A Death in Norfolk

Chapter Four

Lady Breckenridge reached a gloved finger to the gown's fine netting, but I stilled her hand.

"When I touched it, it crumbled to dust," I said. "I hoped you could tell me a bit about the style, when it might have been made, what sort of woman would have worn it…"

The two of us stood in a bubble of quietude as she leaned to study the gown. I heard Grenville giving orders to his footmen outside and the men continuing to break the paneling downstairs, but in the hushed peace of my mother's sitting room, even those noises were muted.

"I haven't seen a gown like this in years," Donata said after a time. "See how very simple it is. No adornments, just the little bow on the bodice. Silk netting on the sleeves, yes, but only there, and the sleeves are so very short. I had a dress like this, but the whole thing was covered with silver netting. It shimmered when I moved." She smiled in memory. "That was nearly ten years ago. I loved that gown."

She'd been a young bride ten years ago, alone in London while Lord Breckenridge was far away on the Peninsula.

The simplicity she described was a far cry from what Donata wore now-a dress of black-and-white striped broadcloth under a military-looking black spencer. Her skirt's hem was decorated with wide black braid embroidered with silver flowers, and her white straw bonnet had a turned-up brim with a black lining. She wore gloves of black leather that fitted her hands like a second skin. I, in my shirtsleeves and dusty breeches and boots, was a sharp contrast to this painfully fashionable lady.

"Am I correct that this was a debutante's gown?" I asked. Ten years ago, I'd been up to my neck in mud in Portugal and rarely saw a debutante. The colonels or generals in my regiment who had daughters to bring out took them back to London.

"At the time, white was in fashion for everyone," Donata said. "Pure Greek, you know. But this gown is certainly virginal. Made for a debutante, yes; say a girl between the ages of fifteen and twenty. After twenty, a woman gives up trying to be the youthful belle of the ball looks to take her place on the shelf. Or else, she is married."

Donata had married at eighteen. Her young innocence had come up against the brutality of Breckenridge straightaway.

"Ten years is a long time," I said. "Could the dress have been made at a later date? Or perhaps the girl wore it for several years? You change your entire wardrobe every season, but a girl from a poor gentleman's family would not have that luxury."

"That is true," Lady Breckenridge said without taking offense. "She could have been wearing this seven or eight years ago. But after the year 1810, it would have been difficult to convince a seamstress to make it. Once gauze-thin muslin went out and satin and velvets came in again, we never looked back. Dresses had more ornamentation, though they were certainly not as decorated as they are now. And this gown was not cheap, Gabriel, despite there being so little of it. The young woman for whom this dress was made came from a reasonably well-off family, or at least had a wealthy benefactor. It would have been the first stare of fashion in about 1807-or, in the country, 1808. 1809 at the very latest."

"My father was still alive then," I said.

Lady Breckenridge gave me a sharp look. "Are you contemplating the idea that your father enticed a debutante here, got her out of the gown, and persuaded her to leave it behind when she left?"

"I am not certain what to think. There are many possibilities."

"Do be logical, Gabriel. If such a thing had happened, the event would become known. Even if this debutante said nothing, someone would have noticed-a servant, someone from the village. You know what country gossip is like."

I did know. Her words made me feel better, but I remained a bit uneasy.

Lady Breckenridge went on, "Gowns are passed on as well-given to lady's maids, sold secondhand. This one looks in fine condition, except for its stint lying here gathering dust, of course, but it could have had a second or third owner. Perhaps a maid and her young man came here for a tryst, or perhaps the maid hid here, changed her clothes, eloped with said young man, and didn't bother to pack the gown. She had limited space and would not need it."

"That is possible," I conceded. Farfetched, but possible. "Though a maid and her young man might take it with them to sell it. I would think that the gown would fold up to nothing."

"Perhaps she feared someone would trace her through its sale. I have no idea, Gabriel. I am speculating."

"I understand. Thank you for your insight."

"May I take it?" Lady Breckenridge asked. "If it does not fall apart. Perhaps one of Lady Southwick's maids will recognize it."

I saw no reason not to let her. Bartholomew entered at the moment, bearing camp chairs. I heard Grenville below, talking in his easy way with Denis's men.

"Bartholomew," Lady Breckenridge said. "Bring me a blanket from the carriage, will you please? And open the windows before you go. The rain's gone, and it's a bit close in here."

Bartholomew said, "Yes, m'lady," set two camp chairs in the most solid part of the rug, wrestled with the two windows until they opened, and departed.

Lady Breckenridge went to a window and looked out, careful not to touch the filthy sill, then turned away and sat in one of the camp chairs. Because the chairs were Grenville's, they had cushions and rugs to ensure comfort.

"A lovely room," Donata said. "I can see why your mother liked it. The view is splendid. Tell me about her."

Lady Breckenridge, sitting with legs crossed, black-gloved hands relaxed on the arms of the camp chair, looked thoroughly at home in my mother's room. Her elegance befitted the feminine sanctuary this had once been.

"She passed away when I was nine," I said. "My memories are those of a child."

"You were not much older than Peter is now," she said.

"I had my father," I said. "Not that this was compensation. I was at school already, called in to see the headmaster when she died. The headmaster was sympathetic-I see that now-but at the time he told me to bear up and be a man about it. I was a man, all right. I was convinced that my father had killed her."

"A bit gruesome for a child. Why did you think so?"

"Because he used to beat her." I did not like to think about her cries, stifled because they'd make my father angrier. "Not until I came home between terms did I learn that she died of a fever. Even so, I'm certain my father sped her into the grave. He had no patience with her, thought she was too weak, thought she was overly fond of me."

Donata looked surprised. "You were her son. Why shouldn't she be fond of you?"

" Overly fond. The poor woman wanted to speak to me at least once a day, and my father was certain this would make me weak. He tried to forbid it, so my mother and I began to meet in secret. My father's greatest fear was that his son would not grow up to be strong."

Lady Breckenridge roved her gaze up and down my six-foot and more height. "He had no need to worry in that regard." I could not tell whether she meant it as a compliment. "My husband never forbade me to see Peter, but then, Breckenridge could rarely be bothered to remember he had a son."

Another strike against Lord Breckenridge in my book.

"The result is that I do not know much about my mother," I said. "I know she loved this room, that she found sanctuary here from my father. He had no patience with feminine frippery, and so he never came here. I used to creep up the back stairs and slip inside when he was busy. At least I have those memories."

Whether Lady Breckenridge would have expressed sympathy for this I was not to know, because at the moment, Bartholomew entered the room with a thin blanket over his arm. A well-trained servant, he simply came in without knocking, not drawing attention to himself. Lady Breckenridge rose. "Thank you, Bartholomew."

She took the blanket from him, laid it on the chaise, and very carefully slid the gown onto blanket. More of the gauze fell in on itself, but Lady Breckenridge folded the blanket over the rest of the dress and lifted the bundle.

"Carry this back down to the carriage, please," she said, holding it out to Bartholomew. "Over your arms, exactly like that."

Bartholomew looked bursting with curiosity, but he managed to keep it to himself as he took the blanket-wrapped garment. When he opened the door again, the man who'd been tearing up the bottom staircase came in with his hammer.

"We're to start on the upstairs, guv," he said. "You and her ladyship might want to go somewhere less dusty."

I was in front of him before he could take a step into the room. "Not in here."

The man was a bit shorter than me but wide of shoulder, and he carried a large hammer, but I did not care.

"Mr. Cooper's orders, sir," he said.

"Mr. Cooper does not own the house. I do. This room is not to be touched. Tear up the rest of the house, but not this room."

The man did not look intimidated. "Mr. Cooper says the whole house must be searched, sir, before Mr. Denis arrives."

"I will deal with Mr. Cooper. And Mr. Denis. The chance that Easton hid anything here is remote."

He remained stubbornly fixed. I'd seen these lackeys obey Denis's slightest whim without question. Their devotion was admirable, but at the moment, their devotion was irritating me.

"What is that, then?" The man jerked his chin at the blanket Bartholomew held in his arms.

"Not a priceless painting," I said.

"I'll just have a look, shall I, guv?"

I got in front of him again. "You will not have a look, and you will leave this room. I give you my word that Bartholomew is not spiriting away anything you are looking for. It is another matter entirely."

The bloody man didn't move. "I need to ask Mr. Cooper, sir."

"You need to leave this room before I thrash you."

"Really, guv, you should stand aside."

The man kept his voice cool, an emotionless automaton used to carrying out James Denis's orders.

I on the other hand, lost my temper with a vengeance. "This is my house," I shouted at him. "In it, you do not work for Denis or Cooper or anyone else. You obey my orders and mine alone. Do you understand?

"

The most hardened soldiers had slammed to attention when I'd roared at them thus, and I saw this man's spine straighten in spite of himself. He looked me up and down, his eyes as blank as ever, but they flickered when they met mine.

"Yes, sir," he said.

"Tell Cooper to come and talk to me," I said. "Now, if you please."

"Yes, guv." The man backed his way out the door. I hadn't cowed him, I could see, but he'd decided he did not get paid enough to deal with me.

Bartholomew chuckled as the man clattered down the stairs. "That was a fine thing."

"Bartholomew," I said, still out of temper.

"Right, sir." Bartholomew hastened out room with the dress, and I returned to the window.

I was still tight with anger. Ever since I'd seen my daughter back to France this summer, I'd experienced something like peace, no more rages or melancholia. But seeing one of Denis's brutes ready to tear up my mother's sitting room with his heavy hammer made my simmering anger boil up with nightmare force.

Lady Breckenridge had said nothing during the entire exchange, listening with her cool air of observation.

"You will have to replace the carpet," she said after a time.

I turned around. "What?"

"You will have to replace the carpet if this room is to be used again. The vermin have been at it. The wallpaper too, I am afraid. I understand why you do not wish Mr. Denis's pugilist to wreck it, but do not seek to make the room a shrine, Gabriel. That is always a bad idea."

She looked in no way dismayed at my outburst. Instead, she stood before me, quietly logical, giving me sound advice.

"Not a shrine," I said. "My father forbade anyone in here after she died. Not the same thing, but also a bad idea."

"Quite right," Lady Breckenridge said, looking around. "This will make a pleasant little sitting room. Keep the pictures and things she liked, but redo the rest. She would have wanted it to be used, I think."

Lady Breckenridge had compassion without sentimentality. I liked that very much about her.

I went to her. "I apologize for my temper."

"No, indeed. You were quite right. They should not run tame in your house." Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. "But what on earth did you mean about a priceless painting?"

Grenville chose that moment to come in. "An excellent question. What about it, Lacey? Why are James Denis's pugilists sinking hammer and claw into your house?"

"Where is Cooper?" I asked.

"I believe the other two are looking for him," Grenville said. "Tell us, Lacey. Your brief tale about Easton has whetted my appetite for more."

Without further hesitation, I related all to them. The smuggled artwork was Denis's business, but he'd involved me in it. His own fault if I spread the knowledge.

I knew, even as I spoke, that Denis did not fear what I would say. He was expert at winding his nets around those he wanted to control, and he would not have chosen me for this errand had he wanted to keep its true nature secret. That meant he was not in the least worried about me or who I'd tell.

"Good heavens," Lady Breckenridge said when I'd finished. "As I have observed before, Gabriel, your acquaintance is interesting."

"And as I have observed, you need to have a care with James Denis," Grenville said. "He is a dangerous man, with dangerous men in his employ."

"I know that," I said, "Though, truth be told, I could become grateful to him for some of the things he's done. He found my wife and daughter. When my daughter was in danger, he made every effort on her behalf. I cannot hate him for that, no matter what his motives."

"He did once save me from a fiery death," Lady Breckenridge put in.

Grenville gave us both a severe look. "That is all very well. However, it does not negate the fact that Denis is a thief, a smuggler, an extortionist, a sometime murderer, and deep in corruption of all sorts. Such a man does things only for his own gain, and he cannot be trusted not to turn on you at any moment. Remember that."

He stopped talking when Lady Breckenridge looked past him and raised her brows. The pugilist I'd chased away had opened the door quietly.

Grenville scowled at him, looking in no way embarrassed. "Yes, what is it?"

The pugilist addressed his words to me. "I can't find Cooper, guv."

"No?" I asked. "Did he go back to Easton's?"

"Couldn't say. Want us to carry on?"

"In all other rooms, yes. Keep dragging out the debris for the fire."

The lackey touched his forehead in an approximate salute. "Right, guv."

He disappeared and the banging recommenced. I drew a breath. "Donata, this is a bad place for now. I'd rather see you lounging in luxury at Lady Southwick's."

"Where the decor hurts my eyes," Donata said, but she came to me and kissed my dusty cheek. "I will start making lists about what to do in these rooms. Your mother seems to have liked pink and yellow, so we'll keep those colors. Do give a thought to letting those men take out the paneling, as long as they do not damage the beams as I instructed. The wood is rotting, and they seem keen. Why not make them do the work?"

As always, her clearheaded practicality bandaged my rather messy emotions. She'd have made an excellent officer's wife-one who followed the drum, that is. Breckenridge had been an officer but had left his lady well at home.

"Make use of my carriage and my lackeys, my lady," Grenville said. "I'm for a walk. The rain has cleared, the air is deuced fine, and my English heart is lifted. How about it, Lacey?"

I declined. "I want to stay here and keep an eye on things."

"I do not blame you. In that case, I will tramp alone and wend my way back to Lady Southwick's. I'll observe the birds soaring over the trees and rejoice in the countryside as I go."

We agreed on our separate courses, and I walked with Donata out to the carriage. Part of Grenville's motivation for his walk was that he grew ill in carriages swaying through the countryside. He did not have as much trouble in the city, where the distances were short, and his coach moved slowly through traffic. He also did not succumb when he drove his own conveyance. But put him in a chaise and four on the open road, and he became a slave to nausea and dizziness.

I kissed Donata on the cheek before I helped her into the waiting coach. She clung to my hand a moment and whispered, "You are a good man, Gabriel. Never forget that."

Then, with her usual aplomb, she settled into the landau and directed Grenville's coachman, Jackson, to drive on.

Matthias asked leave to join Grenville on his tramp, and the two of them walked off across what had been the park. I was glad Matthias accompanied him, because though the country seemed open, there were hidden corners and marshy hollows to traverse. Grenville was so obviously a wealthy man, and who knew what strangers lurked in the shadows, waiting for a mark. In these times, people grew desperate. Matthias, a sturdy lad, could protect him.

Once my friends had gone, I returned to helping Denis's men tear down my house. We carried timber and rotted floorboards into a clear space in the old garden and piled it for a bonfire. I fetched an old spade and broke the grasses away from the pile so the fire wouldn't spread.

In this flat country with its huge sky, the sun stayed well in sight through the evening. When we lit the bonfire at seven o'clock, the sunset still outshone it.

Cooper had not returned. Denis's men and I warmed ourselves around the welcome bonfire, and were still there when, around half past seven, Matthias came running, running up the path from the park.

"Sir," he panted. He had to bend double, hands on knees to catch his breath. "You need to come, Captain. Now!"