At that moment every shawl draped around the Countess seemed to be bristling with fury, and the more she berated her young guests, the sulkier they became until her son, Lord Harry Trenton, cut through her complaints with “Look, mother. Put the stopper on it right now. It was all our fault for beetling off and leaving them to their own devices on the first night. So give your tongue a rest.”
Everyone looked at the formidable Countess in surprise, expecting another outburst, but she suddenly smiled weakly, picked up the morning paper, and barricaded herself behind it.
The rain continued to pour down outside in a steady stream. A footman came in followed by a small boy carrying a basket of logs and soon there was a fine blaze crackling up the chimney.
Huge puddles were forming outside on the lawns and the ancient Sussex trees that always looked wet anyway, their trunks being coated in damp green slime, gleamed with sheets of rainwater as though frozen in ice. Black and purple clouds tumbled over the sky driven by some wind, high and faraway above the motionless bushes and trees of the estate.
Beyond the estate an infinity of waterlogged patchwork fields and gray and brown hills rolled down to meet the sea.
The Countess’s unexpected silence combined with the crackling warmth of the fire revived the flagging spirits of the guests. “What you all need is a bracer,” said Lord Harry, ordering a couple of magnums of Veuve Cliquot from the cellar, and staring repressively at his mother who showed alarming signs of bursting forth again. Everyone began to plan an entertainment for the afternoon. Bertie Burke suggested they make up a band. Mrs. Phillips would play the piano and he would perform on the paper and comb. Ann Gore-Brookes said that she would—“tee-hee”—play the cymbals with two saucepan lids, Lord Albert Wampers volunteered in a deep, sad voice of mourning to play the spoons. Everyone looked at him in surprise, whereupon he blushed and said he was “damned good at it, don’t you know” and hid his face in his champagne tankard. The Honorable Clive, amid much cheering, said he would play the wineglasses and proceeded to demonstrate how he could play a scale by altering the water levels in a row of crystal glasses. And the Honorable Daisy Chatterton said, “Perhaps Mrs. Phillips will play a tune on her garters.”
For one long minute there was absolute silence, while everyone looked at Daisy as if they could not believe their ears and Daisy stared back at them and wondered desperately if she had actually said what she thought she had just said.
Then everyone burst out talking.
“Spiteful little cat.” (Jo Phillips)
“I heard Daisy’s a methodist, tee-hee.” (Ann Gore-Brookes)
“The wildest women always put up a prim front.” (Sir James)
“I hate these shy little girls with the die-away airs. They say the nastiest things in the sweetest little voices.” (Lady Cynthia)
“I want to talk about my band. We’ll call it Burke’s Beauties or Bertie’s Beaux…” (Bertie Burke)
“Or Bertie’s Buglers.” (Lady Mary)
“Or Battling Bertie’s Bungling Banjo Band.” (The Duke)
“I am really so very sorry, Mrs. Phillips,” said Daisy in a small voice. “I meant to be funny and it just came out sounding horrible.”
Unexpectedly the Countess put down her paper and sailed in to Daisy’s defense. “I know just what you mean, my dear,” she roared. “Happens to me the whole time. Esther Huntingdon was showing off this great spavined mare at the last hunt. I kept thinking ‘How awful. How could she buy such a nag’ and ’fore I knew it I’d opened my mouth and said, ‘What a simply awful-looking beast. Did you buy her to help out a friend in Queer Street?’ Well, she ain’t spoken to me since. Not, of course, that that’s any great loss.”
“Apology accepted,” drawled Mrs. Phillips with a smile that did not reach her eyes. Daisy caught Sir James staring at her. His whole face was alight with malice. “Why, he hates me!” she thought with surprise.
It had been the presence and manner of Sir James and the others which had sparked off Daisy’s rude remark. That these people could behave like guttersnipes in the local inn, get arrested by the police, that Sir James should try to rape her and then all of them sit around the breakfast table planning childish games as if nothing had happened… it was just too much.
She became aware that the house party was on the move. Lord Harry had said there was an old music room on the first floor and he believed there was a box of tambourines and things like that in one of the cupboards. Bertie held out his arm to Daisy, his myopic eyes shining with good humor. “Come along, Daisy, you can sing for my band.”
She held back, looking over her shoulder at the Duke, but he smiled and shook his head. “I have letters to write, Miss Chatterton, but I shall see you this evening and sit at your feet and admire your beauty.” His voice was mocking, but his eyes held a warmth that Daisy had not noticed before. Daisy felt less alone and oddly comfortable. She accepted Bertie’s arm and moved off with him.
Sir James followed with Jo Phillips. “Did you notice that very interesting exchange of glances, my dear? Perhaps we could kill two birds with one stone.…”
Chapter Ten
The music room, which was on the first floor of the east wing, was thankfully dry, being protected by the bedrooms above.
The rooms downstairs adjoining the front part of the great hall jutted out from the main part of the building and seemed to receive the full force of the deluge.
Daisy looked around her with pleasure. Fires burned at either end of the long low-ceilinged room, their flames reflected in the highly polished boards of an ancient oak floor. There was a spinet, a harpsichord, and a harp against one wall and a small audience of rout chairs lined up by the windows as if awaiting more courtly company of a bygone age. There was a pleasant scent of beeswax, applewood, and wine. Tall candles burned steadily from gold sconces on the walls, banishing the gloom of the dreary day.
“I say. This is more the thing, eh what!” said Bertie. “After all that pesky damp and gloom downstairs, I feel as I’ve been washed ashore on a warm island. Now, what about Bertie Burke’s Blinking Brilliant Boggling Band?”
“I wonder if this thing still plays,” Jo Phillips said, sitting down at the spinet. She was wearing an unrelieved black gown with a high-boned collar. It accentuated her creamy skin, large black eyes, and glossy black hair. Her long, thin fingers flicked over the keys and her elegant back was as straight as a ramrod.
A fine seat on a spinet, thought Daisy illogically, wondering why she disliked the woman so much.
The spinet sent out a tinkling, catchy tune and Mrs. Phillips began to sing,
“Sweet Molly O’Morgan
With her little organ
She’s out on the streets every day
She’s out on the streets every day
Singing tooral-a-rooral-a-rooral-i-ay…”
“Oh I s—say,” stammered Bertie. “Ladies present and all that I mean, Jo, well after all. It’s a bit warm, what?”
“Come, come, Bertie,” laughed Mrs. Phillips. “Such a sweet, simple, little song. You don’t find it offensive do you, Daisy?”
Daisy shrugged by way of reply and turned to look out of the window. She certainly could find nothing up with the song, but from the winks and grins of the other members of the party, she was well aware that it must be less innocent than it seemed.
“I know,” said Ann Gore-Brookes. “We’ll sing ‘Daisy.’”
“What a good idea,” said Sir James. “You must get down on one knee, Bertie, and sing it to our own Daisy.”
Daisy wished that there was a medicine she could take to stop herself from blushing. She could feel the telltale red of embarrassment climbing up her cheeks as they all joined in the chorus:
“Daisy Daisy
Give me your answer do.
I’m half crazy
All for the love of you….”
After the song was finished, Daisy cried, “What about your band, Bertie?” and successfully distracted the guests’
attention from herself. They all bustled about finding various instruments and the Honorable Clive rushed off downstairs to collect his wineglasses after failing to rouse any servants.
He came back after a few minutes carrying a trayful of rattling glasses and bursting over with news. “You’ll never guess what old boots and saddles has been and gone and done.” Daisy gathered that old boots and saddles was a nickname for the Countess. “She’s gone and given the whole staff the afternoon and evening off. ‘Why?’ I asks. ‘Oh,’ says she, ‘It’s the anniversary of my dear mother’s death. I always give all the servants some time off.’ Don’t want to be rude, Harry, but don’t you think your mater carries things too far?”
“Course, she does. But it’s her house and she can do as she likes. Only thing to do is get the cellar key from her before she retires for the day.”
“Got it!” said Clive triumphantly. “Told me to give it to Sir James for safekeeping. Says he’s the oldest since she can’t find Oxenden.”
“But what do we do about lunchies?” wailed Thomasina Forbes-Bennet.
Clive looked momentarily nonplussed. Then he brightened. “We can raid the kitchens and get some provender for ourselves. Fun, what.”
“Absolutely ripping,” drawled Jo Phillips. “But who, my darlings, is going to empty all those buckets of rainwater? I am not, for one. After all, servants are servants. Do one teensy thing for them and they get all sorts of sickening radical ideas into their little noodles.”
Everyone murmured in agreement except Daisy and Bertie. “We’ll jolly well just paddle,” said Lady Cynthia in a militant kind of way.
The band organized itself and whumped out a few loud and unmusical tunes until the idea of raiding the kitchen seemed to be more attractive. They descended in a jolly, cheering mob, ate far too much, and left a considerable amount of debris behind. Silence fell on the old mansion as the guests retired to their rooms for an afternoon nap.
Sir James neatly divested himself of his clothes and arranged them on a chair in Jo Phillips’s bedroom. “We’re about to make love, not have a prizefight,” she teased him. “Why are you looking so grim?”
“I’m plotting,” he said thoughtfully, standing naked except for his black socks and suspenders, in the center of the room, and looking at the key in his hand. He tossed it lightly up and down and then said, “I feel sure I could put this cellar key to good use. What do you think about luring Oxenden and Daisy Chatterton down to the cellars and locking them in for the night?”
“Ridiculous,” answered his companion sourly. “They’ll roar their heads off.”
“Can’t hear a thing from down there once the door is closed,” replied Sir James succinctly. “And the revenge is this: Oxenden will have to marry her if they spend the night down there together.”
“Rubbish,” yawned Jo, beginning to feel bored. “The old Countess will simply swear blindly they were chaperoned.”
“No, that she won’t,” he grinned. “Dear, old-fashioned Victorian, is our hostess. She’ll have Oxenden at the altar with a shotgun in his back if necessary. And Oxenden will be furious. He may have a gleam in his eye for Miss Chatterton, but he don’t mean marriage. The proud Duke won’t want his precious name to be tied to that of Chatterton.”
He suddenly grinned. “What do you think they’ll do down there all night?”
Jo Phillips stepped out of her stays and moved languidly toward the bed. “What will they do?” she mocked. “Why, come here, my dear Sir James, and let me show you….”
The party had elected to meet at six in the evening in the music room. The rain still poured down with unremitting violence and Bertie, who had descended to the cellars to get the ingredients for his cocktails, reported cheerfully that all the buckets and pails and ewers under the leaks were nearly full to overflowing.
“Your mother’s going to lose her good wines if that stream at the back of the house overflows,” said the Duke of Oxenden to Harry Trenton. “Don’t you think we should get organized and rescue them?”
Harry shrugged his great shoulders until he nearly burst the seams of his evening jacket. “I don’t feel like doing anything about it. It’s mother’s concern. I’ve told her time and again that she runs a sloppy household and she just tells me to mind my own business. So I’m minding it.”
“But don’t you think it a trifle eccentric,” pursued the Duke, “to get us all down here and find there are no servants, no dinner, as far as I can see, and no means of escape?”
“I forgot about grannie’s anniversary,” said Harry. “Honestly. Anyway, it adds a bit of adventure to have to rough it for a bit.”
“This,” declared Bertie, holding aloft something that looked like a silver bomb, “is a cocktail shaker.”
“And what do you put in that lethal machine?” asked Ann Gore-Brookes.
For a moment Bertie looked nonplussed. It had sounded intriguing when the American friend had explained it, but for the life of him he could not remember what was supposed to go into it. He suddenly brightened and said vaguely, “Oh, a bit of this and a bit of that,” and proceeded to throw the contents of several bottles haphazardly into the cannister. “Now I need ice,” he declared.
“Ice!” exclaimed Lady Mary. “You mean chilled, surely.”
“No. Ice. Definitely ice.”
“Well, we haven’t got any so you’ll just have to hang that thing outside the window.”
“We’ll pretend it’s iced,” said Bertie hopefully. He shook the cocktail shaker so energetically that his lank hair fell over his forehead in damp streaks. Then he poured a pale-green liquid into the glasses and started to pass them around. The Duke took a sip, muttered something about Crème de Menthe and sherry, and put his drink down. The rest drank theirs, declaring it to be everything from super to interesting to downright foul. But everyone decided it certainly had an energizing effect and called for more. While Bertie was busy again with the shaker, Daisy glanced across at Sir James Ffoulkes. There was almost an expression of waiting for something on his face. Daisy wondered what it could be. Sir James was, in fact, waiting for them all to become slightly drunk before putting his plan into action.
When the voices had reached a noisy crescendo, Sir James jumped up on a chair. “Silence, everybody,” he cried. “I suggest we play Hunt the Guests.”
“Whassat?” giggled Lady Cynthia and then cleared her throat and enunciated very clearly and distinctly. “I mean to say… what kind of game is that?”
“Well, it goes like this,” said Sir James. “We all draw straws and the two guests that have the shortest straws are taken away and hidden—by me. Then the rest of you have to find them.”
Heard through a rosy haze of Bertie’s cocktails, it seemed a first-rate game. Sir James mysteriously had the straws already. Daisy and the Duke drew the shortest straws.
“Have summore drinkies before you go,” beamed Bertie.
The Duke opened his mouth to say that no, he did not want to play such a childish game, but then he looked across at Daisy. She seemed happy and relaxed and very, very young and vulnerable, in a gown of light-green tulle, the color of spring leaves. He shrugged and smiled and allowed Sir James to lead them off along an infinity of low and narrow passages and steep back stairs until they reached the cellars.
“We won’t be here long before we’re found,” remarked the Duke. “Bertie will be along soon to look for more cocktail mixtures.”
“Oh, well. It’s just a game,” said Sir James lightly. “In you go.”
The Duke held a candle in its pewter holder high above his head and took Daisy’s arm to lead her down the steps. “We may as well see what wines our good hostess has,” he said, and then stopped abruptly on the stairs as he heard the heavy door slam behind them and the sound of the key being turned in the lock.
“Now what’s Ffoulkes up to?” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry, Daisy. I have a feeling that this may be his idea of revenge. He somehow hopes to keep us down here all night together, th
e idea being that I will have to marry you.”
“But the other guests will tell everyone it was just a game,” said Daisy. His face looked so stern, she tried to comfort him. “Don’t worry. I won’t marry you.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “You may have to, my dear, if the Countess hears about this. She’ll raise such an alarm and hue and cry that I will have no peace until I lead you to the altar.” He sat down heavily on a wine cask. “What a mess!”
Daisy felt irrationally piqued. “There are worse things, my lord Duke, than being married to me.”
That made him laugh and he raised the candle to look at her. She stood glaring indignantly at him like an angry kitten. “We’ll worry about it all if and when it happens,” he said. “Come, and I’ll take you on a tour of the cellars. These are supposed to be the remains of a Roman villa.”
Huge banks of wine racks soared up into the blackness: Burgundies and clarets, Rhine wines, Madeira, port, and champagne. The Duke began an amusing lecture on the merits of each vintage and Daisy heard not a word. She was attractive enough to have gained a certain feeling of power over the opposite sex during her Season. But she was never, at any time, very sure of herself and the fact that the handsome Duke would not welcome marriage to her made her feel very young, unsophisticated, and uninteresting. Her mind shied away from the fact that he may not have considered the idea of marriage to her because of their relative social positions. Daisy had been long enough in the social world to realize that an English Duke was a very grand personage indeed.
She suddenly became aware that her aristocratic companion was swearing fluently and not, it appeared, over a bad year. The Duke was holding the candle high above his head and Daisy heard, for the first time, the steady sound of rushing water. From a small barred window, high up on one of the walls, water was pouring down into the cellar, glistening in the candlelight like oil.
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