"Mama's." Rosamond pointed to the chest Jennet was rifling.

"Yes. Well, I am helping your mama." Jennet pawed through sleeves and collars, ruffs and gloves. "Your step mama," she clarified in a low mutter.

Rosamond sucked harder on her thumb and continued to watch while Jennet closed the lid of one chest and opened the next.

It was full of fabric. Velvet. Brocade. How had she come by such fine stuff? Jennet wondered as she ran loving fingers over one luxurious, textured surface. Presents from some man? From Grimshaw? From Secole? From Sir Robert.

Eleanor Lowell had expensive tastes, and that she could indulge them struck Jennet as suspicious. There were even two mirrors in her bedchamber, both silvered, not the cheaper sort of polished metal.

She was a sly one, Jennet decided, a conniver as bad as Alys Putney, able to make others think she needed them to take care of her. She was angling to wed Sir Walter. That was plain as day. And she'd chosen him over Master Grimshaw not because he was the better man, but because he had more material advantages to offer her.

Twelve hundred pounds per annum, indeed!

A woman like that was capable of bribing servants to swear she'd never left Appleton Manor. She was hiding something. Jennet was as sure of that as she was that Sir Walter was smitten with the woman. Lady Appleton had been right about that. All the signs were there. He sighed and toyed with his food. And he stared at the object of his affection to the exclusion of all else.

Lady Appleton's behavior was almost as puzzling. She'd asked no more questions since Master Grimshaw returned to Manchester. In spite of the constant, looming presence of Bernard Bates, she acted as if she had come to Lancashire to visit an old friend. She and Eleanor spent hours together without ever mentioning what awaited one of them back in London. They'd made candles and traded recipes and seemed to have developed a rapport between them that pa.s.sed Jennet's understanding.

Jennet thought it a good thing she was at Appleton Manor to look out for her mistress. Someone had to. She closed the lid of the second chest and moved on to a small enameled box, prepared to go through every one of Eleanor Lowell's possessions with a fine-toothed comb.

"I help." Rosamond broke a lengthy silence to plunge both hands into a collection of embroidery silks. Before Jennet could stop her, she had them in a hopeless tangle. In an attempt to avert total chaos, Jennet picked the child up and carried her to the window seat opposite the door.

"I need you to help me another way, Rosamond. You will be my lookout. If you hear anyone coming, you must tell me."

She'd scarce turned back to the boxes before Rosamond gave an excited squeal. She was on her knees on the window seat, nose pressed to the panes of gla.s.s to see into the stableyard below. "Papa!" she cried.

Jennet hurried to Rosamond's side. For a moment, she half expected to see Sir Robert, back yet again from the dead.

"That is Sir Walter," she told Rosamond, hearing the relief in her own voice. She could see why the child had made the mistake. Sir Walter's face, illuminated by naught but the lantern he held in one hand, appeared to be dominated by his beard and mustache. He'd trimmed them to the same style Sir Robert had favored.

"Not Papa?" Rosamond asked.

"No. Not your papa." But had he been here? Could Rosamond confirm that the mysterious Master Secole and Sir Robert Appleton had been one and the same? "Do you know who your papa is, Rosamond?"

The question was too direct. Rosamond was, after all, only two years old. Instead of answering, she pouted. Tears welled up in her dark eyes. "Want Mama."

Jennet gave up trying to get answers out of the child. Much as she wished she could believe Rosamond would remember, she knew it was unlikely. Even if the child's father had been here for six or seven months, even if he'd told her to call him papa, he'd left Appleton Manor the previous summer. Another seven months had pa.s.sed since then. After that much time, no child Rosamond's age, not even this unsettling little girl who often seemed so much older than she was, would remember the details Jennet needed to know.

What made more sense, Jennet decided, was that Rosamond had begun to use the name "Papa" for any man. Her own Susan had done that for a few months when she was about Rosamond's age, to Mark's great embarra.s.sment.

A pity, Jennet thought. She had liked the other interpretation better.

So absorbed was she in her speculating that she did not hear footsteps on the stairs. Rosamond, curled up on the window seat, had fallen asleep, her duties as lookout forgotten. Jennet had no idea anyone had come into Eleanor's chamber until Lady Appleton spoke.

"What are you doing here, Jennet?" By her tone, she already knew the answer... and did not approve.

"I heard Rosamond stirring."

"Ah. I see."

Rosamond's mother had followed Lady Appleton into the room. Neither one of them challenged Jennet's lie, but Eleanor Lowell believed it no more than Jennet's mistress did.

Jennet's spirits sank. They were ranged against her. A friendship had developed between the two gentlewomen that excluded her.

Hurt, resentful, Jennet decided Widow Sparcheforde might not be the only one who was a witch. What else could explain why Lady Appleton, as well as Sir Walter, had stopped suspecting Eleanor? Eleanor must have bewitched them both.

And if that were true, it followed that Eleanor could have killed Sir Robert without ever leaving Lancashire. Everyone knew a witch had only to cast the right spell and, wherever he might be, her intended victim would fall down, dead.

This solution so terrified Jennet that she fled from the chamber before Lady Appleton could dismiss her. On the morrow, no matter what the weather, she would have to seek out the local cunning woman and buy a charm for unwitching.

Chapter 27.

Lady Glenelg's escort, four outriders and a tiring maid, had not shared their young mistress's enthusiasm for travel when they set out. After nearly three weeks on the road, making their way over steep terrain and wild landscape, part of the time on packhorse trails but more often following narrow, meandering footpaths, the men held themselves stiff in their saddles, stoic expressions on their faces as they soldiered on. Wynda, the older woman Gilbert had insisted accompany his wife for propriety's sake, was close to exhaustion. She clung to the rider in front of her with a feeble grip and alternated coughs with whimpers.

"That is Manchester," Catherine said, waving her arm toward the substantial cl.u.s.ter of buildings in the distance. The spire of St. Mary's glinted in the winter sun.

Wynda took one look and began to wail. After a moment, Catherine realized what the trouble was. She could see cart after cart streaming out of the town. The sight had convinced Wynda that something was amiss behind Manchester's walls, a plague at the least.

"It is Monday, a market day." Exasperation made Catherine snap at the woman. She was not unsympathetic, but now that the journey was almost done, Wynda might try to be a bit more optimistic. "Ride on," she ordered, ignoring the loud, reproachful sniffle behind her. "We will be there by nightfall."

And none too soon. February was almost gone, and they were still a day short of reaching Appleton Manor. Catherine would have gone straight there if she'd thought she could arrive before sunset.

They clattered across the stone bridge over the River Irk and into the center of the town just as Manchester's watchman, with his jack and sallet and bill, began his rounds. Catherine swiveled her head as they rode toward her cousin's house, trying to see everything at once. Manchester appeared to have gotten smaller in the last five years. Things were much closer together than she'd remembered.

How strange, Catherine thought. Going away had changed her perceptions. She had known that London dwarfed Manchester but now she had to admit that even Edinburgh was grander and more sophisticated.

The Manchester house Catherine had inherited from Randall Denholm had been leased to a large family, which was sensible from a financial standpoint but left her in a quandary. She'd considered bespeaking a room at the inn in Withy Grove, which had been making travelers welcome since the time of King Edward III, but it made more sense to go directly to her cousin, Matthew Grimshaw, and ask for news as well as beds for the night.

Grimshaw's two-story house seemed unchanged, with its two gables and gla.s.s in every window. She'd never realized before what a prosperous-looking establishment it was.

"Knock at the door," she ordered, remaining in the saddle while her servant did so. She knew better than to show any weakness in front of Matthew. She intended to a.s.sert herself the moment she saw him.

She'd been fourteen when she'd last encountered her sour-tempered, much older cousin. For the most part, he had ignored her and she had been able to observe how he acted around others. He'd cravenly bent to the will of anyone with a more forceful personality than his own-Catherine's mother, for example.

Cousin Matthew's housekeeper, Judith Mosley, answered the door. Her eyes widened at the sight of Catherine, mounted astride on Vanguard, her limbs encased in boy's breeches.

"Mistress Catherine? That is... I mean Lady Glenelg." She stumbled through an attempt at a curtsey.

Flinging herself out of the saddle, Catherine laughed and hugged the old woman, delighted to see a familiar face. "Is my cousin at home?" she asked.

"He's due back at any moment."

"And Lady Appleton? Is she still in residence at Appleton Manor?"

"Oh, yes, madam. She was here in Manchester only two days ago on some business or other. She told Master Grimshaw she means to stay on at least another week. There is another gentlewoman living at Appleton Manor," the housekeeper added as she escorted Catherine and Wynda to the chamber they would share.

"Yes. Eleanor Lowell."

"Master Grimshaw says he's going to make her his wife."

Hiding her surprise at this news, Catherine wondered how Matthew's interest had affected Susanna's quest for information. And how much he had been told about Eleanor's past. And why, now that she thought of it, any woman would want to wed Matthew Grimshaw.

"Has she accepted his proposal?"

"Not yet, but he presses his suit at every opportunity." She lowered her voice. "I am not supposed to say so, for you know how Master Grimshaw dislikes gossip, but he stays there at Appleton Manor sometimes. He was even her guest at Yuletide. After so much time in close company, 'twould be wise of her to accept him."

Catherine had to agree. The last thing Eleanor Lowell needed was a second child born out of wedlock. She was about to say so when Wynda began to cough, a horrible hacking sound.

"I've just the thing for that," Matthew's housekeeper declared. She fetched a bright blue bottle and offered it to Catherine to inspect. "Master Grimshaw bought it from the apothecary for a catarrh. Powder of pearl and ivory, it is, and cloves, cinnamon, galingale, aloes, nutmeg, ginger, and camphor."

It sounded as unappealing as it was expensive, but then Catherine did much dislike anything that contained ginger. "Perhaps I should leave Wynda in your care, Judith, when I continue on to Appleton Manor in the morning."

A loud voice from the front of the house cut off Judith's reply. "What is all this?" Matthew Grimshaw demanded. "Who let these strangers into my house."

"No strangers, cousin!" Catherine called out. She flew down the stairs to greet him. "The Scots have invaded, but in friendship, I do a.s.sure you."

A bit stiffly, he returned her cousinly embrace. "This is unexpected," he said, stating the obvious. "And most inappropriate," he added when she stepped back and he saw her attire.

"But exceeding practical." She was not about to let him bully her into putting on petticoats, kirtle, and bodice. "I have come to help Susanna. I will dispatch a messenger to Appleton Manor at first light to tell her I am on my way and send a message to Denholm Hall, as well. I will reside there while my dear sister-by-marriage remains in Lancashire."

Matthew toyed with the strings that tied his ruff and scowled.

Into the silence came a horrible hacking sound as Wynda suffered another fit of coughing. "Only my maid," Catherine said before Matthew could scare the woman to death by storming up the stairs and demanding to know what was amiss. "We had to spend several nights in the open on our journey."

One, near Fiend's Fell, the highest point in the Pennines, where they'd camped out in a howling storm that began in blinding snow and ended with hailstones big as a man's fist, had been unfortunate. They'd gotten off the old Roman road called the Maiden Way and mistaken a sheep track for the path to the nearest village. Such things happened in winter. They'd huddled together for warmth and the next morning had found their way again, but Wynda had been coughing and sniffling ever since.

"You were foolish to travel in such weather." Matthew led her to his study and poured out goblets of wine for them both.

"Clashy and foundby, the locals called it." She'd always been fascinated by variations in regional speech. Clashy was stormy and foundby meant cold. Other days had been better, only packy, which according to local their guide was "when th' cannot see yon moor an' t' mists rollin' abart."

"What was your husband thinking to let you come all this way?"

Catherine straightened her shoulders and fixed him with a foundby stare. "My husband loves Susanna as much as I do."

Matthew opened his mouth and closed it again. He seemed relieved when the door opened. "Good. Bring that here." He indicated a small table. A few minutes later, when Matthew had finished bl.u.s.tering at his housekeeper and been thus restored to even temper, Catherine and her cousin settled themselves in two heavily carved chairs and attacked a platter of cold meat and cheeses.

"I perceive you have been in correspondence with Lady Appleton," Matthew said.

"Yes. And Gilbert received several letters from Sir Walter."

Matthew abandoned the food to fold both hands over his slightly concave abdomen. The gesture drew Catherine's attention to the tense way he held himself. She waited, as Susanna had taught her, continuing to eat and letting the silence drag on. Eventually, he felt compelled to break it.

"This Pendennis... who is he?"

"An old friend of Robert's."

"Is that why he interests himself in this matter? To find out who killed Appleton?"

"Walter liked Robert, but he dotes on Susanna. He will not rest until he can prove her innocent by finding out who is guilty." Catherine refilled her goblet with a particularly fine Canary wine. She had not felt so warm or so mellow since she'd left Scotland. The traveling had been invigorating. She'd enjoyed the adventure. But she was not averse to wallowing in creature comforts when they were available.

Matthew was agitated about something, Catherine realized. As she watched, he ran one finger under his ruff and swallowed hard. "It seems to me she might have killed her husband," he said. "When one spouse is murdered, the constables look hard at the other."

"I'd sooner suspect Mistress Eleanor Lowell." Catherine meant to be provoking and watched Matthew's face as she spoke.

"Eleanor Lowell is a sweet and gentle lady. She'd not harm a fly."

"You know her well, then?"

"Aye, I do. And your sainted Lady Appleton had no right to accuse her."

"Eleanor never left home, then?" The sheer distance to London had always seemed to argue against Eleanor's guilt, just as it had against Annabel's.

"She's been no farther away from Appleton Manor than Manchester since I've known her. Her servants bore witness to and I, too, could swear to it."

"In that case, why is Susanna still in Lancashire?"

"The weather kept her from leaving."

All this time? Aloud she said, "It must have been difficult for her to share a house with her husband's former mistress." In spite of Matthew's obvious attachment to the woman, Catherine was prepared to dislike both Eleanor and her daughter.

"Lady Appleton will soon be on the road again, searching elsewhere for her poisoner."

"Where?"

"I have no notion where. Or who. And in truth, I care not. I never liked your brother, Catherine. His death was no great tragedy." He launched into an account of how he had been forced to do Robert Appleton's bidding, and Susanna's, too, at the time Catherine went to live at Leigh Abbey. The story he told was not as she remembered it, but she let him prattle on, grumbling over old slights, until the wine and the warmth of the room had her falling asleep.

Into a hesitation in his monologue, Catherine yawned. A sheepish look on her face, she apologized, but she used the opportunity to escape. "I must be up early in the morning. Good night to you, cousin."

He caught her arm as she rose. "Why did you come all this way, Catherine?"

"Why to lend support to my sister-by-marriage."

"Take advice from one of your own family. Distance yourself from Lady Appleton."

"I thank you for your concern, Matthew, but I have already made my decision."

"You are still a child, Catherine. Innocent. Go back to your husband... unless you wish to journey to London and witness Lady Appleton's execution."

Infuriated, Catherine jerked free. "It will not come to that. Susanna Appleton is clever and determined. She will discover the truth."

She stormed out of the room before Matthew could infect her with his pessimism.