The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4) Page 6

  “Good grief, why not?”

  Rising from his chair, Francis shifted to the window, looking across the new and beautifully wrought street some thirty feet wide, bordered with turf and a grass slope leading down to the sands and thence the ocean. The view was spectacular, providing ample evidence of seaside life, with fishing boats tacking along the coastline and Francis had already seen a variety of walkers, often accompanied by dogs. A couple of donkeys were trailing along the beach, carrying small visitors and several children cavorted with buckets and spades, splashing at the water’s edge. There was much to entertain, if only Ottilia might begin to take an interest.

  “To tell you the truth,” Francis said over his shoulder, “I didn’t dare mention the matter for fear Ottilia would refuse to come at all. And my mother was in agreement. We got her here on the score of recuperating her health alone.”

  George rose and came to join him at the window. “But I made sure this is precisely the sort of affair to pique her interest.”

  “Yes, in the ordinary way. She’s been different since the loss of the child.”

  With some reluctance he gave his friend a few clues as to Ottilia’s current state of mind. He had already explained the disastrous birth in the express he had sent in response to George’s letter. His friend had replied with concern and assured him he could book a suitable lodging to accommodate the Fanshawes and their entourage.

  The house proved to be eminently practical, providing a sufficiency of rooms on the first and second floors to accommodate the Fanshawe party with all its servants, bar the coachman and Ryde, Francis’s groom, both of whom were staying at an inn near the stables where the coach and horses were housed. The bedchambers were well-furnished, the parlour done out in blue in the Adam style with the classic white loops and curlicues, oval-backed chairs of simple design, a chaise longue which Francis had caused to be set conveniently for Ottilia to be able to look out of the window, and well-cushioned armchairs either side of the marble fireplace.

  The landlord and his family occupied the apartments downstairs, but the kitchen and domestic offices were shared with the visitors. The landlady had offered to cook, but the dowager, after last evening’s first meal, determined to find one better qualified to provide food “fit to eat” as she put it. In private, she had confided to Francis she feared Ottilia would waste quite away if there was nothing better to tempt her than the woman’s unappetising offerings.

  “I see,” said George when apprised of the situation. “Well, I should say if anything will rouse Ottilia to action, it’s this ghastly mess I’m landed with.”

  “That is my hope.”

  The sound of footsteps in the galleried hallway outside attracted Francis’s attention. He turned in time to see the door open and then Tillie herself stood poised in the aperture, her gaze moving from him to Tretower. She was looking a trifle windblown, her hair dishevelled and escaping from under a chip-straw hat, her shawl half off one shoulder and trailing behind. But her cheeks were pinker than Francis remembered to have seen them lately, her eyes more bright. She smiled on seeing the colonel.

  “George! I did not expect any visitors and have not bothered to tidy up.” She came forward with hand held out. “How do you do? Fan told me you were here, but how comes it about you are quartered in Weymouth?”

  George bowed over her hand. “I’m commanding the militia down here. Truth to tell, there is only my own company barracked at the moment. But if we do go to war with the French, I’ve no doubt the powers that be will plant half a regiment upon me.”

  Ottilia laughed, a sound that lifted Francis’s heart. She rarely laughed now.

  “You need not pretend with me, George. I’ve no doubt you volunteered and will be only too delighted to go parading up and down the coast with a band of redcoats, preventing the French from invading our shores.”

  Laughing, George admitted she was right. “Though there’s been little to engage me. Until this wretched business turned up on my doorstep.”

  Alarmed, Francis caught his eye and frowned him down. George, with a conscious grimace, threw him an apologetic look. Too late Francis realised Tillie had seen the exchange. Her gaze went from one to the other.

  “I wish you will sit down, my love,” he said hastily, indicating the chaise longue.

  Ottilia came towards it, her eyes searching his face, but she did not immediately take her seat. “What am I missing, Fan?”

  He essayed a laugh. “Nothing in the world. What do you mean?”

  At that a spark lit in her eye. “Pray don’t treat me to one of your ridiculous charades, Francis. What is going on?”

  He was obliged to bite down on instant irritation. “There is nothing going on, as you put it. Merely George has a tricky situation he is handling at the moment.”

  “I see.” She glanced towards his friend who, to Francis’s chagrin, was looking the picture of guilt. “And what is so alarming about this situation, George, that I must be kept in the dark?”

  Tretower cast him an anguished glance. “I really can’t say, Ottilia.” He essayed a grin. “I wish you will sit down, and then I can follow suit.”

  That made her laugh again and she did sit down, untying the strings of her bonnet and casting it aside. “You need not stand on ceremony with me.”

  “What, do you suppose I’ve lost my manners?” He drew a chair forward and dropped into it. “It’s a relief to get off my feet for a few minutes, I can tell you. I’ve been running around like a jack-in-the-box for the last few days.”

  Breathing a little more easily, Francis crossed to the side table and picked up the hand bell there, sending a summons pealing through the room. “I’ve not offered you wine, George. Would you care for a glass?” He glanced at his wife. “Or will you drink coffee with Tillie?”

  She threw him a faint smile. “Yes, just what I need, Fan, thank you.”

  “Coffee for me too, Fan. I need to keep a clear head.”

  Joanie, the younger of the two maids who had accompanied the party to Weymouth, arrived promptly in answer to the bell and Francis put in his request for coffee all round. With Tillie in uncertain mood, he needed his wits about him. The moment the maid left the room, he tried for an innocuous subject.

  “How was your walk? I trust you didn’t go too far.”

  A shade of annoyance crossed her face and Francis cursed himself for adding the rider. She hated him to cosset her, as he knew all too well. But she spoke calmly enough, if a trifle coolly.

  “It was invigorating. I had to take Hemp’s arm on the way back, so I dare say I did go a little beyond my present strength. But don’t you go giving him a scold, Fan. It wasn’t his fault. He advised me to turn back, but I was enjoying the sea breeze.”

  How well she knew him. He had indeed formed an immediate intention of telling Hemp to be more careful. He opted to ignore the comment for the sake of peace.

  “I’m glad Mama persuaded you to come then. It’s obviously done you good already.”

  He was aware of her watching him as he returned to the window and perched on the seat there, settling himself conveniently between the chaise longue and George’s chair.

  “Where is Sybilla?”

  “Putting our names down at the Assembly Rooms. And finding a cook.”

  Ottilia nodded and an uneasy silence fell. Francis saw George turn his gaze upon the ceiling in the way he had when he was embarrassed. This would not do. Tillie was far too fly to be taken in. Dared he broach the subject? The decision was taken out of his hands as his wife turned to the colonel.

  “Why have you been obliged to take up this jack-in-the-box act, George?”

  Tretower cleared his throat and brought his gaze to bear on Tillie. “I’ve had to go twice to Dorchester to consult with — er — various officials. And my time has been taken up with much to-ing and fro-ing.”

  A trifle of mischief flitted across Tillie’s face and Francis rejoiced to see it.

  “If you suppose I am able to fo
rm a complete picture from that description, my dear George, I fear my powers of perception have been vastly overrated.”

  George laughed. “You mean I was not clear enough?”

  “Not enough to inform me why Francis is so anxious for you to keep your mouth shut on the subject.”

  Francis jumped in. “No such thing.”

  “Oh, come, Fan, do you take me for a ninny all of a sudden? It is patent you are trying to keep something from me.”

  He might have known it would prove impossible to prevaricate. With a sigh, he capitulated. “Very well, if you insist. George is grappling with a somewhat nasty murder.”

  To his consternation, distress and dismay both crept into her face. “And you wished to keep me ignorant in case I should immediately throw myself into discovering the culprit? Heavens, Fan, you know I have neither desire nor energy to embroil myself in anything at all, let alone a complex matter of that nature.”

  “Lord, no, you have it wrong, Ottilia,” said George before Francis could answer. “It was I wrote to beg Fan to bring you here, for it’s a devilish coil and I doubt I can manage it.”

  Francis’s heart sank as Tillie’s gaze travelled from George to himself, quick wrath gathering in her eyes.

  “So that was it. You dragged me down here under false pretences. Fan, how could you?” With which she rose and hurried towards the door.

  Francis sprang to his feet.

  “Ottilia!”

  She ignored him, flinging open the door and disappearing, her steps rapid along the gallery.

  Francis followed to the door and watched her vanish into their bedchamber. With an exasperated sigh, he turned back into the room and found the colonel also on his feet, a look of dismay in his face.

  “I did warn you,” Francis said on a rueful note.

  His friend came and laid a hand on his shoulder. “If I read her aright, dear boy, it’s not the murder that’s put her all on end, but the deception.”

  Gloom overtook Francis. “I thought it best, but it seems I was wrong. I’ll have to go after her.”

  “Shouldn’t you give her time to calm down?”

  “And postpone the quarrel? It’s been brewing for weeks, if you really want to know.”

  “If I know Ottilia, she’ll be only too remorseful presently,” said George. “But you know best how to handle her, no doubt.”

  Francis only wished he did, but the growing estrangement had ruined his abilities in that direction. The maid appeared on the stairs, armed with a tray.

  “Here’s the coffee. I’ll take her a cup.”

  He moved back into the room along with George to allow Joanie access. She was just placing the tray on the table when his mother’s voice sounded in the hall below. Had she commandeered the master of ceremonies to escort her to their lodging?

  “Oh, are you back, Hemp? Where is her ladyship?”

  Hemp’s deep tones answered. “I believe in the parlour, milady.”

  His mother clicked her tongue. “She ought to be resting.”

  Relieved the dowager had returned, Francis went to the door as her step sounded on the stair. She could keep George company while he went to face Tillie’s fury.

  For several minutes Ottilia paced the limited floor space between the four-poster and the two presses into which the maids had unpacked the clothes she and Francis had brought with them, longing for her parlour at home. To be denied the solace of her retreat seemed all of a piece with her husband’s perfidious trick.

  Oh, she saw it all now. No doubt Sybilla had been party to the scheme. Playing upon her guilt to make her feel obliged to fall in with it. And for what? To force her into doing precisely what she did not wish to do. To use, moreover, the very thing to which in the normal way Francis would have made the strongest objections. A murder forsooth! And he ever the one to do his utmost to stop her becoming involved.

  The injustice of this caught at her conscience and Ottilia halted. That was unfair. Even at Witherley, when he’d hated the whole affair from the start, Francis had indulged her even after she had been severely endangered. And he had been glad of her help for his brother’s sake when they first met. As indeed for Giles upon the last occasion. But this?

  Fury revived as she recollected the deception practised upon her. Was it fair? Was it just to treat her like some idiotic fool who could not be trusted with the truth? What, was she a child to be lured by a package of sugarplums? For that was the sum of it. Get her to the place and shake the sweetmeats in her face to tempt her to eat? Faugh!

  Finding herself by the near press, she brought down closed fists and hammered on its surface, making the bottles and jars arrayed along the back edge jump.

  The click of the door latch brought her head round. Francis stood there, holding a cup and saucer. “I brought your coffee.”

  Ottilia’s righteous wrath began to dissipate. The very sight of him standing there regarding her with that look of question in his beloved features was enough to waken her conscience once again. She drew an unsteady breath.

  “Thank you.”

  She moved to the end of the bed and sank down upon it. Francis came over and held out the saucer, the dark eyes sombre. Ottilia took it and lifted the cup to her lips, glad of the excuse it afforded not to meet his gaze. She swallowed a mouthful, but her throat felt tight and she put the cup down. His silence goaded her and she looked up.

  “Why didn’t you ask me? Why didn’t you tell me about it when you said George was staying here?”

  He eyed her for a moment. “Would you have come if I had?”

  Balked, Ottilia looked away. Of course she would not have done. Nothing but Sybilla’s prod at her love for him could have persuaded her out of her cocoon.

  “Not for myself, no.”

  “You mean you came to please me?”

  The hard edge to his voice hurt her and she hit back. “It’s all I cared for.”

  “Not noticeably.”

  His tone was decidedly bitter. Ottilia looked up again.

  “How can you say that?”

  “I don’t want you dutiful, Tillie. I want you back to the woman I fell in love with.”

  Her throat ached and she fought to contain the rising tears. Without thinking, she thrust the cup and saucer at him. Francis took it and crossed to the fireplace, setting it down on the mantel. With pain at her heart, Ottilia watched him lean an elbow on the mantelpiece, his gaze dropping to the empty grate. He spoke without looking at her, low-voiced.

  “Weep if you wish, Tillie. I can bear that better than your listlessness.”

  “I am trying, Francis.”

  He looked round, a spark in his eye. “Yes, you’re extremely trying, my dearest dear, but if you’d only cry at me it would at least be a valid reproach.”

  Shocked both by words and manner, Ottilia felt the desire to weep begin to ease. “Reproach? For what should I reproach you?”

  He straightened. “Oh, come, Tillie, use the intelligence I know you possess. I’m not talking about getting you down to the seaside against your will.”

  The harshness was pronounced. Bewilderment wreathed Ottilia’s brain. “Then I must be stupid indeed, for I have not the remotest guess as to what you mean, Fan.”

  His dark eyes raked her. “Have you not? Or is this pretence? For pity’s sake, don’t take a petty revenge because I deceived you over this. I know you blame me.”

  “Blame you how? What are you talking about?”

  He looked away, his gaze travelling from her to the window and back again. His eyes were hard and bright. “For the infant, Tillie. I chose you and you can’t forgive me, can you? Patrick warned me you might not agree but I didn’t care. I told him to save you at any cost, and we both know who paid the price.”

  Every word fell like a stone in Ottilia’s breast. All these weeks Francis had been carrying this and not a word said. Oh, she had been blind indeed! Without realising what she did, she held out her hand to him, her bosom too full at first to speak. He look
ed at the hand, then up to her face.

  “As easily as that, Tillie?”

  She drew a breath. “You have it wrong, Fan. So wrong.”

  A frown creased his brow. “How so?”

  “I never blamed you, not for a minute. That’s not…” She broke off as the ache rose up from where she’d tried to banish it, and began again. “That’s not at all how it was.”

  “Then how was it?”

  “It is not the loss that troubles me. Our son would not have lived beyond a few days, even had he survived the birth.”

  She spoke with difficulty, the images that plagued her once again writhing in her head.

  “Yes, so Patrick told me afterwards.” Francis moved at last, coming to take a seat beside her. “But if you knew —?”

  She reached for his hand and it closed over hers. “I knew the moment he said the cord was around the child’s neck. Blue babies suffocate, Fan. If they survive, their lungs may be affected and they cannot breathe well enough to build strength.” She felt her voice begin to shake, but forced the words out. “But it was too late for our little one, Fan. Even as they cut him free, he was gone.”

  Francis’s arm came about her, and his voice was husky. “Don’t, Tillie. There’s no need to speak of it.”

  She turned in his hold to look at him, disregarding the tears that were trickling down her cheeks. “There is, Fan, because you don’t understand. I was glad he died, for he was no longer suffering.” Her breath became heavy with sorrow and she found it hard to get the words out. “You see, it is — it is what he went through before that I cannot bear. All those dreadful weeks towards the end, when I was so uncomfortable and cross. Remember how he kept moving and kicking? I cursed him so. And all the poor little mite was trying to do was to get himself free and he — he only managed to entangle himself the more … and I didn’t know, Fan. I didn’t know.”

  The grief she had been holding at bay could no longer be contained. Grateful for Francis’s silent strength, she wept into his chest as he held her cradled against him.

  The storm passed at length. Ottilia lay weakly in her haven, hearing the soothing murmurs as one in a dream, feeling only the warm hands that stroked and petted her into quiet at last.