Page 15 of Death at the Dower House
On the other side of the table, Francis stifled a burst of laughter, but when I glanced at him, his attention was on Constance, so maybe she was the one who had made him laugh.
“It’s not going to kill you, St George,” I told him. “Besides, I’m serious. It must have been a difficult week, and you’re not looking particularly well.”
“Thanks ever so, Darling.” He slanted me a scowl. “If you know that, I’m sure you can guess how I’ve been.”
I could, as a matter of fact, but a stubborn part of me wanted to hear him say it. “Just talk to me, St George. You don’t have anyone else to talk to right now, and for the next few minutes, you’re required to talk to me. Just do it. Tell me how you’ve been.”
“Fine. You want to know?” His eyes flicked up to mine for a second and then away again. “I’ll tell you. My mother died. My mother killed two people, and then herself. My father is… hell, I don’t even know, Darling. He mostly hasn’t said a word to me all week, except to tell me that no, I can’t go to London where therearepeople I can actually talk to. My throat hurts from not talking.”
“He was probably afraid you’d go to London and make a spectacle of yourself and end up on the cover of The Daily Yell again,” I told him, “which wouldn’t look good when your mother hasn’t been buried yet.”
“Don’t you think I know that, Darling? I know exactly what he’s afraid of. But I’ve been going crazy here by myself.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry, St George. You could have contacted us, you know. We would have taken you in.”
The look he gave me this time was sardonic. “You, take me in? No, you wouldn’t have, Darling. You hate me. Besides, your flat is in London. Father wouldn’t have let me go there.”
That was a valid point. Everything he’d said was valid, actually. Except for the bit about me hating him. I didn’t. Disliked him, certainly. Abhorred him, sometimes. Wanted to argue him into submission, always. Although at the moment I couldn’t dredge up much of any of that, except pity, and anger that he’d had to go through this all alone.
“Aunt Roz, then,” I said. “You could have taken the Hispano-Suiza and driven to Beckwith Place in less than an hour. Aunt Roz would have taken you in, and taken care of you.”
He glanced across the table, and his eyes stayed on Aunt Roz for a moment. She was seated next to Uncle Herbert, and was smiling at him, tapping his nose with a finger. She looked happy, and loving, and kind, everything a mother ought to be, and for a second, the expression on Crispin’s face was one of pure longing.
Until he wiped it away, or had it wiped for him, when Johanna turned to him with a dazzling smile. “Lord St George.”
“Miss de Vos.” I couldn’t see the expression on his face any longer, as he’d had to turn away from me to respond to her. That was probably the point. She didn’t want him talking to another woman while she was sitting next to him, even if etiquette dictated that he was supposed to.
I rolled my eyes. On the other side of the table, Christopher smirked, Francis grinned, and Constance looked uncomfortable.
“Johanna,” she said softly, carefully, as if she thought there was any chance at all that Johanna didn’t know exactly what she was doing, “Gilbert is your conversational partner for this course. Not Lord St George.”
She accompanied the admonition with a glance at her mother, as if afraid Lady Peckham would notice Johanna’sfaux pasand take her to task over it. As if she were trying to save Johanna from being chastised by Lady P, in other words. And then she completed the performance by looking apologetically at Crispin, seemingly embarrassed at the breach of etiquette by her mother’s ward.
I smothered the urge to laugh out loud. It was beautifully done. With one carefully worded statement, Constance had made Johanna look like she either didn’t know proper etiquette or simply chose to flout it, which you really don’t want to do in front of a duke and a viscount, especially not when you hope to entice one or the other into marriage. She had managed to make Johanna look bad, in other words, and I wanted to applaud.
It wasn’t quite so funny when Johanna leveled a look across the table at Constance that could have blown her hair back. But by then Crispin had turned back to me, and Francis was looking at her with admiration, and it seemed as if Constance was able to ignore Johanna’s murderous expression just fine.
Five
The funerals tookplace the next day, and the less said about them, the better. Johanna looked divine in black, of course. Constance looked frumpy, and I decided to lay that at Johanna’s door, too. Uncle Harold looked dignified, pale but composed, while Crispin fidgeted through the entirety of his grandfather’s funeral, like a little boy who’d rather be anywhere else. By the time Aunt Charlotte’s coffin was lowered into the ground, however, he was practically catatonic, so he had most likely indulged in something calming at some point, to make it through the ordeal. I couldn’t even blame him. It’s difficult to lose your mother under any circumstances, and these were particularly heinous.
Johanna didn’t seem to notice his condition, so she was either stupid or, more likely, simply oblivious to the fact that he was both high as a kite and grieving.
Or perhaps she simply didn’t care. I had the very distinct impression, which I had also communicated to St George (and to anyone else who would listen), that she was much more interested in his title and fortune than in his person.
Francis seemed mostly sober, calm but not unnaturally so, and he stayed close to Constance the entire day. Uncle Herbert remained with Uncle Harold, as did Lady Peckham, and Christopher and Aunt Roz never strayed too far from Crispin. I didn’t think my help in propping up St George would be welcomed, by him or by Johanna, so I kept to myself, and occasionally to Francis and Constance. And so we made it through the day and into bed for the second night.
The next morning after breakfast we all packed our bags and prepared to decamp for Dorset and the Dower House. By then it was Friday, just the right time for the beginning of a weekend party, and Lady Peckham announced that she was staying at Sutherland Hall through Sunday, to “support poor Harold in his time of grief.”
I wasn’t the only one arching my brows at that. Aunt Roz was doing the same thing on the other side of the table in the breakfast room, and Christopher looked like he was having a difficult time keeping a straight face.
“Here I thought she was siccing Johanna on Uncle Harold,” I whispered to him, “and all along she was planning to catch him for herself?”
Christopher nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. “Looks like she’s planning a double score. She gets Uncle Harold and Johanna gets Crispin.”
Or even a triple. Constance got Francis, except he wasn’t as much of a prize, without any title of his own.
Before I could say anything about it, however, Christopher had gone on. “I’m surprised she didn’t throw Gilbert Peckham at you, honestly.”
