A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(49)

* * *



? ? ?

We neglected the sandwiches, but the beef tea and hot whiskies did not go unappreciated. When we had drunk our fill, the party began to break up, with Helen retiring first, followed swiftly by her son and Mertensia. The rest of us filed out a few minutes later, each taking a lit taper from the housekeeper, who stood stationed by the foot of the stairs. Stoker disappeared up the spiral stairs while Tiberius gave me a low bow, his expression thoughtful as he closed his door. I took the opportunity to slip back into the corridor, following the housekeeper’s shadow until she reached the dining room.

“Mrs. Trengrouse?” I called.

She whirled, her face as white as the taper I held aloft. “Miss Speedwell. What can I do for you?”

“I rather wondered if I might do something for you,” I began. “Anything that affects the family must affect the rest of you who live here. And the burden of keeping everything running smoothly falls upon your shoulders.”

“That is true, I suppose,” she told me in a low voice. “I have the devil’s own time keeping the maids from losing their wits. They are silly girls, every last one of them.”

“Naturally they are influenced by such a tragic story.”

“The tragedy is that he fell in love with her at all,” she said suddenly.

I canted my head. “Is it?”

She spread her hands, sturdy, capable hands that were no doubt more accustomed to keys and chatelaines than handkerchiefs and vinaigrettes. “I should not have spoken,” she began.

I put an impulsive hand to her arm, the black bombazine rustling under my touch.

“Were they ill suited, do you think?”

“What difference does it make now?” she returned sadly, her tone one of resignation.

“I thought her relationship with Mr. Malcolm might shed a little light upon why she might have run away. You must admit, it is unusual for a bride to flee her own wedding.”

She hesitated, then beckoned me into the dining room. She poured us each a tiny measure of brandy and handed me a glass. “I think we might be excused a medicinal dose,” she told me. I smothered a grin, wondering how often the allegedly teetotal housekeeper indulged in such a remedy. She tossed off the drink, putting a hand to her mouth when she was finished. I sipped mine and waited for her to speak. She busied herself a moment, locking the brandy away again in the tantalus before turning back. She plunged ahead as if she had made up her mind to speak hard truths and wanted the task done as quickly as possible. “I would never say a word against Miss Rosamund,” she told me sternly. “But she and Mr. Malcolm were as different as chalk and cheese.”

“Some say opposites attract,” I reminded her.

She leveled a glance at me. “I know a thing or two, Miss Speedwell, and I recognize a lady with experience of the world when I see one. Have you ever found that opposites attract?”

“No,” I admitted. Emboldened by her frankness, I pushed further. “In what ways were they not suited?”

Mrs. Trengrouse shook her head. “It is difficult to explain if you haven’t known Miss Rosamund. She was unlike any woman I have ever met.”

“How so?”

“She was a lovely creature, perhaps the loveliest I have ever seen, all dark hair and eyes like sloes. But there was something more, an expression I cannot quite describe. As if she were in on some great joke the rest of us didn’t know. I used to wonder sometimes if she were laughing at us, but I think it was something different. She was a world apart, quiet sometimes, watchful. I never quite knew what she was thinking.”

“That sounds uncomfortable,” I mused.

“Oh, now, miss, don’t take it like that,” she begged. “I’m not saying a word against her. But I wondered sometimes if she were the right one for Mr. Malcolm. She was so very clever, and he and Miss Mertensia, well, they’re simple folk. My little lambs, I called them when they were small. Under nurserymaid I was, when they were small. Their mother was poorly after she had her babes, every one. She would take a dark turn, staring out the windows for months on end, never holding her littles or taking an interest in them. It was left to Nanny and me to care for them.”

“Childbed takes some women that way,” I observed with a shudder. All the more reason never to engage in the practice of reproducing, I decided.

“That it does,” she agreed. “And after Miss Mertensia were born, the mistress never quite recovered. Just black moods and melancholy. So I played with them and sang them songs and made them rhymes and taught them their letters. And in time I moved up in the household. Nanny left to live with her sister on the mainland and I was put in charge of the nursery. When the old master died and the housekeeper gave notice, Mr. Malcolm couldn’t bear to think of having anyone else in charge of things. ‘You know us better than anyone, Trenny,’ he told me. ‘You must take the helm,’ and so I did.” She had changed, her cool propriety giving way to a casual Cornish warmth as her accent broadened and her choice of words became more colloquial.

“They are lucky to have you,” I told her.

She looked pleased. “Very kind of you to say.” Her expression turned a little sly. “I remember your man, his lordship, from a long year back. He first came when he and Mr. Malcolm were schoolboys together. A charmer he was, even then. I could see he would be a handsome gentleman when Mother Nature finished with him.”