The Anatomist's Wife (22 page)

“All we are is broodmares,” she agreed angrily. “And when we can’t deliver . . .”
Her words trailed away, and she shook her head as more tears filled her eyes. “I
wanted
to deliver. I want a child, Lady Darby.”

“And so you promised to care for Lady Godwin’s?”

She nodded.

“Even though the baby’s father is your husband.”

She dropped her eyes and nodded.

Her despair tugged unwillingly at my heart. “You must have been devastated when you
discovered Lady Godwin, your friend, was carrying your husband’s child. It would have
taken away any doubt as to who was to blame for his childless state.”

“She threw it in my face,” the countess choked out. “She knew how much I wanted to
have a child, how much Lord Stratford and I fought about it, and she waved her conception
in front of my face like a prize.” Her words were harsh and crisp, strangled with
hurt and frustration. “She didn’t even want the baby! She slept with my husband, conceived
his child, and proved me to be barren, and she didn’t even want the baby!” Her shoulders
shook, and she pressed a hand to her mouth to withhold her sobs.

“Did you kill her for it, Lady Stratford?” I asked, unable to withhold the question.

The countess shook her head and swallowed audibly. “No. I wanted her dead,” she admitted.
“I wanted her dead. But I didn’t kill her.”

I sank back into the cushions, wanting to believe her. Wanting to believe that this
woman who so longed for a child of her own would not dare to harm another’s. But the
evidence said otherwise.

Gage suggested she went mad. That she murdered Lady Godwin, thinking to save the child
from her duplicitous, uncaring mother. Was that why the baby had been removed? Someone
who is insane might overlook the fact that a baby so young cannot survive outside
the womb. A shiver ran down my spine.

I could not withhold a sigh of relief when I heard the knock on the parlor door. Lady
Stratford glanced at me curiously as I sat forward.

“That should be Mr. Gage,” I told her, crossing the room.

True to form, Gage stood on the other side of the door, gazing at me solemnly in question.
I gave him an almost imperceptible nod to let him know Lady Stratford confirmed my
suspicions about her infertility. His frown deepened, and the intensity in his eyes
sharpened. I stepped back to allow him to enter, nodding quietly to Philip and Lord
Stratford as they followed.

Lady Stratford sat up straighter and patted at her eyes with her handkerchief. “What
is going on?”

Her dazed expression sought me out, and I suddenly felt guilty for forcing her to
face these men when she was still so vulnerable. I backed up to stand in the shadow
of the drapes, wrapping myself in the heat they had collected from the sun.

“I’m afraid we have a few more questions to ask you, Lady Stratford,” Gage answered
for me. “Questions that we felt it would be best for Lord Stratford to be present
for.”

Lady Stratford blinked and glanced at her husband. “I don’t understand. I’ve just
spoken with Lady Darby. I thought I answered all of her questions.” She looked at
me again.

“These queries are different, and I’m afraid quite serious.” Gage was trying to be
gentle with her, but I could hear the repressed anger creeping into his voice.

The countess shifted in her seat. “And I have to answer them?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Lord Stratford barked, marching across the room to stand
over his wife. “Just ask the damn questions, Gage.” He glared down at her, his hands
on his hips. “I’ll see to it that my wife cooperates.”

I glanced over to where Philip leaned against the wall across the room from me, content
to merely observe the proceedings as I was. He looked grim and tired and, at the moment,
decidedly displeased with Lord Stratford. If Gage had attempted to interrogate my
sister in such a manner, Philip never would have stood for it, no matter what evidence
Gage presented him with. Philip was as bloody-minded as one of his wolfhounds with
a bone when it came to protecting his wife.

Gage set the box he borrowed from my studio on the back of the leather chair and studied
the now-scowling Lady Stratford. She clearly disliked her husband’s proclamation.
I couldn’t blame her. I disliked it as well.

“You told us that on the night of Lady Godwin’s murder you immediately went to bed
with a megrim after dinner, and that your maid, Celeste, attended you. That you stayed
in bed all night and did not hear about the murder until the next morning. Would you
like to make any amendments to those statements?”

“No. That is the truth,” she replied sharply.

“Did your maid remain with you the entire night?”

Lady Stratford’s brow lowered. “She slept on a cot in the dressing room. So, I suppose,
I cannot say for certain that she remained there the entire night, but she was there
every time I called for her.”

“So she conceivably could have slipped from the room sometime that evening after you
had fallen asleep to, say, meet a beau?” Gage asked offhandedly.

Lady Stratford shook her head. “Celeste doesn’t have a beau. And, besides, she could
not have departed before midnight. She stayed with me, alternating hot and cold compresses
until I fell asleep.”

I held my breath, unable to believe Lady Stratford had just allowed the teeth of Gage’s
trap to snap down on her. By providing herself with such a seal-tight alibi, placing
her in the presence of her maid the entire evening, she had also lost her chance to
blame the entire murder on Celeste. The procurator fiscal might have allowed the Stratfords
to convince him the maid was responsible, but not now. Not after Lady Stratford had
so baldly stated she was with her the entire evening. I glanced at Lord Stratford,
wondering if he was just as oblivious to Gage’s stratagem.

“So if I accused you of murdering Lady Godwin, you would tell me that was impossible
because you were in your bedchamber with your maid the entire time?” Gage asked silkily.

Lady Stratford stiffened, and her eyes widened. Whether in shock or fear, I could
not tell.

“Now, just hold on, Gage,” her husband suddenly interjected. “What are you hinting
at?”

Gage ignored him, keeping his gaze fixed on Lady Stratford. “What if I told you that
your maid’s apron was found covered in blood?”

The countess’s face paled. “I . . . I don’t understand,” she mumbled in a thready
voice, glancing up at her husband in supplication.

Lord Stratford’s face darkened. “If that’s all the evidence with which you have to
threaten my wife, by Jove, Gage, I’ll . . .”

“There’s more.” Gage glared at him to close his mouth.

Lord Stratford huffed a breath and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I’ve been told you embroider, my lady,” Gage said, addressing the countess again,
who seemed more bewildered than ever.

“Yes?”

“That you’re quite good.”

She did not respond to this, just watched him warily, as if waiting for the hatchet
to drop.

“Are you, by chance, missing a pair of embroidery scissors?”

She glanced down at the basket at her feet. “I . . . I don’t know.” She sounded genuinely
befuddled and frightened. “When I arrived here at Gairloch, I was missing my normal
pair of shears, but I thought I must have left them at home. I always carry a second
pair.” She leaned over to pick up the scissors sticking up out of the basket to show
them to us. “So I never thought much of it.”

Her explanation sounded credible; however, even the most foolish of criminals could
have concocted such an excuse.

“Are these your scissors?” Gage asked, once again pulling the shears from his pocket.

Lady Stratford leaned forward to take them from Gage, but her husband snatched them
out of his grasp before she could reach them. He flipped them over in his hands before
handing them to her with a scowl. I could tell the earl wanted to say something, but
he held his counsel, waiting to see what else Gage revealed.

“I . . .” Lady Stratford stammered. Her hands shook as she examined the scissors.
“They look like mine.”

The breath in my chest tightened.

Gage’s eyes hardened. “We found them in the maze, near the place where Lady Godwin
was butchered.” I jerked at his gruesome choice of words. “They were coated with her
blood.”

Lady Stratford flung the scissors to the ground, cringing away from them. “But . . .
but . . . that can’t be.” Her face was ghastly white. “Someone must have stolen them.
I swear to you, I did not . . . could not . . .” She seemed to choke on the words.

Gage reached into the box and extracted the shawl. He unfolded it and held it up for
all of us to see. “My lady, is this your shawl?”

Lady Stratford gasped and covered her face with shaking hands. “Yes,” she admitted
between shallow, quick breaths. “But . . . that . . . I didn’t . . . I don’t know
how that blood got on it.”

“We found it wrapped around Lady Godwin’s child and buried in a grave by the stream
at the far north end of Cromarty’s property,” Gage said harshly, speaking more to
Lord Stratford than his wife.

“Her child?” Lady Stratford gasped. “But Lady Godwin wasn’t due for another four months?”
Her eyes flew around the room, as if looking for answers from one of us. “I don’t
understand. Did she begin her labor early?”

“No, Lady Stratford,” Gage answered coldly, clearly not taken in by this display.
For myself, I was not so sure she was faking. I had seen my fair share of theatrics
at the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court in London, and the hysteria shining in Lady Stratford’s
eyes was far too real for my comfort.

The implications of Gage’s words must have finally penetrated her mind, for she keeled
forward and began to sob uncontrollably. “Oh, no! Oh, that poor child. That poor little
girl.”

Gage perked up at her words.

“I told her it was a girl,” I explained before he could assume otherwise.

He glanced back at me and nodded.

“What will happen to my wife?” Lord Stratford asked in a hard voice, drawing our attention
away from the weeping woman.

Gage gestured toward Philip. “Cromarty says there is a set of bachelor quarters at
the back of the carriage house. They’re being cleaned as we speak. For her own safety
and those of the other guests, we think it might be best if she and her maid were
removed to there until the procurator fiscal from Inverness arrives.”

“She should be perfectly comfortable,” Philip added in a tight voice.

Lord Stratford nodded stiffly.

“My God,” Lady Stratford gasped. “You all actually believe I did it. You truly believe
I . . .
murdered
Helena.” Her voice broke, and she pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. “I didn’t
do it! I swear to you, I . . . I never touched her. I couldn’t have.”

“Why couldn’t you have?” Gage demanded, giving her no leniency, even in her outpouring
of emotion.

“Because . . .” Her eyes met mine desperately. “Because of the baby.” She shook her
head wildly. “I could never have hurt that child. No matter what Helena did.”

The men were all silent, and I wondered how they could remain so stoic in the face
of her pleas. Emotion burned the back of my eyes and my throat. It took considerable
effort not to let the tears fall.

Lady Stratford glanced wildly up at her husband, whose warm chocolate eyes had gone
cold. “Please, Derek!” she whispered brokenly. “You must believe me. I did not kill
Lady Godwin.”

“That will be for the official from Inverness to decide,” he replied and turned away
from her.

I could almost feel the blow that Lord Stratford’s words caused his wife. They ricocheted
through her frame like an icy blast from the North Sea. She cowered from him like
a whipped dog, seeming to crumple into herself.

I turned away from them, unable to face either of the Stratfords. The earl angered
me with his callous treatment and his swift abandonment of his wife, and Lady Stratford’s
desperate tears and shuddering frame unnerved me. Her emotion seemed all too genuine,
and I was suddenly having a very difficult time believing she was the murderer. Either
her acting skills were so great that they rivaled even the most celebrated actresses
of the stage, or we had just made a serious mistake.

If only I knew for certain which she was—fiend or innocent. For if Lady Stratford
was wrongly accused, it placed her in a situation with which I was all too familiar.
The thought burned a hole in my stomach.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A
lana was asleep when I slipped into the nursery a short while later. She sat in a
Windsor rocking chair, cradling a slumbering Greer on her shoulder.

“Aunt Kiera,” Malcolm exclaimed. I shushed him. “Come play with my soldiers,” he whispered
in the exaggerated way children do. “I’m going to pretend it’s the Battle of Waterloo.”
I crossed the room to peer down at his elaborate setup. “I’ll even let you be Napoleon.”

I couldn’t help but grin at my nephew’s magnanimous spirit. The puckish little boy
never wanted to play on the side of France, and well I knew it. “Thank you, but . . .”

“No, Aunt Kiera,” Philipa cried, racing across the room with one of her dolls. “I
wanted you to play with me.”

I sighed and glanced at Alana, hoping her older children’s voices had not woken her.
“Aren’t you two supposed to be having lessons?”

“Mother gave our governess the day off,” Malcolm replied, smiling happily.

I shook my head at my silly sister. I suspected she dismissed the nursery maids for
the day as well. “Your mother and sister are asleep.” I leaned down to tell the children
as they began to argue. “We need to play quietly.”

“We can play soldiers quietly.”

I arched an eyebrow. “So none of your cannonballs are going to explode?” He grinned
sheepishly. “And your tea parties are not any quieter,” I turned to tell Philipa as
she whimpered and tugged on my hand. “Go pick out a book, and I’ll read to you until
your mother wakes.”

They scampered off to the corner where two short bookcases stood, bickering over which
story to choose. I only hoped it wasn’t “Hansel and Gretel” yet again. I really was
in no mood to read about lost children.

Pulling a blanket from one of the children’s beds, I laid it over Alana and Greer,
careful not to wake them. My sister looked exhausted. Dark circles shadowed her eyes,
and her complexion seemed paler than normal. I pressed my wrist to her forehead to
feel for a fever and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Greer’s pudgy cheeks
were red from rubbing, and her breathing sounded a bit congested, but she was sleeping
peacefully. I picked up her twisted teething rag from where it had tumbled to the
floor. The knot had begun to slip. I tightened it so that the sugar would not fall
out and set it on the table.

Philipa crawled into my lap, and Malcolm squeezed in next to me in a large armchair.
“This one.” My nephew flipped open the book of the Brothers Grimm’s
Children’s and Household Tales
to the story of “Rumpelstiltskin” and I breathed a sigh of relief. Philipa snuggled
close, and I pressed my cheek against her soft hair as I began to read.

Halfway through the tale, I glanced up to find Alana watching me. A gentle smile curled
her lips. She shared my amusement when the children shifted in their seats, squirming
with excitement as the queen told the imp his name.

“
Can
you spin straw into gold?” Philipa asked me as I closed the book.

“No, you ninny,” Malcolm cried as he hopped off the chair.

“Malcolm, don’t call your sister a ninny,” Alana scolded.

“How do
you
know?” Philipa dashed after him. “Have you ever tried it?”

“Because it’s impossible . . .”

I shook my finger at my sister in mock earnestness as she began to rock her youngest.
“You were supposed to stay asleep.”

Alana offered me a weary smile and then shifted Greer from one shoulder to the other.
The baby grunted and then settled.

“Do you want me to take her?”

She shook her head and tucked the blanket tighter around the child. “Do I have you
to thank for this?” she asked, tugging on the quilt.

“I thought you might be cold. Besides, it gave me an excuse to check you for a fever.”
She looked up at me in surprise. “Alana, are you feeling all right?” I asked in a
gentler tone.

She sighed in frustration. “I’m fine.” Her eyes narrowed. “Did Philip send you up
here?”

“No. But he did tell me that you refuse to leave the nursery.”

She brushed her hand over the golden dusting of hair on Greer’s head, avoiding my
gaze. I glanced at Malcolm and Philipa, who were engaged in some sort of secret conference,
presumably about their plans to spin straw into gold.

“Lady Stratford and her maid have been removed to the bachelor quarters in the carriage
house.” Alana’s eyes widened. “Mr. Gage believes they murdered Lady Godwin. And her
baby,” I added as an afterthought now that my sister knew about the child.

Alana was silent for a moment, watching me as I worried my hands in my lap. “But you
don’t?”

I started, realizing what I had said. “I don’t know,” I admitted hesitantly, disturbed
by my inability to wholeheartedly accept Lady Stratford’s guilt.

“Mr. Gage must have good reason to suspect her,” she reasoned. “And I know Philip
would not have allowed him to lock Lady Stratford in the carriage house without sufficient
proof.”

“I know.”

“Has Lord Stratford been informed?”

I nodded. “He didn’t even put up a fight against it.”

Alana’s rocking slowed. “Well, then, you must have obtained some pretty convincing
evidence.”

I leaned against the arm of the chair and cradled my forehead in my hand. “I suppose.”
I knew I sounded as sulky as a child, and hated myself for it. Alana did not need
to deal with me when she already had three little scamps of her own to worry her.

“So what’s troubling you?”

I looked up at my sister, seeing the dark shadows under her eyes again. “Do you really
want to know?”

She stopped rocking to glare at me. “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

I glanced at Philipa and Malcolm to be certain they weren’t listening, and then leaned
toward her. “The evidence is compelling enough, and all linked to the same person,
but I can’t help but notice that they’re also items that could have easily been stolen.
They could have been used for the express purpose of throwing blame on Lady Stratford.”

Alana arched an eyebrow doubtfully.

“There are also matters of common sense to consider,” I hastened to add. “Does Lady
Stratford really have the height and strength to inflict those wounds? Could she have
crossed the garden, slipped into the maze to kill Lady Godwin, and returned to the
house, all without being seen? Could she and her maid have moved that rock and dug
the baby’s grave?”

“Well?” she asked, knowing me well enough to realize I would have contemplated the
answers to these questions before ever bringing them up.

I sighed and sank back in the chair. “Gage believes anger and madness can both give
a person more strength than we realize.”

“But you don’t.”

I plucked at the fraying hunter-green upholstery of the chair. “I don’t know. And
that’s the problem. I’m forced to admit that it is possible, if not likely, that she
could have done all those things. Just as I’m forced to admit that the murder weapon
we found could have made those cuts, even though I have serious doubts. I don’t have
enough experience with this to assert my opinion strongly.” Not even when it came
to the remnants of charred cloth Gage had found in Lady Stratford’s cold hearth, believing
the lady and her servant had burned their bloody clothes from the night of the murder.

The rocking chair creaked as Alana shifted and Greer murmured something in her sleep.
“Well, you trust Mr. Gage, don’t you?”

I nodded and turned to watch Philipa wrestle one of her dolls out of Malcolm’s hands.

“Then if he thinks there is enough evidence to prove Lady Stratford is the murderer,
I think we should believe him.”

I only wished it was so simple. I did trust Gage, but I also had a deep-seated suspicion
of people outside my family, particularly men, and that made it difficult not to continually
second-guess my feelings and reactions toward him. The fact that I had found myself
in Lady Stratford’s position not so very long ago only complicated matters, driving
me to find definitive proof rather than trust in the hackneyed legal system that could
have so easily failed me.

“So why are you having trouble believing Lady Stratford guilty?” my sister asked,
cutting to the heart of the matter. “Is it because she’s a noblewoman? Surely you
realize the aristocracy are just as capable of committing murder as the lower classes.”

“Of course.”

“Then what? What is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s just . . .” I hesitated, trying to put a finger on the reason
for my hesitation. “She wants a child
so badly
. Did you know she was having trouble conceiving?”

“I had my suspicions.”

I pressed a hand against my stomach. “When I confronted her about it, when I asked
her about the child . . .” My breath caught. “Alana, you should have seen the look
in her eyes. To struggle for seven years to get with child and then discover that
your greatest fears have been realized. That you are, in fact, barren.” I shook my
head, unable to find the words to express the heartache.

Nevertheless, I could see in my sister’s eyes that she understood. She hugged Greer
tighter and pressed a kiss to her downy head.

“Despite the fact that Lord Stratford was the father of Lady Godwin’s baby . . .”

Alana gasped. “Lord Stratford was the father?”

I nodded. “And despite the fact that Lady Godwin, who was supposed to be Lady Stratford’s
friend, not only slept with her husband but also proved her to be the one who could
not conceive and threw it in her face. I just do not believe Lady Stratford was capable
of harming that child. Of removing it from . . .” Remembering my audience, I stopped
myself, glancing up to find my sister watching me with horrified eyes. I cleared my
throat. “I can imagine her harming Lady Godwin, but not that baby.”

She looked toward the hearth, seeming to consider my words. I closed my eyes, trying
to shut out the terrible images, the darkness of the last few days. I breathed in
deeply the scent of camphor and talcum powder, listening to the soft rocking of Alana’s
chair against the heavy rug and the merry chatter of my niece’s and nephew’s voices.
The nursery seemed like a cozy little cocoon when compared to the vast echoing corridors
of Gairloch Castle. It was no wonder my sister had shut herself up here with her three
children.

“Maybe she went mad,” she offered.

I blinked open my eyes to stare at the exposed-timber ceiling. “That’s what Gage suggested.”

“But you don’t believe it.”

I lowered my gaze to find Alana studying me. I suddenly realized that by expressing
all of these doubts, I only gave her more reason to remain closeted in the nursery
with her children. Pressing my hand to my forehead, I groaned. “I don’t know what
I believe, Alana. Mr. Gage is undoubtedly right. I’m probably just jumping at ghosts,
remembering when I was accused of those heinous crimes in London.”

“Yes, but Kiera, you were innocent,” she pointed out.

I nodded, biting back the urge to express my worry that Lady Stratford might also
be. “So,” I proclaimed, a feeble segue into a different topic. “Are you going to return
to sleeping in your own bed tonight? You can’t have gotten much rest here. You look
exhausted.”

Unfortunately, my sister knew me only too well. “Kiera,” she scolded gently. “Have
you expressed your doubts to Mr. Gage?”

I plucked at the upholstery again. “No.”

“Then perhaps you should.”

“And if he doesn’t listen to me?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light. I already
suspected he was not going to accept my doubts easily. To his mind, we had caught
the real culprit and proved my innocence. What more could I want?

“Then I think you should do whatever it takes to set your mind at ease.” She shook
her head at me fondly. “You spend far too much time in your head, dear. And sometimes
I worry where it takes you. Especially in this case.”

I gave her a grateful smile, thankful that she supported me, even if she didn’t understand
me. Maybe I was being ridiculous. Maybe I should just let it go. But I couldn’t get
rid of the terrible feeling in my gut that somehow we got it wrong. I kept seeing
Lady Stratford’s eyes—the pain and fear and desperation written there—and I worried
it wasn’t feigned. I wanted to be certain that the real murderer had been caught,
not just someone to take my place as the sacrificial lamb. I wanted the truth. And
if that truth pointed to Lady Stratford, then so be it. But until I had been convinced,
I knew I would never be able to rest.

Greer sniffled and reached up to swipe at her nose, rubbing her already raw cheek.
She began to fuss, and Alana tipped her forward to croon to her softly.

“Her teething rag was on the floor,” I told her. “Let me clean it off and wet it.”

“Thank you,” she replied absentmindedly as she tried to clear Greer’s nose.

Malcolm and Philipa looked up as their baby sister let out a howl. They were remarkably
well behaved today, and I wondered if they sensed their mother’s exhaustion.

I tightened the string holding the sugar inside one end of the rag before handing
it to my sister. Greer immediately chomped down on it, lapsing into a whimper as she
turned into her mother’s chest for comfort. Sighing in relief, Alana tipped her head
back against the chair and closed her eyes.

“Alana, are you certain you’re feeling all right?” I asked, worried by the drawn appearance
of her face. The last time I had seen her look so poorly was the morning after she
nursed Malcolm through his fever. Her haggard countenance scared me.

She must have sensed this, for her head fell sideways toward her shoulder in defeat.
“I’m expecting again,” she admitted.

I couldn’t stop my eyes from flaring wide in surprise. “Does Philip know?”

“I think so, though I haven’t told him.”

I nodded, suddenly better understanding the flares of temper between them in the past
few days. It had been from anxiety as much as anger. Alana had difficulty during Greer’s
birth, much more so than with the other two, and the physician had suggested they
seriously reconsider having any more children. From my sister’s tone of voice, I didn’t
think they had been trying for another one.