by Joan Smith
She agreed to this, specifying only that he must not spend a penny more than Andrew’s carriage and horses brought.
“Did you have any debtors at your door this afternoon, cousin?” he asked next. The notice had appeared in the afternoon paper, informing creditors to apply to her for payment.
“No, not yet, there has hardly been time. By tomorrow they should begin coming. I shall stay home to be ready to receive them.”
“Couldn’t you do that, Max?” Jane asked. “It will be unpleasant for Delsie to have to deal with the local merchants.”
He looked a question at her, but she firmly denied requiring help. This much, at least, she could do herself. “I have been dealing with them for years. They won’t try to pull the wool over my eyes,” she pointed out.
“I had thought you might have the dressmaker in tomorrow to get started on your and Bobbie’s gowns,” Jane mentioned. “I wanted to go to the Cottage and discuss it with you today, but my joints don’t let me about as much as I would like in this cold, miserable weather. We shall arrange it very soon.”
“I shall write Miss Pritchard in the village a note, asking her to come to me soon,” Delsie said, every bit as eager as Lady Jane to see her new gowns made up.
Over dinner, they discussed the various circumstances that led them to believe Andrew had been smuggling. “A scandal and a disgrace,” Sir Harold decreed. “Just the very sort of thing he would have got himself into. His Uncle Clancy over in Merton the same, only of course it is mainly silk he brings in. The ship he bought from Andrew was not large enough for brandy. I wonder it didn’t occur to me sooner.”
“Where did you hear this story, Harold?” his wife asked.
“Everyone says so,” he answered comprehensively, for he had no idea where he had picked up this rumor, though he had a fellow scholar in Merton whom he saw once a week to discuss philosophy.
“Strange we never heard a whisper of it, if it is true,” Jane objected. “How is it possible the servants haven’t been running to us with the story? It must have been done with the greatest secrecy.”
“The Cottage is in an ideal spot for it,” deVigne pointed out. “Well set off from any other houses, and close to the beach. No one would have expected a gentleman of Andrew’s background to lend himself to smuggling. With a really good place of concealment for the goods, he might have done it without too much trouble. He was at pains to be as unsociable as a bear. No one was encouraged to call, including ourselves. What stymies us is where he has been hiding it.”
“Taking it right into his own cellars,” Sir Harold said.
“That is taking more risk than was necessary. There would have been no possibility of avoiding the charge if he was really so foolish as that,” deVigne pointed out. “I cannot believe he took it into his own house.”
“The men I heard in the orchard did not come near the house itself,” Delsie said. “If they were removing the last load, as deVigne thinks, they were removing it from the orchard. I would have heard the commotion if they had been bringing it up from the cellars—the doors opening and so on. This last lot, at least, wasn’t in the house.”
“Right in the cellar,” Sir Harold persisted.
“No, Andrew was a scoundrel, but he wasn’t a fool,” deVigne objected.
“If he was smuggling for three years without anyone tumbling to it, he was sharp as a tack,” Jane declared, with a hint of admiration.
“It was a dashed rackety thing to do, but as I pointed out to Mrs. Grayshott, I almost hope that is the explanation for the bags of guineas, for at least it is over now,” deVigne said. “With Andrew dead, there will be no more smuggling, and she won’t be bothered with anyone in the orchard, or with unwanted bags of guineas.”
“I hope you may be right,” Delsie said.
That night she again had a visit from the pixies.
Chapter Fourteen
Mrs. Grayshott left the Hall early that evening. She had a busy day to look forward to herself, with her housecleaning and her creditors coming, but of more importance, Lady Jane was tired and wished an early night. Nine o’clock was an absurd hour to think of going to bed, but sitting alone in state in the saloon was not preferable. She would go to her room and read. When she passed Bobbie’s room, the lights were not yet put out, so she entered for a talk.
“We have a pleasant job to do tomorrow,” she began cheerfully. “We must go through pattern books and select designs for our new gowns, you and I.”
“I’ve already choosed mine. It’s got ribbons,” Bobbie said happily.
Miss Milne was with her, preparing the child for bed, and she too joined in the conversation. “I’ve been telling Mrs. Bristcombe for two months this child needs new clothes.”
“It’s early yet. Let us get my books and have a look at them now,” Delsie suggested. “Bobbie can stay up half an hour later for one night.”
The three girls enjoyed a pleasant perusal of the books. As Delsie arose to go to her own room, she heard the light patter of feet in the hallway. It was the two girls from the Hall, running down to the kitchen to make themselves a cup of cocoa before retiring.
“Would you care for one yourself, miss?” the elder, Nellie, asked with a respectful curtsy. Then her hand flew to her mouth. “I mean ma’am,” she corrected herself hastily. No resentment arose at the error on this occasion. The manner of it was not studied, as Mrs. Bristcombe’s had been.
“I’d like some,” Bobbie declared, while the older girls laughed at her transparent efforts to prolong her staying up. They were young enough themselves to sympathize with the desire, and though Mrs. Grayshott felt no need for cocoa after a late dinner, Miss Milne accepted, to keep her charge company. When the maids came back up ten minutes later, they bore three cups, saying Mrs. Bristcombe had insisted on one for Mrs. Grayshott as well.
“It’ll make you drowsy, ma’am,” the elder added. Being two years older than her mistress, she felt this liberty not too forward.
“Perhaps you’re right,” the lady agreed, and took it. Roberta was inclined to dawdle, with her new mama still in the room, and as it was now becoming late, Delsie took her cup on to her own room, to allow the governess to get Bobbie tucked up in her bed.
It was just ten o’clock when Delsie sat down on her chaise longue—she no longer thought of it as Louise’s room and possessions—to continue leafing through the fashion magazines. How luxurious it was to relax at one’s ease, considering future indulgences. Her eyes lingered long over the pages with ball gowns of bright hues, of riding habits and fancy peignoirs. She particularly envisioned herself in one gown of a soft mint-green, an Empress-line gown, with lace panels inset beneath the high waist, and pretty dark-green ribbons looping up the hem in swatches, with more lace showing beneath.
Next year I shall have that gown, she thought to herself, and sat musing over where she might be likely to wear it. She saw herself at deVigne’s table, dressed in a style to honor it. She must have some jewel to wear around her neck with such an elegant gown. Even a small jewel was not beyond her means now, with careful husbanding of her monies. A small strand of pearls was her modest dream. They could be worn with any color. And a set of earrings, too, would add a touch of glamor she knew to be sadly lacking.
In a happier frame of mind than she had been in since her wedding, she went to the dressing table and began pinning up her hair in a more intricate design than she normally wore. If I were rich, I would have a woman to do this for me, she thought, and found herself wondering whether the elder girl sent down from the Hall might not help with her toilette. She dipped into Louise’s pots of cream, rouge, and powder, to experiment with these dashing items. The rouge was not required, and not easy to apply either, but after prolonged efforts, she had achieved a result not too unnatural-looking. How Mr. Umpton would stare to see her painting her face, she laughed silently to herself.
Glancing at her watch, she noticed she had wasted an hour in this indulgence of vanity, and with a guilty th
ought to the morning, she prepared for bed. Her eye fell on the cocoa just as she was about to extinguish her candle. It was cold by this time, so she left it to be thrown out in the morning. As she snuggled into her blankets, her mind roved over her cozy future. Her house would soon be in order, she would have a carriage, new gowns, a stepdaughter to add meaning and pleasure to her existence. No real worry marred her reverie as she slipped into a sleep that promised to bring sweet dreams.
It was the sounds outside her window that woke her an hour later. She had been dreaming of herself at a ball, waltzing in the mint-green gown with Mr. Umpton, who wore a painted face, and suddenly the orchard loomed onto the dance floor. Her half-roused state tried to work the external sounds into her dream, when she was suddenly sitting bolt upright in her bed.
Awake now, she could not believe she wasn’t still dreaming. Impossible the pixies were back! Andrew was dead; the smuggling was finished, yet those sounds of voices, of jiggling harnesses and the clop of animals’ hooves, were clearly distinguishable. With a rush of anger she jumped out of bed and ran to the window. The caravan—there were at least five mules!—was entering the orchard. In the dim light of a new moon it was hard to see, but clearly the sides of the mules were disfigured with bulges—barrels of brandy. She peered hard to try to distinguish individuals—dark forms were visible, but no facial features. Then she saw one shape clearly different from the others—a large woman, wearing white. Mrs. Bristcombe, still wearing her white apron. She could not make a positive identification, but she was morally certain who that one person was.
Fear was forgotten in the first rash rush of anger. Her whole impulse was to run down to the orchard and order them away. But she had not lived most of her adult life in a seaside town without having heard tales of the behavior of smugglers, and her next thought was to bolt her door, jump into her bed, and pretend to be oblivious to the whole. In fact, she did this, but the racket continued with really very little effort at silence, till at length her fear lessened, and she began considering what she might do without endangering herself or the other innocent ones in the house.
She got out of bed, put on her gown, unbolted her door, and tiptoed down to Miss Milne’s room. Odd that Bobbie slept through the noise, she thought, but a glance into the room confirmed that the child was not awake. On to Miss Milne’s room, one door down. She entered softly and shook the sleeping form of the governess. What a sound sleeper she is, Delsie thought, and jiggled her arm harder. She had awakened more easily the other night—the falling shovel had awakened her. She began calling her name. For a full minute she indulged in this fruitless chore, till it was clear the girl was in no normal sleeping state, but was drugged. Who would have thought that nice Miss Milne took laudanum? It was impossible to rouse her. She wondered whether she had the courage to go above and try to awaken the girls from the Hall.
Then she thought again of Bobbie, sleeping like a top when she was a light sleeper. Was it possible she too was drugged? It was not long occurring to her what ailed them. It was the cocoa. They had all had it except herself, and Mrs. Bristcombe had insisted she have some too, to make sure they all slept through this latest smuggling expedition. Furious, she stood panting, while the full impotence of her position washed over her. She was in a house with no one she could alert, and outside the walls a band of villainous lawbreakers were piling up barrels of contraband in the orchard. She returned quietly to her room, determined to observe their every movement and discover, if she could, where the hiding place was. Tomorrow at the crack of dawn she would send for deVigne and place the mess in his lap, where it belonged.
The mules were being led out of the orchard when she resumed her post at the window, no longer bearing their felonious burden. Their sides did not bulge now. The men followed them, and two forms, the white-aproned one and another—the Bristcombes, of course—silently entered the house by the kitchen door. They hadn’t had time to do anything but place the barrels in the orchard, she figured. They had the impudence to leave their smuggled goods standing in plain view in her orchard. Her wrath knew no bounds, but she was helpless till morning. She must remain immured in the house, with the incriminating evidence waiting to be discovered by a revenue man or honest citizen who chanced by. It was infamous, and in her mind it was not her late husband so much as her husband’s brother-in-law who was held accountable for it.
Little sleep was possible in such a state of agitation as she had achieved, but in spite of this, she was awake at her old familiar hour of seven. She dashed immediately to the window. The trunks of the apple trees successfully concealed the barrels of brandy, but she knew they were there, a barrel ingeniously hidden behind each tree. Of that there was not a single doubt in her mind. She was still a little frightened to go alone, so went along to see if Bobbie or Miss Milne were up. The child slept, but the governess was dressed, just drawing a brush through her hair, while covering a yawn with the other hand.
“Oh, good morning, Mrs. Grayshott,” she said, jumping up at her mistress’s entrance at this unaccustomed hour. Her hands flew to her head, as though to hold it on. “I have such a headache this morning,” she said. “I don’t know why I should have, for I slept like a top. But with the worst dreams. I thought I was being dragged by a horse. Isn’t that absurd?”
“Not so absurd as you may think,” the widow answered, and, carefully closing the door behind her, she went further into the room.
“What do you mean, ma’am?” the governess asked.
“There is something very odd going on here,” Delsie replied.
“Yes, I know. It is something to do with the orchard, isn’t it?”
“Have you heard something, Miss Milne?”
“Only rumors, ma’am. I don’t get into Questnow much myself, but my cousin Betsy at the Dower House made an odd remark when I was there Sunday. I told her about what happened to you the night we saw the man in the garden. I told her about the noises that happen there from time to time as well, and she said she thought maybe it was smugglers.”
“I think so myself, but it has gone beyond smugglers in the orchard. Miss Milne, I think you were drugged last night.”
The girl’s eyes opened wider in fright. It was not necessary to ask whether she had administered any laudanum to herself. She was horrified. “How should it be possible?”
“How indeed? You will remember the cocoa you drank. Bobbie, as well, slept like a top through the most infernal racket.”
“What about yourself, ma’am? You had cocoa too.”
“No, I didn’t drink it. I heard men in the orchard last night, and tried to rouse you. You were in a deep, drugged sleep. I watched from the window, and saw them bring a load of brandy into the orchard. I mean to go down this minute and see if I’m not right.”
“Folks do say it’s better not to meddle with the gentlemen,” the girl suggested, reluctant to comply with the hint.
“Very well, then, I shall go alone. It is broad daylight. I don’t suppose anything will happen to me.”
“You daren’t... I’ll go with you,” Miss Milne decided, snatching up a shawl.
They went silently along the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door, opening and closing it with caution to avoid alerting the Bristcombes. Quietly they hastened around the corner to the orchard, there to stare at each other in speechless amazement. There was no sign of a barrel, nor of any disturbance. “I know they were here. I saw them with my own eyes,” Delsie declared in frustration. She performed the futile gesture of darting to the back of the orchard, to see the rank grass untouched, its dew undisturbed, not a blade trampled down. “They were here. I am not mad!” she insisted to the doubting governess, regarding her questioningly.
“I had terrible dreams myself last night,” Miss Milne offered.
“Yes, because you were drugged,” Delsie stated firmly, with no outward show of wavering, though she was beginning to wonder if she had suffered a nightmare. “There is no point standing here arguing. I’ll speak
to Mrs. Bristcombe about it.”
“Oh, Mrs. Grayshott, I wouldn’t!” Miss Milne warned.
“Am I to cower from my own housekeeper?” she answered indignantly.
“If you think she’s one of them... The tales Betsy told me of the village...”
“Yes, including the tale that is rampant there about me! My own students afraid to come to me because of the stories. It can’t go on. I’ll have this out with Mrs. Bristcombe.”
But when the steely-eyed Mrs. Bristcombe stood before her at breakfast, her nerve weakened. Not in front of the child, she excused her cowardice. I’ll speak to her later. “Did you sleep well?” the housekeeper asked, with a sly look on her face.
The gall of the question was sufficient to renew her fortitude. “No, I did not, Mrs. Bristcombe. Kind of you to ask. I slept very poorly, due to the disturbance in the orchard. I noticed from my window that you were present, and would like you to tell me what was going forward there.”
“Me?” the woman asked, with an amused grin on her wide face. “I was tucked up in my bed at nine o’clock, Mrs. Grayshott.”
“Not quite at nine, I think. You were kind enough to insist on making me a cup of cocoa at nine-thirty, if you will recall.”
“Oh, well, it may have been ten,” was the saucy answer, with a look that said, “Make what you can of that, milady.”
“Then again, it may have been two,” the widow replied frostily. She was suddenly aware of her vulnerable position. She and Miss Milne, who sat looking very much like a frightened bunny, and a child, were alone in the house with the Bristcombes. This powerful pair, allied as they were with the criminal smugglers—who could know what they might do? To delay bringing the matter to a crisis, she said, “I shall speak to Lord deVigne about it.”