A Silent Stabbing Page 3

  “Yes, but what about Mr. Peele? Are you sharing the cottage with him until he moves out?”

  His amusement increased, bringing a chuckle to his lips. “My lady, Mr. Peele left yesterday. The cottage is mine now.”

  “Yesterday? But that’s impossible. He never said good-bye. The rest of the staff didn’t have a chance to wish him well. Why, I’m sure they’d have wanted to present him with a keepsake to remember them all by. And my grandfather would surely have wished to speak a few words of gratitude and send him off with monetary recompense for his years of service, and . . .” She left off. She’d made her point, yet this man seemed unimpressed.

  Standing a good head taller than she, he flexed a bicep and rested his hand on the door latch. “Lord Wroxly may indeed have settled some reward on old Alfred, but as for the staff, as I told Eva at the church, my lady, this is what he wished. I’m sorry if anyone is disappointed, but there was nothing I could have done to change it.”

  “No . . . I don’t suppose there was. . . .” With a niggling sense of she didn’t quite know what, she began to back away. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “No bother, my lady. And if there are any special requests concerning the gardens, I’ll always be happy to hear them.”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Ripley. Well, I’ll let you get on with your unpacking and settling in. Er . . . welcome to Foxwood Hall . . . Call up at the house if you need anything.”

  He propped a hand on the door frame and leaned out over the top step. “Thank you, my lady. It’s my pleasure to be here.”

  She frowned all the way back to the main house. Odd. Exceedingly odd. Upon reentering through the French windows in the drawing room, she trekked determinedly across the Great Hall, onto which all the rooms of the ground floor opened. Outside Grampapa’s study, she gave two firm knocks before letting herself in.

  CHAPTER 2

  The next morning, Mervyn Giles, Foxwood Hall’s longtime butler, shuffled into the servants’ hall murmuring to no one in particular. Beyond the high windows set at ground level, the first blue tinge of morning seeped through the foliage. “Alfred Peele would not have left without saying good-bye.”

  Like the rest of the staff, Eva stood before her place at the long, rectangular table. A lump of sadness sank in her stomach as Mr. Giles continued muttering. Of similar age to the Earl of Wroxly, the years had added inches to Mr. Giles’s torso and lines to his face, had robbed him of a good amount of hair, and traded handsomeness—so essential if a footman was to rise in the ranks of the staff—for the dignified authority needed to run a house like Foxwood Hall.

  What time had also done, tragically, was to steal into his mind and leave conflicting impressions of past and present, often rendering the poor man at an utter loss. Some mornings he strolled into the servants’ hall practically bouncing on the balls of his feet in his eagerness to start the day. Other mornings, like this one, he wandered belowstairs until someone pointed him in the right direction and told him, typically more than once, what needed doing.

  In a tribute to how well-liked the man was among his underlings and employers alike, a friendly conspiracy had grown around him, from the earl himself down to Josh, the young hall boy, to gently guide Mr. Giles in his proper role whenever needed.

  He glanced now at the dozen expectant faces staring back at him and frowned in puzzlement. “What are you all standing around for?”

  Down both sides of the table, the servants darted looks of uncertainty back and forth at one another. Eva found herself biting her lip to keep from cueing the man as a stage director cues an actor who has forgotten his lines. It wasn’t her place. Rather, George Vernon, the head footman and a young man very much in possession of those physical and mental attributes that had paved the way for Mr. Giles’s rise up the servants’ ladder, leaned in from his place to the right of the butler. “The prayer, sir,” he whispered. Though everyone heard, they all pretended they hadn’t.

  “The prayer?”

  To Mr. Giles’s left, Mrs. Sanders, Foxwood Hall’s housekeeper, raised an eyebrow meant to ward off any urges to grin or snigger at poor Mr. Giles’s confusion. Her efforts proved unnecessary. The staff didn’t secretly refer to her as Old Ironheart for nothing. Her word was law belowstairs at Foxwood Hall, and Eva had yet to meet a servant willing to defy her. Thus assured of proper discipline, the woman leaned to whisper to the butler, “Grace. For the meal, sir.”

  “Ah, yes. Yes, of course.” He bowed his head, hesitated a moment, and began intoning mealtime grace. The servants obediently bowed their heads and listened, and when they all said amen it was with a sigh of relief.

  Mr. Giles once more glanced around the table. “Where is Alfred? He often joins us for breakfast.”

  Eva’s appetite waned; the prospect of swallowing Mrs. Ellison’s scrambled eggs, black pudding, and baked beans seemed an intolerable chore. Once again, Vernon came to the rescue.

  “If you’ll remember, sir, Alfred Peele has retired.”

  Someone from lower down the table muttered, “Just up and left in the middle of the night, without so much as a tip of his hat to the rest of us.”

  Vernon shot the mutterer a warning look, but otherwise ignored the comment. “We have a new head gardener, sir. His name is Stephen Ripley.”

  “Ripley, eh? He any good?”

  “Apparently. His letter of recommendation says so, sir. Besides, he worked here years ago, before the war.”

  “Humph. We’ll see what he can do now, won’t we.” Not so much a question as a statement of doubt. Mr. Giles again scanned the faces round the table. “But where has Alfred gone?”

  “Actually, sir . . .” The gardener’s first assistant, a dark-haired youth named William, spoke up from the end of the table. Other young men from the village were often called in to assist with the large jobs, but William, training to one day assume a head gardener’s position himself, resided at Foxwood Hall. “He’s gone to live at his sister’s house outside Cheltenham. Leastwise, that’s what he told me.”

  “His sister’s house? To live?” Vernon looked mystified, but said no more—for to say more might be perceived as insolent. There were strict rules belowstairs about gossip and speculation. Not that such didn’t occur. It most certainly did. But not in Mr. Giles’s or Mrs. Sanders’s hearing.

  Eva, too, felt mystified. Why would a man retire and go to live with his sister? Hadn’t he put enough by over the years to purchase or at least lease a pleasant cottage of his own somewhere, where he might enjoy his retirement years? Otherwise, why retire at all? He had a good situation here at Foxwood Hall, and he certainly continued to enjoy good health, as far as she could tell. Was his sojourn at his sister’s home merely temporary?

  “Then where is this Ripley character?” Mr. Giles spoke with his mouth full, once again reminding Eva—reminding them all—of his decline.

  Mrs. Sanders gently said, “The head gardener has the option of eating at his cottage, Mr. Giles.”

  The butler raised his coffee cup and grumbled into it. “You’d think the man would want to show his face and meet the rest of us. Simple common decency.”

  Eva couldn’t agree more. And then unexpectedly, that very man poked his head in from the corridor. He held a plaid wool flat cap in his hand and wore an angry scowl. “You there, boy. William. What are you doing? I’ve been waiting for you.”

  The sharp tone startled the lanky, broad-shouldered youth into dropping his fork with a clatter. He came to his feet with a shrill scrape of his chair legs. “It’s not yet six-thirty, sir.”

  “Do you think I care about the time? There’s daylight enough to start on the hedge behind the hothouses. Now come along.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His breakfast less than half eaten, William scrambled after his new superior, nearly tripping over his large feet in his efforts. Eva hoped the boy might slip away later for a slice of bread or cheese, or he’d surely run out of stamina before lunchtime. Or perhaps she might take a walk o
ut by the hedge and bring him something. Meanwhile, Stephen Ripley rather plummeted in her regard. William was little more than a boy. Taking food out of his mouth prior to putting him to work seemed unnecessary, not to mention a bit cruel.

  “That was rude.” Mrs. Sanders glared at the empty doorway as if William and Stephen Ripley might reappear. A tight ridge formed above her nose. Was she attempting to conjure them? “Not so much as a good morning? A how do you do after all these years? It’s been so long since he worked here I wouldn’t have recognized him.”

  Though she basically echoed Mr. Giles’s sentiment, he appeared not to notice her comments. Instead, he went on busily consuming his breakfast as though the commonplace food held his fascination.

  “First time I’ve heard of anyone complaining about a man wanting to get to work.” Dora, Foxwood Hall’s kitchen maid, carried in a fresh pot of tea. At a severe look from Mrs. Sanders, the girl’s thin shoulders shrank inward and she lowered her chin. Dora’s rank among the servants was only marginally higher than that of the hall boy’s, but that rarely stopped her from expressing her opinions. She said under her breath as she set down the earthenware teapot, “I’m only saying. Can’t a man get on with his work without everyone thinking ill of him?”

  “Dora, that will be quite enough.” Mrs. Sanders pinned her with the stare known for making even seasoned footmen tremble. “Back to the kitchen with you, you impertinent girl.”

  Pouting, Dora took up the empty teapot and retraced her steps. Eva heard more murmurs from her, but couldn’t make out the words. Mrs. Sanders lifted her teacup and shook her head.

  “She’s one to watch, Mrs. Sanders. Impertinent, as you said.” Mr. Giles barely glanced up as he spoke, his interest in the other servants apparently having waned in favor of Mrs. Ellison’s sultana scones and blackberry preserves.

  “What’s the world coming to?” Mrs. Sanders said with a note of accusation aimed at all of them. Even Eva, whose position among the upper servants usually rendered her immune to the housekeeper’s reprimands, found herself sinking a little in her chair. “Young people have no respect, and not a lick of sense either. And with help so hard to find nowadays, there’s little to be done about it.” The rest of the servants around the table looked up at those words, dumbfounded to hear Mrs. Sanders admit such a thing. She scowled at her mistake. “Don’t any of you go thinking you can pull the wool over my eyes, because you can’t. I was not put on this earth to suffer the impudence of fools.”

  “No, ma’am,” came from several of them.

  Eva finished her breakfast and hurried upstairs. Lady Phoebe tended to be an early riser and Eva believed that would be the case today, since they were planning to return to St. George’s to continue sorting the donations. Eva had more to tell Lady Phoebe about Mr. Peele’s sudden retirement and Stephen Ripley’s less than amiable character—things Lady Phoebe might certainly wish to tell her grandfather. The earl was not a man to countenance the ill treatment of his employees.

  * * *

  Later that morning, Lady Julia accompanied Eva and Phoebe back to St. George’s. Or Lady Annondale, as Eva should think of Julia Renshaw now. Last April, she had married Gilbert Townsend, Viscount Annondale, only to become a widow less than twenty-four hours later. Though she had every right to take up residence at the Annondale estate, she had chosen to remain at Foxwood Hall among her own family—where she felt safe and cared for, she had confided to Eva.

  Lady Annondale’s maid, Hetta, had joined them as well, and the four of them set to work sorting the donations and readying them for delivery. Eva found herself watching Lady Annondale as a hen watches over her chicks. Were her shoes comfortable enough? Had she gotten enough sleep the night before? Had she eaten sufficient breakfast? She seemed fit, and moved about easily in a creation of her favorite designer, Coco Chanel, whose soft fabrics and draping designs helped conceal the contour of a growing belly.

  Poor Lady Julia, and the poor child, destined to enter the world without a father.

  Lady Annondale noticed Eva’s scrutiny. “Please stop your worrying, Eva. Grams says I’m like a peasant of olden times, and she’s right. Except for a few bouts of mild nausea early on, I haven’t had so much as a twinge of discomfort in the past five months. Grams thinks it’s quite inelegant of me to be so hale and hearty while I’m expecting.”

  “Ya, Madame is well.” Hetta Brauer, the Swiss woman hired a year ago to be Lady Annondale’s new maid, looked better suited to be a dairy farmer’s wife with her blond braids wrapped around her head, stout figure, and muscular arms, but her skills in looking after her mistress’s clothing, jewelry, and hair were unassailable. Her eyes, as bright as an alpine sky, beamed with affection at Lady Annondale. “Hetta makes sure she is well fed and well rested every day.”

  There were times Eva felt twinges of resentment toward Hetta, through no fault of the Swiss woman’s own. But Eva had served all three Renshaw sisters, Phoebe, Julia, and the youngest, Amelia, for years before it had been decided that Julia, as the eldest, should have a maid devoted entirely to her. The addition to the household had lightened Eva’s burdens, true, but she missed the intimacy with the eldest Renshaw sister as a mother misses the daughter who leaves home for the first time.

  Shouts from outside, drifting through the open windows high along the basement’s walls, startled them all and halted the progress of their work. Lady Phoebe moved closer to one of those windows and tilted her ear toward it. “What in heaven’s name is that?”

  Men’s voices rose, fell, and rose again. Sharp tones ground like stones one against the other, the words indecipherable but the anger clear. Eva grew alarmed. Typically the only shouts to be heard in their sleepy village were ones of celebration, such as during the upcoming harvest festival, when there would be games and music and competitions that drew crowds from all around Little Barlow. Today was no such day, however, and with the children having returned to school and most people at work on their farms or going about their shopping, what reason could there be for shouting?

  “Someone is awfully put out about something,” Lady Annondale commented with a shrug, and continued sorting tinned goods into various boxes. After a brief lull, the voices built to a crescendo that threatened violence.

  “I’m going to see what it is.” Lady Phoebe headed up the steps.

  “My lady . . .” Eva scrambled after her, holding her calf-length skirt as she climbed the basement stairs. Outside, Lady Phoebe shaded her eyes with her hand as she gazed beyond the immediacy of the churchyard in search of the kerfuffle. Eva searched, too, and thrust out a finger.

  “There, my lady.” She went to the churchyard gate and leaned out to see down the row of shops that lined High Road. Pedestrians strolled along the pavement outside the post office, haberdashery, and the other shops, and Eva saw that most of them were craning their necks to see across the road. Outside Little Barlow’s tiny branch of the Bank of England, a small crowd had gathered. At the center of it, two men faced each other—or faced each other down, Eva amended. They were both glaring with the effrontery of rutting bulls, ready for a fight. One wore a derby and trench coat open over a dark business suit; the other, the flannel and corduroy of a farmer. A third man, gray haired and slightly stooped, came out of the bank and joined them. Eva recognized him as the bank manager, Mr. Evers. He held out his hands as if to soothe the other two. “Why, that’s Keenan Ripley and Mr. Evers. I can’t make out who the other fellow is.”

  “Is it his brother?” Lady Phoebe came to stand beside her at the gate. “Can you hear what they’re saying?”

  “No. But the fact that they’re arguing outside the bank worries me. I do hope . . .” Without completing the thought, she opened the gate and headed toward the fracas. Thus far, no fists had flown, thank goodness. But it appeared they might, and soon. Keenan raised a closed hand. “I will never sell my half. Never.”

  “Mr. Ripley, see reason.” Mr. Evers put a hand on Keenan’s shoulder. Keenan angrily shook it off.
The gathering around them took a collective step back.

  “You’re in league with him.” Keenan rounded on the bank manager. “You’re to blame for this. If you hadn’t gone blathering about my personal finances to this complete stranger—”

  “I most certainly did not, Mr. Ripley.” The manager pulled up to his full height. “I would never do such a thing.”

  “He’s right,” said the third man. He was of late middle years, his eyes small and crinkled, not from laughter, Eva judged, but from squinting, from narrowing his gaze on whatever target drew his interest. Funny she should think of it that way, but that was how he struck her. His nose was wide, bullish, his chin uncommonly large. He was no one she recognized, certainly no one from Little Barlow. “He didn’t tell me a thing. Your brother did.”

  Keenan went utterly still but for his mouth, which fell open. He stared, unblinking, at the stranger. By now Eva and Lady Phoebe stood at the fringe of the onlookers. More villagers had crossed the street to gawk. The scene had taken on the atmosphere of a cockfight. Eva only hoped wagers weren’t being laid.

  The stranger lifted the corners of his wide mouth in a gratified smile. “That’s right, Mr. Ripley. Your argument isn’t with me, nor with Mr. Evers. It’s with your own brother.”

  Eva realized the man spoke as no one else did from this region, nor any other part of England. He was an American, the first she had encountered anywhere but in London.

  “We are businessmen, Mr. Evers and I,” the stranger continued. His nostrils quivered as though he were scenting his prey. “We are merely doing what we do best, which is buying up properties in arrears and making them profitable.”

  “I am not in arrears.” Keenan’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles glowed white.

  The bank manager cleared his throat. “The bank records say otherwise, Mr. Ripley.”

  Keenan swung to face Mr. Evers. One fist came up, prompting the bank manager to recoil. “You know I’ll pay my debts in full as soon as the harvest is in. I’ve got an arrangement with the Samuel Smitters brewery in Gloucester. Give me time to get my pears off the trees and you’ll have your money.”