Tasha Alexander - A Fatal Waltz

She rose from her chair, and for a moment I was scared. Not that she could have overpowered me, but suddenly I imagined that she had the dueling pistol in her hand. Ridiculous, of course. She hadn’t known what to expect when I arrived. But emotions play funny tricks. 

“Think of Mrs. Brandon. She’s expecting a baby, Mary. Don’t take away its father.” 

“A baby?” 

I nodded. 

“Another child with a ruined life,” she said, her voice flat. 

“I will help you, I promise. There are very few gentlemen in Britain who haven’t feared being destroyed by Lord Fortescue. Could you tell me exactly what your brother’s letter said? I think that so long as we can prove you were certain your husband was instrumental in Albert’s downfall, we may be able…” I didn’t want to make false promises. She would spend the rest of her life in prison, but that would be better than facing execution. I would visit her, bring her books, do whatever I could to ease her pain. “Well, we may be able to make things easier for you.” 

“I’ve never shown anyone his letter.” 

“Please, please, Mary.” I took her hand. “Let me help you.” 

“You really think it will make a difference?” 

“I do,” I said, hoping that I was right. 

“I’ll let you read it. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll bring it to you.” 

“Of course.” 

Almost as soon as she’d left, I realized what she was doing. I ran out of the room, calling for her, desperately rushing down hallway after hallway as quickly as possible, hoping that I could find her. I was too late. 

A single shot rang out before I reached the door of the library.

It took all of my will to force my hand to open the door. Mary was sprawled on the floor, her brother’s dueling pistol less than a foot from her hand, a star-shaped wound in her forehead, a thin line of blood running down her face. I forced myself to go to her, to see if she was still alive, but of course she was not. Almost without realizing what I was doing, I reached out and closed her eyes, unable to bear the vacant sadness in them.

Servants burst into the room, and someone pulled me up from the floor, but I did not require assistance. I maintained my composure, feeling detached, almost as if I were watching the scene through a window, but at the same time knowing that when I found myself alone, I would be overwhelmed with what I’d seen. On the table next to where Mary had fallen was the mahogany box that had contained the pistol. It was closed, and placed on top of it was a letter. I unfolded it, expecting it to be Albert’s. Instead, it was written in his sister’s shaky hand:

I, Mary Fortescue, confess to the murder of my husband, Lord Basil Fortescue.

DATED THIS 5 JANUARY 1892.

There was no sign of Albert’s letter. I pulled out the velvet interior, hoping there was something else in the box, but there was nothing. I looked back at Mary and fell to my knees next to her. I hesitated to touch her, but forced myself, and gently opened her clutched hand. She was holding the charred bits of paper I’d seen the first time I’d looked in the case. 

For the first time in my life, I felt more than a little inclined to faint, but managed to stay calm and called for help, directing the servants to send for the police, who arrived with astonishing speed. Or perhaps I was unaware of how much time had passed. An officer tried to remove me from the room, but I refused to be sent away until I could be certain every detail of the case had been addressed, certain that Robert would be released, and certain that someone other than one of Lord Fortescue’s children would arrange for Mary’s burial. 

I kept my voice steady as I answered the policemen’s questions, holding my hands tightly together so they wouldn’t shake. They said it was obviously a suicide, that they would check the handwriting on her note against other letters she was known to have written, that they would interview the servants again to ascertain whether she’d been seen leaving the house before her husband’s death. This was all perfunctory, of course, but procedure must be followed. 

Soon enough, they were satisfied. The body was removed, the servants set to cleaning the carpet. But I stood, still wondering how Mary came to possess the pistol. After Lord Fortescue’s murder, the police had put the murder weapon in the room they’d used to interview everyone in the house, locking the door whenever they left. Mary, who had keys to all the rooms, would have seen the gun when they questioned her—they’d shown it to each of us. She could easily have slipped back into the room to steal it. No one noticed it was missing until they’d been ordered to send their evidence to Scotland Yard.

As I watched the servants bustling to bring the house back to an ordinary state, I realized I was not capable of returning to mundane thoughts as quickly as those around me. I was relieved that Robert would be released and returned to Ivy, but could take only limited joy in the resolution. I should never have let Mary leave the room alone. I should have followed her, should have done a better job convincing her that I could help her. I could not accept the idea that to stop her would have been impossible. 

And although I knew that I was not culpable—not really—this was an instance when knowledge brought no comfort. Justice was being served, but in a most painful manner. Mary’s face wouldn’t stop haunting me.

I left Beaumont Towers as soon as I could, and within a few hours of my return to London, Robert was released from Newgate and came to Berkeley Square. My friends, understanding my melancholy, had left me to my thoughts in the library, where I was sitting alone on the window seat, staring out across the foggy park, when Robert opened the door.

“Emily…” He hesitated, then stepped forward and embraced me. “I shall never be able to thank you for what you’ve done.”

“Dear Robert,” I said. “I didn’t do it for thanks.”

“But you look sad. There’s no need for that now.” He was clearly exhausted, but the joy in his eyes knew no measure. He was radiant.

“I’ve still had no word from Colin.”

“Colin? Where is he?” he asked.

“Didn’t Ivy tell you?”

“I’ve not yet seen her. I thought I should come to you first because I owe you my life.”

“Go to your wife!” I stood up and practically pushed him out of the room. 

“First tell me about Hargreaves,” he said. “You must let me help you now.” 

As briefly as possible, I explained all that had transpired while he was in prison. 

“I’m not sure that I’ve contacts in the government anymore. We will go to Vienna ourselves and find him. Let me speak with Ivy, and then I will arrange everything.” 

He rushed off to see his wife, but I did not begin preparing for a trip. Whatever Mr. Harrison had planned would have happened today. I could not get there in time. And even if it were possible to do so, what could I do once there? I stayed on the window seat, trying to read a translation of Ovid’s Ars Amatoria that Margaret had left in the library, while my friends rejoiced in Robert’s return. 

“Madam?” Davis opened the door. “Mr. Brandon said to inform you that he’s booked you tickets to Vienna. You’ll need to be ready to leave within the hour. Meg has already packed your bags, but Madame du Lac and Miss Seward are arguing as to who will take the third ticket.” 

“Why on earth would you go back to Vienna?” My mother followed close on Davis’s heels. “Mr. Hargreaves will come here as soon as he’s able. Emily, it is time that you stop gallivanting about the Continent. If you must travel, come to Sandringham with your father and me. Prince Eddy’s birthday dinner is tomorrow.” 

“No, Mother, I’ve no desire to go to Sandringham. Nor Vienna, for that matter.” 

“And that is the first sensible statement I’ve had from you in I know not how long.” She stepped close to me and leaned into my face. “Good heavens, child, are you merely exhausted, or are you getting lines at the corners of your eyes?” 

I backed away while she pulled out her spectacles. “A bit of both, I imagine. But perhaps it’s time my face began to show some character. Perfection, I’m told, is tedious.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. We must take action at once. Where’s Meg? She must make up a mixture of—” 

“No, Mother. I’ve no time for such things.” 

“And I’ve no time to argue with you if I’m to make it to Sandringham.” 

“Mother—” I knew the expression on her face well. There was no winning this battle. I handed her a piece of paper and pen from my desk. “Write down what I should do. I’ll take care of it tonight.” 

“See to it that you do. You don’t want Mr. Hargreaves seeing you like this. He’d be appalled.” 

“Yes, Mother.” 

Despite her insistence that she was in a hurry, she did not rush when writing the directions for whatever this miracle of beauty was. Every letter on the page was perfectly formed; she could never tolerate anything less. “Now, I’m off, but I must tell you that I’m quite concerned about Ivy. She tells me her parents are still in India, and I think that until they get back to England, she should come stay at Darnley House. I can make sure she’s getting the care she needs.” 

“I’m certain Robert’s perfectly capable of taking care of her.” 

“Child, I fear for you. Your expectations for husbands are positively wild. I’ve already arranged for her to come to me. Robert’s welcome as well, of course, now that this dreadful business of his is finished.”