A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery) by Deanna Raybourn (english novels for students .txt) 📕

“She was a lovely creature, perhaps the loveliest I have ever seen, all dark hair and eyes like sloes. But there was something more, an expression I cannot quite describe. As if she were in on some great joke the rest of us didn’t know. I used to wonder sometimes if she were laughing at us, but I think it was something different. She was a world apart, quiet sometimes, watchful. I never quite knew what she was thinking.”

“That sounds uncomfortable,” I mused.

“Oh, now, miss, don’t take it like that,” she begged. “I’m not saying a word against her. But I wondered sometimes if she were the right one for Mr. Malcolm. She was so very clever, and he and Miss Mertensia, well, they’re simple folk. My little lambs, I called them when they were small. Under nurserymaid I was, when they were small. Their mother was poorly after she had her babes, every one. She would take a dark turn, staring out the windows for months on end, never holding her littles or taking an interest in them. It was left to Nanny and me to care for them.”

“Childbed takes some women that way,” I observed with a shudder. All the more reason never to engage in the practice of reproducing, I decided.

“That it does,” she agreed. “And after Miss Mertensia were born, the mistress never quite recovered. Just black moods and melancholy. So I played with them and sang them songs and made them rhymes and taught them their letters. And in time I moved up in the household. Nanny left to live with her sister on the mainland and I was put in charge of the nursery. When the old master died and the housekeeper gave notice, Mr. Malcolm couldn’t bear to think of having anyone else in charge of things. ‘You know us better than anyone, Trenny,’ he told me. ‘You must take the helm,’ and so I did.” She had changed, her cool propriety giving way to a casual Cornish warmth as her accent broadened and her choice of words became more colloquial.

“They are lucky to have you,” I told her.

She looked pleased. “Very kind of you to say.” Her expression turned a little sly. “I remember your man, his lordship, from a long year back. He first came when he and Mr. Malcolm were schoolboys together. A charmer he was, even then. I could see he would be a handsome gentleman when Mother Nature finished with him.”

“Yes, his lordship is very attractive,” I agreed.

“And jealous of what belongs to him I should think,” she added, her expression perfectly neutral.

I realized then that Stoker and I had indeed been seen together upon the little shingle of beach, him brazenly unclothed and me entirely unconcerned.

Before I could speak, she leant close and I smelt the sharp spiciness of good lavender on her clothes and the merest hint of brandy upon her breath. “It isn’t my place, miss. God knows it isn’t,” she said fervently. She gripped my arm suddenly, and all semblance of the gentle housekeeper was gone. Her eyes were pleading, tears dampening the lashes. “But if you don’t wish to marry his lordship, break it off. Miss Rosamund didn’t and look where it has got us.”

“You think she ought to have broken her betrothal?”

“Aye,” she said, her fingers tightening on my arm. “If she had her doubts, she might just have left him, might have saved him years of misery and wondering what became of her. Why could she not have called off the wedding?” she demanded. “She might have saved him so much torment if only she had taken her courage in her own two hands and refused to go through with it.”

“Then you think she ran away,” I ventured. She blinked furiously, seeming to recollect herself. She dropped my arm and took a handkerchief from her pocket. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose lavishly.

“What else could it be, miss?”

I did not like to speak of murder to Mrs. Trengrouse. It was all so sordid and out of keeping with her tidy ways. In her world, mess and disorder were things to be mended. I knew from my own careful taxonomies that there was a tranquility to be found in order. My solace was the pinning of specimens and the lettering of Latin labels—not so very different to the starching of sheets and the roasting of ducks. To defile the housekeeper’s serenity seemed somehow unkind and so I temporized.

“I am sure she had her reasons,” I told her. “For marrying Mr. Malcolm and for leaving.”

Mrs. Trengrouse’s expression was doubtful. “Perhaps it is as you say, miss.”

She dried her eyes again and pocketed her handkerchief, her manner once more brisk.

“I shall not ask your pardon for my intemperate speech,” she said formally, her Cornish accent smoothing into something more mannered. “But I would never have unburdened myself to a guest were the situation not so—”

I would have touched her arm once more, but it was clear the moment for such intimacy was past. “Think nothing of it, Mrs. Trengrouse. People often forget that staff are as deeply affected by the goings-on in a house as the family themselves.”

She paused, then nodded slowly, the candlelight sparkling off the silver threads in her dark hair. “Most people never think of such a thing. You are a most singular person, Miss Speedwell.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Trengrouse. I shall take that as a compliment.”

•   •   •

They say that curiosity killed the cat, but I am no cringing feline. I waited until the castle slept, the only sound the roaring of the wind about the tower, then rose and put on a dressing gown. I omitted to wear slippers, preferring chilled feet to the noise of soles scraping upon the stones. I stepped out onto the landing of the turret stair, groping carefully rather than lighting a candle and risk alerting Tiberius—or anyone else—to my presence. There was no sound from Stoker’s room above, and no light shone down