Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [37]
Greetings to the most Grayshus Sir,
I am late of the Scargrave house and would tell you of the evil there. I do this not for my own gayne, but for la justice for the poor man layde in the ground. Milord he was murdered by poyson and it was the grey-hared lord as did so, at the wish of my Ladie. For the love of God I have said it. I trust in your goodness and hand.
As Sir William had informed us, the missive was unsigned; and it asked for no payment in return for silence—an unfortunate circumstance, given my assertions of the previous evening.
“The grey-haired lord,” Isobel murmured, pressing a handkerchief embroidered with her monogram to her lips; against the rusty black of her widow's weeds, her skin was so pale as to appear almost translucent. “She might mean either Fitzroy or Trowbridge.”
“So she might.” Sir William's manner was grave and the humour I had been wont to see in his kindly face, banished from his features. “I confess, my lady, that I am puzzled. How do we explain the persistence of this girl, who appears to seek no personal gain?”
A swift look passed between Isobel and myself. The Countess swallowed and dropped her eyes. “I had not understood how much she hates me. Some great wrong I must have done her, Sir William, tho’ all unwittingly; for nothing less than wounded resentment could move her to such malice.”
There was a silence as Sir William considered my friend's wan countenance. I wished, of a sudden, that I had kept my needlework within reach; a lady's canvas may always prove her friend, when anxiety would render idle hands a burden. I clasped my fingers together in my lap in an effort at composure.
“She has been in your service how long, my lady?” the magistrate enquired.
“Marguerite came to me from my aunt Delahoussaye's establishment in the Barbadoes, when I was seventeen and the maid some three years my junior.” Isobel made a hurried calculation. “I would put it at some five years.”
“And your relations were always cordial?”
“Always—or at the least, always before our arrival in England. That is now eighteen months past.”
Sir William began to pace about the room, the better to order his thoughts; but his attitude had the unfortunate aspect of a lawyer before the bar; interrogating a reluctant witness.
“And so Marguerite travelled with you from the Indies?” he prompted.
“Indeed,” Isobel replied, her eyes following his passage across the rug. “I would not embark on such a journey, Sir William, without my maid. She was the sole person of my household I permitted myself to take, the rest being discharged—but for the few who remained in my overseer's employ.”
“And was the maid grateful to be so retained?”
“I assumed so.” Isobel's fingers worried at the fine Swiss lawn of her handkerchief, crumpling it to a wrinkled ball. “How does one know the true feelings of one's servants? I confess her behaviour is so strange to me, I must believe I have never known her.” My friend paused, as if in thought, and then turned her eyes unwillingly to Sir William's careful face. “But when I consider her manner these past few months, I would declare that she seemed unhappy. She missed her native climate, perhaps, in the coldness of England; snow she had never seen, for example, any more than I had myself; but where I found wonder, she found a strangeness to disturb. That it shook her, as being the opposite of all that was natural and familiar, I may fairly declare. She became quite superstitious and seemed to suffer from a condition of nervous excitement, starting at a sound and taking fixed dislike to what could do her no harm.”
“Such as Lord Scargrave, perhaps?” Sir William all but pounced.
“My husband she showed only deference.”
“I meant to indicate the present Lord Scargrave, Viscount Payne that was,” the magistrate said silkily.
Isobel coloured and started, her handkerchief dropping to the floor. “You have put your finger on it, Sir William. She did not like my nephew at all—something I ascribe to his hair greying overly-young. Marguerite