* * *
I met Laura and Joyce on their way to the tennis court, as I was returning to the house.
“Ahh, here she is.” Laura’s eyes twinkled wickedly. “I hope you had fun and behaved terribly. I’ll want a full report later. Onward, Joyce.”
“Astra, your lawyer telephoned and said it’s important you telephone back immediately,” Joyce said as Laura dragged her off. “Hurry up and come save me!”
Without waiting to change, I telephoned the lawyer, wondering what fresh hell I was about to face. Or maybe there’d been a miracle, and Vandemark Rubber had suddenly turned around. One could hope!
“I’m glad to hear from you, Miss Davies. There’s something important we need to discuss,” he said as soon as he got on the line. “There’s been an offer to buy Hensley.”
“What?” My heart skipped a beat. “But it hasn’t even been offered for sale! Who wants to buy it? The tenants?”
“No. The offer came from Mr. Porter. I think you should seriously consider it.”
“What”—I lowered my voice as a footman passed—“what would he want Hensley for?” Compared to Porter’s country pile, Hensley was like a garden shed.
“He plans to build homes on it and let them out. He thinks the area’s ripe for suburban development.”
I felt cold as death. Porter wanted to raze my home and put up a bunch of cheap houses so bank clerks could play at being country gentlemen?
“I won’t hear of it,” I hissed. “I’m not selling Hensley to Porter or anyone else.”
The lawyer sighed deeply. “It’s a very generous offer, Miss Davies, and I really think you must consider it. The tenants aren’t renewing the lease, which means that soon the place will be empty. Vandemark Rubber is on the brink of collapse. When it does, you will have no income at all. You must think clearly, Miss Davies.”
No income at all. I wouldn’t be able to move out of Aunt Elinor’s, let alone go back to Hensley. I would never stand on my own.
I swallowed hard. Imagined life as a permanent dependent, relying on other people’s charity and goodwill.
I will not be pitied.
And that’s if I was even allowed to stay. Despite the jocular tone of Toby’s letter, I didn’t have much faith that he’d managed to talk his mother around. Aunt El didn’t listen to him; she never had.
And Raymond! Poor Raymond, what would happen to him? Torn away from his own home, unable to understand what was happening. Tossed into some nightmarish place where he knew no one and nobody seemed to care.
And I wouldn’t be able to pay Reilly’s salary and upkeep, so she’d have to go as well. What would become of her? How would she live, when her family was already in such dire need?
This couldn’t be.
“I’ll think of something,” I told the lawyer. “I just need some time. I’ll manage. Good afternoon.”
Chapter Sixteen
What else? What else? I begged off lunch so I could pace my room, smoke, and think. It was impossible not to imagine walls being pulled down, gardens dug up, and a young man shivering in a dank cell. I had to find a way to stop it. But how?
I only had one thing left: Vandemark Rubber. I had to pull it back from the brink somehow. I needed it. I needed Freddie. Dear God, I needed Freddie.
This was the way it had to be. I could no longer rely on other people to act as my protection or to give me purpose. I needed to create my own protection. Money would give me that. I needed, as Laura had said, to find a label that people could swallow, even if it made them a little uncomfortable. Not wife or daughter. Businesswoman.
By late afternoon I had the beginnings of a plan. I went out to the garden, where Laura was doing some bizarre combination of jumping and running in place.
“Laura, I want to know about this friend of Bobby’s you helped turn around.”
“Larry? Not much more to tell. He’s a good ’un—just needed a positive distraction. We all do. Without it, we fall into bad habits. Really rigorous exercise gave him something to focus on. It was rough at first, of course, but then he felt better and looked better; and the better he looked and felt, the more he wanted to do it.”
“Do you think you could do it again?”
“I have done it again. And I was thinking of having a go at Father next.”
“Would you consider taking on a project for me instead?”
She actually stopped. And beamed. “Lord, yes! I don’t want to go to Monaco this time of year. Or see my father again. Who is it?”
“Freddie Ponsonby-Lewis.”
She considered that for a moment. “Well, that’ll be a challenge,” she admitted. “Poor boy’s well on his way to being a wreck. At least, he was when I saw him in New York. I don’t suppose he’s improved any?”
“Doesn’t seem like it. Do you think you might be able to turn him around?”
“I don’t see why not. Why’s it so important to you?” She got a sly look on her face. “Don’t tell me—”
“Nothing like that, Laura. I’m just helping out a friend,” I answered with a bright smile, hoping she believed me.
She didn’t, but she let it go.
“Whatever you say, Astra. Summon the boy, and I’ll see about straightening him out. It may take a little while, though.”
“Hopefully not too long. He doesn’t have forever.”
Neither do I.
* * *
Joyce next. I found her curled up at one end of a beige sectional in the morning room, reading Tatler while “Dancing in the Dark” spilled from the wireless.
“You beastly creature, abandoning me earlier,” she scolded. “How was the ride?”
“It was lovely.” It felt like years ago now, but the thought of it—warm sun and cool breezes, soaring arches and Jeremy’s smile (and that look!)—made me stop just for a moment and grin. “Really lovely. Joyce, I was wondering if you’d do something for me?” I turned down the wireless and sank into the sofa beside her.
“That depends. What do you need?”
“I need you to invite Freddie here.”
She looked horrified. “Freddie? Freddie? Freddie Ponsonby-Lewis? That idiot, in my house? What are you thinking? Who knows what he’ll get up to! Astra, you can’t—” Her face switched to serious. “You aren’t really carrying on with him, are you?”
“Of course not! This is for Laura. If we give her a project, maybe she’ll leave the rest of us alone.”
“Ahh!” She looked relieved. “Why, you clever girl! I suppose I can put up with him for a little while if it buys peace for the summer. Do you think he’ll come?”
“He will if you ask nicely. Feel free to tell him I asked, if you think it’ll help.”
“Oh, it’ll help,” she said, chuckling as she rose from the settee. “I hope you know what you’re doing, though. If anyone finds out you wanted him here, it’ll be fuel for the fire.”
Oh, I knew the risks. But I also knew how limited my options were.
I smiled brightly. “Who would tell? And my behavior will be above reproach. Please, just ask him, Joyce.”
“All right, dear, but only because it’s for you.” Her face darkened. “And because if I have to play tennis with Laura once more, I think I’ll die. Or kill her. If we bury her in the rose garden, do you think anyone would notice?”
* * *
“Ugh! This infernal heat!” Laura snarled, petulantly kicking the newspaper at Dandy. The little dog, spread flat on the floor like a tiny bearskin rug, couldn’t even be bothered to move, despite the journalistic assault.
“Don’t, Laura,” I groaned, pressing a sweaty cup of Pimm’s to my forehead. “It’s too hot for rage.”
A week on from my trip to Midbourne Abbey, and the weather had slipped into a sultry rut that it couldn’t seem to escape. We’d been mired in air as thick and sticky as custard for the past two days. It felt like relief would never come. We’d sought refuge in the drawing room, with all the windows open in the dim hope there might be a
breeze.
Laura growled and snatched another bit of paper as Joyce sauntered in.
“Save your strength,” Joyce warned. “I have dire tidings. Is that Pimm’s? Thank God.” She went to pour herself a cup.
“Oh no, what is it?” I groaned, bracing myself for whatever she had to say.
Joyce took a gulp of Pimm’s and arranged herself on the sofa with a sigh. “We’re having the party from Lush Wycombe to dinner, and that includes Millicent.”
Laura sprang upright. “Joyce, no! Why would you do such a thing?”
“I couldn’t very well invite her hosts and not her!”
“But why invite any of them?” Laura whined. “Laddie’s such a wet sock! And his father … well, I’ll just say I was never sorry our families didn’t mix much.”
“Because I promised Lord Woolmer we’d show him the films I took during our honeymoon,” Joyce explained. “It’s all arranged, so there’s no use complaining about it now. Don’t be angry: I’ve asked Jeremy as well,” she said to me before taking another swig of Pimm’s, signaling an end to the conversation.
I sighed. It didn’t matter if a dozen Jeremys came; I still wouldn’t be able to enjoy myself with Millicent there, staring me down, smirking, reveling in my disgrace. I felt a heat that had nothing to do with the weather build in my chest, and I gulped my Pimm’s.
Joyce bent down and scooped up the paper Laura had been abusing. “Ahh, Belinda and Hampton are returning from their honeymoon in August,” she reported, scanning the Society column. “I hope they took my advice and stopped off in Nassau. Oh, and Astra? Freddie says he’ll come. Promised to be here in time for cocktails Monday.”
Well, there was that, at least.
“Thank you, Joyce.”
“Mmm. You can keep him entertained, can’t you? Because apparently I’m to plan the local fete this year,” she said. “I’ve had a note from a Mrs. Barrett about it.”
“Good. You could use a project,” said Laura. “Not sure I’d choose something so dull, but I’m sure you’ll make it your own.”
“Your faith is bracing, Laura, it really is,” Joyce said sarcastically.
“Well you can’t expect me to have much faith in you,” Laura sniped. “You are, after all, inviting Millicent into your home.”
I didn’t want to think about that any more. I set my cup down on a table and rose. “I think I may go lie down for a little while,” I said, as if that would provide any relief.
I had just reached my room when Reilly appeared and hissed: “Miss! Would you mind coming with me, please?”
“All right,” I agreed uncertainly.
She led me down the hall to a door cleverly concealed in the paneling. She pushed it open, revealing a cramped, winding stone staircase. Up, up to the servants’ quarters. It was so boiling up there I actually felt lightheaded for a moment. Once I recovered, I could see that the ceiling on my right sloped steeply with the roof, while to my left was a row of doors. Reilly opened one and waved me inside. I stepped in, blinking to adjust my eyes to the gloom. The only light came from a small, dusty skylight, and there was just enough space for a dresser with a washbasin and pitcher and two narrow metal-frame beds. A woman was waiting, perched on one of the beds. She was dressed in the all-black uniform of a lady’s maid, her orange-red hair pulled into a tight chignon. She stood as I came in. Reilly glanced up and down the corridor, then closed the door behind us.
“We’ll need to keep our voices down,” she whispered, crossing to stand next to the other woman. “Miss, this is—”
“I know who this is,” I said. “This is Collins, isn’t it? Lady Millicent’s maid.”
We eyed each other, Collins and I, while Reilly wrung her hands.
“Miss,” she whimpered, “I want you to know—that is, we want you to know … that you can trust us. Trust me.”
“All right,” I said warily. “Have you come to tell me that she hasn’t been giving you information to pass along to Lady Millicent?” I asked Collins, gesturing to Reilly.
“She hasn’t, miss. And I’ve never asked for it,” Collins reassured me, reaching out and squeezing one of Reilly’s hands. “I’m not interested in that sort of thing.”
“Are you not?”
“No, but …” she glanced at Reilly, who nodded. “You should know that you’re being watched.”
“Watched? By whom?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know,” said Collins. “Lady Millicent gave me an envelope with no name on it and told me to give it to a maid at the house where we’re staying. I looked inside—I know I shouldn’t have!—and it was full of money. I gave it to the housemaid, and later I saw her giving it to a man I didn’t recognize. I asked her about it later—in a roundabout sort of way—and she mentioned he worked here.”
“But you don’t know who he is?”
Collins shook her head. “Safe to assume he’s someone who works in the house, here. A footman, maybe.”
“Mrs. Bradbury did hire two footmen from Lush Wycombe,” Reilly reminded me.
Collins continued: “He’s brought notes for Lady Millicent, which the housemaid delivers herself, and Lady Millicent has given him at least one more envelope.”
“It must be you she has an eye on,” Reilly said to me. “Who else at Wotting Park would she want information on so badly she’s willing to pay for it?”
No one. Joyce and Laura were married, and therefore mostly untouchable. And their money afforded them even greater protection. It had to be me she was after. Why? Hadn’t she already done enough? Or was that forged letter just the first step in some plan? First, isolate and discredit me, and then move in for the real kill.
I sighed and rubbed my temples, unsure what to do. I was being watched by a person or persons unknown. Who knew what information had already been passed along? Did she know about Hensley? Freddie’s summoning? Raymond was probably safe, thank God, but he was hardly my only secret.
“Thank you for warning me, Miss Collins,” I said. “I know it was a risk to you, and I do appreciate your helping me.”
Collins smiled a little, then glanced at Reilly, who nodded.
“Miss, there’s something else,” Collins said, her voice coming out as little more than a squeak. She began wringing a pair of black gloves in her lap, twisting so hard I thought they’d tear in half. Reilly gently stilled her hands, keeping her own hand over Collins’s, and placing the other on Collins’s shoulder. It seemed to soothe Collins, who continued: “I-I’ve been with the family for a very long time. More than twenty years. I used to work as a housemaid.” She swallowed hard. “Thing is, miss, the housemaids, no one notices them. We keep out of the way, and no one sees we’re there, so people say and do things in our seeing and hearing without thinking about it. They talk the way they would around the furniture.”
I nodded, guiltily realizing I probably couldn’t have identified most of the housemaids at the homes I’d visited if my life depended on it.
“And did Lady Millicent say or do something?” I prompted.
“Many things,” Collins snorted, and Reilly smirked. “But the worst of it isn’t what she’s done—it was her mother. Lady Millicent is not Lord Caddonfoot’s daughter.”
Chapter Seventeen
I gaped at Collins, sorting through what she’d just said. “Then whose child is she?”
“Lady Caddonfoot had … unusual tastes, for a woman in her position,” Collins answered, shaking her head. “Most ladies took a man in their circle for a paramour, but she let the stableboys touch her legs when they helped her mount. She chose footmen for their looks. And she had a dressmaker she was very fond of. A man who claimed to have dressed the Grand Duchesses of Russia before he was forced to flee with the other Jews during a pogrom. Tall, and thin, and black-haired he was. When his lordship was away, she’d summon him to Gryden to fit her clothes. Hours and hours, locked up alone in her rooms. I was young, but I know what I heard. I found some letters he sent her, when I was tidying, tied w
ith a pink ribbon.” A blush crept over her face at the memory. “Some time after one of his visits, I saw her crying. And then Lady Millicent was born.” She smiled bitterly. “Lord Caddonfoot sent champagne down to the servants to celebrate. Poor man.”
The silence when she was finished was a long one. I was pop-eyed, taking all this in. It wasn’t the affair that was shocking—affairs seemed almost de rigeur among a particular set at that time. There were plenty of well-born ladies who were known not to be the children of their mother’s husbands: everyone knew that the Countess of Carnarvon was the daughter of a bachelor Rothschild. But there was a world of difference between a Rothschild and a dressmaker, even one who had dressed Grand Duchesses.
Others must know about this, I realized. Then aloud: “This couldn’t have been a secret in that house. Surely the other servants noticed something as well and talked.”
“They did,” Collins acknowledged. “And Society gossiped as well, before moving on to other things. But it still lingers. If it came up again now, when she’s trying to secure a husband … Well …” She raised her eyebrows for a moment. “And I doubt it would sit well with some of the company she keeps. She saw a fair bit of Oswald Mosley when we were all last in London, and I’ve heard he’s no great friend of the Jews.”
I cocked my head and studied her for several moments. It was possible she was lying, playing some sort of elaborate trick or game, but to what end?
“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “You’re taking an enormous risk. If Lady Millicent knew you were here …”
“It’s my afternoon off, and Angela made sure no one saw me coming in,” Collins said, looking up at Reilly with a smile. “It’s unlikely she’ll find out I was here. As for why I’m doing this: I saw an opportunity to help someone and I took it. And Lady Millicent is not the sort of person who inspires loyalty.”
I thanked Collins and left to make my way back downstairs. The pressing, baking heat of the room made it difficult to think, and I needed to think.
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