Death at Bishop's Keep (28 page)

Bernice stared at her sister. She felt as if both she and Sabrina had been stripped to the skin and stood mortified in their nakedness—their fear, their anger, their hatred, all exposed to the world. Everything was coming apart. There was nothing to hold on to.

For the first time in her life, Bernice Ardleigh Jaggers was absolutely terrified.

“Having taken pains to obtain and compare abundant evidence on this subject I should say that the majority of women (happily for them) are not very much troubled with sexual feelings of any kind .... As a general rule, a modest woman seldom desires any sexual gratification for herself. She submits to her husband, but only to please him; and but for the desire of maternity would far rather be relieved from his attentions.”

—WILLIAM ACTON
The Functions and Disorders of the
Reproductive System, 1884

 

 

 

“I
am very glad we are able to spend this time together, dear Kate,” Eleanor Marsden said, tucking her hand into Kate's arm as they walked along the path to the small lake at the foot of the garden. She turned to look into Kate's face. “I may call you Kate, mayn't I? It is a more
friendly
name than Kathryn.” She reached up to smooth an escaped lock of Kate's hair. Her eyes danced. “And you look like a Kate, with that red hair, all flyaway, and the pink in your cheeks, which I warrant is not paint.”

“Hardly.” Kate laughed. “I will be Kate to you,” she said, “if you will be Ellie to me.” She was glad, too, for the chance to be with Eleanor. And to get away for a few minutes from the poisonous atmosphere of the house, where abovestairs and below, everything seemed terribly out of kilter. Aunt Sabrina and Aunt Jaggers had obviously quarreled very badly; Mudd's face was anxiously somber when he took the account books in to Aunt Sabrina a little while ago; and Mrs. Pratt, preparing the luncheon in the kitchen, was sullen and unspeaking, with an angry, brooding look.

“It is a bargain!” Eleanor exclaimed spiritedly, holding Kate's arm closer. “I already feel, you know, as if I have found another sister.” She added with an artless smile, “A dear, older sister, one who has seen something of the world and can give me the very best advice.”

Kate smiled a little. She could understand that Eleanor might view her as much older, although the difference in years was probably not much more than five or six. There was a marked difference in their manners. Eleanor was gay, exuberant, even girlish—although Kate was well enough acquainted with her by now to suspect that her constant smiles and vivacious glances covered deeper feelings that could not be shared with her family or her society friends, feelings so deep and perhaps so at odds with those she was expected to have that Eleanor herself was not even aware of them. Kate, on the other hand, knew her own temperament to be far more reserved and thoughtful. It was perhaps that sober reserve that attracted Eleanor to her and made her feel as if her confidences would be honored with respectful consideration.

Eleanor twirled the pale blue ruffled parasol that exactly matched her lavishly trimmed dress, with its wrists and high neck frosted with French lace. “I bring Patsy's regrets,” she said, and then added, “but I must confess that I encouraged her to go to London with Mama this morning, so that you and I could have this time alone. I hope your luncheon plan will not be upset by having three guests instead of four.”

“Not at all,” Kate said. “Bradford and Sir Charles will arrive in time for luncheon?” Kate was still not accustomed to the late luncheon hour; the meal was never eaten until after one, and when guests were expected, it was even later.

“Yes,” Eleanor said. They turned a corner in the path and came out on the grassy shore. She waved her hand carelessly. “They have gone to Colchester, Bradford on some stuffy errand having to do with money, and Charles to do more of his detecting.”

“Ah, yes,” Kate said thoughtfully, “his murder.” She wondered if Sir Charles had taken her suggestion about interviewing Mrs. Farnsworth. She regretted it now; on reflection, she felt it would have been better not to have spoken at all. “What a lovely brooch,” she said, changing the subject. She lifted her finger to touch it, a flashing diamond in a circlet of pearls. “A gift?”

Eleanor nodded. “From Mr. Fairley,” she said. Was there a heavy note in her voice?

“I'm sure you are excited,” Kate said, watching her. “The two months before the wedding must seem to stretch out like an eternity.”

“Yes,” Eleanor said. Yes, her voice definitely held a lower tone. And her glance, not so gay or flashing just now, was downcast, and colored with something like embarrassment or even shame.

“Ellie,” Kate said quietly, “if you would like to speak to me about anything that troubles you—”

Eleanor clasped Kate's hand. “Oh, Kate,” she exclaimed in a shaking voice, “I would, oh, I would.”

“My dear Ellie,” Kate said with genuine sympathy, “what is it?”

Eleanor released Kate's hand and turned her face away. “It is ... I mean to say ... That is, I—” She bit her lip nervously, and then turned to face Kate. “I want to know—if you know, dear Kate—about the ... about the wedding night!”

Kate stared at her. “The wedding night?”

“I have asked Mama,” Eleanor said, the quiver in her voice barely in check. “But all she will tell me is that I must do my duty. She will not tell me what my duty is, except to say that I must please Mr. Fairley. How can I please my husband if I have no idea how to do so?”

Kate felt herself very much at sea on this subject, but she took a deep breath and embarked upon the deep, asking her friend the same question she would ask herself in the circumstance. “Can you not allow your natural feelings to be your guide?”

“My feelings?” Eleanor said blankly. “But that is what I am asking you, Kate. What ought my feelings to be?”

Kate tried a different tack. “Well, then, can you not trust Mr. Fairley? He is a widower, is he not, with experience in such matters?” Of course, as Kate understood it, all men had experience. That was an essential part of their freedom, to have as many mistresses as they chose. Her thoughts flashed, unbidden, to Sir Charles. How many mistresses had
he
had?

Eleanor began to pace along the walk, her steps agitated. “That is another of my concerns, Kate. Having been married, Mr. Fairley
has
experience, vast experience. Will he not expect far more of me than I am able to offer?” Her face was suffused with pink and she spoke with an effort. But she continued to speak without waiting for an answer, her passion testifying to the force of her dammed-up feelings. “And while I can scarcely imagine what the act must be like, it seems so
brutal,
so unnatural!” She closed her eyes, the pink paling, her voice falling to a frightened whisper. “So painful.”

Kate could feel Eleanor's fear. “I wish,” she said quietly, “that I could reassure you out of my own experience.”

Eleanor's eyes opened and she stared at Kate. “Oh, my dearest, you cannot think that I believed you to have—” Her hand went to her horrified mouth. “Just because you are an American and Irish—!”

Kate laughed and took her friend's hand. “Well, if you
did
believe me to be experienced, I must disappoint you, Ellie. The truth is that I have never kissed a man with passion. You are far beyond me in that, and likely to remain so. You will be
my
teacher, and tell me what it is like.”

Eleanor's color came again and she shook her head vehemently. “Oh, no, Kate, you are wrong. I have kissed Mr. Fairley, yes, but modestly, and only once, when I gave him my sacred word that I would marry him. But not with passion. My mother says that no good woman ever—”

Kate turned to face her friend. “Eleanor Marsden, you must
forget
your mother!” she exclaimed. “You will shortly vow yourself, body and soul, until death, to Mr. Fairley. You cannot do such a thing without even tasting his kiss!” She seized Ellie's other hand and gave them both a shake. “Promise me, Ellie. The next time you are with Mr. Fairley, you will
kiss
him. And then the next thing, and the next after that, will seem less dreadful.”

Eleanor's eyes were wide and very blue. “Do you really believe that a kiss will set my fears at rest?”

“I cannot swear to that,” Kate said, wishing she knew more about Mr. Fairley, and what lay in his heart toward Eleanor. She squeezed Ellie's hands as she dropped them, and managed a smile. “But you might find it enjoyable. And when you have kissed him, you can tell me what it is like, so that I will know, too.” Again, unbidden, Sir Charles's face came into her mind.

Eleanor turned and they began to walk again. “Thank you, Kate,” she said, subdued. “If you think it would help, I will try.” There was a silence, and then she picked up her pace and her voice took on a determined cheerfulness. “There are so
many
things to do. I am to have final fittings for my trousseau at Worth's next week. And there are yet shoes to be bought and gifts for the wedding party, and the flowers to be arranged, and—”

“Ellie,” Kate said, “do you love him?”

“Love Mr. Fairley?” Eleanor's laugh was quick and nervous. “Why, of course I love him! Don't be silly. At any rate, it is a very good match. Mama and Papa are ecstatic, and all my friends are envious. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” Kate said soberly, remembering the long relationship between her aunt and uncle, “marriage at its best is difficult. Unless there is love to leaven it, it is a flat, hard loaf. It is not a loaf to relish, nor will it nourish.”

Eleanor stared at her. “Why, Kate! You are a poet at heart, I swear—a philosopher, a
romantic!”

“I fear that I am a romantic,” Kate said with a wry smile, “at least where marriage is concerned. I will never marry for less than love—which means, I suppose,” she added, “that I will never ... marry.” She stopped, struck, suddenly, with the realization that she
was,
truly and deeply, a romantic. Eleanor, on the other hand, was profoundly pragmatic. She accepted her social responsibilities and did what was set before her to do without question. Whatever her heart might whisper in the dark of the night, she would go on playing the role she had been trained since birth to play.

“Not marry!” Eleanor exclaimed in amazement. “Be forever a
spinster!”
She tilted her pretty head, frowning. “You must be one of those freethinking women who reject men's control and want the vote.”

Kate picked up a small flat rock and threw it as her boy cousins had taught her to do a long time ago, across the open water. It skipped four times, perfectly, then settled with a splash among the lily pads on the other side. A startled swan, coal-black, raised its elegant head as if to question. With a satisfaction far out of proportion to the mere achievement of rock-skipping, Kate watched the circles widen in the still water, interlacing with one another, a series of rippling rings. Finally she spoke.

“You are right,” she said. “I am too independent ever to allow a man to dictate my beliefs and my behavior. I could never be less than an equal partner. As for the vote, I plead guilty to trusting my opinions as confidently as those of most men.” She turned back to Eleanor with a small smile. “And not only that, but I confess to believing that I could responsibly hold office.”

Eleanor's mouth forgot for a moment its practiced smile and a certain wistfulness came into her expression. “Oh, Kate, such self-assurance! If
only
I had your ability to face the future undaunted. Perhaps then I should—”

She stopped, considering the choices she might exercise. Then, to Kate's regret, her face lost its seriousness and her gay smile returned. “But you had best not confide your political ambitions to Bradford, and most especially
not
to Sir Charles. I fear they would both be terribly annoyed.”

“Or terribly frightened,” Kate said thoughtfully. “I feel sympathy for them. It must be very difficult for one entire sex to contemplate the changes in the world these days. Women campaigning for suffrage, choosing their own marriages, earning their own livings—”

Eleanor took Kate's arm and turned them back toward the house. “I admire the sentiment of independence and those who are bold enough to express it,” she said. “But I must also confess to enjoying the comfort of being cared for and the luxury of being loved by someone who can afford it. I daresay Mama is right when she says that a large income is the best recipe for happiness.” She trilled a laugh. “Now, we had best go back, do you think? Bradford and Sir Charles will be right along.”

“Of course,” Kate said dryly. “We must not keep the men waiting.”

“In the last third of the nineteenth century England's cultivated acreage declined by nearly three million acres. In the same years, British industry lost its ability to he competitive. Hoping to improve the situation, many eagerly latched onto any scheme for industrial development. Among these was the development of the motor car.”

—JEROME HUCHSTABLE “The Automobile Industry in Great Britain”

 

 

 

A
t the same moment, Bradford and Charles were traveling in the Marsden carriage from Colchester to Bishop's Keep. Charles, having spent the first hour of the morning searching fruitlessly for information about the Order of the Golden Dawn, and the second in unproductive conversation with Inspector Wainwright, had determined to give up his investigations altogether.

“It is futile,” he said sourly, watching the countryside flash past the carriage window. “If the killer is caught, it will be because the police stumble upon him.”