“She told you that, did she?” Gareth scratched his face. The gesture was oddly endearing, as if he were a young man just growing his first beard. “You shouldn’t listen to old Wispel. She likes nothing more than to tell stories.”
“But is it true? She’d said that the saddle cinches had been cut.”
He rubbed at his face again, clearly uncomfortable. “Her death was investigated,” he admitted. “But they found no cause to suspect Mr. Markham. They ruled it an accident.”
“No cause? Or they didn’t want to accuse a man as powerful as Mr. Markham?”
Gareth stopped, his blue eyes pained in the happy light of the forest lane. “I know she’s your cousin and so you feel the need to know the truth and that’s why you are asking. So please believe me when I say, from the bottom of my heart, that no one in the world would ever lift a hand to hurt her.”
“But that’s not entirely true either, is it? Mrs. Wispel said Mr. Markham and Violet fought—violently even.”
He hesitated. “It’s true that they did not get along well after they married. But if you could have seen him while they courted—he was a man entranced. He took me along with him to London—usually he hires a valet from whichever city he’s staying in—but I think this time he wasn’t planning on staying long. Just a day or two. And then he met her at a ball. He came back to the hotel that night, vowing to win her hand. And he did. It took months, but he did.”
“How romantic.”
“I suppose. Mr. Markham began bringing me more frequently on those trips and I got to see their courtship firsthand.” He paused again, as if unsure how to phrase his words. “Your cousin was very pretty and very well-liked, but there were rumors…”
I nodded. “I knew Violet’s temperament. It doesn’t shock me. Continue.”
“Rumors that she was more than flirtatious. Carnal rumors.” There was a color to his cheeks now, although his expression wasn’t suggestive of bashful innocence. Growing up with older brother had taught me what young men liked to joke about, and I could easily picture Gareth listening and sharing those same rumors. The coloring came from guilt, I decided, from indulging in the salacious tales surrounding the newly dead.
“I’m sure there was nothing to them, of course,” he continued, “but there were some who said she would not be a proper wife. This didn’t bother Mr. Markham at all—he seemed almost excited by her reputation, as if it presented a challenge. And there were many who thought that if any man could bring her to heel, it would be Mr. Markham.”
“So what changed after they married?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know. It started slowly at first—not talking during dinner, spending afternoons apart, that sort of thing. All she wanted to do was go back to her old life in London; I think she thought that marriage would be the same as being single, except with more money and with a large house to her name.”
That sounded like Violet. “And what do you think Mr. Markham thought marriage would be like?”
“He had been married before, but only for a month. Who knows what he expected from Mrs. Markham?”
“And then the fights grew worse?”
“Loud. Messy. They’d say things to one another that would make you cringe to hear them. She’d pound her fists against his chest and lob whatever was near at him, and he wouldn’t hit her back, but he’d issue such cruel remarks that he might as well have struck her.” His voice went low and strange. “He didn’t understand her. He didn’t deserve her. She was caged in that house, she was lonely and deprived, and he wanted to keep her isolated and all to himself. And now she’ll never leave Yorkshire.”
His words made the summer air heavy and we walked the rest of the way in silence. We arrived in Stokeleigh ten minutes later, the small village I had been unable to admire on my ride through a few days ago. Charming and small, its three principal streets lined with snug cottages and one cluster of ancient timber and plaster shops, it was a cheerful place, seeming in its bright industry to be miles away from the bro
oding manor house rather than a short walk.
Gareth directed me to the post office, touched his cap and went off to complete his business. Bells tolled from the tiny stone church as I walked into the post office. After paying my penny, I went back outside, meaning to wait for Gareth at the edge of the village, but I was approached straight off by a prim-looking girl who seemed about my age. Her navy poplin, trimmed with lace and set off by a large brooch, spoke of modesty and wealth. Her wedding ring glinted in the sun.
“Hello,” she said, and somehow in one word, she managed to pack in both condescension and obsequiousness. She held out her hand. “I’m Mrs. Harold, the rector’s wife.” The emphasis on rector made it clear exactly where she thought her place in the community was—at the very top.
I shook her hand, trying to discreetly search the street for any sign of Gareth. “Ivy Leavold,” I said, warily.
“Oh yes, we know who you are.” At the we, she turned and looked knowingly at three women behind her whom I hadn’t noticed before. They looked as young and stiff and self-assured as Mrs. Harold did. Discomfort prickled at my neck and shoulders; I was always at sea with groups of people, especially well-dressed, judgmental groups of people. “You are the new girl who’s come stay at Markham Hall.”
She seemed awfully gossipy for being married to a man of the cloth. The wheels turned and clicked in my mind, and I realized she was going to pump me for information, search me for all the juicy morsels of news she could carry and then disseminate around the community. I looked around for Gareth again.
“Is it true that you are Violet Markham’s cousin?” she asked.
“Yes.” I supplied nothing further.
“And that you had nowhere to go after your brother died?”
I bit off the irritated remark that floated to mind. “Yes,” I said instead.
“And that they had to sell your family’s house to pay off your brother’s debts?”
