Lace for Milady

by Joan Smith

  “I’m not. It is no more than I expected from him.”

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  That night the grate took to jumping as it had not jumped before. I do not suggest it was in any way connected with Clavering’s veiled threat, except that the one followed the other. Post hoc, ergo propter hoc. Papa often pointed out to me the flaw in this sort of reasoning. Because a black cat crosses your path and you then break your leg is not to say the cat brought your misfortune to you, but it seems to me there is a cause-and-effect relationship as often as not in our affairs. In any case, he warned me I would be sorry, and then it happened. It did not just bump once as on the other occasions. It shook for a full minute, as though a giant hand were shaking the very wall. Then it stopped till we caught our breath, then it started again, four times in all, and quite frankly it was terrifying. Well, you can imagine how you would feel if it were to happen to you.

  Slack and I stared at each other mutely. What was there to say? I called Wilkins, the butler, and he looked at it in alarm. I got him to accompany me to the cellar with lights, but there was nothing new to be seen. Slack remained in the saloon to listen for voices, but she heard none. By the time we got upstairs, Wilkins and I, it had stopped. I sent the two footboys out to look around for poachers, but they reported there was no one outside. It was a formality only. Poachers bent on concealment would never have made such a din. After the noise stopped and Wilkins left, I put my idea to Slack.

  “I think Clavering had something to do with it,” I told her, reminding her of the threat.

  He was in bad enough aroma with her that she was willing to give the idea space in her head, but neither of us could think of any means in which he could have accomplished it, and it remained a complete mystery. Furthermore, it happened again the next morning at half past ten. Giving the thing the importance of a fatal shot, we noted the time. On that occasion we were both seated by the grate. It was another dismal, rainy day. It was Sunday, but due to the weather we had stayed home from church. We had lit a small fire, for cheer rather than warmth. The grate heaved harder than before. I was half afraid the stones would topple from the wall and land in the middle of the floor. It shook for a minute and a half by the clock, then stopped, and I am willing to swear on a Bible that I heard the sound of echoing laughter coming from the chimney.

  I went as close as I could get to the flue, (with a fire burning it was not very close, of course) and called, “Who’s there? Stop it at once! Do you hear?” It shook harder than ever, and I jumped back, frightened half out of my wits.

  “It’s a ghost! It is!” Slack told me, and blessed her­self.

  "A ducal ghost,” I replied angrily. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. “I’ll go to Pevensey tomorrow and get a builder to come out and look at the house,” I said. Till then, I could think of nothing to do.

  Fortunately the shaking and the laughter stopped then, but to look at the grate, to enter the room even, was becoming an ordeal. I could not ride Juliette due to the weather. In the afternoon the rain abated but did not stop entirely. Lady Inglewood and George came to call and were treated not only to a telling of our trip to Belview but to an account of the stunts of the grate as well. There is surely no exercise in the world so de­pressing, so exasperating, so absolutely demoralizing as trying to make sane, sensible people believe the unbelievable. If I ever see a ghost, I won’t tell a soul. I shall keep it to myself, for I wouldn’t endure the superior smiles of my aunt or people like her again for any reason. Even with Slack there as my witness, to imitate for them the hollow laughter we had heard, Lady Ing didn’t believe it. Wilkins added his version, but still disbelief was writ on her face. George, I think, was more believing. His mother spoke reassuring words of winds and draughts and loose bricks. I could have throttled her.

  She did not miss the opportunity of putting George forward as our protector. The poor man was sent scurrying from cellar to attic, but I knew he would find nothing, which is exactly what he found. I told Aunt Ethelberta that Clavering meant to set up a museum, which interested her very little. She said he had been riding this hobbyhorse forever but never did any more than talk about it. She was more curious to hear what we had to eat, and whether anyone else besides our­selves had been there. She was put out she had not been asked, too, but absolved him of insult by deciding he was angry with her for not offering Seaview to him first.

  The only other item of interest that passed during the visit was for me to invite them for dinner the next week for Slack’s fifty-first birthday. My aunt and George would come to dine with us. I toyed with the idea of making it a larger party. I was rather eager to toss a real party, but Slack said grumpily it was little enough to celebrate, getting another year older, and she wanted no large party. It was true it was I who wanted a bigger do, so I would hold it later and not pretend it was in Slack’s honour.

  We passed an utterly dreary day, the only thing of the least use that was accomplished was the beginning of my riding habit, and that I suppose ought not really to have been commenced on the Sabbath. We got it cut out. Several times during the evening Slack mentioned wishing we had something to read in the house, for with autumn coming on there would be many a long evening such as this one. We found a pile of old magazines, some of them not completely ancient, in the parson’s bench by the fireplace, but it became clear eventually that what Slack really wanted to read was books on Roman ruins in England. I leave it to you to conclude why this dull subject should interest her. I had thought she was over her infatuation for Clavering upon discovering him to be incurably selfish and cruel, but apparently not.

  By the next morning the rain had stopped, but it was by no means a pleasant day. The sky was the colour of Slack’s oldest shawl. I don’t know whether it is grey or purple, but a very dull, ominous colour. We went to Pevensey to ask the builder to come and look over the chimney, but he was very busy and couldn’t come for a few days. At Slack’s insistence we also made a stop at the circulating library. They had exactly one book on Roman ruins, and it was a detailed description with drawings of the baths at Bath. Undaunted, she took it out, but I doubted she would get far in her courting of Clavering with it and suggested that if she was to set up as an expert on the ruins in Sussex, she would do better to order herself some more useful reference books. She baulked at the price, but I reminded her her birthday was approaching, and they would be my gift. What she needed, of course, was a new shawl, but then a birthday is no time to be giving a person a necessity. A gift ought to be a luxury, or it is not a real gift. I had a more luxurious luxury picked out for her, as well; Slack will not accept a penny more than she was paid when my parents were alive, despite my greatly en­larged fortune, and I had to use such ruses as this to reward her a little more adequately.

  We did not eat at the inn but brought home our dinner fresh from the fishermen at the wharf. I ob­served the “ship” Nancy-Jane was still dancing in the harbour but saw neither Lazy Louis nor lazy Officer Smith. The sullen skies had toned down to pearl grey by afternoon, and I had a little lesson on Juliette before going in to stitch up my new green riding habit. I half thought, to be truthful, that Slack would already have begun doing this for me, but I found her with her head in the book about Bath. She is not paid to be my seamstress but usually helps me out in my sewing, and in this case where there was some urgency in finishing my habit I would have welcomed her assistance.

  “This is very interesting, Priscilla,” she told me. “‘Aquae Sulis,’ Bath used to be called. I know the Aquae means waters, and I expect the Sulis might refer to the sulphur. It was dedicated to Minerva. I didn’t know that, did you?”

  “No, Slack, and have hobbled along very well all these years without knowing it, too. I think I’ll begin working on my riding habit.”

  “The baths were used for medicinal purposes, of course. The water came out of the springs at one hundred twenty degrees. Fancy that.”

  “There must have been some parboiled Romans at Aqua
e Sulis, I fancy. Well, I think I’ll start the jacket first.” I said, and picked up a sleeve, thinking she would offer to help me.

  “The baths at Aquae Sulis are quite different from the baths they built elsewhere—larger and more im­pressive altogether. They actually had swimming baths there, Priscilla. Only think, the engineering feat. They still exist, just like our wall, one rectangular, the largest, with a lead floor, and two circular baths. I can hardly credit that we lived in Wiltshire for twenty-four years and never had the sense to go to Bath to see these Roman ruins."

  “We had neither of us succumbed to gout or rheuma­tism or to the Duke of Clavering at the time,” I told her, a little sharply. She chose to ignore it.

  “There is a museum there, too. How I should love to see it! You really must have a look at this book, Priscilla. I never read anything so interesting. They found many coins and even precious stones thrown into the springhead, and it is believed they were thrown in as offerings to the gods. To Minerva, I suppose, since it was dedicated to her. Isn’t it odd how we go about our lives without ever giving a thought to the past?”

  “Some of us are becoming so immersed in it we never give a thought to the present. May I disturb your research to ask you for those venerable artifacts, the scissors?”

  She felt about for them and passed them over with­out ever taking her eyes from the book. I worked alone on my riding habit till dinner. Slack read, aloud oftener than was pleasant, about chalybeate springs and other things that meant no more to me than they did to her. She discussed strange circles of stones found standing not far from Bath, apparently the remains of some temple, and hinted at least seven times that she would certainly like to go to Aquae Sulis for a visit. In a fit of pique, I suggested she move there, for it seemed her mind was rotting and the chalybeate waters might restore it. At this she finally took the hint and set the book aside, but it was time for dinner by then, and so I got no help in my sewing.

  We had not seen either of the Inglewoods all day, and I was fairly sure George would come over in the eve­ning: He did not, nor did anyone call. It was a long, dull evening. The next few days passed in much this same way. I, working alone at my riding habit, spent the better part of the week finishing it, for though I am not a despicable needlewoman, I had considerable trouble fitting the jacket all alone and had to rip it out twice. Slack had become a confirmed amateur historian, an instant expert on the subject of Aquae Sulis. I rode Juliette on the good days, and though I did not achieve Slack’s degree of competence with Bath, I got over my worst nervousness and could canter around the garden without mortal terror. The Inglewoods came a few times, and one day we took tea with them. Slack was given no opportunity to show off her newly acquired knowledge. Clavering stayed away. We met him once in the village, where we had gone to see if by chance the circulating library had had another book on Roman ruins returned during our absence, but it hadn’t.

  His Grace was kind enough to lift his hat and say “How do you do?” in arctic accents. I believe Slack addressed a few remarks to him, but as Lazy Louie came trotting down the road on his big black stallion at that same time, my interest was turned to him. I won­dered if Clavering, his sworn enemy, would say any­thing to him, issue any warning about taking Nancy-Jane out. He looked up as Lazy Louie rode by. They ex­changed a meaningful look but did not speak. Glancing from one face to the other, I was struck by some little similarity between them—a way of holding the head it was, a stiff, arrogant, proud posture. Why a smuggler should hold his head so high I could not imagine, but I assumed his fine mount and fine home in town had given him ideas above his station.

  We were no sooner home than Slack stuck her nose in her book again, and I was left alone with my riding habit, the neck of which I was having considerable trouble with. No number of hints had the least effect on my companion, and in a fit of pique I set it aside. I would go to the attic and rout amongst the discarded lumber there for retrievable objects. This was one part of my new home that had not been thoroughly gone over, and I harboured the foolish hope that I would uncover some rare piece of furniture or bibelot cast aside by one without my discerning eye. About the only thing worth carrying downstairs was a firescreen, in better shape than the one we had thrown out, and as it seemed our new one would never be completed, I mentally tagged it for rescue. For the rest, there was nothing worth having carried up so many flights of stairs. It would make good burning in the grate, how­ever.

  Before descending, I went to the window and surveyed the countryside. From this high vantage point I had a view of more of Belview than the tops of its towers, a better view than was allowed from the road. Seeing it from the east side rather than from the front, I noticed the number and size of the outbuildings, large stables, barns, ice house, and assorted little buildings whose function I could only imagine. My position gave a good view of the meadow, too, and I had my first glimpse of the ruined chapel of which I had heard so much. It was well and truly ruined; there was not a wall standing higher than a yard off the ground. No interesting spaces to show where the windows had been, or even the style of it. I looked, trying to gauge the distance from the spinney’s end to the chapel, to see if I could have a better view of the chapel from there, and as I looked, I noticed some movement.

  There were two figures, and I was not so far away that I mistook them for anything but human figures. Two men were walking hastily and stealthily through the meadows, in the direction of the chapel. The hair on my scalp prickled, to think of the danger they were in. This was what I had dreaded, that some poor illiterate souls would wander unsuspectingly into that trap-infested area, to have their legs mangled and go limping through the rest of their lives, like the man at the inn. The local people all knew about the traps, so these must be strangers to the area. They should be warned, but how to get to them without falling into the traps myself? I at least knew the traps were there. I must risk it, and walk very carefully. I ran, rather than walked, and decided to make the trip on Juliette to save time. I let her out to a canter as we went through the spinney, not slowing the pace till we came to the meadow’s edge. The grass was long at the sum­mer’s end. Such a waste, no cattle grazing here, nor the hay even mown, and there were some considerable number of acres. So ideal, of course, for concealing the treacherous traps. Losing a foot was not the worst that could happen here. If one were left undiscovered, he could lose his life. I gazed beyond, searching for the men, and saw nothing. I had to take myself by the scruff of the neck and make myself advance for I was quite weak with fright.

  At a careful walk, straining my eyes forward at every step, we advanced, Juliette and I, till we were within shouting distance of where I had seen the men. Then I began shouting and continued to do so till I got right up to the chapel, but there was no answering call, nor even a sign of the men. They had vanished. There was one mound of rock higher than the others, and I dismounted to clamber up on it for a better view, all in vain. The men were not to be seen. The thing was impossible, but it had happened. They couldn’t both be dead in a trap so soon. I looked beyond the ruins, but the tall grass was undisturbed. Behind me was my own path and theirs, several yards away, highly visible as a parting in the grass. Both trails stopped at the ruins.

  This was my first opportunity to view the remains of the chapel, and I was highly curious to do so, but becoming more frightened than curious. The men could be crouching behind any pile of rocks, hiding with the intention of attacking me. I did no more than glance at a smallish excavation, a family chapel, not a church, with a few stones till remaining. Hardly sufficient to worry about anyone stealing, for they would not get the reconstructed temple two feet off the ground. My mind full of unanswered questions, I returned home through the same depression in the grass through which I had come, knowing it to be free of danger.

  I now had another mystery to go along with my clanking grate, and as if to increase my apprehension, that object took to rattling again on Thursday. It was Slack who lifted her head from her b
ook long enough to come up with a sort of an idea, one culled from her new interest, of course. “I wonder if it would be possible we are sitting on buried treasure,” she said. “It would account for Clavering’s not wanting anyone wandering about his lands; and if he doesn’t know exactly where it’s buried, it would account as well for his wanting to get Seaview back so that he could search, for it here.”

  “We are on the coast—pirate’s treasure! Some of Captain Morgan’s loot from Cuba or Panama,” I said, taking it up the more eagerly to keep Slack’s interest from Bath.

  “I was thinking more of some Clavering treasure, buried at one time or another due to some of the wars, the civil war or such.”

  “Or concealed in the house itself! That would account for his being willing to pay thirty-five hundred pounds for the house. Slack, shall we have a house hunt?”

  “You’re talking of ripping up floors and tearing out panelling, are you?” she asked, a trifle sarcastically, I believe. “It wouldn’t be hidden under the rug, or any­thing of that soft.”

  “I have a much better idea. I’ll tear my house apart, stone from stone, at the end of nineteen years, and if there is any treasure hidden, we shall get it then.”

  “Yes, an excellent idea,” she said, but I had already lost her to antiquity. Her voice had that vague quality with which she told me linen would be fine for lunch, or yes, a cabbage would make a marvellous shawl. This was the sort of conversation we had recently. She was off in another world, and to all intents and purposes I talked to myself.

  On Friday morning, I found a more conversable person. Mr. Pickering, the builder, came from Pevensey to investigate the phenomenon of the noisy grate.

  He was a plain, no-nonsense sort of a man, and I was curious to see what he would make of it. He began his examination in the saloon, at the grate itself. He had a little rubber-tipped hammer with which he tapped the stones, the oaken shelf, the hearth floor, and chimney lining. He also had a little apparatus called a level, a metal frame with a glass tube inserted horizontally, holding some liquid with an air bubble in it. This was placed in various spots to see if the house was out of kilter, built on a slant. It was not. The bubble of air settled comfortably in the centre of the tube, and I was informed my house was “straight” or “flat.” Next a measuring tape came out of his toolbox, and he measured carefully, muttering to himself the while.