Page 34 of Needs Must
‘A person who knew Mrs Harte in Jamaica called to see me,’ Graves said, his expression living up to his name. ‘He told me that he was closely associated with Mr Harte and trusted by him. Mrs Harte – and I am only repeating what this person told me – was very popular.’ Graves cleared his throat. ‘Especially with the gentlemen, if you understand my meaning.’
‘Go on,’ Cal said, his irritation increasing as he waited for the blasted man to get to the point. Longwindedness was his stock in trade, Cal knew. He had sat through enough of his interminable sermons to attest to that particular fact. If Graves’s as yet unnamed visitor was a confidante of Harte’s, then Cal immediately distrusted every word that came out of his mouth.
Graves smacked his lips together, another habit of his that Cal found highly annoying. ‘He tells me that there are some questions over Mr Harte’s death.’
‘Oh!’ His mother and sister gasped in unison, as though they had practised their reaction.
‘What sort of questions? Come on man, out with it. I don’t have all day.’
‘Well, my lord, it seems that the gentleman was unwell and that his wife insisted upon nursing him personally. She seldom let anyone else get near him and to her credit he was making a good recovery. But then, suddenly and for no reason that his doctor could explain, he took a turn for the worse and died.’
‘What did Mrs Harte gain from his sudden death?’ Cal asked, failing to show the reaction that Graves had probably hoped for.
‘Well, one supposes that she hoped to inherit his fortune. Being a woman, she could not be expected to know there was little to inherit.’
‘Indeed not.’ The dowager nodded in sympathy with Graves.
‘Did the authorities detain her and question her, if there was any doubt about the cause of her husband’s death?’
‘I could not say.’ Graves spread his hands. ‘I am merely telling you what Mr Aykroyd told me.’
‘And this Mr Aykroyd, did he have evidence to support his claims?’
‘Well, no.’ The clergyman rubbed his thin chin. ‘But what reason would he have to come to me to warn me of her questionable morals if he didn’t believe what he said to be true?’
‘What indeed?’ Celia asked, sending a sly sideways glance towards Cal. She still appeared to be simmering with resentment at his treatment of her husband the previous day and was looking for her revenge. Cal had always known that his sister’s character was spiteful, but this episode and her apparent determination to part Cal from a lady whom Celia herself had yet to meet, showed her in a new and very detrimental light.
‘Have you attempted to speak with Mrs Harte about these unsubstantiated allegations from a stranger?’ he asked, an edge to his voice.
‘Well no, my lord. The fact of the matter is that your horse was seen at Denmead Cottage yesterday. I understand the lady has taken a lease on the place and … well, I felt it my duty to report what I have myself just learned in order to protect your name and reputation,’ Graves finished in an obsequious tone.
‘Hardly the actions of a money-grabbing and desperate criminal,’ Cal remarked. ‘Living in Denmead Cottage under her own name, I mean.’
‘Indeed. I have never had the pleasure of making the lady’s acquaintance. She has been here for over a week but I have not seen her in church,’ Graves said on a note of censure, as though her disinclination to be preached at was all the evidence that he needed to brand her as a harlot, or worse. ‘I cannot speculate as to her reasons for settling here. I am told she has no connections in the district, which is perhaps why,’ he added, raising a brow in the hope presumably of gaining Cal’s agreement, ‘I wished to bring the matter to your attention. As guardian of your spiritual wellbeing, I felt it nothing less than my duty.’
‘You can console yourself with the knowledge that you have executed your duty, Graves, and done your best to save my mortal soul.’
Graves’s face broke out into a rare smile. ‘I am gratified that you and I are of one mind about the matter, my lord.’
Cal held up a warning hand. ‘That being the case, I dare say my mother will invite you and Mrs Graves to dine with us tonight.’ He glanced at his mother, whose expression had frozen. She liked lording it over the clergyman but was less enthusiastic about having him and his sanctimonious wife at their table. Cal was similarly minded but needs must. His mother had brought the situation on herself.
‘Of course you must come,’ the dowager said, with a marked lack of enthusiasm. ‘If you are not already engaged elsewhere, that is,’ she added on a hopeful note.
‘Thank you, ma’am, we are not otherwise engaged.’ Cal suppressed a smile, surprised when the clergyman didn’t genuflect. ‘It would be an honour and a privilege.’
‘And it will provide you with an excellent opportunity to meet Mrs Harte yourself and make up your own mind about her spiritual wellbeing,’ Cal added, ‘since she is engaged to dine with us as well. But,’ Cal added, his tone turning hard, ‘if one word of these unsubstantiated rumours becomes public knowledge in the meantime then I will know who to blame and, trust me, you will none of you enjoy the consequences.’
Donna frowned at her image in the cracked glass in the room she shared with Miriam at the Ship. She feigned impatience and tried to look as though she did not enjoy the feel of the bronze organza with its generous trim of cream lace as it slithered over her body and whispered about her legs like an unspoken promise. Of all her evening gowns, this had always been her favourite – but of course Miriam had known that.
And had not followed Donna’s instructions and sold it.
‘I did not realise you had brought this gown, not to mention my best petticoats, with us,’ she remarked, pretending to be cross. ‘Why would you do such a thing when the funds their sale could have raised would have served us much better?’
‘For reasons like the one you’re now faced with,’ Miriam replied, as though it ought to have been obvious to Donna. ‘Them women tonight will be looking for reasons to scorn you, and I don’t want you to be disadvantaged by your apparel.’
Donna wrinkled her nose. ‘This is probably years out of date.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Miriam said briskly, brushing an imaginary crease out of the skirts. ‘Real style never goes out of fashion, especially with a figure like yours that fills the gown in the manner that the modiste intended.’
