by Joan Smith
Christmas is more properly a time for thinking of one's fellow men. This was a subject never far from my mind, though I give it little space. I continued performing what acts of charity I could find the opportunity for. You would he astonished to discover how hard it is to distribute any really worthwhile charity when one has the reputation of being poor herself.
Large donations were impossible. A pair of mittens or a warm jacket for one of the students was remarked upon. As to putting good food on a poor man's table or repairing his shack, it was beyond my powers of devising. Miss Halka employed two girls in stringing beads, the majority of which sat in her dresser drawer, but we let on they were more popular than they were, to make an excuse to disburse a little money to the poor.
What I wanted was suddenly to announce myself as more affluent than I was believed to be, and begin to indulge in some really large charity work. Those essays of my students affected me more than I had let on to Williams. They had affected him too, but not to the point where he had let up on his work. I began to wonder if I could not put about that Mrs. Harvey had settled, say, a thousand pounds on me.
"Everyone would think you had run mad to squander your fortune on the parish poor,” Edna informed me. So they would too—a sad commentary on mankind. No, I must come into a sum that for one reason or another I had to spend on the poor. Gambling gains might be so dealt with, but the rector's sister could hardly set up a faro table.
One genteel manner of gambling I did indulge in, however, and so did Andrew for that matter, which made it seem perfectly respectable to me. The State Lottery was being run at that time. The closest agent locally was Mr. Pebbles at Felixstone. I marvel that Ganner had not got himself the local concession, but perhaps he considered it beneath his new dignity. In common with everyone else who had any reason to go to Felixstone from time to time, I always picked up a ticket when I was there.
Money won at gambling might very well be spent on charity, if the winner happened to be a minister's sister. I would coerce Andrew into making me do it. How was I to arrange the win? The true winner was announced in the lottery circulars posted at each sales counter, to ensure the doubting that real people did in fact win the prize. (This was always hotly disputed, but did not seem to interfere with sales.) I could not very well pretend I had come into money by that means.
There were also lotteries run, illegally I believe, in London. I would go again to London, pretend to buy myself a ticket and pretend to win. I was anxious to visit the city in any case, during the holiday. Miss Halka and I planned to attend the Christmas comedy at Drury Lane. Miss Halka did not yet know it, but she would also be going to take a look at the mansion inhabited by Lord Hadley and his daughter, if I could discover its address. Some additional ornaments for my tired toilette were also in the offing. One need not be a Lady Mabel to dress herself up a little.
I would donate the majority of my earnings to charity—say seventy percent, and that was sixty-nine percent more than anyone else I knew gave. Surely I deserved something for all my work and worry. My “win” would be a thousand pounds. I felt immeasurably better after taking this decision. I was happy as a grig when Mr. Williams stopped in on Christmas night to wish us merry and drink a cup of mulled wine with us. He too was in good spirits. I thought he would be in the sulks at being deprived of Lady Lucy's company at such a family time.
"You must have done a good business at the shop, Mr. Williams, to be happy away from your family at Christmas,” I ventured.
"I am not much accustomed to having the luxury of a family life,” he countered, smiling warmly at me. “Friends are an agreeable substitute,” he added, with a glance around to include Edna and Andrew.
There was some general talk of the Owenses, still at Bath and with Mrs. Owens still not well. The matter of the spilled brandy at the school arose. “Imagine their using the school!” he exclaimed. “Miss Sage is poorly named. He ought to be called Miss Brass."
"I think Sage is an excellent name,” I disagreed. “He has the wisdom of the Seven Sages of Greece to have hit on the school, such an unlikely spot."
"Next we will hear he is using the church,” Andrew laughed. Williams’ eyes flew to him, questioning.
"Or Owens’ shop,” I added hastily, to divert him. “Have you checked out your storerooms lately, Mr. Williams?"
"No, by Jove, but I shall do so. The warehouse is half empty, with easy access too, backing on the docks as it does. I don't usually go near them except to take delivery. Oftimes not for a week at a stretch."
This information was stored up, though the revenueman's own premises were not likely to be used, except in a case of the direst necessity. A titillating thought all the same. I noticed that Williams took three glasses of our mulled wine that evening, a little more than he customarily drank. It seemed to be a good chance to test his feelings on drink, and his attitude toward one who would bring strong drink into the country.
"I would offer you another glass of wine, Mr. Williams, but I am afraid that would be leading you astray, as you do not usually drink much."
"Don't let that stop you. I'll have another, please. Delicious. You serve it in the old way with toast, as my mama used to do. I prefer it to the more modern custom of serving biscuits."
"Your mama approved of wine, did she?” I asked, seeing no more subtle way of introducing my point.
"Oh yes, in moderation. We are not Methodists, we Wi—Williams."
It was of course ‘Wicklows’ that had nearly slipped out. He tensed up just a little, checking himself, and went on. “All things in moderation is a good rule. Wine, or even brandy, is not evil in itself. It is man's lack of controlling his appetites that does the harm. The same with a love of gambling or power or money. In moderation they are normal and even perhaps beneficial. Life would be deuced dull without them, in any case,” he finished up, which relieved my mind considerably, I can tell you. I was afraid that derelict papa might have turned him into a fanatic, but it was not the case.
"You hear that, Andrew,” I said lightly, to ease any impression I had been digging for information. “You must control that lust for the organ."
"I say, Williams, how about playing us a few tunes on the pianoforte?” was Andrew's substitute.
He played Christmas carols for a while, with the rest of us singing. It was the happiest, homiest part of that whole Christmas. A feeling so strong one could almost reach out and touch it pervaded the room—goodwill, fellowship, love. How could it all be based on deception? Williams liked us, liked being here, sharing Christmas with us. I could not be wrong about that. At the very height of this warm glow, he suddenly looked up and said he must be leaving. It was like a dash of cold water in the face of a dreamer. It was early too, earlier than he began his patrols, only ten o'clock. Surely on Christmas he could take the night off. We had a nice meal in preparation below, somewhat elaborate, with some roast fowl and a raised pigeon pie. He had taken his Christmas dinner at the inn, I knew, with a party of his own, bachelors and misfits like himself.
"You are not leaving so soon?” I asked, surprised.
"Have some more wine,” Edna suggested. He settled in for another half hour. Edna went to the kitchen to hurry on the food, and Andrew suddenly wandered off in a fit of distraction, saying something about Diogenes. It was to his study he went, not the gallery.
There was no mention of Williams leaving this lime, or of its being improper for him to be alone with me. Rather, he arose with a pleased smile and joined me on the sofa.
"I am happy to have this chance to talk to you in private,” he began.
"What is it you wish to say?” I asked, smiling every encouragement, to see how far he would go.
"Just—Merry Christmas,” he answered, and reaching out, he lifted my fingers to his lips. Never was a ‘merry Christmas’ laden with so much intimacy. I made not a move to repress him. I was curious to see to what lengths he was willing to go, behind Lady Lucy's back.
"A very merry Christmas to y
ou, sir,” I replied, letting him hold my two hands.
"Would you like to make me very happy?” he asked.
"Perhaps. How should I do so?"
"By calling me Stanley when we are alone."
"Only when we are alone? But what is the reason for the secrecy? I dislike underhanded dealings. If you are—if you are interested in forwarding any intimacy with myself, I should think I might call you so before my family,” I said, with a shy but fond regard.
"I would be honored."
I smiled my most beguiling smile, full of tenderness and hopefully dimples. “And friends,” I said. “Of course I do not wish to compromise you, Stanley, if your mind is not quite made up.” Let us see you wiggle out of that, Sir Stamford Wicklow!
A nervous laugh erupted from his mouth; my hands were dropped as though they were red-hot coals. He was not willing to go so far as to get himself engaged behind Lady Lucy's back. “No indeed!” he said, in a hearty voice. “Business would fall off in a rush if I turned up an engaged man, for it is only my being a bachelor that keeps the shop full."
"You plan to vacate the shop soon, do you not, and see your patron, Lord Hadley, about that position with the government?"
"Yes. Yes, I do. Very soon. In fact, it is my leaving early tomorrow for London that causes me to leave you early this evening."
So Lady Lucy was not to be entirely deprived of his presence over the holiday season! I sat back and proceeded to put him on the griddle. “You don't mean you go to London tomorrow! But that is marvelous! Miss Halka and I go the next day. We shall all be there together. We must arrange to meet and do something. Go to the comedy at Drury Lane, and out to dinner."
It was a better comedy than I was likely to see at Drury Lane that ensued in the saloon, as I watched him squirm out of it. “Ah—ah, that would be wonderful!” was his first speech, spoken in a hollow voice. Then he began backtracking to safety. “Of course I shall be very busy. That is—Lord Hadley has been kind enough to offer to put me up at his place, you see. Very kind of him really, and I only his steward's son. And he usually entertains in a big way. He plans a ball—I am not sure which evening. How long do you plan to stay?"
"We don't have to be back till New Year's. We can stay a week. How long do you stay?” I would, of course, be back before my next delivery.
"Only three days."
"Surely we can work out a meeting for one evening."
"Maybe afternoon would be better."
"Fine, let us make it for the day after tomorrow, in the afternoon."
"If I am not busy. I have business meetings to attend, with some cronies of Lord Hadley's. Where do you plan to stay?"
We had already made a reservation at Stephen's Hotel in Bond Street, electing for a good central location, but I did not mean to let him off so easily as telling him would do.
"My aunt, Mrs. Harvey, has asked us to stay with her. Do you know, she is a very good friend of Lord Hadley,” I said, exaggerating the acquaintance to set him trembling. “Neighbors from Devonshire. She mentions him often in her letters. In fact, he has a daughter that my aunt has written of—Julie, I believe it is. No, Lucy, I think. If Lord Hadley is having a ball, you may be sure my aunt is attending, and of course we too shall be invited. Oh, how nice, and you will be there, Stanley! Now what shall I wear?” I asked, putting a finger to my cheek in perplexity at this imaginary problem.
He looked like an absolute ghost, his face white and staring.
"Why, what is the matter, Stanley?” I asked.
"Nothing,” he gulped, then laughed nervously. “Well, well, what a small world it is. You know Lord Hadley and Lucy."
"I have never actually met either of them. Only heard my aunt speak of them. Do you know Lady Lucy?"
"No! That is—I have seen her about the house, you know, but have not actually met her.” I could see his mind working feverishly behind his blanched cheeks, which were resuming some color. “That is,” he went on to contradict himself. “I did meet her once, at a different ball. Stood up with her—once. Or twice."
"What is she like? But you are a poor one to ask. I can see she made very little impression on you."
"She is pretty. Black-haired, vivacious."
I have always admired black hair of all things. If I could change any feature of my appearance, I would instantly turn my blond curls in for black hair. I had a feeling Lady Lucy would be a brunette. Of course I said none of this. “I suppose she has a dozen beaus. Perhaps she will share one of them with me."
"Actually, I am not at all sure Hadley will invite me to his ball,” he said, turning desperately to any avenue of retreat he could lay tongue to. “He does not always do so, and with my leg bothering me..."
"Is it bothering you again? What a pity, and I was just noticing this week how it seemed to be completely better. You must have a good surgeon take a look at it while you are in London. Promise me you will, Stanley."
"Yes. About the ball, Mab, I expect he will have a business meeting planned for me that night."
"Surely not the very night of the ball,” I pouted.
He was at his wits’ end. I would not have been a bit surprised had he called off his whole visit. “Mrs. Lawrence Harvey?” was his distracted question. He was trying to fix in his mind just how likely it was that I should turn up at the ball.
"Who, my aunt? Yes, Mrs. Lawrence Harvey. Have you heard Lord Hadley speak of her?"
"No,” he said, but in such a state I doubt he knew what he was saying. “You go the day after tomorrow, you say?"
"Yes, and as you plan to stay three days, we shall both be in the city for two days together."
"Why are you going?” he asked.
"For a little holiday. My time is completely free. We can meet whenever you manage a few hours free. What luck we are all going at the same time. Where does Lord Hadley live? Perhaps he is my aunt's neighbor in the city, as well as in Devonshire."
"Belgrave Square,” he replied, looking to hear my aunt's address. “And Mrs. Harvey?"
"Portman Square."
"A pity they are so far apart,” was his relieved statement to that.
"You have your whisky, Stanley. They are not that far apart. I shall be looking for you."
"I will certainly be there, if I can find a single minute free."
"Now don't tell me Lord Hadley is such a dragon he won't allow you a minute to call on your—your very special friends. I shall put a bee in his ear if he doesn't let you come,” I promised playfully. “My aunt will direct you to an excellent man to see about your leg. She is invalidish, and knows all the best doctors."
He rubbed his leg, as though it bothered him that very minute, but in his confusion he rubbed the wrong one. He looked so worried, so downright woebegone that for a moment I was tempted to take pity on him, till he said, “Lady Lucy has already recommended a good doctor."
That remark took care of my pity in a hurry. He left before the food arrived from the kitchen. I could not keep him in the house, he was too anxious to get home and begin working out plans to avoid us. How sorry I was that my aunt was in fact in Devonshire, and not Portman Square. I suppose it was the first thing he discovered when he got to London. And a great relief it must have been to him too.
It brought me resoundingly to my senses, to see how his real intentions were riveted on Lady Lucy. If I needed such bringing to my senses, that is to say. Truth to tell, I was finding him dangerously attractive since he had removed the wadding from his shoulders and stopped calling me “ye.” I had begun to entertain some hopes his match with Lady Lucy might have foundered on the shoals of a longish separation.
Chapter Eleven
I have mentioned in passing a place called the Eyrie. It sits high on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Much too high, with its sheer rock cliff pitching down to the sea, to be used as a good landing spot. It would take a creature with the leaping ability of a mountain goat and the stamina of an elephant to get the kegs of brandy up that incline, though from the t
op the tranter's wagons would have easy enough access along a gently winding path up from the main road. Its isolation made it a tempting spot for me. It was connected by legend with the most renowned smuggler ever to land a barrel in England, Miss Marjoram. But then a whole host of exploits bedazzled that gentleman's name, at least three quarters of which are imaginary.
With Williams nipping off to London a day before me, I decided to go for a drive up to the Eyrie. It is uninhabited, of course, except for ghosts. These are hangers-on from the days of Miss Marjoram, which inclined me to think he had used the house for smuggling. A ghost was a wonderful incentive for keeping the curious away, especially on a dark night, and more especially in those old days when the world was more simpleminded.
The tale of ghosts had not kept Williams away. He had looked into it earlier on in his visit, but had not returned more than twice. Due to its inaccessibility, I imagine he had decided it was innocent. Busybody that he was, he would not be long in discovering what was afoot if the men used it regularly at all. Unless he could be made to believe any activities there had another motive, and what would any sane person be doing late at night at the Eyrie? No sane person would be doing anything, but a lunatic ... I juggled various village simpletons about in my head as I drove along, with Mrs. Kiley in the forefront. But no, she would not do. My accomplice at the Eyrie must have more wits than that about her—or him.
This was no more than woolgathering as I wended my way in the gig up the winding path to the summit, mental meanderings to put from my mind the image of Sir Stamford Wicklow simpering and smirking at Lady Lucy. I was determined not to moon about like a lovesick calf.
It was chilly on the cliff top, plus ensuring me plenty of discomfort as well as the required solitude. I approached the old house with definite misgivings. It was like a fairy castle designed by an astigmatic demon—all minarets and gables, slightly tipping this way and that. The whole structure was held together so precariously a good gale might topple it over. The once brown wooden shingles had dulled to gray, with an occasional darker spot showing beneath where a shingle had fall in off, exposing protected wood. The windows were of irregular shapes, and stuck into the walls at odd places. There was an octagonal window high up at the front, giving the place the air of a misbegotten Cyclops. From that window, one would have a view for miles across the sea. There were other windows, uncommonly long and narrow, set in at uneven heights. All were smudged with several decades of dirt, dust and mementos of seagulls.