Chapter 13
Livvy had almost forgotten the beauty of the English countryside. It was an endless landscape of emerald downs and meadows dotted with lazy sheep and fat cattle, neat hedgerows and chestnut coppices stretching into blue sky. Rainbow blooms wreathed cottages; classical country houses with cool, ivy-framed windows nestled among lawns and trees. Corn mills and hop yards rubbed shoulders with ancient churches and barns.
Sapping, birthplace of the late Arabella Arbuthnot, had none of the amenities that had brought other English villages booming prosperity and fame. It boasted no aquatic displays, so popular at Sadler’s Wells; it lacked the healthful waters and octogenarian populace of Bath, where bands played almost continuously while crowds promenaded in the Pump Room; it was without the architectural magnificence of the Regent’s favorite, Brighton by the sea.
Livvy was doing justice to a breakfast of cold pigeon pie, boiled beef and ham, grilled kidneys and bacon, and hot buttered muffins, washed down with quantities of tea. She gazed through an open window upon a painted hay wain with straked wheels and tilted bow. Difficult to imagine the flamboyant Lady Arabella in so bucolic a setting. From outside came the rattle of carriage wheels and the loud voices of quarrelsome coachmen and linkboys.
Mrs. Lytton was posing as a wealthy widow at this bustling coaching inn, where, thanks to Mary’s clever hints to the staff, she was being treated with amazing deference by the proprietor, and with awe by ostlers and waiters, chambermaids and boots. Livvy remained in determined ignorance of whatever whoppers Mary may have told to achieve this happy state.
That resourceful young lady, flushed with success and the overtures of a handsome young yardboy, stepped into the room. “You look proper moonstruck, Miss Livvy!” she said impudently. “Master Dickon has a way about him; none can naysay that.”
“That will be enough, Mary.” Livvy tried to look as though she wouldn’t like nothing better than to pass an hour in discussion of the Earl’s better qualities. “What have you learned?”
“Lady Arabella grew up here sure enough.” Mary bit into a cold muffin and gestured vaguely toward the window. “A wild one she was, by all accounts. Her aunt still lives in that house on the Common.”
“I must call on her.” Livvy had little enthusiasm for the task. The morning was overcast, with strong intimations of impending storm.
“Her name is Rebecca Baskerville, and they say she’s close mouthed as an oyster.” Mary’s eyes held a devilish glint. “Think how grateful Master Dickon will be if you solve all his troubles!”
Livvy rose, with an attempt at dignity. “I have told you I don’t wish to discuss the matter.”
“Pshaw!” Mary was blithely oblivious that she violated every rule of conduct that governed a lady’s maid, not only in her lack of subservience, but in her attire. Abigails were not supposed to wear heels several inches high, or white muslin gowns, or sport riotously curling hair. “You’re just like one of those big birds that’s always burying its head in the sand. Anyone with half an eye can see that Master Dickon’s properly smitten! If you’d just make a push, Miss Livvy, you could be a ladyship for real.”
“You read too many romances, my girl, and are likely to find yourself without a place if you keep on in this vein!” All of Lady Bligh’s servants, willing or not, learned to read and write.
Seeing the maid’s downcast countenance, Livvy relented. “Never mind, Mary. I promise that you shall dance at my wedding, if ever it comes about.” Before she could be offered further well-meant advice, Livvy made a quick escape. Safely outside, she straightened her plumed plush bonnet and inspected her embroidered muslin gown and cottage mantle of gray cloth. As ready to confront Arabella’s aunt as she would ever be, Livvy stepped out into the dreary day.
Despite its unpretentiousness, Sapping enjoyed local fame. A strategic position and adventurous inhabitants made the village a perfect center for the smuggling trade. Cutters from France and Holland were met, three or four miles from the coast, by local boats that carried the goods ashore, there to be hidden in the most unlikely places imaginable. The entire populace connived at smuggling out wool and bringing in tea and brandy, to the eternal frustration of the revenue officers. As a result, Livvy attracted little attention. The villagers were accustomed to strangers, who usually turned out to be customs officers in ambitious disguise or London dealers anxious to reap the harvest of the local trade.
Rebecca Baskerville viewed her visitor with as much suspicion as if Livvy were indeed an excise man. Nor did her distrust decrease when the purpose of the visit was announced, but she grudgingly led her guest to an oval drawing room furnished with a considerable amount of mock bamboo. “Well? What’s the little wretch done now?” demanded Rebecca, picking up a piece of needlework. Her faded eyes examined Livvy thoroughly. “Did she run off with your husband? If so, it’s nothing to do with me.”
Livvy was startled. Rebecca Baskerville looked the perfect virginal spinster who would never allow an impure thought to cross her mind or an improper word to sully her lips. She wondered how to tell this woman that her niece was dead.
“Cat got your tongue?” inquired Rebecca. “I might inform you I haven’t seen the chit for nigh onto ten years. Nor are you the first to come asking questions about her.”
Livvy took a deep breath and plunged into a highly edited version of Arabella’s passing, one that portrayed the dear departed as a paragon of virtue most tragically cut down in her youth. “We were all devoted to Arabella. And we are most anxious to see the murderer brought to justice.”
“I don’t believe a word of it. Not that someone wouldn’t murder Bella, for I always said she’d come to a bad end; but that she was beloved of all her acquaintance.” Rebecca’s eyes, behind their spectacles, were shrewd. “Unless she underwent a great change after she left me, Bella was fortunate to have been allowed to live so long.”
Unwilling to retreat from her lie, Livvy plunged ahead. “We thought the past might yield a clue to the villain’s identity. Will you tell me why Arabella left your home?”
“Plagued if I see why you’re so concerned,” said Rebecca suspiciously. When Livvy moved to answer, she raised a thin, imperious hand. “Quiet! I must think.”
Livvy was as noiseless as a mouse venturing into Casanova’s territory. It seemed that Arabella and her outspoken aunt had not existed in a state of amity.
Rebecca’s hands rested on her needlework. “I will tell you, though I quickly showed my earlier questioner the door. Perhaps what I know of her can help you to find her murderer. Bella was a willful girl, with a tendency to let passion get the better of reason. I believe her mother was the same.”
“Arabella’s father was your brother?” It was obvious that the lady’s legendary warmth was not inherited from her aunt.
“He was, and Bella greatly resembled him. There was nothing my brother dared not do, including the seduction of a lady of good family. I will admit that Bella managed to keep her virtue reasonably intact until she encountered that accursed Dragoon.” The well-modulated voice had become husky. Rebecca firmly pushed her ill-fitting spectacles back up to the bridge of her nose. “The reason for his presence in Sapping, a place far removed from the gaieties of the metropolis, I cannot say; though I would guess it concerned the local livelihood.”
“Arabella fell in love with him?”
Rebecca snorted. “Bella fell in love at least once a week, with everyone from stable hands to the vicar’s son! Scandalous! In this case, it was no surprise, for young James was a handsome rapscallion.”
“James?” Livvy tried to mask her excitement. “What was his surname?”
Caught up in unpleasant memories, Rebecca shrugged. “I’m sure I couldn’t say. I remonstrated with Bella, not meaning to question her conduct but to put her on guard against scoundrels who will callously ruin a girl’s good name. Bella was too besotted to heed my warnings—she was determined to become a lady, and saw in her Dragoon the perfect opportunity to marry adv
antageously.”
“He was of good family?”
“According to rumor. I never believed it myself. To make a long story short, Bella eloped with him.”
“Eloped!” Livvy started. “Believe me, I knew nothing of this. What happened?”
“You could say as easily as I.” Rebecca folded the needlework away. “Mind, no one but ourselves know of this. My neighbors think I packed Bella off to London when she became too much for me. She had a reputation for wildness and that’s remembered, but none can claim she blackened her good name.”
Livvy felt a pang of compassion, guessing that Rebecca made such careful preparations in the hope that her renegade niece would eventually return. “Perhaps Arabella truly married her Dragoon.”
“Legal or illegal, the connection could come to no good end, and so I told her.” Rebecca was fierce. “You’ve said Bella was married to a duke and a knight, so I can only assume she was not wed to her accursed James.” The thin hands knotted. “When I had no word from her, I believed my worst fears confirmed.”
Livvy could bear to inflict no more pain. She rose to take her leave. “I will trouble you no more, and am sorry to have been the bearer of sad news. Thank you for seeing me.”
Rebecca accompanied her caller to the door. The top of her lace-capped head came only to Livvy’s shoulder. “Bella’s been dead to me for a good many years,” she said gruffly. “I don’t know why you’re so interested in my niece, but I’ll be forever in your debt if you catch my Bella’s murderer.”
“I shall,” Livvy promised recklessly, not caring to explain her own reasons for wanting to apprehend the villain. With relief, she escaped into the daylight.
She walked aimlessly along the Common. Rebecca Baskerville was not what Livvy had expected, and she experienced a strong sympathy for Arabella’s aunt. A chapel half-hidden in a grove of trees caught Livvy’s attention, and she wandered closer, recalling Rebecca’s comments about the vicar’s son.
The chapel was an incongruous structure, far too grand for so mundane a setting, with an interior like a Gothic cathedral fitted up in crimson and gold. Livvy glimpsed jeweled reliquaries and gilded statues in every niche, and wondered how much of this splendor was paid for out of the profits of smuggling.
“Overwhelming, is it not?” said someone behind her left shoulder, and she started nervously. “Visitors to Sapping always find their way here. Note that the pulpit and reading desk are opposite to each other, an excellent arrangement. My name is Beame. Are you interested in antiquities, madam?”
Livvy ignored Beame’s delicate attempt to learn her name. This too-agreeable man with pasty skin that apparently never saw the sunlight reminded her of one of the less pleasant characters in a horror tale. “Vastly, sir. How splendid it must be daily to view such beauty, such inspiring relics of the past.”
“We have managed to retain most of our treasures, unlike so many other shrines of this sort.” Beame folded his hands. “Note the richly carved canopies that form the seats of the Earl and Countess of Lansdale. The title has long since lapsed, alas.”
“You are well versed in local history. Are you a native, sir?” Livvy could not imagine Arabella encouraging so obsequious a swain.
“No, to my regret. The living became vacant several years past; there was some scandal regarding my predecessor’s son. Shocking, you will say, but even men of the cloth are subject to human frailty.” Beame cast a cautious look at the doorway. “I was fortunate enough to secure the place.”
Livvy had a distinct impression that Mr. Beame’s attention was elsewhere. “How long ago was that?”
“Why, ten years.” Pale eyes slid to Livvy, then away.
“The former parson and his son—” Livvy attempted a display of kindly concern. “Had they anywhere to go, anyone to shelter them in their time of need?”
“We must trust to the Lord.” Beame’s nervousness grew. “Are you also interested in local history? I have some fascinating old registers—but there! I’ve left them in my study.
Perhaps you will call again. Services are held daily.” Before she could say yea or nay, Livvy was speedily bustled outside.
She stood a moment on the church steps, so lost in thought that she was oblivious to the raindrops that had just begun to fall. Perhaps Beame had wished her gone so he might offer spiritual succor to some members of his flock. But Mr. Beame did not strike her as a spiritual man. It was far more likely that the chapel’s custodian was engaged in the neighborhood trade, with tea bidden in the relic chests and brandy stashed beneath the pews.
A thought, dazzling in its brilliance, struck Livvy then. She eyed the unpretentious residence that stood nearby. This could only be the vicarage. With cunning born of her acquaintance with the Baroness, Livvy walked aimlessly in that direction.
Luck was with her, if not the weather; the study lay at the back of the house, commanding a view of gently rolling hills. Livvy was less interested in this rustic panorama than in the fact that not a single soul was in sight. Forcing open a window, she hiked up her skirts and clambered over the sill. There was little doubt that, in some richly merited afterlife, Livvy would inhabit that portion of Hades reserved specifically for ladies who behaved as they should not.
Papers attesting to Mr. Beame’s industriousness were strewn across a plain wooden table. Wondering what esoteric and scholarly quest had resulted in such chaos, Livvy carefully skirted piles of paper and ancient manuscripts. Without the vaguest notion of what she sought, she leafed through the record book for the year of Arabella’s departure from Sapping. No practiced housebreaker, Livvy did not realize the folly of turning her back to the door.
“Just what do you think you’re doing, miss?” Livvy jumped and spun around, instinctively thrusting the register beneath her mantle. Irate indignation was written large on Beame’s housekeeper’s plump face. The woman advanced on Livvy, brandishing a broom in one capable-looking hand. “Answer me or I’ll be fetching the constable!”
Livvy sidled around the table and backed toward the window. “Where, precisely, am I?” she queried, feebly. “Who are you?”
The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, but she made no further move. “I’ll have no more of your nonsense.”
Livvy raised a hand to her brow. “I must have lost my way.” She stiffened, listening. “What’s that I hear? Someone calling? Perhaps, my dear Beame?”
The housekeeper was confused. Perhaps the stranger was no common thief, but the purpose of her presence remained to be seen.
“We have known one another forever,” Livvy added helpfully, “though I have not set eyes on my friend for ten years—since, in fact, he took the living here. How good it will be to see him again!”
Slightly reassured, the housekeeper lowered her mop. For good measure, Livvy added, “Do make haste, you foolish thing, and bring my dear Beame to me!”
The woman, conditioned to obedience, cast a wary eye on her odd visitor before peering into the hallway. Quick as lightning, Livvy vaulted over the windowsill and was away. She returned to the inn by an indirect route and prayed that the natives would find nothing remarkable in the London lady who chose to stroll about their village in a pouring rain.
Mary was engaged in pressing frocks. “Lawks!” said she, staring at Livvy’s flushed face and wet attire. “How have you got in such a state? And after Master Dickon has seen fit to join us here!”
Livvy tore off her bonnet and her mantle, both liberally splotched with rain, and dropped the register onto the bed; smoothed her hair with icy hands. “Dickon, here? Never mind that, Mary, start packing. We must leave immediately.”
Thunder cracked and Mary stared. “In this storm? Miss Livvy, we’ll end up in a ditch.”
“It’s a great deal better than being apprehended by a constable. Do as I say, Mary! There is no time to lose.” Livvy was already on her way out the door.
Lord Dorset was preparing a bowl of punch, a noble concoction of steaming port and roasted lemon,
when his disheveled fiancée burst into the private parlor. “My good girl!” he said, with evident surprise, and poured a glass of the brew. “You look to be at wit’s end. Sit down, and tell me all.”
Livvy fought to catch her breath. Even in her anxious state, she noted that the Earl looked remarkably fine in the tailed riding coat, tight breeches and boots that constituted country dress. His expression was withdrawn and brooding and Livvy wondered, sinkingly, what new calamity had struck. “I can’t tell you, not now! I have done the most terrible thing.”
“Drink,” commanded the Earl, his expression lightening. Displaying an expertise gained through exploits that Livvy did not care to consider, he rearranged her disheveled curls. “I don’t mean to contradict you, but I doubt that any action of yours could be so very bad.”
Livvy thought glumly of the various vengeful individuals who were doubtless hot on her trail. ““You don’t know the half of it. I must leave at once or all will be undone!”
As Livvy swallowed her punch in one gulp, the Earl, like Mary, surveyed the bleak weather. “Very well,” he said abruptly. “I will admit it does not suit me just now to be seen in so public a place.”
Livvy was given little time to ponder this queer remark. Lord Dorset was remarkably efficient, and in no time worth mentioning, they were firmly ensconced in Lady Bligh’s carriage. Lightning forked across the sky, and Mary huddled in her corner, the cheerful, freckled face as pale as death.
Livvy wiped raindrops from her own face. “What can I be thinking? Have you found Austin? Why are you here?”
The Earl placed his tall, curly-brimmed hat on his knee. “No to your first question. He was briefly in the keeping of a woman who boards unwanted children, but disappeared yesterday. The trail ends there, I fear, though my man still searches that particular neighborhood.” His voice was grim. “And I am here, sweet Livvy, because Dulcie deemed it the most prudent course of action to take.”
Dulcie Bligh Page 18