“If he is indeed Jonathan, he could well wrench her husband’s inheritance away,” Stoker mused. “To say nothing of her children’s.”
“And yet he makes no claim as yet,” Sir Hugo said with a shrug. “He has apparently never told anyone to call him Jonathan Hathaway and answers to the name solely because it pleases Lady Hathaway.”
“That is how things stand at present?” I asked.
“It is,” Sir Hugo confirmed.
“And you want me to unmask him for you,” I said.
“Or confirm his identity,” Sir Hugo answered. “And if it is Jonathan, believe me, I shall join the Hathaways in killing the fatted calf. But such uncertainty cannot be endured. Miss Speedwell, you cannot refuse me.”
Still, I hesitated. “Tell me more about your goddaughter,” I said.
He paused, pursing his lips. “She is a curious girl, very curious. A first-rate mind, in the mold of her grandfather Sir Geoffrey. They are a curious family, most with a few abiding passions and the rare genius. Geoffrey was a genius. Unfortunately, his intellect seems to have passed by the next two generations entirely save for Euphemia,” he added dryly. “She showed real promise as an astronomer, but without her grandfather’s guidance, she has . . . drifted. She mourned him, far more than her parents or brother. I sent her a small dog, hoping to cheer her up,” he added with a slightly abashed look. Why gentlemen so often feel the need to conceal their kinder impulses is a mystery only Nature herself could answer.
“That was thoughtful of you,” I told him.
He pinked with pleasure. “It is only a little thing. An Italian greyhound. She dotes on the pup, dresses her in little jumpers, as the moorland climate is too cold for her. I thought having something to care for might bring her out of herself, but there is a quality about her letters, an elusiveness I cannot reconcile with the lively child I once knew.”
“Have you visited?” Stoker asked.
Sir Hugo looked uncomfortable. “I could not attend Sir Geoffrey’s funeral. There was a police matter which demanded my presence in London. By the time I was able to get away, some weeks had passed. I knew Effie was still quite melancholy, so I brought the pup with me. I thought to cheer her by taking her for walks and bringing books and paints. She showed no interest in anything other than the dog, and that only when she could spare time from dancing attendance on her sister-in-law.”
“Mary Hathaway?” I inquired. “Charles’ wife?”
“The same,” he acknowledged in a dry tone that confirmed there was no love lost in that quarter. “I do not mind telling you I am no admirer of Mary Hathaway. She is too clever for Charles by half.”
“How so?” Stoker asked.
“She is ambitious,” he said, his mouth thinning in distaste. “Her father was in trade in Yorkshire, made his fortune in sweets—Fanthorp’s Fancies.”
Stoker brightened. “I love those—particularly the coconut drops.”
“Yes, well, mind you don’t mention that to Mary Hathaway. She is eager to put the origins of her father’s money entirely behind her. She aspired to an old name, and in marrying Charles, she succeeded. There’s little of the Hathaway money left, but that does not seem to trouble her. She has plenty from her father and she means to polish Charles up and make something of him.”
“And how does Charles feel about that?” I inquired.
Sir Hugo pulled a face. “The boy likes sheep. All he wants is to restore the family flocks—they used to be legendary, the Hathaway Moorlands. But that is not grand enough for Mary. She expects him to stand for Parliament with an eye to a knighthood someday, and preferably a baronetcy.”
“Lofty goals,” Stoker remarked.
“Not if you have the brass, and Mary Hathaway does. Before she and Charles took charge of the Hall, it was a very quiet household. But since they settled, Mary has been making over the house and wants to try her hand at Effie as well. She uses the girl, morning to night, always asking her to fetch and do.”
“Perhaps she likes lording her status over Effie,” I suggested. “She wouldn’t be the first sister-in-law to do so.”
“Or she is simply trying to keep Effie too busy to bother with astronomy,” Sir Hugo said. “Mary has convinced Charles that such studies are not ‘genteel’ enough and that Effie has been indulged far too much.”
“And Charles goes along with it?” Stoker asked.
“Charles would agree if Mary told him the moon was made of milk,” Sir Hugo replied sourly. “He is well and truly henpecked. When I was at the Hall, I am afraid I let my temper get the better of me. I accosted Charles and told him it was appalling that he permitted his wife to use his sister in such a fashion and that Effie ought to be allowed to continue her studies. Cross words, I am sorry to say, were exchanged. I have not returned since and I have been informed that any spontaneous visit on my part would not be encouraged. Effie has no money of her own,” he finished. “Without funds, she cannot leave, so she remains there, a sort of drudge to her brother’s wife.”
“Poor girl,” Stoker said with real sympathy.
I repressed a sigh. “She lacks gumption.”
Sir Hugo’s brows raised perceptibly. “How can you claim to know that?”
“She is in good health, is she not?”
“She is.”
“And you have said she has had a good education. She comes from a good family. She might strike out on her own. She might teach or hire herself as a companion where at least she would earn a wage for her efforts. Instead, she does not bestir herself. She is content to exist in a sort of larval stage. She must be prodded out of her inactivity,” I added firmly. I was a fervent believer in the restorative benefits of action.
“The girl has been grieving,” Stoker reminded me.
“For more than a year, and that is quite enough time to mourn anyone,” I told him. “I think we should undertake this mission to liberate Euphemia Hathaway from her torpid state.”
“I have a walrus—an enormous walrus, to say nothing of my albino giraffe,” Stoker said. His jaw was set in a line I recognized only too well. He was feeling decidedly mulish. He was longing to return to his workshop and immerse himself in his beloved trophies. We had only just returned from one of our little adventures, and I realized with a pang how often he had given way to my intrepid derailments of his plans.
“Sir Hugo, this is not the best time,” I said, prepared for once to make the sacrifice Stoker so clearly wanted of me.
Sir Hugo turned to Stoker. “Since you cannot present yourself at Hathaway Hall as agents of mine, I thought you could go under false pretenses—at least not entirely false. You see, the original Tudor house was pulled down in the time of the Jacobeans. The building that took its place is dark and halfway to falling down of its own accord. The decades the family spent in India meant it was neglected, and Sir Geoffrey preferred to spend the funds on his observatory instead of mundane things like the roof. Charles has inherited a bit of a white elephant, and Mary has grand plans for the place. She wants it fully modernized—tiled bathrooms in the bedroom wings, flushing, er, appurtenances,” he said, coloring a rosy shade at the idea of such indelicate matters as toilets. “Fresh wallpaper, furniture, all modern and comfortable. What she does not want is what she refers to as all the ‘dusty rubbish’ the Hathaways brought back from their travels. Charles and Effie’s father was a natural historian. Not a particularly gifted one, but competent. He assembled a comprehensive set of mounts in his travels. As it happens, those mounts are still at Hathaway Hall, and I know that Mary Hathaway would be perfectly delighted to present his collection to Lord Rosemorran for his proposed museum.”