Page 22 of Beyond the Grave
The dowager seemed not to notice. She was as elegant as always in her perky black hat with a lavender trim, and tight black princess-cut gown with smart jacket buttoned to the collar. It was the plainest, most demure ensemble I'd seen her wear. She tended to wear half-mourning now, so the full black seemed like a regression. I suspected she wanted to play the part of grieving widow out of respect for her stepson.
"I'm sorry I cannot give you more names," Lord Harcourt was saying to Lincoln. "Those were Andrew's closest friends growing up, but I'm afraid I know little of my brother's acquaintances nowadays."
"It doesn't matter," Lincoln said. "I have already gathered the names of several more."
Lady Harcourt pounced on the slice of cake I served her, but the dowager refused hers with a mere flick of her finger. She did not meet my gaze. Lord Harcourt accepted a piece, allowing me to study him. He was a moderately handsome man, although not striking, like his younger brother, with fair hair and a strong jawline. But whereas I'd only seen Buchanan's mouth lurch into a lazy sneer, Harcourt's remained in a flat line. He was softer in the middle too, his jacket struggling to contain the bulge. He needed to have a new one made, which told me his weight gain was new, or he was perhaps unconcerned with his appearance.
"Your father's journal was found in your brother's rooms," Lincoln said. "It's possible his disappearance is related to something he read in it."
"Or it may not be," Harcourt said.
"We must turn over every stone, even those that seem small and insignificant."
I almost tripped over my own feet upon hearing my phrase quoted. Fortunately I wasn't holding anything, and no one seemed to notice.
"If you must." Lord Harcourt accepted tea from Gus. The lines scoring his forehead drew together as he took in Gus's lack of livery. He pursed his lips ever so slightly and exchanged a glance with his wife. She didn't appear to notice. Having finished her cake, she'd taken to staring at the rug, her face blank.
"Do you have the journal here?" the dowager asked Lincoln.
"It's in my study, but I recall most of the details." At Lord Harcourt's questioning look, he added, "I have a very good memory."
"Is anything in the journal of particular interest?" she asked casually. Too casually. Where before she seemed quite concerned about her missing stepson, she now seemed as if she were merely tossing out the question as a matter of course. Her gaze didn't meet anyone's either, yet she gripped the teacup firmly. I suspected she wasn't asking in relation to Buchanan's disappearance but her own secret.
If either Lord or Lady Harcourt noticed, they gave no indication. He was waiting for Lincoln's answer, and she continued to stare at the rug, her expression unchanged. She lifted her cup to her lips, sipped daintily, then set it down again in the saucer in her lap, all without blinking. I'd never seen an automaton before but Seth had described one to me once, and to my mind, it resembled Lady Harcourt's empty expression.
"One name in the journal caught my attention," Lincoln said. "It was written in bold lettering and underlined heavily. It was important to your father, at least, and perhaps Andrew recognized it."
"The name?" his lordship prompted.
"Estelle Pearson."
The younger Lady Harcourt dropped her cup, spilling the tea over the rug, and swooned into the corner of the sofa.
Chapter 5
Lincoln wasthe first to reach Lady Harcourt. Her husband was next. The dowager twisted on the sofa but didn't rise. She picked up a weekly newspaper from the table beside her and handed it to her stepson.
"Flap that in front of her face," she instructed. "And loosen her collar. It's much too high and tight."
Lord Harcourt did as instructed, while Lincoln stepped back. "Fetch the smelling salts," he told Gus.
Gus rushed out but Lady Harcourt was already coming around. She placed a hand to her chest and opened her eyes.
"Donald?" she said weakly.
"It's all right, my dear." He patted the back of her hand. "You fainted."
"I have been feeling a little unwell lately."
"Charlie, more tea," the dowager ordered. "Marguerite, you look quite peaky. Tea will put the color back in your cheeks."
I poured tea into the cup that had been intended for Lincoln but he'd refused, and passed it into the shaking hands of Lady Harcourt just as Gus returned carrying a green glass bottle of smelling salts. He gave the bottle to his lordship, who waved it under his wife's nose.
She drew in a deep sniff that ended in a snort. "Thank you, I feel much better. I'm so sorry to inconvenience you, Mr. Fitzroy." She sipped her tea then set it aside.
"Think nothing of it," Lincoln said.
I eyed the rug and wondered how long it would be before I could soak up the tea. It was imperative to get to spills early to stop staining. I knew that from having once deliberately spilled tea on Lincoln's floor in his sitting room. The stain was still there, a permanent reminder of my temper.
