Ronnie had grown up in the main house, but after her father died, his widow, child, and sister had moved into the side wing to make room for the Marquess. Ronnie had used the grand ballroom and formal dining room to celebrate her wedding to Miles Fitzwarren, but other than that, I gathered the Marquess kept to his side of the baize doors, and his sister-in-law to hers.
The reason for this long-standing and awkward arrangement had never been fully explained to me—few things are a more sensitive topic to an English person than finances—but I thought that despite his younger brother’s financial acumen, the Marquess was fairly hopeless when it came to sensible investments. I suspected that nothing but the caution of previous generations had preserved the estate itself in Beaconsfield hands—although one might have wished that their practicality had extended to giving the women of the family a say in things, so that Ronnie was not faced with a choice of abandoning her home or pinching every housekeeping penny. So far, she had managed to remain in the London flat she and Miles had called home, but as the boy’s costs grew, she might be forced to reconsider.
And so I left the main drive to follow the path to the east wing, and reached out to pull the bell beside what looked like a trades entrance. In a moment, I found myself looking at Ronnie’s mother.
Tears seemed to be a theme for the day. Like her grandson, The Lady Dorothy had been weeping, although perhaps with less vigour and commotion than the lad, and more of a desire to conceal it.
She’d never been beautiful, no more than Ronnie was—they shared their short, verging-on-stout form and unfortunate pug nose, and neither had ever been able to do much with their mousy hair. I imagined looking at her mother would cause Ronnie some degree of despair, at what she would look like when she was in her middle forties. In fact, my friend’s lack of conventional beauty had always been outweighed (at least, until motherhood took over) by her big heart and her eagerness to change the world; her mother’s dowdy simplicity of spirit had been cramped only by a Victorian upbringing in what a woman did and did not do.
(Ironic, that, considering the entire age took its name from a Queen—who, come to think of it, might have been the physical model for the two Beaconsfield women, minus the black dresses, lace mantillas, and scowl.)
The countess had done her best to hide the redness of eyes and nose, so I pretended not to notice, merely greeting her as the old acquaintance I was. Lady Dorothy led me to a stifling sitting room, told the maid to bring tea, and embarked on a cheery conversation about the heat and the garden. The moment the maid shut the door, she sagged a bit—too well-bred to slump in her chair and blow a puff of air over her face, but that was the effect. She smiled, her first genuine expression since I’d arrived.
“It’s very good of you to come, Mrs, er…” People who knew me before I married Holmes had difficulties with my choice of names—although my problem was nothing compared to this woman’s, with her family links not only to inherited peerages and courtesy titles, but a granted position as well. It was the sort of tangle that only those whose male relatives sat in the House of Lords would be able to keep straight.
“Oh heavens, it’s still Mary.”
“Mary, then. Ronnie said you wanted to talk about Vivian’s disappearance, although I’m not sure what she thinks you can do. We’ve searched all over for her—all the paths and trails, the corners of the house, up in the stables. She did not board a train, no one saw a strange motorcar. Edward even…even had the lake dragged.”
“There’s probably nothing I can do that you haven’t, but I promised Ronnie, she being a bit tied down. I hope you don’t mind if I speak to the servants?”
“Of course not, if it can help. Not that it will take you long,” she added. “There’s only Lily and the cook, and a half-time gardener.”
“Really? I’d have thought this sort of place would take a platoon of polishers.”
“The main house has its own staff, of course. Although even it doesn’t have as many as it should.”
“I suppose these days country girls prefer work in a factory over life in service.”
“Hmm.”
My ears pricked at the sound: there was no agreement there, only her unwillingness to disagree—or, to admit to reduced circumstances.
“You must have brought in a lot of caterers and what-have-you to help with your brother-in-law’s birthday last week. I understand it was quite a bash.”
“That’s not unusual. Edward hosts a lot of week-end parties. His political friends, for the most part. But it’s true, this was busier than usual. Which is why we did not think much about Vivian’s absence—we hadn’t the time. Frankly, it was a relief to have her out of the way. She tried to be helpful, but even the silver she polished needed to be re-done after.”
“I’m surprised the Marquess didn’t bring in all the village women to help!”
Her gaze fell to her hands. “Yes, well, Edward’s had some unfortunate investments of late.”
“I see. Well, tell me about your sister-in-law. How was she, up to the point she left?”
Lady Dorothy looked relieved at my change of subject—easier to talk about the family lunatic than the family money. “I thought she looked marvellous! She’d had her hair bobbed, very fashionable. She’d put on a little weight, which was good since sometimes she looks positively skeletal. She mostly paid attention to the conversation, even held up her part of it. But that nurse—I don’t know. At first, I’d have said Vivian enjoyed her company, but looking back, I wonder if the woman wasn’t…controlling her somehow. It couldn’t be difficult to do, considering Vivian’s state of mind.”
“Controlling her, how?”
“Oh, offering up things to talk about, asking pointed questions, getting in the way of family affairs—the woman claimed that the asylum required her to stay in the room with Vivian every minute, which meant that she had to come to dinner with us—can you imagine? Once or twice I caught Vivian shooting these little glances over, almost as if she was afraid of her.”
“Afraid?” I said sharply. “Physically afraid? Or as if the nurse might give a negative report on her?”
“I don’t really know. Certainly when the two of them were alone—in the garden, walking by the pond—they seemed perfectly comfortable. But as I say, when we dined in the main house, Vivian scarcely said a word, barely touched her plate, sat and looked down at her hands. I wondered, afterwards, whether the nurse might have been so uncomfortable, dining outside of her class like that, that Vivian was afraid she’d have to pay for it later. You hear such dreadful tales about…those places.”
It was a vivid and startling picture, the madwoman cowering in anticipation of her nurse’s revenge over a petty scorning. “You are very fond of your sister-in-law, I think.”
“I love Vivian dearly—I did, at any rate. Oh, Mary, you should have seen her before the War! So delicate and charming—the prettiest girl of her Season. And she seemed to adore it—the parties, the dancing, the spectacle and dressing up. It was only afterwards, when the talk turned sober, that she would fade and cower. The young men did not know what to do. She left early—it was barely July—and went off to Paris all by herself. Oh, with a maid, of course, she wasn’t that bohemian. She knew no one, but that seemed to be what she was after. So odd. At any rate, she never married, and now she’s become such a sad and fragile person, wrapped up in the most dreadful ideas and fantasies. The mind is a terrible thing, when it loses control.” Ronnie’s mother looked up, tears welling. “Please find her, Miss Russell. Help me keep her as safe as she’ll allow.”
“Do you think she may have…” I hesitated to finish the sentence, but she did not.
“Harmed herself? I think she could—I know she could. I lie awake at night and imagine her, putting on those heavy old jewels and dancing into the sea somewhere. But then, I also can imagine that awful nurse, looking at the weight of them and at the fragility of Vivian…She was Italian, after all.”
I blinked at the non-sequitur. “Who? The nurse?”