Deanna Raybourn - Dark Road to Darjeeling

“We are newly come into your valley, Reverend. You must tell us about the place. We have not yet ventured out to make the acquaintance of our neighbours.”

His brow furrowed as he thought. “You will know the ladies of Pine Cottage, of course, for I hear they are connections of yours.”

“Indeed. I am rather surprised they have not come,” I said, glancing around the garden and widening my eyes innocently. I was not the least surprised, of course. Lucy was doubtless still smarting from the awkwardness of our last parting and Emma would fear the worst—exposure as a murderess.

But the good Reverend was shaking his head, his expression mournful. “Oh, no. They do not venture out upon any occasion. The world must come to Pine Cottage, I am afraid, for the ladies are almost perfect recluses.”

This was interesting intelligence, for Emma was driven by her longing for independence, a need to be her own mistress and to travel and order her own affairs. If she had indeed withdrawn with Lucy into Pine Cottage, then the mystery surrounding them thickened.

“I shall have to pay a call upon them soon,” I offered. “And perhaps the White Rajah as well?”

Reverend Pennyfeather chuckled. “You must go when you have plenty of time to spare, for he is a garrulous old gentleman and will keep you enchanted for hours with his stories. I do not know if half of them are false, but he is a raconteur without parallel, I promise you.” He leaned forward, pitching his voice to a tone that promised confidences. “I will say to you that Miss Cavendish does not wholly approve of the old fellow. She thinks him indelicate in his morality. She is a good soul,” he hastened to add, “but she can be a little unyielding at times. She is comfortable with her own lapses of conventionality, but sometimes finds them troubling in others.”

I glanced to the tea table where she was bent at the waist to pour the tea, her back rigid within her corset. Unyielding indeed.

“I do understand,” I told him. “I shall be discreet about my visit.”

He gave me an approving nod. “That would be best. No need to trouble Miss Cavendish about things that do not concern her.”

Just then his attention was diverted to the sight of Plum still conversing with the dusky beauty at his side.

“Is that your Miss Thorne?” I asked.

He started, then recovered himself with a rueful smile. “Oh, yes. Miss Thorne is in our employ to finish Primrose.” He shook his head. “A waste, I think. Primrose is all right, or at least she will be in time. It seems a cruel choice,” he added softly, and I was startled, although I could not disagree. To force Primrose, awkwardly positioned as she was between girlhood and maturity, to be in the constant company of the exquisite Miss Thorne could only prove damaging for the girl’s confidence.

“Perhaps Miss Thorne will smooth the way for her. Becoming a grown woman of accomplishment is a difficult task.”

“And Cassandra is rather too occupied to put her hand to it. She is an artist you know,” he said, casting a proud glance at his wife. She had just emerged from the house, Percival once more securely tucked into her braids. She strode dramatically through the garden, breaking off a large, luscious blossom to tuck into her décolletage.

“I cannot think Miss Cavendish will like that,” the Reverend murmured, a twinkle in his eye.

I smiled at him. “I think it is time for some refreshment, Reverend.”

The next half hour or so passed pleasantly enough. As expected, Miss Cavendish made a sharp remark about the blossom nesting in Cassandra’s neckline, but the lady simply waved an airy hand, scattering crumbs from a plum tart as she did so. I imagined not much troubled Cassandra, for she wore the imperturbable expression of an artist to whom material needs are never a concern. I had seen it before upon Plum, but to my surprise, he made no attempt to speak to his kindred spirit. His attentions were fully occupied by the lovely Miss Thorne. The more I watched them, the more interested I became, for she seemed entirely unmoved by his conversation, an unusual thing for Plum. He was, by virtue both of excellent birth and considerable personal attractions, quite accustomed to reciprocal attentions from any lady toward whom he cast his eye—with the obvious and painful exception of our sister-in-law, Violante. Being met with demure detachment would only whet his appetites, I suspected, and it certainly fired the interest of another, for more than once I detected the surreptitious stare of Miss Cavendish directed toward the pair. Before I could reflect further upon the matter, I saw Jane rise, give a little cry and put her hands to her belly, then fall backward into her chair again.

In an instant, Plum was supporting her with the aid of Harry Cavendish, while the Reverend hovered, looking worried. Miss Thorne hastened to shepherd the children aside and Portia, her brow white with fear, took Jane’s hands.

“I am sorry,” Jane said, giving a shaky smile. “I felt suddenly unwell. I am better now,” she said, but her face held no colour and her hands trembled in Portia’s. She gave a quick gasp and took hold of her belly again.

Portia looked around wildly, speaking to no one in particular. “She has another month yet. It is too soon.”

Miss Cavendish stepped forward. “Gentlemen, if you will convey Mrs. Cavendish to her room, we will attend her.”

It was a sign of Jane’s discomfort that she did not demur, but allowed herself to be hoisted gently between Plum and Harry, the Reverend following closely behind should they have need of him.

Cassandra had been watching with a sort of curious detachment, and as we left the garden, I heard Miss Thorne’s voice for the first time, low and beautifully-modulated. “I think it best if I take the children home now,” she said firmly, and Cassandra Pennyfeather seemed to recall herself then. “Oh, I suppose so. I may as well come too,” she replied, trailing after her children and lifting a languid hand to me in farewell.

But Cassandra’s peculiarities faded from my mind as soon as I reached Jane’s room. Portia was busy settling Jane comfortably into bed; the others had gathered just outside the door and an argument of sorts seemed to be brewing.

“She must have medical attention,” Plum was saying, infusing his words with all the authority of a thousand years of nobility. He was accustomed to snapping his fingers and having his will obeyed without question, but the Cavendishes exchanged glances with Reverend Pennyfeather, a silent conspiracy of sorts, and it occurred to me that if Jane’s life were to hang in the balance, the Cavendishes could well hasten the end simply by refusing medical treatment for her.

“My brother is right,” I said in ringing tones. I too was accustomed to imposing my will. “Why do you hesitate to send for the doctor? I am told there is one in the vicinity. Do you wish Jane ill that you would even hesitate upon the matter?”

To her credit, Miss Cavendish looked properly horrified. “Of course not! Jane is of the family now. She is one of us, and her child—” She broke off, her eyes fixed upon Harry’s. “Very well. We will send for the doctor.”

“No!” Harry exclaimed, and even the good Reverend shook his head. “Camellia, you dare not.”

Something of Harry’s insistence, or perhaps it was the Reverend’s familiarity, stopped her. Miss Cavendish’s hands clenched and unclenched at her sides, working quickly as she stood between the two factions, my brother and I to one side of her, Harry and the Reverend to the other.

“Why?” I demanded of the Reverend. He darted his eyes to Miss Cavendish and she nodded slowly, as if bestowing permission.

“He is indisposed. He was supposed to come with us today, but when we called for him, we found him unwell. He cannot attend Mrs. Cavendish.”