by Lee Strauss
But no, she had every right to enter the servants’ area. Bray Manor might not be her house, but it was her late husband’s house and the home of close family members.
She found Haley and Ambrosia in the sitting room.
Ambrosia was as ruffled as a hen having her eggs stolen from underneath her.
“I feel simply invaded,” she huffed as she grasped at the high collar of her blouse. “Strangers in the garden, walking on the lawn, traipsing through the house, doing whatever they like with no word to me at all. I can’t believe I let Felicia talk me into this. The associations are bad enough, but now a ball?”
Ginger helped herself to a cup of tea from the hot pot sitting on the sideboard. “Grandmother, it’s for a good cause. And it’ll be cleaned up tomorrow, you won’t even be able to tell it happened at all.”
“I do hope you’re right. Although, a good deed such as this might divert the wagging tongues from our other humiliation.”
“You mean the fact that you’re renting out rooms.”
“Yes, of course. What else could I mean?” Ambrosia leaned forward on her walking stick and said to Haley, “Would you mind getting me some tea?”
Haley smiled and spoke softly to Ginger as she approached the sideboard. “I’d die for a strong cup of coffee right now.”
“I’m afraid Ambrosia believes the brew is evil, but I’m sure I can have a pot mustered up for you if you like.”
“I can manage without it for now. Tomorrow morning would be much appreciated, though.”
Ginger sat casually across from the fire and adjusted her rayon day dress, the colour of ripe plums. Her eyes landed on Felicia’s knitting basket and frowned at the single needle. Ambrosia followed her gaze and gasped.
“Felicia’s knitting needle? Has the poltergeist taken that, too? Where do you suppose it shall show up now? The kitchen? The study? My rose garden? Ginger, I simply can’t take this anymore. You must do something!”
Ginger worried the elderly lady would succumb to the vapours. Haley hurried over with the requested tea.
“Are the missing items always found on the ground floor?” Ginger asked.
Ambrosia stilled. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
Haley muttered, “A poltergeist who knows its place.”
Felicia blew in, her youthful face aglow. “Isn’t this all so intoxicating?! It’s been ages since we’ve had so much life at Bray Manor. I’ve invited my best female friends. We’re all eager to dance with the brave soldiers tonight.” She smiled softly Ginger’s way. “Some of them were childhood friends of Daniel’s.”
Ginger’s lips felt dry but she resisted moving her tongue over them. She swallowed, curious on why Felicia’s mention of Daniel stirred up complicated feelings. She’d talked of Daniel often over the years, Haley knew all about him, but being here at Bray Manor, it was like picking at an old wound.
“I look forward to meeting them,” Ginger replied.
Ambrosia put her weight against the brass knob of her walking stick and stood. Ginger moved to help her up, but Ambrosia waved her away. “I’m quite capable of getting out of a chair.”
She strutted out of the room and the atmosphere, sparking like lightning, followed her. Haley let out a long windy breath and Ginger laughed. Felicia dropped into an empty seat and crossed her legs, kicking out the top one and swinging it up and down like a water pump.
“You’re a bundle of nerves,” Ginger said to her.
“I’m just excited.”
“Her friend is coming,” Haley said slyly.
“That’s right,” Ginger said as if she’d forgotten. “Now that you’ve trapped us here for the dance, will you tell us about him?”
Felicia’s leg pumped harder then came to a full stop. She did a partial turn in her seat and leaned forward. “I won’t tell you his name, except for this, he’s a captain in the army.”
Haley whistled. “A captain. Impressive.”
“He’s so fetching,” Felicia gushed. “I can’t believe he’s interested in someone like me.”
“What do you mean?” Ginger said. “You’re a catch in every way. Beautiful, intelligent . . .”
“But not titled or monied,” Felicia said, her enthusiasm waning. “Only the appearance of it.”
“Does it matter?” Haley asked, indignant.
“Money always matters,” Felicia said matter-of-factly. She sprung to her feet. “I’m going to get ready. I’ve been waiting for this moment for ages.”
“I suppose we should get ready, too,” Ginger said, suddenly not feeling like going to a dance party.
“Do you have a dress?” Haley said. “I didn’t pack for dancing. Not that I have anything for such an event anyway. I’ll just spend the night in my room, reading.”
“You can’t do that. You promised Miss Smith you’d be a wallflower with her!”
“Right, I did.”
“I brought an extra dress you can borrow.”
“I thought you didn’t know about the dance.”
“I didn’t. I always pack for every possible occasion.”
Every occasion. Ginger’s eyes were drawn to the motion outside the window and her gaze focused on the far side of the lake where the cemetery lay. She’d packed a black dress.
Haley followed her gaze and asked gently. “Are you going to visit it today?”
“No,” she answered. “Maybe tomorrow.” Her heart pounded as she imagined her husband’s gravestone. Actually seeing it would make everything too real.
Daniel’s death. Her guilt.
Chapter Six
The ballroom at Bray Manor was transformed. The crystal chandeliers glimmered, casting a starry array of warm light. Candelabras flickered on the ends of the refreshment table, which provided water and punch. Dancers were sure to work up a thirst. In the corner, for those searching for something stronger, a drinks trolley was parked. Yellow ribbons looped along the walls with a huge banner reading: Remembering our Veterans.
A six-piece band with its sweet strings and warm horns in three-four time played Dreamy Melody, enticing dancers to waltz around the hardwood floor.
Ginger and Haley arrived together and stood near the drinks trolley where they each accepted a flute of champagne. Ginger wore her Kate Reily evening dress—a pale green silk satin with a brocaded floral and vine design, a colour Ginger knew brought out the green in her eyes. It was trimmed with a delicate lace at the neckline and cuffs, and the wide satin sash’s metal tassels drew the eye.
Haley fussed with her borrowed Madeleine Vionnet, a lovely sleeveless, creamy frock, with elaborate pearl beading on the bodice and generous layers of handkerchief-hemmed skirting. Its classic bias cut created soft lines that hung gracefully over Haley’s thin frame.
They both wore long white gloves that reached their elbows, and Ginger linked their arms together.
“I feel so odd,” Haley said. “Like I’m pretending to be someone else.”
Ginger nudged her playfully. “Then pretend to be someone having fun.”
Ginger observed the room, noting the number of wounded men. Interspersed were the non-military folk there to show their support by dancing and hopefully emptying their pockets. The soldiers here were lucky—or someone would say, unlucky—to have made it home. They sat or stood awkwardly along walls, some staring blankly into the twilight out of the windows. Had her Daniel lived, he would be amongst them.
Most noticeable were the men in wheelchairs and on crutches. Others were missing arms, wearing eye patches, or even partial facial masks to cover burns and missing facial features. The soldier talking tersely to the Honourable Mrs. Croft—presumably her son, Private Patrick Croft—was one of them.
Even after five years of peace, the sight of these men and knowing what they’d sacrificed, scorched a hole in Ginger’s stomach.
“A dance seems like an odd choice of event for these men,” Haley said.
“Dancing is a delightful gift. Why should they miss out?”
&nbs
p; “You make a good point. So, who asks whom in this situation?”
The matter was settled when two soldiers approached, one on crutches who asked Haley to dance, and one with a missing left forearm, who stretched out his good right hand to Ginger.
“You don’t mind?” he said. “I can’t hold your waist, which is a deuced shame, believe me.”
Ginger laughed. “Not at all.” She gripped the soldier’s shoulder with one gloved hand and held his palm with the other. She caught Haley’s eye as her friend became her dance partner’s crutch, and they swayed awkwardly to the music as they shared an amused grin.
Ginger’s partner talked nervously, relaying his regiment and his tours of service, and where he had been wounded.
“Did you know Lord Gold?” she asked.
“I did. A fine lad. We were chums as children. He never had airs, you know. Treated us all like his equal. Insisted that we called him Danny, and that stuffy titles were for pretentious old men.” The soldier laughed at the memory, then quieted. “Did you know him?”
Ginger stared up at the young man, feeling stunned. She’d just assumed he would know who she was, but then why would he? There were no formal introductions at this dance as it wasn’t a society event.
“He was my late husband,” she said, her words soft.
The soldier froze. “You’re Lady Gold?”
“I am.”
“I—I’m so sorry,” he stuttered. His ruddy face flushed knowing that he was dancing with one above his station. “Had I known . . .”
“You wouldn’t have asked?”
“Yes, madam, I mean, no, my lady . . .”
“Then I’m glad you didn’t know.”
The music ended and Ginger thanked the soldier for the dance. “Please don’t tell your mates who I am. It would distress me terribly if I never had another offer to dance again tonight.”
Ginger spotted Felicia at the refreshment table and called out to her. She didn’t respond, and Ginger concluded the music had drowned out her voice. She tapped on her sister-in-law’s shoulder only to be stunned when the lady who turned failed to be Felicia.
“I’m sorry,” Ginger said. “I thought you were someone else.”
“How fun,” the young lady said. “Who?”
“My sister-in-law, Felicia Gold. You have a very similar profile.”
“Oh, you must be the much-spoken-of Lady Gold!” She held out her hand. “I’m Angela Ashton, a friend of Felicia’s. How do you do?”
“It’s a pleasure,” Ginger said.
“Ginger!” Felicia joined them along with another girl, all dressed in straight-cut silk-over-rayon dresses, with thin straps and billowy hemlines. They sported similar hairstyles cut short with shiny finger waves and wore beaded headbands sprouting large feathers.
“I see you’ve met Miss Ashton. This is Miss Webb,” Felicia said referring to the mousy brunette.
“We should all ask the wheelchair men to dance!” Miss Ashton said. “Wouldn’t that be a hoot?”
“But how would that work?” Miss Webb asked. “They’re in chairs.”
Miss Ashton giggled mischievously. “You sit on their laps, silly!”
A gloved hand went to Miss Webb’s ruby-red lips. “How frightfully scandalous!” she said with a glimmer in her eye. That said, she was ready to play. “Let’s do it!”
Felicia laughed and shot Ginger a faux look of apology. Ginger laughed back.
Ambrosia scuttled to Ginger’s side, her walking stick click, click, clicking on the wooden floor. Her round eyes widened further with disbelief as the daring girls pushed wheelchair-bound soldiers to the middle of the floor and hopped on their laps. The men seemed all too eager to spin them around.
“My word!” Ambrosia stated. “What on earth has got into those girls’ heads?!”
“They want all the soldiers to feel included, Grandmother. The dance is for their benefit after all.”
“But it’s so unbecoming! And look at that saucy Miss Ashton. She’s engaged, you know, to Mr. Croft.”
Ginger was surprised at this announcement. “Really?”
“One of those impulsive measures that was so common among the young before the war,” Ambrosia explained. “But when poor Mr. Croft returned home damaged, her enthusiasm wavered greatly.”
“How sad for Mr. Croft,” Ginger said. “But why not break off the engagement, if that’s the case?”
“He says it’s a matter of honour, much to the Honourable Mrs. Croft’s chagrin, I can tell you. Miss Ashton is after a title, plain and simple. Mr. Croft will inherit his grandfather’s barony soon. Mr. Croft’s father, sadly, has passed away, and poor Sir Julius Croft is now on his death bed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ginger said lowering her gaze. “But, surely after so long, Mr. Croft needn’t go through with it. No one would judge either of them.”
“Tell that to Miss Ashton. She’s determined to hold him to it. And just look at her giggling and flirting with that soldier like a trollop!” The soft folds of skin on Ambrosia’s face flushed red with indignation. “Mrs. Croft has done her absolute best to keep the nuptials postponed. She’s hoping in time, she’ll change her son’s mind and defy the hold Miss Ashton has on him.”
Ginger studied Patrick Croft as he watched his fiancée, her bare arms draped around another man’s neck, spinning in circles, her head back in giddy laughter. His mouth was turned down in a firm scowl, and even though he had only one eye, it was narrowed and piercing.
“Miss Ashton might be doing the Honourable’s work for her,” Ginger said.
The song ended, and the wheelchaired men, with countenances noticeably cheered, were pushed back to their friends by their dance partners, who were immediately asked to dance again by fellow soldiers.
Only Felicia refused, her eyes set on the entrance. Ginger followed Felicia’s gaze to the uniformed man who stood, hat in hand and with an air of self-importance. She gasped.
“Oh, mercy.”
Chapter Seven
Felicia pranced across the room and practically threw herself into the man’s arms. He pushed her back with a look of restraint, and she, with a flash of hurt in her eyes, restrained herself. Instead, they shared a demure cheek-to-cheek kiss.
Felicia’s offence was short-lived and she dragged the soldier over to Ginger and proclaimed proudly, “Ginger, this is Captain Smithwick. Captain, my sister-in-law, Lady Gold.”
Captain Smithwick stood tall, shoulders back and stared at Ginger with a glint in his eye. “We’ve met,” he said. “Nice to see you again,” he added with a smirk, “Lady Gold.”
Ginger’s blood iced at the sight of the man—a person she’d hoped she’d never have reason to see again in her life—and now her heart stirred with a renewed swirl of anger and contempt. “Captain Smithwick,” she said coldly.
Felicia, in her blush of new love, failed to register the animosity.
“I’m so glad you made it, love,” she said. “I was worried for a while.”
“I said I’d come, and I’m a man of my word.”
Ginger scoffed, then politely turned it into a cough, covering her mouth with her gloved hand.
“Are you all right?” Felicia asked.
“Oh, yes. Just, I think I need a drink. Excuse me.”
Ginger immediately found a waiter and helped herself to a glass of champagne. Smithwick’s arrogance! His cold-heartedness! There was no doubt that he knew Ginger would be here. What did he want with her now? And how dare he use Felicia and her tender emotions to get to her!
A wall of French windows faced the back, and dancers regularly slipped outside to cool off or to smoke cigarettes. Ginger strutted to the nearest one, passing Angela Ashton on her way. Miss Ashton was angled away from her and spoke sharply to her friend Miss Webb.
“Don’t be such a limp squid, Muriel. Honestly, I don’t know why Felicia invited you. You have no mind of your own.”
Muriel pouted and stormed out of the hall.
Ginger frowned. Miss Ashton certainly wasn’t in her best form.
Outside, the wind was brisk and cool, soothing the heat of anger ignited by Smithwick. Ginger tightened her shawl over her shoulders and breathed deeply. She wouldn’t let that man get to her.
The lights from the dance lit the patio, but beyond, in this moonless night, was blackness. Only the soft lapping of the waves whispered of Livingston Lake in the distance.
Ginger had barely got her emotions under control when she sensed someone behind her. She turned to find Mr. Croft.
“Lady Gold,” he said with a nod. The red tip of his lit cigarette arced through the darkness as his hand moved to his lips and he inhaled.
“Hello, Mr. Croft,” Ginger said. “Are you having a good time?”
Mr. Croft dropped the butt of his cigarette and stubbed it out with his toe. “I would be if you’d give me the honour of this dance.”
Ginger smiled and accepted his outstretched hand. “I’d be delighted.” They entered the hall just as the band began to play Isham Jones’s upbeat Who’s Sorry Now.
Ginger focused her attention on the soldier’s good eye. Once she got past the horrible scarring on the left side of his face, she found that the uninjured half was quite pleasant. Before the burns, Mr. Croft had been a handsome man. The scarring must’ve continued down the left side including his hand, as he wore a lone glove to cover it.
Mr. Croft proved to be a good dancer, expertly leading her through the quickstep.
“Are you enjoying the evening?” Mr. Croft asked politely.
“Oh, yes. It’s quite fun. I do hope the Croft Convalescent Home will do well.”
“We are very appreciative of the Gold family for your support.”
Over the soldier’s shoulder, Ginger saw Miss Smith, the petite volunteer librarian from the knitting circle, dancing with the same one-armed man Ginger had danced with earlier. Miss Smith was a wallflower no more.
Mr. Croft wasn’t much for talking, but he turned out to be a good dancer, and Ginger found she could lose herself in the movement and simply enjoy the jazz number. She found herself singing along. “Who's sad and blue? Who's crying too? Just like I cried over you. Right to the end . . .”