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In the light of day, Jane felt foolish about her revelation of the night before—until she saw Robert Parks at the breakfast table. He was too confident to be a servant. Too certain of himself as an individual. No, he was here for a purpose … and the only purpose she could imagine was to revenge himself on the father who had abandoned him.
Now that she'd had time to consider, Jane couldn't blame him. William had promised the boy would be adopted. 'Raised by a fine family,' he had assured her. 'Nothing left to do but deliver the child to them.' Oh, Elizabeth had been right all along. Jane was a fool to have trusted him to keep his word, a fool to have let him take her child.
They had spoken bitter, bitter words to one another over it, she and Elizabeth, and the only words between them since were the ones Jane spoke when she went to that wretched room and told Elizabeth that she was coming to work as a cook at Gosford Park. It had cost her in pride to go to William and ask him to take Elizabeth on, knowing that this man she had once thought cared about her had fathered a child with her sister at the same time—but it had been worth it. At the cost of her own child, Jane had kept her position, her safety, and so she had that to offer her sister when Elizabeth's child died of a fever.
No, Jane didn't blame her boy for wanting to kill his father. She rather wanted to do so, too.
Well, why shouldn't she?
The thought flashed through her mind so quickly she almost didn't catch it. She stopped in the middle of the hall, stock still, to determine if she really wanted to go down that road.
How else did one stop a man determined on murder? Because he would do it. He would find a way. If possible, a way that wouldn't lead to him. If not—she wouldn't put it past Robert Parks to do it openly, if he had to. No, that must not happen, but the only way she could see to make certain it didn't was to precede him. Whatever he planned, whenever he planned it, she would have to get there first.
Yes.
Strangely, having decided on murder was the most interesting thing Jane had thought of in ages. It was admittedly entertaining to be determining how best she could do it, how to manage so she wouldn't get caught, so that nothing would come back on her. Mrs. Wilson, proud and cold and above suspicion. Yes, that would help, she thought.
Realizing that she was still standing in the hall, she moved on. Not to the kitchen, where she had been intending to go—Elizabeth would see that something was amiss with her immediately—but on down the hall to the servants' dining room, to see that everything had been put away from breakfast.
Jane found it remarkably difficult to focus on her work that morning. Well, perhaps not remarkably. Perhaps it was to be expected that she would be distracted, knowing that her son—her son!—was in his room just a few floors up, contemplating the murder of the man her life had been inextricably bound to for decades.
The hunt would go on for some time. The luncheon wasn't her province—Elizabeth wouldn't thank her for interfering with it, anyway—and with everyone out of the house, she had little to do. Many things she could do, but nothing she must. Without consciously deciding on it, she found herself closing her ledger and climbing the stairs. She blessed her position. If she had been any lower in the servants' hierarchy, she could never have simply gone to a visiting manservant's room. But she was Mrs. Wilson, the housekeeper. Above suspicion.
She saw Commander Meredith's valet in the hall, going back to his own room, and brazened it out. At least, she felt as though she was being quite obvious, but she doubted Mr. Meredith would give it any thought whatsoever that she had been seen in the hall.
Jane hesitated before she knocked, her heart pounding. It was difficult to breathe, and she needed a moment to compose herself before she spoke to him. Deciding he must not be in there, she forbore knocking and simply opened the door, feigning surprise when she saw him there, lying on the bed smoking a cigarette with a book in his hand.
He was a reader. Her boy. That simple thing touched her deeply—it was what she would have hoped to instill in him if she had chosen to raise him. Books had kept her sane all these years.
"Mr. Stockbridge. I am sorry to disturb you. I was just making my routine inspection."
He gestured, as if to say 'be my guest', and went back to his book. Some part of Jane that wanted him to recognize her, to know her, was hurt. But why should he, after all? How would he have any way of knowing? He didn't look like her, after all. He looked like—William, yes, a bit, but also her father, from what she recalled.
"So, uh, how are you settling in with Lord Stockbridge?" she asked him, before she could stop herself. It was unlike her, and she suspected he would know it.
He looked up at her. "Sorry?"
There was nothing for it. She was here, and she needed—she needed to know about him, before he left and she likely would never see him again. Jane moved farther into the room. "How are you settling in with Lord Stockbridge?" Hastily she went on, "Only I know that you haven't been with him for long."
There was another pause as he stared at her, clearly finding the question odd. "Not long, no." He took a drag off the cigarette.
In her disappointment at the way he kept himself closed off from her, she said automatically, "I'm afraid smoking isn't allowed up here."
With a faint laugh, as if he found the rule ridiculous, he stubbed the cigarette out. Perhaps it was ridiculous—but she could imagine one of these foolish young people burning the house down with an improperly extinguished cigarette, and the rule kept them reminded that this wasn't their home, in case they needed such a reminder. Many of them smoked in their rooms anyway, she knew, but she tried to discourage the ones she couldn't trust as much as she could.
Behind the cigarette, she saw a photograph sitting on the bedside table. A photograph of herself. Much younger, of course, looking entirely different than she looked today, but still—he carried her photograph wherever he went. He hadn't forgotten that once he'd had a mother, and he didn't blame her. He didn't hate her. If she kept nothing else when he left, she could keep that knowledge, locked up tightly in her heart.
She should go, she knew, but she couldn't seem to tear herself away. "Um, well, I hope you're finding everything to make His Lordship's stay more comfortable. I hope we haven't forgotten anything."
"I can't believe you forget much, Mrs. Wilson."
"No. Not much," she agreed. She turned to go. "Well, I'll leave you to your book."
As she closed the door, she closed her mind, returning to her life as Mrs. Wilson, the perfect servant. There was much to do, and she couldn't afford to seem at all different from usual. Not today.
She had not counted on Elsie embarrassing herself at dinner. That Sir William was carrying on an affair with the girl was well-known, upstairs and downstairs, and Mrs. Wilson had thought they were rather good for each other, all things considered … and had made discreet hints about being careful. She didn't want to see a girl under her care having to make the choices she and Elizabeth had.
Jane had heard the story whispered almost immediately—gossip fairly flew belowstairs. She rather admired Elsie for standing up for Sir William. The girl wasn't wrong. For all that he had done terrible things, he had carried the entire Carton family on his shoulders all these years, and had built up an empire out of nothing.
Nevertheless, she wasn't going to forgive him for giving her boy away, for abandoning him in an orphanage, or for sacking Elizabeth when she chose to keep her own child all those years ago. She had gotten back at him for Elizabeth by standing quietly with an impassive face until he agreed to take Elizabeth back as a cook because he couldn't argue or shout Jane out of her determination … but for her son, for what his life could and should have been, to keep him from ruining the life that lay before him … Yes. Her resolution was unshaken.
Glancing at the clock, she calculated the time. William had gone to his study already, sulking over Elsie; the others would be leaving the dinner table soon, going into the drawing room. Mr. Novello would begin playing shortly afterward, and the rest of the servants would—discreetly, they imagined—hover in the doorway to hear the free concert.
Robert would take this opportunity, she was certain of it. She must be there before him.
Quickly, efficiently, she made the after-dinner coffee, adding to it enough from the bottle she had quietly taken away to do the job. There must be no doubt, no chance of his surviving.
Jane had expected to be nervous, but now that she came to it, she felt quite calm. She had always had an orderly, organized mind, and this task was one of many, to be approached step by step.
She moved carefully up the stairs with her precious burden, mustn't spill so much as a drop, and let herself into the study, closing the door behind her.
"What do you want?" William barked as she came around behind him.
"Brought you some coffee."
"If I wanted coffee, I'd have rung for it," he snarled. His hand reached out and knocked the cup off the saucer. It smashed on the floor.
Jane started to clear it up, but he snapped at her again. "Leave that. Gimme some whiskey."
Glad she had had the forethought to tuck the bottle into her pocket, Jane went to the side table where the things were set out, selecting a glass and adding several drops from the bottle. The whiskey might serve this purpose more efficiently than the coffee, she thought, decanting a reasonable amount into the glass. The taste might well mask the poison better. She added soda from the siphon and carried the glass to the desk, placing it in front of him.
He was fiddling with a gun, taking it apart and oiling it, as he so often did, especially when he was upset about something. Perhaps he'd been genuinely fond of Elsie, Jane thought—as fond as he had ever been of anyone, at least.
She had the satisfaction of seeing him lift the glass to his lips and take a deep drink from it as she was leaving the room. It would be enough.
It must be enough.
The kitchen staff were on the stairs, listening to the music. They got to their feet as soon as they heard her coming, and she stopped to chastise them, because that was what she would normally have done, singling out Dorothy as the one of them who was also under her supervision.
Elizabeth got to her feet. "Excuse me, but Dorothy's under my jurisdiction as well, you know. And I say she can listen to a spot of music if she likes."
Jane didn't bother to respond to that. Elizabeth was quite right, after all. She moved with dignity down the stairs past them, letting Elizabeth have the victory.
The small battles didn't matter, not tonight. Tonight she had won the war.
Jane hadn't been able to settle down to anything. The waiting was too tense. When would they find him? How would they find him? She hadn't been watching Robert tonight, but she knew that whatever he had intended to do, he had done.
And she had been there first, so no one could touch him. Never. Her boy was safe; the man who had betrayed them both was dead. It was hardly what she had expected would come of what had seemed an ordinary house party, but she couldn't regret it. Robert's handsome face appeared in her mind's eye. No, she couldn't regret seeing her boy, seeing how intelligent and proud he was. He'd never make a servant, but hopefully now he could find something better to do with his life.
The rushing of feet outside her room sent Jane's heart leaping. She opened the door. "Is anything the matter?"
Dorothy looked at her with wide, fearful eyes. "Oh, Mrs. Wilson, it's—it's his lordship. He's … he's dead."
Jane kept herself calm, reacting as closely to how she imagined she might under more typical circumstances as she could. "Dead? Are you sure?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am."
"Well, I'd better go up. Is Mr. Jenkins there?"
"I think so."
Jane left her room, smoothing her hair back with one hand. Whatever she found up there, she would need to look unmoved.
It was, she thought, an even race as to who was most composed and on top of things—Jane herself, or Lady Sylvia. As if they didn't all know that Lady Sylvia had dreamt of her husband's death in her heart for years.
Lord Stockbridge had called for the police, so Jane organized the servants while they waited. Lady Sylvia was keeping all the guests back, and Mr. Jennings was standing guard over the study. Very businesslike, they all were. If Jane stopped to think about it, she might be amused. She wanted to laugh, and she must not, or she would never stop.
The police called for Probert, and Mr. Jennings sent the rest of them to bed. The police weren't interested in speaking with them tonight. Jane breathed a sigh of relief. If anyone had seen her go into the study, or seen Robert go in, they would have said by now. Perhaps she was safe.
Elsie went by her, Elsie in her disgrace one of very few people in the house who were genuinely sorry William was dead. Jane told her to stay in her room. The last thing they needed was Elsie going to pieces.
Robert passed her as she stood there in the doorway. He was munching a cookie and she thought what a strange thing, to eat a cookie when you imagined you had just killed your father. As he went by, their eyes met. There was a cockiness in his, a pride in what he had done, and for just a moment, Jane wanted to tell him everything. But why take away his sense of accomplishment, after all? And for what? He wouldn't thank her, she knew him well enough for that by now.
She let him go without a word.
The guests were all released for the night, and naturally expected the usual level of service as they went to bed. Jane had been a servant long enough that she didn't find this unusual.
She waited for the rest of the servants to settle, avoiding a few curious glances from Elizabeth, before going to bed herself. But she didn't sleep. She lay awake long into the night, staring up at the ceiling and going over the events of the day. It didn't feel quite real. Not yet.
