The door was opened by a grimfaced old woman.
“What ye want?”
“To see Mrs. Eastley. Is she in?”
“Who’s askin?”
I paused. “Say…a guest from Somner.”
Her eyes quickened at this—a visitor from the “Big House.” I hadn’t seen much of the island, but I suspected Somner House far surpassed all other residences in the area.
The door closed in my face. Only to swing open again a moment later. Bidden inside by the stern-faced serving woman, I encountered the tiniest parlor I’d ever seen, beautifully decorated with a table bearing fine lace cloth and chairs covered with embroidered cushions. A small fireplace, unlit, glimmered to the left, as did a narrow flight of stairs leading to a second level.
The serving woman disappeared to what appeared to be the kitchen as I removed my hat and gloves. I looked for photographs or other clues as to the life of Mrs. Eastley, but there was nothing in the parlor other than a neat, cheerful welcome.
Low voices resounded down the tiny hall and I held my breath in anticipation. The serving woman burst through the door and behind her appeared the serene face of Mrs. Eastley. Carrying a book in her hands, she set it down on a passing hallstand before indicating we sit at the table.
“Tea, Nanny,” she spoke in a firm but fluid manner.
“Miss du Maurier, isn’t it?”
Suddenly questioning the wisdom of my visit, I nodded. In the falling light, Mrs. Eastley’s radiance cast a welcoming glow into the embers of my story. But did I feel guilty, coming here, partly for inspiration, and partly out of curiosity? No. Quite the contrary.
“I hoped you might come,” she said, lowering eyes that had no right to possess such thick, curling lashes. “Major Browning speaks highly of you.”
I blinked. “I…er—”
She smiled softly. “My husband knew him. He served under him for a time.”
“Oh,” returned I.
“So, it was, in effect, almost a first acquaintance when we met the other day.”
Her countenance turned a mild peach color and I blithely continued my perusal of the room, indulging my imagination.
“I hear you’re a writer, Miss du Maurier. What do you like to write?”
Nanny swaggered in, noisily bearing the tea and cake tray. Her clumsy attempts seemed out of place, like everything surrounding the mysterious Mrs. Eastley.
“Thank you, that will be all, Nanny.” Mrs. Eastley smiled when her erstwhile companion refused to leave.
Mrs. Eastley served the tea. I admired her delicate hands and wrists, hands unscarred by hard labor. I burned to ask questions; however, I replied in answer to hers on my writing, why I’d come to Somner House, and where I lived in London.
“You say your husband served under the Major?” I asked in a blunt manner my mother would have been horrified to hear.
“Yes. Sugar? Cream?”
“Neither, thank you. I confess I’ve come for a visit as you intrigue me, Mrs. Eastley.”
I left my statement open to interpretation and a hint of the peachiness returned to her face.
“Might I ask, is your mother deceased?”
I hated myself for the brutality of my voice, especially on hearing her gracious, unoffending reply.
“Yes. She died many years ago of consumption.”
“And you’ve always lived on the island? Has your father always served at Somner?”
“It’s a hereditary job. My family have always served the Trevalyans.”
I sipped my tea. “Your mother…were her family also islanders?”
“No.”
I lifted a penitent brow. “Forgive me for my rudeness, but I’m curious to learn more about Somner House and the island.”
The apology failed to appease Mrs. Eastley, but she smiled her acceptance, before seeing me to the door.
Chapter Sixteen
It would take time to break down Rachael Eastley’s defenses. I was reticently pensive that evening after my visit to the mysterious widow as Sir Marcus, Mr. Davis, Kate, Angela, and I lingered around the fire. Since Roderick had retired early, Bella no longer found a reason to stay. I think the rest of us felt acute relief at her withdrawal and a casual easiness ensued to the sound of Mr. Davis and Kate humming war time tunes. Sir Marcus, Angela, and I did not know the songs so we opted for a game.
“I daresay I’m rather brain weary for cards,” Sir Marcus confessed. “Can’t it be something a little less…strenuous?”
“Charades,” Mr. Davis suggested, but nobody was in the mood for charades.
“Secret loves?” Kate flashed a smile. “My life is an open book so why should not all of yours be?”
“Pity Bella and Rod aren’t here,” Angela put in, refilling the gentlemen’s brandy and her own glass of wine.
“I only do secret loves with cigars,” Sir Marcus declared, and Kate invited him and Mr. Davis to use the house supply.
“My brother-in-law rarely smokes.” She gave a carefree shrug.
“I don’t think,” I ventured with a smirk, “Roderick and Bella are in possession of secrets.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.” Kate’s quizzical eye scanned the room, watchful for the gentlemen’s return. “Bella’s been in love with her cousins for years. Max told me about it once. Cousin Bella”—a sly grimace lurked at the corner of her mouth—“is possessed of many dark, hidden passions. In truth, I wonder why she stays on…hoping to at last conquer Rod and marry him?”
Angela snorted. “She’s the strangest girl I’ve ever met. What reason does she have to be so secretive?”
“Hidden, dark passions?” Mr. Davis, resuming his seat, tapped the corner of his lighted cigar. “We all have them…and secrets.”
“You?” Kate’s friendly hand nudged his elbow. “You don’t have any secrets. I know you too well. You’re the first to divulge over a glass or two.”
“Little secrets. But big secrets are a very different thing altogether.”
Now he’d intrigued all of us.
“Big secrets, Mr. Davis?” I teased. “Perhaps you are a great artist only pretending to paint ill for our sakes!”
“No,” he returned, “I’m not that gracious. If I were a great artist, I’d…I’d, oh dash it, I’d paint Kate her dream world—to hang on the wall.”
Kate visibly softened at this euphoric statement and Angela stiffened. “Perhaps Mr. Davis has a confession to make?”
“I do.” Standing up, he took Kate’s hand in his. “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember. I admired you before you became Max’s, and when you became Max’s, I slowly fell in love with you. The secret has plagued my soul daily, hourly, knowing I could never act upon it: my best friend’s wife.”
Astonished, yet not so wholly surprised at his wine-induced proclamation, Kate set down her glass and closed both her hands over his. She met him squarely, her eyes searching his, wondering, disbelieving, and flattered. “I don’t know what to say…” The uncertain words echoed through the mausoleum-like silence of the room.
“Say nothing,” Mr. Davis urged. “For my love for you is beyond words.”
I slept well, dreaming of the beauty of Mr. Davis’s declaration. Fit for a novel, yes. Fit for a hero, yes.
But would Kate accept him? Now that she was free to enter another marriage if she so desired? Or would Lord Roderick try to win her hand? Or Josh Lissot, pining away in prison?
She had no want for admirers. They abounded everywhere, some waiting for years for her freedom from her dastardly husband. Lord Rod, for me, would tread cautiously on the subject.
However, since our talk in the tower, I doubted whether he felt any true love for her. Her plight aroused his chivalrous nature; he found her attractive, charming, her personality infectious, but love? No.
Needless to say, when the morning arrived, I had to write. Inspiration burned within, and the skeleton of a novel began to take shape. After jotting down random notes, I sat chewing on the end o
f my pencil. Rachael Eastley was a fascinating subject, she deserved a story of her own. In the meantime, however, I contented myself with finishing a short story. I weaved a mystery element into an ending in which a long-lost love, long thought dead, returns to stop his lover’s wedding.
Proud to have completed what I believed a short fiction worthy of publication, I made a copy and walked into town to mail it off to Punch magazine. I did not tell anyone of my submission; I wanted nobody to know, especially not Angela. I couldn’t endure her mocking criticism if I failed.
When I returned to the house, Angela greeted me in a panic.
“She’s with him right now. They’ve been locked away in the study for hours!”
My growing uncertainty accelerated. “I assume you mean Lady Kate and Mr. Davis? Why should it concern you so desperately?”
“Oh, what would you know!”
Her face became a quivering mess of emotion. This was not my poised, self-assured Angela. She was no longer able to hide her distress from me.
“Whatever it is, you can rely upon me to keep your secret,” I said, urging her to quit pacing the parlor like a lion.
Finally, she wavered, considering, and I saved her from saying the words. “Has, er, Kate ever returned your affections?”
She bit her lip.
I nodded. “Has, er, Kate ever, er, entertained relationships of this kind?”
“Yes.”
I couldn’t say I was shocked. To close one’s eyes to reality served little, and whereas in the Victoria era, when such affairs were regarded worse than a scandalous death, times had changed.
The Great War changed everything as dreamlike, almost blissful innocence seemed to vanish, exposing all the crude rudimentaries of life. I had long suspected Angela of harboring a secret, all the months spent away in the country, never divulging her friends’ names.
Her quick glance surveyed me. “Don’t speak of this to anyone.”
I gave her my solemn promise.
I met Major Browning on my return to our room.
Nearly colliding on the front step, he smilingly dodged me one way. I took the opposite side and the unavoidable occurred, a clash of bodies, minds, and temperaments all at once.
“On the case again? I hope your visit to Mrs. Eastley’s was…fruitful.”
How did he know I’d been there? Too proud to ask, I paused in my ascent up the stairs.
“Like your visit to Mr. Lissot,” he added, standing tall, smart, and roguishly sophisticated.
My chin lifted to an arrogant angle. “Have you come to see Lady Trevalyan?”
“No, actually, I came to see you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you, unless there’s another Miss Daphne du Maurier in the house?”
Not comfortable with the sudden rush of elation at this statement, I managed a polite acknowledgment. He looked fine, and though not prone to sighing like some females of my acquaintance, I softened. My breath shortened, too.
“Why don’t we take a walk? You like to walk, don’t you? It’s where you stumble upon things.”
“Don’t you mean bodies? Please note I did not find Max Trevalyan this time, Major Browning, and I am glad of the fact.”
He nodded, guiding me gently out of the house. “It is not easy to see a body for the first time. Consider yourself fortunate you missed Max Trevalyan on your morning walk.”
“Whoever killed him hated him. I don’t think it was a random act of violence.”
“Nor do I.”
I glanced up ahead. I hadn’t ventured this way before; the new copper and green leaves promised an early spring, the earth was damp from the winter reprieve. I imagined how lovely it would look in a few months, in the height of summer brilliance. Suddenly, it seemed very natural for me to be walking the grounds with Major Browning.
“How are you enjoying your stay at Somner?”
The Major’s low resonant voice caressed my ears. Heart racing, I sought to bring my foolhardy emotions under control. He inspired too much in me. He was a veritable danger. “Oh…it’s…”
We circled an open, untended path. I thought of Jackson and wondered why he’d neglected to tend this part of the garden. Perhaps the wilderness that encompassed Somner House had waged war against domestication just as I waged war against Major Frederick “Tommy” Browning.
Hearing the light laugh betraying my amusement at his chummy nickname, he lifted a caustic brow.
“Do you then…delight in a murder?”
I was horrified at the suggestion. “A preposterous notion, Major Browning. I did not orchestrate these happenings in any form, and I am as innocent as I was in the Padthaway affair.”
He choked out a cynical cough.
“It’s not my fault things drift my way,” I snapped to his thinly disguised insinuation.
“Or perhaps the Daphne boat willingly drifts into them,” he tempered as we completed the path circuit.
I stood still, enjoying the cool afternoon breeze rustling my hair. The house never looked better than it did now, emblazoned by the dull glow of a setting sun, burnt orange intertwined with pale hues of lilac, amber, and muted silver. It appeared almost ancient thus bathed and, standing alongside of me, the Major appreciated the view as well.
“Fernald is releasing Josh Lissot this afternoon…that is why I came to the house.”
Startled, I stared up at him as I remembered Mr. Davis’s declaration of love. Would a duel on the green follow the return of the vanquished lover?
“Daphne.” The Major’s laugh brought me to reality. “This is not a novel, but real life.”
“Yes, yes.” I nodded. “Danger…” Biting my lower lip, I decided to update him regarding Mr. Davis and he listened to everything I had to say with his usual diligence.
“And what are your suspicions in regard to Lady Trevalyan’s current affections?”
Due to my all-too-recent conversation with Angela, I said I did not know. Who could know a woman’s heart? It could turn in a number of directions.
He refused to let me off so easily.
“The Daphne du Maurier I know is never in want of an opinion.”
“And if I do not care to share it?”
He shrugged. “It won’t matter except to deny you the glory if your suspicions are proven correct.”
I studied the slow upward curl of his mouth. “How did you know I’d been to visit Mrs. Eastley? Did you follow me?”
“Unintentionally,” he admitted. “I was in town and I saw you. Did you glean much from the widow?”
“She’s hiding something. Fear perhaps?”
He frowned, reflective. “Fear for her son foremost—”
“Followed by fear of her fierce-beard of a father.”
It was his turn to laugh. I loved hearing the melodious sound; it warmed and humored me.
“I hope”—he hung his head in false humility—“you have forgiven me for my lengthy absence and we are friends again?”
“Comrades,” I put in after a lengthy reprieve.
“Well, then,” he said, proffering his arm, “shall we inform the lady of the good news?”
Neither of us anticipated her gut-wrenching reaction.
“What? Released?” She sat down in the parlor, her movements slow and mechanical. Within moments, Mr. Davis strolled into the room and her countenance fell. “Josh…Mr. Lissot. Fernald’s let him go.” Her huge eyes encompassed the Major. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you…”
“It’s Daphne you should thank,” the Major informed.
“And me.” Sir Marcus wandered blithely in. “Why does everybody always forget about me?” He went on to give Kate a hearty embrace. “There you are, Katie girl. He’s free. Your conscience can rest.”
Bolting out of her seat, Kate sauntered to the far wall. “No, I cannot rest, not until I know the truth.” Her knee overturning a small table, she waved off any comforting attempts. “Oh, dear…my mind is in turmoil.”
“What’s wrong?”
Floating down the stairs, Angela went straight to her and persuaded her to a chair. With all attention focused on Kate, I alone caught the quizzical look in Mr. Davis’s eyes. He was questioning Angela’s attentions to Kate and how it would affect his suit.
I shouldn’t have enjoyed the scene with all its crimes of the heart, but I did. It made for a very intriguing drama in the wake of the murder, and considering Josh Lissot’s return and Mr. Davis’s proposal, one hastened to wonder what would transpire in the next chapter.
Chapter Seventeen
Grateful for the Major’s influence in obtaining Mr. Lissot’s temporary release, Trevalyan invited the Major back to dine at Somner. The dinner meant to serve the double purpose of thanking the Major whilst welcoming a partially exonerated Mr. Lissot. But was he truly welcome now?
Sir Marcus and I debated.
“Davis has put her into a quandary. We’ll have to see which horse comes in first. It’s not always the strongest or most obvious one, you know.”
To protect ourselves from Bella’s eavesdropping, we had decided on an evening stroll. It was cold and I shivered as the sea air whirled around us.
“Should have brought a wrap.” Clicking his tongue, Sir Marcus elegantly slid out of his coat and placed it on my shoulders. I thanked him and told him he was a gentleman.
“‘A gentleman.’ Alas, that appears to be my sad vocation in life. The Gentleman of the Cloak…speaking of gentlemen in general, glad to see you and MB have mended the breach. Had my doubts, I did. The fiercely independent proud Daphne—”
“I’m not proud!”
“Stubborn. You are very stubborn where men are concerned. Your sister told me.”
Annoyed with Angela for once again exploiting the affairs of a younger sister, I determined to set the record straight. “Just because I weigh their words and actions doesn’t mean I am proud or stubborn.”
“Aha. Seeing them all as potential characters, eh?”
“Perhaps,” I admitted. “What else did Angela say?”
Peril at Somner House Page 14