The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (10 page)

After that, Simon thought of Benedick as an unrepentant bully, and Benedick branded him a weasel, the worst insult in the March lexicon. But I liked Simon, mostly for his quick wit and ready smile, and marrying Edward only cemented the bond. In time he had ceased to be company, and I had begun to think of him as another brother. I could not imagine losing him any more than I could fathom losing one of them. I had known for months that he was dying, but I was only just beginning to really understand it. In some ways, his death would be more wrenching than Edward’s. Edward had been my husband. Simon was my friend.

“You are right, of course,” he said, his voice light and mocking, as it had always been. “I should be saving my strength to make a good end.” He hesitated, then reached out his other hand to me. “I have something to tell you, dearest.” His face was thin now and sharply planed, like that of a fasting monk in an old Spanish painting. “I do not mean to linger forever. When the time comes, I will know it, and I will act.”

I stared at him. “You cannot mean it, Simon. You would not—it is a very great sin. You would not be buried in consecrated ground.”

He smiled again. “Dear girl, what do I care for that now?” His grip tightened on my hands, forcing me to hear him. “It
grows harder to breathe, my sweet. I feel sometimes as though I were living under water, desperately trying to draw one clear breath. Can you understand that?”

I nodded slowly.

“Then you must understand why I will do this thing while I have strength to do it. But I could not act without telling you first.”

“Oh, Simon. Must you really?”

His expression was gently rebuking. Of course he must. Who was I to judge what sort of pain he was in? Or what would become of him if he destroyed himself? Like all good Christians, I had been taught that suicide was a sin, that it was unforgivable. But I had long since stopped believing in a God that could not forgive, and I knew I was not arrogant enough to prevent Simon from ending his pain.

“When? How long?”

He rubbed at my wrists, a slow, gentle rhythm that felt strangely calming amidst this new heartbreak. “I do not know yet. I should like to see the summer.”

I nodded. “I will bring roses to you. And strawberries.”

He looked at me for a long minute, his flecked grey eyes searching my face, memorizing it.

“I have always wondered what it would be like to kiss you,” he said finally. “I always wondered what Edward felt.”

Wordlessly, I leaned forward. I pressed my lips to his, surprised to find his warm and soft under my own. It had been years since I had kissed a man, and Simon’s lips were nothing like Edward’s. Simon’s were searching and tentative, slowly exploring and remembering mine.

He put his hand to my face and I pulled back, shaken. I had not thought that kissing Simon would be unlike kissing my own relatives. But it felt vastly different, and I realized how vulnerable a woman becomes when it has been a very long time since she has been loved.

Simon lifted my hand to his lips and I saw there were tears in his eyes.

Neither of us spoke. I kissed him again, this time on the brow, and left him. I went to my room and sat on my bed in the dark, thinking of many things.

There were three ravens sat on a tree,
They were as black as they might be.
With a down derry, derry, derry, down, down.
The one of them said to his mate,
“Where shall we our breakfast take?”

—
Traditional Ballad

 

M
y encounter with Val the next morning was hardly less alarming. Aquinas had just delivered the morning post. Among the usual heap of letters and advertisements, I spotted an envelope with familiar handwriting. Doctor Griggs. I slipped the letter into my pocket and was just about to lock myself into the study to read it when Valerius cornered me, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

“Good morning, Julia. I wonder if you might have a moment?”

I suppressed the flash of impatience I felt to get to my letter and summoned a smile. I saw Val only rarely these days. He was far too busy with his friends and amusements to spend much time at Grey House. Perhaps a few minutes with him would prove enjoyable.

“Of course. Come to my study. Aquinas will have had the fire lit.”

He followed me, obedient as a spaniel, and settled himself next to me on the elderly sofa. He took up a pillow and began wrapping the fringe about his fingers. He had always been a fidgety child, though we had all hoped he would outgrow it. Clearly he had not, and his nerves were affecting mine, I
realized as I caught myself twisting at a button. There was no imagining what difficulty he might have gotten himself into, and I was beginning to fear the worst.

I folded my hands quietly in my lap. “What is it, Val?” I said finally, my voice a little sharp. I smiled to soften it. “You can talk to me, you know.”

He did not return my smile. His eyes, the wide, green March eyes, were clouded with unhappiness and there was the slightest start of a worry line on his brow. “I do know. I would hope that Father will not hear of this, though.”

In spite of his sulkiness, I felt my irritation ebb. So that
was
it. He had gotten himself into a bit of trouble over a girl or money and did not want Father’s wrath crashing down upon him. Surely it could not be too disastrous if Father’s fury was the worst he had to fear.

“He shall hear nothing from me,” I promised him. “Now, tell me everything.”

He eyed me doubtfully, but plunged into his story.

“I was at the club last night. Playing cards.”

My eyes narrowed. I did not much like where this was going. Valerius had always been notoriously unlucky at cards, a fact that our brother Plum had been only too happy to exploit when they were boys. Val’s pocket money no sooner came in than it was promptly paid out to Plum to settle some debt or other. For years Val had kept him in paints and canvases. I would have thought that living with such an extortionist would have taught Val a lesson, but apparently it had not. And although I was content to permit Val to live at Grey House, I was not prepared to subsidize his gaming losses.

“It is not what you think,” he put in hastily. “I won.”

I blinked at him. “Did you really? How extraordinary.”

His face relaxed for the first time. “I know. It was quite a lot of money, in fact. But there is one thing that I won that I
am not entirely certain…that is, I wondered if you might like…oh, blast, just come to my room and see it for yourself.”

Mystified, I followed him up the stairs and to his room, puzzled as to what he could have possibly won that would cause him so much difficulty.

He paused at the door to his room, steeling himself. “Now, do not be alarmed. I assure you, there is nothing to fear.”

“Valerius, good heavens! What have you got in there? A lion from the royal zoo?”

I pushed past him to open the door and stopped in my tracks. Leering at me from its perch on the footboard of the bed was the largest, blackest bird I had ever seen. Not daring to turn my back on it, I called softly over my shoulder.

“Is that—”

He closed the door behind us. “A Tower raven, yes. Reddy Phillips apparently stole him for some sort of joke, and I won him last night at the tables.”

He moved next to me, keeping a careful eye upon his avian guest.

“You must be mad! That bird is Crown property! Do you have any idea…”

Val put up his hands in defense. “I do, I assure you. I mean to return him to the proper authorities, but I do not want to get Reddy into any trouble. Until I work out how exactly to do that, I wondered if I could keep him here.”

“Out of the question,” I said, whirling on him. “How could you do something so utterly and appallingly stupid? What were you thinking?”

To his credit, Val looked properly abashed. “I know. But I really did not think I would even win the hand. You know how badly I play. Reddy was so certain he had the cards, and you know, I was, too. I only threw in the last of my money because I wanted to see if he would really put the bird up. And then
he did. No one was more shocked than I when I won. I thought Reddy would have an apoplexy.”

He was smiling and I fixed him with my sternest elder-sister look. “I never liked those Phillipses. Jumped-up tobacco merchants, all of them. And you are no better. Have you not thought of what this could mean to Father? And to poor Bellmont? It could ruin him in Parliament if anyone discovered that his youngest brother had received stolen property—the queen’s stolen property no less! Just having that thing in your possession is a felonious act.”

The bird, which had been gazing at us with interest, suddenly hopped from the footboard and skimmed across the carpet, coming to rest near my feet.

“Good morning,” he said pleasantly.

I pointed a shaking finger. “It speaks.”

Val nodded mournfully. “Yes. Apparently only a handful of them do.”

“How on earth did Reddy Phillips get hold of it?” I asked, watching the raven’s sharp black eyes watch me.

“His uncle has some sort of post in the Tower. Reddy paid him a visit and managed to smuggle this poor fellow out. He’s not one of the public ravens, you know,” he finished more cheerfully.

“Not one of the public ravens?” The bird had moved forward again, bobbing toward my shoes, pecking delicately at the carpet.

“Yes, some of them are kept in reserve, solely for breeding. This was one of them.”

“And how is it that they have not yet discovered one is missing?” I asked, watching in horror as the creature plucked a long piece of wool from the carpet, unraveling the border.

“Reddy had another raven to put in its place. Apparently the Tower fellows did not much like him and pecked him to death shortly afterward. They buried that raven and still don’t realize this one’s gone missing.”

“Of all the bloody stupid things to do,” I murmured. Matters had gone from complicated to disastrous. “I suppose Father could explain it to Her Majesty, but they haven’t spoken in years. I daresay she’s still angry with him about that Irish business. He will be furious with you, and I cannot think that the queen will be much pleased, either.”

Val gripped my hand. “You promised! Julia, you cannot tell him. We have not rowed for nearly six months. He has just consented to let me attend anatomy lectures at university. If you tell him, it will ruin everything. Besides, I did not steal the thing. I want to restore it.”

He had a solid argument there. Reddy Phillips was the one who should be whipped.

“Can’t you just go to the Tower and say that you found it, walking around outside the wall?” I asked, watching the bird inspect the hem of my draperies.

Val shook his head. “The Tower ravens are all clipped. They cannot fly outside the wall. But if you give me a few days, I am certain I can think of something. Please, Julia.”

I looked into his earnest eyes, so like Father’s, and knew I would not refuse him.

“Very well. But he must stay here, in this room. Pull up any furnishings he might eat, and see to it that you clean up after him.”

Val clenched me into a suffocating embrace. “You are a queen amongst women,” he said fervently.

“Victoria Regina” came the croaky little voice from the floor.

I put Val firmly away from my person. “And above all, keep him quiet.”

“I will, I will, I promise you.” He moved into the room and closed the door behind him.

And through the door, clear as a bell, I heard the croaky little voice say, “God Save the Queen.”

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?

—Sir John Suckling
“Song”

 

I
t was another hour before I managed to seclude myself in my study to read the letter. There were menus to discuss with Cook, laundry orders to give to Magda, and my wardrobe to peruse with Morag. In a fit of industry, Morag had decided that my mourning clothes were beginning to show some wear and that I should order some new ones. This was blatantly false—I had just purchased the black silk and the ensemble with swansdown trim. I strongly suspected she was short of funds and wanted something to sell at the market.

But as we winnowed the garments down to the few items she deemed acceptable, I remembered Aunt Ursula’s remarks about widowhood and considered carefully a life spent in that suffocating black. I thought of the queen, a walking effigy in her widow’s weeds, and I thought of the Hindu widows with their funeral pyres. There seemed little to choose between the two.

“Leave me the new silk, as well as that heap there,” I told Morag, pointing to a pathetically modest pile on my bed. “You may have the rest to sell or make over for yourself.”

She stared at me suspiciously. “Are you feeling quite well, my lady?”

“Quite,” I returned briskly. “Pack the rest of these up and remove them. I shall need the space for my new things.”

She bobbed her head and set to work, still throwing the odd glance at me over her shoulder. I did not care. While she packed away my mourning, I went to my writing table and dashed off a letter containing very specific instructions to Portia’s dressmakers, the brothers Riche. In a very few minutes I finished the letter and dispatched it with a footman, feeling absurdly pleased with myself.

That mood lasted until I read the letter from Doctor Griggs. It was a thorough disappointment, from start to finish.

My dear Lady Julia,

I cannot tell you how very distressed I was to receive your letter. It has been my privilege to act as physician to the Grey family for these many years. During this time, I have diagnosed and treated Sir Sylvius Grey, his son Sir Edward, and now his nephew, Sir Simon. It has ever been apparent to me that the men of this family suffer from an illness that is of an hereditary and most vicious bent. I had hoped Sir Edward would escape this curse, but I realized in his youth that this was not to be. This weakness of the heart and lungs was said to be present in Sir Sylvius’ father and grandfather, as well. It is for this reason that I say it is a mercy Sir Edward left no issue. Such a weakness in the constitution of such otherwise fine and noble gentlemen is a tragedy of the greatest magnitude, but it is not to be helped by modern medicine. I did all that any man could for Sir Edward and Sir Sylvius, just as I do now for Sir Simon.

As for your ladyship’s own difficulties, I should prescribe a sleeping draught of poppy to provide a good night’s sleep and all its healthful benefits. Should this not prove ef
ficacious, I would further prescribe an interview with the vicar to offer some spiritual comfort.

I remain your very faithful servant,
William Griggs

 

Pooh, I thought, tossing the letter to the desk. Not a scrap of useful information. He had taken me for an addle-witted, superstitious ninny.

Or he had poisoned Edward himself and deliberately put me off the scent. I straightened, feeling quite startled by the notion. It seemed absurd on the surface, but it was entirely possible. Who better to help a sick man along to the hereafter than his own doctor?

I rose quickly. It took only a matter of minutes to slip upstairs for my things and make my way out of the house unnoticed. Between Brisbane’s lectures on discretion and Valerius’ stolen Crown property, I was very certain I did not wish Brisbane to call at Grey House. I walked a little distance down Curzon Street and hailed a cab near the Park. We made quite good time to Brisbane’s rooms, where the plump little housekeeper admitted me promptly this time, waving me up the stairs with a smile.

I rapped sharply and was greeted by Monk, looking somewhat strained.

“We did not expect your ladyship,” he began.

“I know, but I have something to discuss with Mr. Brisbane. Business,” I said, brandishing the letter. He stepped back, reluctantly, I fancied, and admitted me to the room.

“If you will wait, my lady. I will tell him that you are here.”

I nodded absently and made myself comfortable. I removed my gloves and hat and coat, piling them on a chair in the corner. There was a copy of
Punch
on the table. I ignored it for several minutes, but as the time ticked past and I remained alone, I grew restless. I was more than halfway through the issue when Brisbane appeared.

“My lady, please forgive my tardiness,” he said. I almost did not hear him, I was so surprised by his appearance. He was deathly pale under his usually swarthy colour, and there were faint new lines etched on his brow and on either side of his mouth. His eyes, usually so bright and watchful, were dull and sunken in his face.

I made to rise. “Mr. Brisbane, are you quite well? If I have called at an inopportune time—”

He waved me back to my seat. “Not at all. A trifling indisposition, I assure you.”

But I was not assured. He moved slowly, without his usual grace, and I wondered what ailed him. Embarrassed at having pushed in at such a time, I thrust the letter at him.

“This is the reply from Doctor Griggs. It is disappointing, I am sure you will agree.”

He read it over, his brow furrowing tightly as he looked at the paper. He held it for several minutes as if he were having trouble making out the words. At length he returned it.

“Disappointing, indeed.”

“I wondered if perhaps he might be concealing something.”

Brisbane passed a hand over his eyes. “Such as?”

“Perhaps he poisoned Edward. He had as good an opportunity as anyone, and the advantage of being in a position to certify the death as natural.”

He nodded slowly. “Yes, but what motive? What profit to him to murder one of his most illustrious patients?”

I blushed wretchedly. Not only had I disturbed him at a time when he was clearly not fit for company, I had done so without having rationally appraised my sudden notion of Griggs’ duplicity. “I had not thought that out. I came simply on impulse. I am sorry.”

He tugged gently at his collar. “It makes no difference. There could be a hundred motives we have not yet discovered.” He paused, as if gathering strength, then went on, his
voice marginally less thready. “I have a friend, a surgeon. If we describe the symptoms of Sir Edward’s collapse to him, I daresay he could come up with something useful.”

“Excellent! Will you write to him?”

He blinked a few times, very slowly. “Yes. I will arrange an interview. We should both be present. I imagine he will have questions about Sir Edward’s general health that I could not—”

He broke off then, his eyes fixed upon the fire, his shoulders tightly knotted, his jaw working furiously.

“Mr. Brisbane,” I said softly.

He jerked his eyes toward me, seeming almost startled to see me there.

“I think it an excellent idea. Perhaps tomorrow—” I stopped as I watched him lift a hand to his temple.

“Mr. Brisbane, are you unwell?”

I made to rise, to help him, but he waved me off angrily.

“I will be fine. Go now. Send Monk to me.” His voice was raspy now, as if the simple act of speaking was a tremendous effort.

I stood uncertainly. Both of his hands were fisted against his temples, grinding into his head. His brow was deeply creased, his mouth white and twisted in pain.

“Mr. Brisbane,” I began.

“I said go—now!” This last was a full-throated bellow, ragged with pain and rage.

I will admit to cowardice. I snatched up my things and fled, throwing open the door to find Monk already hurrying to him. He was carrying a flask and some other paraphernalia I could not identify.

I did not stay to see what aid he administered. Instead, I hurried outside, never looking behind me. I walked quickly back to Grey House, making straight for the study. Once there, I poured out a glass of whiskey and took a deep swallow. It burned all the way to my belly, warming me through, but for the better part of an hour I trembled in spite of it.