Millicent pursed her lips. “I suppose one can’t expect everyone to appreciate the finer points of these things.”
Porter slurped down his last oyster. “I’m sure you don’t mean me, Lady Millicent.” He gestured to his shell-strewn plate. “As you can see, I appreciate many fine things.” He winked at me, and I smiled back.
Across the table, Joyce frowned ever so slightly, but I ignored it and said to Porter, “I’m so glad that distressing phone call this morning didn’t affect your sport.’
He shrugged as the oysters were replaced with a steaming curry. “Nothing to worry about, just a small business matter. But this is not the place for that sort of talk. Business in the City, not in the drawing room, I always say. I’ve noticed refined ladies tend to find such conversation quite dull indeed, as they should.”
“Oh, don’t stop yourself on my account,” I told him with a sickly smile directed at Millicent. “As we all know, I’m really quite common.”
Across the table, Dunreaven ducked a smile behind his napkin. Something in his eyes seemed to say, “Well done,” but I might have just been imagining it.
“‘Common’ is certainly not a word I’d ever use to describe you, Miss Davies,” was Porter’s oily reply.
“No, no, certainly not,” Beckworth chimed in. “Certainly not.”
“So many gallants rushing to your aid, Astra,” Millicent observed. “Dunny, would you care to weigh in?”
“Miss Davies has plenty of supporters already; I’d only overcrowd the field.”
“You have to be bold, Jeremy,” Joyce urged. “Were you this timid when you were piloting ships? Thank heavens we haven’t had another war.”
“Thank heavens indeed,” Dunreaven agreed. “I prefer a quieter life now. I find it’s much nicer piloting sailboats.”
“You should take Astra sailing. She loves it, don’t you, Astra?” Joyce’s glance screamed, Now’s your chance!
Dunreaven turned an inquisitive look my way. “You sail?”
“I do, but I haven’t been out in years. My grandfather, the vicar, was quite keen and used to take me off to Lulworth Cove. We’d explore the caves and he’d tell me all about the smugglers who used to use them.”
“Family stories?” Millicent suggested.
“Sailing’s in the blood,” I continued, ignoring her. “My father’s people came over on the ships with William the Conqueror.” Father had loved telling that story.
“The last great Davies,” Millicent said, sniffing.
“I sail too,” Beckworth piped up. “Well, I punt, at least.”
“Oh, do you? How lovely! I’ve always wanted to be punted,” Cecilia breathed.
Dunreaven concealed another smile as Millicent hissed, “Honestly, Cecilia!”
“I’d be happy to take you sometime, when you’re next in the neighborhood,” Beckworth offered with his usual puppy-like eagerness. He then glanced over at me, blushed again, and somehow managed to somersault a fork over his left shoulder.
“I used to take your mother punting, my last year at Cambridge,” Caddonfoot recalled, smiling at his daughters. “We’d pack a picnic, and I’d sing to her the whole way to our secret picnic spot.” His smile turned wistful, and he looked off into the distance.
Cecilia sighed dreamily. “So lovely.”
“I bought pearls for my wife,” said Porter, nodding toward Joyce. “Same ones I gave you for your wedding. Seemed to do the trick.”
“And your father, Miss Davies?” asked Dunreaven. “Pearls or punting for him?”
“Neither,” I answered quietly. “It was flowers. Lilies every morning, and something different every afternoon.” The lilies had become a tradition: Mother received her daily bouquet by ten o’clock whenever we were in London.
I saw my mother, giggling and glowing as she received that delivery, only too happy to once again detail every bouquet Father had sent.
“It’s perfect,” she’d say, “because we met at the Chelsea Flower Show.”
Only a year ago, Father had confessed that he’d arranged that meeting after seeing her enraptured by Madame Butterfly at Covent Garden. It was our secret.
“These lovely romantic gestures,” Joyce mused. “Does anyone do them anymore?”
“Surely some do,” said Dunreaven.
“Georgy does!” Belinda piped up. “He’s done the most wonderful things for me.”
“He’s the outlier, then,” Joyce commented. She seemed unaware of the indignant looks David was shooting her. “Although apparently Astra’s got a secret admirer.”
I glared at her as Dunreaven said: “Is that so? How very lovely.”
I looked up sharply and he smiled. A secret, knowing little smile. Of course! How stupid of me not to realize that the naval officer would know Morse code.
“A secret admirer? How thrilling! What’s he done?” Belinda asked.
Joyce had a coy look on her face, and her eyes were moving between Dunreaven and me. “Someone’s been knock, knock, knocking at her chamber wall.”
If she expected something dramatic, she was cheated. The only response from Dunreaven was a mildly interested expression as he asked the nearest footman for more Waldorf salad.
“As I said, it was probably just the wind,” I said. “Or a ghost.”
“Well, we should all be so lucky to have someone make the effort for us, even a dead person,” Joyce sighed.
Millicent didn’t seem to think so: she was practically smoldering.
Caddonfoot roused himself and cleared his throat. “All this talk of romance,” he said in a thick voice. “The young men will be too misty-eyed to line up their shots properly. Gentlemen, what do you all think of moving to the near meadow for the afternoon drive?”
* * *
The ladies were invited to join the afternoon shoot to cheer the men on, but like Toby, I’ve never enjoyed being damp and deafened. Instead, I took a long walk and returned to the house to thaw before tea.
I rang for Reilly and was just taking off my hat when I noticed a torn slip of paper lying on my pillow. Setting my things aside, I reached over and picked it up.
A beautiful head lies here. I dream about it every night.
Behind me, the door opened and Reilly came in.
“Welcome back, miss. Have you had a pleasant afternoon?”
“I have, thank you,” I answered distractedly. “Do you know who this is from?” I held out the paper.
“No, miss. I didn’t put it there. Would you like me to draw you a bath?”
“In a moment. We need to have a talk first.” I tossed the paper onto the dressing table and turned to face her, arms crossed.
But I still had absolutely no idea what to say.
“Yes, miss?” she prompted after a very long silence.
“Well, it’s just … It seems the maid, Emma, has …” I closed my eyes and tried to gather my thoughts. “Reilly, I’ve heard some things about how you’ve been conducting yourself with the male servants here, and I’m afraid it really must stop.”
She looked puzzled. “Miss?”
“Well, really, Reilly, a little flirtation is one thing, but going after three men, all at the same time, is quite another. Inviting them to your room! Your behavior reflects on me, and I do need to think about my own reputation. Just, please, be more circumspect.”
She blinked for a few moments, then said, “Of course, miss. I’m very sorry.”
“It’s all right. Just … please bear all this in mind.”
“Yes, miss. I’ll draw that bath for you now, miss.”
I nodded, pleased with how well I’d handled the matter.
A few minutes later I was happily slipping into the steaming water, letting the heat and the smell of rose oil ease my tension. My mind wandered, skipping from Porter shouting into the telephone to Edgry sneering at me. From columns of numbers in ledgers to Millicent glaring and Dunreaven chuckling. Memories and fantasies jumbled together, and I saw my father smiling fondly at my moth
er when she wasn’t looking and gently brushing a hand over her hair, not seeming to mind that it had begun to thin and lose its luster. And then I imagined Lord Dunreaven skimming his fingers along my shoulders and neck, leaning forward and whispering, “One in a billion,” into my ear, so close I could feel the heat of his breath.
I started, sloshing water over the side of the tub. I must have dozed off. Ivanhoe had nosed his way in, hopped up on a chair beside the bathtub, and was snuffling at my ear. When I came to, he sat back on his haunches and cocked his head, as if to say, “Now what were you thinking of?”
“Can a girl not have any privacy?” I wondered as I hauled myself out of the water and reached for the warmed towel and my dressing gown. I padded down the hall back to my room, with Ivanhoe following; opened the door; and discovered Millicent, in full teatime splendor, standing next to my bed.
I yelped. Ivanhoe whimpered and scurried out. “Did Reilly let you in here?”
She arched an eyebrow. “I hardly need that creature to give me permission to enter a room in my own home.”
“That creature?”
“We need to discuss this maid of yours, Astra,” she informed me.
Oh, dear Lord. I closed my eyes and hastily counted back from ten.
“What about her?” I asked, trying to keep my tone even.
“I’ve heard some disturbing things. Mrs. Bletchett is very upset.”
“Mrs. B—?”
“The housekeeper!”
“Oh. Emma spoke to her, then?” How like Cecilia to have too much faith in someone.
Millicent frowned. “Emma? What does she have to do with this?”
“With … what?” Had Reilly actually managed to put both feet wrong in our first twenty-four hours here?
“The matter with your maid!”
“What matter is that?”
“What does Emma have to do with it?”
“I have no idea, Millicent. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about the socialist propaganda that was found in your maid’s room during this morning’s surprise inspection.” Her eyes gleamed and her nostrils actually flared at the revelation.
I couldn’t believe this. “She’s a socialist as well?” I cried stupidly.
The language did not escape Millicent. Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, as well?”
“I mean … as well as all those other socialists out there. Like the government. Socialists, all of them. Propaganda, you say?”
“Pamphlets,” she hissed. “Several of them. It looks like she was preparing to hand them around. She’s clearly here to recruit.”
“Oh.”
“Is that all you have to say?” She advanced, but I refused to be cowed and stood my ground, wishing there was more between us than a padded satin dressing gown. Plate armor would have been my preference. Millicent paused just a few inches away and drew herself up to her full height, which was just above my own, unfortunately. “I can’t have that sort of thing here. I have to consider the well-being of the other servants, not to mention my sister. They are all vulnerable and impressionable, and this way of thinking is an extremely dangerous road. That maid will have to go. Tonight.”
There was a soft knock, and in came the woman of the hour herself, carrying a freshly polished pair of shoes. Millicent glared at her and made a strange sort of hissing sound before vacating.
“Well, this is just brilliant, Reilly!” I raged as she put the shoes down next to the bed and stood there, looking confused. “Socialist pamphlets? What next? Do you have any other secrets you’d like to share? Are you also the Grand Duchess Anastasia? Do you have the Hope Diamond secreted about your person?”
“No, miss.”
“Do you want to tell me just what’s going on here?”
She paused for a few moments, frowning. Then her expression smoothed out as everything fell into place.
“The pamphlets,” she whispered, bringing her hands up to cover her face. “They aren’t socialist, miss,” she added more loudly a few moments later. She dropped her hands. “I think my intentions have been misunderstood.”
“They definitely have.” I took a deep breath. “Right, let’s go back to the beginning: Is this what you were talking about with the footmen?”
“Yes, miss.”
“How on earth did a housemaid mistake that for flirtation?”
Reilly shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I think she misunderstood my suggestion we all join a movement together,” she explained. “You see, Emma, she’s … well …”
“Bit of an under-boiled egg?”
“You could say that, miss.”
“What movement?” I asked, calming down a little now that at least one thing had been cleared up. “Is that what these pamphlets are about?”
She nodded. “It’s nothing too bad, miss,” she promised. “I’m trying to support—get support—for a petition to overturn the Trade Disputes and Trade Unions Act.”
I blinked, feeling as stupid as Emma. “The what?”
The expression that crossed her face reminded me of a teacher who’s just realized she’ll have to spend a lot of time explaining something basic to an extremely slow pupil. It was a look that said, Lord, give me strength!
“All right, never mind that for now,” I said, not quite ready for this so soon after having been subjected to Millicent’s lecture. “Why didn’t you explain all this earlier?”
“I’m sorry, miss. I just thought it might be easier this way. I thought the matter had been dealt with, and we could just put it behind us.”
I sighed. “We have a serious problem, Reilly. Lady Millicent’s ordered me to send you away immediately.”
Her face instantly went sheet-white. “Oh, miss,” she breathed. She looked terrified, as if she thought I was going to throw her out into the woods in the middle of the night.
I sagged onto the edge of the bed and in a gentler tone asked, “Have you approached others?”
“A few,” she squeaked.
Now it was my turn for the give me strength expression. The clock in the hall began chiming half past three. I sighed. “I have to get ready to go down. This will all have to wait.”
Reilly nodded and went to fetch my tea dress while I rubbed my temples. She paused in her preparations and handed me an aspirin, which I swallowed dry.
“I’m not at all happy about this, Reilly. Nobody likes hearing that their servants are causing disruption.”
“No, miss.”
“I don’t like secrets. You should have told me what you intended to do before you made yourself a political activist,” I added.
“Yes, miss.”
“I’ll have to think about all of this and see what can be done.”
“Yes, miss.”
I turned to the dressing table to fetch a comb. Only then did I notice the note I’d found on my pillow was gone.
* * *
I could feel Millicent’s eyes boring into me even as I listened to Beckworth natter on about every detail of the last drive (he very nearly managed to shoot three more birds) and talked to Belinda about her wedding plans.
The sear of Millicent’s gaze was so distracting it was a relief when her voice finally whipped across the room: “I hope you’ve sent that Bolshevik packing, Astra.”
I turned toward her, prepared for battle. “I don’t think that’s necessary. I’ve spoken with her, and she’s learned her lesson.”
Millicent smirked. “Oh, there’s so much you don’t know about running an important household,” she purred. “Hensley is such a little place, I can’t expect you to know the finer points of managing a large staff.”
“You’re quite right, Millicent,” I agreed. “Our servants were too busy to waste their time gossiping and making trouble.”
Her lips thinned briefly, then stretched back into a smile. “I think all servants need a firm hand. Don’t you agree, Dunny?” She laid a hand on Dunreaven’s arm.
“Now, now, Millicent,” Cecilia placated, fluttering around like a nervous butterfly, “there’s no need to make a scene. It’s not something to get worked up about anyway. It’s clearly just a misunderstanding.”
Millicent glowered at her sister. “It’s difficult to misunderstand socialist propaganda, Cecilia.”
Cecilia reeled. “She’s a socialist as well?”
“Yes, Cee, just like the government,” I swiftly agreed.
She looked completely lost, and now Joyce was giving me a you’ll explain this later frown.
“I say, a socialist,” Hampton murmured. “She’s not going to take us to a cellar in the middle of the night and gun us down, is she?” He laughed shakily at his own joke, but no one else joined in.
“She very well might.” Millicent nodded vigorously. “That’s what they do, these socialists. Murdering their betters in cold blood!”
“I don’t think that’s quite true,” said David. “Don’t most of them just want more equality?”
“How very American of them,” Joyce commented with a thin smile. “No wonder the aristocracy hates it.”
“They want to be handed everything,” said Millicent. “It doesn’t matter if they’ve earned it or not. They want everything taken from everyone else, gathered together, and then handed to them. They’re lazy.”
“What have you earned?” I asked her before I could stop myself. “Did you buy that portrait? Or that chair? With money you earned yourself?”
“I certainly earn my keep,” she icily informed me.
“Yes, so you keep reminding me. Running this household, so very efficiently.”
Cecilia made a frightened little squeaking noise, but Joyce’s eyes were beginning to gleam with delight at the show.
“We can’t all be like you, Astra, putting our feet up and letting other people do the hard work,” said Millicent, glancing at Dunreaven to gauge his reaction. He seemed to be particularly fascinated by the Evening Standard, so she got nothing from him.
“Steady on,” Beckworth murmured.
A Bright Young Thing Page 7