CHAPTER 6
The following day dawned crisp and cool, with the rays of the rising sun sparkling off the drops of dew coating the lawn and gardens. Though bundled in my Prussian blue velvet coat with roll collar, I was grateful for the rugs the chauffeur had provided my aunt and I in the rear seat of their Rolls-Royce. Especially as my aunt’s frigid silence cast an added chill over our drive to the church in Hungerford—a building built of Bath stone during the Regency Gothic Revival in the early nineteenth century, complete with castellations and pinnacles.
Given the content of the vicar’s sermon about charity and forgiveness and our position in the front pew as the first family of the area, I thought she might thaw toward me. But when she snatched away the arm Reg had offered to me, insisting he walk beside her as we exited the church, I realized she was as furious as ever. Her terse explanation of who I was to the vicar caused him to raise his eyebrows, and I had to set about charming him so that he wouldn’t remark too finely upon it. Just as I had to charm the few parishioners who dared approach us in the churchyard when it fell to Reg to introduce me because my aunt was largely ignoring me.
It became a struggle to mask my irritation with my aunt, for her behavior was not only petty, but it was also making a spectacle out of us when my celebrity and Reg’s blindness already garnered us enough attention. For all that Aunt Ernestine would be horrified at such conduct in others, she was remarkably oblivious to the fault in herself. So when a couple began to argue at the edge of the churchyard nearest the Kennet and Avon Canal, which flowed lazily past, I was almost grateful to them for drawing everyone’s avid gazes away from us.
That is, until I realized they were the same couple Sidney had almost run over with his motorcar two days earlier. We were too far away to hear most of what was being said, but from the looks on the other villagers’ faces this was not an uncommon occurrence. Yet no one tried to intervene, not even the vicar. That is, not until the golden-haired maid I’d seen in the upper corridor of Littlemote House stepped tentatively forward. I’d since learned this was Miss Musselwhite, my aunt’s maid. She spoke to the woman, who was doing a large part of the yelling.
At this, my aunt was galvanized into action, even going so far as to forget she was not speaking to me. “That woman is a disgrace,” she pronounced crisply, never removing her contemptuous gaze from the couple. “Mr. Green needs to get a better handle on his wife before she does something he cannot undo.”
I scrutinized the couple with greater interest, assessing the man with new eyes. I noted how he seemed to restrain himself, even when his wife lashed out at him, causing a gasp of disapproval to rise up from the congregation watching. He caught her hand before it could connect with his face, holding it firmly for a few seconds before letting go.
“Come. We are leaving,” my aunt announced as she strode down the path overarched by trees in burnished autumn colors toward the lychgate, leaving Reg and I to follow in her wake. I looped my arm with his and walked steadily forward as fallen leaves crunched beneath our feet. Though I couldn’t resist stealing another glance toward the Greens. Miss Musselwhite had managed to pull the woman to the side and was speaking to her as the vicar moved forward to address her husband.
Once we were settled in the motorcar, I couldn’t withhold the question bubbling up behind my lips, not even with the chauffeur listening. “That was Mr. Green? Your man-of-all-work?”
Aunt Ernestine’s mouth opened and then shut again, as if remembering her decision to ignore me. Her mouth firmed into a prim line.
Fortunately, Reg was not cross with me, nor willing to take part in such childish maneuvering. “Yes, he’s a good man. Served with the Second Wiltshire Battalion.”
At his mention of the Wiltshire Battalions I cringed, knowing the First and Second had been decimated during the German’s Spring Offensive of 1918. The same offensive in which Sidney had been wounded by and reported dead by a fellow officer.
“And his wife?”
“Is a drunk,” Reg stated, his voice devoid of any sympathy. “And has been for over three years. Or so I’m told.”
My aunt exhaled an exasperated breath. “Reginald, mind your tongue. We may not approve of Mrs. Green’s behavior, but we will speak respectfully of her.” Her gaze flicked toward the chauffeur, who wisely kept his eyes trained on the road. “She is Miss Musselwhite’s sister, after all. A regretful connection, to be sure. But nonetheless, we shall not gossip about her.”
Not in front of the servants anyway.
Nevertheless, she had unwittingly provided me with the answer to my next question. So that had been why Miss Musselwhite had intervened. They were family.
I turned to gaze out at the passing scenery—the brilliant colored trees and sun-soaked fields. Such a stark contrast to the grim place I’d gone to in my mind. Reg had derided Mrs. Green as a drunk, but had I really been much better?
Certainly during the months after Sidney’s supposed death when I still worked for the Secret Service I’d known the limit to how much I could drink in any evening to forget the pain and still be able to perform my job the next day. While behind enemy lines the imminent danger of detection by the Germans had been enough to distract me. Most of the time. But what about the months following my demobilization? Then there had seemed to be nothing worth sobering up for, and I’d felt myself falling further under gin’s sway. If not for that letter accusing Sidney of treason, if not for his return from the dead, who knew what shape I would have been in by now?
So I couldn’t help but feel empathy for Mrs. Green. Men often dismissed how hard the war had also been for the women. Waiting, wondering, dreading—every hour of every day, for four long years. Trying to carry on with life, shouldering the burdens of both husband and wife, mother and father, and pretend it all couldn’t end in an instant. Scouring the Rolls of Honor listed in the newspapers every morning for the names of loved ones. Fearing the sight of the messenger boys on their red bicycles pedaling up the drive to deliver a telegram from the War Office. It strained the nerves past endurance.
If you were one of the lucky ones and your husband did come home, this wasn’t an end to it. For once you’d lived with such fear, such horror for so long, it could never be forgotten. Nor could the emotions and resentments and frustrations that had been festering be brushed aside. In most cases, the returning soldiers and their wives were both the walking wounded, whether they were still suffering from injuries inflicted directly in battle or not. And those people whose husbands and loved ones had not returned were far too quick to dismiss their pain out of hand, jealous of their good fortune.
Given the injuries Reg had suffered and his resulting blindness, I could understand his scorn for Mrs. Green, but that did not mean he was right. Compassion need not be a restricted commodity, especially not during a time when everyone was still struggling to right themselves after the topsy-turvy years of the war.
Having had enough of my aunt’s chilly treatment, upon our return to Littlemote I attempted to speak to her privately and apologize for speaking to Reg about the forgeries when she’d expressly forbidden me to do so. It didn’t matter that I’d been right—that Reg had already known about them and so had not collapsed at their discovery—I had still disobeyed her order, and I knew she would never forgive me unless I offered my apologies first. But she would have none of it, deliberately rebuffing me and pleading a headache. I couldn’t resist rolling my eyes as she suddenly demanded the footman’s assistance in climbing the stairs to her bedchamber, despite the fact she’d been perfectly fine moments earlier.
Reg, it seemed, was also not in the mood for company. So left to my own devices, I enjoyed a delicious solitary luncheon and wandered the battered and overgrown gardens. From my point of view, my work here was done. I had looked into the matters my father had asked me to and had answered them to my satisfaction.
The airmen had undoubtedly damaged Littlemote, but the manor was far from falling down over their heads. Except perhaps t
he master bedchambers, but that was the fault of neglect, not the RAF officers. The majority of the “thefts” had been perpetuated by my uncle in order to replenish his dwindling accounts, and the smaller items that had disappeared might be impossible to recover. I could try to trace the old coins, but only if Reg or Aunt Ernestine wished me to pursue it. And that would have to be done in London anyway.
As far as the missing maid, she had more than likely taken off for London to follow her dream of becoming an actress, just as Agnes and her parents believed. There was no evidence of anything else. I’d learned she’d departed on a Sunday morning while everyone was at church, slipping away quietly. There was no sign of a struggle, and her possessions had been taken with her. Her decision to leave without collecting all her wages did seem somewhat odd, but perhaps if there was an officer from the airfield acting as her benefactor, or she’d taken some of the smaller portable items that were missing, then she’d thought she wouldn’t need the small amount of pay still owed to her.
And I wasn’t about to speculate on the ghosts. That was merely so much nonsense.
I’d intended to ask Reg about the airmen’s possible use of the grounds, but had not yet had the chance. But even if they weren’t expressly allowed, that didn’t stop them from doing so. Especially when there was a bridge spanning the river that directly connected the properties as it had during the war for the officers’ convenience. They were the likeliest explanation for what Opal had seen.
So, there was really no need for me to stay any longer. I paused at the edge of the gardens before it sloped downward to stare across the River Kennet at the wide fields beyond, toying with the idea of taking the train back to London that afternoon. But I quickly discarded the notion. Leaving my aunt on such terms would only widen the fissure of enmity between us to a chasm and anger my parents when they learned of it. They were already upset at me for refusing to return to Upper Wensleydale these past four years, and for not behaving with the circumspection my mother thought I should. The last thing I wanted to do was exasperate them further.
In any case, Sidney would be returning for me later that evening or early the next day, for tomorrow was my birthday, and I trusted his word that he would be back in time. I only hoped he didn’t drive through the night in order to do so.
When I woke the next morning, I half expected to find him lying beside me—having arrived in the wee hours of the night—but the space beside me was empty. I stared at the pillow where his head would have left a dent in the smooth surface, feeling a pang at his absence. Though we’d spent the majority of the five years of our marriage apart, in the four months since his return to the living apparently I’d grown accustomed to having him near. While I’d been refusing to acknowledge it since his departure forty-eight hours earlier, the truth was, I was missing him. Terribly. I only hoped he arrived sooner rather than later, for if my aunt and Reg continued their vigils of silence, I would go mad with the need for distraction.
Happily, when I arrived in the breakfast room they were both already seated, and Reg at least appeared to have restored his good spirits.
“Morning, Ver.”
“Good morning, Reg,” I declared as Miles held my chair for me. “You look quite dapper in that brown suit. Is it whipcord?” I leaned over to feel the fabric of his sleeve, ignoring the reproachful look my aunt threw my way. As if any comments that might remind him he couldn’t see were forbidden. As if he could forget.
“Do I? I’ll have to remember that. You always did have an eye for fashion. Or so the papers claim.” He grinned.
I laughed. “Yes, well, I can’t help that the society pages feel the need to describe and comment on every item of clothing I choose to wear.”
“If you ask me, it’s a shameful waste of ink,” my aunt declared as her eyes raked up and down my appearance.
It being my birthday, I’d chosen to wear one of my favorite gowns—a myrtle-green wrap dress with a sheer overlay. The color accentuated the green in my eyes, and the shape played up my curvier than was strictly fashionable figure. It was a trifle more daring than most of my other daytime apparel, but I knew I looked smashing in it. Sidney certainly couldn’t take his eyes off of me. As such, I wasn’t about to let my aunt shame me.
“Well, someone must be reading it, or else they wouldn’t print it.” I lifted the silver coffee urn from the center of the table and poured the dark brew into my cup. Giving a little toss of my head to move the tendril of curls that had fallen over my eyes, I lifted my cup to take a drink, addressing my aunt over the rim. “How is your headache? Did a day’s rest help?”
Her eyes narrowed at the corners as she tried to decide whether I was being facetious. I stared back at her guilelessly, waiting to hear how she would respond. But before she could do so, a scream shattered the silence.
I lowered my cup and turned toward the door. The shriek had come from the direction of the entry hall, and yet it sounded farther away.
“Good heavens,” my aunt gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “What is going on? Who is that?” she demanded as the woman continued to shout.
“Allow me to ascertain, my lady,” Miles pronounced as he crossed toward the door, only to stop short as it was pulled open from without. The footman who had done so appeared to be all of seventeen. He staggered forward another step before glancing around the room with wide eyes.
“Robert, what is the meaning of this?” my aunt demanded of the young man. “Who is that shrieking like a banshee?”
The footman’s throat bobbed up and down as he swallowed. “It’s Opal, milady. Sh-she found Mr. Green out in the park west of the gardens. He—” He broke off to swallow again. “He’s dead.”
“What?!” Reg demanded, slapping the table with his hand, which made us all jump.
But the footman could say no more. He shook his head, and Miles ushered him out.
“Oh, oh, my!” Aunt Ernestine exhaled, slumping in her chair as if she might faint.
Somewhere toward the rear of the house I could hear the maid wailing. Whatever she had seen had upset her. The hairs along my arms and the back of my neck stood on end. Something was not right. And though I had not yet seen the body or the place he’d died, I already knew what needed to be done.
When Miles returned to the room, I turned toward my aunt and Reg, who both stared unseeing at the table before them. Although while my aunt’s gaze was stupefied, Reg’s face burned with ferocity.
“You have to send for the police,” I told them in no uncertain terms.
Reg’s shoulders dipped at this pronouncement, as if he’d recognized the same thing I had and was relieved to hear it.
“The police?” my aunt stammered, her eyes blinking rapidly. “Oh! Oh, my. Are you sure that’s really necessary?”
“Yes,” Reg and I replied in unison. Then he turned to Miles. “Do as Mrs. Kent suggests.”
“Yes, sir,” Miles answered without hesitation, hurrying out into the hall.
Aunt Ernestine draped her hand over her forehead. “Oh, goodness. Oh, how horrid.”
But her son only seemed to have attention to spare for me. “I assume you intend to be taken to the body?”
Seeing the determined expression on his face, I nodded. “I do.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Of course,” I replied, having already deduced this would be his next statement.
His mother saw things differently. “What?! You cannot do that. Reginald, be reasonable.”
He pushed to his feet, rounding the table with gentle touches to guide him.
“What do you expect to be able to do? You cannot see anything.”
I halted in the middle of rising from my chair, shocked by her callous words. But one look at my cousin’s face showed his jaw had hardened with resolve. He reached for my arm and threaded it through his.
“Reginald, sit down! I absolutely forbid you to go,” Aunt Ernestine snapped.
His arm flexed, quivering with restrained fury a
s he turned his head to address her in a voice pitched dangerously low. “You forbid me? I fought in a war, Mother. I was in command of hundreds of men. I saw, and smelled, and touched, and did things you cannot even begin to imagine. You cannot forbid me from doing anything!”
He abruptly turned away, urging me forward. But not before I saw the daggered glare my aunt had aimed at me. It was obvious she blamed me for her son’s sudden display of defiance. However, I didn’t think I could take credit for any of it, other than the fact I refused to treat him like he was helpless.
Whatever the impetus, I was relieved to see my cousin showing some backbone. Though I didn’t dare tell him that. Not unless I wanted him to direct the simmering rage he’d suddenly tapped into toward me.
We donned coats, hats, and walking boots and set off across the gardens with an older footman. Opal had been too agitated to relay more than the barest of details. Apparently, the warming oven in the butler’s pantry had been acting up, and with the footmen busy attending the breakfast table, Opal had been sent in search of Mr. Green. The chauffeur had suggested she check the west gardens, where Mr. Green had been making repairs on the ha-ha that separated the gardens surrounding the house from the park. The ha-ha functioned as a sunken fence, which formed a vertical barrier to any livestock grazing in the park but preserved an uninterrupted view from the gardens out over the estate. Opal said she didn’t know what had made her think he might be out in the park when she didn’t find him at the ha-ha, except she thought she’d seen someone walking in the distance.
Standing at the edge of the ha-ha, one could see a fair distance to the west over the park despite the number of tall trees dotting the landscape. It was easy to see how she might have caught the barest glimpse of someone, and yet they not hear her when she called out. That is, if they’d wanted to hear. Perhaps that person had been Mr. Green, or perhaps it had been someone else who hadn’t wanted to be seen.
A Pretty Deceit Page 8