“This isn’t grief, Prudence. This is memory.” Rose studied her maid’s face. “What do you remember from the night she was killed?”
“My lady, I don’t think—”
“Please.” Rose caught Prudence’s hands. “I need to know. I feel like I’m going mad, hearing fragments of conversations, seeing pieces of things I can’t quite grasp. Help me understand.”
Prudence closed her eyes briefly, as if steeling herself. When she opened them, her expression was resigned. “What would you like to know?”
“Tell me about Lizzie.”
Prudence sank into the chair beside Rose’s dressing table, suddenly looking much older than her years.
“Lizzie was your mother’s lady’s maid. Had been since Lady Eleanor was first married. They were…” Prudence paused, choosing her words carefully. “They were more like sisters than mistress and servant. Your mother trusted her completely.”
“And she died just days after my mother.”
“A riding accident, they said. Her horse spooked and threw her.” Prudence’s voice was bitter. “But Lizzie was the finest rider among all the staff. She could handle any horse in the stable.”
Rose felt a chill run down her spine. “You don’t think it was an accident.”
“None of us did. Mrs. Carter, Mrs. Blythe, and I—we all knew something was wrong. But when we tried to speak to the constable…” Prudence shook her head. “He wouldn’t hear a word against his lordship.”
“His lordship?” Rose’s voice came out as a whisper.
Prudence looked stricken, as if she’d said too much. “Lady Rose, perhaps we shouldn’t speak of this.”
“Tell me.” Rose’s voice was stronger now, edged with determination. “Tell me what you suspected.”
For a long moment, Prudence said nothing. Then, as if a dam had burst, the words came tumbling out.
“The night your mother died, the three of us sat with Lizzie in the kitchen afterward. She was beside herself with grief, couldn’t stop weeping. And then she said something terrible.” Prudence’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “She said that earlier that evening, Lady Eleanor had pulled her aside and told her, ‘If anything should happen to me, tell the constable to look closely at my husband.’ And Lady Rose, we know there were other times when he was aggressive with her. Lizzie used to tend to her bruises.”
Rose hugged her middle, stumbling backward. Her legs gave out as she sank onto the edge of her bed. The room seemed to tilt around her, black dots dancing before her eyes.
“No. No, that can’t be right.”
But even as she said it, fragments of memory began surfacing. Her mother’s voice, urgent and frightened:You and your partner could hang for this. And then what happens to Rose?Another voice, deeper, male, angry in response.
“Lady Rose?” Prudence was beside her in an instant, steadying her with gentle hands. “Should I fetch some water?”
Rose couldn’t speak. Her throat felt closed, her chest tight. Her mother had known. Had suspected her own husband might hurt her. Had tried to protect herself, to leave some trail for justice to follow.
And then Lizzie, who had carried that message, had died just days later.
“The constable,” Rose managed to say. “Did you tell him what Lizzie said?”
Prudence’s face darkened. “We tried. But he was already bought and paid for, wasn’t he? Wouldn’t even speak to us properly. Said the word of servants wasn’t worth the breath it took to speak it.”
“So Lizzie died for nothing.” Rose’s voice was hollow.
“Not for nothing. She tried to honor your mother’s wishes. We all did, in our way.” Prudence knelt beside the bed, taking Rose’s cold hands in her warm ones. “But we were powerless, my lady. Just servants in a house where terrible things happened and no one with authority cared to see justice done.”
Rose closed her eyes, trying to make sense of it all. Her father—the man who had raised her, who had scolded her for her failed Season, who was now trying to force her into marriage—had he really killed her mother? And then murdered an innocent young woman to cover his tracks?
“There’s something else,” Prudence said hesitantly. “I probably shouldn’t tell you, but… I think Mary knows more than she’s ever said.”
“Mary?” Rose’s eyes snapped open. “Our Mary?”
“She was just a scullery maid then, barely thirteen. Quiet little thing, always in the shadows.” Prudence worried at her lower lip. “But the morning after it happened, I found her in the pantry, shaking like a leaf. When I asked what was wrong, she just kept saying ‘I didn’t see nothing, I didn’t hear nothing’ over and over. But the way she said it made me think differently.”
