When Gods Die

Lady Anglessey’s abigail was a thin, slight woman in her late twenties or early thirties named Tess Bishop. She had straw-colored hair and a sallow complexion, and at first glance one might easily take her for the meek, browbeaten variety of abigail. But her gray eyes were clear and intelligent, her step firm as she entered the housekeeper’s room Sebastian had commandeered for their interview.

She wore black, as befitted the servant of a household in mourning. It was Sunday, her day off, but she had an apron tied over her bombazet dress. She had obviously been working, and it occurred to Sebastian that she might very well be packing up her own things. After all, a widower would have no need for a lady’s maid.

She paused in the doorway to eye Sebastian with undisguised suspicion. “I don’t see no baton,” she said, referring to the emblem of office traditionally carried by Runners.

A real Runner would probably have snapped, “We’ll have none of your impertinence, girl,” and ordered her to sit down. But in Sebastian’s experience, most people cooperated best when their dignity was respected. So he simply said, “Please, have a seat,” and steered her toward the ladder-backed chair he had placed beside the window overlooking the rain-drenched rear gardens.

She hesitated a moment, then sat, her hands folded in her lap, her spine as straight and uncompromising as a nun’s.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Lady Anglessey,” said Sebastian, leaning his shoulders against the wall. “We understand her ladyship left the house in a hackney on Wednesday afternoon, and we’re hoping you might know where she went.”

“No,” said the abigail baldly. “I don’t.”

Sebastian gave her a coaxing smile. “No idea whatsoever?”

There was no answering smile to lighten the woman’s pinched, unremarkable features. “No, sir. She didn’t say, and it’s not my place to pry into the activities of my employers, now, is it?”

Sebastian crossed his arms at his chest and rocked back on his heels. “Very commendable, I’m sure. But a lady’s maid often knows things about her employers without needing to be told—and without prying. Are you quite certain, for instance, that Lady Anglessey didn’t let drop some sort of a hint? Perhaps when she asked you to get out her gown for the afternoon?”

“She selected the gown herself—a simple walking dress with a matching pelisse, as would be suitable for a lady of fashion going out for the afternoon.”

Deciding to take another tack, Sebastian went to sit in the chair opposite her. “Tell me, Miss Bishop, how would you say his lordship and Lady Anglessey got along?”

Tess Bishop gave him a wooden stare. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do.” He rested his forearms on his thighs and leaned forward, as if inviting confidences. “Did they quarrel, for instance?”

“No.”

“Never?” Sebastian raised one eyebrow in a show of disbelief. “Man and wife for some four years, and no quarrels? No minor disagreements, even?”

“If they quarreled, sir, it wasn’t in my hearing.”

“Do you know if she ever met a man named Alain, the Chevalier de Varden?”

Something flared in her eyes, something she hid by staring down at hands now clasped so tightly they showed white. “I never heard the name, no.”

Sebastian studied the abigail’s stiff, hostile face. He supposed it said something about Guinevere Anglessey, if even after death she could inspire this kind of loyalty in a servant. “How long have you been with her ladyship?” Sebastian asked suddenly.

“Four years,” said Tess Bishop, relaxing slightly. “I came to her just before she married his lordship.”

Sebastian leaned back in his chair. “I suppose it’s natural for a young lady about to make such a brilliant alliance to want to provide herself with a more experienced abigail than the one she’d brought with her from the country.”

“That’s not the way it was at all. This was my first position.”

“Your first?”

“That’s right. I used to be a seamstress, while my David was a carpenter. But he was pressed into the navy, right before the bombardment of Copenhagen.” She paused. “He was killed.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sebastian, although it seemed a pathetically lame sop to offer her.

“After that, I supported us as best I could, but…” Her voice trailed off as if she regretted having said so much.

“Us?” Sebastian prompted.

“We had a baby. A girl.” Tess Bishop turned her face slightly toward the window so that she was no longer looking at him. “I took sick. When I couldn’t make my quota, they let me go. And then my baby took sick, too.”