‘I will deal with that,’ Ivo said. ‘I will write to my family solicitor in London and he can make arrangements and sort out the will and so forth. You had best go back to your aunts while all that is going on, Daphne.’
‘But—’
‘That will look best,’ Jane said and Daphne nodded meekly, to her relief.
She watched Ivo covertly, wondering at the alchemy that made an intelligent man fall for someone so foolish and self-centred. But Daphne was fragile and frightened and Ivo was nothing if not naturally protective and gallant. He was probably still feeling guilty about her and there remained the depressing fact that she was exceedingly lovely and beauty appeared to turn the head of even the most rational man. The magistrate and coroner, despite their age and attempts at sternness, had visibly responded to the appeal in her wide eyes, her fluttering gestures and expertly wielded handkerchief.
They ate a depressing meal, clearly scratched together from a depleted store cupboard. ‘I will speak to the staff,’ Jane said when Daphne showed no sign of noticing anything amiss.
‘We both will,’ Ivo said. ‘Daphne, I think you should go and lie down and rest. You must be exhausted. Have your maid look out mourning for you.’
‘Can you talk to the Cook and any kitchen staff?’ he asked when Daphne had drifted off upstairs, trailed by her maid. ‘I am going to make certain those footmen understand that their future prospects depend on their discretion.’
‘You will threaten them?’
‘I will point out that my solicitor will be writing their references. I think that will nip any daydreams about profitable blackmail in the bud.’
‘A good idea,’ Jane said, suddenly weary. Shock was beginning to set in and with it a very clear vision of a future without Ivo. And there was the worry about whether she was doing the right thing. Would Daphne, once she was safe and had what she wanted, become less selfish, more loving, or would it only make her worse?
But what was the alternative? She could hardly say to Ivo, I love you and I think I would be better for you than the woman you have loved for years. Perhaps it was she who was being selfish, finding excuses to go back on her decision.
All she was certain of was a strong desire to sit down and have a good weep. And that, she told herself sternly, would do none of them any good. But firm resolve did not seem to help. ‘I will go and see Cook, she said and fled before the tears escaped.
* * *
‘They believed me,’ Daphne said, smiling and serene the next day.
The inquest had found that Sir Clement had died as the result of an accidental fall while under the influence of alcohol. Daphne was apparently ignoring the fact that the jury had added that in their opinion the fact that he was having a loud argument with his wife at the time had doubtless distracted him, causing him to trip when he was in no condition to save himself.
‘Now all we have to do is get the funeral over and the will read and it will all be just as it was before the horrible man seduced me away.’ She clasped Ivo’s hand.
‘Come and sit down, Daphne,’ he said. ‘You are over-tired and still in shock.’
She believes what she says, Jane thought with sudden realisation. She honestly believes that none of this is her fault.
She sat in the far corner of the drawing room, as befitted a chaperon, while Daphne and Ivo talked on the sofa by the fireplace. The tears that had threatened all day yesterday had dried up, leaving only a sort of dull misery and a nagging worry that this was not the right thing to do.
To distract herself she began to look through the sketchbook that was more than half-full now. There were the little cameos she had caught in the inquest room to distract herself—the coroner, stern and attentive, some of the jurors bored or excited, inattentive or hanging on every word. Daphne, pale and tragic in black, of course. ‘It hurts so much that my last words with him were angry ones,’ she had said, creating a ripple of sympathy around the court.
Then, working back, she came to the sketches she had made on the journey—little snatches of rural life, figures glimpsed at the toll gates or passing inns. There was something in the cover where she tucked spare pages that bulged a little, making the pages sit unevenly. She flipped through to it and saw a dirty, creased piece of folded paper.
What on earth is this?
Then she remembered where it had come from. This was the paper that had fallen from Ivo’s coat when he had taken it off so the doctor could examine the stab wound. She had picked it up, meaning to give it to him, and had completely forgotten it because this was her travelling sketchbook and she had not used it once she had arrived in Batheaston.
Jane glanced across the room. Ivo was listening to Daphne, neither of them paying any attention to her. She unfolded the paper.
Now do you believe that I do not want you any more?
I told them to make sure you understand. Leave me alone.
I hate you.
D.
It took her a moment to realise what this was, then she recalled one of the grooms thrusting it into Ivo’s coat just before he hit him. Daphne had lied—it was not her husband who had set the four men on Ivo in a jealous rage, it was she who had tried to stop him interfering in her marriage, even if it meant he was badly hurt, or killed, as a result.
‘Excuse me,’ Jane murmured. ‘I am going to rest.’