Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [20]
“I fear she had worse in train.” I glanced at the travelling clock on Isobel's mantel; it was close to the dinner hour of five in the afternoon, and the December dark had already fallen. “We shall not find her in the neighbourhood by this time.”
“But, Jane, what can have caused Marguerite to charge me with such cruel deceit?” Isobel's warm brown eyes filled with tears. “I, the murderess of my husband! It is impossible!”
“She does not lay the blame upon you alone, my dear,” I said slowly. “There is another to whom she refers.”
“The tall lord,” Isobel said, faltering. “It must be Trowbridge she speaks of.”
“To what purpose?”
“To what purpose is any of it?”
“She cannot have been thrown very much in his way,” I said reasonably.
“Indeed, she has not.”
“Then, my dear, we must consider her as indicating another.” My tone was brisk, but I awaited the effect of my impertinence with some trepidation.
There was an instant's silence as Isobel sought my meaning. Then she raised her eyes to mine with perfect composure. “Fitzroy Payne?” she said.
“I think it very likely. He is more of the household, and thus more likely to have encountered the maid.”
“You may have the right of it.” The Countess's fingers worked at the fine lace of her dressing gown, as though by sorting its threads she might untangle this puzzle. “It is like Marguerite to add the small aside of Fitzroy having ‘looked through her.’ I more than once observed her make the gesture against the evil eye when his gaze chanced to fall upon her; she mistrusted grey hair in one as yet young, and avowed that it was the Devil's mark.”
“Was the maid so susceptible to fancy then, Isobel?”
“Marguerite was ever a superstitious, foolish child, the result of her island upbringing.” My friend's eyes met mine, and her gaze was troubled. “I suppose the violence of my husband's last illness has given her some misapprehension, which, with time, has become a terrible conviction of evil.”
“Undoubtedly the case,” I said gently, “but the result may be no less injurious to your reputation and well-being, Isobel. The maid threatens to inform one Sir William. And who is he, pray?”
“Sir William Reynolds,” Isobel said. “The magistrate.”6
“Not Sir William Reynolds, formerly of the King's Bench?”
Isobel shrugged and looked bewildered. “I cannot undertake to say, Jane. The man is a stranger to me. Have you known such a gentleman?”
“Indeed, and all my life,” I declared with eagerness. “The barrister I would mention is a dear friend of my father's—the acquaintance having been formed while both were yet unmarried, and but novices in their respective professions. Though the name is so very common, my Sir William and yours may be strangers to one another. Has he been resident very long in the neighbourhood?”
Isobel frowned in thought. “I do not believe that he has. His current office, indeed, is of only recent conference. Frederick—my late husband—was Lord Lieutenant of the County,7 and appointed Sir William to the post a twelve-month ago. But, Jane, if the justice is so very well known to you, is it possible that he might be moved to consideration on my behalf?”
“Were I an utter unknown to Sir William, I should still look to him for consolation in time of trouble,” I replied without hesitation, “for any who seek justice may be sure to find it at his hands.”
“What would you have me do, Jane?” the Countess asked simply.
“We cannot stop the maid from sending a note as poisonous as this to the magistrate, and so I would advise that we anticipate her actions, and call Sir William to us without delay. It is within his province to halt such evil rumour before it may do further harm—or to investigate the case for just cause, if any there might be.”
“Jane! Can you think it?”
“Of you, my dear, never.” I folded the maid's note and offered it to her. “But of others? Anything may be possible in this world, where the fortunes of men are at stake; and the Earl's fortune, you will own, was considerable.”
“But only Fitzroy Payne may benefit by it,” she argued, crumpling the betraying