“Progress,” he smiled back. “I’m glad for we are much more than friends, aren’t we, Daphne?”
His dark eyes remained intent upon mine, as though endeavoring to lure out secrets. I wished I could hold under such scrutiny, however, I faltered. He was too good looking, too charming, and too practiced, curse him.
“Lady Lara and I are not really engaged. We might have been, if you hadn’t come along.”
“Oh?” I feigned mild interest though I burned to know everything.
“It was our parents’ dearest wish that we one day marry. When Lara’s father became sick at the beginning of this year, she asked me to pose as her fiancée publicly. We intend to keep up the pretense until he passes away.”
“I see. How generous of you.”
“I am not at all generous.”
“You could have mentioned something about her to me.”
“I could have.”
“You deliberately didn’t because…”
“Because I knew you’d be upset.”
He was smiling at me now, warmly. “My dearest girl, how prickly you are! I would have explained at the wedding if you had let me. As it stands, I am despised by your father, and your mother and sisters have daggers in their eyes whenever I encounter them.”
A grimace lurked at the corners of my mouth. I liked the notion of him being uncomfortable. He was always so polished in society, so liked by everyone. It was good for him to endure a dose of displeasure, I decided. “Why do you want to see Ellen? What do you know about Teddy Grimshaw?”
“Questions, questions. If I’m going to answer any of them, you have to spend a few hours in my company.”
I gazed at him askance. My hair was a mess, my dress was atrocious, and I looked and felt ghastly. I had left the house in too much of a hurry to even grab my umbrella. At least, I consoled myself, I had taken Angela’s advice last winter and packed my handbag appropriately, now stocked with all kinds of goodies to use for such occasions.
“Unless you have other transport?”
I almost lied and said I had Mr. Dean Fairchild, a handsome and eligible American, waiting for me downstairs.
“Then it’s not too bad to endure a little time with the man you love touring the countryside—”
“The man I love? You truly are conceited.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I know.” He grinned. “I cannot help it. Or perhaps it comes out only with you. You have a devil of a way of fanning the fires, so to speak.”
“Don’t you have an engagement with your fiancée? Luncheon or something?”
“I do,” he replied back merrily, “but when a better offer comes up, one must take it.”
His gaze lowered as he tilted his head down toward mine almost as though he meant to kiss me. Retreating to the door, I chastised myself for my weakness. I knew this man. His wishing to spend time in my company concealed a motive to find out details. I decided then to see whether he’d try to ask questions on our little outing. Dare I place a bet on it? A thousand pounds he’d try to pry something out of me.
“I don’t suppose Lady Lara and her parents are staying in this shabby inn?”
“Snobby.” He whistled as we descended the staircase. “It’s not at all shabby. It’s charming.”
He waited for me to prompt him. “Well?” I insisted once on the street. “Where is the earl of Rutland residing?”
“In a house.” He grinned, directing me to his motorcar. “In their house. They have one here.”
“Of course they do. Earls have houses everywhere.”
“I wager your Sir Marcus has more houses than the earl.”
“He’s not my Sir Marcus,” I began to say then stopped. Why should I? Why not pretend Sir Marcus and I had something between us?
“He measures every woman against you.” His dry statement accompanied us across the street.
I paused beside the polished Bentley. “Is this your car?”
“Don’t sound so incredulous. Get in.”
It wasn’t until we were blazing out of the tiny village that he said: “No, you are right. It is on loan from a friend.”
“A friend from the Yard?” At his pause, I sighed. “Oh, please. It’s just a car; not a state secret.”
A secret smile eluded his lips. “One never knows with you. You are entirely too nosy.”
“Nosy? I don’t like that word. Inquisitive is better.”
He changed gears. “By the way, I read your story. It was excellent.”
I wasn’t expecting the compliment. “Thank you.”
A wry grin touched his lips. “I picked all the connections. Your inspiration: Rachael Eastley.”
“To begin with, yes, but you will note my widow had her differences. She is more forthright and determined.”
“Traits of yours?”
I shrugged. “Where are we going exactly? I do have a life, you know. I am not entirely at your beck and call.”
“Oh, but you are.” He laughed into the wind. “I have you captive and for a couple of hours or so, you’re completely mine.”
I refused to allow his charms to win me over. “What is it you wish to discuss with Ellen? I am her ambassador.”
“Ambassador! What nonsense. You scarcely know the woman.”
“I know her very well,” I hissed. “Just because we are pen-friends doesn’t mean I don’t know her. In fact, I wager I know her a great deal better than my other friends whom I spend time with on a weekly basis.”
“Ah,” he nodded, “you share secrets.”
“To some degree. There’s a comfort in being a pen-friend. One can write almost anything about one’s life while absorbing another’s. It’s quite…” I stopped. How had he done that? Lured me to talk about Ellen when I’d decided not to?
He realized how annoyed I’d become with the fact and smiled into the breeze.
“I suppose it’s pointless to ask what kind of work you’re doing at the moment?”
“At the moment,” he began, a serious tone to his voice, “at the moment I am working on playing the fiancée.”
“Of course you are. I’m surprised the earl of Rutland approves of you. How many houses to your name?”
“Not as many as Sir Marcus.” He laughed. “And I have it on good authority I’d make a very bad husband.”
“Oh?”
“My godmother says so. I’d like you to meet her one day.”
“That’s very unlikely.”
“Not as unlikely as you think.” He consulted his watch. “We should be there in half an hour.”
“Half an hour!” He had to be joking.
“She lives in a cottage near Tintagel Castle.”
He wasn’t joking.
“I promised her I’d take this future famous novelist to come and meet her. She loves books. In fact, I’ve never seen her without one.”
He went on to list the last few books she’d read and the comments she’d made about them. Half-listening, I tensed in my seat. Why did he want me to meet his godmother? Shouldn’t he have warned me first?
No. If he’d suggested it, I’d have suggested he take his fiancée to meet her. Perhaps he’d already brought Lady Lara here. “What does Lady Lara think of your godmother?”
“She’s never met her.”
“What was she doing today? An appointment with her dresser? Am I a fill-in?”
Suddenly his foot slammed on the brakes.
I hung onto my seat. He looked angry. I’d never seen him look angry before and the vision startled me.
“What will it take for you to believe me? I don’t think you realize what a great risk…” His jawline tightened. “No, you don’t understand. How could you? You’re just a woman.”
“I’m just a woman!” I screeched back, ready to jump out of the car and run down the road. I would have done so if he hadn’t caught my arm. “Let me go.”
“If Lara tells you the truth, will you believe her? What I meant to say was we’re asking a great deal of you to conceal th
e knowledge of our counterfeit engagement.”
“When did she ask you?” I needed to know. I needed to know all the details and make the necessary connections.
“Several months ago. Before I saw you on the Isles of Scilly.”
I counted in my mind every meeting we’d had together and to my dismay, the cards stacked in his favor. Our relationship bloomed at Somner House and turned into something deeper and intrinsically warmer. Ironic, I thought, that it had done so in the throes of winter.
He started the car again and I remained silent. I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to hug the knowledge that he cared for me. More than a friend. More than a passing love interest. He cared for me so much he’d instruct Lara to talk to me. I smiled. I kind of enjoyed that promise … the acknowledgement of my place in Major Browning’s heart.
Did he have a heart? A heart capable of enduring love?
In any case, I refused to consider it today. I intended to enjoy the day.
As we turned into the tiny seaside village, it started to rain. I’d been watching the clouds form above us, hoping beyond hope that it’d hold. At least until this afternoon when I returned to Thornleigh. It could rain all it liked at Thornleigh but now, no, please not now, I begged the sky.
The sky stared down at me, dark and full. “Oh no,” I said, “I’ve forgotten my umbrella again.” What had gotten into me lately? I used to be so prepared, always an umbrella within my reach.
“Will this do?”
Reaching over to the backseat, he pulled out a raincoat. “That will keep you dry until we go inside.”
I put on the raincoat. The sleeves were far too long but that didn’t matter. “What about you?”
He laughed, pulling the hood up over my head. “I’m about to take a morning bath.”
And he wasn’t far from the truth. What had begun as a medium downfall turned torrential. “Maybe we should wait?”
“No.” He encouraged me out of the car. “Head straight for the green door and knock loudly. She’s a little deaf.”
Tucking my bag under the raincoat, I opened the door and hurried down the path to the green door. Only a few meters from the street, the quaint stone cottage beckoned me. A lone plant swung by the painted green door and in the plant rested a little green frog with big eyes.
“She loves knickknacks,” the major murmured, adding one loud thudding knock to my own. “Her house is full of them.”
“I hope she answers soon,” I said, “or we’ll both be drenched.”
As I finished saying it, the door rattled and after a succession of turned locks opened to reveal a middle-aged black-haired woman of extraordinary feature. Ushered inside, I had a chance to study her better as she and the major engaged in an excitable witty repartee. Evidently, she hadn’t seen him for a long time, her strong brow and square jawline softening as she laughed. I liked the sound of her laugh; it was mischievous and engaging and from her short stub nose and probing blue eyes under a thick wedge of ebony hair, she looked and acted like a European aristocrat. It was a classically handsome face more than beautiful.
She smiled when this observation of her looks tumbled out of my mouth.
“And you must be Daphne.” She kissed me on both cheeks. “Welcome, Daphne, to my little house by the sea. You are quite clever. Dare you hazard a guess at which country I come from?”
“Italy?”
“Germany.” Her smile faded. “Of course, Germans are not very popular in England and if it weren’t for my good husband Wilhelm, we might not have survived the war.”
Not caring to elaborate upon this fact, she invited us into her little house by the sea. The darkened corridor lined with a vine wallpaper led us to the heart of the house, a large rectangular room overlooking the ocean. One shuttered window banged open and the sea air drifted up my nose, fresh and exhilarating.
The major went to close the window while I followed his graceful godmother into the tiny kitchen on the right.
“It is small,” she said, “but it suits me. Ah, you see I have a passion for copper. Copper everything and books. That is my life. When Wilhelm was alive, we restored books together. He received his first English commission five years before the Great War. We were in London when war broke out and for our safety we came here.”
“When did Wilhelm die?” I asked, keeping my voice soft and low. Something about this place inspired quiet and solitude. It was a house of peace and reflection.
“He died in the spring.”
Her mouth shut on the subject and I didn’t press her. Had he suffered under English oppression, I wondered, recalling how many of my countrymen harbored animosity against anything German.
“Does coffee suit you, Daphne?”
“She likes it strong.” The major came into the kitchen, plucking three green clay mugs off copper hooks on the wall. “Susanna makes the best coffee.”
“With my tiny little Italian pot.” She beamed. “It is good, if I say so myself. And I have meat pasties and almond seed cake for luncheon.”
“Susanna le chef,” joked the major affectionately.
“I bake and cook a little. My neighbor dines with me. He is a widower also.”
“Ah, a light o’ love?”
Susanna shook her head. “Tommy, you are always thinking along those lines and you have never brought your light o’ loves to me before so this girl must be special.”
She said it so matter-of-factly it brought fresh color to my face. I busied myself carting out the coffee tray to the main room and offering to pour the coffee. To lessen the secretive smile forming on Susanna’s lips, I asked where she kept her books.
“In the reading room,” she replied. “I will take you after, but first I want to know all about you and your family, how you met my Tommy, though he has told me some of it.”
My face turning red, I concentrated on sipping my coffee. He was right. The coffee was excellent. And I liked his strange worldly wise godmother very much. She didn’t miss a thing, taking careful note of all I had to say about myself.
“You have a taste for adventure, no?” she said at the finish. “Ah, you remind me of me when I was young. I used to go riding in the woods for hours and hours. My parents did not approve. But then, they did not approve of much.”
“Susanna’s family disowned her when she married Wilhelm,” the major put in. “She came to England as a bride.”
“My family did not want me marrying a book restorer,” Susanna explained. “Even though he’d received great commissions from the universities to preserve manuscripts and rare books, he was still poor when I married him.”
“Naughty Susanna,” the major clicked his tongue, “you ought to have wed the fat count.”
“Helmut.” Susanna laughed. “How well you remember everything I tell you. He has a brain for storing knowledge,” she said to me, “perhaps you have encountered it?”
“Once or twice.” I smiled, gazing out the window. I could just see the jutting point of Tintagel Castle stretching out to sea. The rain obscured part of my vision but I longed to go out there. It didn’t look like we’d have time today and for once, I did not care. Susanna interested me far more.
After luncheon, when she took me into her reading room, I thought I’d found a piece of heaven. I’d seen many libraries in grand houses in my time yet none of them matched the simplicity and elegance of Susanna’s book room. From floor to ceiling, the room oozed charm, all decorated in warm plum hues. Thick carpet warmed the floorboards and was slightly faded through use, as was the upholstery on the twin set of library armchairs. Solid oak shelves graced two sides of the wall where an antique oval desk with its own embossed green leather writing surface stood empty.
“That is where Wilhelm used to work … it is a pity, I have little use for the desk now.”
“It’s beautiful,” I murmured, touching it before turning to run my fingers along the many titles stacked on the shelves. I loved the desk. I wanted to draw out the chair and pen something upon it
while looking out the narrow window to the sea.
“Daphne is a writer.” The major sashayed around, biting into another piece of Susanna’s delicious almond seed cake. “She’s published.”
“Not novel length,” I added, my face burning.
“Is that what you wish? To become a fiction novelist? What do you like to write about? Drama? Intrigue? Romance?”
“Oh.” At Susanna’s invitation, I tried one of the library chairs. “I don’t know exactly. I love history and I love old houses. I also like books with a darker theme, exploring emotions which aren’t often recorded in popular fiction.”
Lifting a brow, Susanna grinned at the major. “You have chosen well, Tommy. She’s smart. I like her. I like her very much and I do hope you will come and visit me again, Daphne?”
“Yes, I will,” I promised, not realizing how the time had slipped away.
“You are most welcome to come and stay and write on that desk,” Susanna said on parting, the invitation so invitingly warm I thought I just might accept one day.
CHAPTER EIGHT
We arrived back to Thornleigh half an hour late.
“Ellen is very punctual.” I sighed, exasperated with him for he refused to share information with me.
“She’s in mourning,” he murmured, slipping out of the car to open my door. “The world changes when one is in mourning.”
It was true. Ellen’s words haunted my steps to her room. How can I go on without him? How can I? “She loved him and he loved her. The age difference didn’t signify at all. It’s a cruel twist of fate that his heart should have failed him at this time.”
The major said nothing, indicating he knew something. I’d come to know by the slight telltale serration on the left side of his face. It flexed whenever he wished to avoid my inquiries.
Ellen received us in her private study. Thornleigh had two studies, one for the master and one for the mistress. The master’s adjoined the library whereas the mistress’s overlooked the gardens at the back of the house. It was bright and sunny, like a morning room, and Ellen liked to come here in the mornings because the light warmed the room.
As we entered, I could not help comparing Ellen’s study to Susanna’s tiny library. Spacious, one large Geroge III desk with floral inlay and complete with numerous drawers stood in the center, with two small plain cushioned chairs before it. Yellow drapes framed the windows, matching the upholstery of Ellen’s chair and the sunflower painting on the wall. There was also a smaller Victorian ladies’ writing desk in the far corner but it was just for show, not for use.
The Villa of Death: A Mystery Featuring Daphne du Maurier (Daphne du Maurier Mysteries) Page 6