Hidden in the Heart (9 page)

It was a short but pleasant drive to the inn, which was
ablaze with light. The high street was a clatter of
carriages and a-bustle with a steady stream of arrivals.
They were ushered into the main portal and directed
along a corridor to a room at the rear of the building - the
only chamber large enough to accommodate all the
guests.

Pushing along beside her aunt through the crush, Lydia
was surprised at the scene which awaited her. The room
was lit by several large chandeliers and a number of
sconces with crystal drops reflecting the light. Along the
walls, a few narrow tables had been dressed with centerpieces of what appeared to be fresh spring flowers. On
closer inspection, however, she realized that they had been
cunningly fashioned from silk. At least they would not wilt
in the heat of the many candles.

Mr Savidge and his son greeted the guests as they
entered. The father was so full of pride in his accomplish
ment that he looked ready to burst. His son merely seemed
mildly amused. However, when he spied Lydia’s party, he
frowned heavily. What was wrong with him? Lydia
wondered, frowning in her turn.

It was some time before she had more than a polite word
with John. He surprised her by procuring the first dance
with her. In the event, he was prudent to have done so.
Before very long, Lydia found that every dance was spoken
for. She did not attribute this to the fact that she was in
good looks tonight. There were so many gentlemen present
that most of the ladies were able to pick and choose their
partners at their leisure.

There was to be no waltzing, of course. Mrs Wardle-
Penfield did not approve of the waltz, whatever the fine
ladies of London might say. It most certainly would not do
for Mr Savidge’s ball, which must be held to the absolute
strictest standards of propriety.

Some young ladies were disappointed when they learned
of this, but it was no loss to Lydia. Unlike her sister Louisa,
she had never bothered to learn the steps.

When John led her out onto the floor, she was more than
happy. She saw Monsieur d’Almain partnering her aunt
and felt the thrill of triumph. She herself was promised
to him later in the evening, but she knew that he had asked
her out of politeness. Besides, more than one speculative
glance was directed at the handsome Frenchman and the staid Miss Denton. The town tabbies lapped up scandal
broth like fresh cream, and they were sure to have their fill
of it tonight.

‘Who got you up in that rig tonight?’ John demanded as
they made their first steps.

‘You do not approve?’ she asked, startled at his tone.

He reddened slightly before replying, ‘It is just that you
are almost good-looking tonight.’

‘In contrast to my usual hideous countenance?’ she
queried, feeling her anger rise.

‘I did not mean that.’ The movement of the dance drew
them apart. Upon their reunion, he added, ‘I just never
thought of you as a proper young lady. That is all.’

‘Well, how
did
you think of me?’

‘I did not think of you at all.’

While Lydia did not generally consider herself to be
‘missish’, this was definitely not the kind of thing that any
young lady longs to hear. Not that she considered John in
the light of a suitor, but his patent indifference was not calculated to endear him to her.

‘Well, you need not think of me again, sir!’ she snapped.
The dance ended and she stalked off in the direction of her
aunt, leaving John standing in the middle of the floor with
a curious expression on his face.

She studiously avoided him for the remainder of the
evening. What should have been a very pleasant experience
had been entirely spoilt, in any case, and she railed silently
at the insensibility of the male sex.

‘What is the matter?’ Aunt Camilla asked her, seeing the
distress writ on her face.

‘Men are beasts!’ Lydia answered in the time-honored
phrase of the maligned female.

‘You have quarrelled with John?’ The older woman
correctly interpreted this remark.

‘I would not call it a quarrel, precisely,’ Lydia said. In
fact, they had barely exchanged enough words for it to
qualify as a genuine quarrel. But certainly their hitherto
placid relationship had taken an unexpected and inexplic
able detour.

* * * *

Later that evening, after Monsieur d’Almain had deposited them ceremoniously at their door, Lydia heard even more
disturbing tidings. She could see that her aunt was more than ordinarily nervous. Normally as silent as a preacher
on a Monday morning, she had been peculiarly garrulous on
the ride home. She chattered away about the difficulties of
preserving blackberries, and the shocking way Mrs
McBride’s maidservant had behaved: a litany of trivial
detail which bewildered the Frenchman as much as it did
Lydia.

‘What on earth is wrong, Aunt Camilla?’ Lydia exclaimed
as soon as the front door closed behind them.

‘Oh Lydia!’ To her consternation, the elder woman
burst into tears. ‘I would like to strangle Mrs Wardle-
Penfield.’

‘You would have to join a very long queue,’ her niece
commented. ‘But what, in particular, has she done?’

‘You know how she was certain that Monsieur d’Almain was somehow connected with the death of that poor man in
the woods?’

‘Yes,’ Lydia answered grimly.

‘Well,’ Camilla sniffed loudly, ‘she must have told
everyone
her suspicions, because they were all looking at
him and whispering tonight. It was terrible!’

Lydia could have kicked herself. She had been so preoc
cupied, especially after her exchange with John, that she had not been as observant as usual. How could she have
missed something so important? Now that she cast back in
her mind, she
had
noticed that there was a great deal of
talk tonight and some sly looks cast in the direction of her
aunt and the Frenchman. She had put it down to specula
tion concerning their attachment, but it seemed that she
was mistaken.

‘I am so sorry, dearest.’ What could she say to comfort the
wretched woman?

‘If he should be arrested, I shall die!’

This dramatic pronouncement was not as effective as
Camilla might have hoped. Histrionics were entirely
wasted upon her niece. However, it did provoke her to reply
with some asperity that she could not imagine why anyone
would arrest the man.

‘There is no indication that he was involved in Mr Cole’s
murder.’

‘You do not know the inhabitants of Diddlington.’ Her aunt shook her head sadly. ‘At least two people gave him the cut direct tonight. He will cease to be invited anywhere
...
he
will be forced to leave the village in disgrace....’

Lydia considered the matter, and realized that her aunt
could well be right. Even if Monsieur d’Almain were never
charged with the murder, a cloud of suspicion would
surround him as long as the true murderer was not appre
hended. And, with all due respect to John’s father, Lydia
was inclined to think that Mrs Wardle-Penfield had formed
a fairly accurate opinion of his abilities. He was not the
man for this job.

‘We must do something,’ she said aloud, more to herself
than to her aunt.

‘What can
we
do?’ was the plaintive response. ‘What can
anyone do?’

‘I will speak to John.’

‘But you have quarrelled with John,’ Camilla pointed
out.

‘I will make it up with him.’ Lydia shrugged carelessly. ‘It
was no great matter.’

‘That is not what you said earlier.’

‘In such a case as this,’ her niece said grandly, ‘one must put aside petty differences for the sake of a higher cause.’

In pursuit of this ‘higher cause’, Lydia scribbled a note to young Mr Savidge the next morning and enlisted the help
of Charity to deliver it. The poor maid thought it
monstrously romantic, and set out with the precious billet as soon as her duties allowed. The response was gratifyingly prompt. Indeed, he instructed the maid to wait while
he penned his own lines. K
nowing that Lydia and her auint were engaged to attend a
musicale at Mrs Bitterwood’s that evening, he gallantly offered them his escort. Naturally,
Lydia accepted.

Though she itched for private conversation with him,
Lydia was forced to endure a lengthy period in the carriage
with her aunt as chaperon. They were rather late in
arriving at their destination, and the performance had
already begun. This entailed a further delay.

First Miss Jane Bitterwood sang a charming folk song in
a perfectly dreary and uninspired soprano voice. As the
daughter of their hostess (and the godchild of Mrs Wardle-
Penfield), enthusiastic applause was an absolute necessity,
of course. This was followed by a lively madrigal which
garnered more genuine praise for the quartet of young
people.

Finally, Miss Ophelia Scott commandeered the
pianoforte and treated them to a truly remarkable rendi
tion of a Scarlatti sonata. Lydia had never heard a solo
performance which managed to sound so much like a duet
in which both pianists were sadly inebriated. Miss Scott’s
right hand managed the treble clef tolerably well. However,
her left hand seemed to have a will of its own. It mean
dered aimlessly up and down the bass clef like a lost lamb,
tripping over flats and tumbling into sharps with wild
abandon. Her audience, mercifully, was as incapable of
recognizing her errors as it would have been of appreci
ating a more skilled performance. Lydia, who admired Scarlatti’s complex compositions, reluctantly confessed to
herself that she probably would not have enjoyed a correct
interpretation half as well, although her lips were quite
sore from the pressure of her teeth as she bit hard upon
them to keep from laughing.

Indeed, she almost forgot her mission tonight, until John
approached her and drew her aside under cover of the
rapturous applause which followed.

He spoke quickly, an awkward apology upon his lips:

‘I did not mean what I said yesterday, Miss Bramwell,’ he
stammered, his whole attitude quite at odds with his usual
calm demeanor. ‘Of course I think of you. We are friends,
are we not?’

‘I certainly thought so,’ Lydia told him, rather enjoying his discomfiture. ‘But there is no need to dwell on what
happened last night. It is in the past now, and best
forgotten.’

‘I am glad,’ he said, ‘that you are so charitable. I feared that you would never speak to me again.’

‘Nonsense!’ She craned her neck to ascertain whether
anyone might be attending to them. Thankfully, the others
were all crowding around the musicians, praising and questioning as if they understood what they said.

‘What is it that you want of me?’ John asked.

‘I need your help.’

‘What is wrong?’

‘There is still a great deal of talk about Monsieur
d’Almain and the late Mr Cole.’

‘I know.’ John’s face darkened and his mouth
compressed. ‘More than one person last night made it clear
that they considered d’Almain to be
persona non grata!

‘I want you to return to Wickham Wood with me.’

‘Very well.’ He did not pretend to misunderstand her. ‘If
we can prove that the smugglers were responsible for the
murder, d’Almain’s name will be cleared.’

‘Tomorrow, then?’

‘The next day,’ he corrected her. ‘I am engaged with
friends tomorrow evening and will be out too late to accom
pany you.’

‘Cockfighting?’ She raised an eyebrow knowingly.

‘Not at all,’ he said with great dignity. ‘Merely a convivial
evening in Piddinghoe, where my grandmother lives. I have
a numerous acquaintance there.’