When Maidens Mourn by C. S. Harris Read Free Book Online Page B

her.
    “A fortnight, come Tuesday. He wanted Miss Tennyson and the lads to go into the country with him—get away from all the heat and dirt of the city. But she wouldn’t leave that project of hers.” Mrs. O’Donnell’s nose wrinkled when she uttered the word “project,” as if she spoke of something nasty and improper. It was obvious that for all her geniality, the housekeeper did not approve of Miss Tennyson’s unorthodox interests.
    Sebastian said, “I take it you’re referring to the excavations up at Camlet Moat?”
    Mrs. O’Donnell nodded and touched her handkerchief to the corner of one eye. “I know it’s not my place to say such things, but, well…It’s not
right
, if you ask me. Women belong in the home. And now look what’s come of it! Her dead, and those poor lads gone missing. Such bright little fellows, they were. Quick-tempered and full of mischief, to be sure, but charming and winsome for all of that. Why, just yesterday morning before they left for church, Master George gave me a little poem he wrote all by himself.” She pushed up from her seat and went to rummage amongst the litter of recipes and invoices, letters and broadsheets, that covered a nearby table. “It’s here somewhere.…”
    “That’s the last time you saw them?” asked Sebastian. “Yesterday morning, when they were on their way to church?”
    “It was, yes,” she said, distracted by her search.
    “Which church do they normally attend?”
    “St. Martin’s, usually.”
    “You think that’s where they went yesterday?”
    “I don’t see why not, my lord.”
    “I’m told Miss Tennyson liked to take the boys on various outings several times a week, particularly on Sunday afternoons.”
    “Oh, yes. She was enjoying their visit ever so much. It was lovely to see her with them. Her face would light up and she’d laugh like she was a carefree girl again herself.” A ghost of a smile animated the housekeeper’s features, only to fade away into pinched sorrow. “Course, then there were the times I’d catch her watching them, and she’d go all still and quiet-like, and this look would come over her that was something painful to see.”
    “What sort of a look?”
    “It was like a…like a
yearning
, if you know what I mean?”
    “You think she regretted not having children of her own?”
    “If she did, it was her choice, wasn’t it? I mean, it’s not like shedidn’t have plenty of offers. Turned them all down, she did.” The housekeeper straightened, a tattered paper clenched in one hand. “Ah, here it is!” She thrust the page toward him.
    Sebastian found himself staring at a single stanza of poetry written in a schoolboy’s best copperplate. He read aloud:
    Somewhere the sea, somewhere the sun
    Whisper of pain and love untold;
    Something that’s done and more undone,
    Are only the dead so bold?
    He looked up. “George Tennyson wrote this?”
    “He did. Oh, it’s all great nonsense, to be sure. But it’s still fine, wouldn’t you say? And he but a boy of nine!”
    “Do you mind if I keep it for a day or so? I’ll see it’s returned to you,” he added when she looked hesitant.
    “To be sure you may keep it, my lord. Only, I won’t deny I would like to have it back.”
    “I understand.” Sebastian tucked the boy’s poem into his pocket. “Do you have any idea how Miss Tennyson and the children planned to spend yesterday afternoon?”
    She looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook her head. “No, my lord; I don’t know as I ever heard her mention it. We always lay out a cold collation for the family in the dining room, you see, before we leave for our half day. They eat when they come home from church, before they go out again. We left a lovely spread, with a side of beef and salmon in aspic and a chilled asparagus soup.”
    “And did Miss Tennyson and the children eat the meal you left for them on Sunday?”
    “Oh, yes, my lord. In fact, the plate with Mrs. Reagan’s oatmeal cookies