Honey Pot

by Mira Stables

  A brief nap, however, soon restored him to his normal state of inquisitive activity, and having investigated the fruit bowl and found it empty he proceeded to explore further. He swung himself easily over the window sill and before Russet could stop him had climbed on to the verandah balustrade. Frantically she called his name, fearing that he would fall and be hurt, but he did not know her voice and preferred to remain on his airy perch. She looked around for something to tempt him back but there was nothing, unless he would fancy the sweetmeats that Ameera had shyly offered the other day and which still lay untouched in their dish on the escritoire. By the time that she had crossed the room and snatched up one of the sweet sticky morsels, the rascal had vanished. He was nowhere on the balcony, nowhere in the room. Her revulsion from the depths below was lost in sharp fear for Ameera’s pet. She hung anxiously over the balustrade scanning the terrace. But blessedly there was no small pathetic bundle of bones and fur on the flagstones below. Could a monkey fall so far and escape unharmed? It was difficult to believe, but where else could he be?

  Then she heard him chittering at her. He must have been hiding in the greenery all the time, but still she could not see him and stared about her in puzzled fashion until the indignant chittering drew her attention to the balcony of the room next door. The runaway was perched on the balcony rail with nonchalant ease, grinning at her coquettishly and eyeing with interest the sticky sweet that she was still holding. How he had got there was a monkey mystery but presumably he could come back safely enough if he so chose. Fortunately the windows behind him were closed so he was not tempted to stray further. While still she hesitated, uncertain whether it would be wise to try and coax him back, greed overcame his mischievous coyness. He swung easily over the balustrade, ran along a narrow ledge which connected the floors of the two balconies, and snatched the sweet from her fingers, retreating immediately to the top of the curtains where he devoured his trophy with glutinous enjoyment. Russet made haste to close the window and then, having supplied her greedy little guest with one more sweet, to cover the remainder lest he make himself sick and to wash her sticky fingers.

  Ameera, bringing her lunch, was delighted to find her in better spirits. With the assistance of a certain amount of pantomime the monkey’s addiction to sweets was explained. Ameera shook her head at him reprovingly but managed to assure Russet that his constitution was not permanently damaged. Next time—if Russet understood her aright—he should wear his collar, which made him much easier to catch. She then removed him, promising to bring him visiting again tomorrow.

  Russet ate her lunch with improved appetite but pensively, wholly failing to appreciate the subtle perfection of the sauce served with the duckling, a sauce which the chef himself had prepared. Fortunately for domestic harmony at Furze House, she did eat it, thereby causing that devoted disciple of Epicurus to put on the most insufferable airs. She also, though absent-mindedly, drank the glass of claret that Phoebe’s anxious hand had added to the collation. Possibly it was the wine that caused her to be more than usually impatient with Clarissa Harlowe. Her gaze strayed repeatedly from that tragic heroine’s letters to the stone ledge that Chimi had negotiated with such ease. She wondered how it was that she had not noticed it before. It was clearly the foundation on which the balconies rested, and quite strong enough to support an escaping fugitive, but not the most optimistic scrutiny could make it wide enough for safety. Especially when that fugitive was admittedly afraid of heights. If only one could not see that daunting drop. Perhaps when it was dark? But that would make the crossing doubly dangerous. And unless there was a window left open in the adjoining room it would be useless any way. If she was a heroine in a book, she thought crossly, she would undoubtedly be both fearless and athletic; and concentrated resolutely on Clarissa.

  But she could not help observing that the necessary windows were opened for a time each morning and evening. She was obliged to study them in case Chimi, now a regular daily visitor, should suddenly decide to effect an illegal entry by that route. Morning was hopeless. In full daylight she could not shut her eyes to the consequences of a fall, let alone the probability of being seen, clinging like a fly to a honey-comb, as she essayed the perilous passage. But evening—with kindly darkness blanketing those intimidating flagstones and a full moon giving light sufficient to permit avoidance of minor obstacles—might be a very different pair of shoes.

  She was never afterwards quite sure as to when she had taken the final decision. Perhaps the moon itself tempted her to make the rash attempt. Though obligingly rising at a time convenient to her purpose, it was just past the full, and the knowledge that she would have to wait another month before conditions were again so propitious was not to be endured.

  And then, on the next two nights when she might have made the attempt, there were lights in the adjacent room indicating occupation. Having screwed her courage to sticking point it was maddening to be frustrated. She spent the whole of the third day on the balcony trying to decide whether the room was still being used, and was so moody and distrait that poor Ameera told Phoebe that she greatly feared that the missy was contemplating the shocking crime of self destruction. She had done nothing all day but lean on the balustrade and stare into space.

  To Phoebe this was the last straw. A fortnight had passed since Russet had been brought to Furze House. Mr James had expected an easy victory over one whom he had described as a spoiled, petted chit. It seemed to Phoebe that her own reading of Miss Ingram’s character was far nearer the truth and that the situation was now completely out of hand. She demanded an interview with the master, determined to tell him that if she was not permitted to see the prisoner and judge for herself, she would be obliged to leave his service. It would be like tearing the heart out of her body to do it, for he was as dear to her as her own child, but she could not stand by and see murder done. And if Ameera was right this was worse than murder—to be driving a helpless girl to encompass her own death.

  Mr Cameron was out, said Ahmed Khan, but planned to be back by dinner time. The butler, too, had his anxieties. His precious daughter was grieving sadly over this awkward business and he did not want her to be involved in any trouble over her innocent share in it. England was a strange country. His master’s behaviour, never before questioned, was odd to say the least of it. He suggested that after dinner would be a good time for Phoebe to deliver her ultimatum.

  Russet kept watch over her projected escape route throughout the afternoon. The windows remained closed until evening. Then, by leaning over her balcony, she could distinctly see the slim brown hands that pushed up the sashes. At which point she was obliged to desert her observation post because Ameera brought in her dinner tray.

  She made only a pretence of eating. Her inner tension made swallowing difficult. Tonight, if only those inviting windows remained unlit, she was determined to make the attempt. As soon as Ameera had removed her tray would be the best time. The other occupants of the house would still be at table for if the meals served to her were any criterion they evidently appreciated good food. Gentlemen, too, were apt to linger over their wine. She could probably count on an hour at least before there was any likelihood of her escape being discovered. It was not very long but it would have to suffice. She had put on her plainest gown, so that there would be no frills or ruffles to catch on the brickwork. It would be the work of a moment to slip the well-filled purse in the bosom of her dress. There was a long walk ahead of her and she might have to hide from a determined pursuit but once free of the house she would make her way to freedom somehow. Carefully she refrained from contemplation of the ordeal that must be the prelude to escape, dwelling instead on the probable lay-out of the house and the chances of finding doors and gates conveniently open. At least, she comforted herself, it was a reasonably modern building. She was unlikely to lose herself in a labyrinth of mouldering passages.

  And it seemed that at last everything was in her favour. The windows remained open and no light shone from th
em. The night was not quite so dark as she would have liked but she dared not wait for full dark to fall. Even the moon smiled upon her enterprise, casting a soft clear light on that frightening ledge. In fact it proved surprisingly easy to climb over the balustrade and take the first two or three steps along the ledge, her hands wide-spread, palms flattened against bricks that still retained the warmth of the sun, advancing one foot cautiously, then sliding the other up to it. Easy enough—for just so long as she could see the familiar balustrade out of the corner of her eye and know that by stretching out a hand she could draw herself back to safety. But alas! The illusion lasted for only half a dozen steps. Then she was fairly launched on the traverse. Small use to tell herself that the ledge was as safe as a sidewalk. She pressed herself against the wall so desperately that the fabric of her gown rubbed and caught against the roughness of the mortar, and the tiny jerks as it held fast or pulled free terrified her, threatening to shake her into the abyss. Her hands were clammy with perspiration, her whole body wet with it. There was a thundering in her ears, a choking in her throat. Her breath came quick and shallow, for even a deep breath might destroy her precarious balance. And she thought of nothing in the world but of advancing one foot and painstakingly bringing the other up to it.

  She shut her eyes tightly lest involuntarily she should glance down and so she did not see the glow of light that sprang up in those beckoning windows, nor the rigid figure that watched her progress in a tension of fear that surpassed her own, since he could do nothing but wait. When at last her arm brushed against the balcony railing she could not immediately believe that she had made the crossing safely. Her hand fumbled blindly for the support of the iron. There was a sudden fierce grip on her wrist that left blue bruises for a week, and a strong arm scooped her up by the waist and lifted her bodily over the railing.

  For a moment, in her passion of relief, she did not realise that the great effort had been in vain. She clung to the smooth iron, her head bowed against it, retching uncontrollably as waves of nausea swept over her, beyond coherent speech, beyond any further physical effort. Then savage fingers bit into her shoulders, drawing her upright, thrusting her towards the open window.

  “Reckless irresponsible little fool!” he shot at her, venting the fury aroused by his own great fear on its innocent cause. “Are you quite mad? Is it not enough that you have wrecked Letty’s happiness and set my whole household by the ears with your pathetic attitudes? Must you hurl yourself to destruction from my very windows? I suppose you see yourself as a figure of high tragedy and picture us all mourning remorsefully over your pitiful broken body. And all to be laid at my door because I ventured to put a stop to your mischievous tricks.”

  The girl between his hands looked up at him wanly. The knowledge of failure was bitter, now, within her, and she was still sick and giddy. She said slowly, “It very nearly was, wasn’t it?” And then, seeing his look of puzzlement, added fretfully, weakly, “My broken body laid at your door,” and slipped from his hold to the floor in a crumpled heap.

  She was back in her own room when she opened her eyes again, and it was Phoebe who was hanging anxiously over her and who broke into affectionate scolding when she essayed a feeble smile.

  “Now that’s better, Miss Russet. What a naughty girl you are, to be sure, giving us all such a fright. Here. Just you drink this. Nasty stuff it is, I know, but the master says it’s what you need, with you so sick-like.”

  Russet surveyed the golden liquid in the beautiful glass with dreamy interest—and smiled at her attendant, a smile of such confiding warmth that Phoebe was quite startled.

  “And when I have swallowed it, I shall feel very much more the thing,” she quoted reminiscently.

  “Well I wouldn’t know about that, miss,” replied Phoebe practically. “More likely to put you to sleep I should say. But no harm in that after what you’ve gone through tonight. And since the master says you must drink it, down it must go.”

  Russet, recovering fast in this nursery atmosphere, raised a dissident eyebrow, but to please Phoebe she consented to sip a little of what proved to be brandy. She endorsed Phoebe’s verdict that it was nasty stuff but could not deny that it banished the nausea and made her brain feel surprisingly clear and determined. Sipping slowly, she eventually finished the dose, which Mr Cameron had poured with a generous hand.

  “Is—HE—very angry?” she demanded valiantly. “Because he has only himself to blame. I hope he has not scolded you or Ameera, because my escape—near escape,” she corrected ruefully, “was no fault of yours.”

  Phoebe chuckled. “In all the years I’ve known him I disremember ever seeing him so put about. Did he rail at you? ’Twould be because you’d given him such a fright. He was near as white as you were when he rang for me, and the bell pealing fit to bust your ear-drums. Which didn’t surprise me when he told me what you’d done,” she added in final admonition. “But all’s well that ends well and you’ve come to no lasting harm.”

  “And am still a prisoner,” put in Russet quietly.

  Phoebe looked uncomfortable. “Yes, miss. And I had to give him my solemn promise that I wouldn’t help you to escape before he’d let me stay with you.”

  Russet smiled at her. “I won’t try to tempt you from your allegiance,” she said, “nor keep you any longer from your sleep, even though it is so very comfortable to have you about me again. Ameera is a dear little soul but naturally it is not the same.”

  “Well as to that, miss,” muttered poor Phoebe awkwardly, “the master said as I’m to stop with you all night, ’case you was to try any more foolhardy tricks,” she explained shamefaced.

  Russet stared at her in outrage. “I wonder that he does not have me fettered and chained,” she exclaimed. “Monstrous!”

  From the expression on Phoebe’s face it was plain that there was more to follow. “He did speak of having the windows barred, for safety’s sake,” she confessed reluctantly. “But maybe by tomorrow, when he’s had time to get over his fright, he’ll think better of it.”

  “I should certainly hope so! To be treating me as though I were an infant or an imbecile! He would be well served it I did make another attempt to break free. But I couldn’t do it, Phoebe. Not even if I were to stun you with the poker and tie you up with the bedclothes. Which, you will agree, would only give you your just deserts after the way you served me.”

  There was laughter in the urchin grimace that accompanied this dire threat but it died swiftly as she went on, “I wouldn’t face that crossing again even if Mr Cameron himself said that I might go free if I accomplished it. I shall just have to stay here until that wretched young pair settle their differences.”

  “Well as to that, miss,” volunteered Phoebe eagerly, “Mr Cameron was visiting at Dene Court today—that’s where Mrs Waydene lives. Maybe he’s heard how matters are going on, though of course he wouldn’t confide in the likes of me. And being shut up won’t be so bad, will it now, with Phoebe to keep you company and tell you all that’s going on in the house?”

  “It will if I have to submit to having bars across the window,” objected Russet firmly, “and so you may tell the head jailer. But it will be the greatest comfort to me to have your society,” she relented. And then, with a twinkle, “I daresay I shall find you more conversible than Chimi!”

  It was Phoebe’s turn to snort her indignation. “Too much brandy, Miss Russet, that’s what’s the matter with you! And enough of your funning. Time you was asleep.”

  “And you?”

  “I shall do very nicely on the day-bed, here. And you’ll be a good girl and not get up to any more mischievous larks, won’t you, now?”

  As a description of her ordeal it was the understatement of all time. It made Russet chuckle. It even dispelled some of the lingering horror of that ordeal. She agreed that she was indeed tired and that no doubt things would look better in the morning, and bade her attendant an affectionate good night.

  Chapter Seven

&nb
sp; The master of Furze House had slept badly after the shattering experience of his prisoner’s attempted escape, and woke in an unsettled state of mind. On the previous day he had driven out to Dene Court, thankful to bid farewell for a while to the growing gallery of reproachful faces that surrounded him, and hoping that the tedious duty visit that he proposed to pay might offer some prospect of an early end to his present discomforts. It was really quite absurd that one insignificant girl, locked up in circumstances of more than adequate comfort, should have such a disruptive effect on his household. Why! A strict guardian might keep a rebellious ward on bread and water for a week; might even beat her to enforce submission, and no one would say a word against him. It was true that Miss Ingram was not his ward. But Letty was. And surely he had a right to safeguard her interests in the only way that was open to him? Was it necessary for Phoebe and Ameera to look at him as though he was little better than the public hangman? Even Herrick, closely questioned, had stoutly declared that Miss Ingram had seemed to him a very pleasant and sensible young lady, and one that was considerate of her servants.

  If he found relief in leaving this atmosphere of general disapproval behind, he was less fortunate in the other aspect of his visit. Both Mrs and Miss Waydene were at home, but the elder lady greeted him with unaccustomed reserve and the younger was downright peevish. It was the first time that Mr Cameron had seen the unpleasant side of his ward and it came as a distinct shock. So far as Letty was concerned, the world was out of tune and she did not care who knew it. She had set her heart on ending her first season with the triumphant announcement of her betrothal and forthcoming marriage. Now, partly because of Russet Ingram but chiefly because Lucian had been careless and clumsy, it was all spoiled. It might be true, as Lucian claimed, that he had gone down to Southampton to inspect a yacht that he thought of buying and not, after all, to bid a fond farewell to Miss Ingram. But surely he was old enough to look where he was going and to avoid ridiculous mishaps that upset Miss Letty’s plans? To her guardian’s civil enquiries about Staneborough’s progress she returned sullen answers. She had not seen him—could not be forever writing letters—supposed his bones would mend in time. Her mama frowned, but indulgently, upon this rather heartless and unbecoming attitude, but expressed the view that Lucian must show himself more careful and sensible before she would feel inclined to entrust her darling to his keeping. A change of front indeed, thought Mr Cameron, and politely suggested that if the ladies wished to visit the invalid he would be very happy to drive them to Southampton where young Staneborough was still recuperating at the home of his yacht-owning friend. The offer was declined with a promptitude that aroused all his suspicions, and these were considerably strengthened by the arrival of another visitor. He knew Robert Dysart perfectly well by sight—the lad had been for ever dancing attendance on Letty—but in face of his ward’s avowal of her love for Staneborough, Mr Cameron had paid him small heed. It seemed to him now that the young man was very much at home; was greeted with marked distinction by the older lady, and with shy welcome, hastily assumed, by the younger. With disillusioned eyes Mr Cameron saw much that had escaped him before. The roguish smiles, the sparkling vivacity with which his ward was beglamouring her new admirer were in such marked contrast to the demeanour that she had shown him that he could not help recognising their artificiality. He declined Mrs Waydene’s offer of refreshment and was not pressed to stay. Letty, restored to good humour by Robert Dysart’s visit, gave him her sunniest smile at parting. She bore small resemblance to the doleful little creature who had proclaimed her love for Staneborough and had begged his help. Mr Cameron decided that he would never understand the workings of the female mind.