I held the bottle out to her and she averted her face, her mouth working furiously. “You were in too much of a hurry after you poisoned the bottle of brandy. You put the lavender and the laudanum in each other’s place. It was careless of you, and worse still to ask me to go to your dispensary. I would never have thought it of you otherwise.”
She raised her chin, staring me down with her great toad’s eyes. “Emma had already done murder twice, once by her own hand and once by another’s. If she died, God himself would call it justice.”
“And Lucy?”
She clutched her handkerchief to her lips. “I have already told you, they are of a kind. Lucy would not harm another, but to save Emma, she would commit every sin and smile as she did it.”
I shook my head, wonderingly. “I cannot quite believe it. How did you lure the footman from his post?”
She waved a hand at me. “I took the sheet from my bed. I burnt two holes for my eyes, and I was a phantom. A childish trick, but effective. I have forgotten more about this Abbey than you will ever know. How simple it was to show myself and let him follow me. It was the work of a moment to leave the brandy at his chair and remove the sheet. I was wearing a black gown. Even if he saw me leaving, I would have been but a shadow to him. I left the sheet in the linen cupboard when I sent Brisbane to the lumber rooms to fetch me a fur.” Her eyes were gleaming now, and it occurred to me that she was rather proud of what she had done.
“It was not your decision,” I told her. “You had no right to mete justice. You realise I must tell Father.”
She scrabbled up against the cushions, her eyes wide with fear. “You dare not! He is grieved enough that a stranger has committed murder in this place. What would it do to him to learn of this? Think of thescandal.It is a different world now than the world of his youth, Julia. The story would make its way round the world, and everyone would know the shame of it. He would never recover from that.”
I itched to slap her, elderly aunt or not. She was still staring fearfully over the edge of her handkerchief, but there was a touch of triumph in her. She had given me the one argument I could not fight.
I slid the bottle back into my pocket. “Very well. For Father, I will keep silent. But mind this—I am keeping this bottle. And if I ever hear that you have harmed anyone, in any fashion, I will produce it.”
I spoke sharply, my voice ringing with conviction, but we both knew the threat was a hollow one. It would be my word against hers if ever I decided to tell my tale.
She gave a dry laugh. “I am old and I am tired, girl. My fangs are well and truly drawn. When I go back to Norfolk, it will be to die, and with me, so dies this story.”
“That it will,” I said. “Go tomorrow. I will not say farewell.”
I left her then and went to my own room. In a very few minutes I was tucked into bed, warm and safe and so tired I thought I could sleep a month. But it was a long time before I slept, and every time I closed my eyes I saw Emma’s face, watching from the shadows.
THE TWENTY-NINTH CHAPTER
Some say that ever ’gainst the season comes Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated This bird of dawning singeth all night long, And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad.
—Hamlet
The days running up to Christmas were busy ones, and I kept myself too occupied to think much. Whenever I found my thoughts lingering on Brisbane or Emma or Henry Ludlow, I ruthlessly wrenched them away, turning instead to hanging mistletoe or poking cloves into oranges to make pomanders. I went for long walks in the gardens and attempted to train Florence to sit nicely. And I said goodbyes; some of them rose more easily to my lips than others. Aunt Dorcas left us the day after her return from the Gypsy camp, and in spite of my parting words to her the previous night, I did my duty and stood with my family to bid her farewell. She passed down the line of assorted relations, pausing when she reached me. She flicked me a cool glance, which I returned. Then she nodded, almost imperceptibly, proffering me a crumb of respect. I did not move, and she passed on. I was not sorry to see her go.
The following day, Plum and Alessandro, both of them nursing bruised hearts—and pride—took their leave as well. I regretted their leaving, but I was relieved, I realised with a guilty little pang. Alessandro had been a charming companion in Italy, but I had been mad to think even for a moment we might have been more than friends. And Plum was no companion at all at present. He was still sulking over his affairs, and Father had not been kind to him on the subject of Mrs. King, scolding him for taking up with such a creature. They were barely speaking by the time Plum and Alessandro departed, but I knew they would make it up eventually. Marches always did.
Still another parting made me quite nostalgic. My husband Edward’s distant cousin, the nearest neighbour to the Abbey, had been forced to quit the manor house at Greymoor. The snowfall that had locked us in with a murderer had caused the weakened roof of the house to finally collapse. Thankfully none of his family or staff were injured, but the damage was too extensive. It was the perfect excuse for him to tear it down, and when he came to the Abbey to bid his farewells, he was full of building schemes for a property he had in Kent, near his wife’s relations. So the last of the Greys moved out of Sussex, and the house was left to fall to ruin. It would not be long before the village children began to dare each other to run up and touch its sagging doors and peer into its broken windows, I fancied. Ghosts walked abroad at Greymoor, and I shuddered when I wondered if Edward might be one of them.
But the weeks before Christmas were happy ones, too. Aunt Hermia and Portia’s beloved Jane came down from London, as well as a plentiful assortment of my brothers, sisters, spouses, nieces, and nephews. We were a full and merry party, and as the season ripened, I felt myself growing more relaxed. There had been no word from Brisbane, but I had not really expected one. I wore the pendant, as a charm for his safety, I suppose, and went about the business of Christmas. I wrapped presents and strung holly and ivy on the mantelpieces and played endless games of hunt-the-slipper with my nieces and nephews.
Christmas itself was Bedlam. The children were up at cockcrow, tearing into stockings and making a sweet nuisance of themselves. But in spite of the noise and frantic activity, the day was surprisingly pleasant. After breakfast we all bundled up and walked into the village for church. I had dreaded this, fearing that we would be met with stares and hostility. The shadow of murder still hung over our house, however normal we had tried to make things for the children. But I had underestimated either the power of the March name, or the affection with which the villagers regarded us. They were a trifle distant when we arrived, but after Uncle Fly’s eloquent sermon on the subject of brotherly love, we were greeted much more kindly. We chatted politely, and Aunt Hermia even extended invitations to several families to come and take mince pies and wine with us. No one stammered or fled in fright, which I took as rather a heartening sign.
Once back at the Abbey, we feasted on a delectable Christmas lunch and then the children opened presents, a noisy and lengthy affair. Father, who could never bear to see anyone left out, gave each of his grown children a present as well. I presented Puggy with his finished cushion cover, which he received with an indelicate noise deep in his throat. I took that as an expression of gratitude. Florence looked exceedingly pretty in a collar fashioned of Venetian lace, and Grim bobbed his head in thanks for a tin of glacéed fruits from Paris. Then the children sang carols, and when they concluded—to tumultuous applause from their indulgent family—the tea things were brought in and we all gathered around as Father, preening in his garishly striped waistcoat from Violante, read out the Christmas letters from my absent brothers and sisters. There were few dry eyes when he was done, for we were all quite fond of each other and missed one another more than we would admit.
When he was finished, Father wiped his eyes and shooed us all to our rooms to prepare for the party that evening. Naturally it was to be a quieter affair than in years past. He had decided that dancing would be inappropriate, but Lysander had promised to play suitable music for our enjoyment. Everyone hurried to their rooms, the adults to change, the children to an early supper. Only Father remained behind, standing at the darkened window, and as I made to leave, he called me back.
I quirked a brow at him, and he waved toward the door.
“Close that, if you would. I do not mean to keep you long, but I should like to speak to you. Privately.”
I obeyed, and then joined him at the window. It had long since fallen dark, but the landscape was dotted with lights—lanterns and bonfires and torches as folks moved from house to house in merry parties. Father nodded toward a light not far away, just at the edge of a small wood on the other side of the moat.
“There is the Rookery. Can you see it?”
“Of course.” The Rookery was a tiny, quite mad-looking house. The Rookery had passed through several inhabitants since it was built in the eighteenth century. Each had left their mark, adding odd little staircases or pulling down façades and putting up new ones. What remained was a bizarrely charming confection with a pair of reception rooms and a few bedrooms, nothing more.
Father nodded again. “It is a sound little house. It was overgrown with ivy, and a few roof tiles were loose. Nothing that could not be mended. I had Benedick oversee the repairs before the snow fell. It is quite snug now, and perfectly in order, freshly painted, and not a bit of damp.”