by M C Beaton
CHAPTER FOUR
Tansy, Barbara, and Jeffrey could feel the evening slipping away. Cyril was still dancing attendance on Miss Bloggs, who sat docilely in a corner, smiling up at him and looking as fresh as a daisy.
“Do something about Cyril this minute,” said Tansy to Jeffrey. “He’s doing nothing to help, and if we don’t look out, he’ll be proposing marriage to that little nincompoop.”
“Marriage?” said Jeffrey slowly. “Yeeess. That had crossed my mind.”
“Well just let it cross over and move out the other side,” said Barbara sharply. “That is, if you were thinking of proposing yourself.”
Jeffrey had thought of that idea but did not want to let his female conspirators know of it, so he made a great show of bustling over to Cyril and detaching him from Ginny.
“Look here, Cyril,” said Tansy wrathfully. “Just what are you playing at?”
“I’m l-luring h-her into a sense of f-false security.”
“Bosh. Utter bosh,” said Jeffrey rudely. “Anyway, it’s about time you played one of your practical jokes.”
“Which one?” asked Cyril eagerly. He was inordinately fond of practical jokes.
“What about the ghost of Courtney Hall one. Instead of flirting with her, go back there and tell her stories of how the servants are awfully frightened by noises in the night. Remind her she’s sleeping in the bed that old Frayne died in. Scare her.”
“Right-ho!” said Cyril amiably.
Ginny listened vacantly and amiably to Cyril’s stories of sinister bumps in the night in the same manner as she listened to everything else. It was very hard to tell whether any of it was registering.
At last the party broke up at two in the morning. Cyril had already left to bloodstain a white sheet and find some chains. He was looking forward to his haunting immensely, and often regretted that an actor’s métier was considered so déclassé.
Miss Ginny Bloggs saw the visitors from outside off the premises. The footmen, supervised by Harvey, were bustling about fetching wraps and hats.
When the last guests were gone Ginny turned to Harvey.
“I have been hearing that Mr. Frayne’s spirit is haunting the house and scaring the servants,” she said.
“Indeed, madam. This is the first I have heard of it,” said Harvey in surprise. “Who has been suggesting such a thing? If one of the servants…”
“No, no, Harvey. It was not one of the servants. Let me see… I think it was Mr. Cyril Booth.”
Now, there was an unwritten servants’ code that no servant should tip off any member of the household who was about to be the butt of a practical joke. But Harvey had a long list of wage increases ready for Miss Bloggs to approve—including his own. He looked at his young mistress thoughtfully and then came to a decision.
“I think you will find, madam,” he said slowly, “that our Mr. Booth is a bit of a practical joker.”
“What has that got to do with Mr. Frayne’s ghost?”
“Well, no doubt, madam, Mr. Booth plans to play the part of Mr. Frayne’s ghost himself.”
“I see,” said Ginny. “Thank you, Harvey.”
She walked thoughtfully up the stairs and then sat meekly in her bedroom while the maid appointed to her took the pins from her hair and hung her evening dress away in a closet. Then she sat warming her toes at the fire and sipping her hot milk while the maid picked up her undergarments and put them in a silk laundry bag embroidered with the Frayne crest. The maid withdrew after turning down the bedclothes and folding the heavy silk coverlet.
Ginny sat in silence. Then a familiar homely object by the washstand caught her eye and she smiled.
Cyril crept along the corridor, his heart beating with excitement. He was draped in a red-smeared sheet, and was hung with several lengths of rusty chain that he had found in one of the outhouses. The other guests had been warned of his haunting so he did not expect any interruptions. He let out a few low moans to get himself “into the skin of the part.”
A bedroom door next to him suddenly jerked open. Tansy screamed at the sight of Cyril, and Cyril screamed at the sight of Tansy, who had a greenish mudpack on her face and her red hair screwed up in steel curlers. It would be hard to say who looked the most horrible.
Tansy recovered first. “You look ghastly, Cyril,” she exclaimed.
“I-I’m supposed to look ghastly,” said Cyril huffily. “You’re not.”
“Don’t be so rude,” said Tansy. “Good luck with your haunting.”
Cyril clanked off, trying to get back into the “feel” of the part. Tansy should not have popped out and scared him like that, he thought pettishly. Of what use was a frightened ghost. He began to moan softly to himself again. Ah, that was better. He came to the door of Ginny’s bedroom and paused outside. And then, gathering all his Thespian resources, he let out a high unearthly screech and pushed open the door.
Two hot-water cans made of polished copper hurtled down from the top of the door and poured their contents all over him.
Booby-trapped!
Cyril let out a scream of sheer fright, feminine in its high pitch, and at least three members of the household turned over in their beds and smiled with satisfaction. That would teach Miss Ginny Bloggs.
The rest of the guests, warned earlier by Cyril, stayed where they were. The servants, warned by Harvey, turned over and went back to sleep.
Shaking with cold and fright and fury, Cyril glared across the room. The curtains were open and the setting moon cast its pale radiance across the bed.
Ginny was asleep. Asleep! And he could not wake her or complain about his wetting because he had no right to be there in the first place.
He could have murdered her.
“I-I m-must have r-revenge,” stammered Cyril, and then sneezed.
“Someone must have told her…”
“Infuriating…”
“Trust Cyril to mess up the whole thing…”
The four conspirators glared at each other. Then Barbara Briggs said soothingly, “We really mustn’t quarrel amongst ourselves. The thing is… what do we do now?”
“See what the day brings,” said Jeffrey gloomily.
Just then the door of the library, where the four angry relatives were huddled, opened gently and Miss Ginny Bloggs sailed in. She was wearing a smoky-gray silk morning dress with white Quaker collar and cuffs, the prim lines of the dress making her look very young and appealing except to four pairs of wrathful eyes.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” said Ginny, “but I was looking for Lord Gerald. He sent me a dear little note to say he would be riding over. I’m sorry you took such a wetting, Cyril. Had I known it was you, of course I wouldn’t have done such a thing.”
Tansy cleared her throat nervously. “These little jokes are quite common at house parties, Miss Bloggs. You must cultivate a sense of humor.”
“Must I? How odd,” said Ginny with a vacant stare.
“Who t-told you it was going to be m-me?” said Cyril.
Ginny looked at him blankly and then tried to remember. “Jeffrey—I mean, Mr. Beardington-Smythe,” she said at last.
“What!”
“’Pon my soul I didn’t,” howled Jeffrey. “What are you all staring at me like that for?” He turned to Ginny and said, “Tell them it’s not true.”
“It isn’t?” said Ginny, looking pretty and puzzled. “Oh, well, then. If you say so.” And with that she left the room.
“Sneak!”
“Bounder!”
“Cad!”
“I never did,” roared Jeffrey. “She’s off her nut!”
“Then why would she say such a thing?” queried Tansy in a more reasonable tone of voice.
“Out to make trouble between us,” suggested Jeffrey.
There was a stunned silence while everyone digested the implications of the remark. “She couldn’t,” said Barbara at last. “No one could have guessed, and least of all Ginny. Are you sure you didn’t say anything,
Jeffrey?”
“I swear by my king and my country.”
There was silence again while Tansy fed another cigarette into her holder and Barbara meditatively rubbed one swollen ankle that bulged above its overtight shoe.
“You see, we must stick together,” said Barbara, breaking the silence. “It’s not as if Tansy and I have you gentlemen’s advantages. We can’t offer to marry her.”
“True,” said Tansy, puffing away and thinking furiously. “But Jeffrey or Cyril could… and we could all share the profits.”
The others looked at her in admiration. There was a lot to be said for the modern woman after all.
“Cyril is our best bet,” continued Tansy. “He’s young and handsome—that is, if you like the willowy sort.”
“Oh, I-I s-say,” protested Cyril.
“We must get rid of the house guests,” said Tansy. “Too much competition there by half. And what about Lord Gerald? Better make sure Alicia stays on.”
The others nodded.
“Well,” said Tansy briskly, “that’s that. Go to it, Cyril. We are supposed to be looking after her, you know. Take her for walks, buy her flowers, sweep her off her feet.” She looked at him doubtfully. “You do know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Cyril dear.”
“Of course,” he said huffily. “I usually have great success with the ladies.”
“What about me?” queried Jeffrey. “An older man, you know, attractive to young gels, eh what?”
“We’ll keep you in reserve,” said Tansy.
Miss Ginny Bloggs was staring at Lord Gerald de Fremney with utter amazement.
“But it was kindly meant,” she said in surprised accents.
“You upset my housekeeper to no end,” said Lord Gerald. “The idea of it… sending a laundrymaid over to wash my clothes! My housekeeper and laundry staff took the whole thing as a personal slight.”
“But you said you did your own washing,” said Ginny patiently.
“Anyone with half a brain would have realized I did not mean it,” he snapped.
Ginny looked at him in a puzzled way. “Are you in the habit of saying things you don’t mean?”
“There is a certain type of wit called sarcasm,” said Lord Gerald loftily.
Ginny’s brow cleared. “Oh, now I understand,” she said. “You were just being nasty.”
“No, I—” Lord Gerald broke off and looked at Ginny in exasperation.
They were sitting on the terrace, drinking coffee. She had insisted that he have some coffee before he spoke. Her demure little dress made her look very cool and elegant. Her hair, as fair as his own, shone with health, and her blue eyes were as flat and empty as a millpond under a summer sky. He decided to change the subject.
“That is a charming gown you are wearing,” he said. “I am sure your clothes were not made in Bolton.”
“Now, I wonder what makes you think a thing like that?” said Ginny, pouring more coffee. “Of course they were made in Bolton. I made them myself.”
“Oh, come now!” exclaimed Lord Gerald in surprise. “They look as if they had come straight from Paris.”
“Well, they did in a way,” said Ginny, smiling. “I simply look at the society photographs and fashion magazines and if I see a dress I like, I make it. Of course,” she added, “sometimes I make alterations of my own.”
Lord Gerald moved his chair closer. “But this is marvelous,” he said. “You have a real talent. Why, you could be a famous dress designer. You could have an international salon. You could do so many things. After all, a woman should have a career.”
“Why?” asked Ginny politely.
“This is the new age,” he cried with enthusiasm. “Women no longer need to be confined to the house. The whole world has been opened up for them. They can now have careers just the same as men. They—”
Ginny interrupted him with, “But I don’t want a career. I want to get married and have lots of babies.”
Lord Gerald looked at her in horror. “You are out of the Dark Ages,” he cried. “You do not need to get married.”
“Oh, yes I do,” said Ginny reasonably. “Surely you do not wish me to have affairs. I’m surprised at you.”
“I did not mean that,” he said angrily. “Stop twisting my words. You talk as if men and women must naturally have physical relationships. These primitive urges are common to us all and can easily be suppressed.”
He had not seen her move her chair, but suddenly she seemed to be sitting very close to him. There was a faint but heady scent coming from her hair. He began to feel quite warm.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about,” said Ginny. She placed a confiding hand on the back of his own and he nearly leapt three feet in the air. “What is Miss Benson’s career?” he realized she was asking.
“Well, she paints a little and… er… writes poetry.”
“Does she make any money?”
“Well, no. I believe she has an income from her father.”
“How fortunate for her,” murmured Ginny, sipping her coffee and noticing how Lord Gerald’s eyes seemed to get darker the more embarrassed he became.
“And what is your career, Lord Gerald?” pursued Ginny.
“My career?” he laughed. “Dear girl, the work on the estate, the running of my farms, the upkeep of the tenants’ houses, making sure my crops show a profit each year… that is my career.”
“Oh,” said Ginny. “Then it is the same as mine.”
“Nonsense!” he replied, feeling on safe ground. “A woman run an estate of this size? Don’t be ridiculous. You will hire a steward, of course.”
“Now, let me see…” said Ginny, raising one dimpled hand and beginning to tick the items off one by one. “A woman should suppress her natural instincts and have a career, such as doing a little painting and writing poetry—provided she has a private income. She must be sure that her career is something genteel, just like in Queen Victoria’s time, where women painted and wrote poetry and played the piano or the harp, except that these things were called ‘ladylike accomplishments.’ But she is still not considered fit to run an estate. That is a man’s job.” Ginny sighed prettily. “It seems to me as if the modern woman has a harder time than ever before.”
“That is not what I meant,” snapped Gerald.
Ginny looked at him with patent bewilderment. “Then what did you mean?”
It was as well for Gerald that Cyril Booth chose that moment to appear and begin his courtship.
“I-I wonder—would you care to take a walk around the grounds, Miss Bloggs?” he said, gazing intensely into her eyes.
Ginny shook out her crested napkin and stood up.
“What a simply lovely idea,” she said, taking Cyril’s arm. “Good-bye, Lord Gerald. Thank you for a most interesting conversation. Where shall we go first, Mr. Booth? The rose garden is simply beautiful, is it not, Lord Gerald?”
“Very,” said Gerald, his face flushing slightly as he remembered the events of the previous night.
Cyril and Ginny wandered off arm in arm while Lord Gerald watched them go, his brain in a turmoil. He felt the most complete and utter fool. His amour propre had been cut to the quick. He would go in search of Alicia. She never made him feel like an idiot.
And then he wondered if he really was as clever as he had thought, or if all his friends were equally as stupid. Were people telling him the whole time that he was clever and witty simply because he had a title and was very rich?
He simply must have a word with Alicia.
Ginny gazed around the rose garden and smiled reminiscently. Encouraged by the smile, Cyril decided to go “all out,” as he put it to himself. He reminded himself that the lady poet had thought highly enough of his charms to give him diamonds.
“I s-say, Miss Bloggs… or may I call you Ginny?”
“You may call me Ginny.”
“Ginny, then,” he said, seizing her hand.
“I—”
�
�No,” said Ginny, admiring the sunlight sparkling on the dew-laden roses.
“No, what?” said Cyril crossly.
“No, I won’t marry you,” said Ginny.
“I wasn’t going to ask you!” said Cyril, too angry to stutter.
“Oh, in that case we can be comfortable,” said Ginny, giving him a brilliant smile. “You know you should get angry more often, Mr. Booth. You don’t stammer at all when you’re angry.”
Seething rage and the sudden thought of all his debts and the creditors waiting on his doorstep in London brought out a thin film of sweat on Cyril’s forehead. He forced a laugh. “What an unusual girl you are, Ginny,” he said, catching hold of her hand and swinging it playfully. “Ddo you th-think my stammer is affected?”
But Ginny did not seem to have heard. Her eyes were once again expressionless, and it seemed as if the rose garden held no more charm for her.
The sound of Lord Gerald’s horses’ hooves could be heard in the distance, clattering down the driveway. Ginny bent her head to one side—two sets of horses’ hooves. Alicia had probably gone with him.
“We had better go back,” said Ginny, gently withdrawing her hand from Cyril’s. “Your relatives will be waiting for you. I gather that Miss Briggs, Miss Bloomington, Mr. Beardington-Smythe, and yourself are to help bring me out—until I am married.”
“Yes,” said Cyril. “Look here, Ginny. You were r-right, you know. I d-do most awfully want to marry you.”
“I don’t think you love me,” said Ginny.
Cyril gave a gay mocking laugh and tossed his hair back from his forehead—a gesture that had fired the passions of the lady poet. “I’m wild about you, darling,” he cried. He seized her in his arms. “Kissums for Cyril,” he said.
Ginny did not struggle. She simply stood still in his embrace and looked over his shoulder. “It’s funny,” she said. “You really should look. That must be—let me see—the study window, which overlooks this garden. The blind is pulled down, but if you look carefully, you will see three pairs of eyes peering under the blind. Fascinating! They look like a row of pebbles lying on the windowsill.”