by Joan Smith
“Of course you must, my dear,” Delsie replied matter-of-factly.
Mrs. Bristcombe had not actually said she knew how to make an omelette, which perhaps accounted for the greasy mess served up at that meal. While taking the housekeeper to task on that account, the widow forgot to ask the woman to please make up her bed, but really, the poor woman did seem to be overworked. There did not appear to be another female servant in the house, except for the governess, who obviously could not be expected to do it. She would find clean linen and do it herself.
After luncheon, it was time to turn Bobbie over to Miss Milne for lessons, but before doing so, she discovered of them the location of the linen closet. It was a large walk-in cupboard, with several rows of shelves, nine tenths of them empty. When she took her own linen, there remained in the place exactly two towels, and no bed sheets. Must ask Mrs. Bristcombe about this.
When the bed was finished, she went to the study to meet the housekeeper on the matter of the accounts, and they had an unpleasant conversation over unpaid bills of such staggering sums that Delsie was surprised the grocer had not set up a public clamor. When queried about the lack of linens, the woman said firmly there was not another bit or piece of material in the house. Nothing had been replaced since Mrs. Grayshott’s death, and the old ones were so full of holes, with no one to mend them, that she’d torn them up to use for rags.
“It seems very strange to me,” Delsie said severely, not willing to relinquish a single point to her adversary. “I suppose I must get some new ones.”
“If you think it’s worth your while,” Mrs. Bristcombe answered mysteriously, then arose and left.
Delsie sat pondering that statement. It sounded strangely as though the woman didn’t think she’d be staying long. When the front-door knocker sounded, she went herself to answer it. Unaccustomed to servants, she did not find this so strange as a lady from a well-ordered home would have done.
DeVigne was surprised to see her come to the door, and asked where Bristcombe was.
“Does Mr. Bristcombe work here as well?” Delsie asked. “I haven’t a notion where he may be. I have not had the pleasure of meeting any of the servants except Mrs. Bristcombe, and I use the word ‘pleasure’ in its loosest sense, I assure you.”
“She should have assembled them for your inspection and orders,” he mentioned.
Delsie was intelligent enough to realize then that she should have had this done, but how was she to know? She had never had a single servant to command. “Shall we go into the study? I have had a fire laid there, where I have been going over accounts with Mrs. Bristcombe. A harrowing pastime, I might add.”
They entered the study and took up the two uncomfortable chairs nearest the grate. “Things are in a muddle, are they?” he inquired. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Andrew was in no case to attend to business, and resented any interference. Have you managed to figure out the extent of his debt?”
“If I have all the bills. They were handed to me in a box, loose. No records of any sort kept. I make it roughly a hundred pounds!” she said, wide-eyed at such a sum. “That is a whole year’s salary.”
“A teacher’s salary?” he asked, his lips unsteady.
“That is what I was paid at St. Mary’s, though I believe Mr. Umpton made considerably more.”
“Of course he would. He is a man,” deVigne answered, unwisely.
“He was not hired as a man, but as a teacher, like myself. Of course a man must support a family,” she added grudgingly. It had pestered her, this fact of Umpton’s making twice the salary she made, for doing half the work.
“You will be happy to hear you are better situated financially now,” deVigne informed her. “I have been to the solicitor, and wish to discuss money matters with you. Louise’s portion was twenty-five thousand pounds. The interest of that amounts to twelve-fifty yearly for the running of the Cottage. It is not a large sum, but—”
“Not large? It is a fortune!” Delsie contradicted bluntly. “Of course, the expenses on such an establishment as this must be considerable. Is there a mortgage on the house?”
“No, the family built the house as a summer cottage for Louise and Andrew as a wedding gift. It is Roberta’s now, in trust till her maturity. The expenses certainly are considerable. There are the servants to be paid and kept. Louise’s portion was never meant to carry the whole. Andrew was well fixed when they married, but he ran through his capital with gambling and mismanagement after his wife’s death. You know the story. The Bristcombes have been receiving two hundred annually, along with their room and board, and the governess is paid seventy-five—less than a teacher,” he pointed out with a mischievous smile. “When we are fortunate enough to have a governess, that is. The other servants—”
“Excuse me, milord, but I have been wondering about that, I don’t see any other servants about. Mrs. Bristcombe does everything—everything that gets done, that is to say. She does the cooking and ordering of household supplies, and it was she who laid the fire. There doesn’t seem to be another soul in the house, except Miss Milne.”
“This is absurd,” deVigne said at once. “There is Betsy Rose, the downstairs maid, and I’m sure there was an upstairs maid as well. Naturally Andrew’s valet, Samson, has left, but there was used to be a footboy to help Bristcombe, though I think he left some while ago. The Bristcombes cannot be doing the whole of the work themselves.”
Delsie ran a finger along the top of a table, and it came away covered in dust. “I cannot believe there is a Betsy Rose here any longer,” she said.
“We shall certainly have to see about that. I had thought the total costs for servants would amount to about four-fifty, which would leave you eight hundred to run the place. Do you think you can do it? There is food and fuel, but much of both come from the Hall. There will be general household costs and maintenance, along with stable expenses... No, it can’t be done. You will do better to use my carriage, unless you wish to use your own money to set up a tilbury or landau.”
“My money?” she asked, startled, then looked away in embarrassment. Where had he taken the idea she had any money of her own? Surely he must have realized from her style of living that she had none. “I don’t have any money,” she said simply.
“You have five thousand pounds,” he told her. “I explained when we discussed your marrying Andrew that a small settlement would be made on you. It is not much, but it is your own, to do with as you wish. You would be wise to leave the capital intact and use only the interest, but that, of course, is quite your own affair.”
She was on her feet in revolt. “I cannot possibly take such a sum! It would be—immoral!” Oh, but wouldn’t it be lovely? Fifty years’ salary.
“It is business, Mrs. Grayshott. We agreed to the settlement. It was inherent in our deal. In fact, it is done. I told you I had been to the solicitor. Your actual salary, if you use only the interest, will not be so much greater than your stipend at St. Mary’s, and your costs, I fear, will be higher. Well, a carriage for one thing, and you will want to buy some personal effects, very likely.”
Casting an eye down at her black gown, which she was so heartily tired of seeing, she saw the justice of his words. “It seems a high price to pay, only to have a guardian for Bobbie.”
“She is my niece, my only niece. There is no way I would prefer to spend the money.”
“It still seems a great deal of money.”
“If it makes you feel better, Sir Harold and myself share the cost. We were both happy to have the matter settled so quickly and so felicitously. The court costs to acquire guardianship of her would have been great, to say nothing of the inconvenience and unpleasantness of such a course. Nor is it at all certain we would have won. So, that matter is taken care of. Can you hold house on fifteen hundred a year? I include your own money in the figure.”
“Certainly I can. I must he a wretched manager if I could not. There is a grocery bill I should like to settle at once. How do I arrange to
pay the bills?”
“You may turn the matter over to me, or, if you prefer—as I suspect you do—I shall put the income from Bobbie’s trust in your hands for you to draw on from the bank.”
“That would be better.”
With a smile, he handed her a bankbook. “You see, it is not always necessary for me to consult you on matters. I come to realize how you prefer to have things done.”
She took the book and opened it. “Why, Mr. Grayshott hasn’t spent a penny of the income the whole year! The year nearly over too—December. What do you suppose he used for money all the while?”
“I have a sinking sensation we shall discover he has been living on tick. His credit would be good. I shall put a notice in the papers, with your approval.”
“You have my approval,” she said with resignation. “And you needn’t feel it necessary to consult me on every little detail.”
“How shall I know in what areas you consider me competent to exercise my own judgment?” he asked, in a tone which she suspected was not entirely serious.
“I referred only to personal matters. On those I should like to be consulted.”
“Surely the handling of money is a highly personal affair.”
“In this case, it is Roberta’s money, for the most part, that we are discussing.”
“You are now her legal guardian. The finances are entirely in your capable hands. They could not be in better ones, in my opinion, ma’am.”
“Thank you. I do mean to be careful of her monies. And there is something other than money I should like to discuss with you. I would like to be rid of the Bristcombes.”
“So soon?” he asked, startled.
“She is impertinent and slovenly and—and I don’t like her,” she finished, less sure of her ground.
“You are the mistress here. If you wish to be rid of her, then by all means turn her off.”
“What do you think?” she asked, for she could see very plainly that he disliked the suggestion, for some reason.
“I think you judge on very little evidence, Mrs. Grayshott. You have not been here above half a day. She does appear slovenly, and the house, of course, is in wretched shape, but if she is indeed doing the whole herself, it must be taken into consideration. The Bristcombes have been with Andrew for years, stood by him all through his illness. Dismissal seems a poor reward for such faithfulness. As to the impertinence, may I inquire what form it took?”
“She called me ‘miss,’ for one thing.”
“A slip of the tongue, I should think. I have had the impression over the past few days that you dislike my calling you Mrs. Grayshott. Is it not so?”
Again she flinched at the name. “I do dislike it, but it is my name now, and I must get used to it.”
“It is inevitable you will be addressed so by outsiders, but within the family, I think we might spare you, as you dislike it. I notice the others have circumvented the use of it. Jane calls you by your given name, and Bobbie will certainly call you Mama ere long.”
“She already does!” she interjected happily.
“I am so glad! I have seen with pleasure her growing admiration for you, and knew it must come to ‘Mama’ within the week. ‘Mama’ will hardly do for myself, however. Can we not hit on something less galling than Mrs. Grayshott?”
“It will not do to call me Miss Sommers,” she pointed out, with a rising curiosity as to what he had in mind. She had a strange notion he meant to call her “Delsie,” and would not have objected to being asked to address him as “Max” either.
“No, that was not the alternative I had in mind. Shall we make do with the catch-all word cousin? I call many of my connections who are not actually cousins by the term.”
“I have no objection,” she allowed, feeling unaccountably let down. To have thought a week ago deVigne would be calling her “cousin” would have been incredible.
“While we are about renaming ourselves, do you think you might dispense with the ‘milord’? My name is Maxwell. The family call me Max, or just deVigne, without the ‘Lord.’ ”
She nodded, and decided on the spot that as he had not called her Delsie, he would remain deVigne till hell froze over.
“Another item settled, cousin, to our mutual satisfaction, or almost. Shall we drink to it? In this house above all others, I shouldn’t think there would be any scarcity of wine.”
She found a decanter on the sideboard in the dining room and brought it and two glasses into the study. DeVigne’s eyes grew at the size of the shot she poured out, but he said only, “Thank you,” and took a careful sip, while Delsie took a longer one and promptly fell into a spasm of coughing.
“What is it?” she gasped, when she recovered her speech.
“It is brandy, and very fine stuff too. French. Smuggled, of course. Trust Andrew. It is to be sipped, by the way, not tossed off like lemonade. If I may make a suggestion.”
She glared at this repetitious poking fun of her desire to have things in her own hands. She set the brandy aside. “We were speaking of firing Mrs. Bristcombe,” she said in a businesslike way. “You think I ought to wait and see if she improves?”
“I would do so. It sets people’s backs up needlessly to fire servants. We are desirous just now of not drawing any unfavorable attention to ourselves. It is up to you, however.”
She regretted very much her lack of experience in such matters. The woman seemed impossible to her, but perhaps all servants were bothersome. The gentry did seem to be forever complaining of their servants. “I’ll wait a little,” she decided, “but I suspect that as well as being slovenly and impertinent, she is also dishonest. How many sheets did your sister have when she married?”
He looked astonished at the question, and shrugged his shoulders. “I couldn’t say. Perhaps two—three dozen. May I know why you ask?”
“There was exactly one pair in the linen cupboard, and where did they go? That is what I should like to know!” she said, nodding her head.
“It is close to a decade since Louise married. They are worn out, I suppose.”
“She has only been dead three years. Two or three dozen sheets do not wear out so quickly. They have been stolen. And not more than a pair of clean towels. She must have had two or three dozen of them as well, and from the looks of the people in this house, I cannot believe that towels were worn to patches, whatever about sheets.”
“You take your hoarding of Bobbie’s monies and chattels very seriously, cousin. Replace what you need, and keep count of them. You’ll soon learn if you are being bilked. Have you run into any other problems, besides vanishing linen and housekeepers who call you ‘miss’?”
“Only the pixies, but I suppose you know about them.”
“No, I don’t. Do tell me, what have the pixies been up to? Stealing the preserve jars?”
“No, they have been frightening Bobbie. Did Mr. Grayshott roam about the grounds drunk at night?”
“Not to my knowledge. He drank to excess, of course, but I never heard anything about his roaming outside the house in such a state. I cannot think Samson would have permitted anything so dangerous.”
“Someone, Mrs. Bristcombe in fact, told her the noises in the orchard at night were pixies, and so she had to sleep on the west side. I have moved her to the east, hoping the pixies have made their last racket. I am taking the late Mrs. Grayshott’s suite for myself,” she added with a defensive look, ready for objections.
“I should think so. It used to be a charming suite. We had the furnishings imported from France. No doubt you will secrete your pin money in the secret compartment Andrew installed at the back of one of the drawers for Louise.”
“Bobbie mentioned it. I have not seen it yet. He was quite ingenious with mechanical contrivances, was he not? Bobbie showed me her walking doll.”
“It was a hobby with him. I have an extremely ugly clock at the Hall I must show you some time. He fixed up a mantel clock for me, the face of it inserted in the stomach of a blackamoor, e
ngineered in such a way that the fellow’s eyes move with every tick. It annoyed me so, I had it removed to a guest suite. It is one of Bobbie’s favorite toys. When will you be bringing her to see me?”
“Does she go to you often?”
“Not till the present, but I hope to see you both there frequently, now that matters are more congenially arranged. I shall have the pleasure of your company this evening, I trust? We are to dine there. I’ll send the carriage for you at six, if that—”
“Yes, it meets with my approval,” she told him, with a baleful stare that concealed her joy.
“One would never guess it from that black scowl, cousin,” he answered, and arose to leave.
Chapter Seven
Dinner with the family, whether at the Hall or the Dower House, was always a civilized, happy interval in the day, looked forward to as if it were a party. She knew from comments made by Lady Jane that larger parties were held as well, but in this period of mourning, it was only family. Till she was more sure of her footing, Delsie was happy it was only family. She looked forward to holding her own first dinner party at the Cottage. On this evening, Lady Jane brought forward a subject of great interest to the widow, a shopping trip to the village on the morrow. Delsie had made a list of items required for the Cottage, herself, and, even more urgently, for Bobbie, whose wardrobe was in sad need of replenishing. She was happy she would make her debut in Questnow under the unexceptionable chaperonage of Lady Jane. She hardly feared any direct insults, but the villagers, used to thinking of her as one of themselves, might be jealous of her sudden rise to prominence.
After dinner, she discussed with Lady Jane what she meant to buy and where the best price might be found. DeVigne and Sir Harold had a game table drawn up to the other side of the grate and had a game of chess. At eleven o’clock, Lady Jane began yawning, and it was the signal for the company to take its leave. She and Harold walked to the Dower House through the garden that separated the two buildings. It was not a long enough distance to require having their carriage put to. DeVigne was to see Delsie home. With a pleasant glow still lingering from the evening, she was surprised when his first question after they were ensconced in the carriage was, “I expect you find the time at the Cottage lonesome, with only Bobbie for company?”