Death at Dawn - Caro Peacock [67]
‘Is she the new queen?’ James whispered to me.
‘No. I’m afraid she died.’
Sir Herbert stood staring at the picture. None of us could move before he did. James fidgeted and gripped my hand even more tightly. He probably needed to piss.
‘What did she die of?’
An awkward question. I could hardly explain death in childbirth to the boy, especially in such public circumstances. I began, in a whisper, that she had caught a fever, but a higher voice came from my other side.
‘She was poisoned.’
Henrietta, in that terribly carrying tone of hers, determined to be the centre of attention. There was a moment of shocked silence, then her father’s head swung round, slow and heavy like a bull’s, from the picture to where we were standing. After his violence the night before, I was terrified of what he might say or do to the child. I was scared for myself too, certain that I should be blamed for Henrietta’s lapse both in manners and historical knowledge. The child’s lurid imagination and over-dramatic nature would be no excuse. I forced myself to look Sir Herbert in the eye, determined on dignity at least, and the expression under his black brow so disconcerted me that I fear my mouth gaped open. The man was smiling – a phenomenon I’d never before witnessed. He took a few heavy steps towards us, then, amazingly, bent down until his eyes were level with Henrietta’s, gently tweaked one of her ringlets and put a finger to his lips.
‘Shhh,’ he said to her.
I think everybody there was as amazed as I was, not believing him capable of such a kindly and humorous rebuke. Henrietta was wriggling and simpering, having achieved exactly what she wanted. He touched her hair again, straightened up and said a few more words, equally surprising.
‘It is a pity you are not ten years older.’
They were said in an undertone, and I think I was the only one apart from Henrietta who caught them. Then he turned and walked into the drawing room and we followed him with the children. James had his half-hour with his mother, then we managed to get him back upstairs before he wet his breeches.
That evening, Betty went to her room soon after the children were in bed. I stayed on my own in the schoolroom with the window open and a lamp on the table, preparing notes on the geography of India for next day’s lesson. I was dozing over the tributaries of the Ganges when the door opened quietly and somebody came into the room.
‘Is one of the children awake?’ I said, thinking it must be Betty.
‘I hope not,’ Celia said, coming over to the table.
She was in evening dress, peach-coloured muslin with darker stripes woven in silk, bodice trimmed with cream lace. Her face was pale in the candlelight, eyes scared.
‘You were seen, Elizabeth.’
She took hold of the back of a chair and pivoted from side to side on the ball of one satin-shod foot, in a kind of nervous dance step.
‘By whom?’
‘One of the laundry maids has a sweetheart who works at the livery stables.’
‘Why didn’t you warn me?’
‘Am I supposed to know every servant’s sweetheart? I only heard about it from Fanny when she was doing my hair for dinner.’
‘What did she tell you?’
‘The stable boy was sent up here on some message. He told his laundry maid a tale of a woman appearing out of nowhere and catching a horse that was bolting.’
‘She wasn’t … I mean, how did he know it was me?’
‘He didn’t. Only he described you and what you were wearing and the laundry maid said it sounded a bit like the new governess.’
‘They don’t know for certain, then?’
‘Not yet, no. I was shaking. Fanny must have felt it. Then I had to sit through dinner wondering if Sir Herbert had heard about it yet.’
‘Did he give any sign?’
‘No, but then he may just be waiting for his time to pounce.’
I put down my pencil and found my hand was shaking too.
‘What are we going to do?’ Celia said. ‘I must have the reply to my letter.’
‘Oh, there