“Is she . . . ?”
“Mad?” A faint laugh left his lips and I was captivated by the languid allure of his voice. “I don’t think so. A little strange perhaps, but we all have our strange moments, don’t you agree?”
I did agree.
“Please consider this house your own. You are free to go anywhere you wish, but do be careful through these parts. Accidents have occurred before.”
Sensing it was time for me to go, I asked him if he wanted to talk to me about anything else, but he shook his head. However, when I stood to leave, I saw his hand move ever so slightly.
“There is another thing . . . thank you for what you did at the beach. I couldn’t bear the thought of the sea claiming her. You rescued her and led her to safety. Thank you . . . Daphne.”
He turned around to hide his emotion and I quickly scrambled back to Lady Hartley’s room. My heart beat wildly. I loved this house . . . the mystery . . . the people, even the air of tragedy. I didn’t want to leave it.
Levering open the Moorish doors, I entered perhaps the loveliest chamber I’d ever seen. Full- size windows facing west encased by cascading sheer white curtains looked over the sea. A lively breeze rustled the swirling curtains, lapping against wooden floorboards where two multicolored Turkish rugs lay. A massive canopied four-poster dominated the room, also draped in sheer white, while two decorative archways formed doorways to other rooms. Out of one of these strolled Lady Hartley.
“Ah, there you are. Come with me.”
Taken through the right archway, I found myself in a cozy antechamber. Beyond the armchairs and fireplace existed yet another door.
“Do sit down” was the command issued.
Still clutching my handbag, I obeyed, observing an open fashion magazine advertising a bridal gown on the circular marble coffee table.
“Won’t be needing that now.” Lady Hartley shut the magazine, relaxing into one of the armchairs. “So you’re Gerald’s girl . . . how interesting. What is your father up to these days?”
Expecting this, I gave her a brief account of his affairs. Lord David was right. She had a plan concerning me. Or rather, she had a plan involving my father, his fame, and his connections. I’d met many people like her before and saw the speculative glimmer flashing through her eyes.
“Care for a cup of tea? Will your family, your father, join you down here, do you think?”
I declined the tea. “I couldn’t say, your ladyship. My father does all things unexpectedly. It’s how he lives.”
“Fascinating, fascinating.” Gazing about the room, a sadness reflected in her face. “We don’t receive many visitors down here. And now, with this present gloom surrounding us, I fear we shall became outcasts.”
“Outcasts, my lady?”
“Oh, do call me Florence, or Flo if you wish, or Lady Flo if that’s more comfortable. Yes, outcasts. We are too often alone. It is sad. Money is needed, you see, for the restoration. David is adamant. But sometimes I do so long for lively company— any company, in fact.” Her eyes searched mine. “My daughter has taken a shine to you. She hardly ever takes a shine to anyone. Perhaps I can ask a favor of you? Would you invite your family down for a while? Any member is welcome here and the house is large enough. . . .We used to have so many parties, perhaps they can be persuaded for a weekend affair?”
When I didn’t immediately answer, she quickly chirped, “I shall leave it to your discretion, for you may wish to spend some time with my daughter first. It’s been a year or so since she’s invited a friend to visit. The poor girl doesn’t like too many people, you know. You, Daphne, are special.”
“Thank you, your ladyship,” I replied. “I enjoy Miss Lianne’s company very much and am pleased to visit.”
Lady Hartley nodded, suddenly serious. “Oh, visit all you like. You will find Lianne very odd. You mustn’t think we are all like that. I fear Lianne has inherited some of her father’s quirks.”
“How so, my lady?”
“Oh, he forgot things. His mind wandered . . . and he was fanciful. Lianne, I fear, is the same. You mustn’t take any notice of what she says.”
“No?”
“No.” Lady Hartley looked at me directly. “For I must warn you, Lianne is exactly like her father. A consummate liar.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Leaving Lady Hartley’s room, I paused by the huge doors.
An unusual serenity from a bygone era occupied the area— the sound of the ocean flickering down the cloister- style corridor; the aged, musty smell of the paneling; the silent portraits and statues peering at those trespassing below . . .
History enchanted the house. Closing my eyes, I imagined previous generations, each adorned in the costumes of their period— their lives, their loves, their secrets, their tragedies. A house, I strongly believe, is never complete without a past.
Indulging in the wondrous surroundings, I returned to the parts David warned me of. He had said I was free to venture out on my own, and I figured I had a little time before Lianne or Mrs. Trehearn noticed my absence.
Soft- footed, with only the faint creak of the floors underneath, I wandered by a tiny alcove of rooms, some furnished, some empty, some locked. Noting dusty white sheets, closed boxes and planks, I entered the closed-off section, which awaited renovation and was filled with forbidden temptation.
I stood at the base of the tower. The cursed tower. The circular stone structure mounted high, its levels sprouting half- rotting floors while an upper wind whipped an eerie cry. I thought it a splendid place for inspiration, if somewhat dangerous, but the danger only enhanced the appeal.
Seeing a way up through an adjacent stairwell, I crossed a leg over the forbidden cord.
“What are you doing? Don’t you know it’s dangerous here?”
Bewildered, I stopped.
Seeing Lianne’s frown, I understood the reason for her peevish mood. She’d wanted to show me the house herself.
“Come, Daphne. Let us go to my room.”
As the door slammed upon said room, I collapsed upon her bed and uttered a long sigh of relief. Lianne was a lovable girl, but so exhausting. Was she mad? Who could say?
Inspired, I lay there looking blankly at the ceiling. She followed suit, and together we lay united, staring and imagining, free to think of what ever infiltrated into our brains, free to daydream, free to do what ever our mood dictated.
As Lianne suddenly left the room, my daydream began with the body on the beach . . . Victoria.
The dead girl, the beauty destined to be mistress of the house. What secrets had she carried to her death? Circling her name in my memory, I mentally scribbled a large question mark beside it. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, a new thought flashed for a future novel: a timid heroine, a dead mistress of a grand house, a mystery . . .
A noise outside the door ended my indulgent fantasies and, annoyed by the unexpected interruption, I crept toward the raised voices.
Mrs. Trehearn stood outside the door, arms akimbo, arguing with a red- faced Lianne.
“Trehearn! Do as I say. It’s all arranged. She’ll stay the night at Padthaway.”
Stay the night at Padthaway!
“Now, we mustn’t have tantrums in front of our guests, Miss Lianne,” Mrs. Trehearn soothed. “You might frighten Miss Daphne away.”
Lianne paused to reflect and I saw a hardiness in Mrs. Trehearn I hadn’t noticed before. Her experience in handling Lianne showed, even though she eventually lost the battle.
“Old dragon.” Lianne rolled her eyes, closing her bedroom door on Trehearn, and dismissing all of my protests as to why I couldn’t stay the night. “She always does this when guests come to stay— putting them downstairs or in a room to ‘watch’ them. She doesn’t trust anyone.”
I learned Mrs. Trehearn had come to the house years ago as governess for both children. From governess to house keeper . . . it was no minor elevation, and I wondered what Mrs. Trehearn truly thought of Victoria.
Two men
arrived at the door, carting in a makeshift bed to Miss Lianne’s room. My refusal again went unheard and as I thought of the myriad of splendid rooms downstairs, I wished Mrs. Trehearn had won, even if she intended to spy on me.
The difference between the two men was startling. I hadn’t meant to stare, but I couldn’t seem to help it. One dressed in overalls, the gardener obviously, had wild graying hair and wild eyes, and the other, a sleekly dressed dark- haired man, sported the confidence that came with flashy good looks and an arrogant nature.
“Ben the gardener and of course you’d remember Soames the cook from dinner?” Lianne said archly, amused by my stares.
“Soames,” Lianne said, and grimaced, standing to her feet and pulling me along with her, “we’d like a fresh pot of tea and some jam scones brought up.”
Soames dipped his head. “Yes, Miss Lianne.”
“Oh, and some cream, too.”
“Of course” came the jaunty response, and he nodded to me. “Welcome, Miss du Maurier. Do you take milk in your tea?”
“Er, no,” I smiled.
After they left, I said I’d never seen such a debonair- looking cook.
“Mummy found him . . . he thinks a lot of himself.”
Why? Did he aspire to become lord of the castle by marrying the lady everyone in the village despised?
It was a vastly curious mix, this house hold. A gloomy, mistrustful atmosphere prevailed and nothing echoed right. Where else did servants rise to marry lords, and governesses to house keepers? Why did the family keep themselves so isolated?
The word guilt blazoned alongside the arriving scones and fresh strawberry jam.
I shall never forget that night at Padthaway, I, a stranger, dining with a family in grief and perhaps full of guilt.
The strangeness of the circumstances, the haunting beauty of the house and the silent, dimly lit lights led me further into its labyrinth of mystique.
Upon seeing a maid dusting a vase, I had asked the way to the dining room.
“I’ll show ye the way, miss.”
Grateful, I followed her along the newly carpeted maze, admiring the paintings and idiosyncrasies of old decor.
The magnificence only increased as we reached a set of half- ajar doors.
Lord David opened the door.
Shown into the opulent room bustling with an overindulgence of French gilded furniture, sweeping burgundy velvet drapes, and a silver table centerpiece of ambitious height and proportion, I made my apologies.
Lady Hartley waved it aside. “Do sit down, Daphne. Here, beside me.”
Submitting to her directive, I concealed a faint smile for the aristocracy’s adherence to protocol. Lady Hartley and I occupied one end of the table while Lord David and Lianne sat at the far opposite. We could scarcely see each other through the sprawling floral display.
I should not have concerned myself with my appearance and selecting the appropriate outfit for a time of mourning, for Lady Hartley shimmered in purple satin and a string of pearls, an odd choice, thought I, for a solemn occasion.
We started with soup and I longed to hear music, or anything other than the ticking clock above the marble fireplace. Having already endured countless hours of drilling from Lady Hartley over “my connections,” I experienced acute relief when Lord David intervened by giving a brief account of the house’s history.
Listening to his voice lulled me into a dreamy fantasy. If ever a voice seduced, David Hartley’s did so without preamble, intention, or device. All I could think was how he truly bore the death of his bride and child with such control. Did he mourn her? Did he love her? Did he . . . kill her?
“The funeral,” Lady Hartley began after the servants cleared away the dishes, the unexpected phrase sending my fork scuttling across the table, “is arranged for Sunday. Vicar Nortby has dug a plot for Victoria in the local—”
“No.” David slammed his fist on the table. “She will go in the crypt.”
Lady Hartley calmly rested her hand on the table. “The family crypt, darling? What a gloomy place. I think she’d rather be next to her folk—”
A caustic laugh escaped David’s lips. “You’d prefer her with her folk. It’s what you wanted from the beginning, isn’t it, Mother? Each person put in their station . . . even if that person would now have been my wife.”
Throwing his napkin on the table, he abruptly left.
The clock ticked away.
I reached for another sip of wine. I hadn’t truly considered the ramifications of being a guest at Padthaway during such a catastrophic time. Instead of humoring Lianne, I should have gone back to the cottage. I could only imagine what awaited me, with Ewe wanting to know how I fared with a nest of suspected murderers.
The room suddenly grew chilly. I reached for my wrap, but I had brought none, and failed to stop the shiver creeping up my spine.
“Please excuse my son’s outburst, Daphne,” Lady Hartley murmured. “He’ll be over it in a month, mark my words. I know my own son, and he never really loved her. Oh, she had her charms about her. Even beauty. But brains or breeding? No, no, no.”
Breeding, brains, and beauty. I carried her words away with me that night, my first night at the mansion on the cliffs. I felt the stirrings of a new idea, a story involving a woman of breeding, brains, and beauty.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I woke early the next day.
I couldn’t wait to continue my explorations of the house.
Lianne watched me as I sat at her dresser. Flicking through my toilette case that Ewe had sent for my stay, she behaved like a young, curious, and impertinent sister. Picking up powder puffs, examining jewelry, perfume, and hair accessories . . . poor girl. She ached for a friend.
It seemed she made no friend in Victoria.
The complexity of the victim intrigued me. How had a local-girl- cum- kitchen- maid trapped the lord of the house? Where had she and Lord David conducted their romance? How had it started and developed into a serious engagement?
Isolation must have helped cause this grand eventuality. I knew little of Lord David’s movements, but he didn’t seem to be the kind of man to be driving up to London every weekend or inviting large parties of friends down to his house.
Who were his friends? Did the family pursue any social acquaintances? If they were tight for money, how much did a small dinner cost? Or a lunch on the terrace?
I drew to the window to have a better look at the gardens leading down to the sea. The gardens were a narrow strip of sublime arrangement and radiant color intermingled with a series of stone statues of fish, quaint and charming, like the Romans used in the gladiator ring to count the laps. A grouping of weathered French country chairs and tables looked on, sadly neglected. I mentioned the shame of it to Lianne.
She did not join me at the window. “They used to have the grand parties out there— in the old days. Summer, especially. Flocks of them would come down from London and there’d be music, dancing, and champagne all night. The servants would sneak down to the gardener’s shed and watch them.”
“Why is it not used now?”
“Simple, really. My father shot himself there.”
Old Lord Hartley, the consummate liar. I recalled what Lady Hartley had said of him and his daughter.
Why did he shoot himself? I longed to ask but prudence dictated I not continue a subject presumably distasteful to Lianne. She’d lost her father; I wouldn’t know what to do if I lost mine.
I had the impression the death of Lord Hartley had occurred a long time ago, so perhaps Lianne never knew her father. From Lady Hartley’s cool reference to her dead husband, it was clear the marriage had its troubles. But what marriage didn’t?
Had his death propelled the family fortune downhill? I tried to think of the ramifications of a scandalous suicide on a private country estate. Lord Terrence Hartley hadn’t been a nobody even if he had purchased his title, and there had to be a newspaper article about his passing somewhere.
T
he house felt different in the morning. Light guided our feet down the carpeted stairs devoid of night’s shadowy distrust. I loved the breakfast parlor, a closed- in conservatory, one side of windows facing the front drive while the opposing French doors looked over the inner courtyard. Bathed in light, surrounded by nature’s soothing greens, reds, yellows, and pinks, I drank in the sweetness, unwilling to ever leave.
Lianne and I breakfasted alone— Lord David having arisen at six for his daily ride, then breakfasting alone in his study or library afterward. Lady Hartley rarely ventured out of her rooms before ten.
“And Victoria?” I asked of her morning ritual.
Lianne looked at me slyly. “She liked to have her tea and toast in the courtyard, served by Soames.”
The way she said “served by Soames” caused me to raise a brow. Victoria would have worked under Soames until she became the fiancée to the lord of the house. It was an interesting plethora of events. “Where did your mother find this Soames?”
“On one of her cruises. She bribed him to come here.”
“Bribed?”
“Soames likes the glamour life. Before the cruise ship, he worked for a duchess in London, and before that at a famous paint er’s house in Paris.”
I asked which painter, thinking I might know him considering I’d spent a substantial part of my schooling in Paris.
Lianne dropped her spoon. “You went to school in Paris? What was it like?”
“Diffi cult and pleasant. The French are very strict but I soon learned their ways and became a bit Parisian.” A grin lurked at the corners of my mouth. “And the French men are charming experts. I suppose this is where your Mr. Soames learned his trade?”
“Soames,” Lianne sniffed. “I don’t find him that handsome or charming. Don’t know what they see in him. He’s just a cook.”
An exalted cook. I took the “they” to be Victoria, Lady Hartley, and other women of the neighborhood. “I find it odd such a man works here when it’s so . . .”
“Isolated?” Lianne taunted. “Oh don’t worry about him. He finds ample amusement for himself.” A mocking undercurrent lurked in her voice.
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