Page 43 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“If he has proposed, I haven’t heard anything about it. Surely we would. She wouldn’t be able to keep her mouth shut, would she? Nor would her mother, I bet.”
“I would expect us to hear if my cousin got engaged,” Christopher agreed, “although with everything else that’s going on here this weekend, who knows?”
That was a fair point. “He’d tell you, though. Wouldn’t he?”
“Again,” Christopher said, “I would expect him to. But?—”
He stopped talking at the sound of soft footsteps in the hallway. It was only Constance, though, arrayed in a dressing gown, with quilted slippers on her feet and a pillow and two blankets in her arms.
“We’ll let you get to it,” I told her. “Lock the door behind us if you don’t want to be disturbed.”
She nodded. “Are you going back to the drawing room?”
Christopher nodded. I shook my head. “I’ve had enough for tonight. If I have to deal with one more imbecilic comment from Lord Geoffrey—no offense, Constance…”
“None taken,” Constance said, dropping the pillow and blankets on the chair before draping one lovingly over Francis’s still form. A corner of his mouth turned up, even in sleep, and he snuggled in underneath it. Constance straightened and glanced at me. “I didn’t choose him.”
“Well, I have listened to enough of Geoffrey’s inanities, and have watched Laetitia do her worst vis-à-vis St George, for long enough today. I’m going to bed. I’ll see you upstairs, Christopher.”
“Since Francis is down here,” Christopher said, with a glance at him, “I’ll share with Crispin.”
“Since Constance is down here, St George might not come upstairs. Laetitia may drag him into Constance’s room with her.”
“If she has relations with him in my bed,” Constance said, “I will absolutely tell Aunt Effie about it.”
Good. If Laetitia had relations with St George in Constance’s bed, she’d deserve a dressing down by her mother.
“I’ll see you both in the morning.” I made my own way towards the door. “If St George proposes to Lady Laetitia—or vice versa—in what’s left of tonight, you have my permission to wake me, Christopher, so I can give the happy couple my felicitations.”
“I’ll make sure to do that, Pippa,” Christopher said. “Sleep well.”
CHAPTERTEN
I did,indeed, sleep well. Nothing disturbed my slumber that night. Christopher didn’t burst in at any point to tell me that Crispin had lost his mind and proposed to Laetitia, nor did Francis sleep off his bout of drunkenness and come upstairs to bed. I spent a peaceful nine hours in oblivion, all by myself, without even a bad dream for company.
Saturday dawned sunny and bright, with rays of light peeping around the draperies. I lounged luxuriously for a few minutes before I remembered that today was the day we would (surely) get answers from Abigail Dole about the paternity of little Bess, and it was also the day in which I would get another chance to beat St George—and everyone else in the family, but particularly St George—at croquet.
The tiny windows on the top floor of Beckwith Place, the ones that go along with the tiny rooms in the attic, look out over gray roofing slates and, below, the croquet lawn. When I bounded out of bed and over to the window, I only wanted to look at the smooth and even greenness of the grass, so as to gloat over my possible defeat of St George later.
Instead, as I pulled the curtains back and peered down, past slate gray tiles and the edge of the roof onto the bright green of the lawn, I experienced a distinct sense of déjà vu when I spotted the patch of sprigged rayon on the grass, and the pale limbs extending from it.
For a second or two, it felt like I had gone back in time twelve or fifteen hours, and Abigail Dole had just walked out of the trees and collapsed. But of course I knew that such was not the case. We had lived half a day since then. We had picked her up and carried her inside, and Doctor White had come and taken her to the village, and Aunt Roz had minded little Bess all evening and night. Christopher, Constance, and I had found Abigail’s tote under the lilac bush and read the list of things she knew—or thought she knew—about her baby’s father.
It was Saturday morning, not Friday at tea time, but Abigail Dole was sprawled on the lawn.
I pushed back from the window and ran across the room to the door. And yanked it open and ran across the landing to the next door. “Christopher!”
Two almost-identical faces peered at me from over the top of the blankets. One pair of Astley blue eyes, one pair of cool gray.
“Darling?”
I ignored him—ignored them both—in favor of rushing across the room and yanking the curtains back. Crispin winced as the sunlight hit him full in the face.
“What’s wrong, Pippa?” Christopher asked as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. “A bit early, isn’t it?”
“Abigail,” I said, waving at the window. “On the lawn.”
They both glanced at the window, and then back at me. “That was yesterday,” Crispin said.
