The two ladies settled down quite happily by the fireside every evening to outmaneuver and outplay each other in an atmosphere of utmost concentration, the sound of the cards slapping down upon the table the only noise for hours at a time. Eventually, however, Miss le Strange grew restless and wished to be taken on visits about the neighborhood, so that she might commence her campaign to recapture her pupil, Miss Crump.
Annoyed by this demand at first, Mrs. Westing soon realized that her guest would form an ideal partner in four-handed games such as whist. Rather than battling each other every night, they could instead join forces and launch that brilliance, those subtle strategies and feats of memory, against their unsuspecting neighbors instead. Not only would it be most enjoyable, it might be quite profitable, as well.
She therefore agreed quite amiably, and set about introducing Miss le Strange into the society of Lesser Hoo.
13
THE NIGHT OF the star party was a lovely autumn evening. The last culinary herbs in the kitchen gardens had been newly harvested in advance of a killing frost, so the air was heavy with a delicious scent of parsley, sweet marjoram, savory, and thyme. The roof of the school had been transformed—tables, rugs, chairs, and folding screens had been carried up and arranged about the space, giving the illusion of an indoor room with the heavens above for a ceiling.
Miss Briggs, dressed in a white gown that glowed silver in the moonlight, leaned into the harp, coaxing scores of glissandi from her instrument by way of tuning up, and the servants moved decorously about, dispensing claret cup and little cakes, quite as though they were in the parlor two stories below. Enormously excited by the glamor of the whole affair, Robert was in his element. He darted here and there, replenishing plates and glasses, arranging flowers, whisking away crumbs, bowing so often and with such vigor that he made everyone feel rather seasick.
Before she was allowed to ascend to the rooftop, Miss Hopkins and Miss Winthrop had inspected every student to make sure that she was shawled and cloaked against the treacherous night air, even though the temperature was almost tropical, and the ladies had to fan themselves in order to maintain some level of comfort. “‘For all flesh is as grass,’” Miss Winthrop reminded them, tugging Miss Crump’s shawl a little tighter as a shield against encroaching mortality. “‘The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away.’”
“How true,” murmured Miss Asquith, blotting her damp forehead with a handkerchief. “I can feel myself withering and falling away even now.”
Happily, as the night advanced it cooled, and the cloaks and shawls became, if not welcome, then at least tolerable. The crescent moon—merely a pallid sliver earlier in the daylight—brightened until it dominated the sky. It was now just above the horizon, a half hour before setting, which meant they could study it through the lens briefly before it sank from sight. However, Miss Franklin and Mr. Rupert Crabbe assured everybody that the other features of the night sky would be far more visible once the moon was gone, taking its crystalline light with it. The company lined up to gaze upon the desolate lunar landscape, the mountains and valleys picked out in sharp relief on the boundary between dark and light.
“The mountains of the moon! How strange and wonderful,” murmured Miss Victor as she relinquished her place at the telescope. The sight of those shining highlands, so far away and so alien from daily life, imposed an awed, respectful silence upon the company until at last the orb drifted out of sight and was hidden by the western hills.
Once the moon had retired for the night, however, Miss Briggs was prevailed upon to strike up a lively tune on her harp, and three couples—Miss Victor being partnered by Miss Pffolliott—lined up for a country dance while Miss Franklin and Mr. Rupert Crabbe attempted to work out the whereabouts of the planet Saturn.
The star party had always been meant to be a small and informal gathering with the sole attendees the pupils of the school and the visiting gentlemen. However, urged on by Miss le Strange, Mrs. Westing decided that the lack of an invitation did not signify; they were entitled to attend by virtue of their combined rank (Miss le Strange) and position in the neighborhood (Mrs. Westing). They were shown up to the rooftop on the thin pretext of coming to inquire after the health of Mr. Arbuthnot, who was at present installed in a large wingback chair with his injured leg on an ottoman. Upon being applied to, Miss Evans, who rarely left his side, was pleased to oblige with an exhaustive dissertation on the course of his illness and recovery. She painted a vivid picture of their hopes and fears, their moments of alarm and despondency, yet in conclusion did justice to their gradually increasing confidence and security in the future.
“I insist upon having the dressings changed twice a day,” she confided, with as much self-assurance as if she and Mr. Arbuthnot had been wed a decade at least and she were the seasoned mother of eight, “lest putrefaction begin around the wound. I am informed that the outer crust of the injury—”
“Oh, delightful! So happy to hear it. But I believe Miss Hopkins is motioning me over,” lied Mrs. Westing. After that, the ladies dropped all affectation of concern and settled down to further their own interests, Mrs. Westing to try to organize a card game and Miss le Strange to tell the tale of her old and distinguished family before this new audience. It was “My sister who married the principe, and is now of course properly addressed as the Principessa,” and “. . . the Palazzo di Funghili, in Venice, you know,” on the one hand, and “. . . it is called vingt-et-un, quite a new game from France . . .” and “Only a small flutter, to pass the time,” on the other.
Miss Crump, who when she first arrived on the rooftop had chosen a seat at a safe distance from Mr. Hadley, was much alarmed when he stood and changed places so he could engage her in further conversation about his decrepit family home, his irascible father (“Rather a violent temper, I am afraid, but we find that if we give way to him in all things, we can manage him very well”), and the poor condition of the farmland on his estate (“Nothing but stones, I assure you, my dear Miss Crump—quite untillable—half the time we’ve nothing to put on the table to eat”). The entrance of Miss le Strange under the patronage of Mrs. Westing threw her into a further agony of emotion; she could not help but feel that the sufferings of Odysseus as he sailed between Scylla and Charybdis would never have compared with her own, caught between the horrors of Miss le Strange on her right and Mr. Hadley on her left.
To add to her distress, Miss le Strange was wearing not only the necklace, but also a pair of drop earrings and a jeweled comb from the parure once owned by Miss Crump’s mother. The parure was an entire suite of jewels, with, in addition to the pieces now adorning Miss le Strange’s person, a tiara, a brooch, and a pair of bracelets, all magnificent examples of the jeweler’s art, and all belonging to Miss Crump and not to Miss le Strange.
Miserably, Miss Crump studied this out of the corner of her eye. Any woman of spirit would have demanded that her governess hand over the jewels at once. She tried to imagine the scene, tried to frame the sentences with which she would take back her property and reduce Miss le Strange to her proper place. “Miss le Strange,” she would say—No, it was impossible. She shuddered, feeling an overwhelming desire to retire to her chamber, climb onto her couch, and pull the bedclothes over her bonneted head.
Miss Mainwaring, aware at least of the discomfort her friend experienced in Mr. Hadley’s company, rescued her. She led Miss Crump away from her chair to the telescope, demanding that they be shown the rings of Saturn, as she knew Miss Crump greatly wished it. Miss Crump had barely known of the existence of the rings of Saturn before this desire was imputed to her, but she offered no contradiction. Obediently she squinted through the lens and remarked, “How . . . how interesting!”
“Did you see Cassini’s Division?” Miss Franklin demanded. “I could not, myself, but Mr. Rupert Crabbe says that he can when the conditions are right.”
To Miss Crump, this reference to an astro
nomical term conveyed nothing but the dreaded long division over which she labored in vain. She looked at Miss Mainwaring for guidance, but that lady had stepped up to the telescope and was complaining that she saw nothing but dark, empty sky.
“N-no, I don’t believe I did,” Miss Crump said in a faint voice. “I never knew there was mathematics in space. How tiresome for you!” She and Miss Franklin regarded each other with mutual noncomprehension for a long moment, until Miss Mainwaring, having successfully focused on the planet, called out, “Oh yes, I see! There is a ring! How perfectly lovely!” With a twitch of her shoulders, Miss Franklin dismissed Miss Crump as an enigma beyond her ability to crack and instead begged Miss Mainwaring to count the number of rings she could pick out.
An invitation had been issued to Mr. Rasmussen, and Miss Pffolliott had spent the hours before the party in a state of mild dread, rather than eager anticipation. How could she broach the subject of the handwriting on her father’s letter with him? Could it simply be a coincidence? Normally every individual develops a distinct and recognizable writing style. True, it was possible to see a similarity between her grandmother’s writing and her own, but yet they were different; one could not be mistaken for another.
Perhaps her father and Mr. Rasmussen had shared the same tutor and had their letters taught them in the same way? That might account for a strong resemblance. Or, being close friends, perhaps one had, either knowingly or unknowingly, imitated the other? Miss Pffolliott’s father had said that Mr. Rasmussen was an old friend, and perhaps a dear one, since he so strongly urged his daughter to pay the gentleman every respect.
Yet, while this might account for the problem of the handwriting, it introduced another. Why had Mr. Rasmussen written to her anonymously and sought to meet in secrecy, if he was in fact an old and good friend of her father’s? Even if her grandmother thought her father a rogue, surely she would expect her granddaughter to be obedient to a parent’s wishes at least to the extent of agreeing to meet a friend of his, so there could be no reason for such secrecy.
Now she regretted the fact that she had left the sole letter she had received from her father, long ago when she was six years old, at her home in Scunthorpe. Although she had read it often at one period of her life, it was quite some time since she had looked at the brief missive, and the precise shape and slant of the letters escaped her memory. She thought the writing was similar to his most recent letter (and hence to Mr. Rasmussen’s), but she could not be certain.
These thoughts combined to make her uneasy as she waited her turn at the telescope and watched the entrance to the rooftop, looking for new arrivals. However, the minutes and then the hours slipped past, and Mr. Rasmussen did not come.
Initially, she was relieved, but, as the evening wound to its conclusion, her relief changed to another emotion. She did not find herself much attracted to her admirer, but he did admire her, which was a redeeming feature. Though not a vain girl, she could not help feeling that the least he could do was to demonstrate that admiration in front of her fellow students, instead of lurking under bridges to tax her with it in solitude. This ridiculous diffidence in public did his cause no good at all, as far as Miss Pffolliott was concerned.
In short, she was at last as annoyed by his absence as she had at first been alarmed by his impending presence.
For the rest of the ladies and gentlemen in the party, it was a night to be remembered, a night of enchantment and delight: eating, drinking, and dancing under the vast vault of heaven. Miss Briggs was praised for her musical efforts, and little Miss Victor, who was allowed to stay up long past her bedtime, danced with every gentleman present other than Mr. Arbuthnot, who was unable to dance with anyone. Miss Evans did not dance, either, but spent the evening in quiet conversation with, and tending to the needs of, the man she had every reason to believe would soon become her fiancé.
Miss Asquith had danced three times with Mr. Crabbe. After the third occasion, Miss Winthrop drew her aside and told her to stop making a spectacle of herself; if he were to ask again, she ought to refuse. Miss Asquith smiled in response; thereafter, she and Mr. Crabbe sat out the dancing in a dark corner, talking exclusively to each other. At intervals, the sound of her laughter floated out over the air, as light as thistledown.
A wind sprang up; the night grew colder, and the older ladies stirred: ought they to allow their charges to remain out-of-doors any longer? When a malicious gust of chill air extinguished the candles, the entertainment was declared to be at an end. After many lamentations over the conclusion of a delightful evening, the telescope was taken down and stowed away. The wind was too boisterous to allow the candles to be relit, and so the servants began to dismantle the temporary drawing room on the roof in near-total darkness.
Robert was to escort the ladies of the dower house down to their carriage and see them off. Mrs. Westing had only been able to manage to coerce her hosts into playing a few hands of vingt-et-un and was in an irritable mood; Miss le Strange, who considered that her evening had been spent more profitably, followed after, offering graceful thanks for the entertainment. As Robert attempted to offer Miss le Strange assistance in descending the unlit stairway, however, she halted and clapped a hand to her throat.
“My necklace!” she cried. “It is gone!”
14
OF COURSE, AN immediate and futile attempt was made to find the necklace in the dark, which involved many stumbles and tripping over half-rolled rugs. The search soon devolved into a version of blind man’s buff in which all the participants, rather than the player designated as “It,” were blindfolded. The shrieks and muffled laughter that resulted convinced Miss Quince to call a halt to the proceedings, lest someone tumble over the parapet or, perhaps, use the occasion as an excuse for some undignified and improper behavior.
“Ladies! I must ask you to descend and go to the drawing room at once,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the general hubbub and the rushing wind. The consequent move toward the stairs set off another chain of collisions, but under Miss Quince’s management, all were gotten downstairs without injury or impropriety. Once the company had assembled in the drawing room, the search was declared over for the night. “But my necklace!” objected Miss le Strange. Greatly daring, Miss Crump lifted her eyes to look at her governess, but that lady seemed quite unconscious of any possible offense.
“I myself shall superintend the search,” promised Miss Quince. “We shall not find it tonight, unless it is brought downstairs with some of the furniture or carpets. Tomorrow during the daylight hours will be the best time to discover it.”
“It was that footman,” Miss le Strange said. “I know I had it up until the moment the candles blew out. He took his opportunity then and abstracted it.”
“Oh, pray do not say so, Miss le Strange,” said Miss Quince. “Robert is an excellent young man—we are all so fond of him. I cannot believe he would do such a thing.”
“You doubt my word, then—the word of a le Strange—and choose to believe in the innocence of a footman?”
“Please, Miss le Strange, remember we do not know that the necklace is lost. We will most likely find it in the morning, if not tonight.”
“Very well. But do not forget: I am suspicious of that footman. I felt something brush against my neck when the lights were extinguished, and he was helping me with my shawl. I have little reason to doubt that that was the instant in which he unfastened it.”
“Most likely what you felt was the shawl itself, Miss le Strange,” said Miss Quince coldly. “I must ask you to wait until we have had a thorough search before accusing our servants.”
“And I must ask you to understand that the pendant on that necklace was a Burmese ruby the size of a quail’s egg. It is part of a parure, and the necklace is the most valuable piece.”
Miss Quince lifted her eyebrows. She knew something of the state of finances in the le Strange family. “An heirlo
om set, I suppose? Something handed down to you from your ancestors?”
“It was a gift,” Miss le Strange said, in tones quite as chilly as Miss Quince’s.
“Ah, I see.”
“I rather doubt you do, Miss Quince,” said Miss le Strange. “It was a gift from my fiancé, Viscount Baggeshotte.”
For the second time that week, Miss Crump toppled over in a dead faint upon the floor.
“She was unaware of your engagement?” Miss Quince asked after Miss Crump had been carried to her chamber and they were standing at her bedside, looking down at her insensate form.
“Certainly she was, and she would not be aware of it now had I not needed to defend my reputation against your insinuations, Miss Quince. I wished to allow her father to make that announcement; however, he is ill at present and unable to do so. In fact, he is so ill, he is unable to speak or move. A palsy following apoplexy.”
Miss Crump’s eyelids fluttered open. “My father . . . ill? Apoplexy?” She fainted for the third time; this time, at least, she was at no risk of injury from falling.
“I see you also refrained from telling your prospective stepdaughter about her father’s health,” Miss Quince remarked, and Miss le Strange stiffened at the headmistress’s tone.
“Miss Crump is a poor, feeble creature, I am afraid,” she said in tones of profound contempt, “suffering from every sort of mental and emotional weakness. I feared that the knowledge of her father’s illness would have a deleterious effect upon her own health. As you can see, the news has laid her out, limp as a flounder on a fishmonger’s slab.”
Miss Quince shifted her attack. “Your fiancé is so ill, and yet you are not at his side. I am surprised you can spare the time from him.” It was not like the gentle Eudora Quince to be so combative, but really, this woman! Her heart ached for poor Miss Crump.
A School for Brides Page 10