The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (9 page)

“What of Sir Edward’s friends? Enemies?”

“No enemies. Everyone a friend, none of them close. Edward was private. God, my head.”

He rose again and opened the window a little. Cold, crisp air rushed into the room, clearing out the thick pungent smells from the fire. He left the room and returned a moment later with a wet cloth folded into a pad.

“Here,” he said, handing it to me. “Put it on your brow. You will feel better in a minute.”

I did as he said, listening to the light scratching of his pencil as he finished writing his observations into his little notebook. Within minutes the lassitude had lifted and the pain had begun to abate. I sat up, swinging my feet to the floor, and watched as the ceiling seemed to change places with it.

“Easy, my lady,” he said, pushing me firmly back against the cushion. “You will be quite well in a minute, but you cannot move too quickly.”

I lay still, feeling the giddiness recede slowly. When I thought it might be safe, I raised myself by degrees. Brisbane was sipping a fresh cup of tea and had poured one out for me. There was no sign of the notebook.

“What did you do to me?” I demanded, peeling the compress from my brow. I did not want the thing against my skin. God only knew what was in it.

“Drink your tea, my lady. You will feel yourself in a moment.”

“How do I know it hasn’t been tampered with? For all I know you have laced it with opium,” I said indignantly.

He sighed, took up my cup from the saucer and drank deeply from it. “There. It is quite safe, I assure you.”

My expression must have betrayed my doubt, for he handed me his nearly full cup. “Take mine, then. Besides, if I were going to lace anything with opium, it would not be tea.”

I sipped cautiously at his tea, but it tasted fine. “Why not?”

“Tea is a natural antidote to opium. You would probably vomit it up before it did any real harm.”

“Mr. Brisbane, I deplore your manners. Such conversation is not fit for a lady.”

He regarded me with something like real interest. “That is quite a little war you have going on in there,” he said with a flick of his finger toward my brow.

“What do you mean?”

“You are such a strange mixture of forthrightness and proper breeding. It must always be a battle for you, knowing what you want to say and feeling that you mustn’t.”

I shrugged. “Such is the lot of women, Mr. Brisbane.”

He gave a short laugh. “Not by half. Most women of my acquaintance would never think of the things you do. Much less dare to say them.”

“I do not!” I protested. “If you only knew how much effort I take not to say the things I think—”

“I know. That is why I took the liberty of conducting my little experiment. It worked rather better than I had anticipated.”

I set the cup down with a crack. “You admit you deliberately gave me something—some sort of truthfulness potion—to get information?”

“Truthfulness potion? Really, my lady, your penchant for sensational novels is deplorable. There is no such thing as a truthfulness potion. Herbs, my lady. That is all. I threw a certain compound of dried herbs onto the fire. They produce a feeling of calmness and well-being, euphoria sometimes, lassitude most often. The result is one of almost perfect truthfulness, not because of some magic power, but because the subject is too relaxed to lie.”

I stared at him, clenching my hands into fists against my lap. “That is appalling. No, it is worse than appalling. It is horrible,
horrible
.” I could not think of a word bad enough to call him.

“I did tell you I was going to conduct an experiment,” he reminded me.

“Yes, but this—this is far beyond what I expected.”

He smiled thinly. “Did you think I was going to swing my watch in front of your face and count backward? I could engage in hypnotism if you like. I have practiced it. Mesmerism, as well. But I have found that those methods frequently have more value as parlor tricks than interrogation techniques.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, my hands fisted tightly. “I do not care. I still think what you did was appalling.”

“Is it more appalling than sending a threat of death to a sick man, making his last days full of fear and doubt?” he asked softly.

Almost unwillingly, I unclenched my fists. “You mean that your methods are justified by the ends.”

“I see that you have read your Machiavelli, along with perhaps some Sappho?”

“Leave Portia quite out of this. I would never have told you about Jane without your nasty tricks.”

“Indeed.”

We sat in silence for a moment, sipping our tea in a state of armed and uneasy truce. I was not happy with his methods, but I understood why he had employed them. If we were to unmask Edward’s murderer, we must use every weapon at our disposal, even if it meant occasionally wielding them against each other. But it would be a very long time before I trusted him again.

“Headache better?” he inquired pleasantly.

“Yes, thank you.”

“You will be quite thirsty for the rest of the day. It is the only lingering effect I have found.”

I nodded obediently and decided to venture a question that had been puzzling me. “Why did it not affect you?”

He gave me a thin, bitter smile. “I inured myself to its effects long ago in China.”

“China! How did you come to be in China?”

The smile faded. “I passed through on my way to Tibet. It is a story I do not care to tell, my lady, at least not now. It is sufficient to say that if I did not know how to hold my own against that herb, it would have been more than my life was worth. Now, I believe I have all the major players,” he said, rubbing his hands together briskly. “I think the most logical place to begin is with the death itself. Was it murder? If so, it could not have been by bullet, garrote, blade, or any means other than poison. Which means that the first person to consult is—”

“Doctor Griggs,” I finished for him.

He gave me a look of grudging acknowledgement. “He knew Sir Edward’s health intimately and certified the death as natural. But were there any questions in his own mind about
that? Any symptoms that appeared out of the ordinary for a man with Sir Edward’s heart condition?”

I shook my head. “I am afraid that Doctor Griggs will not speak to you, especially if he thinks you mean to accuse him of making a mistake. He has connections at Court—lofty ones. He will not thank you for making trouble. I must take him on myself.”

Brisbane’s eyes narrowed. “I thought we agreed that your involvement was to be largely in a consulting capacity.”

“Largely, but not entirely,” I replied with spirit. “I shall write to Doctor Griggs. He has known me from my birth. Whatever story I concoct, he will believe it. I will think of some suitably convincing tale, and when he sends his reply, I shall forward it on to you.”

He agreed and we made arrangements for meeting again when I had Doctor Griggs’ reply in hand. He did not summon Monk, but helped me into my jacket and coat himself. I took my hat from him and pinned it on securely, feeling more myself than I had since I entered the room.

“Oh, and by the way,” I said sweetly, my hand on the knob, “if you ever use me in such a disgraceful fashion again, I will use every and all means at my disposal to ensure you get the thrashing of your life. Good day, Mr. Brisbane.”

I am not entirely certain, but I think he was smiling as I left.

He was sad at heart, unsettled yet ready,
sensing his death.

—
Beowulf

 

I
t took me the better part of the next day to write my letter to Doctor Griggs. I had not expected it would be so difficult, but striking just the right balance of wifely concern and abject stupidity was harder than I had anticipated. In the letter, I claimed that although my year of mourning was nearly finished, I thought of Edward more than ever. I told him that he came to me in dreams, mouthing words I could not hear, but that I had read somewhere that this was a clear sign of murder. I begged him to tell me if there had been any indication whatsoever of foul play. I pleaded with him to give me every detail of Edward’s collapse and death, especially the few hours I had been kept away from him. I reminded him of the long history between our families and gently hinted that a man of his genius would have easily seen something amiss. I flattered, I cajoled, and in the end, I sprinkled a few drops of water over the ink to simulate tears. I was a little ashamed of myself for enjoying it so much, but that soon passed. I sealed and addressed it and sent Desmond to deliver it by hand. I had instructed him to wait for a reply, but the response was as disappointing as it was succinct.

My dear Lady Julia,

Have read your letter. Cannot reply until I have reviewed my notes. Please be patient. Will try to respond by tomorrow’s post. I remain your obedient servant,

William Griggs

 

I questioned Desmond closely, but he could tell me nothing of importance. Doctor Griggs did not appear disturbed by the letter, merely tired as he had attended a confinement late the previous night that had not ended until nearly dawn. He had simply nodded at the letter and dashed off the quick reply Desmond had brought.

“And there was nothing else? You are certain?” I prodded. Desmond was good-looking—as handsome as Henry and almost as thick-witted.

Desmond thought for a moment, his golden brows furrowing together with the effort. “No, my lady. He simply handed me the reply, said that I looked a bit peaky, and recommended a meat tonic.”

I peered at Desmond. “You do look peaky. Have one of the maids brew some beef tea for you. I know Cook just bought extra beef to make some for Sir Simon. Tell her to put plenty of blood in it.”

He inclined his head. “Thank you, my lady.” He made to go, but paused in the doorway, the lamplight shining off of his buttery curls. “You are very good, my lady.”

He blushed deeply, a rich rose colour against the pale porcelain of his cheeks, and hurried off, leaving me with a good deal more to think about than Griggs’ thin reply. I hoped Desmond was not falling in love with me. It was an extremely delicate proposition to have one’s servants falling in love with one. Father’s butler, Hoots, had been desperately enamored of Father’s elder sister, Aunt Cressida, for years and lived for her annual visits. I could not imagine why—she was not half so
pretty as Aunt Hermia and had a thicker set of whiskers than Father.

In any case, the last thing I wanted was for Desmond to cast his lovely clear eyes in my direction. I made a note to speak to Aquinas about him and turned my thoughts to more practical matters. I would not hear from Griggs for another day at least, and I had been neglecting my little household dreadfully. I made up my mind to rectify my laxity. I decided to start with the most distasteful and made my way to the room where we kept the Ghoul.

She was tucked up comfortably in bed, wearing a lace cap festooned with ribbons, the coverlet littered with sweet wrappers and magazines. There was a stack of black-bordered correspondence on the bedside table and I felt my spirits rise. Perhaps someone had taken pity on me and thoughtfully died. The Ghoul had been with us for nearly a year and I was growing impatient waiting for the next family bereavement.

“Good evening, Aunt Ursula,” I said, dropping a kiss somewhere near her cheek. She smelled strongly of lavender and blackberry cordial and camphor. And gin.

“Good evening, dearest. How are you today? I have had the most pleasant day. I received a very long letter from Cousin Brutus. His gout is very, very painful, poor dear. I must write to him with the remedy my own lamented Harold used.”

“I am fine, thank you,” I said, taking a small needlepointed chair by the bed. “I am sorry to hear about Cousin Brutus. Is it very serious?” I asked hopefully. Of course, if Cousin Brutus recovered, there was always Uncle Leonato’s wife. I had it on good authority that she had taken a chill at Christmas and the cough had lingered.

She shrugged her thin shoulders beneath the coverlet. “One never knows, that is the trouble with gout. It comes on of a sudden, laying a body low, and it can linger for weeks. Then, one morning, quick as you please, it is gone again. I remember
how my poor departed Harold used to suffer with it. But my remedy always seemed to put him right. Of course, it put him so right that he went out riding that wild horse that threw him to his death. My poor darling…” She fished under the covers for her handkerchief, which she applied delicately to her nose.

After a moment she blew it ferociously, then brightened. “Still, as the Bible tells us, ‘Man cometh forth like a flower and is cut down.’ It was simply Harold’s time to be cut down.”

I nodded, wondering how on earth we had ventured into such a bizarre conversation. Other people’s aunts talked about knitting and forcing paperwhites. Mine quoted Job. I had little doubt she could recite the entire service for the dead from the Book of Common Prayer if asked.

I cleared my throat to reply, but she was still speaking.

“Just like your Edward, poor thing. Such a lovely boy. So little time together! Practically still on your honeymoon. And then to have him snatched so cruelly! Oh, my dear, how can you bear it?”

The question was rhetorical, and it was one she had been asking me almost daily for the past year. At first I had actually answered it, reminding her that Edward and I had been married for five years and that he had always been in delicate health. But then that only brought on some verses from Lamentations, so I learned to keep quiet. I simply put on a mournful expression and nodded solemnly and waited for her to go on. She always did.

“But at least the funeral was properly done. So many people just rush through them these days—no respect at all. But no one can say that the Marches do not respect death. I was very much gratified to see the efforts taken on poor Edward’s behalf. Such lovely lilies, and the music was so very moving. I can still hear those little choirboy voices…”

She began to hum then, something I had never heard before and decidedly not one of the pieces sung at Edward’s funeral.
I was beginning to think that the blackberry cordial was having an effect on her. Or the gin.

“Aunt Ursula, did you receive any other correspondence?” I asked in desperation. “I note that some of the envelopes are bordered in black. I hope there are no fresh bereavements.” Of course I hoped no such thing; I was heartily tired of having the Ghoul settling in my China Room.

Aunt Ursula broke off in mid-verse. “Oh, no, my dear. Those are letters from families still in mourning. Why, dear Cressida’s husband has only been dead for seventeen years. It would not do for her to leave off observing the proper signs of respect, would it?”

I sat, dumbstruck, realizing what she had just said. Aunt Cressida, whose husband had been widely held to be a complete monster, had been widowed for seventeen years and Aunt Ursula still expected her to write on black-bordered writing paper. I should be expected to do the same. And I knew it would not be just the writing paper. It would be the widow’s weeds as well. Unrelieved black clothing, from the outer petticoat to the gloves. Jet and onyx jewelry. Hair bracelets. Veils.

I excused myself and went to lie down on my bed. I had been marking the calendar, waiting for my year of mourning to end. I had actually been looking forward to putting on grey clothes or adding little touches of white to my collars and cuffs. I was counting off the days until I could wear pearls again, and purple. Now, what was the point? With Aunt Ursula in the house, holding me to the same standards of mourning as the queen, what hope was there? I could either wear what I liked and endure her daily sermons on proper feeling, or I could smother myself in black bombazine for the rest of my life. It did not bear thinking of. So I did not think of it. I rose and went to visit Simon, hoping that his gentle smile would be a balm for my ruffled temper.

I crept into his room, uncertain if he was yet asleep.

“I am awake, Julia,” he called. “Come in.”

I ventured into the room. It was dimly lit, warm and cozy, and I could see Simon drowsing in the chaise longue by the window. He was propped against a pair of thick pillows and covered with a soft woolen blanket. It was embroidered at the edge with his crest, a Christmas present from me. It had been difficult to choose something for him, so in the end I had opted for something elegant and practical and comforting. He had always loved beautiful things, and the rich dove-grey colour matched his eyes.

The rest of the room had been furnished with his favorite things, framed sketches of his travels, a portrait of his parents, a little china statue of a dog that he had had for so long its tail had been broken off and glued back at a ridiculous angle, more than once.

He smiled at me and I bent to kiss his cheek.

“Ah, violet. My favorite scent,” he commented.

I felt a little lance of guilt. “I am sorry. I should have sent up a pot of them in March. Never mind. I will have Whittle grow some for you in the hothouse.”

He grinned at me. “Can he do that?”

“Heavens, I don’t know. That is Whittle’s business. If not, I shall buy you some silk ones, French, and douse them in my perfume.”

“Lovely. What have you been about?” he asked as I settled myself on a cushion at his feet.

“Being flayed by the Ghoul,” I informed him with a doleful air. “I have just realized that I am expected to keep to my mourning forever. She’ll never lie down for me putting on colours again. I shall write on black-bordered paper and drape myself in veils until everyone forgets what I look like.”

Simon smiled. “Poor darling. Don’t be too disheartened. I’m sure some helpful March relation will die soon and take her off your hands. Loads of lung complaints going around this spring.”

“One hopes. Not that I wish any ill on any of my relations, of course. But Aunt Ursula has inflicted herself on us for quite long enough. It is someone else’s turn.”

“Lucky for you that I am a Grey and not a March. She won’t return when you are mourning me,” he said, his eyes glinting humorously.

“Oh, Simon, don’t,” I begged. I had been thoughtless, speaking of such things to him. I reached up and took his hand, willing myself not to feel the bones, brittle and sharp beneath the thin, papery skin. I noticed he had moved his gold signet ring from his smallest finger to the ring finger. Still, it twisted loosely and I wondered how much more weight he could lose before he slipped away altogether.

He touched my hair lightly, pushing it back from my face.

“Ah, I did not mean to upset you. But Griggs was here last week, you know. The man is a fool, of course, but he says it cannot be much longer, and I must believe him.”

I felt my eyes fill with tears and I turned my face away so he should not see them.

“Julia,” he said softly. “You must have known. I have been sick for so long, I think I will welcome it. I cannot remember what it was to breathe without this weight on my chest.”

I nodded. “I know. I am dreadfully selfish. I am thinking of what it will mean to me to lose you. I never think of what it means for you to be here, like this.”

He smiled, really smiled for the first time in months. I had missed Simon’s smile. It had always been his most engaging feature.

“My poor girl. Promise me this—you will not wear black for me. I have always liked you in colours. Bright, shocking colours. Wear scarlet for me.”

I shook my head. “I do not think I could manage scarlet. Edward always said I looked best in pale colours.”

His face coloured sharply and his breath came quickly,
wheezing. “Edward was a fool about many things, not the least of which included you,” he said savagely.

“We were happy enough,” I said feebly, stroking his hand. He gentled then, but I could feel his anger seething just below the surface.

“He never should have married you,” he said finally. “That was selfish. He could not appreciate you.”

I said nothing for there was nothing to say. We sat in silence for several minutes. I kept stroking his hand, listening to his breathing as it slowed and the wheeze quieted.

“You should not excite yourself,” I said after a long while. “Especially about the past. None of it matters now. None of it can be changed.”

He turned his hand in mine, grasping my fingers in his. I thought of how familiar his hand was to me. Simon had been orphaned at two and raised by his aunt and uncle, Edward’s parents, at Greymoor. He had been a frequent guest in our home, sometimes invited, sometimes not. It had been a bold Simon who discovered the gap in the hedge that provided us with a shortcut between the properties, a gap we were careful never to show to Father, who would have had it repaired instantly.

And it had been Simon who braved the first introductions, interrupting our game of cricket on the broad lawn that swept from the abbey down to the river. Edward, his elder by some years, had loitered rather shyly in the background. We rode and swam and played games together, and if sometimes Simon went home with a glorious marble that didn’t actually belong to him, no one really minded. We knew that Simon, unlike Edward or us, with our regular allowances, was desperately poor. We were happy to let him keep the odd book or slingshot—or at least most of us were. My hot-tempered second brother, Benedick, once chased him home and thrashed him for pocketing his favorite tin soldier, the figure of Wellington
mounted on Copenhagen from his Battle of Waterloo set. But then Father had felt it necessary to thrash Benedick for hitting a smaller boy and had confiscated poor Wellington, locking him into his desk drawer, where he lay for years. Father kept him as a reminder to Benedick that a gentleman must always guard his temper—a lesson Benedick never entirely learned. And naturally, because of the Wellington incident, Benedick and Simon never quite warmed to each other. Of course, it did not help that anytime Benedick’s temper threatened the rest of us would circle him, chanting, “Remember Wellington,” which only served to provoke him further.