Chapter 11

“My housekeeper is unwell,” Tait said, welcoming me personally into his abode. “Some intestinal matter, or so I’m to believe. One doesn’t inquire too closely when the ladies are indisposed.” His signature smile was nowhere in evidence, and grooves bracketed his mouth.

“Is anybody else in the household ill?” I harbored an intense, personal aversion to dysentery, which had carried off a good number of Wellington’s soldiers.

“No other casualties, thank heavens. Will the library do, my lord? The formal parlor is being aired, and the informal parlor is very informal at the moment. Harvest keeps us all busy, and domestic standards suffer accordingly.”

“I enjoy libraries. They can say a lot about an entire household.”

Tait showed me to a largish room with French doors that opened onto the back terrace. Afternoon sunshine slanted onto a carpet only slightly worn. The hearths were swept, though the andirons could have used a blacking, and the sconces were polished. The chairs were comfortably cushioned, albeit no longer in the first blush of youth, and the books were rather fewer than I expected a library to have.

Was I seeing evidence of financial hardship, or merely life at a busy, venerable country manor?

“Evelyn had most of the books put into storage,” Tait said, glancing around at half-empty shelves. “She said the collection was largely tripe, and she was gradually creating a worthwhile selection. She was right too. My mother bought boxes of books at estate sales. Didn’t want the village folk to think us unlettered.”

“Evelyn enjoyed books?” I noted Mr. Scott’s verses, Mrs. Radcliffe, Mrs. Burney, Mr. Swift, and myriad others both witty and entertaining. Mr. Wordsworth had earned his place, as had Restoration playwrights, the Bard, and Mr. Burns. Moliere was represented, and I was surprised to see a fair amount of classical literature in both Latin and Greek.

“Evelyn enjoyed books very much. Should have been one of those lady authors who pokes fun at polite society while pretending to set store by decorum and gentility. She started writing a novel, in fact, right after we were married, and I was amazed that she had the…” Tait fell silent, glanced around at the half-empty shelves, and linked his hands behind his back. “This ancient history is neither here nor there, my lord. I apologize for maundering on. Do have a seat. Shall I ring for a tray?”

Tait’s manner was different somehow. Perhaps harvest was taking a toll on his energies, but his attitude was also less cocky, to use one of Lady Ophelia’s words.

“I haven’t had luncheon,” I said. “A cup of tea would be appreciated.” True to Arthur’s prediction, morning’s cerulean skies had given way to a few wispy clouds from the west. I wanted to conclude my business and get home, lest those clouds join together and make a sopping-wet fool of me later in the afternoon.

Tait tugged the bell-pull twice and led me to a pair of wing chairs before an empty hearth. “You’ve been to London.”

I’d sent him an epistle sketching only plans—a call on Ardath Deloitte, a call on Lina Hanscomb.

“I’ve been to London, and if Margery Semple has her way, I will wear out my saddle traveling back and forth to Town while learning nothing of Evelyn’s whereabouts. I did, though, talk with some shopkeepers on Ludgate Hill.”

I acquainted Tait with the fact that the jewelry hoard had gradually been liquidated over the past few years, the last of it being sold only recently.

“This finding,” Tait said, tapping a finger against the arm of his chair, “weighs against the notion that Evvie has taken up a bigamous union with a dashing sea captain.”

An interesting conclusion to draw from the evidence. “This finding weighs against Evelyn having died.” Sea captains, dashing or otherwise, could be impecunious, gone for years on end, or poor managers of their wealth. “It’s possible somebody stole her jewels and has gradually been turning them to cash, saving her favorite piece for last by coincidence, but not likely.”

Tait rose and paced before the empty hearth. The landscape holding pride of place above the mantel was an idealized, or perhaps historical, rendition of Tait’s manor house, a pair of matched chestnuts in harness to a curricle racing up the drive. The season was summer, given the blooms rioting about the fountain, and the manor was flanked by stately oaks twice the size of the specimens I’d seen.

The mantel itself was bare, save for three… ah, Evelyn’s diaries were stacked on one end. Tait hadn’t returned them to the mausoleum upstairs.

“I’ve been reading them,” he said, following my gaze. “Truly reading them. Evvie was an excellent writer, and she spared nobody’s blushes in those pages. I tell myself I’ll read just one more month, but the candles gutter, and I realize… I’m sorry, my lord. I want to hear what you have to say, but I am a bit fatigued. The mind wanders.” Tait sank back into his chair, and further conversation was suspended by the arrival of the tea tray.

Either Tait or his kitchen had taken pity on me. A plate of ham and cheese tarts was among the offerings, along with sliced apples and every soldier’s fast friend, a stack of shortbread.

“Don’t stand on ceremony,” Tait said. “I haven’t much appetite.” He poured out for us both and left me to fill a plate for myself. “Evelyn was miserable. Her diaries either make that plain to me in a new way, or remind me of matters I’ve worked hard to forget. We were so happy, and then…” He swirled his tea, a stout China black, no skimping or reusing the tea leaves.

“What happened, Tait?” I asked between tarts. “For better than six months, you and Evelyn were in love and doubtless in lust, and then it all curdled. What changed?”

He glanced at the diaries. “I don’t know. Whatever it was, Evelyn didn’t refer to any one incident explicitly, but I fell from grace in some way. Any friendly exchange on my part with another woman became rank infidelity. I realized at some point that Evelyn always had time to listen to the curate’s woes, but never time to stand up with me at the assemblies, and then I started noticing how often she smiled at the curate, and… What a farce. If Evelyn were here now, I’d ask her what the hell happened to us, because I surely do not know.”

I wanted to treat his claim skeptically. Tait had much to answer for under the heading of clodpated husbandly maneuvers. I had to admit, though, that I also sensed genuine bewilderment in his words.

One minute, he’d been a new husband enjoying all the privileges of his station, the next, he was nearing thirty and hoping to be neither cuckold nor widower. The world had shifted on me in similar ways. One minute, I’d been following my brother through the starry night, half on a lark, half fretting that he was up to foolishness. The next minute, French officers had materialized from the ether like demons rising from hell, and my life had never been the same.

“Evelyn’s sisters claim to honestly not know where she is,” I said, by way of moving the conversation forward. “She hasn’t gone far from London, though, I can tell you that.”

“Tell me that how?”

“Because sending any sort of valuables through the mail is to be avoided at all costs. You’ve probably received bank notes sent by halves, packages that were obviously opened, coins wrapped in stockings.”

“I have, and I’ve sent them too. You think Evelyn is biding near Town?”

“She would not bide in Town,” I replied, “because in the parts of London Evelyn could safely frequent, she’d risk being recognized, and she’d run through her coin too quickly. I suspect she’s not far from Town, and somebody loyal to her can make the journey without too much effort.”

Tait made the sort of face inspired by the taste of sour milk. “Margery seldom travels of late. She can’t, what with being the brains behind her husband’s limited mercantile success, the manager of his rented acres, and the mother of his six children. Semple isn’t an idiot, but he’s prone to fits of imagination, and grand plans don’t see the bottom field marled.”

“What of Ardath?”

“Ardath loves Town, loves being the wealthy merchant’s gracious wife, though Deloitte’s business isn’t what it was now that the European markets are open to us again. Ardath never once came to see Evelyn after our marriage, and she hasn’t visited Margery, that I know of, either.”

I finished the last of my tarts and started on the apple slices. “How would you know where Margery Semple goes?”

Tait smiled with a hint of his former self-assurance. “The households were cordial at one point. Margery wouldn’t spare me the time of day now, but Margery’s cook and my cook remain friendly. The Royal Mail hasn’t a patch on the village market day for relaying news.”

True enough. “Evelyn will soon run out of funds, if she hasn’t already. I am coming to think that her sisters have either betrayed her or lost her confidence. I believe them when they say they don’t know where she is. Margery has implied that you are a murderer, and Ardath took the position that you were never good enough for Evelyn.”

Tait winced. “Ardie said that?”

“She said you’d probably run through all of Evelyn’s money, and you needed to remarry to repair your fortunes.”

“She has learned to be nasty, then. A pity, but marriage to Deloitte hasn’t been quite the featherbed she expected. He inherited some grand properties, but they’re the kind that require cash and an army of servants to be kept presentable. Evvie tried to warn her, but Ardath saw a lot of gilded mirrors, pink marble, and exotic hardwoods. Deloitte looked the part, and he was offering to lay it all at her feet.”

This was not the recitation of a self-absorbed bumpkin. “You and Evelyn discussed this?”

“When we weren’t arguing or locked into a fuming silence, we were utterly compatible, my lord. Evelyn was no beauty, but she had beautiful endowments of common sense, humor, industry, and pragmatism. Also a formidable temper.”

That last part seemed to amuse him. “You were fond of her.”

“I was… head over ears isn’t quite fair, but she made quite the impression on me. By the time I proposed, I realized I wasn’t God’s gift to Mayfair’s heiresses, and I was surprised that Evvie hadn’t any other offers. She was generously dowered, a talented manager, not too high in the instep… I counted myself fortunate to have won her hand.”

“How generously was she dowered?”

Tait named a lump sum, to be invested in the cent-per-cents as the bride’s portion of the dower funds, plus an annuity from some great-auntie that Tait dutifully added to the dower funds year by year, and the income from a tenant property Evelyn’s papa had been able to free from the entail.

“She gets the property outright when she turns eight-and-twenty,” Tait said, “and she was looking forward to that. Said my husbandry of the land needed modernizing, and she’d show me how to go about it.”

“What happens if Evelyn doesn’t survive to turn eight-and-twenty?” A hazy sort of dread was taking up residence in my guts. The sort of dread I associated with large numbers of armed French soldiers in much closer proximity to British forces than they were supposed to be.

Tait helped himself to a piece of shortbread. “If Evelyn dies without issue, the funds are distributed between me and her sisters, and the property is sold with the proceeds divided likewise. My family contributed to the dower funds handsomely, so a quarter of the total coming back to me isn’t unreasonable. Why?”

I hesitated to share my theories, and a week ago, I would not have. Tait wasn’t the same man he’d been a week ago, though. Whether reading Evelyn’s diaries had affected him, or harvest-time fatigue dogged him, or the reality of Evelyn’s possible death had reached him, he was a more worthy individual.

Sadder and wiser, perhaps.

“Who benefits, Tait? If Evelyn dies, who benefits?”

“I do, along with her sisters. I don’t need her money, while Semple and Deloitte well might.”

Or, more worrisomely, her sisters might and probably did. “How old is Evelyn?”

“She turns eight-and-twenty next month,” Tait said. “Seems impossible that I’ve known her for a decade, and yet, she has become a stranger.”

“Then she is soon to inherit that tenant property, and should she expire, her sisters stand to inherit a very pretty penny.”

Tait stared at me. “Are you saying they’ve done away with her?”

“I’m saying they have a motive to do away with her. So do you, but I wasn’t aware that both Mrs. Semple and Mrs. Deloitte might be in need of funds. Now I am.”

I wanted to reread the diaries. I’d skimmed them previously, looking for names of people or places that might shed light on Evelyn’s options. I sought to look for motives now and potential enemies rather than friends.

“Evelyn’s sisters loved her,” Tait said, rising. “Love her, rather. They bickered and spatted and complained about each other, but theirs was a loving family.”

I stood as well. “People change, Tait. The Ardath you knew has become bitter and spiteful. Margery Semple is trying to raise six children and play the wife of a prosperous merchant on insufficient means. Evelyn loved you madly. You loved her too. You aren’t that man anymore, and who’s to say what Evelyn’s sisters have become in the past ten years?”

“They aren’t murderesses.” He sounded uncertain of his own conclusion.

“I hope they are not, but the sooner I find your wife, the happier I will be. When you finish with the diaries, I’d like to read them again.”

“You can take them now, my lord.”

“When you finish with them will be sufficient, Tait. I suspect Evelyn left them behind for reasons, and you will glean more from them than I will.” He’d put off truly reading them for five years, and now that he’d plucked up the courage to embark on the task, I wanted him to see it through.

“I glean a lot of heartache and a lot of grief in those pages.”

“But that is not the whole story.”

I bade him farewell before he could ask me what my next steps were. I’d confer with Lady Ophelia, chase down Jasper Thick of let’s-go-for-an-ice fame if necessary, and then… what? I was haunted by the sense of missing something obvious—in the diaries or about the diaries, perhaps—but I was damned if I knew what. The library books, chosen for both edification and entertainment, were another clue I could not decipher.

I climbed back into the saddle, my head full of thoughts and forebodings. By the time I was once again on Caldicott property and riding around the village green, I’d formed a new theory of the situation.

Perhaps Evelyn had relied on her sisters to facilitate her escape from a frustrating marriage, but then her sisters had demanded coin in exchange for silence regarding her whereabouts. Evelyn, having very little coin left, had once again decamped, and this time even her sisters knew not where she dwelled.

That scenario fit the personalities as I’d encountered them, absolved all concerned of murder, and explained what information I had.

I could spin theories all day, though, and still not know where on earth Evelyn Tait, with her dwindling funds, might be biding. I was pondering that conundrum when I spotted Mrs. Ingersoll coming out of the chandler’s shop. She hadn’t seen me, which was fortunate, because my plans now included ambushing one unsuspecting widow.

* * *

“Mrs. Ingersoll, good day. Might I be of service as your porter?”

“My lord.” She nodded and kept walking rather than stop and curtsey, and I fell in step beside her. “Greetings.” She passed over her package and a woven basket of sundries. “If you will forgive a brisk pace, I’m on my way to the vicarage to retrieve Merri. Errands go more peacefully when she’s otherwise occupied, but I don’t want to impose on Mrs. Vicar’s patience unnecessarily.”

The parcel smelled of tallow rather than beeswax. The sundries included three skeins of blue yarn, an orange, a child’s slate, a small box of chalk, and a potted plant that gave off the aroma of basil. I added the candles to the plunder in her bag and marched along smartly.

Even for a woman with some height, Mrs. Ingersoll covered ground quickly.

“You could leave Merri with us up at the Hall for an afternoon. Young Leander is desperate for company his own age. Send a note, and we’ll dispatch a maid to fetch her, or I will come myself.”

Her pace slowed as we crossed the green. “Kind of you. Lady Ophelia did invite Merri to come play with Leander, but Merri had been cross with me just then, and I wasn’t in the mood to bestow a special outing on her. I should have leaped at the invitation, I know.”

She should have. For a widow new to the area to be given not only a seat at the duke’s Sunday supper table, but also a chance to ingratiate herself further with the household… Though I well understood the folly of rewarding naughty behavior.

“We’ll send another invitation on another day, and perhaps Merri will be better behaved. Did she ever know her father?” A personal question, but within the bounds of village nosiness.

“No.”

“It must be hard when a child has only one parent and that parent has only one child. One would be protective of the other, of course, and devoted, but resentment might come into it too.”

“Well, yes, but more to the point, Merri is lonely, and thus I have castigated myself for denying her an excursion to the Hall. I do want my child to be happy.”

It is not good that the man should be alone… What of the woman?The children and the elders?

I seized village nosiness by the horns and posed another question. “Did I mistake the situation, or was John Tait acting a trifle lonely at Sunday supper?”

She smiled somewhat grimly. “Mr. Tait is lonely and troubled. I understand better now why that’s the case. I’d mistaken him for a bachelor, you see.”

All of my newfound compassion for Tait went straight into the nearest horse trough. “Did he misrepresent his circumstances the better to toy with your affections?” If so, I’d plant the man a facer, at least.

Mrs. Ingersoll laughed, a hearty boom of merriment at odds with her tidy dress and prim manner. A maid scrubbing the steps of the posting inn smiled at the sound, and a horse dozing at the smithy’s hitching rail lifted its head abruptly.

“Toy with my affections? Not that, my lord. Never that. One marriage was enough for me. I understand Mr. Tait has set you to searching for his missing wife. Best of luck, but I told Mr. Tait that on no account should he look for the lady in hopes of a more permanent relationship with myself. I wish the missing Mrs. Tait a long and happy life wherever she is.”

We crossed the lane circling the green and approached the gate to the vicarage. “Tait might not have meant to deceive you. All and sundry in the area know of his missing wife, and he likely assumed you’d been told.”

“Give him the benefit of the doubt if you must, my lord.”

“He might well be a widower. Even he doesn’t know what’s become of his missus.”

“That is doubtless a hardship.”

A hardship, and yet, Tait had nonetheless let himself flirt—at the very least—with Mrs. Ingersoll before he’d mentioned his errant wife.

“Please assure me he did not trifle with you.”

She stopped at the gate. “Why interest yourself in such a tawdry topic?”

“What two people choose to do when private isn’t tawdry, madam, if both consent on equal footing. If Tait lied to you and took that degree of advantage, he deserves a serious thrashing.”

Her smile was mischievous. “I agree, but though I allowed Mr. Tait a few discreet liberties—he’s a fine kisser, should anybody ask—he did not transgress quite as far as you suggest. People speculate about widows, and I’m prepared for that, but they also speculate about Merri. Is she legitimate? Does she look like her father? I have no patience with such questions aimed at a child, and I would not risk bringing an illegitimate baby into the world for all the kisses and flattery in England.”

“Of course not.” She reached for the woven basket I’d been carrying, but I kept hold of it. “Where shall I leave it?”

She looked me up and down. “On the porch of the MacDavies’ cottage. I’ve let the property through the end of the year.”

A humble abode owned by the blacksmith. “I bid you good afternoon, Mrs. Ingersoll. Is there any particular day of the week when having Merri visit at the Hall would be more convenient?”

“Market day is Wednesday. A market day to myself would be… I’d much appreciate it.”

“We’ll send the pony trap for Merri before noon on Wednesday, or the closed carriage if the weather is inclement. Leander will be in transports to know he’s to have a playmate.”

Mrs. Ingersoll put a hand on the latch. “He’s an only child?”

“He is.” As far as I knew.

“They face special challenges, as you’ve noted. I meant what I said, my lord, about searching for Mrs. Tait. I have no interest in seeing her peace disturbed. Not on my account. Find her for Mr. Tait if you must, but he’s not to use affection for me as justification for setting you on her trail.”

Even the self-possessed Mrs. Ingersoll was not in a position to dictate motives to grown men.

“Tait has suffered, Mrs. Ingersoll. He has been snickered at behind his back for years, accused of murder by his wife’s family, and left to marinate in guilt and loneliness that eclipse what even the most dunderheaded husband deserves. He came to marriage young, with no father or uncle to guide him around the most tempting obstacles. His wife, by all accounts, could be a difficult woman, and yet, he has managed her portion and his acres conscientiously for the duration. Perhaps he set me to find his wife not because he’s smitten with your charms, abundant though they doubtless are, but because he has reached the limit of what he can bear.”

Or—most likely—a combination of the two.

“You defend him?” She was puzzled rather than angry. “You plead that it’s impossible to be both in love and sensible?”

Her phrasing had a familiar ring. “Is that a quote?”

“More like an eternal verity, my lord, at least where certain men are concerned.”

She was determined on her pique, and I was determined to give her another perspective to consider. “Tait allows nothing in Evelyn’s rooms to be touched. He counted himself well favored to have won her hand. He blames himself for her departure and describes a union that in its early days was blissful. I do not presume to understand marriage as an institution, much less the Taits’ version of it, but I can comprehend why John Tait yearns—and deserves—to find out what happened to his wife.”

I expected a curtsey and a brisk farewell. My outburst had surprised even me, though I’d spoken the truth. Tait was going a bit mad, flirting with widows, haunting Evelyn’s rooms, avoiding her diaries for years, then reading them obsessively.

“And what if his wife doesn’t want to be found, my lord? Even you admit John Tait was no paragon as a husband.”

“Should the lady make that clear to me, then I will inform her that Tait is willing to pursue an annulment. The absence of children and the lengthy separation weigh in favor of such a petition, and little scandal would attach to either party after all this time.”

I was doing an execrable job of protecting Tait’s privacy in this discussion, though given that my lapse was mostly a defense of Tait, I forgave myself for the error.

“Mama! Mama, you’re back!” A small girl burst forth from the vicarage, pelted down the steps, and climbed over the gate to fling herself into her mother’s arms. “Mrs. Vicar said you wouldn’t be long, but you were ever so long. Who’s he?”

A pugnacious question, and I was reminded that Merri was an only child. She would guard her mama’s affections jealously and fear any dilution of Mama’s loyalty.

“Lord Julian Caldicott, at your service, Miss Ingersoll.” I seized a little hand and bowed over it. “Your mother was kind enough to join us for Sunday supper, and I have issued an invitation for you to call at the Hall as well.”

Mrs. Ingersoll set her daughter on her feet, and the child grabbed her mother’s hand.

“We’re to pay a call, Mama? What’s the Hall?”

“His lordship dwells there, and yes, we are apparently to enjoy its hospitality. I’ll explain when we’re home.”

A look passed between mother and child that spoke of manners, lectures, and some topics, no matter how exciting or fascinating, being for private discussion only. That a four-year-old could decipher such maternal code impressed me.

Mrs. Vicar bustled out of the vicarage, and before she could inveigle me into taking tea with the ladies, I made my escape, pleading a desire to avoid the gathering clouds. Before I could retrieve Atlas from the livery, I had to deliver the shopping basket I’d carried for Mrs. Ingersoll.

I behaved myself, more or less, leaving the goods on the covered porch right near the door. I did, though, peek through the curtains to see a sitting room of very modest appointments. A braided oval rug covered less than half the floor. A whitewashed stone chimney looked to be open on both sides, possibly serving both the parlor and kitchen area behind it. Steps led up to what was likely a mere sleeping loft.

The lone chair in the parlor was a rocking chair, and what looked like a cedar chest sat beside it. The mantel was a rough-hewn beam, with a spill jar at one end and a mug of drooping Michaelmas daisies at the other. The only other appointment was a disreputable hassock, though I did note a dozen books on the built-in shelves beside the chimney.

No ongoing war justified my snooping, and I came away feeling ashamed. Either Mrs. Ingersoll was parsimonious by nature, or she was forced to exercise economies of necessity. That single orange among her purchases had likely been the week’s sole indulgence.

If I was to step into Arthur’s shoes in earnest, then the fate of widows in my parish was my concern. I made a note to inquire of Vicar if Mrs. Ingersoll might be aided in some way without injury to the lady’s pride.

She apparently had no family to offer—

Between one step and the next, insight clobbered me. Mrs. Ingersoll might have no family. Merri was an only child. Leander had no siblings that I knew of.

But Evelyn Tait had three sisters. Thus far, I’d wasted my time with Margery and Ardath, neither of whom had so much as mentioned the third—Barbara. Lady Ophelia was aware of this sibling, and the next steps in my investigation became blessedly clear.