“Surely that’s not necessary!” Belami objected. “You’ll freeze to death out here.” He gave a spontaneous shiver himself as he spoke.
“Freeze?” Réal wiped an imaginary film of sweat from his brow and tossed the hammer aside. “Roast is more like it. I don’t call this cold, me. She can’t be much below zero. I don’t freeze, but I might die of the hunger. No one but the dog could eat that ragout served for dinner.”
“We had the same,” Belami told him. “By the way, Réal where
is
Miss Gower’s old shepherd dog? I’m going to take it into the house.”
“Shep?” Réal asked, looking surprised.
"Il est mort.
He is dropping dead half an hour ago. They buried him out behind the barn. A big job! The earth hard like a rock.”
“Damn!” Belami knew this would be hard on Deirdre and disliked having to take such a message to her.
“La Mégère
didn’t tell you?” Réal asked. Not knowing the English word for shrew, he called the duchess by its French equivalent.
“No, she didn’t.”
“Peut-être
she will when she comes back.”
Belami looked startled.
“Back?
Where the devil has she gone?”
“Not far, I think. She go in the dog cart, carrying a bowl of something.”
“She didn’t say where she was going?”
“She don’t see me. I stop the hammering. Maybe she don’t like me to use the broken table to fix the loose box.”
“She probably took some dinner over to Lord Dudley. She mentioned his being alone. Well, keep up the good work, Réal. I have to go now."
Darkness had already fallen in the short days of January. The hard earth crunched under Belami’s feet as he hurried to the library door, planning how he would break the news to Deirdre. He heard a rattling sound off to the left and looked to see what caused it. Despite the gloomy atmosphere, he smiled to see the duchess holding the reins of a dog cart, trundling across the meadow that separated the Grange from Fernvale. Dudley had been presented with that mess of potage her grace called mulligatawny. But then he probably wasn’t accustomed to better fare and might appreciate it.
He went inside and began looking around for Deirdre. She wasn’t in the saloon, and when he sent a servant upstairs, he learned she wasn’t there either. A sense of alarm began to grow, but before it became serious, the duchess came into the saloon. Her gray complexion had turned livid from the cold.
“You’ll have to excuse Deirdre tonight, Belami,” she said. “We’ve just heard from the groom that her dog died, and she’s gone upstairs in tears.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it,” he replied. His first sensation was relief that he wouldn’t have to be the one to tell her, but almost immediately another thought occurred to him. “We’ve just heard,” her grace said, yet Charney had actually known it for a little while now.
“Old age, was it?” he asked.
“Indeed it was, and a blessing, too, if you want my opinion. The animal was lame and ulcerated, and, besides, he ate like a horse. She had the absurd notion of bringing the hound into the house! Why, he’d have made a wicked mess of things,” she said, apparently failing to observe that things were already in a fine mess.
“I’ll try to cheer her up,” Belami said.
“You’re just the one who can do it, rascal!” She poked him in the ribs with the end of her fan and smiled, revealing a set of aged and yellowing teeth.
She glanced at the table and saw the cards laid out. For a minute, Belami feared he would have to spend the remainder of the evening playing with the duchess. It wasn’t her habit of cheating that bothered him so much as her choice of game. Neither all fours nor Pope Joan appealed to him in the least. He was relieved when she expressed herself fatigued with the day’s journey and said she would retire.
“I suggest you do the same thing, Belami.”
She began extinguishing lamps as she spoke, which left him little alternative but to go to his room. She didn’t quite achieve her aim of saving candles, however. Belami wrote letters till ten-thirty, at which time he sneaked down to the kitchen and begged a ham sandwich from the servants. He had a winning way with servants. Under his blandishments, the ham was not slivered in the customary Fernvale manner but sliced thick. When he mentioned a dislike of blue milk, the servant even added a portion of cream and stirred it up for him.
This easing of his hunger pangs permitted him to sleep, but Deirdre lay awake for a long time. She wished she had seen Shep just once more before he died. She knew he was old and no longer healthy, but she had not suspected for a single moment that the time left to him was so short. He had been the closest thing to a friend she had had when she was growing up. Shep had been her companion in her rambles over the estate.
But eventually her mind turned to other matters. They had come to Fernvale to put a damper on Nevil’s schemes to make up to Dudley. Now that Nevil had left, there was no need to remain. She and Belami could get married quite soon and begin their planned trip to Italy. Italy with Belami—how exciting it would be! Venice and Rome and Florence. But first she’d have to get some gowns made up. On these happy thoughts, she finally drifted off
to sleep.
Chapter 2
The duchess had spartan ideas with regard to nourishment. Ever since her teeth had become loose, she took gruel for breakfast, and it was a bowl of gray, coagulating gruel that was set in front of Belami when he joined her and Deirdre at the table. He suddenly found himself not at all hungry and settled for coffee. Deirdre was ashamed of the meager meal and cast an embarrassed smile at him.
“I’ve written up a note to Dudley, which I would like you to deliver for me this morning, children,” the duchess declared, baring her teeth at the thirty-year-old baron. “It’s a fine day, and the walk will set up your appetite for lunch. A pity you couldn’t eat your breakfast, Belami, but a walk in the brisk air will do you any amount of good. Oh, and Deirdre, tell Dudley he needn’t write a reply. You will just wait and hear his answer. No point ordering all the items I shall require if he don’t plan to come.”
On this speech, she placed her note on the table and hobbled out of the breakfast parlor.
“I hope Dudley says yes. I’m looking forward to that lobster and champagne,” Belami said. Then he took up his cup and drained it.
As Dudley seldom left his house, Deirdre couldn’t be so cruel as to encourage his hope. The best course was to change the subject. “Would you like to walk or drive over to the Grange?”
“Let’s walk. It will take up an hour of the morning.”
She got her bonnet and pelisse and met him in the front hall. The Grange was a half mile away by road, but only a short walk across the meadow. The breeze was brisk enough that they settled on the latter route. This corner of Wiltshire had escaped the heavy snow that blanketed part of England. There were patches of white nestled around the roots of bushes and dead weeds, but the walking was not difficult. While the landscape was austere in its winter colors, it wasn’t without some subdued beauty. Belami admired the subtle shadings of beige and brown and gray, and the gentle undulations of the terrain. He kept an eye peeled for rabbits or any small game that might offer him the sport of shooting.
Deirdre put her hand on his arm, and they struck out into the wind. “I’m afraid you’re finding the time dragging,” she said.
“Only because I’m impatient to get on with the wedding and leave for Italy. Let’s speak to the minister today and set a date. It would be no kindness to invite folks to the country in this weather. We’ll have a small do,” he urged.
“Your mother will want to be here at least. And Pronto Pilgrim will be your best man, I think you mentioned?”
“Yes, I wouldn’t feel properly married without Pronto to make a shambles of the occasion, and Mama to aid and abet him,” he agreed, smiling at the thought of these loved ones. “I have the feeling the duchess is dragging her feet in the matter. She isn’t about to change her mind on us, is she?”
“No, it’s only a little delay. She’s afraid that if Dudley learns I’ve married such an out-and-outer as Lord Belami, he’ll leave his money to Nevil.”
“Good God, I hope you’re not hinting we must wait till Dudley’s stuck his fork in the wall!” he exclaimed, staring at her.
“It’s not so bad as that,” she consoled him. "Merely she plans to pick his brains at this party and steer him back to a proper course after Nevil’s visit. He had his lawyer called to the Grange, you see, and that looks as though Auntie might have been diddled out of what she firmly considers ‘her’ fortune,” she explained.
“She worries in vain,” Belami said. “It’s been
my
experience that a young lady’s nabbing herself a good
parti
has just the opposite effect. The relatives are so proud of her that they shower her with all the gold she no longer requires. It’s the ones foolish enough to marry a pauper who find themselves cut off by the family as well. I’ve always found that very odd,” he said, frowning into the distance.
The trip passed quickly, and within a quarter of an hour, they stood at the front door of a large but badly dilapidated house, banging the knocker.
“Uncle Dudley doesn’t keep a butler, and Mrs. Haskell is away, so we’ll let ourselves in,” Deirdre said, and grasped the knob. It refused to turn, however, so Belami banged the knocker again, more loudly.
Their wait wasn’t really very long, but it seemed long with the wind whistling about their ears and pinching their noses. At last there was the sound of footsteps beyond, and the door opened a crack. It was the face of Polly Shard, the servant, that peeped out at them.
“Oh, it’s you, miss!” she gasped, and opened the door to let them in.
“We’ve come to see Uncle, Polly. I hope he’s out of bed,” Deirdre said.
Polly was a famous flirt. Her dancing brown eyes, her forward manner, and her apple cheeks had made her a favorite with the local men. But her manner today was strangely subdued. She looked almost frightened.
“What’s the matter, Polly?” Deirdre asked.
Polly lifted her apron to her eyes, said, “Oh, miss!” and burst into tears. “It’s the old gentleman. He’s gone and died.”
“Uncle Dudley, dead?” Deirdre asked in a small voice. She felt odd, almost disembodied, and clutched at Belami’s hand to steady herself. She had never felt any love for Dudley—he was quite simply unlovable—but he had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember. “When? How did it happen? Why didn’t you notify us?”
“We didn’t know what to do—me and Anna here all alone. He was dead when we came down this morning.”
“But it’s past nine o’clock. You must have known for hours!” Deirdre pointed out.
“Mrs. Haskell ain’t here” was the oblique reply, but Deirdre had soon read into it that this meant a more tardy hour of arising.
Belami’s quick ear picked up a different point. “When you
came down?
Then he didn’t die in bed?”
“Oh, no, sir. He died at the table. He was slumped over it when I went in to clear away the dinner dishes.”
“May I see him?” Belami asked.
“Well . . ." Polly hesitated, but meanwhile Belami had strode down the hall and was peering into rooms till he reached the dining room.
It was a pathetic sight that met his eyes. A gray head was bent over the table, the shoulders hunched forward. The remains of his meal still sat on the board in front of him—the bowl of mulligatawny brought by the duchess, bread and butter, and a pot of tea. Belami approached him to feel his pulse, and when he did so, he noticed that Dudley had been sick to his stomach. There was an unpleasant stench, mitigated somewhat by the aroma of brandy.
Food poisoning? But at that moment Deirdre’s head appeared at the door, and he rose to stop her. “Don’t come in, Deirdre,” he said, and walked to the door to lead her out. “He’s dead. It’s . . . rather unpleasant.”
“Oh,” she gasped, and took one quick peek before leaving. “I suppose it was his heart?” she asked.
“The coroner will tell us. He’ll have to be notified. Let’s speak to the servant and see what she’s done.”
“She hasn’t done anything but bawl,” Deirdre answered. “We must tell Auntie. The funeral arrangements will be up to her.”
“Yes, I expect that will be the first order of business,” he agreed.
“What shall we do, miss?” Polly asked when they returned to the front hall.
Deirdre felt that the best thing would be to keep the servants distracted and suggested that Polly make some coffee, for there would soon be people arriving. She and Belami then darted across the meadow and went in search of the duchess.
She was found in the small parlor, which was easier to heat than the main saloon. “You’re back early! And is he coming?” she demanded eagerly.
“Auntie, he’s dead!” Deirdre blurted out, though she had been thinking up more gentle ways of breaking the news all the way home.
The duchess arose from her chair in a strangely disjointed way, as though on strings. Her face was always pale, but it turned a shade paler. “You never mean it!” she exclaimed, clutching her heart.
“I’m afraid it’s true. What would you like us to do, Duchess?” Belami asked, and felt that the first thing to do was to get a glass of brandy down the woman’s throat. There was none about, however, so he poured her a glass of wine and handed it to her.
“How did he die?” she asked after gulping the wine and resuming her seat.
“We don’t know. It looked like food poisoning. He had been sick to his stomach,” Belami told her.
“Sir Nevil Ryder! The bleater has poisoned Dudley after getting him to change the will in his favor!” she declared, her eyes glinting with malice.
“We don’t know that he
did
change it,” Deirdre pointed out.
“He’s been murdered, hasn’t he?” was the duchess’s reply. “Of course he changed it, but I’ll contest it in the highest court in the land. A murderer can’t profit by his crime—that is a point of law, is it not, Belami?”
“I believe so, but before taking Sir Nevil to court, don’t you think you ought to notify the coroner?” he asked.
“Yes, of course. And the minister as well to arrange the funeral. A hatchment for the front door—luckily I still have the one from my husband’s death in the attic. Black gowns— perhaps an arm band for you, Belami, though you ain’t any kin to Dudley.”