Authors: Christine Trent
Since then, Claudette had maintained an idyllic existence with William and their three children, and had gradually turned over her shop’s management to Marguerite.
But the idyll was forever gone now.
Deep, quiet, lovable Nicholas. Struck down so violently in front of Marguerite. William had hired a man to investigate who Mr. Emmett and Reggie were and locate them, but the ruffians had disappeared into the background of London and could not be found. Meanwhile, Claudette was coordinating a refurbishment of the shop, in hopes that it could be reopened in time for the next Season.
How were they all to bear losing Nicholas? More importantly, how were they going to keep Marguerite steady and rational?
There must be something they could do to lift the girl’s spirits.
Marguerite was relieved to get away from Claudette and William. She trailed her fingers along the railing of the bridge as she walked over it for the hundredth time. She paused at the top of the arch and leaned over the side to look down. A young bullfrog leaped through the reeds along the jagged edge of the water and landed with a noisy plop in the water before extending his legs for a leisurely swim across.
I wish I could be as carefree as you, Mr. Hoppy.
The bridge was the only place she found solace. The house was distantly visible from it, yet she had a vista of several hundred acres of tidily plowed fields and gardens beyond Hevington’s boundaries. People rarely ventured out this far and she could be completely alone with her thoughts.
The pain of Nicholas’s death pierced her anew each time she came here to mull over her situation. She relished the anguish, since it transported her away from the peace and calm that was a natural part of life at Hevington. She resented the tranquility because it seemed to mock Nicholas’s death. How could people and animals and flowers and trees continue in their daily routines of life and growth? Didn’t they realize that her husband was
dead?
Gone. Never to tease her again. Never to remove the pins from her bundled-up mass of hair and run his fingers through it.
She leaned over farther. Her hair made a blurry reflection in the water. She had made a halfhearted attempt that morning to pin it back, but it was falling out of its combs and hung in limp hanks around her.
I don’t care. Without you, Nicholas, I have no reason to primp and worry about fashion.
She knew Aunt Claudette was giving her concerned looks, and undoubtedly she and Uncle William were talking about her. They just did not understand that there was no meaning to her existence any more. In fact …
She pulled back from the edge and finished crossing the bridge, doubling back on the ground to approach the water’s edge. She didn’t think it was too deep here, not enough to drown on purpose, but if she accidentally hit her head on something perhaps she would fall unconscious and drown. Then maybe she wouldn’t feel the fluid filling her lungs. Just an easy sleep, then reunion with Nicholas.
These kinds of thoughts were entering her mind with more regularity as of late. Aunt Claudette said that the passage of time would heal her sorrow, but she was wrong. Time just ravaged her senses even more.
Marguerite pushed through the reeds where the frog had jumped in and stood there, water covering her boots and soaking the lower third of her dress, which was a depressing shade of brown that resembled nothing more than stable muck. She stood still in the gently flowing stream, letting it chill her feet and legs. Abruptly she sat down in the water. Her dress floated up around her and the cool liquid surged up around her breasts. She placed her arms in the water and lifted her face to the sunshine, which was as warm as the water was chilly.
All I need to do now is lean all the way back and let nature do the rest. I’m sure it will be over in a matter of—
“Mistress Ashby! Mistress Ashby!” She heard a horse gallop up and stop at the base of the bridge. She sat back up and attempted to push the dress down under the water. It refused to stay under the surface, so instead she struggled to get up on the muddy floor of the stream. Finally getting herself erect and sloshing her way out of the water, she saw that it was one of Hevington’s footmen who disturbed her reverie.
“Mistress Ashby, Lady Greycliffe sent me to find you. Said it was time for supper and that you should come back now to change for the meal. She said I should escort you back on Nell. If you’re ready, that is.” He dismounted to help her.
The footman was giving her the peculiar look that all of the servants gave her when they thought she wasn’t paying attention. It wasn’t that she didn’t notice their distaste for her, it was that she didn’t care. Too tired to care. Of course, right now she was looking
even more disheveled than usual, which should serve as tantalizing kitchen gossip later. She could imagine him running to Cook to tell her that Mistress Ashby was trying to swim in a shallow stream. Together they’d probably light a candle to ward off any evil spirits she may have brought with her to Hevington. Sometimes servants still clung to the old ways.
“No, I’ll walk back. Tell Lady Greycliffe she need not worry about me.”
“As you wish, mistress.” He turned his back to mount Nell again, but not before Marguerite caught him quickly giving himself the sign of the cross.
Marguerite trudged her way back, changed her clothing and shoes, and joined William and Claudette in the small dining room, her hair still damp and smelling brackish. An assortment of dishes covered the table and Claudette had dismissed the staff, preferring instead to serve privately, away from the servants’ curious eyes.
“Where are Edward, Rebecca, and Little Bitty?” Marguerite tried to muster up more enthusiasm regarding their whereabouts than she actually felt.
“I had them eat in the kitchen then go back up to the nursery to play. I thought the three of us could enjoy a nice meal together without the clattering of the children about.” Claudette served Marguerite and William from several silver salvers before sitting down herself at the intimate round table.
Marguerite knew instantly that they were about to have “a talk,” since Claudette disliked to be away from her children any more than she had to be. If she had dismissed both children and servants, things could not bode well for Marguerite.
With her silver fork Marguerite picked out the contents of her oyster loaf without actually eating any of it. The crust was warm and crisp, and would probably be quite delicious if she had any desire to taste it.
“I had Cook make your favorite. You love oysters.”
“Thank you, Aunt Claudette,” she replied listlessly. From the corner of her eye she could see that look passing between Claudette and William again. That unpleasant combination of pity,
trepidation, and confusion that she was used to seeing on everyone’s faces. It was funny how much alike the two of them had become, not only in gestures but in looks. Both were blond and fair, although Claudette’s hair tumbled in a mass of tight coils when not pinned up, whereas William’s hair curled gently at the nape of his neck. Neither had a gray hair between them. But both had deeply colored eyes that darkened perceptibly when upset or angry, although Claudette’s eyes were the more surprising to behold in their deep shade of cobalt.
Uncle William opened the discussion by clearing his throat loudly. Dear Uncle William. So protective of the women in his world, and willing to do anything for the one woman he loved. His rescue of Aunt Claudette from prison had been nothing short of miraculous.
Although the family knew the story well, Uncle William was reticent to tell of his brave escapade to others. Brave yet unpretentious, she thought. Just like Nicholas. Except Uncle William had had time to work out a plan for rescuing Aunt Claudette, whereas Nicholas was blindsided by a pitiless horde of bullies. How different it might have been if Nicholas had had more warning—
William’s
harrumph
interrupted her again.
“Well, Marguerite, what do you think?”
“What? I’m sorry, Uncle William, I wasn’t listening.” She attempted her best smile, knowing it was just a thin pink line in the center of her pale face.
“Claudette and I were thinking that you might want to consider returning to the doll shop. Making dolls again might lift your spirits and take your mind off things.”
What?
She looked from her uncle back to her aunt. Surely this was a jest, intended to startle her out of her doldrums.
“You’re not serious, are you?”
Claudette took over the conversation. “Dear, we just want to help you. The workers are almost done repairing the windows and giving the entire interior a fresh coat of paint. Agnes and Roger cleared away the doll debris and are very anxious to return to work again. William is going to travel to London next week on other
business, and perhaps you’d like to go with him to see how the shop fares. It’s waiting for your talented hands to return to it.”
“I’m content to stay here with you awhile longer.”
“And we’re delighted to have you.” Claudette reached an arm across the table to squeeze her hand. Marguerite hated these displays of affection and concern, since they usually resulted in uncontrollable bouts of crying for her.
“But Marguerite, you need something besides your nightmares to occupy your mind, lest you lose your sensibilities.”
“My sensibilities are fine. I just want to be left to myself. To think.”
William joined forces with his wife. “To think of what? Nicholas? We all grieve him, my dear, but we must continue to live.”
“And why is that?”
“Er, why is what?”
“Why is it that we must all continue to live? I see no purpose in it for myself. My husband is gone, no chance for a child to comfort me, and as far as the Kentish countryside is concerned, I am nothing but that unfortunate Greycliffe relation.”
Much to Marguerite’s relief, William and Claudette were silent after that, concentrating on their own plates of food. For several minutes there was no sound other than knives cutting against china. An audible intake of breath from Claudette was Marguerite’s signal that the talk was not over. As Claudette poured refills of claret for all three of them from a crystal decanter, she said, “Marguerite, we’re very concerned—”
“Yes, I know how concerned you both have been and I—”
“—about you and we feel it is now our duty to do something about it.”
Marguerite bit off the remainder of her retort. It sounded like they were going to force her into something vile.
William continued for his wife. “If you do not wish to return to the doll shop, you simply
must
do something else. You can remain at Hevington the rest of your days if you wish, but, my dear, you
will
find something to occupy your time and help you with your grief.”
“I won’t do anything you say. Neither of you can possibly understand my wounds. They will never be healed. Ever. I’ve learned to live with them, and you should as well. If it bothers you for me to continue living here, I’ll … I’ll—do women retire to convents anymore?—I’ll send myself away somewhere.” Marguerite felt like a petulant child but could not help it. In an even more childish gesture, she threw her monogrammed linen napkin to the center of the table and fled the room for the safety of her bedchamber.
“Well,” William commented. “I suppose that went a bit better than the last time we tried talking to her. Maybe there’s hope for her after all.”
A week later, a servant announced an unusual visitor.
“Lady Greycliffe, Mrs. Maude Ashby and her son are here to see you and Mistress Marguerite in the front parlor.” The young maid bobbed a curtsy and disappeared.
Claudette and Marguerite were sitting together quietly in the library reading. Marguerite’s eyes had passed sightlessly over the words in a copy of Rousseau’s
Émile,
a book her aunt had given her as a gift, but she snapped to attention at the mention of her mother-in-law’s name.
“Maude! What do you suppose she’s doing here, Aunt Claudette?”
“I don’t know. She saw me at the funeral, which I’m sure satisfied her annual requirement for letting me know how much she despises me. I suppose we won’t know why she’s returned until we see her. Join me?”
The two women walked arm in arm down the stairs to the front parlor. Claudette noted with approval that even though Marguerite was still looking a bit frayed around the edges, her gown today was neat and clean, and she did not smell rancid, which indicated a recent bath.
Together they entered the room where Maude and Nathaniel Ashby waited. Maude rose from the settee while Nathaniel remained standing by the fireplace, preening himself in the mirror
above the mantel. Maude hissed at him and he turned around to Claudette and his sister-in-law.
“Why Miss Clau—I mean, Lady Greycliffe—it’s always a delight to see you. And Marguerite, you’re looking very well.”
If possible, Nathaniel had grown more portly since they had last seen him at Nicholas’s funeral. Nathaniel had been a greedy, grasping child, and his gluttony had extended into adulthood. He sought women, food, and diversion with equal abandon. What he did not typically do was seek social calls with female relatives who bored him.
Marguerite stared at her in-laws sullenly. Maude Ashby had been furious when Nicholas married her, hoping for a quality match for her son and not a coupling with an orphaned French waif, particularly not one whose mother had been a servant in her own household. Fortunately she had not married Maude’s favorite son, Nathaniel, who was the biggest brute of all his classmates but could do no wrong in his mother’s eyes.
Although Maude had resented the marriage from the outset, she grudgingly came to accept it and even at one point had assisted them with the decorating of their London townhome. But Maude’s opinion of her daughter-in-law had reverted to that of family interloper once Nicholas died. She even intimated at the funeral that his death could have somehow been prevented by Marguerite.
So why was she here again? If there was anyone she despised more than Marguerite, it was Claudette. From the moment Claudette had arrived on her doorstep with Béatrice and young Marguerite with a letter of reference for domestic employment, Maude had been nothing but supercilious with them all. When Claudette left Maude’s employ abruptly after being falsely accused of wrongdoing in the household, the famous Maude Ashby temper went into full operation, and the hatred the woman spewed covered households all over London.