Page 2 of Lies in Little Sutherland
“Because she vanished,” I said.“Just up and left one morning in April with no word to anyone.”
The same morning we discovered that Aunt Charlotte had killed herself, in fact.I had always suspected that there was a connection.Lydia Morrison had been Aunt Charlotte’s maid many years ago, and she had received a telephone call on the evening before her departure.We didn’t know whether that call had originated here at Sutherland Hall, of course, but it was possible, and perhaps even likely.
And also, there was the matter of Margaret Hughes.Twenty-three years ago, when Morrison went to work for Lady Peckham, a different maid had come to Sutherland Hall in her place.And Hughes was now dead, clobbered in an alley in Bristol three months ago.There were good reasons why I wanted to assure myself of Morrison’s continued health and wellbeing.
“And you’re incurably nosy,” Christopher said from next to me.He was curled up like a kitten, with his feet on the cushions and his head on my shoulder.
His mother gave him an indulgent look—he’s her youngest, and she lost Robbie much too soon—but she did, nonetheless, tell him, “Sit up, Kit.Your uncle won’t appreciate you putting your feet on the furniture.”
Christopher pouted, but he did swing his feet off the cushions and back onto the floor.He still slumped against me like an empty evening cloak, however.“Is that better?”
“Marginally,” his mother allowed.“What’s the matter?You can’t have overindulged already.”
“The floor is cold.The fire’s hot.I’m sleepy.”
I was, too, now that he mentioned it.The muted light and patter of raindrops and murmur of voices were all soporific.I could barely keep my mind on the conversation.
“I prefer the word curious,” I told Christopher.“Or inquisitive, if you will.But not nosy.”
“Of course you do, Darling,” a voice behind me drawled.After a second, it added a strangled, “Philippa,” and I assumed that Lady Laetitia must have elbowed her intended in the ribs as a reminder that he’s not allowed to call me Darling anymore.
I grew up as Philippa Marie Schatz in Heidelberg, and then my last name was anglicized to Darling when I landed in Southampton at the beginning of the Great War.1914 wasn’t an opportune time to wander about England with a German-sounding surname.
(I’ve only recently come to learn that Schatz wasn’t actually my father’s surname, either, but that’s irrelevant to the current issue.)
My arrival in England was more than a decade ago now.Crispin has called me Darling for years, ever since he came down from Eton at eighteen, or certainly since he came down from Cambridge at twenty-one.It has been difficult for both of us to get used to the new rule, not least because I resent it.That was why I tilted my head back and smirked up at him.“I do, Crispin.”
Next to me, Christopher made a choking sound, while next to Crispin, Laetitia’s face congealed.
The truth is that I would much prefer to call him by his title.In private—by which I mean, when Laetitia isn’t present—that’s what we do: he calls me Darling and I call him St George.It’s the way it has been for years, and we’re both comfortable with it.But if she insists on him addressing me by my first name, then she’ll have to put up with me returning the favor.And if I roll the syllables around on my tongue a bit excessively before I spit them out, then so be it.
As for the significance of the, “I do”—
Well, it ought to be obvious.The girl that Crispin fancies himself in love with?The one he’s certain would take his declaration of love and trample it underfoot?
She’s me.Or I’m she.And I don’t blame him for being reluctant.We’ve spent twelve years being deliberately cruel to one another.It’s no wonder if he’d expect more of the same.But I’ve had some time to come to terms with the idea, since Christopher spilled the beans a month or so ago, and while I would, at one point, have laughed myself sick had my childhood nemesis come to me with pretty words and puppy-dog eyes, the truth is that I like him well enough by now that I would at least endeavor to turn him down without being vicious.It’s not his fault that he feels the way he does, poor sap.
Of course it’s all moot anyway, seeing as he’s engaged to Laetitia and not in a position to declare an attachment to anyone else.And perhaps I haven’t quite gotten over my desire to watch him squirm, because I rarely let a chance go by to twist the (metaphorical) knife whenever fate presents me with such an opportunity.The “I do,” was supposed to remind him that in a month’s time, he’d be facing a woman in front of the altar at St George’s, Hanover Square, and she wouldn’t be me.
Now I watched his lips part involuntarily, almost as if the blow had been physical.It took a second, and then his lips firmed and his eyes cooled.“Touché, Darling.”
“Philippa,” I reminded him, and flapped my hand.“Have a seat, St George.We’re discussing motoring up to the Cotswolds tomorrow.”
“Is that what we’re doing?”Constance wanted to know as Crispin and Laetitia made their way over to a chair on the other side of the low table.He helped her down into it before perching elegantly on the arm beside her.
I nodded.“I am, at any rate.You don’t have to come.Although I think someone ought, don’t you?I’m certain Shreve didn’t ask any of the questions I would have asked.”
“What questions are they?”Lady Euphemia wanted to know, but just then Christopher said, “I’m in,” and I pretended I hadn’t heard her in favor of him.
“Thank you, Christopher.”
“If you two are going,” Francis said, looking from Christopher to me and back, “I’m going, too.I don’t trust either of you not to crash the Crossley.”
“What about St George?”He’d had more experience behind the wheel than all of us combined.
“You must be joking,” Francis said.“He has destroyed more motorcars than the rest of us put together.”
“One,” Crispin grumbled.“I have destroyed one motorcar.And only because I was drunk at the time.”
