Haxby had too much respect for Fazeby to argue back. He merely nodded and murmured an apology, aimed mainly at Millie, before leaving the room.
“James has spent so long abroad, he sometimes forgets the niceties of English manners,” said Cynthia. “You must forgive him, Victoria.” Millie sensed an underlying plea to Mrs Oakengate to forgive Millie too, or perhaps it was just wishful thinking on her part.
“Forgive him? Why, there is nothing to forgive. I understand men like Haxby,” said Mrs Oakengate, with an excited gleam in her eyes. “He must be master of all he surveys. Of course, he would never be my master, no man could. He obviously thinks about me constantly, don’t you think? The way he takes such an interest in my dealings with my young charge here. That’s why Henry had to warn him to behave, isn’t it, Henry? Showing such passion publicly is unseemly, even if it is all rather exciting.”
“Yes, of course, Victoria,” said Henry, his mouth turning up slightly at the corners. “I knew there must be some reason I said it.”
The morning passed by interminably for Millie. Henry Fazeby was out on the estate, talking to his manager, and Alexander Markham had gone into the town, having volunteered to deal with the particulars involving the funerals of Mr and Mrs Parker-Trent. Count Chlomsky said he was going for a walk, but did not divulge his destination or when he would return.
Mrs Oakengate had very little use for Millie at all, having Barbara Conrad and Cynthia Fazeby for company in the drawing room. She filled up Millie’s time with errands.
“Did I say my red scarf, Millicent? I’m sure I said my blue scarf.”
“You said your red scarf,” said Barbara Conrad, looking up from her book.
“No, I think you’re mistaken. Besides, it is Millicent’s job to remember these things, not yours, though it’s very kind of you to take an interest, I’m sure, my dear.”
“No, not that book, the one in my other bag.” Her various commands ensured was the Millie got plenty of exercise, and could at least eke out the errands so that she could spend at least ten minutes alone.
It was on one many errands – to fetch Mrs Oakengate’s favourite slippers (“No, not the pink pair, the ones with the pearl appliqué. Honestly Millicent, you are in a dream world today.”) that Millie saw an unfamiliar man coming out of one of the bedrooms. His face was turned away from her, but there was something familiar about his gait.
Despite thinking that it was probably just one of the servants, Millie ducked back into a recess and watched his reflection in a mirror at the end of the hall, as he went furtively across the landing into several bedrooms, appearing to spend some time searching, before going back to the original door. As she was watching through a reflected image, Millie found it gauge which rooms he targeted.
At first she thought he might be one of the police officers, sent to investigate, but she felt sure that Cynthia Fazeby would have mentioned it to them, and would have a servant overlooking the search. Only when he looked up briefly did Millie see in the mirror that he was the man with the pock-marked face that she had seen climbing Masson Hill.
She wondered who he was and what he hoped to find. He did not look like a policeman, and was not familiar with the layout of Fazeby Hall. He often went back into the same rooms then came out again, looking irritated by his mistake. It was with some shock that Millie realised his reflection in the mirror was moving towards her. At any moment, her hiding place in the recess would be revealed to him, and who knew what he might do when he found her spying on him?
She rushed back to her room, and shut the door, locking it from the inside. Just as she suspected, a few minutes later, someone tried to turn the handle. Millie held her breath, wondering if the man would go so far as to break the door down. He didn’t. He walked away, and Millie heard him talking to someone. She would have liked to see who his companion was, but she was afraid to leave her room whilst the man was still in the vicinity.
Millie waited five minutes, pacing her floor, wondering who the man was and why he was searching the rooms, and then, after locking her bedroom door from the outside, started to make her way back to the drawing room. She had reached the top of the stairs when the man once again exited the bedroom, and stood watching her as she ascended. She hoped that he had not realised she was there all along.
Her heart beat rapidly, wishing that Haxby were returned so she could tell him about the man. She strongly believed there was some connection between the man being at Masson Hill the day before, and him searching the rooms at Fazeby Hall. Wondering if she should tell Cynthia Fazeby, she went back to the drawing room.
“Where have you been, child?” said Mrs Oakengate.
“I had trouble finding them,” Millie said, surprised by how easily the lie fell from her lips. She would not have called herself a dishonest person. “Mrs Fazeby, I wonder … there was a man upstairs. Is he a member of your staff? I only ask because I had not seen him before. His face is pock-marked.”
“I hardly think it kind to draw attention to peoples’ shortcomings, Millicent,” said Mrs Oakengate. “Especially when one has little to recommend oneself.”
“I think Millie is very pretty,” said Barbara Conrad, glancing up from her magazine.
“Do you really?” asked Mrs Oakengate.
“Yes, I do.”
“I believe that’s Vasily, Count Chlomsky’s valet,” Cynthia cut in quickly, before the argument about Millie’s attributes became too heated. “He only arrived last night, having had business in London for the Count. Is there a problem?”
Millie wondered whether to say the man had been searching the rooms, but did not get a chance.
“It is hard to get good valets nowadays, I believe,” said Mrs Oakengate. “I blame socialism. Do you know I got into a taxicab the other day, and the driver called me ‘duckie’. Said he’d lost his leg during the war, but that’s hardly an excuse for bad manners. That would never have happened during Queen Victoria’s time.”
The return James Haxby and Simon Brady put an end to Mrs Oakengate’s reminiscences and prevented Millie from having to explain her interest in Count Chlomsky’s valet. Her only regret was in being unable to get Haxby alone and tell him what she had seen.
Just before lunch Alexander Markham returned, as did Henry Fazeby. Only Chlomsky was missing. “We’ve had word that he’s returned to London,” said Henry, as they awaited the luncheon bell. “His valet was here this morning, packing the Count’s luggage.”
“I thought no one was allowed to leave,” said Mrs Oakengate.
“Unfortunately,” said Simon Brady, who had been invited to join them for luncheon, “his diplomatic status means we cannot stop him.”
“It’s a strange thing,” said Millie, choosing her words carefully, and directing them at Haxby and Brady, “but I was sure I saw Count Chlomsky’s valet on Masson Hill yesterday, only it couldn’t have been, because Mrs Fazeby tells me he only arrived last night.”
“Then it’s hardly a story worth telling, is it?” said Mrs Oakengate. “Millicent, I think we already had a discussion about your need to feel important. Do I have to remind you?”
Millie looked down at her lunch, but had lost her appetite.
“Simon,” said Haxby, “I’d like to go up to London after lunch. Can you give me leave?”
“Certainly, as long as you tell me your whereabouts.”
“Of course. I’d like to take Millie with me.”
“Most certainly not,” said Mrs Oakengate. “It’s improper.”
“I believe we’re in the twentieth century,” said Cynthia, “where young women no longer need a chaperone, Victoria. I’m sure you can spare her for a few hours.” There was firmness in her voice that Millie had not heard before. Millie wondered briefly if her hostess would be glad to be rid of her, yet the lady’s eyes looked on her with generosity.
“Then that’s settled. We’ll leave on the afternoon train,” said Haxby. Mrs Oakengate opened her mouth to protest, but faced with Haxby’s har
d stare, clamped it shut again.
Chapter Six
Millie spent the next couple of hours feeling both awkward and excited. Awkward because Mrs Oakengate kept giving her dark looks. Excited because she would be going to London with Haxby. Why he should choose to take her, she did not know, but she had no intentions of arguing. If Mrs Oakengate dismissed her, then it would at least give Millie the impetus she needed to start living her own life, free from the restraints set by others. She believed her life had begun a course over which she had no control. Where it might lead, she did not know, but she had never felt so alive, so stimulated. She began to understand why Haxby spent his life seeking excitement. With that understanding came the nagging doubts that she was not interesting enough for such a man.
No sooner had lunch ended, than a car was brought around, and they set off for the station. At first, Millie could barely speak, despite the questions that filled her mind. Being alone with Haxby, albeit with a chauffeur in the front seat, rendered her speechless. They exchanged a few pleasantries about the weather, and about how charming their hosts were, but talked nothing of the impending trip.
It was only when they were seated in a first class carriage, on route to London that Millie finally found to courage to ask “Why have you brought me?”
“Because you know what this Vasily looks like.”
“So does Mrs Fazeby.”
“Yes, but I rather think Henry might protest if I ran off to London with his wife.”
Millie could not help smiling. “No one would blame you. She is very lovely.”
“So are you. You have the added benefit of not married to another man.”
Unused to men paying her compliments, Millie could only gaze out of the window, barely seeing the fields and factories they passed. “Do you think Vasily was the man who killed Mrs Parker Trent?” she asked, finding safer ground on which to tread.
“I have a feeling you do.”
Millie nodded. “I saw him as we were walking down the hill. At the time, I only noticed him because of his bad skin condition, which was very unkind of me. But there’s more to it than you know. This morning, I saw him going through each of the upper rooms in Fazeby Hall. He was looking for something, I’m sure of it.”
Haxby’s eyes widened. “Does anyone else know this?”
“No, I didn’t know who he was at the time, and thought he might be one of the policemen. Then I saw his face and recognised him. I grew really suspicious when Cynthia … Mrs Fazeby … said he had only arrived last night. He may have only arrived at Fazeby Hall then, but I know he’s the man I saw in the morning.”
“Now the Count has fled to London,” said Haxby. “He should be quite easy to find. He will have gone straight to his Embassy. We’ll watch there for a while, to see if Vasily arrives.”
“Then what?”
“Then I’m going to question him, and find out exactly what he was doing on Masson Hill yesterday.”
“Are you … are you going to torture him?”
“It’s not necessary to torture people to get information, Millie. You can, however, make them believe that you might.”
“Oh.” Despite her misgivings, Millie found the whole thing very exciting, as if she had fallen into one of the exciting spy stories she used to read to her father. She reminded herself that such stories seldom ended with the execution of innocent men, and that memory brought her sadness, and a sense of guilt that she should be enjoying this adventure so much.
Haxby reached across the carriage and took her hand in his. “I think we’ll be able to prove your father was innocent of all charges.”
“To what end?” said Millie, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “A posthumous pardon is of little use to my father.”
“But it may be of use to you, in restoring your status, and you may be able to claim some compensation for your loss. Then you can tell Mrs Oakengate to go to hell … Sorry,” he sat back in his seat. “I forget how to behave in front of ladies sometimes.”
Millie had to admit that the thought of being able to live independently was an attractive one, but the cost for her had already been too high. A sum of money might make her life easier, but she would always know that it came out of her father’s misfortune. “I don’t care about money,” she said, speaking in all honesty. “I do care about clearing my father’s name.”
“Good. Who knows, you might then settle down and marry some boring little bank clerk.”
“You mean I will be a suitable wife then,” said Millie, with more bitterness than she intended. “Yes, I suppose I shall. It’s just a pity that I would rather marry someone who did not care a jot either way, and who loved me enough for it not to matter to him. In which case, I shall probably never marry.”
“Unfortunately we live in a world where such things do matter,” said Haxby. “Particularly when there has been a war where millions of young men lost their lives. If people believe that your father is guilty of hastening their end, by sharing our secrets, it will be hard for them to forgive and forget. It’s unjust, but the sins of the father, and all that…”
Millie felt her heart sink, and her enthusiasm for their adventure wane. Even when she believed he may just be trying to seduce her, she had secretly hoped that he would turn out to have feelings for her, despite her family ignominy. Now she knew that whilst he may desire her for a few hours, his status would always prevent anything further between them. Haxby sighed. “And now I’ve hurt you, which is the last thing I ever wanted to do.”
“No, you’ve spoken the truth, and I’m grateful for it. In the words of Mrs Oakengate I was getting ideas above my station. You have successfully cured me of that.”
“Millie …”
What a silly girl you are, Millie, she thought to herself, staring out of the window and avoiding his searching gaze for the rest of the trip.
Chapter Seven
Most of Millie’s worries were swept up in the excitement of their arrival in London. Being in the capital always enthralled her; the hustle and bustle of traffic, where horses and carriages still shared space with new motorcars; the noise of the barkers on roadside stalls and the elegant young women who went about the important business of being elegant young women. They had poise and confidence that Millie envied. She could not help noticing the glances they cast in James Haxby’s direction, and fancied that their gazes hardened when they saw the mouse of the woman walking next to him. Each and every one of them would have made a more suitable companion.
They took a taxi cab to the Ritz Hotel where Haxby booked them rooms next door to each other. Millie had assumed they would return to Derbyshire that evening. She also assumed that they would go to Chlomsky’s embassy, to keep watch, only to learn that Haxby had contacted a detective agency, who kept watch on their behalf.
“We will have dinner here, then the agent is going to come along and report his findings,” said Haxby, before they were each shown to their room.
“I thought we’d be the ones watching,” said Millie.
“That’s hardly wise. Chlomsky knows us.”
“But you said that you needed me to identify Vasily.”
“Oh, I do. I do.” His manner was vague. “Come, we’ll change for dinner, and I’ll meet you in the restaurant.” It seemed to Millie that Haxby once again held something back. His manner became vague.
Millie was embarrassed to admit that she had nothing to change into. “I was not expecting us to stay the night,” she said. All she had brought with her was a small bag, containing a few toilet items and Barbara Conrad’s novel, which she had intended to read on the train. Even that gave her a pang of guilt, as she had not asked, telling herself that it would not matter, since she intended to return to Fazeby Hall.
Haxby looked her up and down appraisingly, then said, “Don’t worry, I know a woman who can take care of that. Go and freshen up, and someone will come to you.”
Half an hour later, Millie answered a knock at her door. It was a middle aged woma
n, with a motherly air. Behind her stood a porter, carrying a large trunk.
“Hello, Miss, I’m Mrs Turner, a friend of Mr Haxby’s. I’ve brought your particulars.”
The archaic term made Millie smile. Mrs Turner ordered the porter to leave the luggage. It was with further embarrassment that Millie realised she had not given him a tip. “Mr Haxby will take care of that,” said Mrs Turner, as if reading her mind. “Now, let me look at you. Oh yes, if Mr Haxby knows anything it’s women’s sizes.”
“Does he?” said Millie, standing in the middle of the room, whilst Mrs Turner took her measurements. “Do you … erm … do you do this for him with a lot of ladies?”
“I’m sure I shouldn’t gossip,” said Mrs Turner. “Don’t slump your shoulders, dear. But yes, he has used my services more than once.”
“I see.” Millie’s face flushed with shame. No doubt Mrs Turner thought of Millie has just another notch in Haxby’s bedpost. She wondered if everyone in the hotel thought the same. What on earth had she walked into?
“I think, on reflection,” said Millie, trying to regain some pride, “that I’ll wear my own clothes after all.”
“I’m sure it’s a very nice dress, Miss,” said Mrs Turner, eyeing Millie’s grey tweed pinafore doubtfully, “but hardly suitable for dinner at the Ritz. Let me show you what I’ve brought, and if there’s nothing you like I’ll send for something else.”
Millie fully expected to be presented with clothes more suitable to a lady of the night, so she was pleasantly surprised to see that Mrs Turner had brought along clothes that were similarly elegant to those worn by other young ladies in London. She settled for a dress of ivory Brussels lace, which settled on her curves as if it had been designed with her in mind.
“Oh, you’re a picture, Miss. A real picture,” said Mrs Turner. “I’ve seen lots of young ladies wearing that dress, but none as delightfully as you.”
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