Wiles of a Stranger (7 page)

I dared not show my face at the Stag and Hounds.  “I have to step over to the other inn, Mr. Beaudel. I left something behind yesterday when I packed in a hurry. Would it be possible for us to meet there?” I ventured.

“Certainly. No trouble at all,” he answered easily, with no suspicion. “We’ll meet there in an hour.”

Before doing anything else, I took Lucien off to the Shipwalk, to enquire for Mr. Kirby. “What did you leave behind, Miss Stacey?” he asked as we walked along, alerting me he would have to be got rid of while I performed my real business.

“Just a letter. I’ll ask for it at the desk,” I improvised.

“Who is it from? Do you have a beau?”

“It’s from my father. I had a letter from him which I barely had time to glance at. I want to read it again.”

“They will have thrown it out,” he advised me firmly.

There was a sweet parlor two doors from the inn. I gave Lucien a few pennies and let him order an ice, while I went quickly to the inn. There was no Mr. Kirby registered, but that did not mean he was not at the Stag and Hounds. My only acquaintance in the town was the inn servant. I asked if I might speak to her, and was given grudging permission.

And when she came to me, I hardly knew what to say. I told her I had become the governess at Glanbury Park, and thanked her for having told me about the position.

“Have you heard anything about Diamond Dutch?” I asked, with only casual interest, mentioning that Beaudel was even then at the jail.

“Not a word. You’ll know more about that than we do here, when you meet Mr. Beaudel after his visit. Did they learn where the other governess went off to?”

 “No, nothing.”

“The servants are leaving there in droves. Who did they get to replace old Norton?”

“Norton?”

“The butler. They must have replaced him.”

“Oh, a monstrously handsome young fellow—Wiggins. I thought he would be well known in town. Quite a ladies’ man.”

“I’ve never heard him mentioned.”

She could not take long from her work, and I could not abandon Lucien for long either, so I went to the sweet parlor and met him. It was necessary to make a few purchases, after claiming that excuse for coming to town, so I bought a yard of muslin and some lotion. Their selection passed the hour until we met Mr. Beaudel.

“What is the news from the jail, Mr. Beaudel?” I asked at once. “Will Diamond Dutch be going to trial soon?”

“Not for a few weeks,” he said, which was excellent news for me. “The magistrate is up to his eyes in cases. He could have held a hearing and let van Deusen be bound over for the spring Quarter Session, but he will never budge a step out of his way, old Heffernan.”

“Did you see van Deusen?” I asked, wearing a polite face of mild interest.

“No, I had no desire to see him. He had a fellow with him, they told me. His solicitor, I daresay.”

I was unsure how much interest I dared to display, but I did ask for the solicitor’s name. “I have no idea. Probably someone from London. Willowby is the best solicitor in town, and he would have spoken to me if he were taking the case. Indeed, he is my own solicitor, so I don’t expect he could take the case if he wanted. There would be a conflict of interest, you see, Miss Stacey. And what did you two do with your morning?”

“I had an ice, Uncle,” Lucien told him. “Miss Stacey gave me the money.”

I trembled lest he blurted out he had been left alone to eat it, but he did not.

“That was generous of her. You will be reimbursed, Miss Stacey. We don’t want you spending your hard-earned blunt on this rascal.” He reached into his pocket on the spot and jingled a few pennies into my hand, which was very thoughtful of him.

While Lucien chattered, I sat wondering what solicitor my father could have hired. We did not have a family solicitor. Our business matters were not large or complicated enough to ever have required one. There was some worry too as to how he would ever be paid. A city solicitor would not come cheap.

Beaudel enquired, as soon as we were inside the door, whether Major Morrison had arrived yet. He had not, but Mrs. Beaudel was decked in the finest array to greet him when he did come. She wore green sprigged muslin, with green grosgrain ribbons laced through the edifice she had erected on top of her head. She looked quite lovely, but too ornate for midday. The hair did not match the gown, and the gown did not match the silken shawl she was in the process of drawing around her shoulders. Each part of the toilette was unexceptionable, but not together, and not all for day wear. I concluded Madam had gained her notions of elegance from fashion magazines, and not from good company.

I believe she was tired of waiting for the Major to come. When I went to my room to put off my bonnet, I saw through the window that she was walking through the park. Strolling I mean, not hastening anywhere. Beyond, in the middle distance, the onion dome of a Chinese pavilion was visible. One sees many such gazebos since our Prince Regent brought them into fashion. This one, perhaps, might prove on closer examination to have an Indian influence, as the Beaudels had some long association with that country. I would take Lucien there soon and examine the gazebo.

Amidst my other concerns was to learn something about Miss Little, the vanished governess. When Tees, the kitchen servant, brought our dinner to the nursery, I undertook to quiz her about this lady, after first sending Lucien off to wash his hands.

“Has anything been heard of Miss Little, Tess?” I asked.

“No investigations are being made, miss,” she told me, with a knowing look on her face.

“Surely that is odd!”

“I don’t know about that. A girl that got a letter from her beau one day and that was seen walking with him in the park the next, the very day she took off—well, there’s not much doubt where she went, is there?”

“She did have a beau then. Lucien said she had not.”

“She was as close as skin to a lemon, miss. She never said a word about it, but she got a letter, and it didn’t look like a lady’s fine writing to me, though she claimed it was from a girl friend.”

“It could have come from a relative, a brother or father.”

“Why would a decent relative go sending his note to the back door by a messenger? He’d have it come with the mail, if he wasn’t ashamed of hisself. And she didn’t have no family either. She made a point of telling us all so.”

“I understand Sir Algernon hired her in London.”

“He was taken in good and proper. We all were. We thought she was a very nice sort of a girl, but you see how she carried on when she got the chance. She’s not a bride is what we all think in the kitchen, miss. Why else would she make a great mystery of it, but that she was ashamed of herself, and so she should be too.”

“That is a pity. What have we for dinner?” I asked, to terminate the subject. “Ah, a nice slice of lamb. It should be tender this time of the year.”

“So it is, miss. I’ve had a bite belowstairs, and never tasted  lamb so good.” She smiled, unstacking the tray and laying out our meal very nicely.

Despite all my problems, I was ready to do justice to it. I expect I inherited my hearty appetite from my father, although I am happy to say I have not inherited that very large, square frame one sees so often in Dutch ladies. My English mother was dainty, small-boned and delicate, which modified my size. I wish I had got her beautiful face as well, but I confess to a broader set of cheekbones than I like. Mama’s sable tresses too are bleached to a less opulent brown in me, but at least I inherited her natural wave. Mrs. Farell tells me I am “lively,” by which I have come to learn she means pretty. She is kind enough to tell me if I would bother to tone down my pink cheeks with powder and call in a coiffeur to tend my hair, I might nab myself a beau. You may he sure that when I meet a gentleman worth so much bother, I shall do it.

Chapter Six

It was during our dinner that Major Morrison arrived, causing us to jump up from the table for a dart to the window. He traveled in a high style for a retired major. He was perched in a yellow sporting curricle behind a team of matched grays, with his domo—groom or valet or batman—beside him. This means of travel all the way from Devonshire indicated a heavier traveling carriage somewhere between here and there, carrying his luggage. No more than the top of his hat was visible from our window as he drove up to the house. Lucien proclaimed him a bang-up fiddler. He also expressed an intention of going to the stable to examine the prads as soon as he was finished eating.

I went downstairs with him, and learned in the kitchen that the major, arriving at such a gauche hour, had been invited to remain for dinner. Stella would not be behindhand in offering the hospitality of the house to a lone gentleman. I did not get to see him myself for a few hours, when Lucien was called down for his nightly meeting with the family before retiring.

My first thought upon seeing the major was, Yes, he is a military type, certainly. An officer and a gentleman. It was an impression I was obliged to alter on both counts before many hours’ acquaintance.

He was tall, his shoulders held back and his chest expanded, nearly filling the doorway with his body, when he and Beaudel joined us, after taking port in the dining room. He would not have traveled in evening clothes, but wore them then, which indicated that he might be remaining overnight. Glanbury Park was not so formal as to preclude taking dinner in a blue jacket.

These thoughts were fleeting. The feature that held the attention, and affirmed in my mind that he was indeed an Army man, was the black moustache and beard, and the closely cropped hair. Such hirsute adornments were not fashionable amongst any but Army gentlemen. Even amongst them, it was a style more favored by the older set, to which Major Morrison could not be said to belong. He was in his thirties, I thought—somewhere in the low thirties.

His walk was measured, precise, very military, as he drew up before us. In fact, he very nearly clicked his heels, like a Prussian officer. I examined his face, that part of it not covered with hair, as Beaudel introduced him to Lucien. His eyes were a very cool, deep gray, and the skin was as brown as tanned leather. “The Peninsula” clicked automatically into place in my mind. My late brothers’ friends, who called on us when they returned to England, had such complexions. The major’s was perhaps even a shade darker, indicating a long stay in that hot climate. His anatomy was sleek, well muscled and lithe beneath a modestly patterned waistcoat. All this was observed in less time than it takes to tell.

Within minutes, I had in my possession a more interesting fact than any of this. The major, so self-assured in appearance, was ill at ease, nervous. His eyes shifted, darting about the room, to Lucien and myself, and Mrs. Beaudel, and the door, and back to Lucien very frequently. What possible interest could a retired major have in a young boy he had never seen before? The hands too betrayed his agitation. They held a quizzing glass, which he fingered unconsciously. Beaudel, on the other hand, was quite at ease.

“How did you leave Lord Sacheverel? I hope he is well,” Lucien said, the perfect little gentleman. “You mentioned in your letter you are acquainted with him.”

“He is very well, for his age,” the major replied, then turned his attention back to Beaudel. “It was, of course, Sacheverel who told me about the jewel collection. As I am interested in adding to my own few pieces, he suggested I speak to you. Are you, in fact, selling off the collection?”

“Not in the least. I can’t think how these rumors get started. It is only a few odd stones that are for sale, Major. I hope you have not come far out of your way on the hope that anything in the nature of the rose Jaipur is for sale.”

“No, actually it is the Italian pieces of the sixteenth century that interest me most. Sacheverel told me Sir Giles was keen on the same period, and had some few items.”

“They are not actively on the market,” Beaudel told him, “but the right price will always be given consideration. As my wife is always telling me, cash will accumulate interest, while the jewels do not. There is something to be said for selling. If you care to make an offer after you have seen them, we can discuss it at greater length. Well, Major, as you are out of uniform, would it be more proper to call you Mr. Morrison?”

“I have the local militia group at home under my command, and am still called Major there,” he replied, preening his beard in a pompous fashion. He liked his Army trappings too well to part with them, was my own feeling. I made sure we would be hearing tales of his heroism, without too much prompting.

“Is that so? The local militia have disbanded, since Bonaparte is rid of, once and for all.”

“There is no hurry to be rid of it,” he said quickly. “No hurry at all. There is no saying Boney won’t escape again, as he did from Elba.”      

Beaudel was too polite to dispute this statement, but of course everyone knew a rocky island off the coast of Africa was a far different story from Elba, where Bonaparte was not even held prisoner or anything of the sort.

“Were you ever engaged in battle against Napoleon yourself, Major?” Mrs. Beaudel asked, to give him an opportunity to brag. She knew how to play up to a man.

“I was at Waterloo,” he answered briefly. I expected more details of his prowess.

“A stunning victory for Wellington,” Beaudel said, mouthing the gospel on every Englishman’s lips. “I expect most of your career was spent in the Peninsula.”

“Quite, quite. Vitoria, Talavera, Salamanca, Burgos—I was at them all. I was an aide-de-camp to the Iron Duke,” he said, in a dismissing way.

“Indeed!” Beaudel exclaimed, sitting up, impressed with this story. We all like to meet one who has actually been on intimate terms with the mighty. “What sort of a man is he?” 

While the guest went on with some details of the general’s personality and behavior, I regarded him closely. With a brother who had been in the Peninsula, I had followed the campaign more closely than most. When returned soldiers, of whom I had met more than a few, spoke of the Peninsular battles, it was more common to name them in the order in which they had occurred. Talavera, Salamanca, Vitoria—as they worked their way up from the border of Portugal to France. The haphazard arrangement jarred on my ear. Worse, to have thrown in the defeat of Burgos with the victories was such a questionable thing that I began to wonder if Major Morrison had ever been in the Peninsula at all, or whether he were not a stay-at-home major who paraded his farm hands up and down the village green, playing at war.