The Spinster Bride (32 page)

“Aren't you at all worried that something terrible has happened to him?”

Dorothea looked at him for a long moment, so long that Marjorie was afraid her mother would say something and give up the game. “Of course, I'm worried. My only son has disappeared. But I daresay, Scotland Yard is making progress on the case. They've several investigators looking for clues and whatnot. Apparently, there was an American ship that left port the very night George disappeared and at least one other man was shanghaied. I'm quite convinced George was also taken.”

“That is promising,” Jeffrey said unconvincingly. “They haven't found anything else?”

“No, they haven't.”

Jeffrey wiped his brow, and Marjorie noticed a slight tremor in his hand. A few minutes later, Jeffrey said his good-byes and headed out the door, claiming he had an important appointment.

Marjorie leapt from her chair and hurried to an adjoining room. “George,” she whispered harshly. “It's time.”

These past days had also taken a toll on George, who disliked his routine being so disrupted. He grew more agitated each day, even though he understood the need for what they were doing. He didn't take quite as much delight in tricking Jeffrey; he simply wanted to end it all and tell Scotland Yard what he knew.

Marjorie tugged George to the open window. “Stand here. And if Jeffrey sees you, wave. Don't smile. Wave slowly, as if you're in a trance.” Marjorie looked past her brother and grinned at Dorothea. “This will drive him positively mad.”

“Very well,” George said. “What if he doesn't see me?”

“Then we'll try something else,” Dorothea said, her voice tinged with a bit of impatience.

“If he does see you, he might stop the carriage. As soon as he's out of sight, step to the side and run to the other room.”

Marjorie sat back down where she'd been and took up her needlepoint.

“Here comes his carriage,” George said, sounding excited.

“Just stand there. Do try not to smile, George. Is he looking? Does he see you?”

Dorothea, still sitting on the settee, whispered, “He's seen him.” She started giggling and Marjorie pressed her lips together to stop her own laughter. Behind her, George quickly turned away from the window and awkwardly ran across the room to the adjacent door, barely making it through before Jeffrey came bounding into the room, his eyes wild.

“Where is he?”

Marjorie calmly put her needlepoint down. “Whom do you mean?” she said, looking about the room.

Jeffrey pointed to the window, his face covered with a sheen of perspiration. “He was standing at the window. He was wearing, oh, God. He was there. He waved at me.”

“Who, Jeffrey?”

“George,” Jeffrey shouted as if they were the crazy ones.

He began moving about the room, looking behind furniture, in places no man could ever hope to fit. Then he stalked toward the door George had disappeared behind and swung it open. Marjorie held her breath, praying George had thought to hide. Marjorie and her mother stared at each other for a long moment, holding their breath.

Dorothea stood, smoothed out her skirts, and walked toward the room where Jeffrey was apparently searching for George. “You are being unkind, Jeffrey,” Dorothea said. “You know very well George is not here, and to continually claim you see him is beyond cruel.”

Breathing harshly, Jeffrey came back into the front parlor, looking bewildered and defeated. “I swear I saw him. I swear.”

“The light can play tricks on the mind, my dear. We all are upset about George's disappearance, but this seems to be affecting you more than I would have thought. Perhaps you feel guilty because you were with him the night he disappeared. I do hope that is not the case, Jeffrey. None of this is your fault,” Dorothea said sympathetically.

“No, none of it is,” Jeffrey said, still looking around the room. “If only I could get some sleep.”

“It has been a strain on us all,” Dorothea said.

When Jeffrey had left once more, Dorothea said, “I almost feel sorry for him.”

“I don't.” George and Marjorie spoke in unison and grinned at each other.

“Either way, it's nearly over. He looks like a man about to snap.” Dorothea sighed and grabbed another sandwich. “All this excitement has improved my appetite.”

“Mine, too,” Marjorie said, taking the last scone. “I think the regatta will be his undoing.”

O
n the second day of the Henley Royal Regatta, Charles, looking smart in his Panama hat, sat in the stands at the finish line with Marjorie, Lady Summerfield, and Jeffrey, enjoying the bright sunshine and the excitement of the upcoming race. They had already watched a number of races, and now were anticipating the final contest of the regatta, the Grand Challenge Cup. Both banks and the slight rise above the river were dotted with men in their best summer suits and white parasols held by women in their summer finery. A set of opera glasses lay on the bench beside a large basket filled with more food than the four of them could possibly eat.

Jeffrey sat nervously, looking around the crowd as if he might see a ghost. He most assuredly would, Charles thought. Jeffrey was at the opposite side of the bench from him, and would often stand and pace back and forth. The man didn't look well. No, not at all. The past weeks had taken a toll on him. Dark smudges marred his face below his eyes, and the creases on either side of his mouth had deepened. It was all so very gratifying.

“Jeffrey,” Charles boomed, delighted when Jeffrey actually jumped. “Who do you have your money on this year?”

Looking slightly annoyed, Jeffrey said, “Thames.”

“I've got London. Won the last two years and they look strong again this one. I hope you didn't bet too much.”

“I actually didn't bet at all this year,” Jeffrey said.

“Good man.” Charles winked at Marjorie, who was clearly trying to suppress a smile. They sat inches apart, a frustrating thing for a man who knew what lay beneath all those frothy layers of silk and lace. Dorothea, glaring at him, sat on the opposite side of Marjorie next to Jeffrey, as if daring him to as much as touch her daughter's hand. He did, of course, his pinky finger on hers. He occasionally moved it back and forth, feeling ridiculously aroused by that innocent caress.

He couldn't help but stare at her mouth, her breasts, the outline of her legs. He couldn't stop all his carnal thoughts, not when he knew how she tasted, how she sounded when she came. But he did try to hide those thoughts whenever Dorothea looked his way.

Taking a deep breath, Charles forced himself to look at the Thames flowing languidly by. Spectators lined both banks, but Charles had always preferred the stands. A young girl, curls bouncing, ran after her older brother on the grassy strip between the stands and the river, and Charles couldn't help wondering if he had seen Marjorie when he was a much younger man on this very spot. She wouldn't have been much older than that little girl chasing her brother. It made him feel a bit old.

“Do you think I'm old?” he asked, suddenly feeling unsure.

“Yes. Ancient.” The starting cannon sounded and she clapped her hands. “Oh, good. The Grand Challenge has begun.” She picked up her glasses and peered through them up the river.

“It's a bit soon to see who's ahead,” Jeffrey said.

Marjorie dropped the glasses and stared at her cousin. “I wasn't watching for rowers, I was trying to get a glimpse of the queen.”

She handed the glasses to Jeffrey. “Here. I don't much care who wins.”

Charles leaned back on his elbows and tilted his head to the sun, closing his eyes. He hadn't felt so warm since leaving Africa. Soon, the wealthiest Londoners would be leaving the city and heading to the cooler countryside.

“Once we're married, we can go visit my brother in Nottingham. Much cooler there.”

“I'd like that,” Marjorie said, looking back at him and smiling. The large brim of her hat cast a shadow on much of her face, revealing only those lovely lips of hers. God, he wanted nothing more than to draw her down on top of him and kiss her silly.

“We haven't established the fact that there will be a wedding,” Dorothea interjected with pursed lips, but there was slightly less bite in her tone lately. Charles had a feeling he was winning the old lady over by helping to plan Jeffrey's demise. The man was in a state of complete nerves. He was continuously looking about, and more than once grabbed up the glasses to examine someone more carefully. No doubt anyone with red hair was enough to drive the man close to the edge.

Like a subtle wave, the crowd's attention toward the race grew, until it was obvious the placement of the crews would soon be apparent. “Who's leading?” Charles asked Jeffrey, who still held the glasses.

“London,” Jeffrey said with disgust, snapping down the glasses. “And Thames nowhere in sight. Looks like Eton's coming up, though. It'll be a close one.”

Indeed, the crews seemed to be almost even. Everyone on the hill stood, and the shouts of encouragement grew louder the closer the men got to the finish line, the “plish” of the oars entering the water at the catch becoming ever louder. “Come on! Come on, lads, you can do it,” Charles shouted, oblivious to the startled look Dorothea gave him.

“He does like his sports,” Marjorie said, laughing, then shouted, “Come on, lads.”

A shot rang out, marking the end of the race and London's win.

Marjorie stood and took off her hat, waving it in front of her as if to create a breeze. Charles watched as George, having seen her signal, stepped from behind a small group of people, who looked suspiciously like Mr. Stavers and his family, and walked up the hillside until he was standing quite alone, looking down on them.

“Mother,” Marjorie said, looking up the rise in the general direction of where George stood, wearing his ridiculous green jacket and orange vest. “Is that Lord Sewall? I haven't seen him in ages.”

Dorothea looked up the hill. “Where, dear?”

“There.”

Jeffrey looked, just as they'd planned, and turned a frightening shade of gray.

“Oh no, it's not,” Marjorie went on. “I wonder why he doesn't come to the regatta anymore? He always enjoyed them so. Do you remember the balls they used to hold after Henley—”

“Marjorie,” Jeffrey said, still staring at George. “Look up there. At that man. Do you see him?”

This is it, she thought. Her cousin looked like a man about to break. Marjorie thought back to Jeffrey's words:
I am a terrible person. It's best you remember that.
Had he been trying to tell her something, hint at something that was to come?

“That's not Sewall, Jeffrey. Sewall had gone quite bald the last I saw him.”

“No. To the right. Higher up. That man standing there by himself. He's . . . staring at us.”

Marjorie squinted her eyes and next to her she thought she detected a small noise from Charles, as if he were stifling laughter. “What man? I don't see anyone there. What does he look like?”

Jeffrey began to sweat, and Marjorie maintained her innocent composure. Everything rode on this moment. If Charles was right, Jeffrey would beg for it all to end. From the look of her cousin, he seemed ready to rid his soul of the guilt that was no doubt eating away at him. No matter what he'd done, Marjorie refused to believe he was purely evil. She'd known Jeffrey all her life, and if George hadn't told her what he'd remembered, she would have had a difficult time believing Jeffrey capable of such an evil act.

His voice shaking noticeably, Jeffrey said, “He's wearing a . . . a green coat with an orange vest. He has, oh God, he has red hair.”

Marjorie looked at Dorothea and at him, as if confused. “I don't see anyone like that. Do you, Mother?”

“What? I wasn't paying attention,” Dorothea said, sounding bored.

“It's George. By God, you cannot tell me you don't see him. He's looking right at me.” Jeffrey stopped as if choking. “He just waved at me. Just now. Right there.” He pointed, his hand shaking so badly he could hardly keep it up.

Marjorie laid a hand on her cousin's arm. “There's no one there, Jeffrey,” she said, making her face the picture of concern. “No one.” She turned to Charles. “Do you see who he's talking about?”

“No,” Charles said, pretending to scan the hill. “My God, Mr. Penwhistle, you look as if you're going faint.”

“He's haunting me,” Jeffrey muttered. “I see him everywhere I go.” He looked at Marjorie and Charles as if desperate to get them to believe him. “I saw him at the library, on Market Street. He was walking with that girl he was engaged to.”

“Lilianne Cavendish?”

“Yes, her. And I saw him standing in the window at your house. You remember that.”

“Yes, I do. But we didn't see him, did we, Mother?”

“What poppycock,” Dorothea said, sounding angry.

“I tell you he's haunting me.”

“Don't say such a thing,” Marjorie said. “George can't haunt you because he's not dead.”

“How do you know?” Jeffrey said, looking up at the rise again, then crying out when he realized the man he'd been staring at had disappeared. “He was there. Oh my God. I can't take any more. I can't. He's haunting me.”

“Stop saying that,” Marjorie said. “It's awful and not true.”

“It is true. He's dead and he's haunting me.”

“He's not dead. How could you possibly say such a thing? How could you possibly
know
such a thing?”

“
Because I saw him die
,” Jeffrey said brokenly. He lowered his head, and added softly, “I was there.”

“What are you saying, Mr. Penwhistle?” Charles asked. “How could you have kept this to yourself and let your aunt and cousin suffer these past weeks searching for him?”

“He was so stupid, so gullible. So goddamn
undeserving
. It wasn't fair.”

“What are you talking about?” Marjorie asked, feeling sick inside. For all that she'd hoped and planned for this moment, now that it had come, she truly wished Jeffrey hadn't been involved.

“I was the heir,” Jeffrey said, looking from one to the other. “For the first ten years of my life,
I
was the heir. And then he was born. He ruined everything, don't you see? I was the heir.”

“My God,” Charles said. “What did you do, man?”

Jeffrey buried his head in his hands. “I wish I'd never done it. You have to believe me. I wish I hadn't hired those men. I should have stopped them, I should have stopped them,” he said, finally retching on the ground.

“But you didn't.” George, accompanied by another man, had come up behind them. “You led me to those men. You left me to die. Why, Jeffrey? I don't understand. I thought you were my friend. My best friend.”

“George?” Jeffrey looked from George to the others in the small group. Marjorie grabbed her brother's hand, and Jeffrey's gaze followed the gesture. Realization slowly dawned, until it looked as if Jeffrey would retch again. “You tricked me. All of you.”

“Mr. Penwhistle, I am arresting you for the crime of attempted murder. I need you to come with me, sir.”

“What?” Jeffrey looked disbelievingly at the man, finally recognizing him as the constable who had been to his home when George had first disappeared.

“Jeffrey, please do not make a scene,” Dorothea said. “It's bad enough you vomited in public. I'll send a note over to your mother so she knows where you are. Good-bye, Jeffrey.”

“Aunt, what do you mean? What's happening? I did nothing. I never laid a hand on him.” Jeffrey looked at the constable who had a firm hand on his arm. “Unhand me, you cur. You've made a terrible mistake. Do you realize who I am?”

“Please come quietly, sir. If what you say is correct, you'll be home by supper,” the constable said soothingly.

Jeffrey lifted his chin. “Right, then. Still, I will talk to your supervisor.”

“I'll make certain of it, sir,” the officer said.

As the constable started drawing Jeffrey away, her cousin looked back at the group with pure loathing, and Marjorie couldn't suppress the chill that crawled up her spine.

Dorothea turned her back on her nephew and the rest followed suit, mentally dismissing him.

“That was extremely distasteful,” Dorothea said, looping her arm through George's. “You did very well these past weeks, George. You have restored my confidence.”

George smiled, and Marjorie felt tears pressing on the back of her eyelids. She hadn't heard Mother say a kind thing to George in years. Perhaps nearly losing him had softened her a bit.

“And for God's sake, take off that hideous suit of clothes when we get home.”

Marjorie stifled a laugh. She never would understand her mother.