Tasha Alexander - A Crimson Warning

“What an interesting idea,” Lady Carlisle said. Her smile suggested she was pleased, and I wondered if she was glad to have found someone else who shared a more radical vision. “I look forward to hearing about your results. You shall all have pamphlets and distribution lists by the end of the week. And unless anyone has something else to add, I believe that concludes our business for today.”

Ivy and I milled around the room for another quarter of an hour, drinking tea and listening to the usual sort of society gossip. No one mentioned Mr. Dillman’s brutal death out loud, though I knew it was on everyone’s mind. We’d all seen the sensational coverage given to his murder by the morning papers. Instead, most of the chatter focused on Polly Sanders. The words said about her were not kind, and she was not the only person to suffer under the rule of icy tongues.

“That hideous Lady Glover sent out another round of invitations,” one of the ladies said to another. “I do hope no one has the bad form to accept.”

“I don’t understand why she even bothers,” the other said. “No one is going to befriend her, no matter what airs she puts on.”

“Have you ever met Lady Glover?” I asked Ivy, keeping my voice low. “She drives her phaeton through Hyde Park with zebras pulling it.”

“Yes, I’ve seen them,” Ivy said. “She makes it rather hard to miss.”

“Zebras, Ivy. Zebras,” I said. “Why are we not better acquainted with this woman?”

“Because the matrons of Society have never forgiven her for having got her start as a pantomime girl at the Surrey Music Hall,” Ivy said. “Or so I’ve heard. Apparently there are some crimes even a good marriage can’t erase, no matter how much money is involved.”

“She lives just down the street from me,” I said. “Perhaps we should call on her.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “It’s an excellent idea.”

“What is an excellent idea?” Lady Carlisle asked, coming to my friend’s side.

Ivy looked at me questioningly, and I knew she was afraid of what I might say. Undaunted, I took a deep breath and soldiered forward.

“Calling on Lady Glover,” I said. “I’ve been longing to question her on the care and maintenance of zebras in town.”

6 June 1893

Belgrave Square, London

I’m home again, thank goodness!

The Women’s Liberal Federation are frightfully boring. Worse even than Latin, which does at least have Emily’s enthusiasm to recommend it. I nearly fell asleep twice in the meeting. Are there any causes less soporific to be found? I do so want to be useful, but is it too much to want to be entertained as well? I don’t want to disappoint Emily, but I may have to focus my own efforts on a charity instead of politics. Robert suggested I support the Church of England Central Society for Providing Homes for Waifs and Strays. I’m certain I’d be better at serving children than convincing gentlemen I should have the right to vote, particularly as I’m not sure I even want it.

Is it so wrong to let our men take care of us? I’ve enough to do managing a household, dealing with my servants, seeing to the care of my daughter. I like the womanly arts, and want to focus on them. But is that selfish? Not all ladies are looked after so well as I. Would having the vote improve their lives?

Perhaps it would, but I haven’t the slightest clue how. It seems a hopeless business.

Colin was in his study when I arrived home from the meeting. He loved this room the way I did the library, and I teased him that this was because he no longer owned any of the books in my favorite room, after having given all of them to me (along with every bottle of port in his cellar) when he asked me to marry him. He’d decorated, as he should have, with an eye to satisfying no one but himself. Old Masters hung against the navy silk walls—Raphael, Botticelli, and a sketch by Da Vinci. He’d bought the marble fireplace mantel while traveling in Italy soon after he’d finished at Cambridge. Shipping it back to England had proved problematic, so he’d hired four local men to transport it for him. They still worked for him, now serving as footmen, and I often practiced my Italian on them.

In one corner, he had a cabinet where he stored his best whiskies. Four bookcases shared the wall with the fireplace, two on each side. He had a large desk placed underneath the windows so he could look across the street to the park when he was working at it, and two leather chairs with a small, low table between them, sat in front of the fire. And then there were the chess sets. On a table along the wall opposite the windows, he had four sets, each continuously in various stages of play. My favorite was the ivory John Company one, from India, with the kings and queens perched in elaborate seats on top of exquisitely carved elephants. He had a French Regence set with large pieces carved out of wood, and an elaborate German one whose figures were based on Charlemagne, but the one Colin preferred was English. Manufactured by Staunton, its simple bone pieces in red and white sat majestically on a matching papier-mâché board. He kept his mind nimble by working problems on an ongoing basis, and we played frequent games. There were two more sets downstairs in the library.

A hidden door at the end of the chess table led to Colin’s billiard room, a place he’d occasionally disappear to with his friends. I was bound and determined someday he would teach me how to play. He’d tried several times, but on each occasion when he’d stood behind me, his arms around me, helping me to hold the cue stick properly, I’d become hopelessly distracted. Some things are far more pleasant than billiards could ever hope to be.

Entering the room, I kissed him hello and flopped into a chair, waiting to speak until he’d placed the bishop in his hand on the rosewood board in front of him.

“It’s to be Mate in Four,” he said. “I have two ideas, both of which can wait until you’ve told me how your morning was.”

He shook with mirth as I recounted for him the details of the meeting. “I don’t know which I find more diverting: your planning to call on Conservative members of Parliament to bring them round to radical schools of thought or suggesting to Lady Carlisle you’re concerned about the welfare of zebras.”

“Are you anti-zebra, then?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Not at all, although I’ll never be convinced the beasts could be happy in London. Or anywhere outside of Africa, for that matter. Please tell me you’re not longing for a pair?”

“Fear not, dear husband. I’m a confirmed horsewoman, and have no desire to expand my expertise to other species.”

“Thank heavens for that,” Colin said. “This paint on Lord Sanders’s house is troubling. Is there anything more to the story?”

“No,” I said. “All I can imagine is someone wanted to cause additional pain to the family. As if the scandal weren’t enough on its own. Have you further news about Mr. Dillman?”

“Not as of yet,” he said. “Trying to reconstruct his accounts is proving nothing short of a nightmare. Nearly all his records were destroyed in the fire.”

“What’s to be done?”

“Lots of interviews with those who had contracts with him.”

“So you suspect his death had to do with his business?”

“It seems the most likely motivation,” Colin said. “His personal life has yielded no clues. I would be hard-pressed to name a more honorable man. All I hear when questioning those who knew him are tales of his kindness. I’ve yet to uncover one disgruntled employee or disloyal friend.”