by Joan Smith
“It is not worth the trip,” he informed her. “Nothing but the hotel, a coastguard station, Mullins’s Drapery Shop, and a run-down old church. And, of course, a few pokey little shops. Nothing to tempt an out and outer. Where you want to go for shopping is Brighton. It is only a minute away.”
“I have just escaped from Brighton,” she replied. “I did not come here to shop, but for peace and quiet. Away from callers, you know,” she added, hoping to get rid of him without resorting to outright rudeness.
“By Jove, you have come to the right place for that. There is never a thing going on here. Dull as ditch water. I say, would you mind terribly if I—er—washed my hands?”
“Certainly. I shall call the butler.”
Brewster was already on his feet. “Not necessary, milady. I have been running tame here since I was in short coats. My old aunt Annie battened herself on Lady Dauntry until she cocked up her toes a few years ago.”
So saying, he fled out the door. “That is one caller I would not have minded Lord Dauntry’s turning off,” she said to Beau.
“The fellow might be anyone, cheeky devil. I mean to see what he is up to,” Beau said, and went out after him.
Mr. Brewster was just talking to Jennet, however. The girl obviously knew him, for she was smiling and chatting. “No, I never seen hide nor hair of her,” she was saying, apparently discussing some mutual acquaintance.
Beau returned to the saloon. “The servants seem to know him, all right. I wonder if he sails. I shall ask him when he returns.”
“He seems a ramshackle fellow,” Cressida said. But then, many of Beau’s friends seemed ramshackle to her. Perhaps she was getting old. Dauntry’s little jibe still rankled. Youngish, he had called her.
“I wish he would come back—and leave,” Beau said after a few moments. He paced the saloon twice, stared out the window, then glanced at his watch. “It seems he stopped only to use the necessary. What the deuce is keeping him?”
After ten minutes and several tours of the saloon, it began to seem that Mr. Brewster was indeed up to no good. Cressida went into the hallway to discover him hovering at the top of the stairway to the kitchen with his ears cocked. What was he listening for? At the same moment, Tory was just coming down the front stairs. She looked at Mr. Brewster as if he were a tiger.
“Tory!” he exclaimed. “What the devil are you doing here? Have you been banished from the castle?” Without waiting for a reply, he rushed on. “You will be surprised to see old Allan Brewster here, but here I am. Just dropped in to pay my respects to Lady deCourcy. Well, I must be off. If you happen to run into Lord Harold, give him my respects. And his good wife as well. Be sure to tell Tony I was asking for her. I would not want her to take a pet. Fancy Harold being shackled. I will be next, I daresay. If I don’t watch what I am about, some lady will nab me. Well, I am off.”
He darted to the hall table, retrieved his curled beaver, gave Cressida another jerky bow, and fled out the door as if the law were at his heels.
“What a strange young man,” Cressida said. “And what was he doing at the stairs to the kitchen? Do you know this Allan Brewster, Tory?”
“Allan Brewster?” she said with a shocked face. “Why, I have known him from the egg, milady. A very good fellow.”
“It is odd he did not know of Tony’s wedding trip if he is such a friend of the family.”
“No doubt he thought she had got cold feet and cut the trip short. Lady Antonia is a great stay-at-home, you must know. Mr. Brewster is quite a favorite of the Dauntrys. I fancy her ladyship asked him to drop in to pay his respects. I shall just count the spoons.” On this unsettling speech, she bustled off.
Lady Dauntry asked him to call when she was so concerned for her tenant’s privacy? It did not seem at all likely to Cressida.
Beau came into the hallway. “Has he gone?” he asked.
“Yes, he just ran off. Shall we go?”
Muffet had already called the carriage. As it was a short trip, they had elected to take Cressida’s phaeton. They discussed the visit during the short drive. Beachy Head, a chalk headland rising precipitously from the sea, had an impressive air of grandeur. The surrounding village, however, was much as Mr. Brewster had described it.
They looked at the old Norman church and went into Mullins’s Drapery Shop, the busiest spot in town. Cressida found some pretty silk threads and decided to take them home to Miss Wantage, who was a keen needlewoman. While she made her purchase, Beau fell into idle conversation with a young gentleman in the line of customers behind her and introduced himself.
“Ah, you are staying at the Dauntrys’ dower house!” the gentleman exclaimed. “I have been wishing to call, but Lady Dauntry mentioned Lady deCourcy wished for seclusion.”
“Not that much seclusion. Dash it, we are bored to flinders. You must come out for tea one day soon,” Beau said.
Cressida had examined the gentleman and found him to be unexceptionable. He was well if modestly dressed, well spoken, and wore an air of gentility. Of equal importance, Beau was obviously missing his friends.
“I shall introduce you to her now,” Beau said as Cressida turned to them. “Sid, this is—oh, I don’t believe I caught your name, sir.”
“Allan Brewster,” the gentleman said with a very civil bow.
He wondered why his new acquaintances were staring at him as if he had sprouted horns. The busy clerk said, “Ahem—can I help you, Mr. Brewster?”
“Pardon me a moment, ma’am,” he said, and executed his purchase.
When he rejoined them, he said uncertainly, “Is something wrong, Lady deCourcy?”
“But—are there two Allan Brewsters in the neighborhood?” she asked.
“No, my papa is George Brewster. I have an uncle Derwent and three sisters, but I am the only Allan Brewster.”
“Then there is someone impersonating you,” Beau said, “and he called on us not an hour ago. Talk about brass! You ought to have him arrested.”
“He seemed to know the house and servants,” Cressida added in perplexity.
“What did he look like?” Mr. Brewster asked.
“He was about your age and general size, a little taller than average, with light brown hair and blue eyes,” Cressida said.
“That sounds like me,” Brewster said, frowning. Then a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “James Melbury!” he exclaimed. “He is a regular jokesmith. I heard he was off to Bath, but if he caught wind of your visit, milady, he would do anything to meet you. He is fond of the ladies, to tell the truth. But I fancy you know that by now.”
“I did not take him for a flirt,” she said, mentally reviewing his brief visit. “He seemed a brash sort of fellow.”
“He would ask old Queen Charlotte herself to stand up and jig and think nothing of it. He knew he would not be allowed through the door-jamb if he used his own name, so he has used mine, the dastard. I shall ring a peal over Melbury when I catch him. I hope you counted the spoons when he left. He is a famous thief.”
As Tory had implied this same fondness for cutlery in her caller, Cressida assumed the mysterious man was indeed Mr. Melbury.
“Why is he not in jail, if he is a thief?” she asked.
“You must not take me too literally, ma’am. I only meant I would not lend him any money if I were you, or sell him anything on tick. I am still waiting for my two hundred guineas for a horse I sold him a year ago, but I doubt he actually steals from stores or strangers, only from his friends.”
“I shall see that he don’t become a friend of mine,” Beau said.
“Oh, there will be no avoiding him. He is invited everywhere,” Brewster said, shaking his head ruefully. “He is Lady Dauntry's godson, you see, and Dauntry's cousin, so they always settle up his accounts at the shops eventually. That keeps him out of the roundhouse, and spares the rest of us a rise in the parish rates. They did not repay me for the mount, though. Dauntry said I ought to have known better, and so I ought.”
�
��You should demand the horse back,” Beau said.
“It was sold and out of the parish before nightfall,” Brewster replied.
“It is odd he would use your name when we shall be meeting him again,” Cressida said, frowning.
“It is not likely you will see him again, ma’am. He was about to leave for Bath last time I spoke to him. I made sure he would be gone by now. He saved one last prank to pull off before leaving. He wanted to meet you first. One can hardly blame him for that,” he added with a shy smile.
“Good riddance, say I,” Beau declared, and began discussing a future meeting with Mr. Brewster.
As she approved of this Mr. Brewster, Cressida invited him to call; Mr. Brewster returned that his mama would be delighted if Lady deCourcy would care to drop in the next time she was in Beachy Head, and they parted on the best of terms.
“I shall roast Dauntry about this the next time we meet,” Cressida said, laughing about the incident.
“All families have their dirty dishes,” Beau reminded her. “I would not want the Dauntrys to meet Gerald Charmsworth.”
This derelict cousin had run off with an actress and was happily living in sin in London, where he and polite society ignored each other.
As the day was fine and the hour early, they elected to walk three-quarters of a mile east to Birling Gap, with the cliffs called the Seven Sisters beyond. The wild scenery and the stretching sea were still a novelty to them.
“One of Devonshire’s seats is nearby,” Cressida mentioned. “Compton Place, but I don’t believe he is in residence. He mentioned going to Chatsworth.”
By the time they had executed the walk back to Beachy Head over rough terrain, they were ready to go home.
Cressida allowed her cousin to take the reins for the return trip, which left her free to think and talk. “You know, Beau,” she said, “Tory knew who our caller was. Why did she let us believe he was Mr. Brewster? Why did she connive with him to fool us?”
“Because he is Dauntry’s cousin, I expect. They seem to dote on the fellow.”
“I must have a word with her when we return. I will not be lied to by my own servants.”
“She lied about the ghost, too, and the gingerbread cake. As I think it over, she has lied a blue streak ever since we got here.”
“I mean serious things. Melbury might have stolen something from the house, and we will be accused of it.”
As soon as she had removed her bonnet, Cressida asked Muffet to send Tory to her in the saloon. Tory’s ruby face wore an air of guilt. “What could I do for you, milady?” she asked in a strained voice.
“Were any spoons missing after our caller’s visit, Tory?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. I did a whole inventory. He didn’t pocket a thing, not so much as a salt cellar.”
“You are aware that our caller was not Allan Brewster, but James Melbury, I think?”
“I thought he was looking very like Melbury,” was her foolish reply.
“You knew it was Melbury!” Cressida said crossly.
Tory looked in guilty confusion. “He said he was Allan Brewster. You heard him yourself. I’m sure it is not for me to question my betters. Lord Dauntry's cousin, after all.”
“It is for you to protect your mistress, Tory. You knew that neither Muffet nor I would recognize the man. It was very wrong of you to connive with Melbury in pulling off this impersonation.”
“It was only a joke, milady. We all like a little joke from time to time. Melbury is a famous joke-smith,” she said with a harried frown that spoke of her enjoyment of this prank.
“This is carrying a joke too far,” Beau said sternly.
“Sure and I counted every inch of the silverware as soon as ever he left. And about them noises in the attic,” she added, hoping to alleviate her culpability in the affair of the impersonation, “it was bats. Very likely Jennet’s cat slipped up the stairs while the door was ajar and got to chasing them about.”
“You got the key from Muffet?” Cressida asked.
The crimson face turned a shade deeper. “There happened to be a spare key. I wanted to go up and have a look for myself, for it bothered me to hear your sleep was disturbed by the bats knocking about.”
“I did not see any bats,” Cressida said.
“That would be because Jennet’s cat got them all.”
There was obviously no point in discussing it further with this accomplished liar. She had not suddenly found a spare key to the attic. She had had one all along. As Muffet also had a key now, however, she would not press the point, but only keep a sharp eye on the attic in the future.
“Let me bring you a nice cup of tea and some of my gingerbread,” Tory said.
Cressida accepted this peace offering, but she knew she had not gotten to the bottom of the strange goings-on at the dower house.
Chapter Six
Another dull evening stretched before Cressida and her cousin, alleviated—or, more accurately, aggravated—by the presence of Miss Wantage, who had hobbled to the table for dinner, wrapped in her white woolen shawl, to indicate her status of recuperating invalid. When she was quite well, the shawl would be exchanged for a blue one. Miss Wantage was, of course, interested in their caller, but once she learned he was Lady Dauntry’s godson, she refused to find much ill in him. She was a keen admirer of a title.
“Youth and high spirits go together. ‘To flaming youth let virtue be as wax,’ as dear Shakespeare said.” Miss Wantage was not really so abandoned in her morals as this would suggest. She had once had a sentimental verse published in The Lady’s Companion, since which time she was much given to quotations, regardless of their suitability.
“That ain’t what you said when I got sent down from Oxford,” Beau reminded her.
“Nor when Cressida took to wearing moistened gowns that clung so vulgarly,” Miss Wantage agreed, “but playful high spirits of this sort are harmless.”
She then began lamenting having missed the visit to Beachy Head in so pointed a manner, Cressida offered to take her the next day.
“For those silks you brought me, dear—and pray do not take this as a complaint, for I am sure the thought was very kind—but the colors are just a little vulgar. They hurt these poor old eyes. You know I always prefer the less violent pastel shades for my work. That glaring bile yellow and royal blue look so very common in a piece of embroidery. One does not find them in nature,” she said quite inaccurately.
But there was no arguing with Miss Wantage when it came to embroidery. If the shade “hurt her poor old eyes,” it was vulgar, and that was that.
“Ah, turbot in white sauce again,” was her joyless comment when the fish was served. “How often one is confronted with it in Bath. I had thought we might at least have some different seafood here by the sea, but I am sure Mrs. Armstrong has made the sauce very nicely. Hardly lumpy at all,” she said, poking her fork about with obvious distaste. She took two bites and set her fork down.
“Very likely it is the ferocious wind off the sea that makes the mutton so tough,” was her forgiving comment on the meat.
“An apple tart! How—rustic,” she said weakly when the dessert was served. “I do think it a mistake to serve apples in June. Best wait until July or August, when the first new crop appears. A nice blancmange or syllabub would have suited me better at this time. All that grease in the crust sits heavily on a queasy stomach.”
Before long, the three were installed in the Blue Saloon, where Miss Wantage required a fire to take the “damp chill” off the air. With her woolen shawl tucked around her, she drew out her embroidery, tsked at the vulgar yellows and blues, and asked Beau to thread a needle for her with the last piece of her pale pink thread, for her poor eyes, which could spot lechery a mile away, were worse than useless when it came to threading a needle.
“Now, isn’t this cozy!” she said, smiling at her cousins. “So much better than all the mad dashing about of London. We will get your sallow complexion brightened up in no time, C
ressida.”
The only sound in the room for the next minute was the ticking of the longcase clock in the corner and the snapping of logs in the grate.
“One is hardly aware of the wretched pounding of the sea tonight,” Miss Wantage said, poking her needle into her linen. “I was afraid, last night, that I would never sleep a wink until we got away, but tonight it is not bad at all. I have had Jennet move me from that drafty room facing the sea, Cressida. I am sure it is no odds to you where I lay my poor old head. The yellow room will do nicely, and perhaps the racket from the attic will be somewhat subdued in another room.”
“Whatever you like, Miss Wantage,” Cressida said, although she had told Miss Wantage that very morning that she planned to use the yellow room for company. Perhaps she had forgotten. One must be charitable.
After another moment Miss Wantage cast a reproving look on her youthful companions. “The devil makes work for idle hands, children. Why do you not try a piece of embroidery, Cressida? Time to begin accumulating your hope chest. You never know, you might nab someone yet, as you still have not put on your caps at five and twenty. I donned mine at twenty-one. By that age a lady knows. And you, Beau, can you not stop fidgeting? It is so common. You have not so much as opened the journal you brought from Beachy Head. A gentleman ought to keep himself au courant with what is afoot in the world.”
Beau’s lips clenched. He rose and said, “Excuse me, ladies. I have to write a few letters.” Then he fled the room.
Cressida had no sooner picked up the journal and begun to glance through it than Miss Wantage set aside her embroidery. “Oh, you are reading the journal,” she said in a thin voice. “I had wanted to glance at the court news, but pray do not let me interrupt you.”
Cressida counted to ten and handed over the journal. “I shall get a book from the library,” she said, to escape.
“You will find nothing worth reading there, Cressida. I took a peek in this afternoon while you were out. If you want something to read, I have Hannah More’s latest book of essays here in my sewing basket. Very uplifting, to see someone taking a thought to the evils of mankind. Perhaps you will read it to me while I stitch. Reading maketh a full man.”