Chapter 65: Entrances and Exits

Emily Martingale, her daughter Fanny, and Fanny's nursemaid Sally duly stepped down from Sir John Tavington's coach, and were given a warm welcome. Jane thought John's fiancée very pretty indeed, in a pleasant, unintimidating way. The little girl was enchanting, even tired out with her long journey. John apologized repeatedly, but had to depart almost immediately to attend a session at the Commons, leaving his intended and her daughter with his sisters and his sister-in-law.

"Your house is very tall," Fanny informed Jane seriously, as they climbed the wide staircase. The child stopped and stared in awe up at the light slanting through the oval oculus. "That's pretty."

Ash was baffled at first by the presence of a little girl who was not Susan Bordon, and then grew very excited about showing her all the treasures of the nursery. She, in turn, showed him Princess Sally Augusta, her beautiful doll. Ash perceived the doll as a particularly grand sort of puppet, and the Princess seemed destined to be the heroine of all sorts of thrilling adventures.

A very nice nursery tea was laid out, and Jane smiled when Fanny proposed to Ash that they should play that she was the Mamma, and he was the Papa, and the two little babies were their children.

"If I were a Papa, I'd give them a whipping!" Ash declared. "They can't do anything!"

"No whipping the babies, Ash," Jane interposed, very severely.

"Oh, no!" Fanny reproved Ash, wide-eyed. "No whippings! Do let's have tea now. I shall pour. Do you take sugar, Mr. Ash?"

Jane watched for a while, amused, while Fanny attempted to imitate her mother, carefully pouring the weak, milky tea. Ash happily devoured his share of the treats. Emily looked about her with pleasure.

"This is a charming nursery. And what handsome boys! The golden-haired child is your brother, I understand. And also—that little boy?"

"No," smiled Jane, unsurprised at Emily's wrong guess. "There is my brother, Tom Rutledge. He takes after his father, just as Ash resembles his mother. This is my little son, William Francis."

William Francis, hearing his name spoken in his mother's voice, looked around eagerly and began crawling over to her with amazing speed. Jane lifted him up into her arms and kissed him.

Emily reached out to stroke his silky hair. "What a sweet boy! There is something remarkably intelligent in his eyes."

"He does seem very quick," agreed Jane, very satisfied with her companion. Jane thought William Francis showed remarkable intelligence, herself.

"And his eyes are green," observed Emily, admiring. "Such a pretty, unusual color. How proud you must be of him, Mrs. Tavington."

"Indeed I am, Mrs. Martingale. I am proud of all my boys—however, they can make quite a bit of noise, and so I have arranged this little room here--" she said, leading the way to a door that let off from the nursery. "I thought Fanny and her nurse might want a quiet, private place to sleep."

"That is most thoughtful of you," said Emily, approving of the cozy white room.

They watched the children at their tea a little longer. Fanny was very tired, and after hunger was satisfied, she was more than willing to nap. In fact, there were naps all around, while Jane showed Emily over the house, and welcomed her to her own guest chamber with a certain pride. No musty mattresses or unaired rooms while I am mistress here! she thought to herself, enjoying Emily's thanks and compliments at her accommodations. Mrs. Martingale had no ladies' maid of her own, and Jane told the chambermaid to look after their guest, and then left her to change into fresh garments and to wash herself with the luxurious amounts of hot water Jane had provided.

"Do join us in the drawing room—just below—when you are refreshed, Mrs. Martingale."

In the drawing room, her two sisters-in-law were on the yellow brocade sofa, heads together in gossip. Caroline was telling Penelope all about her journey, her words tumbling over each other in her eagerness. "--Such an interesting country! I had never seen anything so flat. It can look very mysterious, however, when the mist rises. I am so glad I could go! The Clarkes are the loveliest people—very courteous, but entirely without vanity or pretension. John could not ally himself with better-tempered people. Little Fanny is an angel—I quite dote on her—oh, Jane! Is Fanny comfortable in the nursery?"

"Yes, both she and her mother seemed pleased. Fanny had some tea, and now is having a nap. Mrs. Martingale will be with us shortly."

"I cannot wait for Lucy to meet her!" Caroline declared.

"Oh, yes!" agreed Penelope. "Just think! I never dreamed John would find someone, but here is the lady, and before we know it, John and she will be settled in a nest of their own. I wish we could go to Wargrave and show it to Mrs. Martingale. She should see the wonderful house that is to be hers—" Penelope stopped, and glanced guiltily at Jane.

"I am not upset, Penelope," Jane assured her. "I have long since accepted that Wargrave is not mine. I am very glad, however, that I had a hand in making it presentable now that John is to be married. The new housekeeper will be a great help to Mrs. Martingale. I agree with you—it would be lovely if she and her daughter could make the trip to Essex. Of course, in the spring it will be so much more beautiful."

"Indeed it will!" agreed Caroline. "John told me he has ordered a phaeton for his new bride, for use out in the country. She will be able to take the air in comfort, and little Fanny with her—"

"—And no doubt there will soon be a pony for Fanny to ride!" Penelope added.

Emily soon found her way to the drawing room, and a very lively conversation about the wedding plans ensued. Because the parties were both in mourning, the wedding would be a very quiet affair. Only their close family members would be present, and no wedding trip was planned, to the ladies' disappointment. John would simply take his bride and stepdaughter to their new house in London—wherever it might be—and settle in to domestic life right away.

Her future sisters-in-law were a little concerned that she would not have all the amusements and ceremonies usually attendant on a wedding, but Emily shook her head.

"You must remember that I have been married once already. What a to-do it was! We had a huge wedding breakfast, and Mr. Martingale and I went to Harrowgate for a month. I had a gorgeous gown to be married in, and every frippery and foible a new bride could ask—and none of it really mattered, because in the end we were no more married than many another, and then—" her voice trailed off, as her face grew sad.

Jane immediately stepped in to help her. "Of course you should have just the wedding that you want. I can understand that you might want everything to be different this time. But will you be married in black?"

"Oh—not that day, no. I shall have something made in a soft grey, I think, or white with black. The following day, of course, I shall go into full mourning, out of respect for your mother. That is another reason why Sir John and I thought it best not to make a great show and fuss over the wedding."

"Very proper," Caroline observed.

The Protheroes arrived, and Emily was introduced. There was more talk, and some friendly laughter, and it seemed to Jane that Emily was fitting in very nicely with the family. She was not a lady of intellectual gifts, nor did she seem passionate about music or art or letters, but she was a pleasant-spoken woman, with good manners and a gentle air, who could listen as well as talk.

Jane remembered what William had told her about the woman's history. She is not new to London life, after all. She has experienced living in the circles of the rich and fashionable, before her husband went through their money and she fell into poverty. None of this is entirely foreign to her, as it was to me. In a way, she is returning to something with which she was once familiar. I suppose she is likely to keep her head, even restored to wealth and position, now knowing how easily it can be lost. Lady Tavington! It sounds rather grand. She will wear the title, I think, very honorably.

John returned, running up the steps to rejoin his beloved, beaming and smirking like Shakespeare's "smug bridegroom." It was very amusing to see him so artlessly happy, and he bore the shafts of wit broken over his unresisting head with great good humor. He was full of questions about Fanny. Did she like the nursery? Was she getting on with the boys? Was Emily comfortable? Was she very tired after their journey?

Reassured on all these points, he accepted a cup of tea from Jane, still overflowing with happiness. He drank his tea, his eyes fixed on Emily, who looked back with blushes and radiant smiles.

"I heard from Wealdon about the house in Berkeley Square. We can go have a look at it tomorrow. Sounds a perfect place, and with a very long lease offered. If it suits, I had better snap it up."

Tavington came home, and after seconding Jane's welcome to Emily Martingale, took his brother aside for a brief conversation.

"Were you followed?"

"Not sure. If we were, it wasn't obvious. There might have been someone who passed us on the road, and loitered near Pilchards. Anyway, no one challenged us. Will—Fanny was such a good girl in the coach. Emily and Caro got on splendidly. Nothing could have been better. I hope Fanny gets on with the boys—"

"So do I. Seriously, John, I must tell you that I've been all over town, trying to discover what Mamma's wretched documents may be about, and I've had no success at all. I thought perhaps it might have something to do with the Prince of Wales, since he's up to his ears in scandal, but Mamma seems to have had no contact with any of his mistresses—"

John grinned, and lowered his voice. "Did you visit them all?"

"Don't look at me like that," Tavington growled, feeling somewhat guilty, "I spoke to Mrs. Robinson. She met Mamma all of twice. I made some other inquiries, and it appears that Mrs. Elliott never met her at all—and as for the others—none of them moved in spheres that Mamma frequented."

"Well," John considered, his eyes on Emily across the room, "there are plenty of other possibilities. There is little reason to think that Mamma had much—or any—acquaintance with the Prince of Wales, after all. I think it must be something that happened earlier. There was a rumor that the Duke of Cumberland married a clergyman's daughter—" He was distracted by a sweet smile, and walked away.

"Wait, John—" Tavington called, exasperated. "Oh, I give up!"

Jane came to his side, very amused. "It's useless to talk business with your brother at the moment. He's utterly besotted. It's so touching—and Mrs. Martingale seems equally fond of him. How happy they shall be! He mentioned a house in Berkeley Square they were to look at. I wish they could be nearer."

"Well, if something is available in Mortimer Square I have not heard about it. We can't very well go from house to house, suggesting the neighbors remove themselves for our convenience!"

They laughed together, and Tavington offered Jane his arm as they rejoined the rest of the party.

-----

Lord Fanshawe warned Letty that the de Veres were coming for the Season. They were taking a house of their own, but would stay with Lord and Lady Fanshawe for a week, while the rented house was brought up to their exacting standards. The ball to be given at Fanshawe house in two weeks was the proximate cause of their arrival. Clothes in the latest mode would be ordered, their own friends visited, and the money the Honorable James de Vere had received in return for marrying the rich and chilly Miss Winstone would be spent judiciously in creating the most show at the least cost.

The de Veres arrived at Fanshawe House with a great deal of pomp and ceremony. Letty did her best to welcome them, but they were as impenetrably cold to her as they had been at Salton Park. Not rude, indeed: Lord Fanshawe was watchful for any slight to his lady. The de Veres' manners were faultless, but Letty was discovering that it was possible for manifest enemies to be irreproachably polite. Their smiles did not reach their eyes. Their professions of service and familial duty were all that was formal and insincere.

Harmonia had never met them before, and after the first fifteen minutes was genuinely frightened. A month ago, she had hoped to find an ally in the de Veres against all the injustices she had perceived to have been visited upon her. Now, however, she felt very differently. The death of Lady Carteret lay heavy on her conscience. Lady Fanshawe had proved to be a kind friend, and Harmonia realized how desperately she needed a friend. The Honorable James de Vere bowed and looked through her as if she mattered no more than a dog. His wife eyed her with scorn, and Harmonia knew at once that the lady considered Harmonia an unwanted addition to the household—a penniless intruder, a "ward" whose family resemblance branded her a bastard and a disgrace. When the three ladies sat alone together, Mrs. de Vere's sly insinuations made her contempt too obvious for Harmonia to harbor even a shred of hope that she could make herself this woman's friend.

Lord Fanshawe was a tyrant, certainly: but he was a benevolent tyrant who supported her in lavish style. As long as he was obeyed, he would be generous in every material way. Lady Fanshawe had been kind to Harmonia after Lady Carteret's horrible death, and was allowing Harmonia join her in the lovely Painted Parlor. Lord and Lady Fanshawe together were planning a ball to present Harmonia to society, and while nothing had been said about settling any specific sum on his "ward," it was generally expected that Lord Fanshawe would treat any acceptable applicant for Harmonia's hand in his customary liberal way.

Now Harmonia found herself thinking about how very old Lord Fanshawe was, and what might happen if he died and her guardianship passed to his son. Mr. de Vere did not demean himself to address a word to Harmonia himself. His lady, however, when the three women sat together in the drawing room, took it upon herself to give her opinion to Lady Fanshawe in Harmonia's presence about a fitting situation for "the girl" now that her education was complete.

"Of course, without experience she cannot expect a position in the first circles, but perhaps through one of the employment agencies she might find some old countrywoman who desires a companion, or a family of modest means in need of a nursery governess—"

Harmonia trembled at the idea, seeing in a flash herself banished to a poky attic room somewhere in Yorkshire. Letty thought Mrs. de Vere was a very nasty woman, but kept her face calm as she replied, "Lord Fanshawe has said nothing about sending Harmonia away. It is his wish that she live with us. Since he is planning a ball for her seventeenth birthday, I cannot imagine he intends to make a servant of her."

"His lordship gives frequent entertainments. It is hard to believe that this ball is planned in Miss James' honor."

Harmonia fidgeted restlessly in her chair. Letty gave her a quelling look and said, "Perhaps not just for her. It is also to mark our going into half-mourning. However, Harmonia's coming-out coincides nicely with that. Harmonia will lead the dancing, and has a lovely dress ordered for the occasion."

Mrs. de Vere made a faintly disgusted sound of acknowledgment, and fell silent, examining some of the more expensive artifacts in the drawing room. Letty was nervous underneath her calm exterior, but thought of her sister and tried to be brave. What would Jane say?

"How are your little boys, Mrs. de Vere? Have you heard from young Mr. de Vere at Eton? He is such a handsome, well-bred boy."

Not even this question could thaw Mrs. de Vere's glacial demeanour. "I thank you. My sons are all very well."

Another silence. Letty forced herself to speak again. "Since you have arrived on a Monday, you should know that Harmonia and I always have a music lesson and an Italian lesson, starting at noon. Mr. Bellini, our singing master, will be arriving soon. Do you think you might wish to join us in the Painted Parlor?"

Harmonia roused herself, round eyes wider than ever, and sat on her hands to prevent herself making pleading gestures. It was unnecessary. Mrs. de Vere sneered. "I think not."

"Just as you please," Letty said sweetly. "We are sorry to leave you, but we must go if we are to be in time. If you change your mind, you are quite welcome to join us."

Letty smiled graciously, and pulled Harmonia along, feeling that she had been very clever. She could tell Lord Fanshawe that she had invited Mrs. de Vere to join them, and it would be true. Of course, she knew from their previous acquaintance at Salton Park that Mrs. de Vere would refuse to spend hours studying lessons with an Italian singing master. At any rate, the invitation had been made, and now Letty could escape into music and Italian for the afternoon.

Bellini appeared before them punctually, with a low bow and a flashing smile. "Today I have some music by Signor Piccinni—'La buona figliuola.'"

He had a copy for each of them. In handing Letty's to her, he gave her an almost imperceptible wink.

Harmonia looked the piece over, asking, "What is the opera about?"

"Ah, I thought that would amuse you ladies. Goldoni wrote the libretto, and for his source he used Signor Richardson's Pamela. See here, the young Cecchina—the 'good girl' of the title—is Pamela."

"How funny!" exclaimed Harmonia, laughing. "Fancy an Italian writing a opera based on an English novel! This is very amusing, is it not, Lady Fanshawe?"

"Very amusing indeed," answered Letty, without thinking. She was studying her own copy, on the second page of which was a short message in pencil, in a hand she had known all her life.

Dearest Letty,

I am in good health, as are all in the household. I miss you terribly and pray every day that we may be reunited.

Stay well, and know that I am thinking of you.

Your loving sister,

Jane

Letty caught Bellini's eye and smiled radiantly. "What a good choice of music, Signor," she approved.

-----

Harmonia climbed the stairs, anxious to tidy herself before dinner. She must not appear blowsy or common before the de Veres. To her vexation, the unpleasant couple had been given bedchambers near to her own, so she tiptoed down the hall, hoping to avoid them. They were in Mrs. de Vere's room, talking in low voices, and Harmonia would have hurried by, had she not been arrested by the lure of her own name.

"—Miss James, indeed! Imagine flaunting a bastard in the face of society! Really, my love, your father goes too far! It is one thing to expect his new lady to endure it—why not? Considering that she comes from nowhere and nothing, and had not a penny to bless herself with. A pretty toy, without breeding or fortune, cannot refuse to countenance such a creature, but to force his own son and heir to notice her! It is an outrage! I say nothing of myself, of course: my sufferings are as nothing compared to yours—"

"—my dearest, calm yourself. My father is old and no doubt senile. I sounded the lawyer about it, but he thinks it would be impossible to have him declared non compos. I am heartily sorry to disappoint you, but we shall just have to wait for him to die—"

Harmonia froze, listening at the door to the hateful voices. They were low and sibilant, hissing like angry snakes.

"—and she is indeed with child! I cannot be deceived about such things, you know. She is certainly carrying a child, but who can guess how it was fathered—?"

"—oh—it could be my father's I suppose—"

A harsh, mocking laugh. "—no doubt he likes to think so! It would be just the thing to please his pride. It is possible, I suppose, but more likely the brat was got on her by that Italian! It's not to be endured, that a singing-master's bastard will take fifty thousand pounds from our boys!—"

"—I suppose it could be Will Tavington's," generously observed the Honorable James de Vere. "That would be a little better—"

"—but it would still be a cheat and a fraud! It is quite bad enough that your father married her, and removed thirty thousand for the family fortune forever, when he could have had the slut for nine shillings a night!—"

Harmonia flinched, her mouth involuntarily screwing up as if she had tasted poison. What a foul woman. She was about to tiptoe away, when she heard something else of interest. If she had learned nothing else in her years at a boarding school, she had learned that while eavesdroppers might hear no good of themselves, they often learned very useful information. Mr. de Vere was speaking now, in low considering whispers.

"—he can't live much longer, I daresay. If she were to predecease him—die in childbirth or what-have-you—the money need not be lost—"

"—well, we can only hope for the best!"

"—whereas, if he dies and she inherits—well, even if she were to die in childbirth, and even if the child were to die too, I suppose it would all go to her sister—"

"—and her brothers, too," added Mrs. de Vere in fierce resentment. "She has a pair of little brothers that came to live with the Tavingtons a few months ago! Ha! They're probably those Colonial girls' bastards, and they're passing them off as their brothers now. The younger one has dark hair, and is probably Lady Fanshawe's— and everyone has heard how Mrs. Tavington dotes on the older boy—"

A throaty snigger. "—Tavington couldn't afford to be too fastidious. The older girl had twenty thousand. Certainly enough to overlook a few holes in her virtue!"

"—but without proof, it is of no help to us! Really, my dearest, isn't there anything we can do about her? Aren't there people to take care of these situations?"

"—now, now, my love, do not concern yourself. I have, in fact, consulted with someone. He stands ready to assist us—"

Footsteps were thudding up the stairs. Harmonia twitched like a frightened hare, and then hurried soundlessly to her room and shut the door behind her.

-----

Letty had had enough of them after only one day. Dinner was torture, sitting with Mr. de Vere at her right hand, enduring his silent contempt, his refusal to speak to her, his significant glances exchanged with his dreadful wife. However, dinner, while unpleasant, was not irredeemable. There were Lord Fanshawe's old gentlemen friends, and the usual secretaries and hangers-on to keep the conversation flowing. Lord Fanshawe himself was not as talkative as usual. Letty eyed him with concern. Perhaps he had pulled a muscle in his left arm. She saw him rub it, looking uncomfortable. Perhaps he would be too tired to come to her tonight.

Once in the drawing room after dinner, it was once again Letty, Harmonia, and Mrs. de Vere. Letty, feeling braver after a glass of wine, decided to let Mrs. de Vere sit in splendid isolation, since she was too grand to converse with Letty or Harmonia.

"Such delightful music we had today, Harmonia. We should practice the aria Signor Bellini assigned us, don't you think? Excuse us, Mrs. de Vere, while we look at our music." She went to the instrument and leafed through the songs.

"My Dearest Letty--"

Harmonia was dying to tell Letty what the de Veres were saying. As they sat down at the instrument, she whispered, "I heard them talking. They were saying horrible things about you."

"Hush, Harmonia. You mustn't tattle. I know they dislike me."

"But you should know—"

There was no time to finish the sentence. The gentlemen arrived, and Lord Fanshawe was commanding them to make music. Harmonia was terribly disappointed, but supposed that her horrid gossip would keep another day.

Letty sang for some time that evening. Harmonia played the accompaniments. Letty did not think she played as well as Jane, but she had quite a bit of facility and good execution. Their efforts were well applauded, and it was nearly eleven before the guests were gone, and the de Veres retired for the night.

Harmonia was sent off to bed with a light embrace from Letty and a civil, if brief, compliment from Lord Fanshawe. She left reluctantly, planning to tell Lady Fanshawe what the de Veres had said as soon as she could the following morning.

Fanshawe gave his lady his arm and they ascended the broad stairs to their apartments. He bowed to Letty at her door.

"I shall join you presently, Madam. And if you would, I should like the costume of pale blue gauze. It is particularly nymph-like."

"As you wish, my lord," Letty agreed.

She entered her apartments, and her maids were up and ready to serve her at once. Listlessly, she allowed them to take down her tall hair arrangement and brush it out into black and shiny waves over her shoulders. She relayed Lord Fanshawe's orders as to her night-dress, and the filmy garment was produced—a nearly transparent fancy, but one she did not like dislike. It was simply a Greek-style garment, pinned at the shoulders with golden dragonflies, and with golden ribbons wrapped under her breasts and around her waist, the two ends falling in a loose knot. There were no wings to dig into her shoulders as she lay on her back, and no heavy headdress to make her temples throb. She allowed the maids to remove her slippers and stockings, since the costume demanded her feet be bare. She would be glad when she could get into bed and off the cold floor. She must not do that yet, for Lord Fanshawe liked to see and admire her before she rumpled herself lying down. The maids were dismissed, and Letty studied herself in the mirror. The sheer dress was like nakedness, but prettier, she supposed. Wearily, she stepped up onto the dais in the privacy of the bedroom, and struck a pose in front of the black velvet, as she had been instructed. If Lord Fanshawe kept her waiting too long, she would slip on the loose gown of cut grey velvet she had bought and kept in her wardrobe for such situations. It was still winter, after all, and coming out all in goosebumps did not seem to her very nymph-like—at least if the nymphs in the illustrated Mythology in the library were any indication.

Just as she was ready to step down and find her robe, the door opened, and Lord Fanshawe entered, handsomely arrayed in an embroidered banyan. In the flickering candlelight, Letty thought he looked unusually pale, but perhaps that was the paint he always wore.

"Are you well, my lord?' she asked. "I thought you had forgotten me."

"Not at all, not at all, my dear Lady Fanshawe," he said breezily. "A moment's indisposition."

He seated himself to began to admire, studying her, telling her how to move, how to turn and bend, how to display herself most enticingly. Letty smiled and obeyed, and then descended when he had had enough of such amusements.

"Shall I lay down in bed, my lord?" she asked.

He rubbed his arm, wincing. "No, perhaps not. Yes, come closer. I believe I should like you to kneel down, if you would be so good. That would be most gracious, my dear Madam. Here, I shall not be a moment—ah yes, take it thus—delightful—your exquisite mouth--a little harder, I think—"

Letty concentrated on her duty, her knees cushioned only by the carpet. It was not disgusting, but it was not particularly pleasant either. She used her mouth and tongue with care, hoping that she could satisfy him more quickly. She was so cold, and so tired of kneeling, and after five minutes her jaw was beginning to ache. The fire crackled. Letty wished she were closer to it. The house creaked a little with distant footsteps, and from outside trickled in the ever-present sounds of the city. The faint calls and cries blended with the appreciative noises Lord Fanshawe was making. He was paying her compliments, and it did seem he was nearly finished—

"—yes, just a little quicker now, Madam. Quickly, quickly! Put your hands—thus—ah yes. Don't stop—"

Letty felt ridiculous, bobbing noisily, nearly dizzy with her efforts. There was little chance, she supposed, that he would return the favor tonight. He had not done so since they left Salton Park, and perhaps that had only been in honor of the first days of their marriage. She forced herself to maintain the pace, not even flinching when her nipple was tweaked sharply. His lordship's florid compliments were now mere groans of pleasure. Any second now—

"Aaah! Aaah!" The grunts sharpened to a howl. Fanshawe's body convulsed, and he kicked at Letty in a violent muscular spasm. His hands clutched at his chest. His member, still feebly spurting, was pulled from her mouth as he sagged in the chair, his head falling to one side.

Letty sat back on her heels, eyes wide in shock. Her face and gown were soiled. "My lord? Are you all right?"

His face was drawn in a rictus of agony. His eyes were open, staring at her, and Letty though he might say something very cutting. Instead, there was a pause, and then a deep, rattling sigh.

She put out a questing, frightened hand. "My lord? Lord Fanshawe?"

The sapphire blue eyes remained fixed on her, unblinking. Letty touched his face.

He's dead.

Letty had seen death before, many times. There was no doubt that her husband had suddenly died before her.

Rising to her feet, she stared at him, not sure what to do, half-afraid she might be accused of killing him. Certainly he had died in a moment of extreme pleasure, caused by her services. She scrubbed at her wet chin, and then leaned over, and closed the bright blue eyes with a gentle hand. His breeches were open, and he was exposed. It would be an insult to so dignified a man for the servants to see him thus. Letty gritted her teeth and buttoned him up.

Feeling dazed, she went to the wardrobe and pulled out her thick warm robe. She wanted to get out of her ridiculous gauze costume, but could not do it alone. She went to the door of her dressing room, and hesitated. Then she knocked.

"Veronique, please come and help me get dressed. Lord Fanshawe has died."

There was a silence. Letty tested the words again, whispering, "Lord Fanshawe is dead. He died just now."

A sudden rustle and muttering, then sharp exclamations. In a moment, the door was flung open and Julie and Veronique Maupin stared at her with wild eyes.

"Madame?"

"Madame, you say Monsieur le Vicomte est mort?"

"I said he's dead," Letty repeated. "I don't understand it when you speak French so quick. He's dead. He died just now. He's in his chair. Please take this thing off of me and help me put on the robe. I'm so cold. Then we must—"

Must what? Letty was not sure. She should call the butler, she supposed. His son must be informed. She must talk to Jane. Jane would bring all the Tavingtons and get Mr. Protheroe, her lawyer, to come. Letty felt better, remembering she had her own man of law to advise her.

Julie was examining Lord Fanshawe's body. "Oui. Dead," she told her sister, who was unpinning the golden dragonflies. "I will ring for Dunner."

"Thank you," murmured Letty, as blessedly warm, thick velvet cascaded over her head. Veronique pulled her into the dressing room and sat her down. In a moment her face was being washed. "Thank you, " Letty said over and over. "That's much better. My slippers are under the bed. My feet are cold."

Her comfortable wing chair could not be drawn near the fire. Letty could not sit in it because Lord Fanshawe's body occupied it. She sat on the edge of the bed while Veronique drew on her slippers. There was a hesitant knock at the door to the boudoir, and Julie opened it. Letty could hear her urgent whispers to the butler.

"Milord Fanshawe is dead. Come—look into the bedroom. See--he sits dead in his chair."

Out of the corner of her eye, Letty could see the handsome butler craning to peer at his master's lifeless form. It seemed too much trouble to turn her head and look properly.

"My lady?" called Dunner. "Are you all right?"

Julie hissed back, "We shall take care of Madame. You go tell the son that his father is dead. Someone must carry Monsieur le Vicomte away. He cannot remain sitting in Madame's chamber like that. It is too macabre."

Dunner hurried away, and Julie shut the door.

Letty forced herself to speak. "Throw that horrible rag away. I never want to see it again!"

"Quoi? This?"

"Yes. Take it away."

"You do not mind if we—"

"I don't care what you do with it. It's filthy. I don't want to see it."

The fragile garment was whisked away to the dressing room. Veronique came back and had another whispered conference with her sister.

Veronique leaned over Letty. "Madame, we shall ring for something warm for you to drink. Some warm wine—better than tea, I think—"

"Just as you like."

Everything was very slow. Before the warm drink could arrive, Letty heard a heavy tread outside her door, and deep male voices.

Julie opened the door to James de Vere, holding a candle. He swiftly strode through the darkened boudoir and in a moment was blinking against the brighter light in Letty's bedchamber.

"Where is my father?"

Hardly deigning to look at Letty, he shoved past the maids and stood staring at the slumped figure in the wing chair.

"Father! Sir!" He leaned closer. "He looks like he's asleep," the man muttered.

"He is dead," Julie corrected him in a flat tone.

"Surely not—he was quite all right at dinner—quite himself. Here—let me see for myself—"

De Vere examined the dead man minutely, and then put his ear to his father's slightly opened mouth. "I think he's breathing!" he muttered. He felt inside the embroidered banyan. "His heart is still beating—very faintly—no, not dead yet—"

"He's not dead?" Letty cried. "That's not possible. I saw him die!" She slid from the bed and stumbled toward the chair. "Let me see!"

"Back, Madam!" cried de Vere, preventing her with an outflung arm. "You can do him no good. He must have a physician—yes—" he said, half to himself. "A physician." More loudly he declared. "The fault is not yours, Madam. A mistake easily made. The shock--You must not exert yourself in your condition. Dunner!" he shouted at the butler. "Call my valet and my footman. We shall carry my father back to his room and put him to bed. I shall summon a physician forthwith."

"I can call Collinet, my lord's valet, too," Dunner offered.

"No—no need," ordered de Vere. "Just my own people. Quick, man! Lord Fanshawe's life hangs in the balance!"

Dunner was gone, running up the stairs.

The three women stared at him suspiciously. De Vere bowed to his stepmother, with an attempt at his father's suave manner. "I pray you not be alarmed, Lady Fanshawe. Everything that can be done, shall be done for my father. In the meantime, I pray you, rest for your health's sake. I will apprise you of developments in the morning."

"But he's dead," Letty objected, still bewildered by the son's peculiar assertions.

"Such a fit must have been a great shock to a young lady," de Vere said, unable to suppress a faint smirk. The two Frenchwomen began to position themselves between their mistress and this madman. Did he think them fools? They had seen for themselves that Monsieur le Vicomte was dead. What was he playing at?

A pair of tall menservants strode in, with a bewildered Dunner behind them.

"Take him up in the chair," de Vere directed. "It will be easier for him. We shall take him directly to his own room like that. Ford, I'll be sending you out to find the physician I heard of—just the man for such a crisis—come along now—"

The two servants lifted the chair. Lord Fanshawe's body flopped bonelessly as the chair was raised and then eased through the doorway.

"Sleep well, Madam," said de Vere, over his shoulder, as he faded into the shadows of the hall.

Helplessly, Dunner looked again at Letty.

"He's dead." Letty repeated. "I saw him die. I want to send a note to my sister."

"Can't send a note to her, my lady. Lord Fanshawe's orders."

"But he's dead. I need to see my sister."

"Mr. de Vere says he's not, my lady. Best to see what the doctor has to say."

Julie waved him away in disgust. She shut the door.

"Yes, Madame. You should lie down and rest. That much is true. The drink comes soon."

"I want to be awake when the doctor comes. It's so silly. There's nothing a doctor can do. He's dead."

"The doctor will tell him so, and then he will believe it. That one, he does not believe what a woman says to him," remarked Veronique, very cynically.

Letty was persuaded to get into bed and be covered with her warm eiderdown. The drink came. Julie regarded it with disdain, adding some spice from the Maupin girls' own store in the dressing room. "Drink, Madame. It will warm you."

It did help. Letty sipped it in silence, while the maids conferred again in rapid French. Within half an hour, there was a faint echo downstairs.

"That was the front door."

"Oui. It must be the doctor," offered Julie.

There was more muttered talk outside, and more delays. Finally, Letty could not wait any longer, and slid out of bed.

"I must know what is happening."

Her maids followed her out of her apartments and down the hall, now noisy with servants. The door to Lord Fanshawe's suite was shut, and the butler guarded it.

"My lady, the doctor is with Lord Fanshawe and Mr. and Mrs. de Vere. Doctor said he mustn't be disturbed."

"But he's my husband," Letty objected meekly.

"Mr. de Vere said it was too much for you. Wouldn't be good for you to be in a sick room—seeing as how—" the servant blushed and tore his gaze from Letty's still slim waist. "Anyways, you're not to be upset and bothered, they said."

The Frenchwomen were about to assail the luckless man with some choice insults, when the door opened, and Letty heard the doctor chatting amicably with the de Veres.

"An interesting case. I am obliged to you for your confidence."

"We must see that everything humanly possible is done for my father," replied de Vere, very earnestly.

"Of course, and also for his lady," the doctor agreed. He emerged from the room, and Letty saw him clearly.

It was Doctor Malahyde.

-----

Next—Locked Doors