibling’s distress. She put her book aside, stood and rushed to Amy’s chair. “Dearheart, what is it? Are you unwell again?”

  “That’s it. We need to call for the doctor. He is just upstairs—” Vivian rose and would have left the room, but Amy would not allow it.

  “No! Please—I am…I-I-I…”

  She could not speak.

  Her sister knelt and pulled her into her arms. The sudden burst of sibling affection brought all reserves crashing down, and she buried her face on the blue shoulder offered her and wept.

  The others murmured, but she did not pay them any attention. They could guess all they wanted, but none would fathom what the problem was. She could not believe it herself, so no one else would suspect.

  The truth was hers alone to bear.

  She heard Oliver through her sobs when he entered the room. His usual style, all manly bluster invading the female sewing circle, made his voice louder than anyone’s soft suppositions.

  “Good morning, ladies. Mother, I hate to disturb you, but I have a question about one of your maids. Bridget, her name is. I am wondering—oh! Good heavens, I am sorry for being so insensitive. Whatever is wrong with Amy?”

  She looked up and met Oliver’s gaze. He had changed and was a dashing figure in a charcoal gray striped suit. His white shirt, bright beneath the dark jacket and his black Hessian boots polished to a high shine. By comparison, she felt wholly bedraggled.

  But, she did not look away. His tone gentled. “Amy, why so sad?”

  She sniffed. Why, indeed? If he only knew, he would not gaze so kindly upon her.

  And, as she looked into the eyes that were so filled with care and concern, it occurred to her that Miranda had been wise from the beginning. Oliver was a good, compassionate man. He was handsome, well-bred and had a heart for those in distress. Why hadn’t she seen it before?

  It mattered not. She had chosen flash over substance, and the flash of a lesser earl’s dalliance would forever color her view of the world. Moreover, it might very well change her position in it.

  Amy rose, wiped her cheeks on the backs of her hands. She smoothed her skirt, then looked to Lady Gregory.

  Her voice did not fail her, as she feared it might. “I am sorry. I must be more tired than I realized, after last night’s events. Please, excuse me. I need to rest.”

  “Of course, my dear.” The older woman was sympathetic, but her eyes told the tale. She discerned the truth, and now that her secret was out, Amy would not be able to remain in polite company for much longer.

  She made herself walk when she felt compelled to run. The room seemed bigger than ever, and it felt as if it took forever to cross from her chair to the hallway. It was all an illusion, of course…as so much of life was. Merely an illusion, all of it.

  Chapter 14

  Doctor Fairweather was not a young man. He had brought both Oliver and Lucie into the world. His care had gotten them through childhood illnesses, his parents’ old age infirmities, and now his skill was bringing Nick from the brink of death back to the land of the living. He had seen it all, lived through more than most and knew well enough to keep it all to himself. Had he told tales, he could have kept the entire city entertained, but he was wise enough to keep the details of his medical confidences locked away.

  Now, he sat back in the wide leather seat in his quarters across from the Grayson apartment and stared up with a wide-eyed look of disbelief.

  “Surely you cannot mean to question the man now? I gave him a tranquilizer for the pain. He will not make a competent showing for himself. It is not fair to press him now, when he is not in full control.”

  “I do not care about fairness.” Oliver sat in a matching chair but kept to the edge of the seat. No time to linger, but persuasion was better done at eye level. “He was not fair when he nearly killed my sister’s husband. I will get the truth from him, whether
it comes from a laudanum haze or clear thinking, I do not care. I just want to know if you learned anything when you attended him. Did he say anything I should know?”

  Like the rest of the manor, the room was furnished in excellent taste and wonderfully welcoming and comfortable. If the conversation was a pleasant one, it would be the perfect setting. But neither man enjoyed the topic so the moment was not at all pleasing.

  “He did not say much. Well, not much that made sense.” Doctor Fairweather stroked the closely-cut white beard on his thin chin. He pulled it absently, his mind on the man and his impressions.

  “What did he say? Anything at all, however silly it might seem, could give us a hint. I just want to find those responsible for this. You understand.”

  “Of course I understand. It is just that I don’t think he really said much of anything, Oliver. A lot of screaming, as I set the leg. And he did say, more than once, that it wasn’t his idea. Stopping the carriage—he insisted it wasn’t his fault or his idea.”

  Oliver considered this information, then discarded it. It did not matter much whose idea it had been. It just mattered that he find all responsible and make them pay for their actions.

  “Anything else?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t make a habit of listening to criminals when I tend them. And, between us? I don’t save a gentle touch for scoundrels.”

  Will had little stomach for aggressive action, so Oliver did not ask him to be present when he questioned the prisoner. He went to the stable alone. And, he did not alert any of the stable hands to his presence when he arrived.

  His timing was excellent. Most of the stalls were empty, the horses having been taken outdoors to enjoy the fine day. Some were being curried, an ongoing task with so many animals. Others were being checked or refitted for shoes. Willowbrook’s horseflesh was a substantial investment and attended to accordingly.

  Stalls lined both sides of the large building. It smelled of wood, hay, horse and grain. Oliver pulled the sweet scent into his lungs as he made his way to the last stall on the left-hand side. The end stall was different than the others. Iron bars rose from high walls and attached to a dropped plank ceiling. The only way in or out, a wide, heavy oak door.

  A large padlock secured the cell. He looked in through the tiny window set high in the wood. The space was large, but there wasn’t much to see.

  He slid the key home, turned, and felt the tumblers slide before he removed the lock from the hasp and threaded it onto a length of chain hanging from a hook on the nearby wall. Just before he opened the door, he took a spare piece of chain, looping it around a fist.

  The door swung open on silent hinges. The man lay immobile in a nest of hay. He hadn’t been cleaned up, aside from the place where his leg had been cared for, so he was still bloodied and filthy.

  The space was not like the others. Square. Larger, with anchors for chains secured to the walls. It was where they brought the desperately sick animals, and if needed, sedate or secure them so they would not injure themselves. It was generally empty but now proved the ideal jail space.

  Oliver swung the chain in a wide arc over the form, smacking it hard against the plank wall just a foot above the sleeping man’s head. He woke instantly, tried to sit up, and was yanked backward by the chain attaching his wrist to the wall behind him.

  Slapping against the hay and wooden wall, the man howled in pain.

  Heavy and non-negotiable, the cold steel against his palm mirrored his disposition. Oliver swung the chain in a new arc, acting as if he were about to send it into the man’s head, but calculating so he missed the screaming figure by inches.

  It wouldn’t do to squish the bug while it might still be of some use.

  “What were you doing last night on the highway? And who were you with?”

  “I weren’t doing nothing, I swear!” The captive scrambled, a one-legged crabwalk, back against the wall. His bad leg stuck out in front of him. It made for a rather comical scene—had Oliver been of a mind to be amused. He wasn’t, so he swung the chain again. This time, he hit the wall close to the man’s bad leg.

  “Stop, please!”

  “What were you doing last night?”

  “I beg you—I’m sorry. I won’t never do that again—please forgive me, I—”

  “I’m the wrong man to beg forgiveness from. I’m not the one you killed.”

  Stretching the truth with a thief? Hardly counted as a lie.

  The man’s eyes looked like dinner plates. He wasn’t a big man and did not look particularly healthy. Not well-fed, for certain. His clothes were near tatters. Deep hollows beneath his eyes and a number of rotting teeth told their own tale.

  “No! I didn’t kill anyone—it was just a hold up, they said. No one would get hurt, they said. Get the goods, sell ’em and…”

  He wiped his free hand over his face, covering his eyes with dirty, twisted fingers.

  Still, Oliver did not take pity upon him. He hadn’t shown any mercy when he assaulted Nick, so why should he expect any now?

  But, he had to know. “And what?”

  The prisoner did not answer right away. His hand shook where it hid his eyes and then his shoulders began to convulse. A sob, so wretched and terrible it managed to touch Oliver’s heart.

  More gently, yet still firm, he prodded, “And what? What did they say you would do after you sold the things you planned to steal?”

  A gulp. Then, a palm across each eye to wipe the moisture away. The man managed to meet his gaze. “Eat—and food for my children, too. A man will do terrible things when he’s hungry. He will do even more terrible things when he sees his children starving.” A deep, shuddering breath. “But I swear, I never meant to hurt no one. I never meant to take a man’s life, I swear I didn’t. All I wanted? Food for my little ones.”

  Chapter 15

  Many of the so-called ladies’ arts were difficult for Amy. They always had been, despite the suitably proficient teachers her absent parents had provided for their daughters. While her sister had applied herself, hoping to garner parental attention with her excellence, Amy had been less compliant. She rebelled, in her own way, by not putting her best effort forward on most of their lessons. Especially the ones regarding a lady’s role in a household. It was clear to her from a young age that if their mother was an example of how a lady of the manor was expected to behave, she didn’t want any of it.

  Her stitchery was passable but would never be held up as a fine example. She sang, but just barely. The pianoforte’s keys took a beating every time she put her fingers on them, although most of the time, if the piece were not too complicated, she could muddle through.

  Her skills on the dance floor were adequate enough, even with regard to the French cotillion. It was, everyone admitted, the most infuriating dance, all intricate steps and turns. But by some stroke of good luck, dancing had come without effort.

  The place she excelled was with a canvas and paints. Her watercolors were dreamy, intuitive pieces that made admirers stop and ponder. There was such realism in her still life scenes with oils that the fruit and flowers seemed to invite tasting and sniffing. Her portrait work was high quality, even the miniatures. But the real joy was landscape paintings, especially when the view came with a pleasing aroma.

  She had hidden herself in amongst the yellow rosebushes, leaving a canopy of foliage behind her so she was concealed from the manor’s east windows. Her easel, folding chair, and paint box soothed her soul, and the image coming to life across the white canvas took her mind off all her troubles.

  That is, if she concentrated on the pergola dripping with rose canes. It stood at the end of the row, a riot of pink and lavender. It was not formal and brought a feeling of careless abandon that she tried to capture. She, Miranda, and Lucie had played beneath the pergola when they were children. It had been a perfect hiding spot from nannies and even Oliver.

  She sighed, looking at the canvas. The pergola, flowers, and grassy
space beyond were all created in paint. The colors were right, varying hues of pink, lavender, green and buttercup yellow. Clouds, fat and white, sailed across a soft blue sky. It was all there, but it did not move her the way it should have. The picture was lifeless. Flat. Not as good as she ordinarily produced.

  She tossed her brush into the water cup so hard drops splayed across a lower corner of the scene. “Damn it!” Now it was even worse, with watery tints sliding into the grassy section.

  “My, my…”

  She turned, knocking the easel with her elbow and splashing her toes with the painty water.

  Oliver looked as pleased with himself as he had when he’d found them hiding here as children. Only now he was much more handsome, not at all growing-boy exuberance but self-assured lord of the manor.

  “Such language, my dear. Wherever did you pick that up?” He took a step closer, standing at her shoulder and grinning down at her.

  Craning her neck back to meet his gaze was not at all comfortable so she let it travel down the length of the man. He wore a light gray suit, sparkling white shirt and a trimly-tied cravat the color of ripe grapes. It took a certain kind of man to pull off that color, but he wore it well.

  She shook her head. “Why, whatever do you mean? You know who taught me to speak that way. You didn’t think we weren’t listening when you chatted with your chums, did you? Oh, we all learned to talk a blue streak from dear Lucie’s divine older brother.”

  Divine. Had she just said that? Her intention had been to jest, not flatter.

  Damage already done, she thought. What’s another man with an inflated ego?

  He threw his head back and laughed. “Divine? Good lord, that is a stretch—unless my sister has another brother I am not aware of. Oh, you do amuse me.”

  She removed the palette from the folding seat beside hers and gestured. As she dropped the tool to the grass, Oliver sat. The tiny seat disappeared beneath his masculine form, but he seemed comfortable.