Chapter 6

CHAPTER6

Islept better that night than I had slept since Thomas died—or possibly even since my parents had died all those years ago. When I woke, the sun was already streaming through the window, signaling that mid-morning was not far off. I closed my eyes once more, pretending it was firelight that glowed through my eyelids, pretending that someone’s arms were around me, that expert fingers were caressing me and coaxing me to that state of exultation once more.

I should feel guilty, shouldn’t I?

I hadn’t been in a church since my parents died—with the sole exception of Thomas’s funeral—but I did remember the clergyman constantly referencing the Unchaste Woman as the source of most of society’s ills. In our library at home, there had been many tracts in the same vein, as if Thomas wanted to make up for his frequent absences and excesses by at least ensuring I had the right sort of literature around.

But what Mr. Markham had done to me last night hadn’t felt wrong at all. Nothing had felt more right—as if he and he alone were created to touch my body. I decided to ignore the clergyman and the dusty tracts. What did it matter, really? Mr. Markham spoke of a future husband, but surely a smart man like him could see that a husband was unlikely for a girl as poor and unconnected as I was now. No, in all likelihood, I would spend the remainder of my days alone, at the mercy of others, and it wouldn’t matter how pure I’d been.

Knowing that Mrs. Brightmore would judge me for lying in, I decided to make every effort to avoid her today. After dressing and putting up my hair, I settled on a walk to Stokeleigh to post a letter to Solicitor Wickes thanking him for all of his help in securing me a place to stay.

My plan was ruined when I encountered Mrs. Brightmore on the staircase, me with my letter in hand and her with a bucket of steaming water.

“Pardon.”

“Out of my way,” she snapped.

I’d only been here a few days, but I’d never seen her attend to any of the drudgery work herself. “Do you need any help?” I asked tentatively.

“You’d probably just muck everything up,” she said and pushed past me, slopping hot water onto my dress.

I came the rest of the way down the stairs, hot with anger, and was met by Gareth carrying a cord of firewood. He stopped, but behind him I saw a few other servants moving in and out of rooms, carrying rugs to be beaten and mattresses to be aired.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

“I’m perfectly fine,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow, and I realized that my hands were shaking, crumpling my letter in the process. I took a deep breath and relaxed my fingers. “What’s all the bustle for?” I asked him.

“Ah, that.” He shifted the firewood so that he could brush some of the blond hair out of his eyes. “Mr. Markham has invited a party of his acquaintances to come stay a while. Several men and women. Markham Hall hasn’t had visitors since I can remember—Mr. Markham prefers to go off to see his friends—so there is quite a lot of work to be done.”

Visitors? I wondered why and why now, so soon after Violet’s death. And then I felt a sharp pang of disappointment. Despite what Mr. Markham had said about not touching me again, I still wanted to see him and talk to him. I wanted him all to myself. I didn’t want to share his company with a party of his friends.

I knew I was being unreasonable, that I was only the orphaned girl kept out of some distant sense of duty and charity, and that I’d only known him for a few days, but I didn’t care. I would tear this house apart, stone by stone, if it meant we could share another night like last night. And besides, making strained conversation and pretending to laugh at stale observations sounded exhausting. I’d much rather hide in the library…or escape outdoors.

“Are you going into town?” Gareth asked, nodding at my letter.

“Yes,” I said, forcing myself back into the present. “To the post office.”

“Could I escort you? Mrs. Brightmore wants me to requisition more help for the house anyway.”

I agreed, and after he finished with the firewood, we started off together, down the sun-dappled lane to Stokeleigh. Birds sang and animals chittered as we walked; summer felt as if it was poised to explode any second. The more we walked and the farther away from Markham Hall we got, the less my thoughts centered on last night and the more they alighted on more troubling matters.

“Gareth,” I asked after we’d been walking in companionable silence for several minutes. “The cook said something to me yesterday that I’ve been thinking over. She said that the constable had investigated Violet’s death as if it had been a murder. Is that true?”

“She told you that, did she?” Gareth scratched his face. The gesture was oddly endearing, as if he were a young man just growing his first beard. “You shouldn’t listen to old Wispel. She likes nothing more than to tell stories.”

“But is it true? She’d said that the saddle cinches had been cut.”

He rubbed at his face again, clearly uncomfortable. “Her death was investigated,” he admitted. “But they found no cause to suspect Mr. Markham. They ruled it an accident.”

“No cause? Or they didn’t want to accuse a man as powerful as Mr. Markham?”

Gareth stopped, his blue eyes pained in the happy light of the forest lane. “I know she’s your cousin and you feel the need to know the truth. So please believe me when I say, from the bottom of my heart, that no one in the world would ever lift a hand to hurt her.”

“But that’s not entirely true either, is it? Mrs. Wispel said Mr. Markham and Violet fought—violently even.”

He hesitated. “It’s true that they did not get along well after they married. But if you could have seen him while they courted—he was a man entranced. He took me along with him to London—usually he hires someone from whichever city he’s staying in—but I think this time he wasn’t planning on staying long. Just a day or two. And then he met her at a ball. He came back to the hotel that night, vowing to win her hand. And he did. It took months, but he did.”

“How romantic.”

“I suppose. Mr. Markham began bringing me more frequently on those trips and I got to see their courtship firsthand.” He paused again, as if unsure how to phrase his words. “Your cousin was very pretty and very well-liked, but there were rumors . . . ”

I nodded. “That doesn’t shock me. Continue.”

“Rumors that she was more than flirtatious. Carnal rumors.” There was a color to his cheeks now, although his expression wasn’t suggestive of bashful innocence. Growing up with an older brother had taught me what young men liked to joke about, and I could easily picture Gareth listening and sharing those same rumors. The coloring came from guilt, I decided, from indulging in salacious tales surrounding someone who was now dead.

“I’m sure there was nothing to them, of course,” he continued, “but there were some who said she would not be a proper wife. This didn’t bother Mr. Markham at all—he seemed almost excited by her reputation, as if it presented a challenge. And there were many who thought that if any man could bring her to heel, it would be Mr. Markham.”

“So what changed after they married?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. It started slowly at first—not talking during dinner, spending afternoons apart, that sort of thing. All she wanted to do was go back to her old life in London; I think she thought that marriage would be the same as being single, except with more money and with a large house to her name.”

That sounded like Violet. “And what do you think Mr. Markham thought marriage would be like?”

“He had been married before, but only for a month. Who knows what he expected from Mrs. Markham?”

“And then the fights grew worse?”

“Loud. Messy. They’d say things to one another that would make you cringe to hear them. She’d pound her fists against his chest and lob whatever was near at him, and he wouldn’t hit her back, but he’d issue such cruel remarks that he might as well have struck her.” His voice went low and strange. “He didn’t understand her. He didn’t deserve her. She was caged in that house, she was lonely and deprived, and he wanted to keep her isolated and all to himself. And now she’ll never leave Yorkshire.”

His words made the summer air heavy, and we walked the rest of the way in silence. We arrived in Stokeleigh ten minutes later, the small village I had been unable to admire on my ride through a few days ago. Charming and small, its three principal streets were lined with stone cottages and soot-stained shops brightened with colorful signs and windows full of wares; it was a busy, cheerful place, seeming miles away in its bustling energy from the brooding manor house rather than the short distance it was.

Gareth directed me to the post office, touched his cap, and went off to complete his business. Bells tolled from the tiny stone church as I walked into the post office. After paying my penny, I went back outside, meaning to wait for Gareth at the edge of the village, but I was approached straight off by a prim-looking girl who seemed about my age. Her navy poplin, trimmed with lace and set off by a large brooch, spoke of modesty but also of wealth. Her wedding ring glinted in the sun.

“Hello,” she said. She held out her hand. “I’m Mrs. Harold, the rector’s wife.” The emphasis on rector made it clear exactly where she thought her place in the community was—at the very top.

I shook her hand, trying to discreetly search the street for any sign of Gareth. “Ivy Leavold,” I said, warily.

“Oh yes, we know who you are.” At the we, she turned and looked knowingly at three women behind her whom I hadn’t noticed before. They looked as young and stiff and self-assured as Mrs. Harold did. Discomfort prickled at my neck and shoulders; I felt keenly aware of my lack of polish. “You are the new relation who’s come stay at Markham Hall.”

The wheels turned and clicked in my mind, and I realized she was going to pump me for information, search me for all the juicy morsels of news she could carry and then spread them far and wide. I looked around for Gareth again.

“Is it true that you are Violet Markham’s cousin?” she asked.

“Yes.” I supplied nothing further.

“And that you had nowhere to go after your brother died?”

I bit off the irritated remark that pressed against my lips. “Yes,” I said instead.

“And that they had to sell your family’s house to pay off your brother’s debts?”

That stung. Of course, as advertised as the auction had been, it would be easily discoverable knowledge for anyone who wanted to know—but still. The thought of my snug home, nestled so close to the sea cliffs, now lived in by strangers . . .

“Yes,” I finally answered. “Yes, it was sold.”

She gave the others a satisfied look, as if pleased to prove that this piece of information was, in fact, correct. “You poorthing, you must be so grieved. If you ever need someone to talk to, I am here. It is my job, you know, to help tend my husband’s flock.”

“Thank you for your offer,” I said. “It is so very kind.”

“Miss Leavold!”

Gareth. At last.

He hurried over, a sunny smile on his face, and the other women pretended not to notice him, stealing brief glances out from under their eyelashes. He was below them, a servant, and so to be ignored, but his good looks made it all but impossible not to notice him.

“Mrs. Harold,” he greeted. “Having a nice day?”

“Nice enough,” she said, her tone dismissive. But I saw that she noticed him too, although her look was wary rather than flirtatious.

“It was very pleasant to meet you all,” I said, turning away before more invitations could be offered. Gareth touched his hat to the ladies, and then followed me up the street.

His smile faded the farther we got from Stokeleigh. “I would avoid that Mrs. Harold,” he said. “Her husband, the new rector, is quite nice. Very young, very cheerful. But she grew up here, and she’s known to be a gossip. I wouldn’t trust a word she says, no matter how earnest it sounds coming out of her mouth.”

“I gathered that.”

“She’s worse than Wispel even. Her father has made a small fortune in negotiating land rights for the train companies. She seems to think all that money has made her better than everybody else.”

I detected a trace of bitterness. “Have you known her long?” I asked.

“Yes.” He turned his face away. “And we know each other still. A bit.”

We walked in silence the remainder of the way, and I contemplated Mrs. Harold. As the town busybody, she would know all about Violet’s death and investigation, and she wouldn’t hesitate to talk about it. Part of me felt certain that it was foolish to keep asking about Violet—if the law had been satisfied, surely I must be. And Violet and I had hardly been the best of friends.

And Mr. Markham couldn’t be a murderer. The thought of someone so cultured and moneyed resorting to something so barbaric was unthinkable. And yet, there was a darkness in him. Hadn’t I seen it—thrilled at it even—when he had told me all of those things on his library floor?

Perhaps I would be paying Mrs. Harold a visit soon.