“Thank you for your help, your lordship,” I said with relief. “You might be exposing a very treacherous man.”
“Well, I don’t approve of thugs stabbing gentlemen in broad daylight. It could have been me.” Lord Clifford glanced about as though fearing an anarchist would charge through the sunlit May morning and plunge a knife into him there and then.
“Perhaps you ought to take her ladyship home to the country,” I ventured. “It will be a bit safer than London. And she seems sad.”
“That she does, the poor old girl.” Lord Clifford lost his cheerfulness. “It’s a hard thing, losing a child, Mrs. Holloway.”
I thought of Grace, and knew he spoke the truth. If anything happened to Grace, I would want to die myself.
I could hardly blurt out to Lord Clifford that I had a daughter, so I said, “I can imagine, your lordship.”
“A damned hard thing.” This time he did not stammer over his expletive. “My wife feels it keenly. It’s one reason she’s fussing about Cynthia—wants to see her settled, with children of her own. Seems to think she’ll be protected that way. Didn’t help Em, though, did it? But my wife is beyond logic on the subject.”
“I believe Lady Cynthia understands. I have grown to know your daughter well, and I’m very fond of her. She is no fool. When she is ready, she will settle herself. I think you will be agreeably surprised.”
Lord Clifford nodded, his eyes softening. “She’s a good gel, is Cyn, in spite of her eccentricities—which she inherited from me, don’t you know.” He laughed weakly. “I am happy she has such a friend in you.” Lord Clifford paused, and I ceased walking.
He watched a chestnut horse pulling a black buggy past us, the horse’s hooves clopping, the pungent odor of manure in its wake.
“I am grateful to you for looking after her,” Lord Clifford finished.
“Not at all, your lordship.”
“Please, continue to do so. Cynthia needs friends. My sister-in-law . . .” He trailed off and shook his head. “Well, you know her.”
“Mrs. Bywater means well.” I believed she truly did, in spite of our disagreements.
“Does she?” Lord Clifford scrunched up his face. “Don’t know what old Neville sees in her, but I’ll behave and be civil to her. Good day for now, Mrs. Holloway. I will await the ladies—ah, here they come.”
I gave him a polite curtsy and continued along South Audley Street, pleased with the conversation.
* * *
* * *
After I sent up the midday meal, I took my basket and walked to Park Lane.
Cynthia had returned to Lady Covington’s yesterday. I used the excuse of obtaining more greens from Lady Covington’s garden to visit there, stopping on the way at the house in Upper Brook Street to leave a lemon cake with Miss Townsend’s butler for the two ladies.
I entered the garden through the gate at the end of Upper Brook Street to see Harriet Morris taking cuttings from the rhododendron bushes that lined the wall.
22
Whatever are you doing, Miss Morris?” I demanded.
Harriet jumped and whirled to me, dropping deep pink blossoms onto the ground.
“You!” she said dramatically. “What are you doing creeping about, terrifying me?”
The gate had squeaked loudly when I’d swung it open, so I’d hardly been creeping.
“Why are you cutting rhododendrons?” I asked.
Harriet stooped to retrieve the blossoms, which she thrust into her basket, crushing them as she did so. “To create a pretty arrangement for the table. Lady Cynthia’s here. We should make some effort in this morose old place.”
I debated telling Harriet that poison from that plant had killed her stepsister, but she had a fairly sharp set of pruning scissors in her hand, and I decided to keep my silence on the matter.
“Why do you stay, then?” I asked. “If it is so morose?”
Harriet glared at me, her lace-trimmed bodice rising with her sharp breath. “Where would I go? What would I live on? I am stuck here . . . forever.”
“Does your young man not have money? Or a house to take you to?”
Harriet’s flush matched the blooms in her basket. “I suppose you expect me to screech, What young man? But you saw him. Very well. I love him.” She eyed me defiantly. “But he isn’t suitable, is he? Not for the daughter of a railway magnate and stepsister of a baron. He’s George’s secretary.” Her voice weakened, ending on a hopeless note.
“He works for the railway?”
Harriet threw wide her hand with the scissors. “How else do you suppose I met him? I’m scarcely allowed out of the house. If George discovers it, he’ll sack Darren—Mr. Amos—and I’ll never see him again.” Tears beaded her lashes.
“What does your mother say?” I asked gently.
“She doesn’t mind his character, and he’s a gentleman, but he’s poor. A besetting sin, in the eyes of this family.”
Harriet’s predicament explained some of her petulance, and she stirred my sympathy. “Perhaps, as your mother has much influence with the railway board, she can suggest a position for Mr. Amos with a higher income. If you explain to her what is in your heart, she might understand.”
A flicker of hope lit Harriet’s eyes, but she remained skeptical. “George will never understand. He’s a stiff-necked, pompous prig.”
“Her ladyship might be able to help with that. It would not hurt for you to speak to her. Now, you’ve ruined that basket of flowers—leave them here and cut a few of those early roses instead. Cynthia likes them.”
Harriet glanced at the crushed blossoms, made a noise of annoyance, and dumped the flowers to the ground. Without saying good-bye, she stalked toward the rosebushes, scissors in hand.
“Good day, Mrs. Holloway.” Symes halted on the path behind me, resting his rake on the ground and giving me a toothy smile. “Was she impertinent to you?” He nodded toward Harriet as she approached the rosebushes like a hunter stalking a snared animal. “She has a temper, that one does.”
“She has much on her mind.” I scooted the fallen flowers under the rhododendrons with my foot, where they could become compost. “Tell me, Mr. Symes, does the family cut these bushes often? For the flowers, I mean.”
Symes considered then shrugged. “Not that I know. Never seen sign of cutting, except for what I prune.”
“You’d notice?”