The Trouble with Honor

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

WHEN MONICA HAD accepted Augustine’s offer of marriage, her mother had promptly brought in a maid. “A future countess must know how to use the services of a lady’s maid,” she’d explained.

“But she’s not a lady’s maid,” Monica had pointed out, watching the industrious girl polish the panes of her window.

“She will do,” her mother had said confidently.

But Violet didn’t do. The girl was as ignorant of what was required of her as Monica was about what a lady required. Privately, Monica didn’t believe she needed a lady’s maid. She was perfectly capable of donning her own clothes and rising on her own volition every morning.

Her mother, however, was determined that her daughter would know what was expected of her as a lady of privilege and leisure. Monica’s future as a countess was a topic that greatly interested her mother and her eldest brother, Teddy. They talked about it at every opportunity.

This morning, Monica could smell the hot chocolate from across the room when Violet entered and placed a cup next to her bedside.

Monica yawned, stretched her arms overhead and pushed herself up, propping the pillows behind her back. She picked up the cup of chocolate as Violet opened the draperies. Rivulets of rain coursed down the windowpanes.

Violet began to pick up the articles of clothing Monica had tossed aside as she’d come in this morning. “Did you enjoy the ball, miss?” she asked.

“Very much,” Monica said through another yawn. “But I thought it overly crowded.”

“Aye, I’m not one for crowds,” Violet said, moving about the room. She had no reservations about chatting freely with Monica. “I accompanied Mrs. Abbot to the market this morning, and such a crowd you never did see!” she said, and began to talk excitedly about her trip to the market.

Monica scarcely heard anything she said—something to do with figs, she thought—and was contemplating what she might wear for the day when she heard the name Beckington. Monica paused. She turned to look at Violet. “Pardon?”

Violet looked up from her work. “Miss?”

“What was that you said about Beckington?”

Violet frowned thoughtfully. “Oh!” she said, as recollection dawned. “Naught but that we saw a footman from Beckington House searching about. Mr. Abbot, he was there, and he said he knew the lad, as he’s driven you to Beckington House and said the fellow was always there to greet him.”

“You went to the market in Mayfair?” Monica asked, confused. It seemed quite out of the way.

“Oh, aye, to Mayfair. Mrs. Abbot, she prefers the butcher there. But the ham was dear! I said to her, Mrs. Abbot, you might have a ham for a few shillings in Marylebone, but she said the ham was not the quality Mrs. Hargrove preferred—”

“Violet, what about Beckington?” Monica interrupted before Violet explained different cuts of pork. “You said the footman was searching.”

“Oh, him! Aye, he was searching for Lady Beckington.” Violet smiled and picked up the wrap Monica had worn to the ball the night before, running her hand over the silk.

“For heaven’s sake! He was searching for Lady Beckington in what way?” Monica prodded.

“Aye, she was lost. He said she’d gone for a walkabout and hadn’t come back when they’d expected her. I said to Mrs. Abbot, a walkabout, in this foul weather? And Mrs. Abbot, she says, she no doubt has a boy to hold an umbrella over her head.” Violet giggled.

Monica blinked. “Do you mean Lady Beckington was lost?”

“Oh, that I don’t know, ma’am. The footman found her quick as you please, buying hothouse flowers of all things. Mrs. Hargrove, she’d send someone down for flowers, I think. She’d not walk to Mayfair on a day like this.”

Violet folded the wrap as Monica pondered the news. Things were beginning to make sense, pieces of a puzzle falling into place.

After her chocolate, Monica dressed and made her way to the drawing room, where she found her mother and father. The room was small and dark, what with the wood paneling and worn draperies. Her mother wanted new drapes, but her father would not allow it.

This morning, her father was reading, jotting down notes on a sheet of paper at his elbow. Monica’s mother was on the settee, busy with her needlework. Her hair was still strawberry-blond, still caught the candlelight, even on a dreary day such as this. “There you are, darling!” she said, and put down her needlework. Her father paused in his study of the book and glanced at Monica over the top of his spectacles.

“How did you find the ball?” her mother asked.

“Lovely,” Monica said.

“And our Lord Sommerfield? Did he enjoy it, as well?”

Monica shrugged and sat next to her mother. She’d never known Augustine to be unhappy. “I think so.”

Her mother patted her knee. “You should make sure of it, my dear. It’s very important to keep a man happy. Is that not so, Benjamin?” she said to her husband.

Monica’s father had gone back to his study and said absently, “Is it, Lizzy?”

“Mamma,” Monica said, “how does one know if someone is going mad?”

That brought her father’s head up. “Feeling a bit mad, are you, darling?”

“Not me, Papa,” she said with a smile. “But...how does it descend on a person?”

Her father put down his pen and pivoted around in his seat. “It depends on the sort of madness, I should think. If one suffers from senility, it might come on gradually. A lapse here or there, unusual forgetfulness. I knew of a chap once who lost his young son to fire. Madness came on him overnight. Why do you ask?”

Monica was almost afraid to say aloud what she was thinking. It seemed at best disrespectful, at worst scandalous. But it was the only thing that made sense, and her parents were looking at her expectantly. “I think that perhaps Lady Beckington is going mad.”

Both of her parents stared at her, neither of them moving for a moment. Her father asked, “What do you mean, darling?”

“It’s difficult to explain. But she seems rather too forgetful.” Monica told them about the last time she’d been at Beckington House, and how Lady Beckington couldn’t seem to follow the conversation. She told them what Violet had said. She told them how, at times, Lady Beckington’s eyes looked strangely vacant, as if she weren’t there at all.

Her father listened intently, and when she’d finished, he nodded and sat back in his chair, templing his fingers. “I don’t see any reason for alarm, love. As people age, they become forgetful.”

“Benjamin, she is only a year older than myself,” Monica’s mother pointed out.

“As I said,” he said, and turned back to his book.

“When we were young, before you were born, Joan and I would go to the Mayfair flower stalls together,” her mother said. “The flowers always seemed so much prettier than the hothouses where we lived.” She looked wistfully away for a moment, seeing something in the distant past. “I’ve always enjoyed Joan’s company.”

“You will enjoy it again, Lizzy,” Monica’s father said. “She has forgotten a thing or two, nothing more.”

Monica noticed the slight change in her mother’s expression. She smiled at Monica. “Come, darling, let us go and dress your hair, shall we?” She stood up.

“Lizzy, do not put ideas into our daughter’s head,” her father said without lifting his gaze from his book. “You and Teddy have already suggested she turn the Cabot girls out to pasture.”

“I’ve done no such thing, Mr. Hargrove,” her mother protested, and took Monica’s hand, pulling her along.

But that wasn’t precisely true—her mother and Teddy had suggested more than once that perhaps the Cabot girls and their mother would be better suited to the dowager house at Longmeadow...or something even farther afield.

As they entered the narrow hall, Monica’s mother put her arm around her shoulders. “I daresay your father is right, you’ve seen nothing more than a bit of forgetfulness in Lady Beckington. It happens to all of us. However...”

“However?”

Her mother glanced at her from the corners of her eyes. “However, if you were to notice a change, you might think again about the importance of finding a comfortable place where she and her daughters might reside. Out of the public eye, naturally.”

Monica looked at her mother curiously.

“Are you aware that, in some cases, madness may turn to violence?”

Monica gasped. “You don’t think Lady Beckington—”

“No, no, no,” her mother quickly assured her. “But if she were mad, I don’t think one could predict if or when she might be prone to violent outbursts. But I think such unpredictability would not be safe for the new earl’s heirs.”

Monica’s heart began to pound in her neck. She had visions of a madwoman stealing her babies from their cribs. Hadn’t that happened a year or so ago? A madwoman had taken the child of her mistress, and they’d found the child dead some days later?

“Oh, dear, you are fretting!” her mother said. “Darling, I am not suggesting it would ever come to that, but... Well, you are my daughter. I am thinking of you, Monica.”

“But...but shouldn’t Augustine and I care for her if she’s mad?”

“Yes,” her mother said firmly. “However, that doesn’t mean you must reside with her. I should think there would be some place quite safe for her and her daughters that would not require the expense of ball gowns and such.”

Monica could not imagine Honor without fashionable gowns. But her mother smiled and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “You mustn’t fret. I am certain it’s nothing over which you should concern yourself.”