She Shoots to Conquer (28 page)

“The gazebo is in ruins along with the gardens,” Judy pointed out practically.

“Whatever the state of his property,” Alice again poked at her
abundant hair, and spread a hand caressingly over her flowing skirt, “Lord Belfrey is more of a dreamboat than I dared to hope for. Even his Christian name, Aubrey, it couldn’t be more right! So distinguished. Not the forgettable sort like Jim or Tom.”

“I think Tom is a lovely name.” This from Livonia, but I stopped listening. Something had clicked into place for me . . . what it was Nora Burton had said that had afterwards niggled. When standing in the hall at Witch Haven, I mentioned that
Here Comes the Bride
was getting under way at Mucklesfeld and if sufficient drama wasn’t produced, Georges would have a tantrum. Her response had been to ask if I was talking about Lord Belfrey. At the time it had seemed understandable, seeing that she was new to Witch Haven, but was it? Moments later, Celia Belfrey had spoken of her cousin as Aubrey. Wasn’t it likely she had done so previously? Could it be that Nora Burton had been overplaying her role of discreet paid companion? If so, why? A thrill coursed through me. Who was Nora Burton? Could it possibly be . . . ? I recalled his lordship asking me on the night of arrival if Ellie was short for Eleanor. I needed to get away and think. Georges provided the opportunity. He beckoned to me and informed me that I was free to leave.

“The next segment will be his lordship joining the contestants for a group chat, and you, my dear, would be
de trop
. Help yourself to whatever you wish from the tea trolley on your way out. No cause to mope, Mrs. Haskell, your services will be required again.” He swung the wheelchair away with all the aplomb of a Roman charioteer prepared to mow down lions and Christians alike.

I prepared to make good my escape by piling a plate high with goodies but deciding against a cup of tea. That I could get in the kitchen from Ben, which would be preferable to a solitary ponder. I was within a foot of the door when a scream even louder than the one hurled from Molly Duggan rent the air. Turning, I beheld all the contestants on their feet, but it was Wanda who appeared to be doing some sort of tribal dance while still emitting that dreadful sound to a grim chorus of the word
Rat
!

“No need to carry on so!” Mrs. Foot’s voice conveyed both contempt and annoyance. “You’re all frightening the little precious! Isn’t that right, Mr. Plunket and Boris?”

“They are at that, Mrs. Foot.” Mr. Plunket nodded.

“I’ll get him for you, Mrs. Foot.” Boris made a move toward Wanda, who was now clutching at the bust of which she was so justifiably proud.

“It came down my neck. I’ll never get past the feel of its vile fur and horrible raw tail.” Gone—perhaps never to return—was the bubbly woman flush with her own charms. Clearly she had missed landing on Lady Annabel or she would have fled.

Despite Judy Nunn’s efforts to calm her down, she was out the door, to be heard racing up the stairs, alternately sobbing and swearing. Alas, the library was not to be left in relative peace. Molly began weeping, and Mrs. Malloy overrode all other voices to state that her George had once asked if he could have a pet rat and she’d told him over his dead body! Meanwhile, Mrs. Foot, Mr. Plunket, and Boris had all dropped to their knees and were crawling around the floor making crooning noises. A pink nose twitched a whiskered peek out from under a chair, and before anyone else started screaming, Mrs. Foot was staggering to her feet with the little darling in her hands. Her cooing voice with accompaniment by Mr. Plunket and Boris followed me out of the library.

Let Georges restore order in there, not that Wanda didn’t have my utmost sympathy. I made for the kitchen, plate in hand, and to my delighted relief Ben was there in his temporary kingdom. His face lit up at seeing me. My heart sang, but rushing into his arms might have caused the loss of my spoils, so I just stood smiling at him as I said: “Alone at last!”

“Sweetheart!” He removed the plate, set it on the table, and gathered me to him, kissing me with tender passion, before asking my forgiveness for earlier. “I was completely out of line; don’t know what got into me going off on you like that.”

“It’s this house, darling! For the past thirty years or so it has been steeped in misery, haunted by whatever emotions—venomous
anger or grief—that Sir Giles Belfrey felt, coupled with the spite of his daughter, Celia, toward his wife.” I reached for a cucumber sandwich. “Do you have time now to talk about all that? I’d like to get your thoughts . . .”

Life at Mucklesfeld was a series of interruptions. Lord Belfrey came through the kitchen door, his presence as it must always do transforming the most mundane of surroundings into something grand.

“Am I intruding?” His smile extended to both of us, but his dark eyes appeared intent only upon my face. Fortunately, if Ben noticed, he gave no sign.

“Not at all,” we both said together.

“I wanted to thank you, Mr. Has . . . Ben . . . for the wonderful meals you are providing, and,” a hesitation, “no offense intended, to stress the necessity of making sure any alcohol is put where Mr. Plunket is unlikely to find it. He’s done so well over recent months and for his sake I’d like to prevent a relapse.”

“Of course,” Ben responded with equal seriousness. “I found a couple of old metal bread boxes that from the dust on them hadn’t been touched in years way to the back of the top pantry shelf. They’re back up there, considerably heavier.”

“I appreciate it.” His lordship nodded. “Better safe than sorry. Mr. Plunket admitted to me that he was a violent drunk. Terrible thing, alcoholism—an illness, no doubt about that. Could be the fate of any of us. Sorry to put you to the trouble climbing stepladders.”

“There was a bonus.” Ben smiled. “When getting down the bread boxes, I found a torch I needed to look into the cooker.”

“If it’s not strong enough, there’s one in my desk with a really powerful beam.”

A further interruption when Mr. Plunket, Mrs. Foot, and Boris forged into the kitchen at once, all of them guiding the tea trolley, which typical of its kind wanted to go its own way. Conversation with my husband being effectively nixed, I again took up my plate, waved a hand at him in particular and the rest in general, and
headed out into the hall and up the main staircase. By now I no longer felt in need of a map to reach the former servants’ quarters, and I arrived at my corridor after no false turns to hear raised voices coming from a room two or three doors from mine. The one sounding most clearly to my ear was Mrs. Malloy’s, and she was speaking kindly. Nanny would have to hand out gold stars.

“No one’s saying you’re making a giant fuss, Wanda. If anyone sympathizes it’s me, seeing as how at least three of me husbands was rats. But what Livonia here and me is saying is the thing will be put back in its cage.”

“And escape again! No, thank you! I’m packing up and getting out of here this minute.”

“It’s not Houdini!”

“No.” Livonia sounded doubtful.

“Stuff the reassurances.” A thump suggested Wanda had tossed a suitcase on the bed. “That Boris the zombie was in the circus, wasn’t he? Teaching the . . . thing to open the cage door would be child’s play to him. Ghosts, even the real kind, don’t scare me, but rats! Let me tell you, we had chickens when I was a kid and they attract them by the dozen. One day my brother picked up a dead one and threw it so it landed on my shoulder. That’s something you don’t get over. Ever! Where’s my flaming nightdress?”

“Here,” Livonia said.

“Ladies, I shouldn’t be taking this out on you.” Wanda sounded conciliatory. “But I’m leaving.”

“I do understand. I do really. I was ready to bolt this morning, but life can change in an instant for the . . . the wonderful.”

“Or go the other way,” Mrs. Malloy the eternal pessimist, “but think of what you’ll be giving up—the chance to marry a lord. Now, that opportunity don’t come along with a bag of crisps, and when all’s said and done, you’re not a bad-looking woman. Perhaps too quick to think you’re a laugh a minute, but in my book that’s a lot better than yapping on about what kind of dirt is best for growing roses.”

“When it comes to looks and the title, he’s a catch, all right,
but this place—rat-infested dump—you can keep! Sure, I know what was laid out on the application form about the emphasis on the practical, but a girl can dream, can’t she? Anyway, I’m telling you the chance of this lord falling for any of us is zip. He might as well be married and about to celebrate his bloomin’ golden anniversary from the shuttered look in his eyes. And I wasn’t born with this figure to let it go to waste. If you’ll take advice from someone who’s been around the dance floor, don’t either of you be fools and get stuck here for life!”

Another thump suggesting the suitcase hit the floor had me flitting into my room. Shameless to have eavesdropped. Worse that remorse did not set in as I applied myself to another cucumber sandwich, followed by another of egg and cress, a strawberry tart, and a mini coffee éclair. Having strategically left my door ajar, I heard the exodus down the hall—Mrs. Malloy and Livonia presumably returning to the library, hopefully not having kept Lord Belfrey waiting; Wanda to exit Mucklesfeld.

The number of contestants would again be reduced to five, but perhaps that was the intent now that
Here Comes the Bride
was under way. A process of attrition until only the strongest of the six remained and Lord Belfrey’s choice was made for him. Georges and his scare tactics, although presumably he was not responsible for Whitey’s intrusion on the scene. It was obvious why Lady Annabel’s appearance had not taken place under the glaring gaze of the cameras. The less light the better in fooling the susceptible eye; but that the momentous event had not been recorded for the entertainment of future viewers was unthinkable, which meant hidden cameras. Devious Georges! Keeping the contestants continually off balance as to when or where they were being filmed.

Meanwhile, I pictured the reaction to Wanda’s departure, Lord Belfrey sizing up the remaining contestants. My guess was that he would be drawn to Judy Nunn, a woman both energized and restful. Her passion might never extend beyond the grounds to the house, but she would have the organizational skills to put others successfully to work in areas not of her expertise. At this
juncture the timid Molly Duggan would not have emotion to spare on jealousy of a particular rival, but would Alice Jones, like Mrs. Malloy, have already sized up Judy as the woman to beat to the altar?

The evening passed quickly despite my feeling confined like Bertha Mason Rochester to the attic. I’d unearthed the paperback I was halfway through from my suitcase and whiled away a couple of hours until Ben rescued me with the announcement that he and I were to dine in solitary state in what had once been designated the morning room, but was now another storage area for furniture that Sir Giles had grouped together in vague hope of finding a dealer willing to cart it away. Unfortunately, his lordship had told Ben, in recent years there hadn’t been much of a market for Victorian ugly, and anything good had already been sold off. Or, I thought, plunging my fork into a delicious morsel of Lobster Thermidor, spirited away by daughter Celia. At least the overcrowding of the hall and drawing room was now explained. I pictured Sir Giles ordering the old handyman, now working for Miss Belfrey at Witch Haven (what was his name? Forester?), to heave the pieces of furniture into position for viewing, and when they didn’t sell, closing his eyes to their presence and sinking ever further into the Slough of Despond.

From the window I saw Lord Belfrey crossing the overgrown lawn with Alice Jones of the billowy hair on his left and Molly Duggan sadly prim on his right. I wondered while reveling in a meringue glacé how Mrs. Malloy and Livonia were currently occupied. As it happened, I met them both in the hallway outside my bedroom after leaving Ben to prepare a late night five-course snack for Georges. I mentioned that I planned on going to church in the morning for Sunday service and asked if they had heard what time it would be.

“Nine o’clock,” responded Livonia promptly, adding with flushed cheeks that she had also decided to go.

“And you can count me in, Mrs. H. Never let it be said I don’t do me Christian duty come rain or shine, except of course when
having a lie-in with a book or giving meself a manicure.” Mrs. Malloy went on to reflect on what she would wear, bemoaning that she had only the one hat with her and it was dented from the lamp shade. “That Mrs. Foot and her pranks! Admitted to me as how she dropped it over the banisters for a laugh. A cackle’s more like, the sad old crone. Still, I won’t go holding a bit of silliness against her should I get to be lady of Mucklesfeld. Live and let live is the way I see it. And to send that trio packing isn’t in me. Shame I can’t see that sort of compassion from the others,” she heaved a pained sigh, “especially that Judy Nunn as seems to think she’s the only body in the world as can get a job done right. Now, our Wanda might have been different if she hadn’t left us.”

Absence can be such a virtue! The three of us arranged to meet in the hall at eight thirty the next morning and I got ready for bed. It had been a long day. The ache of returning Thumper to his rightful owners came back in full force. I lay thinking of his dear furry face and form before drifting into sleep. The comfort of our few hours together stole over me, followed sharply by another memory—the sensation of being covertly watched while I stood by the ravine waiting for him to return from his foraging. Sometime later, I was vaguely aware of Ben creeping through the bedroom into his cubbyhole, and something in my muddled, half-submerged state shifted the ordinary into stealth, causing the echo of those padding footsteps to linger unpleasantly in my ears until sleep grabbed me back down into murkily disjointed dreams.

Suddenly I woke to lingering horror. In the nightmare the watcher in the woods had been Celia Belfrey, her features distorted into the ugliness of epitomized evil. Suzanne’s face was a beautiful, alluring version of mine. Witless creature to have put herself in the path of such hatred, but I should have screamed out a warning. Even a silent one would have shown willing. The suffocating powerlessness of dreams was a poor excuse. My chest hurt from the pounding it had taken, and slow, concentrated breathing was required before I felt steady enough to sit up and face the day.