A Bright Young Thing

by Brianne Moore

  “I hope you’ll all forgive me,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean to make an entrance.”

  Millicent laughed throatily as she reached over and twined her arm through his. “Dunny,” she purred with a Cheshire cat–like smile, “you are a naughty thing, arriving so late. You’re lucky we didn’t start without you; we were just about to go through.”

  He turned his attention and smile fully on her, making her simper in a way I hadn’t thought possible.

  “You should have gone. I’m disgracefully tardy,” he said as Lord Caddonfoot joined them.

  “How are you, my boy?” Caddonfoot greeted him heartily with a handshake.

  “Very well, sir. I must apologize for my late arrival. Car trouble.”

  “Poor thing.” Millicent stroked Dunreaven’s arm. “You’ll want a nice hot meal. Shall we go through?”

  He glanced at me once more as she steered him toward the dining room. I hoped no one else noticed my cheeks warming, but Millicent’s eyes narrowed. “Keep away!” they seemed to warn. “He’s mine!”

  Unfortunately (for her) the seating at dinner put me almost directly across from Dunreaven, who was sitting to his hostess’s right. He smiled at me as I sat, and Millicent looked murderous.

  Beckworth popped into the chair next to me and immediately began chattering. “There should be good shooting, I hope. There was last time, wasn’t there, David? Even I almost managed to get something. Of course, David’s much better than I.”

  “Well, Jem’ll give me a run for my money this weekend, won’t you, Jem?” David said to Dunreaven.

  “We’ll have to wait and see,” Dunreaven answered modestly.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll kill the most birds tomorrow. You’re by far the best shot,” Millicent purred.

  “I’m much better at fishing, really,” said Beckworth. “Did I ever tell you about that salmon I caught last year up in Scotland?”

  Dunreaven’s eyes flickered up to Beckworth for a moment, then back down to his plate. He smiled to himself.

  “Do you fish, Miss Davies?” Beckworth asked.

  “No,” I replied, “I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh.” He looked disappointed and seemed at a loss as to what to talk about.

  “Do you shoot?” Dunreaven asked me.

  “I can if I have to, but it’s not my sport of choice.”

  “And what is your sport of choice?” he inquired, leaning in just a little, as if he were actually interested in my answer and not just making polite conversation.

  “Yes, what do you like to hunt, if you can’t stomach blood sports?” Millicent wondered, smirking.

  “I never said I couldn’t stomach them, just that they weren’t my preferred form of recreation,” I responded. “Believe me, I can strike a mortal wound as well as anyone else here, when it’s called for.”

  Dunreaven chuckled.

  “From what I heard, Hensley isn’t much good for shooting or fishing,” Millicent said silkily. “Too small, I think. More of a little family home than an estate. The way Cecilia describes it, it sounds like a nice little cottage.”

  “It’s certainly more than that,” Cecilia protested.

  Joyce flicked a glare Millicent’s way.

  I forced a smile. “Hensley has many charms,” I said, trying to keep my tone pleasant. It wouldn’t do to burst into tears before the game course.

  “It’s such a beautiful place,” Cecilia seconded. “The gardens are lovely.”

  “My mother’s pride and joy,” I managed to force out around the egg-sized lump taking over my throat. I bowed my head, closed my eyes, and tried to imagine that flower slowly unfurling, as Mother had taught me. When I looked up again a moment later, I caught Dunreaven watching. His head was cocked the tiniest bit, eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, as if he were trying to work me out. Goose pimples broke out up and down my arms.

  Millicent looked over at him. Her eyes flashed dangerously.

  “It must be nice to have something that reminds you of your mother,” said Beckworth kindly. “I do so love a good garden. I hope to see it someday.”

  “Perhaps Astra will invite us all sometime soon, to repay our hospitality here,” Millicent suggested in a honeyed voice.

  “I would love to, but unfortunately I have tenants living there now,” I said, a little sharply. “All those memories: I thought it best to get away for a little while.”

  “What a pity,” Millicent drawled.

  I picked up a spoon and lightly tapped “cow” on the table in Morse code. It was a skill Laura had picked up from David and passed along to the rest of us while we were at school. Joyce snorted. Dunreaven’s eyes flickered back up to mine, and a little half smile crept over his face.

  Lord Caddonfoot steered the conversation on to other things. I looked down at the chives wilting in my consommé, swallowed hard, and tried not to think of home.

  * * *

  “Why don’t we have a game of bridge?” Joyce suggested when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room after dinner. “Who’ll play?”

  There were too many volunteers, so we drew cards to see who would play first, and I came up the loser.

  “Bad luck, Astra,” Millicent smirked, taking her seat opposite Dunreaven.

  “No matter,” I said airily.

  “Lucky for us, though,” said Cecilia. “Won’t you play for us, Astra?”

  “If you insist.” I seated myself at the piano and launched into a song.

  “What is that?” Millicent asked a few moments in, her voice thick with disgust.

  “Gershwin,” Dunreaven answered for me. “Isn’t that right?”

  I nodded.

  “Gershwin?” Millicent rolled her eyes. “I might have known music like that would come from a name like that.” She sniffed, shuffling her cards around. “All the music nowadays seems to come from people who are only half a step away from barbarity. Is that noise all we have to offer the world now? What will our descendants think when they look back on what we call culture? Where is our Mozart? Our Chopin?”

  “Our Mahler?” I added slyly.

  Millicent looked suspicions but nevertheless said, “Precisely.”

  “Gustav Mahler was a Jew,” Joyce tightly informed her.

  “That’s a rich bet,” David commented, watching his wife’s play.

  “Don’t fuss—I can afford it,” she replied.

  “Can’t you play something civilized, Astra?” Millicent snapped. “This isn’t a jazz club, you know.”

  If it were, I’d be getting paid for providing the entertainment, I thought acidly, but I obediently segued into my favorite Mahler nocturne.

  “That’s a bit better,” Millicent condescended.

  Dunreaven, now playing as the dummy, set his cards down. He strolled over to the piano and leaned gracefully against it.

  “Astra Davies,” he murmured.

  “Lord Dunreaven,” I returned without pausing in my playing.

  “It’s been a long time. I hardly recognized you without your braids.”

  “Well, little girls have a tendency to grow up. And we get rid of the braids because little boys tug on them.”

  He laughed. “Surely I never did that!”

  “You surely did. And you kidnapped Cecilia’s doll once and made her cry. Cee, not the doll. You and David held her for ransom in some pirate game. The doll, not Cee.”

  “What an awful little boy,” he murmured. “I feel like I should do penance.”

  “You should. Fifteen tea parties and maybe we’ll call it even.”

  He chuckled. “I’d rather something more grown up. Perhaps some dances?”

  “I’m sure Cecilia would be delighted. But you’d have to ask her.” I changed to a light waltz with a cheeky smile.

  His eyes (green, I noticed, with amber flecks) flashed momentarily, and he grinned. “So, what else has changed, aside from your hair?”

  “So many things.”

  “Fortunately, we have all
weekend for you to tell me.”

  “Don’t you have some birds to shoot?” I asked. “And there are other guests here I may want to spend time talking to.”

  His eyes moved toward Beckworth, deep in a conversation about fishing with Cee and Lord Caddonfoot. “You’re right, that was presumptuous of me,” Dunreaven agreed. “I’ll have to work for your attention, then.”

  “Anything worth having takes a little effort.”

  His smile widened, and I very nearly missed a note. “And you think your full attention is worth the effort?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Fishing for a compliment?”

  “Like I said at dinner, I don’t fish.”

  “You know,” he said warmly, “when Joyce and Cecilia talked you up, I thought they must be exaggerating, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” I said, laughing. “What did they say?”

  “Quite a lot about your dazzling wit and charm.”

  “Doesn’t sound like Joyce. Must have been Cee.”

  He shrugged. “It’s possible I’m embellishing from my own observations.”

  “You’re too kind, Lord Dunreaven. I’ll end up being a disappointment.”

  “A disappointment? You could never be a disappointment!” Cecilia cried, plopping down on the bench next to me. “She’s lovely and clever, isn’t she, Jeremy?”

  “Don’t force him, Cee—it’s not fair,” I protested.

  “I can assure you, I don’t need to be forced,” Dunreaven replied.

  “Jeremy, we need you back!” Millicent shrilled.

  “I think I’ll step out, if you don’t mind,” he replied. “Mr. Porter, would you care to take my place?”

  “Then Astra can take mine,” Millicent said, slapping her cards down on the table. “It was a terrible hand, that. Dunny, do be a gentleman and make me forget all about it.”

  “Astra, did you still want to play?” Joyce called.

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, though I was a little disappointed to have to end my time with Dunreaven already. “Excuse me, Cee, Lord Dunreaven.”

  Millicent smirked as I took her seat at the table. She slipped her arm proprietarily through Dunreaven’s and steered him firmly away.

  * * *

  Reilly was just tucking the hot water bottle between the sheets when I returned to my room. I’d left some of the others downstairs, finishing coffees and one last round of cards. Millicent had dragged Dunreaven to the portrait gallery to see a Canova bust of some long-dead relative. They hadn’t yet returned by the time I collected my winnings (enough to cover the staff tips for the weekend, thankfully) and headed upstairs.

  “Pleasant evening, miss?” Reilly asked as she helped me out of my dress, slip, and corselet, and into a nightgown.

  “Pleasant enough.” I sat down at the dressing table and smeared on cold cream while Reilly hung up my dress and began setting my hair.

  “I hear Lord Dunreaven has arrived,” said Reilly.

  “Yes, that’s right. Created quite the stir. Do you know anything about him?”

  “The housemaids say he’s handsome.” She paused to wrap a curl around her finger and pin it tightly to the side of my head. “Mr. Bradbury’s man says his lordship comes from an old family with an estate called Midbourne down in Sussex. His father died in the war, and his mother passed away quite recently.”

  “Oh? Poor man,” I said with some feeling.

  “Perhaps that’s why Lady Millicent’s so determined to make sure he enjoys himself this weekend.” Reilly sprayed the curls with a sugar-water setting solution.

  “How sweet of her to be so attentive,” I remarked sourly. “She truly is all heart.”

  “Yes, miss. That’s certainly what they say downstairs.”

  She straightened everything on the dressing table, setting combs and brushes in rigid rows, like silverware at a state banquet. “Will you be needing anything else, miss?”

  “No, thank you. Could you please come back around seven?”

  “Of course, miss. Goodnight, miss.”

  As soon as the door closed behind her, I reached into the top drawer of the dressing table and retrieved and lit a cigarette. I puffed away while I thought.

  If I couldn’t talk business with Porter, I’d have to work on ingratiating myself instead. See if I could make a friend of him, and then approach. The way he’d been behaving toward me suggested that keeping the line between “friend” and … something else entirely … might be challenging. But then, what was life without a challenge? And what other hope did I have? How much longer would I let those strangers sleep in our beds and spill coffee on our rugs while I moldered away at Aunt El’s?

  I remembered an old school acquaintance once telling me she’d got herself a “sugar daddy.”

  “He’ll do anything for me!” she’d said, laughing. “These sweet old fellows, they love a bit of attention from a bright young thing.”

  A bit of attention: I could give Mr. Porter that.

  I stood, tossing the cigarette into the fire, and strolled over to the bedside table. Cee had stacked a few novels for me to read, and I flipped open the first one. It was the latest Agatha Christie—Murder at the Vicarage. Perfect for a country weekend. Cee’s such a marvelous hostess; she thinks of everything.

  I settled into bed with it and was just getting to a juicy bit when a knock made me jump so violently I kicked the hot water bottle right out of the bed. The strange thing was, whoever it was wasn’t knocking on the door, like any normal, civilized person, but on the wall. It took me a moment to recognize the pattern: Morse code.

  Intrigued, I abandoned the book and pressed my ear against the wall, trying to make out what was being tapped. L-O-V-E-L-Y. I drew away and stared at the flocked paper, wondering who else in the house besides me, Cecilia, David, and Joyce knew Morse. I was fairly certain it wasn’t any of them.

  The tapping stopped, and I rushed toward the door to try to catch my mysterious knocker. But in my hurry I crashed into a table and sent it, me, and six china figurines tumbling. When I stood up, I immediately put my foot down on a doe-eyed boy playing the pan pipes. Cursing and hopping and swearing vengeance on all Crown Derby figurines forever, I gave the pursuit up as lost, retrieved my hot water bottle, and decided it was time to turn in.

  Chapter Four

  Reilly breezed in the following morning at seven o’clock on the dot and handed me a cup of tea. Without so much as a raised eyebrow, she righted the side table I’d knocked over the previous night and began restoring the figurines to their rightful places.

  “I’m sorry about that, Reilly,” I said, feeling ashamed and thinking of my mother scolding me whenever I left things lying about.

  “Servants aren’t slaves, Astra,” she’d say. “They’re not here to wait on you hand and foot. Don’t be so helpless.”

  “No trouble, miss.” Reilly finished with the figurines and moved on to the wardrobe, selecting breakfast-appropriate attire while I drank my tea and steeled myself for the day to come.

  The men would be off shooting just after breakfast, leaving us ladies to entertain ourselves until lunchtime. I could probably duck Millicent for most of the morning, but unless I skipped breakfast, there was no way to avoid facing her over the bacon and eggs: unmarried girls weren’t allowed to have breakfast in bed.

  “So, how are things downstairs?” I asked as I finished my tea and slid out of bed. “Are you all settled in and comfortable?”

  Again with the codes. What I really meant was: Have the others started to trust you enough to share anything useful?

  “Quite settled, miss, thank you.” Reilly paused, then: “Lady Millicent’s maid has been particularly friendly.”

  I gave her a sharp look as she started helping me out of the nightgown and into some lingerie. Her face, as always, was unreadable. “Is that so? Fishing about, is she?”

  “Yes, miss. But I shouldn’t worry, if I were you. She and I seem to
have very similar interests. I believe I could make a friend of her.”

  Well, I thought, as she fastened my all-in-one and pulled a slip over my head, that would be handy. Someone so close to Millicent could provide highly valuable weaponry with which to stock my defensive arsenal. But this sort of move was hardly without risk.

  “Don’t try too hard,” I advised. “We’re only here for a few days, after all. Probably best we keep our heads down instead of encouraging her to strike first.”

  “Of course, miss.” She zipped my skirt and held up a cardigan.

  Once I was suitably suited up, I headed downstairs and was rudely greeted by the sound of Porter bellowing, “That’s not good enough, goddamn it!” into the poor, defenseless telephone. “I need those tires and this is the third time the order’s been late!”

  He paused to smile and wave cheerfully at me as I passed. I returned the greeting even as my brain shifted to panic. Tires? This wasn’t about Vandemark, was it?

  I couldn’t very well loiter, so I swallowed and continued on to the dining room.

  Millicent was already there, helping herself to food at the sideboard. David was making good headway on a heaped plate while, across from him, Belinda toyed with a slice of toast.

  As I poured myself some coffee, I felt Millicent’s gimlet eye boring into me. I pushed my other concerns away and turned to face her with a forced smile.

  “Wearing blue today, I see,” she said. Quietly, so the others wouldn’t overhear. “What a bold choice. Most women steer clear of the colors that make them look sallow.”

  “And yet I see you’re wearing green,” I returned, unable to stop myself.

  She smirked and slithered off, taking the seat at the head of the table. I spared a moment to roll my eyes before collecting some eggs and grilled tomatoes and seating myself next to Belinda. I greeted David with a smile (genuine, this time) as I did so.

  “Morning, Astra,” he said. “Joyce sends her love.”

  “Breakfasting upstairs, I take it? I don’t blame her.” I quickly glanced at Millicent, and David smirked. “Are you excited about the shooting?” I asked him.

  “It’s a perfect day for it,” he replied, nodding toward the sunlit park.