The Gilded Cage Page 11

  “The pursuit has never interested me. I’m a great walker, but I’d much prefer to carry an umbrella through the streets of London than a gun through the woods. Perhaps that sounds odd to a farm girl, but I suppose my upbringing can be blamed for it.”

  Something in the way that he says “farm girl” makes me think that he sees my former life as a point of interest, not a weakness. Mr. Simpson swirls the contents of his teacup as shots resound from the woods beyond.

  “We can speak on the subject of my will,” I say abruptly. “I do wish to have that, at least, under control.”

  He puts down his cup and pulls paper and a writing utensil from his satchel with practiced swiftness. Giving me an encouraging nod, he leans over a page. That stubborn lock of dark hair falls over his brow, but he pays it no heed.

  “I would like to know that Grace and Henry will be provided for until their deaths,” I say. “Beyond that, however…” I think of George at the docks in Bristol, emptying his pockets for the children, and speak from my heart. “I want my estate divided into two parts. One will go toward the founding of an orphanage in London. I want it to be named after my brother, and I want his paintings to find a permanent home there one day. The rest should go to my foster parents. I don’t know what they’ll do with such a sum, but I expect they will find a use for it—I anticipate them having many grandchildren.”

  “How lucky for them to have such a grateful foster child—though I do hope you outlive them by a fair measure. One day in the future, I hope we will sit together to change the terms of this will, to the benefit of your own children.”

  “I cannot imagine that just yet,” I say. “There is so much death around me, new life is hard to contemplate.”

  He looks troubled, drinking the dregs of his tea. “You must miss your foster parents terribly. They sound very kind.”

  “Salt of the earth,” I say, forcing a smile. “Though they had six children of their own, they took George and me in when we were orphaned. Nobody’s life is easy in the country—we all worked hard on their ranch—but it was happy. We were never without love, we never went hungry, and they did not begrudge us anything.”

  “It sounds like you had a good life there.”

  “I did.” I remember his strange response that night in London, when I asked about his family, and decide to try again. “Where does your own family live, Mr. Simpson? I don’t recall whether you were brought up in London.”

  “I was not,” he says lightly. “And I don’t have family to speak of.”

  I’m about to ask more, when the screaming begins.

  CHAPTER 15

  MR. SIMPSON IS ON his feet before I am. “Wait here, Lady Katherine,” he says urgently, striding from the room. I ignore him and follow close on his heels, pressing my hands to my thumping heart. We join the small stream of startled staff, rushing to the house’s front lawn.

  There we find the source of the screaming: Elsie, her head flopped down between her shoulders, flanked on either side by whispering maids. They’re half carrying her limp body back into the house, though they look close to swooning themselves. “It was the Beast, I know it!” one shrills. As they pass me, I hear Elsie whimpering something, broken words coming out of her in a stream. “I thought it was Matt, oh God! I thought it was him, oh thank you God.…”

  I look down at my hands, chilled with a premonition, a touch of second sight: They will soon be covered in blood. My eyes go, unwilling, to the two men laboring up the lawn. Matt and Henry, carrying something between them. The arrogant man with the black mustache walks alongside, twisting his hands together. “There’s been an accident!” he yells, then repeats it twice more. Mr. Dowling is beside him, clapping a comforting arm about his shoulder in an effort to quiet his panic.

  As I continue across the lawn, frightened but unable to stop, all I can see clearly are the men’s broad black backs and bowed heads, but not their cargo. Then one of them stumbles a bit, and I see what I couldn’t before, the thing held sagging between them. John, fighting against their arms. His body is rigid, pitching upward with pain, and his chest dark with blood.

  “What’s happened?” I cry. Mr. Simpson takes my elbow before I can run.

  “Stand back, Katherine. Let them carry him.”

  I slump into him, and he circles his arm about me, his face stony and pale. We follow the group of men toward the house—poor Matt at John’s feet, looking as though he could cry; Henry, cool and terse, supporting his shoulders. Again I see the mark of authority on his brow, the sharp efficiency of his soldiering days. “Not through that door!” he barks. “Carry him around to the servants’ entrance.”

  “Are you mad? You’re wasting time!” I say.

  “Take her into the house, Mr. Simpson,” Henry replies. “Don’t look, Katherine.”

  To Mr. Simpson’s credit, he does not listen. We follow the men into a scullery, where Mr. Dowling moves an aproned cook aside and quickly sweeps the large central table clear of the things set out for baking. John is laid across its floury surface. Several servants and men from the hunt press themselves against the far wall, watching, and Mr. Simpson pulls the curtains back from the windows as far as they’ll go. Henry takes out a pocketknife and begins cutting John’s shirt away from his chest.

  The blood flows free and fast, obscuring the wound. “Katherine, move back,” Henry says. Ignoring him, I grab a pile of clean washcloths from a sideboard. I press them hard into John’s chest, ignoring his watery moan. But when he bares his teeth in pain, they’re glazed in red, and I know that it’s too late.

  His eyes lock on mine, and the snatches of conversation around me fade into background noise, reaching my ears as if through a heavy fog.

  “He was reloading his gun.…”

  “Poor chap, should’ve known better than to hold it that way.…”

  “Don’t speak of it now, not in front of the young lady.…”

  John’s eyes roll white and wild in his head as I lean in toward him. “Just breathe,” I whisper. “Lie quiet.” His eyes are calming now, but I can see, too, that their light is dying away. He raises an arm, I think to touch me, then brings it down to rest at the pocket of his peeled-back coat. I clasp the other, flopping uselessly near his throat. Our noses nearly touch. His lips move again, over blood-slicked teeth, and his eyes pulse with terror and urgency. Silently he mouths something, then gives a weak shudder, and is gone.

  Nobody speaks for a long moment. When I step back, blood is caked on my black dress and smeared over my skin. With horror I remember that my brother had to breathe his last breath alone. I offer up a quick prayer of thanksgiving that I was able to save John from that fate.

  The other men, their faces grave, have moved outside to smoke with shaking hands. Henry leans forward onto balled fists at John’s side, his face turned down toward the table.

  “How did this happen?” asks Mr. Dowling, his voice half-solicitous and half-formal, falling smoothly into his role as magistrate.

  Henry stands upright, running one hand hard across his face. “We were coming up on a covey,” he says dully. “I’d run ahead of him to gain a better position. I fired, I missed, I called back to John for another gun. I heard a shot go off below, but did not immediately turn. I thought perhaps he’d tried for something himself. He said no word, made no sound. When I turned back, he was on the ground.” His voice breaks. “God knows how this could have happened. The boy’s been loading guns as long as he’s been riding horses.”

  Wearily, avoiding my gaze, he gestures to Mr. Simpson. “Sir, will you help me move him to the west wing? It’s the coldest part of the house.”

  Before I can wince at the familiar words, something slips from John’s pocket and hits the ground with a cold clatter. I see that it fell from the pocket his hand had gestured toward, moments before he slipped away. Mr. Simpson stoops low to inspect the thing without touching it, and as I watch, the whole line of his body goes absolutely still.

  He turns shocked eyes on
me. “Katherine, please look at this thing.” I swipe the ready tears from my eyes and kneel down beside him. A gold pocket watch lies on the ground, engraved in sweeping script: G.R.

  In a flash, I see my father, lit by the amber light of memory, winding the watch with careful pride. “My God,” I breathe. Henry crowds in at my shoulder, and I hear his breath catch.

  “Everyone, leave the room,” he says. “All but you, Mr. Simpson, and you, Mr. Dowling.” Gape-mouthed servants file out of the room, some knuckling at their eyes or openly weeping.

  Henry turns to the three of us that remain, his jaw tight. “I must insist that the news of this discovery not leave Walthingham Hall. Two such tragedies in close succession, it is almost more than I can bear. But this new finding … Katherine, can you confirm that this is your brother’s watch?”

  “Yes,” I whisper. “He carried it with him always. It belonged to our father—his name was George, too.”

  “Good God, Henry,” Mr. Dowling says heavily. “Could it be that this servant had a hand in the death of the heir?”

  Henry’s eyes flash to mine, followed by Mr. Dowling’s. “Lady Randolph, I hope that you may forgive me one day,” says the magistrate, “for dismissing your fears out of hand.”

  I nod, holding my cold fingers out to meet his. “Of course I do, sir.”

  My suspicions have been borne out at last, my fears vindicated. But it’s an empty triumph. A cold revulsion takes hold in the pit of my stomach—could it be that the same hands that held me the night before, that slid hotly over my skin, so recently ended my brother’s life?

  CHAPTER 16

  HENRY SENDS MATT to Bath in pursuit of the coroner, and Mr. Dowling leads several men through the halls to John’s room, where they will search for other effects of my brother’s. Alone in the scullery, I take a damp cloth to the watch, swirling away clots of dried red. The wan light through the windows illuminates my haggard hands, and the air smells of pipe smoke, blood, and damp feathers—one of the men hung a row of broken grouse overhead. No point in wasting the meat, of course, but the act seems terribly petty. As I remove the final smudge, I turn the watch over to inspect its motionless hands. My father wound his watch daily. But now when I try to do the same, the mechanism won’t work.

  My pain, my rage is focused on the sullied watch—a family heirloom that I can never again take pleasure in. I bring my hand back to throw it, but the false drama of the gesture turns my stomach. Resigned, I tuck it away into my pocket, to be fixed another day.

  Would John have done this thing? What motive could he possibly have had? I remember George and me passing him in the hall just before the ball—was George’s cool nod an affront? Did John think us pretenders to our wealth, jumped-up peasants? George could be too quick and cocky for his own good. Perhaps he said something to anger John—perhaps there was an argument that got out of hand. I press my forehead into my cold hands.

  A shadow in the doorway says my name, then steps forward into the thin daylight. It’s Elsie. “They want you in the parlor, my lady,” she says, her voice a white whisper. Her face is unreadable through her shock. Whatever she might have felt toward the rumored father of her sister’s child, she couldn’t have longed for this. I push the thought away. Whether John had ruined a girl and then abandoned her could hardly matter now. He would account for it in a higher court than that of my own mind.

  In the parlor I find my cousins and William Simpson. Though Henry has changed into a clean shirtfront, he has offered nothing to Mr. Simpson, who sits quietly in a shirt stained with blood.

  Grace’s voice is tinged with hysteria. “I never did trust John, and I was always glad to say so. Even before the talk surrounding the incident with that girl, I thought he was a bad apple. Oh, the trials of finding good help!” She threw up her hands in theatrical supplication, and I fight back a tide of contempt. Two men dead, and she talks of the troubles in staffing Walthingham.

  Her brother reaches out his arm to both comfort and quiet her. “There is no help in speaking ill of the dead, sister—though I cannot express my pain at my oversight, in letting such a criminal insinuate himself into life at Walthingham Hall. His father was a very decent man, and it was for his sake that I never fired the son. I’ve long suspected him of stealing from the house, and just yesterday confronted him about it. I’m surprised the man did not sneak away in the night.”

  With a jolt, I realize that this must be the confrontation I witnessed as I exited the woods after my run-in with McAllister. John had lied so ably to me when asked about their argument. Had all of our interactions been a lie? I’m mute with shame at the way I was taken in, until I remember something else.

  “Henry, the day after the ball I overhead John arguing with two men in our front hall. They were asking to speak with you, but he turned them away.”

  “Asking to speak with me? Perhaps they meant to uncover some truth about him to me—no doubt the men were contacts of his, blackmailers of some sort. Like falls in with like.”

  “Is it possible, sir, that John’s death was not an accident?” The cold clarity of Mr. Simpson’s voice cuts through the fog of my thoughts.

  “McAllister,” I breathe. “He knows the woods better than anyone. And I know that John did not like him.” I blush, hoping no one will ask how I came to possess this knowledge.

  Henry mulls this a moment. “It’s possible, I suppose. Not likely—I grew up in these woods myself, and I know them just as well as Mr. McAllister. I doubt he could have been near without my detecting him. Though it’s true that the man never got on with John or his father.”

  Mr. Simpson speaks with unexpected force. “Just because a man has been accused of poaching does not mean he would kill someone in cowardly cold blood.”

  Before Henry can respond, Mr. Dowling enters the room, trailed by two men. “There’s a note,” he says briefly, holding something out to Henry. My heart thumps. Mr. Simpson, sitting beside me, notices my stiffened posture. “Are you all right, Katherine?” he asks. I nod in silence as Henry begins to read the letter aloud.

  To all those touched by my sins,

  Having done a terrible thing and being regretful for it, I mean to take my own life. The heir of Walthingham Hall, my birthplace and home, came at me in the stables with an accusation that I stole the silver. I did do that crime, but my anger at being found out was such that I committed another: I killed George Randolph with a blow to the head, using the hoofpick I held in my hand. It were not in anger but in fear that I did this, and I cannot live to know my sins another day.

  Forgive me, forgive me. May God forgive me.

  John Hayes

  I rise and move to Henry’s shoulder, quickly skimming the letter’s contents. It strikes me as wrong in every respect. How could John possibly have managed such writing? I struggle to express myself without giving anything away. “This note is far beyond the abilities of a footman, don’t you think?”

  Grace looks at me with pity over the back of the couch. In her expression I see that I needn’t have hidden my ink-stained dress—Mr. Carrick has told her all. She hooks cold fingers about my arm. “It wouldn’t be the first time a man has lied about his abilities,” she murmurs, “to suit the vanities of a young girl.”

  I snatch my arm back and glance toward Mr. Simpson, who seems, thankfully, too absorbed in thought to have heard her.

  “Perhaps Lady Katherine is right,” he says, his brow puckered with concern. “I believe I’ve met the man once or twice, and such expression does not sit easily with my understanding of him.”

  Henry tuts. “Mr. Simpson, please. Katherine has no need of more fanciful conspiracies to distract her tired mind.”

  Mr. Simpson and I spring from our seats simultaneously, but he speaks before I can. “Fanciful conspiracies! Perhaps we should give the lady more credence. It seems she was correct in her belief that her brother’s death was foul play.”

  Still seated, Henry watches the man with bored eyes. “Perhaps there will
come a time when we need the advice of a solicitor on this matter,” he says with acid politeness. “Until then, however, you may keep your opinions to yourself. I shall call for Carrick to show you out.”

  I remain standing. “There’s no need of Mr. Carrick. I’ll see Mr. Simpson to the door myself.”

  I stalk out of the room, worrying only that Mr. Dowling may think me impolite. It brings on an unwelcome realization: that Mr. Simpson is made of far better stuff than my own surviving family. He follows me to the front of the house without speaking, his quiet presence steady at my back. At the door, I place my hand lightly on his arm. “Thank you, sir, for speaking on my behalf. I was ready to do so myself, but I’m afraid anger would have made a mess of my meaning.” I look down at the crusted red of his shirtfront, feeling ashamed. “Please allow me to bring you something fresh to wear. You cannot ride out in that shirt.”

  He gazes back at me, and I sense that he wants to say something but cannot or will not find the words. After a lingering pause, he speaks. “Thank you, but I am beholden enough to Walthingham as it is. Lady Katherine, I remain at your service. I return to London tomorrow, but please know that I will give you my counsel freely and at any time.”

  I can hardly bear to look into the rich blue of his eyes, burning with a passion that belies the spare politeness of his words.

  Must he always retreat behind this veil of propriety, through which I’m allowed only the most incomplete glimpses? It makes me want to shake him and his damnable decorum by the shoulders. How would he react if I kissed him the way John kissed me? Would he push me away, or would he respond to my touch, as he did in my dream?

  I grow hot with a sudden belief that he can read the thoughts on my face. His last words are oddly loaded.

  “I await your instructions, Lady Katherine. If you should have need of me, I tell you again: I will be there to help you at once.” He clasps my ungloved hand briefly in his larger, warm one, before turning to depart.