Page 12 of Lady Be Good

“Not entirely awful.”

Not entirely awful! Had a more satisfying verdict ever been spoken? Hiding an amazed smile, Lilah began to replace the teacups into their crates. Her judge turned away to consider the rest of the dusty room. Tap-tap-tap went Miss Everleigh’s pencil against the notebook she carried.

“This will be our staging space,” she said, her voice echoing off the bare walls. “We’ll begin with the most breakable items—porcelain, crystal, all the delicate wares. You have the list still?”

“Right here, miss.” That she was entrusted with it seemed encouraging, too. Now that they had finished their canvass and begun the more detailed work of appraisal, Miss Everleigh’s temper had mellowed. Her mood, Lilah had observed, followed her work exactly; if it was proceeding at a satisfactory pace, she sometimes even managed a smile.

“Your job is simple enough,” Miss Everleigh said. Her attention fell to the vase Lilah was wrapping. “Careful, there. Don’t swaddle too tightly.”

“Yes, miss.” Lilah tucked the loose end of linen into the lip, then carefully placed it into a crate filled with wood shavings. That was the last of the hard-paste porcelain, for which she was thankful. Handling such valuable objects made her anxious of her grip.

Together they looked over the china still to be cataloged, a minefield of dishes littered across the floor. “You’ll take the English plate,” Miss Everleigh said. “Bone china only. I’ll start with the soft paste. Once you’ve labeled an item, you’ll write a brief description. Focus on distinctions that might increase a piece’s value—and imperfections that might lower it. For instance, that vase you just put away. What did you observe before wrapping it?”

“A small scratch in the glaze along the rim,” Lilah said instantly. “Barely noticeable.”

“Highly noticeable,” Miss Everleigh corrected, “to the clients who will be bidding on it. What else?”

Reluctantly, Lilah started to peel back the linen wrapping.

“No,” Miss Everleigh said. “From memory, if you please.”

Was this a test? Lilah hoped so. A test meant that Miss Everleigh saw a chance for her to prove herself. “The stones are agate and jade. The underglaze is very vibrant.”

“What color?”

“Red.”

“Red as a brick? Red as blood? Red as a rooster’s—”

“As copper,” Lilah said.

“Yes, precisely. It’s a classic example of Jihong porcelain.” Miss Everleigh eyed the crate. “One of two dozen in existence, if that.”

Lilah goggled. “And you let me wrap it?”

“Your hands seem steady.” She shrugged. “Keep your notes in plain language. The more florid descriptions are the job of the catalog editors. They know best how to stir the public’s interest.”

Breathless, Lilah waited. This was all very interesting information, nothing she’d ever learned as an Everleigh Girl.

But her instruction was over. “Proceed,” Miss Everleigh said, and gathered up a porcelain figure, carrying it to her seat at the table. With elegant economy, she turned the figurine with one hand, while with the other, she began to take notes.

Lilah turned to her own business. For the first few minutes, as she worked through the cups and saucers, she remained acutely aware of her employer’s scrutiny. But when a half hour had passed without scolding, her nerves settled, and she began to make good time with her share of the china.

She was unprepared, then, for Miss Everleigh’s sudden remark. “Lord Palmer takes an interest in you, I observe.”

She nearly dropped a saucer. Inwardly cursing, she made a great frowning show of concentrating on her next notation: C-F-44. Minor imperfection of pattern: one branch of leaves is in different shade of paint. “Why should you say so, miss? I rarely see him about the house.” In fact, she’d not seen him since leaving town, yesterday.

“You meet with him regularly, don’t you? In the afternoons.” Miss Everleigh wrinkled her nose. “These maids cannot keep from gossiping.”

“He—” Drat the gossips! “I don’t—sometimes he does invite me to take tea with him, but I—”

“Tea, is it?” Miss Everleigh’s voice was perfectly neutral, though her next words revealed her opinion. “I’m not surprised. All you girls are very good at making impressions on gentlemen.”

There was no wise reply to that. On a steadying breath, Lilah turned over the saucer. It felt as smooth as a baby’s bottom. See, miss, how industriously I work.

“Curious name, ‘Everleigh Girls.’ ” Miss Everleigh loosed a brittle laugh. “I wonder what my grandfather would have said, had he guessed that his auction rooms would become the byword for women who advertise tooth powder on the sides of omnibuses.”

“I can’t imagine,” Lilah said carefully. Their truce, she gathered, was approaching its conclusion. “I have never been called to advertise anything myself.”

With an unpleasant smile, Miss Everleigh looked her over. “No, I suppose you haven’t.”

Lilah laughed. She did not mean to do it, and Miss Everleigh looked startled.

“You find that amusing? I am given to understand that you girls jostle and compete for such . . . opportunities.”

“Some of us do.” The girls who wished to call themselves to the attention of wealthy patrons did indeed dream of such fame. “I had always hoped for different.”

Miss Everleigh’s jaw ticked, as though she were chewing on what she would say next. “Such as?”

Lilah spotted a way back into their accord. “It would be my fondest dream to be a professional woman, such as yourself. To do work that depended on my knowledge, rather than my . . . conversational politesse, as you once put it. I was very happy, miss, when I learned I was to assist you here.”

Miss Everleigh visibly flinched. Then she reached for a new miniature, turning it over and over in her hands—searching for what was wrong with it.

But it seemed the little figure, of a shepherdess playing a pipe, bore no imperfections. Frowning, Miss Everleigh laid it down. “It isn’t done,” she said, staring at the shepherdess, “for a woman to be called professional. The very idea sounds . . .”

Had Lilah offended her? “Perhaps that’s the wrong word. Forgive me, I didn’t—”

“No.” Miss Everleigh looked up, her expression adamant. “That is precisely the right word, Miss Marshall.”

“Well.” Fighting a foolish smile, Lilah swaddled her cup and took up another.

“But it would take far more than the work of a single estate to provide you the requisite training,” Miss Everleigh continued stiffly. “I learned this trade from birth, you know. As a little girl on my father’s knee, I began my education.”

“Yes, miss. Of course. I would not dream—”

“And the price is steep, to nurse such ambitions. You are pretty enough, Miss Marshall, in your own way; perhaps the advertisers won’t have you, but some decent man might. Certainly that would be the safer path—provided his offer was satisfactory.”

Bold words, from a sheltered heiress! In amazement, Lilah looked up.

Miss Everleigh lifted one slim shoulder in a shrug. “I am not na?ve,” she said. “Nor do I endorse immoral practices. I am certain you could find an honest man, a butcher or a . . .” It seemed her knowledge of the middling professions was not great; for a moment, she faltered. “A bank clerk,” she said finally. “To marry, I mean.”

Between a butcher and a clerk was a great ground to cover. But Lilah doubted that Miss Everleigh was looking to be tutored on the difference. Mutely she nodded.

“It is not exciting,” Miss Everleigh said, “to think of security. But you strike me as a practical woman—surely too wise to fall prey to the perils of romantical nonsense. Should your position feel tenuous, you will think wisely and at leisure on how to provide for yourself. The appeal of a man like Lord Palmer is far outstripped by the peril.”

With amazement, Lilah finally understood what was happening. Miss Everleigh was warning her not to be seduced.

Why, it was a kindness. The girl was not quite as icy as she appeared. “I understand,” Lilah said. “And I thank you for the advice, miss.” She mustered up the will to seize this opportunity. Her own feelings for Palmer could not be allowed to interfere, foolish and useless as they were. “If I dare say so, I believe you have it wrong. The times I’ve spoken with his lordship, it has always been in reference to you. I do believe he has an . . . affection for you, miss.”

That sound that came from Miss Everleigh could not possibly have been a snort. Her expression, alas, was hidden now in study of the shepherdess. “Any number of gentlemen express any number of sentiments,” she said in a muffled voice. “Whether one credits those sentiments is a different matter.”

An intuition stalled Lilah’s reply. Was it possible that this beautiful girl did not believe her admirers’ compliments to be genuine? Surely she must know that she was a most eligible young woman. Not blue-blooded, of course, but between her beauty and the great whacking dowry she’d bring, any number of aristocrats would gladly take her in marriage. “It’s true, gentlemen are prone to say what sounds best. But I vow to you, miss, his lordship’s interest strikes me as genuine. Moreover, his ardent admiration for your work—”

“That’s enough.” The cold words sliced like a blade across her speech. “I need no lectures on that matter from you.”

Lilah silently accepted the rebuff. After bundling up the last cup, she stood and said, “I can help with the Sèvres, if you—”

“The ability to see what is there”—Miss Everleigh’s fierce tone stopped her in her tracks—“to see what is plainly before you, instead of what you wish to see—that is the key to a proper appraisal.”

Lilah sat down slowly. “Yes, miss.”

“Palmer does not require money.” A flush stained Miss Everleigh’s smooth cheeks. “It is indelicate to speak of, but the truth is oft indelicate. Palmer does not require my fortune, and if beauty were his aim, there are a dozen eligible beauties on the market who would flirt and smile far more readily than I.”

How bizarre this conversation was! She must defend a woman she disliked to the very woman herself. “None of them can boast of your accomplishments, miss. None of them would know the first thing about Jihong porcelain or Persian brocades, or how to take an estate to auction.”

“True. Do you believe the clients of Everleigh’s who call you beautiful?”

Lilah’s instincts prickled. “Miss? I don’t—”

“The ones who flatter you, Miss Marshall. Who beg your hand for the waltz, only to whisper in your ear of a house in St. John’s Wood . . .” Miss Everleigh made a curious little grimace, as though choking back the urge to be sick. “Promising a pile of priceless jewels, along with their undying love and affection. Do you believe those men?”

She wet her lips. “No, miss. I do not.”

“Yet you would counsel me to believe a man who claims to love me for my skills. Who could have his pick of pretty debutantes, but prefers the woman who would rather be alone with cold ceramics?”

This cynicism would have been shocking, had it not been so familiar. Lilah saw now the main impediment to Palmer’s suit: Miss Everleigh was as much a pragmatist as Lilah.

Yet there was no choice but to persevere. She needed those letters. Moreover, she needed to get away from Palmer. He was ruining her already. Destroying her peace. It wouldn’t take her uncle to leave her in pieces, ere long.

Thus, she needed Miss Everleigh to accept Palmer’s suit. “Miss, I do believe his claim to admire you.” Lies, bold lies. She didn’t sound convincing even to herself. “Not all men are so shallow as you suggest.” That was true. “Viscount Palmer is a man of rare tastes.” She believed that. What other lord would have spoken to her like a friend—and then kissed her like a ravening beast? “Perhaps it’s his time in the military that has set him apart.” Chasing her down to Whitechapel. Then, despite his foul mood, taking the time to humor a ragtag band of children. The memory of his kindness warmed her. “Why, he’s probably the most extraordinary—”

“Does he pay you?”

Lilah gaped. “Miss? I don’t underst—”

“He has enlisted his sister to aid his courtship, so why not you as well? Indeed, I can think of no other reason for your impassioned championship of the viscount.” Miss Everleigh spoke very rapidly now. “Or—if not he, then I could see my brother being desperate enough to put you to it; heaven knows he has tried any number of other ways to get rid of me. Why not marriage to Palmer?” She issued a cutting laugh. “Of course, there is a third possibility, nearly too sad to contemplate. For how pathetic would it be for you to imagine, even for a second, that you stood to gain from flattering me? How deluded, how woefully ignorant of your own station and possibilities, to think I might actually come to like you, to feel fond enough of you, to support your ambitions! For you overreach yourself sorely if you imagine that you would ever win a position like mine. Why, it is so far above your station it might as well be a princedom. For to be a curator, Miss Marshall, one must first be a person in possession of breeding and taste.”

Well, that did it. Lilah put her hands on the table and shoved herself to her feet. “It would indeed be pathetic,” she said, “to attempt to rouse any emotion in your heart warmer than indifference! I should count myself lucky only to be spared your contempt. But I do agree, most pathetic of all would be to hope for any outcome similar to yours—for you are unkind, Miss Everleigh, and cold, and above all the unhappiest woman I’ve ever known, despite having every advantage in the world!”

Miss Everleigh rose, her posture magnificently stiff. “You are through here,” she said. “Through at Buckley Hall, and through”—she swayed, catching herself on the table—“at the auction rooms. Go pack your things.” She panted. “I want you on the train by nightfall.”

“No.” Lilah put a hand over her mouth, horrified. What have I done? “No, please, I’m so sorry, so very—”

Miss Everleigh collapsed to the floor, china shattering around her.

“My best guess is adulterated foodstuff.”

The doctor’s pronouncement came clearly from around the corner. Mrs. Barnes, who had come out of Miss Everleigh’s room to eavesdrop, clapped her hands to her mouth. “Can’t be,” she whispered to Lilah.

Something had made Miss Everleigh very sick. She had vomited several times, yet her fever kept building. Dr. Hardwick had sat with her all day, but his medicines showed little sign of assuaging her misery.

“Is the rest of the household at risk?” came Lord Palmer’s quiet voice.

Lilah exchanged an alarmed look with Mrs. Barnes. The older woman laid a hand on her own forehead as though to test herself.

“That was my concern earlier,” the doctor allowed. “But I understand that no one else has sickened. That is an encouraging sign. It further persuades me that the culprit is some contaminated food, ingested solely by the young lady.”

“What could it have been?” Palmer wanted to know.

“Nothing from my kitchen,” Mrs. Barnes muttered. Lilah waved at her to hush.

“The most common toxin is contaminated milk,” the doctor said. “But Buckley Hall has always had its dairy from the Elders’ farm, and I trust their sanitation implicitly. Personally? My suspicion fixes on the chocolates that Miss Everleigh kept by her bed. She had eaten several of them today.”

“I see.” Palmer paused. “Well, I do thank you—”

“And rest assured, my lord—I shan’t breathe a word of this. Your sister need not worry on that count.”

“My . . . sister?”

“Oh, don’t mistake me! I’m quite certain that Miss Stratton procured the chocolates from the finest purveyor. But I would nevertheless recommend that you warn her, in case she also purchased a box for herself.”

“I don’t follow you,” Palmer said sharply. “My sister has not been here.”

The doctor sputtered. “I—perhaps I’m mistaken. But the note was from Miss Stratton. She invited Miss Everleigh to share the truffles with you—”

“What note?”

Dr. Hardwick sounded increasingly panicked. “I never meant to pry! I examined it only to see if it yielded clues to the chocolates’ provenance. I am sure Miss Stratton intended them as a—a very pleasant gift! But travel by post, you know—it exposes foodstuffs to all manner of contaminants . . .”

Palmer came storming around the corner. Lilah and Mrs. Barnes barely had time to jump out of his way. He disappeared inside Miss Everleigh’s suite.

The doctor came rushing after, clutching his bag to his chest. He drew up beside Mrs. Barnes. “I did not mean to distress him!”

“No,” Mrs. Barnes said faintly.

The three of them waited in a breathless silence until Palmer emerged again, two maids trailing him in a panic. “Where is this note?” he bit out, as the maids took shelter behind the housekeeper.

“I—” Dr. Hardwick looked to Mrs. Barnes, who spread her hands, looking helpless. “I suppose it was thrown out with the sweets.”

“But it was signed?” Palmer demanded.

“By Miss Melanie Stratton,” Hardwick said haltingly. “Was I mistaken? I simply assumed by her surname . . .”

“And the note was addressed here.” A muscle ticked in Palmer’s jaw. “To Buckley Hall?” His questions were assuming a clipped, military precision. “It implied that I would be present to share the gift?”

“I confess I did not look at the direction. It never occurred to me—”

“Yes.” Mrs. Barnes squared her shoulders. With the dignity of a martyr before the firing squad, she stepped into Palmer’s line of sight. “I saw the envelope. I tossed it into the fire along with the chocolates. Forgive me, my lord. I simply wanted the nasty things gone.”

Palmer took an audible breath. In the next moment, with an unnerving completeness, he mastered himself, becoming once again the picture of polite composure. “Thank you, Mrs. Barnes. That is very good to know.” To the doctor, he directed a nod. “Until tomorrow, sir.”

His departure left a stunned silence, which the doctor leapt to fill. “Someone must sit with her at all hours. I would prefer someone literate, for I have left very specific instructions for the medicines.” He handed a sheet of paper to Mrs. Barnes, who looked it over and passed it onward to Lilah.

Was she to play the nursemaid? The woman on the sickbed had sacked her this morning.

Absently she trailed Mrs. Barnes back into the sickroom. “Call into question my kitchen,” the woman was muttering. “Why, I’ve never served spoilt food in all my sixty-six years.”

Miss Everleigh lay insensate amid a pile of pillows, her unbound hair a pale tangled cloud around her slack face. Mrs. Barnes laid a hand on her brow, frowning at what she felt. “I’ll take first watch,” she said to Lilah. “Come fetch me at half four. And leave those instructions.”

“Yes, ma’am.” All sickrooms smelled the same. It was impossible not to think of Fiona. Gratefully, Lilah started to retreat.

A faint call from the bed made her turn. Miss Everleigh was squinting in her direction. “Is that . . . Miss Marshall?”

Mrs. Barnes clucked. “Yes, that’s right.” She stroked Miss Everleigh’s hair from her face. “Quite a scare you gave us, miss.”

“Tell her . . . stay.”

“What?” Lilah approached, panicked. “She can’t mean it,” she told Mrs. Barnes. She could not bear this stuffy little room. “You have far more experience in a sickroom than I!”

“Mean it,” Miss Everleigh rasped. “Miss . . . Marshall. Stay.”

But they loathed each other! In disbelief, Lilah stared down at the girl. It was madness, of course, to imagine that Miss Everleigh intended to punish her by this request. Selfish, paranoid madness. But what a talent the girl had for hitting a sore spot!

“Seems she wants you,” Mrs. Barnes said. “Did you take heed while the doctor was explaining the dosage? Here, read it again.”

Lilah took the paper with a trembling hand. Turn down all the lights. That was the very first line the doctor had written. Nothing must disturb her.

“Are you all right?” Mrs. Barnes asked.

Heat burned in Lilah’s cheeks. No doubt she looked a fine coward. She was not the one whose life was at stake. “Yes. I’m fine.” Girding herself, she settled on the little stool. Miss Everleigh’s eyes had closed again. She looked as waxen as a corpse. “Leave the medicine on the table.”

She waited until the door had shut. Then, with a shaking hand, she turned down the lamp.

There. Darkness was not so bad. Miss Everleigh’s pallor made her dimly visible. The smell of sickness, sour and pungent, hung sharp in the air.

Miss Everleigh dragged in a rattling breath. Her hand twitched once on the counterpane.

A memory came to Lilah. How desperately she had longed, that faraway night, for Uncle Nick to reach her. To pull her to safety, or simply . . . to grip her hand, so she would not feel so alone.

She laid her hand over Miss Everleigh’s. “I am with you,” she whispered. “I won’t go just yet.”

Minutes might have been hours. A crack in the curtains showed her the moon for a little while. Then it passed out of view, and time crawled.

Each random creak, each whisper of wind against the windows, made Lilah flinch and remember tales of the ghost who haunted the halls. But no specter appeared to disrupt the darkness. Gradually, as Lilah listened to Miss Everleigh’s pained breaths, she found herself wishing otherwise. She would welcome the appearance of a spirit—even a demon, slobbering blood. Proof of Satan’s wickedness would not frighten her. If his evil was real, then so, too, was God. If some souls were cursed after death to roam the earth, then others surely were lifted into heaven.

She hadn’t abandoned Fiona. She had done her best; she wouldn’t blame herself for what had happened. But it would be so much easier to bear if she felt certain that her sister had not died afraid—or that afterward she’d woken from fear into God’s arms.

Bring on the ghost, then. She prayed for it. Show us we can hope for better in the hereafter. Show me that you mean to save her, if you let her die.

But this heretic philosophy went unnoticed by the heavens. Meanwhile, four times Miss Everleigh choked in her sleep, requiring Lilah to lift her onto her side so she might expel noxious fluids. “It’s all right,” Lilah murmured. “I’m here.”

Once, Miss Everleigh opened her eyes and spoke. “Poisoned,” she rasped. She tried to lift her head before collapsing back into the pillows.

“Shh, don’t sit up, now. You’re sick, but you’ll be all right.”

“He isn’t . . . here. Is he? Please check! So . . . dark.”

Lilah turned up the lamp. “Nobody’s here but me, miss.”

The girl’s bright, feverish eyes made a sweep of the shadowed room. “Yes,” she said. “Alone. Don’t . . . let him in.”

“Lord Palmer, do you mean?”

“My . . . brother. He’ll . . . kill me.”

“He’s not here,” Lilah said slowly. “I won’t let him in.”

The girl’s eyelids dropped shut. Her face grew slack again.

Fever could produce delusions, of course. But Lilah still felt chilled an hour later, when Mrs. Barnes came tapping at the door. Everyone knew Peter Everleigh resented the terms of his father’s will. She had never seen him exchange a warm word with his sister. Who knew how he treated her behind closed doors?

As she stepped into the hallway, she felt as though she were waking from a nightmare. Palmer rose from a nearby chair, a burned candle at his feet. “How is she?” he asked.

She rubbed her eyes and leaned back against the wall. “She’s better, I think. Awake, on and off.”

“Speaking?”

She opened her mouth, then thought better of it. Catherine’s sickbed rambling was not hers to share. “Only nonsense. She’s feverish, still.”

Palmer gripped the back of the chair. Veins stood out on his broad hand; his knuckles looked white. “She’ll make it through,” he said flatly.

“Yes, of course.” His mood seemed as bleak as her own. God above . . . had she figured him wrong? Did he truly care for Catherine after all?

She had no energy to wrestle with her stupid, shameful jealousy. “Step in and have a look, if you like.”

“No, I’ll stay here. You should get some sleep.”

A strange laugh slipped from her. She felt edgy and haunted, the last thing from fatigued. “A drink would suit me better.”

He studied her a moment. “All right,” he said. “I could use one as well.”