by May Burnett
William smiled at her. “Does it matter? That is not an easy subject to render well. You have chosen an artist?”
The Vicar nodded. “Yes, Mr. Latimer has already done two similar angels, albeit smaller and in different poses, that your mother inspected and was pleased with. We are confident that he will be able to do justice to the subject. He says it will take him at least three months, but I understand that artists cannot be hurried.”
“For the dead, three months should not matter.” Mrs. Carney picked up a small sandwich from the platter. “They are more concerned with eternity.”
Noises were heard from the entrance. “That must be Vanessa,” the Vicar said, “she promised to follow as soon as the music practice ended.” That he allowed his virginal daughter to visit the Hall proved he truly did not believe in the accusations against her. Margaret felt a surge of affection for the dear old man.
“Hello,” Vanessa said breezily as she appeared flanked by Lord Laxeley. “I hope you do not mind that I brought an additional guest for tea, Mrs. Bellairs.”
“Good afternoon, Ma’am, Mrs. Carney, Miss Bellairs.” On meeting William’s eyes, the Viscount gave a shamefaced shrug. “I came to see if I could help in any way.”
“Thank you.” Margaret was surprised and a little touched, considering how slight their acquaintance was. “Your aunt and uncle might disapprove, and I would not want to cause the slightest dissension in your family.”
“They do not regulate with whom I associate, Miss Bellairs. And I have been persuaded –,” he cast a sideways look at Vanessa Langley – “that they may have judged too hastily. If so, they may yet thank me for getting to the bottom of this matter.”
Margaret suppressed a snort of derision. In her observation, people detested nothing so much as to be shown to be in the wrong; most would go miles out of their way rather than admit to a misjudgement. But he might be a useful witness. “Lord Laxeley, you must remember the visit of Mrs. Harris and her twins at the Manor, just after I had finished my piano practice? We exchanged some conversation before I left to pick up my dog and walk home.”
“I vividly remember the occasion, though not as well as the deep impression your inspired performance had made upon me just before.”
“The fact that I had left my music sheets on the piano was mentioned on that occasion,” Margaret said, “and one person left ahead of the others, by herself.”
It only took him seconds to make the connection. “Miss Betty Harris! She made that disparaging remark about you and pranced out of the room. Her detestation of you is more than evident, whenever you are in the same room. Like watching a hissing cat, resentful of an intruder.”
“I am glad you referred to cat in the singular, Laxeley,” William said. “Miss Bellairs, in contrast, always behaves like a perfect lady.”
Not quite, Margaret thought ruefully, but here in Bankington, in fact since her return from Italy, she had really been very good. Except with her mother, but there she could plead extenuating circumstances. Nobody could be expected to act the perfect lady within her own family at all times.
“Ah, you do not yet know,” the Vicar said to Vanessa and Lord Laxeley, “Miss Bellairs and Mr. Trey have just announced that they are engaged.”
“No wonder you were so indignant this morning!” Laxeley extended his hand to William. “Best wishes for your happiness!”
After a moment’s hesitation, William allowed his hand to be enthusiastically pumped.
“I had no idea,” Vanessa said, eyes wide, “but I am very happy for both of you. I can see that you will suit.”
“Thank you.” Margaret handed her a plate with seed cake.
“I collect you suspect Betty Harris of writing and hiding that letter? But even though she clearly detests you, Miss Bellairs, why would she do something so vile and malicious?” Lord Laxeley asked. “She had the opportunity, I agree, but what was her motive?”
“It was not just generalized jealousy of a prettier and smarter woman,” Vanessa explained, “Miss Harris was courted by Doctor Dorringley until he saw Miss Bellairs again – who was his first love, I understand. In somewhat callous fashion, he immediately abandoned his courtship of poor Betty. She certainly had reason to be angry, but if I were in her position, my anger would be directed at my faithless suitor rather than the unwitting rival.”
“It is not easy to be logical when your feelings are deeply engaged. In four out of five such cases, the hottest anger is directed at the interloper,” Mrs. Carney remarked. “Otherwise one would have to acknowledge that the object of adoration is unworthy, which most lovers are loath to accept. Or if they do, it takes a long time.” She spoke with assurance. Had she herself been angry at a rival at some earlier point in her life? Mrs. Carney was not the kind of woman you would dare ask such a personal thing.
“Didn’t you wonder why a supposed Italian lover would write to Miss Bellairs in English?” William asked Lord Laxeley. “That alone should have told you the whole thing was a malicious hoax.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Bellairs agreed, “very few of our acquaintances in Verona spoke English at all well, or could write a correct letter in our language. We made do with French until we, – that is, mostly the girls, – became fluent in Italian.”
“And one does not generally use foreign languages for love letters, unless the recipient would not understand them otherwise,” William added. Did he speak from personal experience? She would not be jealous of his former women, Margaret resolved. As long as his present and future were hers, the past could rest in peace.
“From my knowledge of Betty since her childhood, it seems only too likely that she would do this,” Vanessa said. “But how to prove it? She is as stubborn as a mule, and would never voluntarily confess. Oh dear, that reminds me – we are promised to her family for dinner tonight. It will be difficult to be polite, suspecting her of such underhandedness.”
“My uncle and aunt and I shall also be there,” Lord Laxeley said. “And the Dorringley family, and the Buckleys, I understand. I very much fear that your situation will be the main subject of conversation, Miss Bellairs.”
“Maybe you could get Betty to overreach somehow?” William suggested slowly. “She may be devious, but she is still young and most likely a novice at intrigue.”
“Her family might recognize the blue paper she used,” Lord Laxeley suggested. “As I remember, it was an unusual pale blue shade, made from rags. Not the kind of stationery you could easily buy in a small village like this; odds are someone else in her household has seen it before.”
“That is an excellent idea.” Vanessa Langley looked at the young man with approval.
“If you see any chance of that happening, let me fetch the sheet. You can take it with you, and show it to Ruth,” Margaret said. “Though it is unlikely that she would give away her twin.”
“In such a case as this? When Betty has behaved like a beast to her sister all through their childhood? I would not be so sure,” Vanessa said. “Mrs. Harris, on the other hand, would definitely not want to have Betty shown up for a malicious liar, but I doubt she has the least suspicion of what her darling has been up to.”
“We cannot be sure it really was so,” the Vicar warned.
“Maybe not, but who else had motive and opportunity?” Vanessa said. “Since Mrs. Bellairs has assured us that they knew no Arturo in Italy, and that Miss Bellairs was under her own chaperonage every single night during their exile – living in the household of her grandmother – that is the likeliest explanation.”
“May we mention your engagement to your detractors, Miss Bellairs, or is it still something private, in the family?” Lord Laxeley asked.
“Feel free to tell everyone. At least it should make clear that there is not the slightest chance that Doctor Dorringley and I will ever get together.”
“As we are apparently no longer on speaking terms with your uncle, Lord Laxeley,” Mrs. Carney said trenchantly, “could you remind him that as the local magi
strate, it is still incumbent on him to try and find our burglar, and recover Mrs. Bellairs` necklace? Since we shall not be here much longer, it would be good if Sir Reginald made a push to solve the crime.”
“Indeed, I meant to mention it to him also,” William said.
“He has been doing his best,” Lord Laxeley defended his relative. “Without clues or suspects, it is not easy.”
“I still say it is likely our own staff,” Mrs. Bellairs maintained. “From the workhouse!”
“Our servants have more to lose than some outsider,” Margaret pointed out. “The only one of them I think capable of the deed is that London maid that we brought with us, but I don’t believe she is that stupid. At her age, if she were a thief she would already have been found out. And she would hardly have broken that window from the outside.”
Her mother pouted. “What do you have against poor Porsons?”
Margaret did not want to admit that she resented the woman’s readiness to think the worst of her. She had a theory that it was generally the dishonest and hypocritical who were most eager to think badly of others. What did that make Sir Reginald and his pious wife? She might have to elaborate her theory further, upon additional evidence.
“Let me fetch the faked letter,” she said, and left to find it in the study.
It was heart-warming to have supporters, friends and allies who believed in her, and the happiness of her new love eclipsed everything else. Not quite enough to forgive Betty Harris, however.
Margaret had always held that a mortal offense could not be allowed to go unavenged. She had read a Latin motto that exactly summed up her feelings: Nemo me impune lacessit. Nobody hurts me, and goes unpunished.
Chapter 26
Mrs. Harris had seated the highest-ranking guest at her right side, as expected. Terence bore this distinction with the ease of long habit. If he would have preferred another, younger dinner partner, he did not betray his feelings by the slightest gesture or word. The Buckleys had sent their regrets at the last moment, so they sat down twelve. Colonel Fuller had at long last recovered from the gout that had kept him from social engagements, and his weekly whist game, for the past weeks.
At the middle of the table, Doctor Dorringley presented the picture of a man who would rather be a thousand miles away. From the way his jaw clenched together it was obvious that he attended the dinner party under duress. His mother’s minatory glances were met with rebellious scowls.
Miss Betty Harris was once again outfitted in pink, though it was a different evening dress from the one she had worn at Milldale Manor. Her sister was wearing moss-green, with fewer embellishments. Strange how two girls so very unalike could be twins.
Neither sister could remotely compete with Miss Langley, highly attractive this night in a grey silk dress that from its extreme sophistication might have originally belonged to Margaret Bellairs. These two girls seemed to have struck up a solid friendship, additional evidence of Miss Bellairs’ innocence. Vanessa Langley, for all her youth, was no fool and a good judge of character. Having assisted her father in his parish duties for years, she would have seen far more of human nature and frailty than the average twenty-year old.
Soon enough the conversation turned to the scandal of the moment – Miss Bellairs’ terrible fall from grace.
“I feel for her poor mother,” Colonel Fuller said. “After all she has already endured this further misfortune is likely to break her.”
“She should have taken better care of her daughter’s virtue,” Lady Milldale stated uncompromisingly. “Mrs. Bellairs was always weak, in my opinion. And Margaret has been headstrong from early childhood. Besides, what can you expect with a father like that? Bad blood will out.”
“Now her life is irretrievably ruined. It is very sad.” The older Mr. Dorringley directed a worried glance at his son, who sat glowering into the celery soup.
“Don’t be so sure her life is ruined,” Terence said. “I understand that her engagement is soon to be announced.”
Christopher Dorringley fixed him with anguished eyes and seemed about to speak, but his mother forestalled him. “Nonsense. What man would have her now? Unless she found some fool who has not yet heard.”
“It is not my place to give particulars,” Terence said, “but her betrothed knows of the accusations, and does not believe a word of them. He is a big fierce fellow, all too likely to challenge anyone who goes around talking ill of his bride. I for one have decided to believe in her innocence, and not say another word in Miss Bellairs’ disparagement.”
“Nonsense, Terence!” his aunt said. “Your tale sounds most unlikely to me. In any case, no man can challenge us ladies. There would not have been time for Miss Bellairs to write to her suitor, whoever it may be, or for him to decide he believes her. You are merely trying to shield a pretty girl from the consequences of her folly. Chivalrous as it may be, it really will not do.”
“I expect Miss Bellairs’ noble relations will stand by her, and not shun her for what they will regard as some rural intrigue,” Miss Langley said thoughtfully. “They will accept her mother’s word that it is all a lie, and that this Arturo never existed. Has anyone ever heard her mention this man?”
“Mrs. Bellairs does not often speak of her time abroad,” Mrs. Dorringley said stiffly. “We have no idea who they knew there, and what was going on.”
“Actually,” Betty Harris spoke up, “Mrs. Bellairs once spoke of a ‘Cousin Arturo.’”
Terence exchanged a look with Miss Langley. Her blue eyes sparkled. Any remaining doubt of Betty’s guilt melted like a snowflake falling into a lake. “Do tell, Miss Harris,” he encouraged the blonde. “On what occasion was that? Do you recall what else was said?”
“It was some time ago,” she said evasively. “Possibly during that call just before Emily Bellairs’ wedding in January.”
Mrs. Harris frowned. “All I remember is Mrs. Bellairs going on and on about Emily’s great match. It was quite sickening, how she gushed – of course, not everyone catches a Marquis for a penniless second daughter.”
“I was there too,” Ruth said, “and I don’t recall that their acquaintances in Italy were discussed at all.”
“Then it must have been some other time,” Betty said airily.
The Vicar looked from one lady to the other, no doubt arriving at the same conclusion as Terence: neither Mrs. Harris nor Ruth had the least idea what Betty had done.
“Does it not strike anyone as strange that this Italian would write to Miss Bellairs in English, when she knows Italian well?” Terence asked languidly.
“There are educated Italians, one imagines,” Lady Milldale said, but a slight vertical crease appeared between her brows.
“I have known Mrs. Bellairs since her marriage to Rupert,” Colonel Fuller said, “for nearly a quarter of a century. Why would anyone hesitate to take her word on this matter? Has anyone even talked to her about it? She is candour itself, and unable to tell a lie convincingly.”
“I quite agree,” the Vicar said in his deep authoritative voice. “Mrs. Bellairs assures me that she does not know any Arturo, that Margaret was living most respectably under her own grandmother’s roof in Verona the whole time. I believe her.”
There was an awkward silence around the table. “But that letter!” Lady Milldale said. “You will pardon me if I prefer to believe the evidence of my own eyes. In cases of flagrant immorality, one has to take a clear stand.”
“I have always regretted that when Rupert Bellairs died,” the Vicar said, “I was too wrapped up in my own wife’s ailments to do more for them. Not only I, but our community as a whole did not demonstrate the Christian charity our religion demands. I rejoiced when they returned for Emily’s triumphant wedding. Today, I am disappointed that everyone is so quick to condemn these poor ladies unheard.”
“Hear, hear!” Colonel Fuller said.
Lady Milldale flushed. “I hope I have never failed in Christian charity,” she said stiffly. “But upholdin
g standards of virtue, and refusing to associate with sinners, is just as important!”
“Yes, but can we truly be sure of others’ sins without direct knowledge, Aunt Sophia?” Terence said gently. She looked at him reproachfully, and Sir Reginald shook his head at him. Everyone had stopped eating.
“It would seem that the gentlemen are still taken in by Margaret Bellairs’ attractions,” Betty Harris observed with a grimace. “Ladies are much better at detecting hypocrisy.”
“Are we, Betty?” Vanessa Langley asked softly.
Betty laughed uncomfortably. ”Of course.”
Christopher Dorringley stared at her. “Miss Harris, you have no idea what you are talking about, who you are maligning.”
“Remember where we are, Christopher,” his mother hissed, visibly vexed and upset.
“Well, this is hardly enlivening conversation for dinner,” Mrs. Harris said with a determined smile. “But we must not let the food grow cold. Why do we not talk of something more cheerful? Lord Laxeley, what do you think of the local hunt? How often have you ridden out since you arrived in Bankington?”
Obeying their hostess, the guests began to talk of a variety of unexceptional subjects, but constraint and tension lingered in the air. Finally the whole group rose from the table and repaired to the drawing room, to enjoy musical offerings by the daughters of the house.
As Betty launched into a fugue, Vanessa drew Ruth aside and talked to her earnestly, showing her something from her reticule. Terence was watching even as he feigned attention to Betty’s performance. Ruth looked deeply shocked, and slipped out of the room within moments. Vanessa, meeting Terence’s concerned look, shrugged. She had done her best – if anything more were to be accomplished now, it would depend on Ruth Harris, that thin girl so easily overlooked.
Betty’s piece ended with polite applause and compliments. Doctor Dorringley did not join in. A surly fellow; whatever lady married him in the end would not have an easy time of it. Miss Bellairs certainly deserved better, and Trey would be a much more comfortable sort of husband.