Sheer Folly

by Carola Dunn

  “You were at school with my brother, Gervaise Dalrymple.”

  “Oh, Dalrymple, yes, how do you do.” He didn’t offer her a cigarette, not that she wanted one. He continued, complaining, “Miss Beaufort seemed to think I was the only person who could be spared to fetch your bags from the station, yours and Lady Gerald’s.”

  Daisy decided not to enquire as to why, with such reluctance, he should have done Julia Beaufort’s bidding. “Did you get them? Splendid. How kind of you. You see, Lucy’s—Lady Gerald’s—car is too small to carry all our luggage.”

  “Just large enough to block the drive.”

  “I’ll move it!”

  “Hold on, darling!” Lucy had approached unseen and unheard across the grass, carrying her camera and bag of plates. “Let me get my stuff in first. Hello, Rhino.”

  “Good afternoon, Lady Gerald.”

  “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Running other people’s errands, it seems. I just picked up your luggage at Ogbourne St. George.”

  “How kind. While you’re at it, I left my tripod back there. Would you mind frightfully . . . ?”

  “I suppose not,” he said grumpily, “as I can’t get past till you go on.” He loped off across the grass, the cigarette holder gripped between his teeth.

  “The perfect gentleman,” said Lucy sarcastically.

  “I’d forgotten.”

  “Forgotten what?”

  “Gervaise said it wasn’t just his looks and money that earned him the nickname. The rhinoceros is also noted for its thick skin.”

  Lucy laughed. “He has that all right. But we ought to make allowances for his being disappointed in love.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t you know? He’s crazy for Julia.”

  “Oh, so that’s why he so demeaned himself as to fetch our bags! She persuaded him to.”

  “Probably just trying to get rid of him for a while. Of course Lady Beaufort wants Julia to marry him, but Julia doesn’t want anything to do with him. One can’t really blame her, however rich and noble he may be. I expect he drove them down here—they haven’t a car—and talked the plumber into letting him stay on.”

  “I do think you might have warned me, darling. One needs some mental preparation before being plunged into the throes of someone else’s unrequited love affair. And you must stop calling Pritchard ‘the plumber.’ You’ll slip up and call him that to his face.”

  “No fear. However ghastly he is, now I’m here I’m not leaving till I’ve got some decent shots of the grotto. I just hope it’s all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “You’re not telling me Lady Beaufort has the slightest interest in the grotto. If she’s so determined to catch a rich earl for Julia, what do you suppose has brought them to Appsworth Hall?”

  “That’s easy: a rich plumber’s rich nephew.”

  “The plot thickens,” Daisy remarked with a sigh. “Intended to make Lord Rydal jealous?”

  “Unnecessary. He’s absolutely potty—”

  “Hush! Here he comes.”

  Without missing a beat, Lucy continued in her penetrating soprano: “—about cars. Aren’t you, Rhino?”

  “Aren’t I what?” He bunged the tripod into the Lea-Francis’s dicky on top of the camera and satchel, with a carelessness that made Lucy wince.

  “Mad about cars,” she said through gritted teeth. “Daisy was admiring your Bentley.”

  “Cars?” he said incredulously, lighting another cigarette. “What is there to be mad about? As long as it’s comfortable and clean and runs properly. My man sees to all that. I’d have sent him to fetch your stuff, but he had to get a grease spot off the sleeve of my dinner jacket. Should have been done last night, of course, but he claims he couldn’t see it till he looked in daylight. Lazy as a lapdog. But aren’t they all? It’s impossible to get decent servants these days.”

  Daisy had been working for a couple of years, in a desultory manner, on an article about various aspects of what middle-class matrons called “the Servant Problem.” She was aware of the complexities of the issue and was quite ready to discuss them, but Lucy muttered in her ear, “Don’t waste your breath.”

  “Well, what are we waiting for? Are you going to move your car out of my way or not?”

  Lucy’s withering look, a masterpiece of its kind, had absolutely no effect upon the thick-skinned Earl of Rydal. Her stony silence as she got into the Lea-Francis and pressed the self-starter was equally lost on him, Daisy was sure, although she didn’t deign to look back. However, their glacial pace as they proceeded up the middle of the avenue irritated him to the point of honking his horn again.

  “Rather childish, don’t you think?” said Daisy. “You, I mean. It doesn’t need saying where he’s concerned.”

  “I’m admiring the view. It’s a splendid building, isn’t it?” Lucy slowed still more, and the Lea-Francis stalled.

  She got out, folded up one side of the bonnet and peered inside.

  Rydal stormed out of his Bentley. “What the deuce is the matter?”

  “I’m not sure. How lucky you’re on the spot. Perhaps it would start if you crank it for us.”

  “Why don’t you crank it yourself?”

  Lucy sighed. “Gallantry is dead. Never mind, we’ll just sit here until your man has cleaned that grease spot, then no doubt he’ll be able to repair whatever’s wrong, since he takes care of yours.”

  “Good lord, he doesn’t do the mechanical stuff himself. He takes it to a garage. In town.”

  Lucy turned a glittering smile on him. “What a pity. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you push us up to the house?”

  His mouth dropped open. “Push you? Me?”

  “It’s a small car. I don’t expect it will be too heavy for a big, strong chap like you. Daisy, you don’t mind walking, do you, to lighten the load, while I steer?”

  “Not at all. But I have a better idea. Why don’t I drive the Bentley, then Lord Rydal won’t have to come back for it after pushing you up the hill.”

  “What a good idea,” Lucy said approvingly. “You drive almost as well as I do. You probably won’t do it too much harm.”

  “I’ll do my best, and he did say he didn’t much care about it. If you’d just show me which pedal is the brake, Lord Rydal, then—”

  “No! No, no, no! I won’t have you driving my car. I didn’t say I don’t care about it. I just said I’m not crazy about cars. In general. But I won’t let you drive my Bentley. I’ll tell you what, I’ll drive it and push yours bumper to bumper, Lady Gerald.”

  “Not on your life! You’d probably step on the accelerator too hard and run right over me. I’ll give it another go.”

  The Lea-Francis started at the first try.

  “Miraculous,” Daisy commented, as they rolled onwards. “How did you stall it?”

  “Simple. I just shifted up to top gear and took my foot off the clutch. Don’t tell me you didn’t stall a few times while you were learning to drive.”

  “Of course, but I’m not sure I ever really worked out what I did wrong, just learnt to do it right. Well, honours even, I should say, but definitely childish.”

  “At least I pierced that insufferable shell of complacency, however briefly. Besides, you did your bit. That was a neat touch, asking him which was the brake.”

  “Yes, that’s all very well, but I do hope you’re not going to spend our time here sniping at him.”

  “Hardly, darling. We have work to do. It was a perfect demonstration, though, of why we mustn’t let Julia weaken. Lady Beaufort’s the sort who still believes parents can tell their daughters whom to marry.” Lucy stopped the car in front of the portico. “Here we are.”

  They got out. As the Bentley swept past them and disappeared round the side of the house, Lucy retrieved the tripod from the dickey and handed it to Daisy. She shouldered her precious camera herself and heaved out the satchel of plates.

  “Do you suppose the plumber will
provide someone to garage the car for me, and bring in the rest of our stuff?” she added plaintively.

  “If not, I’ll do it,” said Daisy resignedly. She had been worried about her friend’s attitude to Mr. Pritchard. Apparently she was going to have to protect Lord Rydal and Lady Beaufort from Lucy’s scheming, too. She rather hoped Alec would be able to come down for the weekend to lend a hand.

  THREE

  A very proper butler admitted Daisy and Lucy to the hall.

  “Mr. Pritchard’s chauffeur will convey your ladyship’s motor to the garage, my lady,” he assured Lucy.

  The grand staircase, black-and-white chequered marble floor, and pillared niches in the walls were just what one would expect to find behind the classical façade. However, Mr. Pritchard was clearly not bound by tradition. Illuminated by electric wallsconces, the cold stone of the floor was half hidden by a broadloom Axminster in green and gold chequers, and, instead of marble gods and goddesses, the niches held a selection of ewers. These ranged from white china decorated with forget-me-nots and rosebuds to elaborate gilt-rimmed porcelain with scenes from classical mythology. Gods and goddesses in fact, Daisy thought, amused—as well as reminders of the days before modern plumbing.

  “At least, no chamber-pots!” Lucy hissed in her ear. A modern career-woman she might be, but like Queen Victoria, she was not amused. She instructed the butler in the proper handling of her camera equipment.

  A short, spare, grey-haired man in a navy pin-striped suit came bustling through a door on the right side of the hall. He greeted them with a cheerful smile.

  “You must be Lady Gerald and Mrs. Fletcher.” He spoke the King’s English with a slight Welsh intonation. “I’m Brin Pritchard. Very pleased to meet you, I’m sure. And I’m delighted my grotto’s going to be in your book.”

  Lucy muttered, “How do you do?” without offering her hand.

  “We’re looking forward to seeing it, Mr. Pritchard,” Daisy assured him, shaking his hand. “It’s very kind of you to invite us.”

  “Not at all, not at all. I had a marvellous time restoring it to its old condition, or maybe even just a bit better, and I like to show it off. I wish you’d been able to arrive in time to see it in daylight this afternoon. Barker,” he said to the butler, “bring a fresh pot of tea. Or perhaps you young ladies would prefer a cocktail at this hour?”

  Regarding her host with a somewhat more kindly eye, Lucy declared that a cocktail would exactly fill the bill, while Daisy opted for tea.

  “I expect you’d like to powder your noses before you join us,” Pritchard suggested, adding with an air of gallantry, “not that I mean to suggest your noses need powdering. The cloakroom’s just through there, first door on the left.”

  As they followed his directions, Lucy said, “Thank heaven he didn’t offer to demonstrate the plumbing!”

  “I wish you’d stop expecting him to drop a brick. I think he’s rather a nice little man.”

  When they returned to the hall, the butler, Barker, was waiting to usher them into the drawing room. It was a large room, furnished with an eye to comfort and cheerfulness. The only sign of plumbing was several radiators, augmenting with their welcome warmth the fire crackling in the Adam fireplace. The delicate plasterwork of the mantel was complemented by the ceiling’s wreathes, rosettes, and ribbons. If Mr. Pritchard had been tempted to embellish these with depictions of urns, fountains, or other evidence of his trade, he had resisted the temptation. The walls hinted of watery influences, however, being papered in willow-green with a slight sheen, narrowly striped in pale blue.

  Pin-striped, in fact, Daisy thought, as their equally pin-striped host bounced up from a easy-chair and came towards them. He must be in his mid-or late-fifties, she thought, but he was as spry as a man half his age, and his hair, though grey verging on white, was still thick.

  “Come in, come in do, come to the fire and get warm. Let’s see, now, you know Lady Beaufort, don’t you, and Miss Beaufort? A reunion of old friends. What could be better?”

  Sir Frederick Beaufort’s widow, a large stately woman in forest green, seated at the fireside, gave a small stately bow, but her smile was friendly. “Lady Gerald, Mrs. Fletcher, how pleasant to see you again. Julia has been looking forward to your arrival.”

  “I have indeed,” Julia said warmly. “Hello, Lucy. Daisy, it’s ages since I saw you.”

  “Years,” said Daisy. Seven years, since her father’s funeral in 1919. What with the death toll of the War and the influenza pandemic, which had killed Lord Dalrymple, his funeral had not been well attended, but Julia had been there.

  They had not been particularly close friends at school, in spite of both being fonder of books than sports. Julia had been shy, at that age a crippling affliction, one that Daisy never suffered from. Julia had been cursed with spots, while Daisy’s Nemesis was freckles, much easier to live with. And though Daisy had never attained slimness, and now likely never would, Julia in her teen years had been positively pudgy.

  But Julia, in her late twenties, had emerged from her chrysalis and was absolutely stunning. Her hair could have been described as spun gold without too much of the usual gross exaggeration. Worn in a long bob, it framed a spotless peaches-and-cream complexion with no need of powder or rouge. Without being rail-thin, she was slender enough to look marvellous in a silk teadress in the still-current straight up-and-down fashion, with hip-level waist, which Daisy had hoped would die a natural death long since.

  Daisy looked at her with admiration and envy. The envy faded as she reminded herself that despite her own unmodish figure and merely light brown hair, worn shingled, she had Alec, whereas Julia apparently faced a choice between a rhinoceros and a plumber’s nephew.

  Not that Daisy had anything against plumbers.

  Mr. Plumber . . . Mr. Pritchard, rather, next introduced a short, tubby woman, sixtyish, her coils of white hair sternly confined in a net, her plumpness sternly confined in a black frock embroidered with jet beads. “My sister-in-law, my late wife’s sister, Mrs. Howell, who keeps house for me.”

  “Acts as your hostess, Brin!” Mrs. Howell hissed crossly. Any hint of Welsh in her voice had been carefully obliterated. “You’ll be making the ladies think I’m the housekeeper. I’ve been acting as Brin’s hostess since my poor sister went to her reward, Lady Gerald. How do you do? My husband was Brin’s partner, you see.”

  “Partner?” Lucy enquired languidly, as though she had never heard the word before, though Daisy was pretty certain Gerald was a partner in a City firm, something to do with stocks and shares, as well as sitting on numerous boards.

  “Business partner,” Mrs. Howell elucidated.

  “Sleeping partner,” Pritchard corrected her mischievously.

  “Owen’s your Managing Director!” she snapped.

  “My dear Winifred, you were talking about Daffyd.”

  Short of an actual yawn, Lucy could hardly have shown her lack of interest more clearly.

  To compensate, Daisy said, “I’ve always wondered what a sleeping partner is exactly. Presumably not one who comes into the office, puts his feet up on the desk, and slumbers away the day?”

  Pritchard laughed. “Indeed, he doesn’t usually turn up at the office at all, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s what we call someone who invests in a private business without taking part in the running of it. Daffyd Howell was—”

  “Really, Brin, I’m sure the ladies don’t want to hear about the business.”

  “Daisy’s a writer,” said Lucy. “Writers are interested in the most unexpected subjects.”

  “Later, perhaps,” Daisy suggested. Not that she was particularly interested in the financial arrangements of Pritchard’s Plumbing Products, but she didn’t like the way Mrs. Howell had snubbed her brother-in-law.

  “Just say the word.” He gave her a cheerful wink. “Your tea will be here any minute, Mrs. Fletcher. Now, what can I get for you, Lady Gerald?”

  “Gin and It, please.” Lucy followed him over to
a huge oak Welsh dresser, beautifully carved. It had been converted into a drinks cabinet. The shelves were crowded with bottles, decanters, and glasses. One side of the top of the base section lifted to reveal a small sink—with running water, of course, given their host’s business—and the cupboard below concealed an ice chest.

  It was very neatly done, without spoiling a splendid piece of furniture. Daisy considered it vastly preferable to the current fad for glass and chromed stainless steel bars.

  “Anyone else for a cocktail?” Pritchard invited, pouring Lucy’s drink.

  “I wouldn’t mind a pink gin,” said Julia, going to join them.

  Mrs. Howell muttered something disapproving about it being much too early for drinks.

  Lady Beaufort said soothingly, “Young people today are very different from the days of our youth, aren’t they?”

  Though Daisy thought it was very kind of Lady Beaufort, who surely could have given the other a good decade, Mrs. Howell didn’t appear to be mollified. “Not so young, neither,” she snapped.

  “Old enough to decide for ourselves what we want to drink,” Daisy commented, “though the three of us are too young to vote for a couple of years yet.”

  “Why women want to vote I simply can’t see,” Mrs. Howell declared. “One thing I’ll say for Brin, he’s stuck by Mr. Lloyd George through thick and thin. So what need have I for a vote?”

  Daisy refrained from pointing out the fallacy in this argument. “Ah, here comes my tea,” she said with relief.

  Lord Rydal came in just behind the butler. He made a beeline for the drinks—or was it for Julia?

  “I fetched your friends’ bags from the station, Miss Beaufort,” he told her irritably, jabbing with his cigarette holder towards Lucy. “But I still don’t see why one of the servants couldn’t have gone. Slackers!” he said to Mr. Pritchard. “You should give them all notice.”

  “But . . .” Pritchard caught Julia’s alarmed eye and continued with a look of enlightenment, “but the only one who can drive is my chauffeur, and it’s his afternoon off, I’m afraid. Sorry, Lady Gerald, I ought to ’ve changed his day.”