Sugarplums and Scandal Page 5

  A short time later, when everyone was seated and tea was poured, Father erupted from his chair, impatient to reveal his surprise.

  “As you all know, today is Mrs. Chase’s birthday. And no man could ask for a better helpmeet.”

  Indeed, I thought. My parents’ marriage had been a successful one, uniting his fortune in trade with her family’s distant but definite connection to nobility, resulting in six living children. Both parties were mindful of their God-appointed roles and kept discreetly to themselves. I could not hope for a better arrangement, I thought as I refolded my handkerchief.

  “And while Christmastide is a time for giving gifts—and a good wife is a true gift to a man—I hope I may also give her a gift, to mark the happiness—the gift!—of a happy house. A mark of my high esteem. Happy birthday, Mrs. Chase!”

  The guests and family smiled as they tried to work out what Father was saying—an able and generous man, his tongue had not learned to keep pace with his kindly heart—and clapped politely as Father made his best legs, stumbling only a little. With a flourish, he presented my mother with a small velvet bag.

  “Mr. Chase, thank you! You are the most thoughtful of husbands.” Mother smiled with genuine pleasure as she removed a small leather box from the velvet—she recognized the trademark burgundy leather of Mr. Hillwood, the jeweler. As careful a housewife as Mother is—always vigilant regarding the finances of the household—she delighted in baubles as much as any woman alive. In fact, no matter how magnificent a present she received, she would still look forward to the small gifts the family exchanged on Christmas morning. My father, in fits of affection that only sometimes vexed my mother (who treasured her reputation for modesty and moderation), called her “a little magpie.”

  She opened the box, and her face was transmuted from delight to unhappy surprise in an instant. “Mr. Chase, I… I do not understand. Is this… some sort of drollery? Brought on by the day’s entertainments?”

  My father, pleased with himself and perhaps distracted by an agreeable amount of punch still coursing in his veins, was not as alert to my mother’s sudden change in mood as the rest of us. “It is my pleasure, Madam.”

  “But… is this how you prize me? And if so, husband, could you not have found some way to… communicate your rebuke… in some more private fashion?” Tears welled up in her eyes, and her blushes were the match of the box in her hand.

  I rushed to my mother’s side.

  “What rebuke? What prize?” my father said, puffing himself up, though he didn’t know the cause. “If the color does not please you, Madam, I am sure that I can find a better. My taste is not as elevated as your own, but surely my good intentions should excuse any fault you might find.”

  “Good intentions? Mr. Chase, if I have not made you happy, surely my care of your house must be worth more still than this!”

  She thrust the box out, for the entire company to see.

  Tommy gasped. Mr. Lamb and Mr. Fairchild were on their feet immediately.

  Lying on the white satin lining was a collection of small, dirty pebbles.

  ———

  “Damn me!” my father roared. “What does that rogue Hillwood play at?”

  “Mr. Chase!” Whatever else of hurt and confusion my mother must have felt, she would not tolerate Father swearing so in the house. I tried to appear shocked, but it was the very sort of thing I would have said had I been in his situation. And I was so very used to Father expressing his feelings candidly that I would have been more surprised if he had not used such bad language.

  “A very expensive pearl and garnet suite should be there! I don’t know what Hillwood means by this, but I’ll have it out of his hide!”

  “Henry, I’m sure there is some innocent reason for this… confusion,” Mr. John Fairchild said, and I was grateful to him for his calm and comforting presence. “Hillwood is the most reliable man in the world, and never has such a taint of dishonor been laid at his door.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tommy dart a worried and questioning glance at the giant brute who sat silently in the corner. A bare shake of the head was his only reply. “Father, what did the suite look like?” I asked, determined to ask Tommy later about his pantomime with Chandler.

  “Margaret Amalie Chase! What the Devil does that matter?” Father’s temper was getting the better of his sense, to swear a second time in front of company and Mother, whose composure had fled, had now begun to cry. She left the room, her lady’s maid scurrying after her. “Just like a lady, to worry about the fashion of some ornament, when there are weightier matters at hand!”

  I bit my tongue; to protest would solve nothing. He’d think of it himself in a moment, I was sure.

  “Perhaps Miss Chase wishes to know so that we might be equipped to identify the pieces, should they have been mislaid,” said Mr. Lamb. “For surely… pebbles? ‘Tis a childish prank, no more.”

  I said nothing, but inclined my head to Mr. Lamb, pleased that he should come so quickly to my assistance.

  Father waved his hand, a dismissive gesture that was certainly made to hide his ignorance of such things. “There were garnets, principally, and some pearls of a good size. Set in gold. Hillwood had showed me some other, lesser pieces, newly made in the best fashion, but I told him, I care not for fashion and will not have French paste or newfangled Pinchbeck, no matter the taste of the day. If they cannot be melted down and got into gold and gems again, I will not have them. Fairchild, Lamb, you of all men take my meaning: in an uncertain world, you cannot store wealth in such things, and the Devil take mode and Hillwood’s silly novelties! I’m a rich man, I don’t care, and an honest one, and will have the best!”

  I waited for Father to finish; his views on the practicality of everything, including the ornaments that he was so kind to give to us, were as well known to me as Reverend Grantley’s one Christmas sermon. “I’m sure Hillwood did not mean to imply you could only afford paste, and such things are also useful to foil robbers, both pickpockets and highwaymen.” I wished I could have seen what Mr. Hillwood offered, as his trinkets were always the height of taste and fashion. I loved them for the cunning that went into their making, for he was no mere goldsmith.

  “Bless me, girl,” he said, pinching my cheek, which I bore as patiently as I could. “As if I would let my daughters go out into any wilderness so adorned, without me to protect them.”

  “You have told us the substance of the jewels, but not the style, Chase,” Mr. Fairchild said, admirably to the point.

  Father waved his hand. “How the Dev—why, I am sure I don’t know. I had Hillwood’s assurances that they were modish, and I saw myself—as did you and Lamb—that there were no prettier things in the shop.” Father might know the language of ship and ledger, warehouse and coffee shop, but other than the raw materials that went into clothing and jewelry and such, he was unschooled.

  “I saw them only for a moment,” said Mr. Fairchild, “as did Lamb here, but even he was absorbed in picking out shoe buckles.”

  “But they were just as you said,” Mr. Lamb agreed.

  Father huffed and puffed, racking his brains. “There were earrings, two of ‘em, of course. A fine pearl at center, garnets around it and three more goodly pearls dangling from it. Gold setting.”

  Girandole earrings, I thought to myself. A central piece with ornaments hanging from both sides and beneath.

  “And there was a brooch. In the form of a sort of… a knot. A sort of drooping bow, if you will, as if it lacked starch or the substance to hold itself up. The sort that might adorn the, er… front… of a gown.” Father held his hand up just below his collarbone, then, fearing he might be indiscreet, went red and moved his hand away. “A good size, but not the sort of armor plate that some ladies wear there… though it could be fitted to other pieces if Mrs. Chase wanted.”

  A brooch a la Sévigné, I imagined he meant. Where another lady might have a ribbon bow at the front of her gown, my mother would have had a t
oy in gold and garnets. Father had been more than generous with Mother’s gift, and now it was stolen, a double blow.

  “But to the matter before us,” Father insisted, “I have had the box tucked safely in my pocket this entire day.” His face was growing redder by the moment.

  “Surely, Father, that cannot be correct,” Tommy said. “For you only had it of Hillwood’s boy as Chandler here and I met you, and that was just at The Sun. That was three hours ago, and we met several of your friends, stopping at various other establishments on our way home. Caroling, at times.”

  “You are right, my boy; I remember it now. I met Fairchild and Lamb, and we stopped by Hillwood’s to retrieve Mrs. Chase’s present. I noticed that one of the links on an earring did not sit quite right, and asked him to repair it. He apologized and allowed as his journeyman must have caused the flaw in the final cleaning. He assured me it was no great matter, that he himself would repair it and send it with his boy after me. I’m sure the boy is to blame: Servants are unruly this time of year—which seems foolish, with Boxing Day so near, and their tips and perquisites at stake—or perhaps he bore some grudge against Hillwood and sought to repay him thus.”

  “It is a very grave thing, to steal so much. And there was no hope that the change would go unnoticed,” Tommy’s friend Mr. Chandler, the oaf, said suddenly. His voice startled me, it being so deep and coming so unexpectedly.

  “And Hillwood is known as a fair master, there’s no one who will say otherwise,” Fairchild added.

  “Did you inspect the box, Father, when it was delivered?” I asked.

  Mr. Chandler started at my question. Perhaps he was surprised that I should speak up again, perhaps he was surprised that I was here at all, but with Mother taken to her bed, someone had to preside over the tea. And my family being somewhat used to my forward manner was no reminder; I vowed I should be less obvious in my attention, using my place behind the teapot to observe everything. After all, Father had no doubt brought his guests home for me to inspect for possible husbands, and I could not put that off forever. This was, after all, the season to contemplate the many forms of Christian fellowship. But perhaps he would be distracted a little longer by his… present… concerns.

  “Let me see…” Father scrubbed at his face, the better to drive off drink and ire. “No, I did not look at them, for upon my life, I was not willing to show such a thing about in a public house, and then there was the surprise of seeing Tommy and… er… Chandler there, arriving just as the boy did.”

  “We did meet several gentlemen who were also out wassailing. We ourselves stopped for a quick pot at several other public houses after,” Mr. Lamb said.

  My father enjoyed sociability, and the holidays provided an ample opportunity for him to indulge his gregarious nature. It was a blessing that he was so addicted to company, for a man in commerce finds his business in his circle of friends, acquaintances, and more distant connections, and his good name and character proceed him into the marketplace.

  And if punch, wine, or good, plain beer was to be found in such visits, then so much the better. But Father was merry, not witless, in his drink, and I’d never met a man so unafraid to walk the streets. Not through some foolish ignorance, but a strong arm to his own defense and a familiarity with London in all her guises led him, always, safely home. Even during the commotion—and thievery—that always attended the holidays.

  Father was decided. “I’ll send to Hillwood immediately. He’ll make this all clear, or I’ll have him clapped in irons.”

  “But… Henry.” Mr. Fairchild set his teacup down carefully. “By now the shop is closed up tight, and the jeweler visiting his relations. Do you not remember? That was the reason to go yourself, this afternoon.”

  “Blast!” Father began to pace again.

  “He will be back tomorrow morning; but I’m sure, on Christmas, you would not…” Mr. Fairchild paused, hoping Father would take the hint. We exchanged a glance, and I realized just how adept that excellent gentleman was at managing my father’s precarious temper.

  “I’ll see him if it’s Christmas or Easter or he’s on his deathbed!” Father rumbled, but faced with the facts of his situation, he consented to sit and have another cup of tea.

  We dined later, but hardly doing justice to Mrs. Baker’s excellent food: beef and veal, goose, pies, and puddings, a merry surfeit in honor of the holiday. Mother having retired for the evening, I pride myself on having done my best, taking her seat and turning the conversation away to more pleasant topics as often as I could lure Father out of his sulk. He was drinking steadily, and what was meant to be a birthday celebration and the eve of a holy day was a sorry, hollow sort of occasion for us.

  A small corner of my heart was glad that Mother was away, for it made it much easier for me to observe the gentlemen without her orchestrating things in her determined way. And Father was so upset that he had quite forgotten why he’d filled the house with gentlemen in the first place.

  But as the evening drew on, I found myself stifling a yawn: I would have liked to stay up a little later, for Mr. Fairchild’s conversation was always very pleasant, and there were moments where it was almost as if we were alone in the room. I found Mr. Lamb very knowledgeable about roses, and even Mr. Chandler made an effort and was not so dull as at first I supposed, or perhaps it was Mrs. Baker’s superb beef setting the doldrums aside finally, or the last of several glasses of wine Father pressed on us. I withdrew and left the gentlemen and Tommy to their talk, having extracted the promise that they would retire shortly: The sooner they were asleep, the sooner the morning would come, and all would be resolved.

  The gentlemen, weary from the day’s business, pleasure, traveling, and—it must be admitted—unpleasant excitement, were as good as their word, and each went to his room shortly. I heard them preparing for bed as I assured myself that the house was locked up, the kitchen in order, and the servants accounted for by Michaels, and tended those affairs that must require a lady’s attention at day’s end.

  It seemed I had no sooner said my prayers and was asleep, when the whole house was roused, not with preparations for church to celebrate the birth of our Savior, but with alarms and barking dogs and cries of “Murder, murder!”

  ———

  Having pulled on a dressing gown and shawl against the chill and lit a candle to find my way through the dark hallways, I hurried toward the source of the noise, in the kitchen. There, I found Michaels and two sleepy-eyed footmen already there, staring at something on the floor at the bottom of a flight of stairs. The warmth of the room by day had fled, though the heady smells of pepper and cloves remained; the fire was banked and gave off little light, this augmented by two candles on the table. The men looked up, their faces ashen in the shadows when they saw me.

  “Miss Chase… do not look,” Michaels begged.

  “Is someone hurt?” I said, pausing. “For if he is, I must see to him, as my mother is ill and not to be disturbed on any account.”

  “He’s beyond any help we can give him,” Michaels said. “A dreadful accident, and no sight for a lady.”

  I held my tongue, knowing that Michaels was only thinking of me, but if a lady is given the care of her household, and has the stomach and the brains to manage it, her obligation is to her duty first, and niceties after.

  “It’s Simon,” Michaels said. “I’ve already seen that it was him.”

  I nodded, and out of respect to Michaels—the poor man looked as though he would be sick in a moment—I left the jacket over the face of the dead man. I took the man’s wrist in my hand and felt that there was no pulse, though his skin was still warm.

  The footsteps I heard behind me were halted abruptly by the horror on the floor before them. I looked up.

  “My God!” Tommy said. “Mags?”

  “I’m afraid so.” I sat back on my heels, rocking back and forth. As I bent my head to say a quick prayer, I was shocked to see Michaels’s coat pulled away from the dead man’s face
. Mr. Chandler was gazing impassively at Simon’s corpse.

  I gasped, but took the opportunity to look myself, quickly, so as not to disturb Michaels’s sense of propriety. Simon’s face was still caught in a fearful contortion, blood had trickled from his brow. There were no other marks on his face or hands.

  At my gasp, Mr. Chandler was suddenly aware that I was watching him. He at least had the decency to blush, after his too rough handling of matters not his business.

  Mr. Lamb arrived, pale and sweating, his jacket thrown hastily on, his shirt untucked. “He is dead, isn’t he, Chandler—?”

  “It’s as Miss Chase says,” Mr. Chandler said slowly. With no more consideration than to uncover a dead man when he was a guest in a strange house, he had come into the kitchen dressed only in a shirt and britches. He turned to me. “What lies up that set of stairs?”

  I gave him a look that I hoped was full of my unspoken rebuke. “One of the maids’ rooms. I’m sure it’s their cries that drew us here.”

  “But Mags… how did it happen?” Tommy whispered. He was shaking, though he tried to hide it.

  “I heard the maids’ noise, Mr. Thomas,” said Michaels, “and, thinking to silence their untoward frivolity, an effect of the holiday celebration, came to find Simon here.”

  “Have you spoken to the maids?” I asked.

  “Not myself, not yet, Miss Chase,” Michaels answered. “I’d hardly gotten here when you arrived yourself. I believe Mrs. Billings is up there now.”

  “You gentlemen should return to bed,” I said. “I’m sorry that you were disturbed by this unpleasant matter, but we would prefer that we address our house’s problems in private. Indeed, you’ve been exposed to too much scandal already and you have my apologies for it. I am certain we will have this resolved by morning.”

  “Miss Chase, I would hardly feel comfortable to leave you alone in such circumstances,” Mr. Lamb said.

  As frustrated as I was with this universal refusal to accede to my request, I kept my tone mild. “Hardly alone sir, in my own house, with my own people around me. Please, do not trouble yourself. I’m sure my father will be here presently to relieve me of this burden.”