by Beth Andrews
‘No,’ John agreed. ‘Not but what I think you have the right of it. I never considered the matter before.’
‘Perhaps the two crimes are quite unrelated.’
‘Just what I was thinking.’
‘But that is almost more difficult to believe.’ Lydia shook her head. ‘There must be a connection, only we have not yet perceived it.’
‘Come,’ John said, linking his arm with hers. ‘Hold on to me. We must not become separated.’
* * * *
He had scarcely finished speaking before he drew her after him into the woods. The change was so immediate and so dramatic that Lydia actually gave a gasp of surprise. The moonlight beyond the wood was crisply bright, making their progress quite easy. However, once beneath the canopy of the trees, a curtain of gloomy darkness descended upon them.
There were shapes and shadows all around, to be sure, but they were mysterious and unrecognizable. It was a cool evening, but it was not the chill air which made Lydia tremble suddenly and tighten her hold upon John’s arm.
A loud rustling and the sound of something swooping down out of the trees almost deprived her of speech. Could the villagers be right? Did these woods harbour demonic spirits? Lydia watched the shadowy creature wing its way amongst the oak and birch trees, her heart pounding uncomfortably in her breast.
‘An owl,’ John said shortly.
‘Of course.’ Lydia was pleased to note that she sounded far more composed than she felt.
Other denizens of the woods contributed to a subdued symphony of night sounds as they made their way gingerly to the edge of a small circular clearing where the moonlight drifted down to settle in alabaster puddles upon the nodding leaves of enchanter’s nightshade and the rounded heads of death-cap mushrooms. John pointed out - and carefully avoided - a sett of badgers. Meanwhile, a stoat poked its head out from a hawthorn bush before making a noisy exit into the darkness.
Lydia could understand now how the villagers might suppose supernatural agents to be at work here. Had her imagination been inclined in that direction, she could easily have convinced herself of the same thing. But despite what might justly be referred to as the relentless ominosity of the above description, she remained in command of her emotions and behaved with admirable presence of mind.
‘We’d best sit down here and wait,’ John said at last, pausing beside the trunk of a large oak tree.
He pulled off his jacket and laid it on the ground, motioning for her to make use of it as a makeshift cushion.
‘Why this spot?’ she enquired, looking around her and seeing nothing.
‘It’s as reasonable as any other part of the wood,’ he replied, joining her on the ground. ‘We are not in the center, but we are deep enough to hear any unusual sound and to have some notion of where it comes from.’
‘But what if the smugglers come from the other side?’
‘Then we will doubtless miss them.’
Lydia was not certain that she approved of this phlegmatic attitude. Secretly, she considered that John should be a little more concerned that they might lose their quarry. It was an odd sort of hunter who cared not whether he caught his prey! However, she could scarcely argue the point, since he had been kind enough to include her in this adventure - which he was under no obligation to do, after all.
She gradually grew accustomed to the peculiar night sounds around them, and soon ceased to look up at every rustle in the underbrush. Conversation was kept to the barest minimum, as their situation dictated silence.
Eventually, boredom overcame the feeling of excited anticipation with which the night began. Without being aware of it, Lydia’s head began to tilt ever so slightly. At some point in the proceedings, she fell asleep. It was only when the sound of her name roused her that she raised her head from John’s shoulder, where it had been resting in surprising comfort.
‘What?’ she cried, looking about her in some confusion at first, until she remembered where they were and for what purpose. ‘Did you hear something, John?’
‘No,’ John answered flatly. ‘But it will be daylight in little more than an hour. We must go.’
‘Are you certain that nothing happened?’ she demanded.
‘I assure you,’ he said, with a grin, ‘I would not have allowed you to sleep through an encounter with a gang of ruffians!’
With that, Lydia had to be content.
* * * *
Their retreat from the woods was not nearly as interesting as their journey of a few hours before. It was an ignominious end to what had seemed a grand adventure. So much for romantic dreams. Lydia chided herself for having expected more. She was as hopeless as Louisa.
However, John remained undaunted.
‘It is hardly likely,’ he said as they rode back toward town in the darkness, ‘that these fellows would frequent the wood every night. We must try again another night - perhaps when the moon is not full.’
‘Do you think it likely that we will have better luck a second time?’
‘Bound to!’ he said cheerfully.
As Lydia made her way up to her bedchamber shortly thereafter, she was not so hopeful. Nor did she relish the thought of spending another night in the dark, inhospitable surroundings of Wickham Wood. Her enthusiasm was seriously dampened, along with her vitality. She was weary to her bones, and fell into bed at once.
It was quite late when she arose the next morning, and Aunt Camilla was all concern at the dark circles beneath her niece’s eyes.
‘Perhaps you are ill,’ she suggested apprehensively, placing a hand on Lydia’s brow to assure herself that there was no fever. ‘I hope that it is not the influenza.’
‘Has anyone in the village contracted influenza?’ Lydia asked reasonably.
‘No.’ Her aunt paused, before adding, ‘But it has to start with someone, does it not?’
‘I am perfectly well, aunt,’ Lydia said. ‘I did not sleep very soundly last night. That is all.’
‘Is something troubling you?’ Camilla was still convinced that ill health was the root of the problem. ‘It is this terrible murder! Indeed, I do not know how anyone can sleep.’
‘Yes, Aunt.’ Lydia was glad to be able to answer with at least some semblance of truth. ‘I fear that is my problem.’
They had scarcely swallowed the last morsel of breakfast, when a diversion was created by the arrival of a letter. It was addressed to Lydia, and was from London.
‘It’s from Papa!’ Lydia exclaimed, instantly diverted.
‘I do hope it is not bad news,’ Aunt Camilla said, biting her lips and clasping her hands together in anticipation of impending disaster.
‘That is hardly likely,’ Lydia replied, but could not resist adding mischievously, ‘unless there is an outbreak of the plague in town.’
She carefully broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
My dearest Lydia, she read, in papa’s neat, uncrossed handwriting, I trust that you are enjoying your stay with your Aunt Camilla - a charming woman, as I recall. I suppose that your mother and sister are well, although that is mere conjecture on my part. I never see them from one day to the next. They are forever attending a ball or ridotto or some such nonsense, and I only occasionally encounter them at breakfast. That may be the one blessing afforded me during this exile in town.
Your mother and her cousin regale me with the tedious details of their enterprise, and it was thus that I learned of a most interesting occurrence concerning Louisa’s presentation at court.
Here Lydia’s attention was well and truly caught. Even her own investigations were put aside as she read the tale recounted by her father. He had managed to catch a glimpse of his eldest daughter in her hoop and feathers before she departed for this auspicious event. The sight almost cast him into whoops, for he surely had never beheld anything so delightfully absurd. Nevertheless, he kissed her and told her how pretty she was. This, despite her attire, was nothing more than the truth. It was only later that he learned what had happened th
at evening in his absence.
‘Is it very dreadful?’ Aunt Camilla asked, making Lydia aware that she had been staring at the page before her with her mouth hanging open in astonishment.
‘Absolute disaster,’ she pronounced for her aunt’s benefit.
‘Is my sister no more?’ Camilla asked faintly, her handkerchief covering her quivering lips.
‘No, no,’ her niece reassured her. ‘It is merely my own sister’s social standing which appears to be ruined.’
‘What!’ Camilla leaned forward, her megrims forgotten as she scented delicious scandal. ‘Whatever has happened, child?’
‘It seems,’ Lydia said, her eyes taking in the words before her for the second time so that she did not misrepresent what her father had written. ‘It seems,’ she said again, ‘that Louisa was to be presented at court.’
‘How delightful!’
‘Not so delightful,’ Lydia corrected, with more than a tinge of satisfaction.
From what papa wrote, she gathered that all had gone quite well at first. Louisa was in very good looks and was admired by several persons of the first stare. However, it transpired that she had been too nervous to partake of food that day. The magnificence of the occasion, the heat of the candles in the brightly lit room, and the giddiness brought on by an empty stomach, proved to be too much for her. Upon meeting the Regent, she promptly smiled and swooned away in an inelegant heap at his feet.
‘How mortifying!’ Camilla cried, genuinely distressed.
‘Listen to this!’ Lydia could scarcely contain her mirth as she read aloud from papa’s letter:
‘The Prince, it appears, was much disconcerted by this performance and even though Mama produced her hartshorn, which instantly revived the poor girl, he avoided her pointedly for the rest of the evening. There were more than a few smiles hidden behind fans, and Louisa actually burst into tears after overhearing a witticism directed at her. They soon departed, and indeed have not left the house for the past two days.’
‘It would have been better for her if she had died,’ Camilla pronounced with a shudder.
‘I fear she must give up her ambition to marry an earl,’ Lydia agreed, trying to sound sympathetic.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Camilla was more mystified than ever.
‘Never mind, aunt.’ Lydia poured herself a cup of tea, her spirits miraculously revived despite her lack of sleep. ‘No doubt she will make a reasonable match in spite of her faux pas.’
‘I do hope so.’ She did not sound at all hopeful, however.
‘If she can but appear to advantage at some public function - at the theater, or a private ball, perhaps - she may yet redeem herself.’
‘Oh!’ Camilla cried, instantly diverted from their discussion, ‘I had almost forgotten: we, too, are invited to a ball, my dear.’
Chapter Eight
A CHANGE IN THE WIND
Mr Thomas Savidge had decided that he was risen to a high enough place of prominence in society that it was incumbent upon him to host a ball at the Golden Cockerel. He could not proceed, of course, without the express authority of Mrs Wardle-Penfield. Nor was that lady persuaded to sanction such an event without a good deal of cajoling and a subtle suggestion that the idea had been entirely her own from the beginning. In the end, she insisted upon planning the affair herself. It could not be denied that this was the simplest solution, which would do away with the inevitable criticisms she would have levelled at every aspect of the occasion had anyone else been permitted to make the arrangements.
All Diddlington was swept up in a whirl of frenzied activity in preparation for what promised to be the most dazzling function the inhabitants had seen for many a year. Everyone was invited, it seemed. Everywhere that Lydia and her aunt went, the talk was of nothing else. The murder in Wickham Wood was all but forgotten, which certainly was a boon to Camilla. Her spirits, so much oppressed by the shadow of death, revived miraculously.
‘In truth,’ Mrs Wardle-Penfield told them when they met in the mercer’s, ‘I thought it a welcome distraction from the gloom into which everyone has been cast. Mr Savidge is a worthy man - and indecently wealthy, even if his manners leave something yet to be desired. It is quite unexceptionable and will do us all the world of good.’
Even Lydia could not help but be infected by the festive spirit. She submitted patiently to her aunt’s scathing assessment of her small wardrobe, and agreed to have one of Camilla’s old ball gowns made over to fit her smaller frame. After an interminable session with the local dressmaker, all seemed in good train. However, as they left that good lady’s establishment, they were surprised to be hailed by a passing pedestrian.
‘It is Monsieur d’Almain!’ Camilla was suddenly all a-flutter.
‘So it is.’ Lydia smiled in spite of herself.
The Frenchman doffed his hat as he approached and bid them a polite ‘good-afternoon’.
‘My niece is being fitted for a new gown,’ Aunt Camilla stammered not entirely truthfully.
‘Ah!’ Monsieur d’Almain smiled knowingly. ‘The famous ball.’
‘Indeed.’
Conversation might then have ended, had not Lydia taken it upon herself to learn a little more about this interesting gentleman. She had only glimpsed him upon occasion since the night of Mrs Wardle-Penfield’s card party, and scarcely exchanged five words with him.
‘Will you also be attending the ball, sir?’ she enquired artlessly.
‘Yes indeed.’
‘Mr Savidge tells me that you are an artist of some kind, monsieur,’ Lydia pressed him. ‘Do you paint portraits?’
He laughed, a surprisingly youthful sound. ‘No indeed, Miss Bramwell. I am a designer of furniture, jewellery and assorted pieces. I do not make the pieces myself, you see, but only supply the designs for the artisans to produce the final product.’
‘How fascinating!’ Aunt Camilla’s eyes glowed with such adoration that Lydia was hard put to it not to dissolve into a fit of giggles. Her aunt obviously thought everything about the man fascinating.
‘I would have thought,’ Lydia said honestly, ‘that you would have done better to work in London, sir.’
‘I do not find London to my taste,’ he explained. ‘There are many émigrés there. Most of them look back to France with longing. I wish only to forget the past and make a new life for myself here in England: La vie Anglais,’ he added, his smile widening.
‘I think you are very wise.’ She was actually somewhat surprised at his attitude.
‘I have a great admiration for the English,’ he told her. ‘This is my home now, and I do not miss the other. As for my work, Mr Bridge cares not where I live so long as my work is satisfactory.’
‘Mr Bridge?’ she queried, startled. ‘Of Rundell, Bridge and Rundell?’
‘The very same.’ He gave a slight bow. ‘I work for the finest, you see - although some of my work has been for Green, Ward and Green, who are also on Ludgate Hill. But for Mr Bridge I have designed the snuffboxes, medals and more than one diadem for the Royal Family.’
Even with her limited experience, Lydia was aware that this unassuming gentleman dealt with the premier gold and silversmiths of England, who produced nothing but the best quality for their wealthy and titled patrons. While she did not share the awe felt by her lovesick aunt, she was impressed in spite of herself.
‘You must be paid handsomely for such work, sir,’ she exclaimed.
‘Lydia!’ Camilla was scandalized by the vulgarity of mentioning money so freely, turning apologetically to the Frenchman. ‘Please forgive her, sir.’
‘I am not in the least offended,’ he reassured them both. ‘I am indeed well paid. Well enough, at least, to hire a chaise to convey me to the ball on Friday. I wonder ...’ His pause was too enticing to resist.
‘Wonder what, sir?’ Camilla asked breathlessly.
‘Would it be too forward of me ...’ he coughed slightly, as though he found it difficult to utter the words ‘Would you do me the hono
r of allowing me to convey you to the ball?’
For a moment, Camilla Denton was quite bereft of speech. Had she seen Christ descending from Heaven with his angels, she could not have looked more rapturously amazed. It was left to Lydia to voice their acceptance.
‘That would be wonderful, would it not, Aunt?’ she said eagerly.
‘Indeed.’ Camilla swallowed and recovered herself enough to add, ‘But we would not wish to impose upon your good nature, sir....’
‘I would consider it a pleasure - and a privilege - to escort two such charming ladies.’
So it was settled, and the two charming ladies made their way home. Camilla was in a state of euphoria quite out of proportion to the event, while Lydia was very pleased with herself for having discovered more about her aunt’s suitor and having done more than her aunt had ever done to encourage his attentions.
They had almost arrived at the cottage when they were accosted by the Digweed sisters, who had their own confused speculation about the promised ball.
‘Just a select company,’ the eldest nodded sagely.
‘Everyone in town will be there,’ her sister insisted.
‘Such a charming man.’
‘Dreadful mushroom.’
‘The weather sure to be fine.’
‘Bound to rain.’
‘Must have a bottle green domino made.’
‘Russet the only color for a cloak.’
‘Is that not Mrs Wardle-Penfield?’
‘Surely not, Honoria.’
‘Must speak with her a moment.’
‘Adieu!’
* * * *
On the evening of the ball, Camilla herself arranged Lydia’s coiffure in a much more simple style without the profusion of curls and ringlets too often favored by damsels fresh from the schoolroom.
‘I think it much more becoming,’ she said, eyeing the results in a mirror.
Upon consideration, Lydia found herself in agreement. Her aunt might not be the brightest candle on the branch, but she had an unerring eye for fashion which her niece was coming to appreciate. The dress, too, was quite fetching. Of a pale golden color, rather than the usual virginal white, with sleeves rather over-puffed, it made her look far less insipid than the gowns mama had made for her.