Death and the Visitors, page 1
Also by Heather Redmond
The Mary Shelley Mysteries
Death and the Sisters
Death and the Visitors
A Dickens of a Crime Mystery Series
A Tale of Two Murders
Grave Expectations
A Christmas Carol Murder
The Pickwick Murders
A Twist of Murder
Heather Redmond
DEATH AND THE VISITORS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
900 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 2024 by Heather Redmond
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2024936518
The K with book logo Reg. US Pat & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-4903-1
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: September 2024
ISBN: 978-1-4967-4905-5 (ebook)
The royal parade
You go, love. I will flee to
A dark, quiet glade
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Acknowledgments
BOOK CLUB READING GUIDE for Death and the Visitors
I was born in the right time, in whole,
Only this time is one that is blessed,
But great God did not let my poor soul
Live without deceit on this earth.
—Anna Akhmatova, “I Was Born in the Right Time,” translated by Yevgeny Bonver
Am I a mere instrument to be played upon by endless hopes and fears and tormenting wishes? Am I to be the sport of events, the fool of promise, always agitated with near approaching good, yet always deluded?
—William Godwin, St. Leon
’Tis time, my friend, ’tis time!
For rest the heart is aching;
Days follow days in flight,
and every day is taking
Fragments of being,
while together you and I
Make plans to live.
Look, all is dust,
and we shall die.
—Alexander Pushkin, “ ’Tis Time, My Friend”
Chapter 1
London, Saturday, May 28, 1814
Jane
“How wonderful to know Mother’s work has made it all the way to Russia,” my stepsister Mary Godwin exclaimed, an expression of awed pleasure on her lovely fairy face.
As pretty as Mary was, the Polish princess sitting across from us at the dining table outshone her, despite her maturity versus Mary’s fresh-faced sixteen years. Heavy eyelids over large, dark eyes gave Princess Maria an undeniably sensual air. The rest of her features were enshrined in a perfect rosy cream complexion, which continued down to her low-cut, tight bodice of blue velvet, necessary against the unusual May chill.
I fancied I had something similar to her looks, though with darker hair and no finery. She wore no necklace, the better to display her bosom, but a number of bracelets and rings adorned her wrists and fingers. Her ears, visible under an elaborate braided topknot hairstyle, sported pearl drops from which hung delicate gold chain and pearl loops. I might have been jealous, except that in the household of William Godwin, my stepfather, we were raised not to want such things.
Intellectual accomplishments were everything, and after all, that is what had brought such distinguished guests to the first floor of our listing, creaking, damp house on Skinner Street. The house was imposing enough to impress visitors, if one ignored the condition of it. Due to a dispute in ownership, Papa didn’t pay rent but couldn’t demand repairs.
The two men with her, Princess Maria’s Russian husband and his brother, also cut fine figures, despite being considerably older, and their extravagant manes of gray and dark hair put Papa’s balding head to shame. Little differentiated them, other than a faint white scar line stretching along the brother’s jaw.
“I do hope the publisher of the Russian edition has paid for the privilege of selling A Vindication of the Rights of Woman,” my mother said acidly.
Papa spoke over Mamma, his second wife and my mother, drowning out the end of the title. “Either way, the volumes have brought fascinating guests to our table. I am curious to hear your opinions on the current situation in France.”
“Why are so many foreign diplomats descending on London?” I asked.
“We come in advance of the Congress of Vienna meetings,” Count Dmitry Naryshkin said in a heavy accent. “The servants of many royal persons are already arriving to ensure their masters’ future comforts.”
“I am sure the upper classes are preparing to celebrate with visiting leaders and statesmen,” Mamma said. “We have had our fair share of such dinner guests over the years, like Aaron Burr, the former vice president of the United States.”
“Why are all of your children not here?” Pavel Naryshkin asked, in an even thicker accent. “There is a daughter of the household missing, no?”
“The eldest, Fanny, is in Wales presently,” Papa said. “She is interested in educational matters, like her late mother, and has taken the offerings of our Juvenile Library to a community there.”
I watched Mary’s eyelids flutter and her mouth work. I remembered my stepsister Fanny’s tears as she was sent away for loving a married poet. The man in question, Percy Bysshe Shelley, a disciple of Papa’s, had affected us all in curious ways.
“I see you live over your shop,” Pavel Naryshkin said. “Is that common in London?”
“It makes life simpler,” Papa said. “We are not proud people. However, the business continues into the next building. We publish many educational works as well as sell them here.”
“There was a murder in the bookshop recently,” Mary said, a malicious gleam coming into her eyes as she glanced at me.
“How dreadful,” the princess murmured, but her husband spoke over her, changing the subject.
“When will Miss Fanny return?” he asked.
“We do enjoy traveling in this family,” Mamma said with a vapid flutter of her fingers for emphasis.
“The air is terrible here,” Mary said in a flat tone. “There are prisons all around us, and a slaughterhouse. Often, there are hangings.” She pointed an accusatory finger toward the window.
“Mary,” I chided. “It’s not as if you can see the gibbet from the house. They build it a bit down the street when it is needed.”
Mamma’s face had gone florid. “Well.”
Mary jumped in her seat. Mamma had probably pinched her with those strong, sausage-like fingers. Her pinches left bruises.
“Does she tend to illness?” Dmitry Naryshkin asked.
“Fanny?” I asked. “No, not of the physical kind.”
“Jane,” Papa barked. “Fanny is in excellent health, and we all enjoy traveling. Mary returned from a long trip to Scotland at the end of winter.”
Fanny and Mary both tended to depression. Though they had different fathers, the Wollstonecraft blood came with a heavy mental burden, it seemed. I only knew my father had been Swiss, but I must have inherited my cheerful temperament from him.
“Miss Fanny should be with her family,” Count Naryshkin said. “She should be brought home to London where she belongs.”
His tone, not to mention his opinion, confused me. Perhaps he believed that daughters of the household should be kept at home, minding their needlework. Unlike Mary and me, though, Fanny was old enough to be out in the world, married or even working. But these visitors were upper-class, after all, and their women were much more decorative than useful, as we had to be.
“I am very excited you are here, even if dear Fanny cannot be,” Mary said.
“How sweet of you to say,” the princess cooed.
“Oh, yes.” Mary leaned forward. “You see, I am writing a novel called Isabella, the Penitent; or, The Bandit Novice of Dundee. My heroine is, as expected, in a most modest situation at the start of the book, but when she is kidnapped, she will be dressed by the wealthy villain. I must store away the details of your wardrobe and jewels for Isabella.”
The princess smiled and saluted Mary with her wineglass. “Do you write with a message, as your dear mother and father
“I think a well-educated girl can overcome just about any difficulty,” Mary said, her words tumbling faster as she warmed to her subject. “Why should any girl be helpless? Papa and Mamma have always said they did not have time to educate us to my mother’s standards, but I have a terrible fascination for natural philosophy and any kind of book, really.”
“Do your ideas come from the natural world, then?” the princess asked.
“From dreams,” Mary said, leaning forward until the bodice of her black silk dress nearly dipped into her buttery potatoes. “I read too much, or see something in the neighborhood, and it is all twisted into dreams. Why, I—”
Papa cleared his throat. “At my age, we have many young people around us, carrying the torch for our principles. One of the best, Percy Bysshe Shelley, has just assured me he will be staying in London under my tutelage, instead of returning to Wales.”
I wondered what that would mean for poor Shelley’s disastrous marriage. I half thought he should return to Wales with his cheating wife and horrid sister, abandon them there, then flee back to London. Mary’s eyes had widened, though the rest of her expression remained serene. Papa might have at least let her finish answering the princess’s question.
I noticed the princess had not touched anything on her plate after the first couple of bites. Our French cook, the poor dear, had burned the potatoes again and boiled the cabbage down to an unappealing mush. “Do you hire many Frenchwomen in Russia?” I asked, setting down my knife. “Are they all as difficult to train as our cook?”
“Jane!” Mamma whisper-roared, then pushed her chair back so quickly it fell over, dropping with a dull thud onto the threadbare carpet. “Why don’t we leave the men to their libations? I am sure Her Royal Highness would like to see the portrait of the first Mrs. Godwin that hangs in Mr. Godwin’s study.”
She had captured all three of our guests’ attention.
“I would like that most excessively,” Princess Maria said, daintily rearranging her place setting. “To see an image of our Mary painted from life is an inestimable privilege.”
I had the feeling Mamma shouldn’t have risen before our royal guest, but the princess didn’t show obvious displeasure. Possibly she never ate much anyway, to maintain her stunning figure.
My half brother Charles, a bit younger than Fanny, smirked at me. “Someone should take Willy upstairs.”
“Yes, take Willy up, then you can join us,” Mamma said to me. When his tutor was not in the house, we often had to take charge of our shared half brother. What an interesting tangle we were, five young people, none of whom had the same set of parents.
Mary and I rose after the princess did. We followed Mamma out of the dining room. The door would not close into the warped frame as she tried to push it. I turned my back to the door and, ignoring the grinding and squeaking sounds of the wood, forced it shut.
Mamma’s lips tightened, but she turned away, fingering the dark curl that lay against her throat, and marched down the passage to the study, holding a candle high to illuminate the passage.
I hauled eleven-year-old Willy upstairs, then ordered him to wash the sauce off his face and trotted back downstairs, unwilling to miss any of the conversation.
The study still had illumination from the street at this time of year. When I came in, Mamma was droning on about Papa’s extravagant collection of books. They filled untidy bookcases all around us, nearly to the ceiling. I wondered if she hoped to sell some of the titles to our guests. Papa would be dreadfully angry if she managed it, but I was on Mamma’s side. We needed to raise money somehow.
However, Princess Maria did not take the bait. After a significant pause, Mamma left the bookcases and stepped around Papa’s chair behind his desk. She set the candlestick on the table underneath the portrait of Mary Wollstonecraft, illuminating it. The princess gasped theatrically and clasped her hands together over her heart.
“She contemplates eternity, this sweet lady,” the princess said.
When I glanced at Mary, she had her hand over her abdomen, as if reminding herself that her mother had been carrying her at the time the portrait was created, just a few months before her death.
The painting showed a mature lady who possessed few to none of her daughter’s features. Her nose might have been similar, except that I knew Mary’s nose to be an exact copy of Papa’s. Her brown hair had a bit of the flyaway quality of Mary’s, but the color was not a match. I recognized the serenity of her expression, however. Had Mary come by her peaceful demeanor, regardless of the inner workings of her mind, naturally, or had she cultivated her looks after long hours contemplating her mother’s visage?
As if I had spoken out loud, the princess turned to Mary and took a long look at her, then gazed at the portrait again.
“Is Miss Fanny Godwin a good likeness of her mother?” she asked.
Mary’s stiffening told me she felt the slight. “She is my mother’s exact size and can wear her clothing.”
“And her face?”
“Fanny is very quiet,” I volunteered.
“A peaceful and plain creature,” Mary added.
“Her father, is he still living?” asked the princess, not looking away from the portrait. Indeed, she lifted the candle to examine some detail.
“Mr. Imlay, if that is who you mean, had no interest in her once Mother was dead, I’m told,” Mary said. “Papa has always been her father.”
“I have read Mr. Godwin’s biography of your mother.” The princess set the candle down. “It is tragic. I am happy to have married as I did.”
“Do you have children?” Mary asked.
“Do they look like you?” I added.
The princess smiled at us, but Mamma interrupted before she could respond. “Go downstairs, Mary, and make us a pot of tea. Jane, light the parlor fire. We will descend in a moment, Your Royal Highness.”
Mary and I left the room together after a joined glance at Mamma’s steely face, hugging the wall along the staircase to reduce the groaning of the tired steps.
“I do wish someone would take a hammer and nails to this riser,” Mary grumbled, kicking a piece back into place.
“With ownership in dispute, there is no one to maintain it,” I pointed out.
“And all of the rent money Papa doesn’t need to pay goes to feeding distinguished visitors.” Mary dropped to the bottom step and put her head in her hands. “Can you imagine? A real princess in Skinner Street?”
“It is desperately exciting,” I agreed.
“There will be many such people coming into London now,” Mary said. “We should get a look at as many of them as possible, to store up in our imaginations.”
“Pulling yourself away from natural philosophy for a few months?” I teased.
“My education must be well-rounded,” Mary said. “I have often thought that Mother didn’t write until she was nearly thirty because she needed to bank enough experience first.”
I wondered how Mary thought she would do that. At heart, I thought her a more conventional sort than her mother. I had the spirit of a philosopher much more than Mary did. She wasn’t even an atheist like me. “You will have to do the same.”
“I am conscious of the issue,” Mary said. “I will stuff my brain like a Christmas pudding and hope it all spills out again long before I’m middle-aged.”
“There is only so much you can fit into such a tiny carapace,” I said, reaching through the fluff to knock gently on her skull. “But you will try, poor thing.”
“At least I have six months more learning than you.” She batted my hand away. “I suppose I should fetch the tea.”
“I should light the fire,” I said agreeably.
We didn’t move. The windows were set rather high in the walls and door, so we couldn’t see out, but torches flashed as people passed by in the growing dark. We had sat quite late at dinner, given our fascination for our guests and theirs for us.
