Edwardian Candlelight Omnibus (61 page)

“Tilly, my dear,” he said, “I must leave for Paris this very evening.”

All animation disappeared from Tilly’s face. The thunder rumbled outside and a vivid flash of lightning flared in the darkening room.

“Business?” asked Tilly, her own voice sounding harsh and strange in her ears.

“Yes, business.”

“Then… I cannot keep you.”

“No.”

They sat in silence, Tilly’s heartbroken, the Marquess’s embarrassed, while outside the full fury of the storm burst over the mansion.

“You can’t travel in this weather,” said Tilly at last.

“I must.”

Tilly could feel the weak and treacherous tears forming at the back of her eyes. She was to be a wife in name only, after all. The other half of the business contract.

She rose stiffly, as if her whole body were in pain. The exuberant schoolgirl enthusiasm had gone from her voice. “Then I beg you to excuse me,” she said. “I must lie down.”

The marquess crossed the long room and held the door open for her. She walked past him to the staircase, where she paused with her hand on the carved bannister and looked back.

Again the marquess had the odd feeling that Tilly was two women. A beautiful ghost seemed to move wraithlike in the dim and shadowy hall in front of Tilly’s face, in front of Tilly’s wide, pain-filled eyes.

Then she turned and walked slowly up the staircase, her head held high.

“We have a bargain, haven’t we?” The marquess suddenly called out. “Haven’t we?”

But only the sound of tumbling and crashing thunder came in reply.

On the following day, when the fireworks of the storm had given way to damp drizzle, the county called at Chennington in droves to pay their respects to the new bride, only to be told that “my lady was indisposed.” Where, then, was my lord? “Indisposed also,” said his lordship’s venerable butler, Masters. The servants had taken an immediate liking to Tilly and felt their beloved master was behaving shamefully.

So the county turned their carriages around and trotted off down the drive under the great dripping trees. But they talked and they speculated.

On the third day after the marquess’s departure the blow fell in the servants’ hall. Mr. Masters read the social columns in one of the lower orders of newspapers. In a hushed voice, he read the offending paragraph out to the cook, Mrs. Comfrey. Over a glass of blackberry brandy, the cook subsequently read the news to the housekeeper, Mrs. Judd, and the three gathered in the housekeeper’s cosy parlor that evening for a council of war.

“It doesn’t make sense,” said Mr. Masters. “I’ve known his lordship since he was a boy and I’d never have dreamed he would do anything like this. His lordship has always been the soul of kindness and consideration.”

“That trollop! And a foreigner too!” cried Mrs. Judd, clutching the newspaper to her black bombazine bosom.

“Here, let’s have a proper look at it, then,” said the cook, reaching out a chubby red hand and taking the newspaper. “You only read it to me.”

Her steel-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of her stubby nose, the cook traced the print with her finger and read aloud:

“Strange Wedding Night for Peer of the Realm.

It is rumored that the handsome Marquess of Heppleford left the arms of his bride two hours after the wedding to fly to the experienced arms of one of Paris’s most notorious ladies of easy virtue, a certain Mademoiselle Cora Duval, until lately under the protection of the Compt du Chervenix. Visitors to the marquess’s stately home have been turned away with the intelligence that the new marchioness is indisposed. No wonder! We shudder to think of the affect of such behavior on the lower orders. A solid, virtuous family life is the backbone of our nation. It is up to our Ruling Class to set a good example…

“Well, I never!” said the cook. “And there’s my poor lady shut up in her room and hardly touching any of the food I’ve sent up to her.”

“What on earth can she
do
?” moaned Mrs. Judd. “How can a decent girl like that compete with a—a—
Scarlet Woman
?”

“For the moment, she needs to keep herself occupied,” said Mr. Masters, smoothing back the silver wings of his hair. “Young ladies in her situation who don’t keep themselves busy—know what happens to them?”

“No! What?” chorused his audience.

“They goes into a decline, that’s what!”

“Oh, mercy!”

“So here’s what I suggest we do. Mrs. Judd will go up to my lady’s room in the morning and will tell her that the old marquess’s rooms in the East Wing need to be cleaned out. They do, as a matter of fact. Mrs. Judd will ask her whether she would like to look at the furniture and ornaments and stuff to see if there’s anything she would like for the downstairs’ rooms. My lady was brought up proper, so she’ll have a sense of duty, so mind you tell her it’s expected of her, Mrs. Judd.

“
And burn all the newspapers
.”

“But if we get her roused and about and someone comes calling, maybe she’ll learn that way,” protested the cook.

Mr. Masters raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise. “Mrs. Comfrey, you forget we are dealing with the aristocracy here. None of them would dream of saying anything so spiteful!”

Masters had guessed Tilly’s sense of duty correctly. She emerged from her seclusion, pale and heavy-eyed. The old marquess’s rooms were chockablock with papers and bric-a-brac, and Tilly picked up things listlessly and put them down again in a helpless kind of way until the housekeeper’s enthusiasm began to infect her. Mrs. Judd exclaimed in delight over the discovery of a beautiful Ming vase that was lying under a rolltop desk. The late marquess had used the vase as an exotic deposit for everything from rubber bands to paper clips and unanswered correspondence.

After that find, it turned into a sort of treasure hunt and Tilly became quite flushed and animated to find a clutch of valuable Dresden figurines in the coal scuttle. Like most housekeepers of stately homes, Mrs. Judd had a knowledge of art and china that would have rivaled that of a museum curator.

“At least someone seems to have tidied up the papers on the desk,” remarked Tilly.

“That would be the lawyer,” said Mrs. Judd. “Ever such a search there was for the will. We knew there
was
a will, of course, because me and Mr. Masters were witnesses. Not that we knew what was in it, for it wouldn’t have been fitting, like, for us to read it. Imagine it turning up in the library! But right glad I was that it did. For you’ll never believe it, but that bold Rosy Jenkins down at the Crown—that’s the landlord of the public house’s girl, down in the village—well, she was going about telling folks as how the old marquess came down one night and asked her and her dad to witness his will. ‘Bite your tongue, my girl,’ I says to her, I says. As if his lordship ever visited a public house!

“But Rosy always was a little liar, if you’ll forgive me for speaking so open, my lady. Why, I remember the time when MacTavish—that’s the gardener—caught her thieving apples from the orchard in broad daylight, and she turns round on him as bold as brass and says they’re her own apples what she brought along for a picnic.

“Now, this here, my lady, is the late lordship’s—God rest his soul—dressing case what he took with him when he traveled. All gold fittings. Perhaps my lord would like to have it—What’s this? Well, I
never!
”

Mrs. Judd had opened the dressing case and was staring at a folded piece of parchment. On it, in bold gothic letters, was the legend L
AST
W
ILL AND
T
ESTAMENT
.

Mrs. Judd crackled open the parchment and stared at the signatures, then at the date, and she suddenly sat down on the floor with her hand pressed to her corseted bosom.

“It do be queer, my lady,” she said as Tilly stared in amazement, “but that there Rosy was telling the truth. This is a later will than the one that was found in the library. Don’t you think you’d better read it, my lady?”

“No!” said Tilly in a harsh voice. “Considering the contents of the other will, I shudder to think what the old geezer put in this one. Probably,” she added bitterly, “my husband does not inherit unless he cuts my head off two months after the marriage.”

“Oh, don’t take on so, my lady,” said Mrs. Judd. “His old lordship was all right in his head, although he did have his peculiar little ways.”

“Do you know my husband’s address in Paris?” asked Tilly abruptly.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Then send… that… example of the noble marquess’s peculiar little ways to him. It’s his affair, not mine.”

“My lady,” came Masters’s voice from the doorway. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Glenstraith, and Lady Aileen Dunbar have called. Shall I tell them you are indisposed?”

“No,” said Tilly, thinking quickly. She might be husbandless but at least she was mistress of this splendid home and no longer a penniless companion to be bullied. “I shall receive them. Where have you put them?”

“In the drawing room, my lady.”

“Lead the way,” said Tilly, straightening her shoulders.

It was only after she had entered the drawing room that Tilly realized she should have changed. Her hair was coming down and there was a smut on the end of her nose.

The duchess was dressed in a tailored suit of a particularly noisy tartan. Her heavy face was free of its usual bristling hairs. Next to her on a Chesterfield sat Aileen, looking very jaunty in a sailor suit and a white straw hat embellished with red china cherries.

“Well, you haven’t changed, Tilly,” barked the duchess. “Still a mess.”

Tilly remained standing. “And how are you, Your Grace?” she asked sweetly. “Shaved, I see.”

“There’s no need to be offensive,” snapped the duchess, turning purple.

“Oh, really?” said Tilly, raising her brows. “You just were, you know.”

“This was a mistake,” said the Duchess of Glenstraith. “You always were an ill-bred girl and your present unhappiness does not excuse your rudeness.”

“Poor Tilly,” sighed Aileen. “I am engaged to Toby Bassett, you know. But perhaps in your present misery you do not wish to hear of anyone else’s good fortune.”

“What misery?” snapped Tilly. “What rot is this?”

“If you don’t know, Tilly dear, then I certainly shall be the last to tell you. There’s no need for you to be so cross. We were in the neighborhood and only dropped by to hold your hand.”

Tilly marched to the window and stared out. A muddy traveling carriage was drawn up outside the house. “You didn’t drop in, you vultures,” she said, swinging around. “You traveled especially from London to relay some piece of spiteful codswallop. So out with it!”

“I wouldn’t
dream
of it,” said Aileen with her maddening silvery laugh. “Come, Mama! We are obviously not welcome.”

“Wait a bit!” said Tilly, standing squarely in front of them. “What about my wages?”

“Your wages!” gasped the duchess. “And you with all this. Oh, selfish child!”

Tilly pushed her chin forward until her face was almost touching that of the duchess. “You owe me wages,” she said coldly. “You will send them to me or I shall sue. It’ll look great in the newspapers… the great and charitable Duchess of Glenstraith won’t pay a working girl!”

“Come, Mama,” said Aileen again. “You must excuse Tilly. She is smarting at seeing her own name in the newspapers.”

Aileen and her mother moved toward the doors, which were quickly swung open by Masters before they could reach them. The cook could be seen sliding quickly through the green baize door at the far side of the hall, and the black skirt of the housekeeper flickered nimbly along the upper landing.

The duchess paused in the hallway. “I just want to say one thing to you, Tilly. I—”

“Oh, make a noise like a hoop and bowl off,” snapped Tilly, turning on her heel and retreating to the drawing room. She slammed the doors behind her and stood with her back against them, feeling her heart thudding against her ribs. Then she saw the folded newspaper lying coyly on the sofa, where it had been left by her visitors.

It seemed to take her a very long time to walk across the room and pick up the newspaper. S
TRANGE
W
EDDING
N
IGHT FOR
P
EER OF THE
R
EALM
seemed to leap at her from the page.

She read it slowly and carefully and then read it again. Then she sat down and clutched her stomach.
I can’t bear any more of this pain
, thought Tilly.
I won’t!

The portraits of the Hepplefords stared down at her in disdain. Tilly raised her head and stared back. “No, damn you,” she cried, shaking her fist at their painted faces. “I’ll get even with you Hepplefords yet.” She rose and rang the bell.

Masters appeared as imperturbable as ever.

“My lady?”

“I have a traveling carriage, I assume?” said Tilly, striding up and down the room. “A fast one?”

“There is his lordship’s Renault… his new motorcar, my lady. Gaskell, the chauffeur, handles her very well, but it is an open car, my lady, and the weather is inclement.”

“Blow the weather,” said Tilly. “I won’t melt. Get the car round.”

Tilly paced up and down the drive some fifteen minutes later, swathed in an ulster and with a yellow sou’wester on her head, fretting with impatience while Gaskell lit the acetylene lamps, for the day was dark.

Finally the engine was turning over and Tilly climbed in the back.

“London, Gaskell!” cried the Marchioness of Heppleford, hanging on to her hat. “And don’t spare the horsepower!”

Some thirty minutes later, the Duchess of Glenstraith’s carriage horses neighed and bridled as two speed-mad fiends hurtled past the carriage at thirty miles per hour.

“Maniacs!” yelled the duchess, thrusting her great head and shoulders through the carriage window.

She did not know that Tilly was hell-bent on reaching the Glenstraith town house before the duchess arrived home.

Some four hours later Gaskell was moodily polishing the lamps of the car outside the Duchess of Glenstraith’s house and wondering whether his mistress was mad. He was soaked to the skin, but had refused to go indoors to dry himself at the kitchen fire. He loved the Renault more than anything in his life and shuddered to think what might happen to it if he left it alone for a minute. The rain had stopped, but black and heavy clouds piling up behind the buildings promised a deluge to come. “It’s all right for her ladyship,” grumbled Gaskell to himself. She was partly protected by the hood at the back, but he had to brave the elements unprotected in the front.
Funny
, he mused,
I wouldn’t have thought her ladyship would be thoughtless where servants were concerned
He broke off his musings as the door of the mansion opened and Tilly appeared, followed by a young female who was carrying a battered suitcase.