Delsie (10 page)

He looked astonished at the question, and shrugged
his shoulders. “I couldn’t say. Perhaps two—three
dozen. May I know why you ask?”

“There was exactly
one pair
in the linen cupboard,
and where did they go? That is what I should like to
know!” she said, nodding her head.

“It is close to a decade since Louise married. They
are worn out, I suppose.”

“She has only been dead three years. Two or three
dozen sheets do not wear out so quickly. They have
been stolen. And not more than a pair of clean towels. She must have had two or three dozen of them as well, and from the looks of the people in this house, I cannot
believe that towels were worn to patches, whatever
about sheets.”

“You take your hoarding of Bobbie’s monies and
chattels very seriously, cousin. Replace what you need, and keep count of them. You’ll soon learn if you are being bilked. Have you run into any other problems, besides vanishing linen and housekeepers who call you ‘miss’?”

“Only the pixies, but I suppose you know about
them.”

“No, I don’t. Do tell me, what have the pixies been
up to? Stealing the preserve jars?”

“No, they have been frightening Bobbie. Did Mr.
Grayshott roam about the grounds drunk at night?”

“Not to my knowledge. He drank to excess, of course,
but I never heard anything about his roaming outside
the house in such a state. I cannot think Samson would
have permitted anything so dangerous.”

“Someone, Mrs. Bristcombe in fact, told her the
noises in the orchard at night were pixies, and so she
had to sleep on the west side. I have moved her to the
east, hoping the pixies have made their last racket. I
am taking the late Mrs. Grayshott’s suite for myself,”
she added with a defensive look, ready for objections.

“I should think so. It used to be a charming suite.
We had the furnishings imported from France. No
doubt you will secrete your pin money in the secret
compartment Andrew installed at the back of one of the drawers for Louise.”

“Bobbie mentioned it. I have not seen it yet. He was quite ingenious with mechanical contrivances, was he not? Bobbie showed me her walking doll.”

“It was a hobby with him. I have an extremely ugly clock at the Hall I must show you some time. He fixed up a mantel clock for me, the face of it inserted in the
stomach of a blackamoor, engineered in such a way
that the fellow’s eyes move with every tick. It annoyed
me so, I had it removed to a guest suite. It is one of
Bobbie’s favorite toys. When will you be bringing her
to see me?”

“Does she go to you often?”

“Not till the present, but I hope to see you
both
there
frequently, now that matters are more congenially ar
ranged. I shall have the pleasure of your company this evening, I trust? We are to dine there. I’ll
send the carriage for you at six, if that
—”

“Yes, it meets with my approval,” she told him, with
a baleful stare that concealed her joy.

“One would never guess it from that black scowl,
cousin,” he answered, and arose to leave.

Chapter Seven

Dinner with the family, whether at the Hall or the Dower House, was always a civilized, happy interval in the day, looked forward to as if it were a party. She knew from comments made by Lady Jane that larger
parties were held as well, but in this period of mourn
ing, it was only family. Till she was more sure of her
footing, Delsie was happy it was only family. She looked
forward to holding her own first dinner party at the
Cottage. On this evening, Lady Jane brought forward
a subject of great interest to the widow, a shopping trip to the village on the morrow. Delsie had made a list of items required for the Cottage, herself, and, even more urgently, for Bobbie, whose wardrobe was in sad need
of replenishing. She was happy she would make her debut in Questnow under the unexceptionable chaperonage of Lady Jane. She hardly feared any direct in
sults, but the villagers, used to thinking of her as one
of themselves, might be jealous of her sudden rise to prominence.

After dinner, she discussed with Lady Jane what she
meant to buy and where the best price might be found.
DeVigne and Sir Harold had a game table drawn up
to the other side of the grate and had a game of chess.
At eleven o’clock, Lady Jane began yawning, and it
was the signal for the company to take its leave. She and Harold walked to the Dower House through the
garden that separated the two buildings. It was not a
long enough distance to require having their carriage put to. DeVigne was to see Delsie home. With a pleasant glow still lingering from the evening, she was sur
prised when his first question after they were en
sconced in the carriage was, “I expect you find the time
at the Cottage lonesome, with only Bobbie for com
pany?”

“Oh, no! I was very busy all day with my bookkeep
ing, you recall, and getting settled in.”

“You will soon make new friends, to call on you and to visit in turn. It is the mourning that keeps our circle
so close at this time.”

She had not the least desire to see the cozy circle enlarged by so much as one. “I suppose so,” she answered.

“For the present, you must feel free to visit Aunt
Jane if you are lonesome, or bring Bobbie to me, as I
mentioned. I am home a good deal in this weather.”

“I won’t be lonesome,” she said, and smiled softly to herself. How wonderful to have whole days to herself, with no school. It was like a long, perpetual holiday. “Oh, but I didn’t mean to be unsociable. I shall take Bobbie to Lady Jane, of course.”

“Also to her Uncle Max, I hope. I mentioned
two
homes where you will always be welcome, cousin.”

Twice he had mentioned it. She hardly knew what
to say to so much condescension, and said, “Thank you.”

“I did not mean to give the impression I was bestowing a favor. Quite the contrary.
I
am sometimes lone
some too.”

It was a novel thought to ponder, that deVigne, with
his mansion and his carriages and his arrogant face,
should ever be lonesome, but perhaps he was. Still, she could not quite envision herself walking boldly to his front door and asking for him.

When they reached the Cottage, the house was in
utter darkness, looking strangely ominous, with the
untrimmed shrubbery reaching black arms into the
path, and with the building itself a black hulk, lightened by the irregular paler shapes of the plaster in the
half-timbering. She was reluctant to enter; “I should
have told them to leave some lights burning,” she said.
More inexperience on her part.

“It should not have been necessary. Any sane servant should have known enough. You’ll have a job on your
hands reforming the Bristcombes, it seems. At least
they have not locked you out. The door is on the latch.”

They entered into a perfectly black hallway, where deVigne fumbled at the table to light a lamp. Of the
Bristcombes not a sign was to be seen. “I wonder if he
locked up before going to bed,” Max said. A check of the side door in the study revealed it was locked, and
they assumed the kitchen quarters to be safe as well.
Delsie locked the front door after him and took the
lamp up the stairs to light her way. Even with her
lamp, she found it rather frightening to be going alone down the black hallway, in a strange house. She peeped
into Bobbie’s room, to see the child sleeping soundly,
looking so innocent and vulnerable, with her little
hands, open palms up, on the pillow. The child was her responsibility now, an awesome task, really. Strange
how she was coming to love her, yet she had the very
eyes of her father.

She went into her own room, lit another lamp, and
prepared for bed. She took up a volume of poetry from Louise’s bookshelf and brought the lamp to her bedside
table to read. It was with a feeling of sheer luxury that
she looked at her watch, read the hour as well after eleven, and knew it was not too late. There was no need
to be up at seven. She would read till midnight. She
was relaxed, happy, looking forward to the shopping
trip tomorrow, when she extinguished her lamp at
midnight and fell into that light doze that precedes
sleep. Before she was quite unconscious, her arm was
rudely jostled. She jumped in her bed, her heart pound
ing.

“They’re back,” a soft voice said, giggling at her alarm.

“Oh, it’s you, Bobbie,” Delsie said, shaking herself
awake. “You frightened the life out of me. Who is back?
What’s the matter?” she asked, thinking in her confusion that the Bristcombes had been out, and that was why the house had been plunged into darkness when
she returned.

“The pixies,” Bobbie said.

“Poor dear, you’ve had a bad dream. There are no
pixies tonight. Were you frightened? Come and get into bed with me if you like. There’s plenty of room.”

Bobbie took immediate advantage of this tempting
suggestion, and popped in with her stepmother. They
were both sleepy, and were about to nod off when a slight sound was heard from the window. “It’s the pixies, Mama. I told you they were back,” Bobbie said,
yawning in mid-sentence, as she snuggled deeper into
the bed, no longer afraid of the pixies when she had protection.

Mrs. Grayshott listened, soon incontrovertibly aware that something was going forward in the orchard beyond her window. That it was either pixies or the ghost of her late husband never so much as occurred to her. It was only the ignorant, superstitious folks such as the
Bristcombes who believed in pixies and putting a dish of salt by a corpse to prevent its rising. The sounds
obviously came from a live, human trespasser, whose
identity interested her.

She slid quietly from her bed
to avoid waking the child, who was already breathing deeply, asleep. Tiptoeing to the window, she pulled
back the curtains and strained her eyes out into the
darkness. Nothing was visible. There was no moon, and
the phalanx of low, spreading apple trees successfully
concealed whatever was causing the noise. For some minutes Delsie remained, looking and wondering. She
quietly opened the casement window and stuck her
head out. The noises were more easily audible now, though they were still low noises, as of stealthy movement. She could hear the rattle of a harness, or chain,
and the soft clop of hooves, moving slowly forward. Some indistinguishable sounds of human voices too, male voices, she knew. Men were in the orchard, with
a horse or horses. What could it mean? The only con
clusion she could come to was that some poor neighbors
were stealing apples. The crop surely had been har
vested by such a late date, but the windfalls perhaps were being taken up by some poor family. With a shrug of her shoulders, she closed the window and climbed back into the warm bed, not unduly disturbed, but determined to check the next morning to see if she could discover trace of the intruders. Familiar with the pinch of poverty, she did not begrudge the taking of the apples, but she would prefer in future that permission be asked. Foolish of them to have waited so long, too— December. The apples must be inedible by now.

There was no sleeping in, the next morning, with a
wide-awake six-year-old in her bed, eager to be up and
doing. The girl was up bright and early. Glancing at
her watch, Delsie saw it was only seven. How quickly
she had become accustomed to the luxury of sleeping in! But rest was impossible with the wiggling child
hinting every minute that it was bright, so she dragged herself out of bed, and put on her frock while Bobbie
skipped down the hall to dress herself. With a pang of sympathy for the lower orders, she told the girl not to
awaken her governess. However, when Bobbie returned to her, her braids were neatly made up, and clearly it had not been her own childish fingers that
had formed them so well.

They went belowstairs, to find no breakfast awaiting them at such an hour. Mrs. Bristcombe seemed startled
to be run to earth in her kitchen, a single glimpse of
which quite revolted Delsie for the filth all around. Another battle to come over this before the day was done. The kettle was not even on the boil. Mrs. Bristcombe was given orders to have breakfast ready by
eight, and the ladies of the Cottage went outdoors for
a walk. With a memory of the commotion in the orchard
the night before, Delsie elected to walk there, though she would not disturb the child with an account of what had occurred.

To call it an orchard was really to overstate the case.
There were only thirty trees, six rows of five. From the number of apples on the ground, and the state of them,
it seemed highly unlikely it was this that had drawn
the intruders. The apples were beyond eating, for the
most part. They had been through several frosts, leaving them brown and withered. A few still clung to the branches, their skins puckered.

This waste shocked the thrifty ex-teacher. It was too late to save them this fall, but next year they would be gathered before they had
turned. She observed that two trees growing in the
midst of the others were dwarfed for some reason—noticeably runted compared to the rest. The apples did not appear to be of any different kind, so that could not account for it. She looked about her for signs of intruders. Clearly the men had not come for apples, so what had brought them? She could see no wheel tracks in the grass. There were considerable signs of traffic,
the grass well trampled, with here and there in the
earth the outline of what might have been horseshoes.