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  ‘You must calm yourself, Frampton,’ she remonstrated, pulling him down on to the bed. ‘Nobody has taken anything. Do not concern yourself.’

  He consented to take a little of the broth and seemed more himself, though continuing to fret about something.

  ‘What is it, Frampton?’ she asked at last, afraid he was working himself up into another bout of fever.

  ‘My – my money.’ He hesitated on the word and cast a sly look at her. ‘Yes, that’s it, my money.’

  ‘Money?’ She stared at him. ‘My dear Frampton, I was under the impression that you had none! How did you manage to make the journey home? I thought you had gambled away all of your own money and what remained of the regiments’ funds that went missing? Surely young Dawkins did not pay for you?’

  ‘Aah.’ The sly look became more pronounced and the feverish glitter was back in Frampton’s eyes. ‘You would like to know, would you not? But you shall not take it from me, no-one shall.’ He gave an odd little laugh and said, sounding almost lucid: ‘I’ve hidden it, you know, where no one will ever find it.’

  The lull during the fever came to an abrupt end and the sick man’s temperature rose while he sank into further delirium, though not before he had succeeded in clambering out of bed while Charlotte was absent from the room for a space, summoned to answer a query from Old Nurse. When she returned Frampton was in the act of climbing back into bed, looking discomfited when he realized she was watching him.

  When Lady Frampton lumbered heavily into the room half an hour later, the fevered mutterings had resumed along with copious sweating and tossing.

  ‘What’s that? A slight respite? Well, I suppose the good Lord knows what he is about, though I must say I can’t see it myself. Still, I looked in to tell you I ’ave been putting on my thinking cap and whatever ’appens I shan’t let you be ’armed, so you can take that ’arassed look off your face. No ’arm shall come to you with me.’ She wheezed her way into the room and lowered her bulk on to the sofa. ‘Now what was it I…? Why, yes, of course. I just had the shock of my life, Char. If you’ll believe me there was a man, a foreign body, standing on our landing just now, large as life!’

  Charlotte’s gasp of astonishment gave entire satisfaction.

  ‘You may well say “Oh!” I near ’ad a seizure meself. “What are you doing there, my good fellow?” I asked him and would you believe he just bowed and shook ’is ’ead and took himself off down the stairs. Aye, walked through the front door as if ’e was a Christian! What do you make of that, eh?’

  Charlotte lifted a bemused face and the old lady nodded with great good humour.

  ‘It must be that Indian gentleman that was so mysterious. Lily said he was back in the village,’ Charlotte said slowly. ‘He wanted to know about Frampton’s personal effects, didn’t he? He certainly pestered Barnard about it and he stopped me more than once, insisting that Frampton had stolen something of value.’ She frowned, wondering what it could be. ‘Frampton became very agitated, didn’t he, when he heard the man was here again? I don’t understand it, Gran, I really don’t.’

  ‘Nor I, me dear,’ came the reply. ‘If you ask me that young rip ’as put up the backs of more folks than ’e could count. There’s most likely ’undreds would like to ’ave a little talk with ’im.’

  She gave Charlotte one of her shrewd but kindly glances, wagging her finger in mock disapproval.

  ‘You look pasty and peaky, my gal, and it won’t do. You just take yourself off for a blow of fresh h’air. I’ve seen plenty of fevers in my time. Why, I mind once when my dear ‘usband caught some such fever once after he took ’imself down to the docks to see after one of ’is cargoes. Lord above, ’e was took so bad I thought ’e’d gone; picked it up from the ship it turned out. Nobody thought to tell ’im there was fever aboard. Nasty dirty heathen foreigners the lot of them, Frenchies they were.’

  She arranged her bulk more comfortably and patted Charlotte on the arm.

  ‘Go on, child, Frampton will do very well. You go and stretch your legs.’ She looked up with a comical expression of dismay. ‘What would Fanny say if she ’eard me mention your legs, eh? And ’er so prim and proper!’

  ‘Perhaps you should refer to my nether limbs, Gran,’ giggled Charlotte as she bent to hug the old lady.

  ‘Per’aps I shouldn’t mention ’em at all, young lady,’ wheezed Lady Frampton in high good humour. ‘Off you go and enjoy your freedom for a space.’

  Freedom? If only it were, thought Charlotte with longing as she sped along the landing towards her room in the Queen Anne wing, pausing briefly at the top of the stairs at the sounds of welcome and bustle. It must be Colonel Fitzgibbon, she thought, come to see Mrs Richmond and her son, the hero. Frowning, she recalled her anxious conversations with Kit Knightley, not long ago in terms of actual days but a world away in a time when Frampton was safely dead. The suspicions she and Kit had entertained had no place now, surely? If there had been any foundation for them, why, Frampton was in no state to rejoin his regiment. Surely they would allow him to retire into obscurity so that any irregularities might be quietly buried.

  It was all so nebulous. In her room Charlotte quickly set her straw bonnet on her head and caught up a light shawl then she made her way down the back stairs. As fervently as Frampton himself, the army must be intent upon avoiding scandal, if scandal there were to be told.

  This is nonsense, pull yourself together, Char, she scolded herself briskly. You have a respite from the sickroom, so do as Lady Frampton bade you and go for a blow in the fresh air. God only knows you need a clear head if you are to muddle through all of this.

  The hills, dotted with sheep and lambs, beckoned enticingly but Charlotte kept to the lower slopes. Some delicacy of feeling made her avoid any possibility of meeting Kit Knightley up there in what he had named as his ‘special’ place. Her desperate fear for the future, coupled with her growing awareness that she felt for him something more than friendship, might cause her rigid control to slip. If he goes there for sanctuary, she told herself, I cannot be always intruding upon him with my troubles, nor must he ever know how I feel. She squared her shoulders, frowning. He is my friend, only a friend, and I must do as I have always done – solve my problems myself.

  She considered her options. Was Frampton in earnest when he vowed he would spread rumours of her less than snow-white past? Would it matter if he did? Perhaps not, but can I trust him, was the answer to the first question, and a resounding yes to the second. It was important to Frampton to conciliate his mother as she held the purse strings and what Mrs Richmond desired above all was an heir to the sacred name of Richmond. That poor Lily was already with child with just such an heir was no longer sufficient for the lady of the manor, the heir must now come through Frampton. Charlotte could see only too plainly why Frampton’s devilish though ingenious solution made perfect sense to him, because it made perfect sense to Charlotte also.

  So why do I not simply comply with his wishes? she asked herself. Had things run otherwise, if he had not gone missing in that fashion, I might very well have gone along with his plan. To be sure I cannot like Lancelot Dawkins but he is handsome enough and personable, at least on first acquaintance; yes, I might very well have followed Frampton’s suggestion, and needed no coercion.

  So what is different now? For I cannot do it. She frowned fiercely and bit her lip. Because I have come to know these people? Because I cannot betray Barnard and Lily in such a manner, the answer came at once. I cannot simply stand back and let Frampton ruin their lives while I cravenly yield to his blackmail, for that is what it is. But what am I to do? Lady Frampton’s hints were merely flags to fly, to keep up her own spirits. Nothing would come of them, so what was Charlotte to do?

  The answer dropped suddenly, clearly, shockingly, into her head.

  I shall have to kill him!

  CHAPTER 7

  ‘Charlotte! Charlotte! Come quickly!’ Agnes was running down the path towards the gate into the fie
lds, waving a frantic handkerchief.

  Charlotte quickened her pace, her heart pounding.

  ‘What is it, Agnes? What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s Uncle Henry,’ gasped Agnes, clinging to the gatepost while she caught her breath. ‘He’s had some sort of seizure and I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Charlotte panted as they broke into a run. ‘At the vicarage?’

  ‘No, no, he’s in the drawing-room at home. He had been up to see Frampton and came downstairs looking so strange, then he gave a loud groan and collapsed in a heap in the doorway, just as Lily and I were taking a cup of tea.’

  She halted again, clutching her side.

  ‘Oh, oh, a stitch! You go on, Char, I’ll catch up. Oh, his poor old face, it’s all twisted to one side …’

  Predictably the house was in uproar. Agnes must have fled straight to look for Charlotte without even checking to see if Henry Heavitree was still alive, Charlotte thought, as she was brought up short at the drawing-room door. For even now people were swarming from all over the house.

  ‘Let me see him,’ Charlotte commanded, flopping down on to her knees beside the stricken behemoth. ‘He is still alive, but it looks bad. Has the doctor been sent for? Here, Hoxton, is the vicar’s usual bedchamber ready? Good, then have him conveyed there at once. Has Mrs Richmond been informed? And how is Major Richmond? I must go and check up on him.’

  ‘No need.’ It was Mrs Richmond, in the arms of the stalwart footman, her wheeled chair following her downstairs, carried by a brawny housemaid. ‘Frampton is asleep. What is the matter with my brother?’ She gestured imperiously to her chair and once settled into it, wheeled herself across the polished oak boards. ‘Oh, woe is me! What? Another blow for a poor widow to bear? What have I done that the good Lord should smite me so?’

  Charlotte blinked, even as she prepared to follow the procession bearing the vicar upstairs. Mrs Richmond was looking very pale, the habitual complacency fled from her long, arrogant face. Was she so fond of her brother? Charlotte wondered, but thought that her mother-in-law had looked distrait even before she caught sight of Henry’s bulk stretched out on the floor. The clamour must have alarmed her. As Charlotte cast a distracted glance backward, Fanny Richmond caught her eye and frowned.

  ‘Take Agnes with you, Charlotte,’ she commanded. ‘Lily can stay with me. Go and sit down quietly, Lily and take some deep breaths. Hysterics will do you no good. Hoxton, send for the doctor. Do what you can to help Mrs Frampton and send in some more tea for Mrs Barnard and myself.’

  Henry Heavitree breathed stertorously on his bed, his face twisted, as Agnes had said, the whole of his right side flopping limp and helpless. As Charlotte settled him against the lace and linen of his pillows, she realized his eyes were open and that he was glaring at her, his intelligence unimpaired.

  ‘What is it, sir?’ she asked, bending over him in pity, forgetting for a moment that he was a monster, recalling only that he was a very sick man. ‘The doctor will be here directly and we are doing all we can to make you comfortable.’

  ‘Fah – fa – gah!’ The words were unintelligible and the eyes blazed with a spark of red fire as the misshapen mouth made a further effort. ‘Faugh – ugh!’ Saliva drooled down the uppermost of Henry’s several chins and he groaned as Charlotte took up a napkin to wipe him.

  ‘Perhaps he is saying Mama’s name,’ suggested Agnes and she hung over him dripping tears in a manner calculated to send him into a further spasm. ‘They do love each other so dearly. Did you want to speak to Mama, Uncle Henry? Did you want to see your dear sister?’

  For a moment Charlotte thought another spark flickered then she was distracted by the entrance of the butler, looking grave.

  ‘I brought hot water, ma’am,’ he told her. ‘But there’s word from the village that Dr Perry is gone to Portsmouth this morning and will not return until tomorrow noon at the earliest.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Charlotte put a hand to her brow and pursed her lips. ‘Well, we shall have to do the best we can. Thank you, Hoxton. Have you had tea sent in to Mrs Richmond and Mrs Barnard? Oh good, they will both be suffering from the shock of it all. Perhaps you could send up some to Lady Frampton also? You have? The perfect butler! What should we do without you?’

  Hoxton looked extremely gratified by this commendation and bowed his way out of the room, promising to send in more tea for herself and Agnes.

  ‘And something for the vicar,’ she called out to him as he left. ‘I suppose brandy would be what he would like most, and it can hardly do him any harm, poor man.’

  Another garbled gobbling issued from the vicar’s flaccid lips. Agnes leaped feet first into the breach.

  ‘Dear Uncle Henry,’ she gushed, ‘I am sure you need the comfort of the Lord’s word. I will send for Percy, I – I mean Mr Benson, directly.’

  ‘Graagh! Glub! Blaargh!’

  ‘I think that means no,’ Charlotte interposed swiftly as the vicar’s eyes bulged dangerously and spittle sprayed his devoted niece. ‘Never fear, sir, you shall be safe from being prayed over. Now, try to rest, it will do you so much good.’

  Henry Heavitree subsided into angry despair, apparently falling into a doze, so Charlotte and Agnes retreated to a small table and chairs set in the window overlooking the church.

  ‘Sit down, Agnes.’ Charlotte waved to a chair. ‘What a commotion. I cannot admire your Uncle Henry but it is shocking to see so powerful a force of nature struck down like this, rather as if a hurricane had been stopped in its tracks in front of one. What can have brought it on, I wonder?’ She saw that Agnes was looking very weary. ‘Sit quietly, Agnes, tea will be here soon. Now, tell me, what was Henry doing just before his attack, do you know? You said he had been to see Frampton? Oh heavens, Frampton, I should go to him.’

  ‘No, Char.’ Agnes pulled herself together and spoke firmly. ‘You heard Mama tell us that Frampton was sleeping. Take a few minutes peace for yourself, do. Let me see, were you here when Colonel Fitzgibbon was closeted in the drawing-room with Mama? Oh no, I spotted you running across the garden and pretended I had not seen you when she asked me. Oh, Charlotte, it was so strange. Colonel Fitzgibbon asked first to see Frampton and was quite insistent. It was only when Mama wheeled herself into the hall and practically ordered him into the drawing-room that he desisted, but Mama would not have Frampton disturbed at any cost.

  ‘I could see that Mama was most displeased, but she ordered Hoxton to send in the Madeira and then, when I was about to join them, the colonel spoke up angrily. Very grave, he was, but most definite: he had pressing matters to discuss, if not with Frampton then with Mama and he was afraid he must ask for complete privacy. Mama was even more chilly but he would have it no other way.’

  ‘How – how very strange,’ Charlotte faltered. Did the colonel’s demeanour have anything to do with the suspicions she had voiced to Kit Knightley? He seemed to have behaved very oddly if all he was doing was paying a visit to an ailing fellow officer.

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Agnes was agog, bulging brown eyes glistening with emotion. ‘I did not see him leave but when I went into the drawing-room (I saw the door was open and ventured in), Mama was sitting in her chair staring at the wall. She did not hear me when I spoke and it was several moments before she realized I was there, then she spoke very shortly and ordered that she be taken upstairs. Charlotte, I was quite shocked to see her face. She looked quite unlike dear Mama.’

  ‘How do you mean, Agnes?’

  ‘I can’t explain.’ Agnes plucked at her sleeve. ‘She looked as though she had sustained a deadly blow. I know that is fanciful but that is how she seemed and she brushed me aside as if I had been a fly.’

  The arrival of the tea-tray interrupted this interesting conversation and Charlotte sipped thoughtfully while Agnes embarked on a flight about Percy and his hoped-for appointment with the bishop.

  ‘The bishop will offer Percy the archdiocese of Canterbury,’ Charlotte joked, jumping to her feet,
refreshed by the tea. ‘I’m sure you would make a wonderful archbishop’s wife. Now, I must return to my first invalid and see how he does.’

  At the head of the main stairs she encountered Old Nurse, full of gloom, prophesying that Mrs Richmond too would succumb to the same affliction as her brother.

  ‘That’s just the way her poor father went and her mother too,’ she announced, her soft country voice ringing with thinly-veiled relish. ‘Lucky she did not see Mr Henry collapse, laid upon her bed as she was, poor dear, after seeing that redcoat.’

  It was with a feeling of relief that Charlotte closed the door of Frampton’s bedroom behind her. There is too much excitement in this house, she told herself with a wry smile. How I long for the gentle tedium of those first days that I spent here.

  A time when you thought Frampton was dead, reminded her rogue inner voice. What are you going to do about him? You were very full of determination out on the foothills, Char, were you not? But can you do it? Can you really kill him?

  Firmly repressing that inner voice, Charlotte crossed the room towards the ancient oak bed with its carved posts and heavy tapestry canopy, relieved to see that Frampton appeared to be sleeping soundly, the coverlet pulled up over his hunched shoulder. She let out a sigh of relief: let him rest undisturbed and let me have a peaceful interlude.

  She picked up her sewing and sat down on a comfortable chair in the wide bay window, stretching luxuriously in the warmth that beat down on her. Much as I love England, she mused, it has to be admitted that I miss the sun; if only it would stay like this all the time.

  As she sewed she tried in vain to ignore the idea clamouring for attention. Could she, would she, kill Frampton? And if she would, if she could, how might the deed be accomplished? It was at this point in her deliberations that she shivered uneasily, struck by something odd about the silence of the sickroom.