The Adventures of Clarissa Hardy

by Chloe Gillis

  “I say!” remarked Dutton, which was excited as he ever got.

  “Dutton, you will take this to Headquarters tonight. We must have the imprint as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Dutton.

  “Oh, Sir Anderson!” said Clarissa, clasping her hands together. “I am so happy! Indeed I am! I did not want to disappoint you.”

  “And you have not, my dear! You have been a tremendous asset to the Realm. We must commend you on a valiant and successful effort!” Sir Anderson bowed low to Clarissa, then took her hand and kissed the back of it. “I am personally in your debt. You may reach me through Dutton at any time should you need anything. And now, I must be off.” He bowed again, then smiling in the most debonair way he added wryly, “Locksmith to visit, you see.”

  The next afternoon, Clarissa was sitting at her desk working on her article for the Sunday Edition. Mrs. Dutton suddenly appeared at her elbow with a cup of tea and some lovely biscuits.

  “I thought you might enjoy a cup of tea, miss,” she said. “You’ve been at it all morning.”

  Clarissa said, “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Dutton. I would most assuredly love a cup of tea. I need to turn this in this evening, you see.”

  Mrs. Dutton turned to leave, but Clarissa heaved a heavy sigh. Mrs. Dutton said, “What is it, miss?”

  “Are we spies, then, Mrs. Dutton?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose we are. On occasion.”

  “It’s sad the occasion comes up, isn’t it? That people cannot seem to find a common ground. That they must continue to try to hurt each other.”

  “It is sad indeed,” replied Mrs. Dutton somberly. “My own brother is up north in one of the big convalescent homes. Gassed, he was. It’s why I do what I do for Sir Anderson. It’s continuous surveillance. Not all battles are fought with guns.”

  Clarissa felt her eyes prick, and she fought to keep back her sudden tears. Mrs. Dutton spoke up brightly, then, “Well, I will tell you something good. It’s a good thing there are brave young women like yourself, miss. You completed a difficult mission successfully. Who knows how many lives were saved just by your participation last night. My hat is off to you, miss. That is, if I was wearing one.”

  Clarissa had to laugh. Mrs. Dutton laughed, too. She took Clarissa’s face in both hands and kissed her fervently on both cheeks. “You are indeed a girl of extreme courage and mettle!”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dutton. And actually, between you, me, and the lamppost, it turned out that I had some jolly good fun pulling the mission off, if you know what I mean!”

  Mrs. Dutton chucked her affectionately under the chin. “You are scandalous, my dear!” Then she laughed and left the room.

  Clarissa bent her head back to her work, warmed from the inside out.

  Part Six

  Clarissa in the Dungeon of Desire

  AFTER THE INCIDENT WITH THE BARON, a certain patriotic flame for her temporary country ignited within Clarissa. She turned out several more articles concerning the care and convalescence of veterans, the effect of the fluctuating economy on the country still trying to repair its finances, and the political aftermath smoldering on the Continent. Due to the immensely positive acceptance of her first Sunday edition piece, she was now writing the feature Social Pages article every Sunday. Adam MacLaren had sent her a note commending her on her good work but had yet to speak to her personally.

  She was sitting at her desk at the offices of the Tribune one Friday morning with Kitty Brown when Chauncey approached from Adam MacLaren’s office.

  “I say, I’ve been talking with Adam about you,” he said.

  Both girls looked up. They were deep in the copy edit stage of the latest article.

  “What did you say, Chauncey?” questioned Clarissa.

  “I have been talking about you with Adam,” repeated Chauncey.

  “Good things, no doubt,” said Kitty, somewhat sarcastically.

  “Well, yes, for the most part.”

  “What do you mean by that?” asked Clarissa, putting down her pencil.

  Chauncey pulled up a chair. “Adam feels you’re getting too political for the Social Pages. He loves the work you do. Says it’s magnificent reporting, but he’s hired you for the Social Pages and you’ve gone Politics on him.”

  “Then have him publish me on the front page instead,” pouted Clarissa. Both girls looked at each other and laughed rather sardonically.

  “Not as simple as that,” persisted Chauncey. “We need something with a little more fun in it for this Sunday’s Social Outlook. You can come up with something, I’m sure. Isn’t there a wedding? Or maybe music? Food? Drink? How about drink? With Prohibition upsetting the natural balance in the States, you can certainly write a popular piece on the state of wine, or ale, or gin here in Britain!”

  “Capital!” exclaimed Kitty suddenly. “I know just the thing! I have a friend who distills gin. Yes, and he’s a wine collector, too. Has a beautiful country home with a wine cellar you wouldn’t believe! Turned the pig sty into a distillery. I could telegraph him. He’d be happy to show us around. I was going there this weekend anyway. He is having one of his famous parties. Quite the partier, he is! Would you go, Clarissa? I think you’d have a good time. I go as often as I can. It’s very invigorating!”

  She seemed so eager that Clarissa could not refuse.

  “Why not! I think that’s a fantastic idea! I would love to come!”

  “Sounds like a capital idea to me. Adam will love hearing about it. Can you have the piece ready for next week? We’ll use the design piece this week.” Chauncey was busy taking notes.

  “I’ll have it ready in plenty of time,” Clarissa assured him.

  “Fine, then. It’s on!” Kitty looked happier and more animated than Clarissa had ever seen her.

  Kitty stayed the night with Clarissa, and the next morning found the two heading out of the city in Bruce’s little runabout. It was a beautiful early autumn day. The trees were beginning to go russet, even though the grass was still emerald green. The sun was shining in the bluest of skies, warm on their faces.

  Kitty held a map on her lap and guided Clarissa out of the city, along the river, and at last, into the narrow dirt roads of the countryside. They drove for miles, sometimes passing donkey carts or having to stop for flocks of sheep, but they rarely saw another automobile. Tall hedgerows grew on either side of them. They made a turn at almost every sign post.

  “Are you sure you have the proper directions?” asked Clarissa after they had been on the road for fully three hours.

  “Oh, yes,” replied Kitty confidently, “I’ve been out here before. We are almost there! Just round this glade, and we should see it.”

  “If you say so,” said Clarissa as she soldiered on.

  After another mile or two, Kitty exclaimed, “Here! Go up this way! There’s the gate. We’re here!”

  Clarissa felt her companion’s excitement as she turned up a tree-lined drive. The trees were very old and nearly blocked out all the sunlight. Clarissa slowed her speed. A few more yards and they were forced to stop in front of a huge iron gate which bore a weather-beaten sign with the words “Melbourne House” on it.

  “What now?” asked Clarissa, her foot on the clutch, but the words had barely left her lips when the door of the gatehouse opened. A tiny man, bent and bony with age, shuffled to the gate.

  “Ye wait right there, misses,” he croaked. “Ye wait right there. Aye, I’ll be opening the gate for ye. Here for the new vintage, ayre ye? Well, the master has just had it delivered from the train this morning!” He didn’t seem to expect any reply. He dug into an ancient canvas bag that hung from his shoulder and brought out an enormous key which he inserted into the lock on the gate. Using both hands, he turned the key. There was a metallic rattle and the little man pushed with his whole being upon the gate, which swung open, clearing the way for Clarissa to proceed up the winding drive.

  Clarissa looked around her dubiously. Obviously, this estate
was not like Chelmsford, or even Annabelle’s pleasant home. The hedges that lined the roadway were tall and untrimmed. Grass grew up the middle of the narrow drive.

  As though she could read Clarissa’s thoughts, Kitty said, “Don’t be put off when you see Melbourne House for the first time. It’s rather imposing. Almost looks deserted. Brom doesn’t spend too much time outside. He’s much more interested in keeping up with his wine cellar and developing new distilling techniques.”

  “Brom?”

  “Yes. Brom Von Kessler. He is the master of Melbourne House.”

  “The master of Melbourne House!” Clarissa exclaimed with a laugh. “Why, it sounds like a rather dark romantic novel!”

  “Yes, it does, rather.”

  “Von Kessler is not an English name,” pointed out Clarissa, trying to pry for more information.

  “He came here a few years before the War,” said Kitty, picking at the fabric of her tweed skirt. “He undoubtedly could see the writing on the wall, and left to where he perceived to be a safe place. He bought Melbourne House from a distant relative, and as far as I know, he’s been a gourmet, distiller, and wine connoisseur.”

  “And he’s not been married?”

  “Not to my knowledge. He, ah, has specific tastes.”

  “And he puts on these parties?”

  “Oh, yes, quite regularly. Some people come to all of them. A different crowd, actually, from all walks of life. He will be most interested in you doing a piece on his wine collection. He has many very valuable vintages!”

  Clarissa continued to drive at a snail’s pace over the rutty road until she came to a corner.

  “When you round this bend,” said Kitty, leaning forward in her seat, “you will see Melbourne House.”

  Clarissa turned the corner and see Melbourne House she did. It rose fully four stories on a small hilltop, alone and austere, a turreted tower at each corner. A hedgerow of some black branch brambly bush was the only growth around the massive structure. It appeared to be deserted.

  “Oh, my!” gasped Clarissa. “It looks like an insane asylum! Or at the very least, haunted.”

  Kitty laughed heartily. “I assure you it is neither! I’ve had quite jolly times inside! And the wine cellars are incredible!”

  “Who else will be there?” asked Clarissa cautiously. She was feeling a bit doubtful about this assignment.

  “Brom has the oddest assortment of people, but very interesting, too. Some come here a lot, but there are always new faces, too. All different nationalities. From the Continent, from India. Why, once, he actually had a couple from South America! She was about six feet tall, very beautiful, and wore a fine leather collar set with precious stones! Brom is well traveled, you see.”

  “Collar?”

  “Here is Hugo,” interjected Kitty. “Hugo will take the car round to the back. Madam Sarkoff will show us inside. Look, there she is! Hello, Madam Sarkoff!”

  Clarissa stopped the car in front of the two huge wooden doors at the imposing front entrance. The doors were open, dwarfing a thin woman wearing a black dress and starched white apron. Her gray hair was pulled back from her face rather severely, and she wore a white pleated cap. Kitty was waving madly to her.

  A young man with a stoic look on his face opened Clarissa’s door and helped her out of the automobile. Then he went round the car and helped Kitty.

  “Good day to you, Miss Brown,” he said. “I shall bring in the luggage directly and take care of the car.”

  “Thank you so much, Hugo,” said Kitty, stepping out of the vehicle. “This is my friend, Miss Clarissa Hardy. Clarissa, this is Hugo. He takes care of our every need!”

  Hugo bowed deeply to Clarissa and went about the business of unloading their luggage. Kitty took Clarissa by the hand and led her up the wide steps to meet the woman who stood silently at attention.

  “Hello, Madam Sarkoff!” exclaimed Kitty happily. “It’s so nice to be back at Melbourne House! And look, I have brought a friend. Miss Clarissa Hardy. She is to write a feature piece on the master’s wine cellars.”

  Madam Sarkoff did not smile, but her tone was surprisingly warm. “You have not been to Melbourne House in some time. Welcome back. And welcome, Miss Hardy. You are sure to find the master’s cellars most interesting.”

  “Is anybody here yet, Madam Sarkoff?” asked Kitty.

  “Some people have arrived. We have a most interesting group here this time. The master has been traveling and so has not had guests here for some weeks. So, you see, it is a bit of a reunion! You remember the Santiagos, from Brazil. Yes, of course you do. They are here!”

  “Oh, how lovely! I was just telling Clarissa about them!”

  “Come inside, ladies,” said Madam Sarkoff. “I will take you to the library and bring you some refreshment.”

  “Where is the master?” asked Kitty as they followed the ramrod straight Madam Sarkoff into the house.

  “The master went to fetch some guests from the rail station. They are bringing a special vintage from Rhone. He is quite eager to try it!”

  Clarissa looked around as they made their way down the wide hallway into the very bowels of the house. The ceilings seemed at least twenty feet high. The floor of the hallway was a dark, almost black marble, and their footsteps echoed. Gargantuan paintings hung on the walls, depicting scenes of feasting and celebration. Many of them had an ancient Grecian theme, portraying nude men lounging on couches, waited upon by lithesome maidens in diaphanous togas. There were small tables along the walls, holding ancient jugs of different sizes and shapes. Some were beautifully decorated. Clarissa stopped to look closely at one.

  “The master collects wine vessels of all kinds. These in this hall are from ancient Greece and Rome,” explained Madam Sarkoff, who stopped to let Clarissa examine the decoration. The neck of the tall jug was ringed with naked youths cavorting wildly amongst groups of girls who were also naked. It was very beautiful.

  Madam Sarkoff took an abrupt right turn and the girls found themselves in a small room with a lower ceiling. Bookshelves lined one wall, and the same array of art, sculpture, and antiquities decorated the rest of the room. A cheery fire burned on the grate.

  “Sit, please, ladies,” said Madam Sarkoff. “I shall be back presently.”

  Clarissa sat down on one of the overstuffed sofas. It was very comfortable, and she suddenly realized how tired she was. The room was very welcoming. Clarissa closed her eyes for a moment to let the warmth sink into her bones. Kitty was talking to Madam Sarkoff.

  “When is the master due?” Clarissa heard her ask.

  “He will be returning very soon now, and I am sure he will want to greet you personally and meet your friend.”

  “I am eager for Clarissa to see the cellars,” said Kitty.

  “Yes. She looks like a good friend. Somebody who will appreciate what the master offers.”

  Something in her tone made Clarissa open her eyes. The two women were just parting at the door and what did Clarissa see! It happened so fast, she was not quite sure, but she thought she had seen Madam Sarkoff’s hand sweep along Kitty’s firm backside. Clarissa blinked, but by the time she looked again, Madam Sarkoff had gone, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

  Clarissa sat up, basking in the warmth of the fire. “Why, I almost fell asleep!” she exclaimed.

  “Isn’t it lovely?” said Kitty.

  “It’s much nicer inside than out,” remarked Clarissa.

  “What did I tell you?”

  “It’s all very mysterious, though.”

  Kitty laughed. “Oh, it just seems that way. The master is really very hospitable. He loves to entertain. It’s only a very special person who appreciates him. I hope you will have a wonderful time, Clarissa. You seem so adventurous and eager that I thought you might just be the kind!”

  “Well, I certainly do love wine! And adventure!”

  At that moment, Madam Sarkoff entered the room again, this time bearing a silver tray fairly overflowing wit
h little plates, glasses, bottles, and pots. She set it down in one elegant movement on the low table in front of the fireplace.

  “A bit of refreshment,” she stated. “I will let the master know you are here.”

  Clarissa watched her carefully this time but Madam Sarkoff exited the room without a backward glance. Kitty plopped down beside Clarissa.

  “Look at this absolute feast!” she exclaimed.

  Clarissa had to admit it did look appetizing. There were little finger sandwiches of cucumber and radish, egg, smoked salmon, and capers. There were olives and tiny pickles. There were adorably decorated petit fours and a pot of steaming black tea. And there was a bottle of a Riesling which was almost dessert-like in its sweetness.

  They had nearly finished their late afternoon feast when the door flew open.

  “Welcome! Welcome!” A tall, slim man strode into the room. Clarissa was reminded of a ringmaster. He was blond, about forty-five years old, and dressed flamboyantly in a white linen shirt with billowy sleeves. When other men would have worn an ascot, this man sported a long, bright silk scarf, and his legs from the knee down were sheathed in shiny black leather boots.

  He smiled broadly at the girls, crossing the room in two strides. He kissed Kitty on both cheeks saying, “Ah, Kitty! Kitty, you are back! We shall have to do something especially to honor you!”

  Clarissa stood and steeled herself as the man approached her. He took her hand and kissed it.

  “And you, my dear, must be the famous Clarissa Hardy! Yes, yes, I know who you are. Forgive me, but I have done my research and I know all about you. I have read every column you have written and enjoyed every one! Welcome, my dear, to Melbourne House! I cannot wait to show you the cellars and include you in the fun that takes place there!”

  “It’s so wonderful to be here again,” said Kitty, smiling from ear to ear. “Clarissa plans on doing a Social Pages feature on your amazing wine cellars and the vintages you have there.”

  “What fun! And, I say, my dear Clarissa, are you game for a party as well? You can work all you want during the day, but in the evening, you must let yourself go and partake with us the pleasures of the flesh! What do you say?”