by Amy Myers
“Beg pardon, but it’s happened, your lordship,” he groaned. “I thought you ought to know.” There was a long pause.
“And what’s that, my good man?” Lord Arthur belatedly remembered he was lord of the manor again today.
“’Tis the battle, sir. Once every ten years they do come.” Bert raised his voice, determined no one should miss that. “The smugglers.”
“Call the police,” Richard Waites suggested practically-
“No sir, ’tis ghosts. Can’t arrest ’em.”
“Ghosts'?” Belinda repeated, very interested.
“They won’t do outsiders no harm,” Bert explained hastily. “Anyone can watch,” he suggested. “The old Preventive do catch up with them old smugglers, that’s the Hawkhurst gang o’ course. Villains down that way, they are.”
“And what happens in this battle?” Gertrude demanded.
“Well, madam,” Bert was only too eager to tell her. “’Tis said, the smugglers rolled all the barrels out of sight. Only one were forgotten and the Preventive found it. It were prize brandy and so it were fought over.”
“With guns?” shrieked Louisa, swaying dizzily on her feet as if to swoon, in the hope His Majesty would support her. He didn’t.
“Oh no.” Guns, even ghostly ones, would not find favour with Special Branch, Bert had realised. “’Tis a rare sight, though.”
“Do let’s go, Arthur.” Gertrude issued it as a command, not a request.
Mindful of etiquette, Arthur consulted his principal guest.
“My partner’s feet are scarcely shod for ghost watching,” His Majesty replied good-humouredly, seeing an excellent chance for a tête-à-tête. He knew all about Eleonore’s footwear from explorations under the table with his own. “I’ve no objections to you all going though,” he declared firmly. “Better take my detectives with you too. You never know these days. Assassins disguise themselves as all sorts of things, eh, Didier? Even ghosts.”
Auguste managed to laugh, conscious of Gregorin nearby.
“Come, Arthur,” Gertrude cried in excitement. “You never know, perhaps we’ll find all those missing barrels.”
“Them old smugglers,” Bert put in hastily, “rolled all them old barrels into the lake, and there, for all I know, they still do lie.”
Arthur saw an opportunity to play St George. “I’ll see you’re in no danger, Gertrude. Tudor, organise some lanterns and candles, will you?”
“Do hurry,” Gertrude cried, “or they may be gone!”
“I doubt that, madam,” Bert assured her.
Once outside, Gertrude, declaring it was bad luck to hold her fiancé’s arm the day before their wedding, elected Auguste as a substitute. He was glad, for it took his mind off the uncomfortable facts that Gregorin was behind him, and the night was very dark. Ghosts in front were preferable to Gregorin behind, and the statistics of murder by ghost were comfortingly non-existent.
The party included Louisa, who reluctantly abandoned His Majesty to Eleonore — since she had no choice — and clung in compensation to Horace’s arm. Bert led them all to the edge of the copse from where, emanating out of the more thickly wooded area, oddly muffled and withdrawn sounds could be heard. Auguste’s neck suddenly felt vulnerable not only from behind but with prickles of sudden fear lest he had underestimated what lay in front.
“’Tis best not to go nearer,” Bert whispered hoarsely to his flock, “or they do vanish.”
Gertrude’s clutch on Auguste’s arm suddenly intensified and she failed to restrain a yelp as ghastly glowing figures could indeed be seen flitting to and fro in the trees. Every so often a mournful remote, ‘Avant ye knaves’, could be heard, or ‘have at thee, then, scurvy rascals’. Had it not been for the events of the last twenty-four hours, Auguste would not have believed any of it (he told himself). As it was, “Do you think they are real, Miss Pennyfather?” he asked cautiously.
“What is real, Mr Didier?”
This philosophical concept brought their conversation to an end. Auguste listened to the squeals of the rest of the party, praying for silence. In such a hullabaloo Gregorin could slip a dagger between his shoulder blades at any moment with impunity. His cries would not be heard. Finally, he could stand it no longer.
“At midnight,” Bert shouted, “it do stop.”
No doubt, but Auguste was going now. He relinquished Gertrude to Richard Waites, and murmuring about seeing to the ices turned to slip thankfully away. He found himself face to face with Gregorin, who looked as shocked as he felt.
“My dear Didier, do forgive me. I mistook you for Arthur Montfoy.”
Auguste murmured something, slipped past him and broke into a run towards the security of the kitchens. Had he not from behind have resembled Lord Montfoy and been with Gertrude, he would now be dead. Of that, he was sure.
In the kitchens, surrounded by stalwart normality, he worked on, gradually calming down — until Mr Tudor came in, roused from his bed. “A telephone call for you,” he snarled. His voice was having a hard job maintaining perfect butlerdom.
That it was Tatiana was Auguste’s first thought, but it was not. It was Egbert Rose, and he was laughing. “You can have a good night’s sleep, Auguste. Entwhistle is away, but lives in the Place Vendôme. Gregorin is safely in Paris, tucked up in his home in the Avenue Vandyck. Chesnais has seen him.”
*
Glamour! Jenny had been right: the fairies could cast a spell over human eyes to make them blind to their mischievous activities. Auguste sank down on the silken white counterpane of his bed, hastily added by Mrs Honey after the revelation of his exalted status. He must indeed have been subjected to some kind of spell, if so much could deceive his normally sharp perceptions. If only Egbert were here … someone to talk to. He remembered Eleonore and then her invitation. There was little doubt about its meaning, he was forced to admit. He was a married man, said horrified conscience. Yes, but just to talk could do no harm, snapped reason. But what if Eleonore had more in mind than a midnight chat, wailed conscience. The king’s life and welfare must come first, decreed reason. And his own, it added. Reason immediately won, and pointed out that as tomorrow (or by now today) was the wedding day, Auguste should go now. He had no choice. His halo firmly wedged in place, he crept down the servants’ staircase to the corridor leading to the lady guests’ rooms.
Reason congratulated him on his decision as he saw the plate of sandwiches outside Eleonore’s room, a signal familiar to him from his days at Stockbery Towers. His hand went to the door to knock very gently before entering. Something made him glance down. Surely not? Were his eyes deceiving him? A bone was coyly emerging from the quail filling of the sandwiches. A bone! From a kitchen that was temporarily under his control? The focus of attention in Auguste’s body promptly shifted from his lower to his upper regions as he reeled in horror. This must be checked immediately. He picked up the plate, and hurried back the way he had come. It would take but five minutes. His conscience breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a narrow escape.
It had indeed. As Auguste turned left towards the servants’ stairs, he was aware of a candle advancing from the right, towards the corridor he had just left. Quickly, he stepped into an alcove, occupied by half a Greek torso, until the coast was clear once more. The night’s horrors were not yet over. Turning the corner was a familiar portly figure who had obviously escaped from his two detectives.
Auguste looked desolately at the plate of sandwiches in his hand. They had been for Cousin Bertie and not for him. A mixture of emotions seized him, jealousy, relief, annoyance — and considerable trepidation as to what would happen when His Majesty failed to find his signal awaiting him. Just as he was about to make a rush for the servants’ staircase, he realised someone was following His Majesty. A candle was zig-zagging along the corridor. He froze. A detective? If so, how could he explain his own presence? As the figure turned the corner, he relaxed, however. It was a woman, clad in a flowing house coat, hair down her back. It took h
im a moment or two to recognise the Dizzy Duchess in pursuit of her lost love.
The ramifications of this novel twist were too great to contemplate. Auguste ran for the stairs, sandwiches clutched safely to him. Losing all interest in bones, he found himself in the safety of his own room, still with the sandwiches. And there they stayed, as he dived for his bed. With the covers over his head, the horrors of the day and the fears for tomorrow might be forgotten in sleep.
But sleep was some time coming. Below his window, the haunting sound of ‘Greensleeves’ being sung and played outside the bride’s room beneath, drifted up to him. Bert Wickman, dressed in wrinkly green tights, doublet and Robin Hood hat, was doing his best.
Chapter Four
“Dabbling party this way, if you please.” A bleary-eyed Stuart Tudor, unaccustomed to having to adopt his perfect butler’s manner at dawn on a May morning, sounded more like a lift attendant in Whiteley’s store. The party obediently followed him to the bootroom, where the lampboy had laid out an assortment of Wellington boots, galoshes and heavy mackintoshes to protect the ladies from the dire effects of dew.
“What are these for?” Gertrude, leader of the party, was as bright-eyed at four-fifteen in the morning as at midnight.
“The fields are wet at dawn, miss.”
“That is the purpose of dabbling,” she explained briskly. “I can’t dabble in Wellington boots. One has to dance barefoot.”
Mr Tudor had never danced barefoot himself but if Americans wanted to do it, let them. He said no more.
The party in fact was very small, consisting merely of Gertrude, her maid (unwillingly) and Bluebell, the latter still in search of any last-minute inspiration that might prevent this marriage. The scorned galoshes were, however, reluctantly donned, as even Gertrude did not relish the prospect of strolling barefoot in the dark over the Farthing Court gravel and gardens to the allotted dabbling ground in the Great Meadow. Just as they were leaving, escorted by Mr Tudor and the lampboy bearing lanterns, there was a last minute addition to the party. Richard arrived, clad in plus fours, long socks and Norfolk jacket.
“What are you doing here, Richard?” Gertrude was annoyed.
“I’ve come to dabble.”
“You know very well that won’t do. You’re a man.”
“Observer?”
“No, Richard.”
“Do let him come, Gertrude,” Bluebell pleaded, spotting an ally. “I’m sure it’s not bad luck if gentlemen come too.”
Gertrude hesitated. “But Arthur — ”
“Bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding,” Richard cut in quickly.
She surrendered. “Very well. But you are to take it seriously, Richard.”
“Of course.”
In the meadow, Bessie Wickman was shivering with her party of dabbling village maidens, who were painstakingly sprucing up the fairy rings they’d planted yesterday. Dew there was in plenty. Bert, who had never known Bessie get up before nine o’clock, in their long married life, promptly regretted having assigned the ceremony to his wife, and the morning had begun with an argument, in which Bessie had pointed out that she rarely presented her person to her many lovers in wet fields at dawn and that therefore Bert had no cause for concern.
Her black hair streamed down her back; a bright kerchief and shawl surrounded her neck, and a red petticoat peeped from under her black skirt. She flattered herself she looked an attractive village maiden, and summed up Richard Waites’ potential with some enthusiasm. However, immediately sensing that Richard’s interest was in Gertrude, and almost as quickly deciding that the sudden scowl on the girl’s face was caused by it, she set herself out to charm madam’s little sister. An idea occurred to her, and she was glad she had taken the trouble to acquaint herself with Jacob’s full repertoire of new Frimhurst legends.
Although it was growing lighter, the sun was showing no signs at all of bursting forth as it should surely do on an English May Day, and it was decidedly chilly, Gertrude refused to regret the scorned mackintoshes, and bravely followed suit when the village maidens began to remove their footwear to reveal an assortment of rather unattractive knobbly feet. Glad she had had the sense not to wear stockings, she tried to ignore Richard’s presence. “Hurry, Bluebell.”
Her sister gingerly began to roll down her stockings.
“You shouldn’t be here, Richard. I’m sure it’s bad luck, isn’t it, Bessie?”
“Not that I’ve heard, ma’am.”
Bluebell decided to change allies. She had liked Richard when she first met him, but now he might prove a problem. Even if the wedding could miraculously still be called off, it appeared all too likely that Gertrude would remain in England, and probably with Mr Waites. Harvey Bolland, Bluebell concluded, was no competition. Bother these Englishmen. Perhaps the best thing would be for Gertrude to marry Lord Arthur, and then decide she preferred to live in America. But how was this to be achieved? With Farthing Court to live in in England, she’d never come back home.
“Go on,” urged Richard, as Gertrude hesitated to join the village maidens, now holding hands and dancing in a circle. “Dabble.”
Gertrude cast him a scathing look and broke into the circle, hauling Bluebell after her.
“Drop hands and dabble, ladies,” Bessie trilled. “Hold your skirts up, madam.”
Sneaking a look at her neighbours to see how high ‘up’ implied, Gertrude, doing her best to forget Richard’s presence, lifted her skirts above her ankles, and found the experience rather enjoyable.
“Mind the worms,” Richard called.
Gertrude lifted her head higher and stamped even more energetically.
“Now, hold hands again, ladies,” came Bessie’s dulcet tones. “’Tis time for our wishes.”
“For what?” Bluebell asked.
“For future husbands.”
Bluebell shut her eyes and imagined a gentleman called Percival who would gallop out of the mists like Sir Lancelot in her book of stories of King Arthur and wouldn’t even notice that she wore spectacles and had one or two spots. Gertrude tried hard to think of Arthur.
Bessie ducked into the centre of the circle and proclaimed solemnly:
Blessed be the bride that treads underfoot
The buttercup and daisy root,
Cursed be he whom old Herne holds fast
The bride must weep till the night be past.
“What does that mean?” Gertrude asked sharply.
“Who knows, miss?” Bessie looked mysterious. “The meaning’s lost in the mists since time out of mind. But I reckon it has something to do with Jacob’s story, don’t you? If there be a wedding at Farthing Court, the lord of the manor must go to ask Herne’s permission before the two are bedded.”
Gertrude said nothing, but observing her suddenly white face, Richard came up to her, and too her arm. “Does that mean I should tell Arthur to go to seek Herne’s permission? He’s both bridegroom and lord of the manor.”
The muscles in Richard’s face struggled to retain his usual imperturbability and not the spasm of jealousy that forced itself on him so suddenly and ferociously.
Bessie shook her head gravely.
“It means nothing, Gertrude, it’s just gibberish.” He sincerely hoped it was, but he didn’t like that smirk on that woman’s face as she recited her drivel.
“Perhaps I should go too?” Gertrude was still worried.
“Have you had breakfast?” was all he replied, as he walked with her back to the house.
“Of course not.”
“Then let us hammer on the green baize door and insist on sustenance; it is by far the best remedy to make fairies disappear and turn legends into mere stories.”
Ahead of them, Richard noticed Bluebell walking with Bessie, with whom she seemed to be in earnest discussion. He had the impression that Bluebell was as eager for this wedding to be called off as he was. But what could one young girl and one village woman achieve? Nothing, unfortunately, despite all the
spells and rhymes in the witches’ calendar. Or could they? For all the practical common sense that kept his feet on the ground in London, here in the country, he was beginning to sense there were forces at work that might metaphorically be sending him flying through the air with the ease of a Peter Pan in Mr J.M. Barrie’s new play.
*
Most of the ladies chose to breakfast in their rooms, in order to conserve their strength for the vast ordeal ahead of them: dressing in a suitable fashion to be viewed (if one were lucky) by His Majesty. This tended to be an energetic process, from being strung into one’s corsets to having one’s hair tweaked painfully into submission for reception of one’s hat, and dabbling in the dew was not part of it. Two of the few ladies who decided otherwise, and chose to appear at breakfast were Eleonore and Louisa.
The duchess, Eleonore could not help noticing, looked extremely smug. Eleonore was mystified as to the reason her own plans for the preceding night had gone awry. The plate of sandwiches had most certainly been placed there, and had then disappeared. Why had it been taken away and by whom? Or had the plate languished there until a housemaid removed it early this morning because no one had accepted her invitation? No, Eleonore could not believe that. She was not a vain woman, but she knew her own strengths and powers of attraction. She looked at the duchess more carefully. Those flushed cheeks suggested guilt, and, what’s more, a delightful night. Why guilt? There could only be one reason. Her Grace had acted most disgracefully, ignoring all the rules of polite behaviour, and removed the plate of sandwiches herself. Not from hunger, but from jealousy. She looked at the duchess’s face, which boasted fifteen more years of life than Eleonore’s, and tried to feel sorry for her. She failed. She was still furious, and something must be done.
She smiled sweetly as she helped herself to kedgeree. “I am so looking forward to the ball this evening, aren’t you, Your Grace?”
“Indeed, I am. What more delightful than to circle in the arms of a gallant and noble gentleman.”