‘But he’s a communist, Euphemia, and the Japan-Korea Treaty of 1907 has never looked more shaky. It’s a communist plot.’
‘Communist assassins!’ I said. ‘You really believe that, after what happened with your own father? It’s a line, Bertram, a line. It’s what they say when they want people to look the other way. Only this time there’s a scapegoat – Rory.’
‘No, Euphemia, you’re wrong. I know last time it was just something that was said to close down the case, but the communist threat is real. The world is preparing for a war, the like of which no one has ever imagined. You don’t understand the politics of the situation.’
‘I might not understand politics, but I know Rory McLeod is no assassin,’ I said.
‘You’re letting your heart rule your reason.’
‘I am not!’
At this point we had both risen to our feet, pulsating with anger. Our bodies were in close enough proximity that I could feel the heat radiating from Mr Bertram. Our faces were inches from each other. Our eyes locked. My heart, generally a most reliable organ, turned over in my breast. Mr Bertram leaned slightly towards me. His voice was barely more than a whisper as he said, ‘Euphemia …’
‘Bertram …’
The door behind us opened and we sprang guiltily apart. ‘What ho!’ said Baggy Tipton with a leer.
I took the only course open to me and fled from the room. As my readers will understand, my thoughts were in turmoil for the rest of the day and barely worth recording. Suffice it to say, my fallible mind played over and over the final scene with Mr Bertram although it dared go no further than the actualities that occurred. My reaction to the situation was unnerving. I was more than aware that I had called Mr Bertram by his Christian name now on several occasions. Of course, had I been present in his house as myself, Euphemia Martins, not only a vicar’s daughter but also the granddaughter of an earl – if my grandfather ever took it upon himself to acknowledge me or my brother – he might have considered himself fortunate to be on such terms with me. If my grandfather ever accepted my mother back into the family then I would be openly his social superior. As matters stood within my family our social standing was, to put it mildly, confused. While I worked under a false identity as a maid – or housekeeper – I had no excuse whatsoever to address a gentleman of the house by his first name. I could only suppose that I had done so because, of all of them, Bertram had recognised something in me. He did not treat me as an equal and yet he did not treat me as a servant. At least I, knowing what I really was, understood the confusion this had engendered between us. Bertram, on the other hand, had no such advantage and I could only come to one conclusion over his extraordinary behaviour. He was jealous of Rory.
I will not flatter myself that he was in love with me, but I was enough out of the norm, yet as Little Joe says: ‘pretty, even for a sister’, and we were in the vast isolation of Scotland, and there lay between us the history of our previous adventures investigating murders – it was no wonder that passions were being stirred.
How in all this mess could I help Rory? I was convinced he was not a killer and the one man I would have turned to as an ally was blinded by unreasonable prejudice. That Euphemia Martins would have feelings for a grocer’s son was unthinkable – and yet my innate honesty, instilled in me by my lovely and wise father, forced me to consider that my extremely aristocratic mother married far beneath her station. Could this be a family trait?
But when I thought of my parting with Bertram, Mr Bertram , as I must call him even to myself, my chest hurt.
I went about my duties in a daze and, because I was not worrying over their correct performance, did them so excellently that I even earned praise from Lord Richard. I avoided seeing Mr Bertram.
I retired to bed once more in a
‘Communist assassins!’ I said. ‘You really believe that, after what happened with your own father? It’s a line, Bertram, a line. It’s what they say when they want people to look the other way. Only this time there’s a scapegoat – Rory.’
‘No, Euphemia, you’re wrong. I know last time it was just something that was said to close down the case, but the communist threat is real. The world is preparing for a war, the like of which no one has ever imagined. You don’t understand the politics of the situation.’
‘I might not understand politics, but I know Rory McLeod is no assassin,’ I said.
‘You’re letting your heart rule your reason.’
‘I am not!’
At this point we had both risen to our feet, pulsating with anger. Our bodies were in close enough proximity that I could feel the heat radiating from Mr Bertram. Our faces were inches from each other. Our eyes locked. My heart, generally a most reliable organ, turned over in my breast. Mr Bertram leaned slightly towards me. His voice was barely more than a whisper as he said, ‘Euphemia …’
‘Bertram …’
The door behind us opened and we sprang guiltily apart. ‘What ho!’ said Baggy Tipton with a leer.
I took the only course open to me and fled from the room. As my readers will understand, my thoughts were in turmoil for the rest of the day and barely worth recording. Suffice it to say, my fallible mind played over and over the final scene with Mr Bertram although it dared go no further than the actualities that occurred. My reaction to the situation was unnerving. I was more than aware that I had called Mr Bertram by his Christian name now on several occasions. Of course, had I been present in his house as myself, Euphemia Martins, not only a vicar’s daughter but also the granddaughter of an earl – if my grandfather ever took it upon himself to acknowledge me or my brother – he might have considered himself fortunate to be on such terms with me. If my grandfather ever accepted my mother back into the family then I would be openly his social superior. As matters stood within my family our social standing was, to put it mildly, confused. While I worked under a false identity as a maid – or housekeeper – I had no excuse whatsoever to address a gentleman of the house by his first name. I could only suppose that I had done so because, of all of them, Bertram had recognised something in me. He did not treat me as an equal and yet he did not treat me as a servant. At least I, knowing what I really was, understood the confusion this had engendered between us. Bertram, on the other hand, had no such advantage and I could only come to one conclusion over his extraordinary behaviour. He was jealous of Rory.
I will not flatter myself that he was in love with me, but I was enough out of the norm, yet as Little Joe says: ‘pretty, even for a sister’, and we were in the vast isolation of Scotland, and there lay between us the history of our previous adventures investigating murders – it was no wonder that passions were being stirred.
How in all this mess could I help Rory? I was convinced he was not a killer and the one man I would have turned to as an ally was blinded by unreasonable prejudice. That Euphemia Martins would have feelings for a grocer’s son was unthinkable – and yet my innate honesty, instilled in me by my lovely and wise father, forced me to consider that my extremely aristocratic mother married far beneath her station. Could this be a family trait?
But when I thought of my parting with Bertram, Mr Bertram , as I must call him even to myself, my chest hurt.
I went about my duties in a daze and, because I was not worrying over their correct performance, did them so excellently that I even earned praise from Lord Richard. I avoided seeing Mr Bertram.
I retired to bed once more in a
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