Two

 

Charlotte picked up her breakfast tea, sipped, and coughed at the acid flavor of the brew. She looked up to find Bertram gazing at her, his dark eyes gleaming. “What have you put in my cup?” she asked him. She should have known to take care when she found only her youngest brother in the breakfast room. She shouldn’t have turned her back to fill her plate.

“A spoonful of vinegar,” he replied.

“Why?”

“You look so funny when you scrunch up your face.”

“Are we four years old?” She and Bertram had shared a nursery for some years, as she had not with the older boys.

“No. You’re twenty and I’m eighteen.”

The latter was often worse than four, in Charlotte’s opinion. Bertram was large enough to play serious pranks and still young enough to want to. “Beast.” She pushed the cup aside.

Looking contrite, he fetched her a fresh one. After sliding a pot of raspberry jam in her direction, he said, “Can I ask a favor, Charlotte?”

“You put vinegar in my tea and then want a favor?”

“It was just a joke.”

“It tasted vile.”

“I’m sorry. But…would you speak to Papa for me?”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “About what? And why ask me?”

“He thinks you’re the most intelligent of all of us,” Bertram added.

“He does?” Charlotte experienced a moment of pure gratification before wondering whether this was true. Bertram was in his coaxing mode. He might be exaggerating. He probably was.

“Also you’re not afraid of him,” her youngest brother went on.

“Are you?” She was surprised at that. Their father was not a tyrant.

“No. Not exactly. But when he doesn’t listen, my tongue gets tangled and I make a muddle of things.”

“What do you want from him?” Charlotte asked.

“I want to set up my own breeding line in the stables.”

She should have known it would have something to do with horses.

“Stanley has one, and I have some very good ideas for crosses.”

“Have you shared them with Papa?”

“I don’t want him to steal them.”

“Papa?”

Bertram shifted impatiently in his chair. “Not steal exactly. He just…if he thought my suggestions were good, he’d just make them without letting me…”

“Have the credit?”

“Show what I can do,” Bertram corrected. “By the time the foals are born, everyone will have forgotten it was my idea. It’s very difficult sometimes being the fourth brother.”

She knew the feeling, more than he might realize. “All right. I’ll ask him.”

“You will?” His expression suggested that he’d thought she would refuse. “You’re a good egg, Charlotte.”

“But Papa doesn’t think I know much about the stables,” she pointed out.

“You could tell him you’re impressed by me.”

She gave him a look.

“I’m sorry about the tea,” Bertram said. “I won’t do it again.” His hands closed into fists. “I really want to make my mark. I know I can do it.”

“I thought you wanted to go to London and set society on its ear.”

Bertram looked blank.

“You said so at dinner last night,” Charlotte pointed out.

“Oh.” He waved this aside, nearly knocking over the teapot with the sweep of his arm. “I was just twitting Cecil. That’s the sort of thing he cares about. We can’t let him get too full of himself.”

“Why not?”

“It might get him into trouble, out there among the toffs,” her brother replied, his tone only half joking.

There was more to Bertram than she’d realized. But then Charlotte had found that to be true with each of her brothers as they grew up. Henry had matured the most, becoming an acute, impressive man. But he was the oldest. Cecil’s foppishness hid a keen wit. And Stanley, well, he was amazingly kind and unpredictably canny, though he would never be a thinker. “I’ll speak to Papa today.”

“You’re the best.” Bertram stood and came over to give her a hug.

***

Entering the breakfast room just then, taking in this scene of familial affection, Laurence received smiles from the two youngest Deepings. As Bertram straightened and wished him a good morning, Laurence felt a twinge of envy. No one had ever hugged him in that easygoing way. Amorous embraces were not the same. Here, simple warmth was obviously a common occurrence, as characteristic as the Deepings’ loud debates. And it was ridiculous to resent this. He didn’t. He wouldn’t. That would be unacceptable.

Laurence felt as if he’d strayed into an alien land and was fleetingly sorry he’d come to visit the Deepings. He could have been calmly settled at some comfortable inn for the hunting season, where all was organized and…impersonal. This last word startled him. He dismissed it. He would be polite. Good manners got one through most things. Showing nothing of these thoughts, he said “good morning,” sat down, and started to pour tea.

Miss Deeping held up a warning hand. “It isn’t in the teapot?” she inexplicably asked her brother.

“No, it was just your cup.”

She waved Laurence on as if nothing unusual had been said.

Conversation with this young lady was like ice-skating, he decided, a pastime he had not fully mastered. One would be gliding along, beginning to feel confident on one’s feet, even graceful and exhilarated. Then an unseen bump would trip one up. The skates would slip. There would be flailing and clumsiness and then the inevitable tumble into disaster.

Miss Deeping offered him a plate of muffins. She wore a gown of peach muslin today. The warm color flattered her pale complexion, and ruffles softened her angular frame. He wouldn’t have thought her prone to ruffles. Wondering why she compelled the eye, he reached for a muffin.

“Enjoy your breakfast with my favorite sister,” Bertram said and went out. Laurence dropped the muffin. Fortunately, it landed on his plate.

“All my brothers think that very amusing,” she said.

Under her sharp gaze, Laurence felt that sensation of wobbling skates.

“I am his only sister,” she added.

Of course. He knew that.

“So favorite is hardly a compliment.”

She spoke as if to a small child. It was becoming annoying. “Obviously,” he replied.

Miss Deeping blinked.

Should he have said something more flattering? But he couldn’t think of anything. “What was in your cup and not the teapot?” Laurence asked.

“You noticed…”

“Obviously,” he repeated.

She eyed him as if reconsidering something. “Bertram put vinegar in my tea.”

“He what? Why?”

“He thought my reaction would be amusing.”

“I don’t imagine you were amused.”

“No.”

And yet a few minutes later, they had been laughing and hugging. Laurence didn’t understand this family.

“Brothers play pranks,” Miss Deeping said, as if this explained all.

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t any.”

“Sisters?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“None at all?”

“My parents were killed when I was four.”

“Killed?”

Laurence was appalled. He never said it that way. And certainly not to a near-stranger. He was an expert at deflecting questions about his family. Yet here was a slip, like those skates again and the sensation of flailing. She was waiting. Laurence reached for one of his usual evasions, but he found himself saying, “They were murdered.”

Miss Deeping’s dark eyes widened. Her mouth fell a little open. He had thoroughly startled her. Laurence realized he had wanted to. And he took a surprising degree of pleasure in his success, even though he was also bewildered by his errant impulse. Regrets followed in a concerted rush. Why had he told her?

A rumble of voices heralded the entrance of Stanley and the two other houseguests. The room filled with boisterous young men debating where they would go shooting today and what birds they were likely to flush. Miss Deeping’s dark eyes remained fixed on Laurence through this conversation, and he found her gaze unsettling. He was sorry to have attracted her attention. And yet he wasn’t. The mixture was confusing.

***

All the young men in the house went out shooting soon after breakfast. Charlotte, seeking out her father to fulfill her promise to Bertram, thought of nothing but Glendarvon’s revelation. Murdered! How had that come about? Her mind bubbled with questions.

Her father was in the offices attached to the stables, where he could almost always be found at this time of day. The Deeping farm stretched over broad acres, with space set aside for mares and foals, young horses being trained, stallions at stud, and older animals lazing in retirement.

“Good morning, Papa,” Charlotte said as she entered.

Her father looked up from an account book and smiled at her. “Charlotte.”

“May I speak to you for a moment?”

“Of course.”

She sat in one of the chairs facing his desk. Knowing her father preferred people to come to the point rather than dance around it, she said, “Bertram was telling me he would like to start his own breeding line here. He is full of ideas, apparently.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Why not bring them to me?”

Charlotte thought it best not to mention the issue of credit. “He said his tongue gets tangled when he tries. Perhaps he cares too much what you think?”

“Oh, is that it?” Her father smiled.

“I think it probably is.”

“If he can’t argue for his scheme, can he carry it out?”

“Well, those are two different things,” Charlotte suggested.

“So you think I should agree?”

She hadn’t expected to be consulted. “Me?”

“You are a good judge of people, I think. You have a keen mind.”

His praise filled her with elation and led her to take a moment to think. “I would give him a chance.”

Her father nodded as if this settled the matter. “Then I will.”

Charlotte was immensely gratified by this sign of trust.

“How are you, my dear?” he added.

“Very well, Papa.”

“You enjoyed your season in London?” Her father had not accompanied them to town, being busy with the stables.

“Yes.”

“You’ve seemed quiet since you returned. Are you sad to be back at home after all the excitement?”

Charlotte shook her head. “But I do miss my friends.”

He nodded. Ada, Sarah, and Harriet had visited the Deepings more than once over the years and charmed the whole household. “You must. You had their companionship for a long time.”

She hadn’t realized he’d noticed. But that was the way with Papa. He seemed immersed in his own concerns, but he missed very little.

“Your mother says you don’t intend to marry.”

“Oh, I was just putting her off. She will push young men at me.”

“So you do mean to marry?”

“I suppose so. It seems the only choice.”

“There will always be a place for you here,” he said. “I will see to it.”

“Like Aunt Carew?” Her father’s sister had returned to her old home when she’d been widowed and now lived with them.

For the first time in this conversation, Papa looked doubtful. “Jenny loved the stables from the time she could walk over here.”

Charlotte had always found this an incongruous name for her gruff relative. She could never quite call her Aunt Jenny.

“You don’t, however,” her father observed.

“I’m proud of our reputation and fond of the horses.”

“But not interested in working at it like Jenny. And Bertram and Stanley.”

“I’m sorry, Papa.”

He waved this aside. “There’s no need for that. Henry and Cecil aren’t either. Each of you children must find your own way.” He smiled. “I shouldn’t say ‘children.’ None of you are that anymore.”

They were not. And so they must find futures for themselves. Charlotte appreciated the scope her father offered. She’d seen families forcing their offspring into wretched mismatches. Or trying to. Her friend Harriet had been burdened with a grandfather like that. But the carte blanche was also a bit daunting.

“A passion gives life savor,” he added.

Was he urging marriage after all? “For a husband?” wondered Charlotte. And then wished she hadn’t spoken.

He shook his head. “Love is vital, of course, but I am speaking of some abiding interest or purpose.” He gestured at the stables around him as an example. “A thing that lends importance to one’s days. You should find yours, Charlotte. I think you are the sort of person who really needs it.”

The observation shook her like a high wind. He was right. Charlotte marveled at her father’s keenness. She longed for a sense of purpose. And she’d once had one.

She’d adored solving mysteries with her friends. The four of them had banded together to unravel some odd happenings at school, discovering they had complementary abilities. Some people had laughed at them. A good many people, actually. But later on, they’d uncovered a treasure hidden for centuries. Those had been triumphs! All her mental faculties had been alive and useful. She’d been so proud of their successes.

But that time was gone. Her friends were far away. Their lives had permanently diverged. She couldn’t do it by herself. Could she? Without Sarah’s head full of odd facts, Harriet’s practical sense, Ada’s flair and vision? Charlotte’s talent had been—was—dispassionate analysis, charts, and methodical systems. Which were extremely useful, she noted. One might even say critical to figuring out solutions.

“What is it?” asked her father. “You went a thousand miles away suddenly.”

“I was just thinking about what you said,” she replied. Henry was about to begin a career in the Foreign Office. Stanley would take over the stables eventually, and Bertram would work with him. Cecil possessed his own ambitions. Charlotte had been comparatively aimless. Until the hint of a mystery had fallen into her lap this very morning. It seemed like fate.

“Ah,” Papa said, looking flattered.

She could begin by making a few inquiries. Charlotte started to ask her father if he’d heard anything about the Glendarvon murders, then changed her mind. The marquess hadn’t said it was a secret. But there’d been a moment when he’d looked stricken. She felt this was not information to be heedlessly shared. She would ask Stanley instead. He and Glendarvon were friends. Stanley would know whatever there was to be known. Charlotte rose, wondering if she could find her second brother.

She could not. And the entire day passed with no opportunity to speak to him privately. Stanley was a convivial fellow, rarely alone in the house. She hadn’t quite realized how much he was liked. Watching him talk and laugh with Glendarvon and Henry’s two friends, Charlotte found herself smiling not at Stanley’s wit, which was uncomplicated, but at the good humor and acceptance he projected. If she ever had to confess an embarrassment, she would choose to tell Stanley, she decided. Just as she would take convoluted intellectual puzzles to Henry, social difficulties to Cecil, and… Well, Bertram would be helpful in plotting mischief, should she ever choose to do so.

The next morning, she finally tracked down Stanley in a loose box at the stable, with a mare’s hoof in his hands. Stanley showed no surprise at her appearance even though it was unusual, saying merely, “Come and hold her, Charlotte.”

She took the mare’s halter, murmured to her, and stroked her neck while Stanley picked a small stone from under her shoe. It was a farrier’s job, but Stanley never hesitated when there was a task at hand.

“Thanks,” he said when he’d finished and set the hoof back on the ground. “What are you doing out here? Did you come to see the new filly?”

She hadn’t, but she might have. It was certainly a reason he could understand. The last of the season’s foals had been born a week ago, and Charlotte was well aware of the appeal of a baby horse. They walked together to the pasture where the mares and foals were kept together. Grooms walked among them, getting the latest generation of Deeping animals accustomed to a human presence and touch.

“That’s her,” said Stanley, pointing.

Charlotte followed his finger to the new filly, dark brown with a blaze of white on her forehead. She was playing a frisky game of peekaboo around her mother’s legs, kicking up her tiny hooves with exuberant joy. It was contagious. Charlotte laughed. She recognized the mare as a good-tempered lady who had produced several champions. “She has nice lines.”

“I knew she would.” Stanley’s voice held deep satisfaction. Breeding the perfect racehorse was his passion, no doubt about that. “So what is it?” he asked her.

“It?”

“You don’t often come out here in the morning.”

Stanley did notice things. It didn’t do to forget that. “I wanted to ask you something,” she replied.

Stanley merely nodded.

Best just to plunge in, Charlotte decided. “Your friend Glendarvon said his parents were murdered.”

“He told you that?” Stanley sounded startled.

“Yes.”

“He hardly ever tells anyone.” Her brother gazed at her.

“He told you, apparently.”

“Yes, but only after we’d known each other for years and had a bit too much to drink one night.”

“So it’s a secret?”

“Well…” Stanley’s forehead creased with thought. “Not exactly. I mean, it’s known. It was much talked of at the time, I believe. Glendarvon just doesn’t mention it.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know if I should speak about it.”

“You can’t betray any confidences, of course. I know you never would.” Charlotte tried to keep her tone casual. “But he did mention the fact to me. And you say it was talked about.”

Stanley frowned as if he was working this out. “Why are you interested?”

“I’m curious. It’s a mystery.”

“Glendarvon is not some lost bauble to be retrieved.”

Charlotte struggled to remain calm and reasonable. “I’m aware of that, Stanley.”

Her brother’s frown deepened. Then he shrugged. “I don’t know very much more. He was four years old. His parents were found dead in suspicious circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

Stanley shifted uncomfortably. “Circumstances that made it clear they’d been attacked.”

“As if they’d tried to fight someone off, you mean?”

“This isn’t really the sort of thing you should be thinking about.”

Charlotte took this to mean it had been a gory scene. She didn’t push for details. “Who did it?”

Stanley shrugged.

“The killer wasn’t caught?”

“No.”

“So no one knows who killed them?”

“This isn’t like some pet crow stealing jewelry, Charlotte.”

“I know that.” It was a true mystery. She felt a distinct thrill.

“You mustn’t stick your nose in.”

“It all happened more than twenty years ago. I suppose there’s nothing much to find.” Unless people hadn’t looked properly. Or added up the facts in the proper way.

“It’s not your business.”

“But if I could—”

“Glendarvon was there,” Stanley blurted out, then looked sorry he’d spoken.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“He was there when his parents were murdered?”

“Forget I said anything!”

“I can’t really do that.” Charlotte gave him a sidelong glance. “I could ask him.”

Stanley looked distressed and goaded. “Please don’t.”

“But, Stanley—”

“They found him when they found the bodies. That’s all I know.”

Charlotte felt a moment of horror. A four-year-old child had been nearby as his parents were being killed?

“I shouldn’t have told you that,” Stanley said.

“If you hadn’t, I might have asked a very upsetting question,” Charlotte replied.

“Yes! You mustn’t mention anything about this to Glendarvon. Or anyone else, Charlotte.”

She could see it would be difficult. Intrusive. Yet she knew curiosity would eat at her. Charlotte wished for her old friends more than ever. She could discuss anything with them without fear it would get out.

“Promise me you will not,” Stanley demanded.

“I wouldn’t, unless…”

“Charlotte!”

“I will not bring it up.” She stepped away before he could insist on a stricter vow. She would keep her oath. But if Glendarvon ever broached the subject, she would not turn away.