The Five-Minute Marriage

by Joan Aiken

  Mr. Fitzjohn heaved an impatient sigh, and stood nibbling his thumb. He said to Delphie,

  “That is always the way with Gareth! To suggest something to him—to give him any advice—is the way to make him straightway go and do the exact opposite.”

  “Best advise him in the contrary direction,” Delphie said, smiling. Mr. Fitzjohn gave her such a sharp look that she wondered if this was, in fact, his habit. “Oh, well—if we are in the basket, cousin, may I hope that you at least are secure!”—a remark which also seemed to startle him. She added, since he was returning to the street, where his curricle waited—evidently he had driven Gareth back from somewhere—”Are your horses recovered from whatever it was that afflicted them, Mr. Fitzjohn? I see that you are driving a different pair today.”

  “Yes—no—the others are still in rather poor trim,” he replied. “Was that not a strange mischance? And most wretchedly uncomfortable for you, I fear. I would not have had it happen for worlds! I am glad to see you none the worse for your toss. My groom thinks that perhaps some moldy ergot must have found its way into their feed—it has a very poisonous effect.”

  “Does it indeed? Then I hope for your sake that your groom will be more careful in future—or that you will change your feed merchant.”

  “Thank you. Good-by—er—ma’am,” he said, and left.

  Delphie went to look at her mother, who had slipped into a peaceful doze.

  About ten minutes later, Gareth came down the stairs again.

  “Do I disturb you?” he inquired, tapping lightly on the open door of the parlor, where Delphie was arranging books on shelves. “I will not make a practice of interrupting you, I promise—but I wondered if you had found all as it should be—if Bardwell had helped you. How pleasant you have made it look.”

  “Thanks to your kind loan of chairs and tables! Otherwise it would have been bare indeed. We are not used to such large rooms. Yes, Bardwell has already offered his help. We are most snugly established here, and, I believe, will be very comfortable. But—Cousin Gareth—there is a matter on which I wish your advice—quite a serious one.”

  “What is the trouble?” he asked as she came to a stop, suddenly feeling all the difficulty of putting what she had to tell him in such a way that it would not sound like a hysterical fancy.

  “Would you be so obliging as to walk through into the garden for a moment?” she said, and led the way along a drugget-lined passage to the glass-paned door which led out into the pleasant little courtyard—it was hardly more—where wallflowers were shedding their scent and apple buds were just beginning to show pink on the boughs of two small trees. A gate led out from the back to the unused coach house, and the stable where the donkey was housed.

  “I wish you to look at these birds,” Delphie said, and showed him the five dead sparrows lying around the nibbled biscuit. He stared at them in bewilderment; Delphie wondered if he thought she had suddenly run mad.

  Then she led him indoors again, and, producing the vinaigrette, said,

  “Cousin, I fear you will think this is a piece of vaporish nonsense, but—I believe that Elaine Carteret tried to poison my mother this afternoon.”

  “What?”

  She told, slowly and with care, the story of their visit to the house in Brook Street. Gareth listened, stone-faced. When she mentioned the vinaigrette he stretched out a hand, saying, “Give that to me.”

  She passed it to him and he took the cap off and made as if to sniff it.

  “Don’t!” said Delphie, involuntarily.

  “Perhaps you are right. Wait a minute—” he said. “I am nursing a patient of Lionel’s—poor little creature—I fear it will not survive in any case—”

  He left the room and came back in a moment with a small box covered by a cloth. The cloth when lifted off revealed a white mouse, which lay on a truss of hay, with closed eyes and heaving sides, looking (Delphie thought) weak, frail, and remarkably like Una Palgrave.

  “We will make an experiment,” said Gareth grimly; he held the vinaigrette to the tip of the mouse’s pointed nose. The result was instantaneous—the mouse jerked once; its tiny claws curled up tightly; and it was dead.

  “I will need to buy Lionel another mouse,” remarked Gareth. His tone was expressionless.

  Delphie said, “Of course, what kills a mouse—or a sparrow—need not hurt a human being—” Her voice trailed off, as she looked at the dead animal. Gareth was silent. She went on, “Then there were the horses, you see, too—bolting like that. Poisoned by ergot, Mr. Fitzjohn said. Was that not strange? Of course there need be no connection. But it is singular.”

  “You are singular,” Gareth said. “Three narrow escapes from death—and you take them with astounding calm.”

  “But what is to be done?”

  “I will need to reflect,” he said. “Mordred is already on his way to warn Elaine—perhaps that will be sufficient. She is a self-willed, headstrong girl—but I believe she minds him.”

  “You do not think she should be brought to book for what she has done—attempted to do?”

  He said impatiently, “How can we do that without disclosing the whole? Excuse me—I will need to think about this.”

  And, leaving her, he began to mount the stairs.

  “Shall I tell you what I think?” said Delphie.

  “Yes—what?” He paused, turning his head, but looked as if he would rather not hear her thoughts.

  “I think we should relate the whole history to Great-uncle Mark—make a round tale of it—and leave off all this prevarication.”

  “Oh, you do, do you? Well, let me tell you, my dear cousin, that you do not know your great-uncle so well as I do! The effect of that would probably be to lay him in paroxysms on the floor—next he would send for his lawyer—and then he would strike all his descendants out of his will, and leave his entire fortune to the upkeep of the Chase Kennels.”

  “Do you really believe that?” she said in a quenched tone.

  “I know it.”

  “Oh. Is your sister Una a beneficiary under his will?”

  “At present she is; yes,” he replied. “And now, if you will excuse me, Cousin Delphie, I am about to be late for an appointment in the City.”

  “Just one thing—” said Delphie. He turned again, and now there was real exasperation in his expression.

  “What now?”

  “When Uncle Mark comes to dinner tomorrow—do you wish to entertain him upstairs, or down here? And shall I tell our Mrs. Andrews to prepare the meal?”

  Evidently Gareth had not yet applied himself to consideration of these domestic problems. His brows drew together.

  “Bardwell can very well prepare a meal—or, no, let it be sent in from a chophouse—I do not wish you to be troubled in the matter.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” exclaimed Delphie, scandalized. “Chophouse meals are abominable—and abominably expensive, too! Uncle Mark would be disgusted. I am sure we can contrive to do better than that, if I may have Bardwell’s assistance, and if you will tell me Lord Bollington’s preferences.”

  “Oh—” Gareth said hastily. “I fancy he likes any kind of game—detests ragouts—does not care for creams or jellies—beyond that I fear I can tell you nothing.”

  “Then I must do my best with that.”

  Delphie walked back into her parlor and shut the door. Suddenly she felt extremely tired, and began, very much, to wish herself back in Greek Street.

  It was not late, but she had been up so early, and the day had been so full of incident, that she decided to take herself off to bed. Mrs. Andrews, equally fatigued, had long ago retired. Mrs. Carteret was likewise asleep. But when Delphie went in for a last look at her mother, she found the poor lady very restless and distressed, stirring and sighing, and crying out in her sleep, “Oh! Take care of the baby! Oh! Pray don’t drop it, nurse!”

  Delphie laid a hand over that of her mother, which seemed to soothe her, but as soon as the hand was withdrawn she beg
an to cry and toss about once more. Evidently the occurrences of the day had troubled some deeply buried memory; and Delphie once again blamed herself bitterly for permitting the visit to Elaine Carteret. She had hoped for something from it—she hardly knew what—some recognition, some confrontation, which had not occurred. Instead the visit had proved harassing, useless, and dangerous.

  Mrs. Carteret’s bed was too narrow for more than one occupant, so Delphie quietly made herself up a kind of pallet on the floor beside her mother, where she could be at hand to soothe and comfort when it was necessary; and it proved necessary many times during the hours before midnight. But presently Mrs. Carteret’s sleep appeared to become deeper and less troubled by anxious dreams; Delphie herself was therefore enabled to doze off for longer periods.

  During one of these she was suddenly awakened by something—she knew not what: a soft, sharp sound, that had her instantly wide awake and fixedly listening. Her mother now slept peacefully, drawing long, regular, steady breaths; it was not any motion or sound from the bed that had woken Delphie.

  It came from a corner of the room, where the little writing desk stood which Gareth had lent them. The sound was not the creak of its lid, but the rustle of papers.

  Delphie, lying on the farther side of her mother’s bed from the window, was in deep shadow, well concealed; thus she was able cautiously to raise her head and steal a glance over her mother’s sleeping form, toward the corner where the desk stood.

  She observed that the sash of the window had been raised; and a dark figure stood by the desk, rapidly extracting its contents.

  Delphie was almost paralyzed by astonishment and fright for a moment. Then, struck, suddenly, by the remarkable smallness of the figure by the desk, she rose, softly, first to her knees, then to a crouching posture: then she sprang, as fast as she could, around the end of the bed, and pounced on the figure, shouting, at the same time, very loudly indeed,

  “Help! Thieves! Help! Thieves!”

  The figure writhed, squirmed, and wriggled in her grasp, kicked furiously at her shins, tried to bite her wrists, and several times almost managed to pull free, but Delphie, shifting her grip on a skinny, muscular arm, was able to reproduce a hold she had once observed employed by a Bow Street runner when apprehending a thief, and pulled the intruder’s arm sharply up behind his back, eliciting a shrill cry of pain.

  “Lemme go! Lemme go! I’ll mizzle off quietly! I won’t take nothing!”

  “No, I certainly shall not let you go!” replied Delphie, and continued to shout for help.

  By this time her mother was awake, exclaiming confusedly,

  “Delphie? Is that you? Oh, dear, what is it now? Oh, my gracious me! What in the world is going on?”

  Next, other personages began to appear: Mrs. Andrews, with a candle and formidable castellation of curlpapers under her nightcap; Bardwell, the manservant, carrying a dark lantern and a pistol; Gareth, wearing a silk dressing gown and likewise equipped.

  By the brighter light, Delphie was able to distinguish her captive.

  “Good heaven!” she exclaimed. “It is you!”

  For she found that she was holding the small dirty boy who, earlier in the day, had stood watching while the Carterets’ belongings were packed up for removal, and to whom she had given a picture book.

  “You ungrateful little brat! Was one book not enough for you?”

  “The deuce!” said Gareth. “Do you know this boy, Cousin Delphie?”

  “Not at all! I saw him in the street, merely; gave him an old book.”

  “It’s a kinchin,” pronounced Bardwell. “Gangs o’ thieves uses ‘em—they’re better for getting in winders and climbing up awkward places, see?”

  “Lemme go!” whined the boy. “I didn’t take no vallybles! You can’t bone me for what I done!”

  “Oh, can’t we! The Beak will be glad to see you in the morning—I dare say he knows you well! Until then you can spend the night in the coal cellar, tied up with the clothesline. Come along!”

  So saying, Bardwell approached the boy and grabbed him roughly.

  “Ay, that will teach the little varmint!” approved Mrs. Andrews.

  But the boy, with an expert squirm, suddenly whipped away, as Bardwell was removing him from Delphie’s grasp, and in a flash was over the windowsill and away through the garden before anybody had the presence of mind to stop him.

  “Oh, well,” said Delphie, chafing her hands together—for they had been almost numbed by the strength with which she had been obliged to grasp him. “He had not taken anything, after all!”

  “Oh!” quavered Mrs. Carteret. “I shall never be able to sleep securely in this room, if thieves are to be always breaking in and waking me up!”

  “Ay,” remarked Mrs. Andrews, “a postern door do always make a thief!”

  “Have no fear, ma’am,” said Gareth grimly. “Tomorrow morning we put bars across the window!”

  “Bars!” objected Mrs. Carteret. “As well live in a prison!”

  “Let us discuss it in the morning,” said Delphie, who found her mother’s analogy unfortunate. “I do not imagine the boy will return tonight! I am obliged to you all for coming to my aid so swiftly.”

  “I am beyond anything vexed,” said Gareth, sounding it, “that such a thing should have occurred on your first night here.”

  “Oh yes indeed,” agreed Delphie cordially. “After a week or so here I dare say we should not have regarded it in the slightest!” which earned her an outraged look from her cousin, as he retired with Bardwell.

  “In any case,” said Mrs. Carteret after they had gone, “now I bethink me of it, there was nothing at all of value in that desk, Only old papers—letters, and my wedding lines, and other such stuff. I presume the boy was looking for money, but he was sadly out of luck!”

  But Delphie, having returned the papers to their pigeonholes and checked that none were missing, locked the desk, and spent the rest of the night with the key under her pillow.

  Next morning she encountered Gareth briefly, as she darted out on her way to give a lesson in Grosvenor Square.

  “How are you, cousin?” he inquired, viewing her carefully. “And how does your mother? I fear you must be somewhat anxious and distressed after the alarums of the night?”

  Delphie gave him her flashing smile, with the two dimples.

  “My dear cousin—how thoughtful you are! But pray do not waste your solicitude on us—we are in the very best of health and spirits. Why, since I have encountered you, I have hardly known what it is to be dull: life in your circle offers one interest after another—deathbed ceremonies, headlong carriage rides—poison—threats—housebreakers—really I cannot imagine how I endured the tedium and languor of my existence before I met you! But if you will excuse me, I am late for my lesson. I shall see you tonight. Pray, for my sake, do not be one minute later than twenty minutes before five o’clock!”

  And, leaving him looking rather blankly after her, she ran away up South Audley Street.

  Great-uncle Mark arrived with terrifying punctuality, at exactly a quarter before five o’clock.

  In the end it had been decided that it would be best to receive him on the ground floor: thus there would be less danger of his hearing any sound from the inmates of the top story. Furthermore, the Palgrave children had been bribed to be quiet as mice, by the offer of a trip with their uncle to Astley’s circus on the following evening.

  “Why not send them off tonight?” Delphie had suggested. “Then they would be out of the way altogether.”

  “But suppose they returned just as Uncle Mark was taking his leave?” Gareth pointed out.

  Delphie chuckled. “Very true! We should have to pretend that they were total strangers who had mistaken their direction and come to the wrong house. How one piece of deceit does lead on to another.”

  Gareth gave an impatient sigh and walked away, leaving her to regret her lighthearted words.

  Bardwell had, in the course of the mornin
g, carried down, leaf by leaf, a handsome dining table, which he had erected in Delphie’s front parlor. Then he had produced an epergne, various pieces of crested silver, and an elegant set of wineglasses.

  “Lucky we just got the silver out of hock,” he remarked laconically. “Mrs. Una had a lucky runner at Chester—Fly-by-Night. But don’t tell the guvnor! He don’t like it above half if she has a flutter!”

  Delphie promised that she would not mention the matter. But her opinion of Una went down still further.

  “If you care to leave the arrangement of the table to me, ma’am, I will see that all is as it should be,” Bardwell said.

  “Thank you, Bardwell! I am sure that you know more about such matters than I do,” Delphie said gratefully.

  Uncle Mark’s fondness for game and dislike for ragouts and jellies had given Delphie, Mrs. Andrews, and Bardwell, who was called in to advise, very considerable need to exercise their wits, since game was far from plentiful in the month of May. The best they could achieve (Gareth having provided the necessary cash) was a goose-and-turkey pie, a capon dressed with artichokes, some buttered lobsters, and a sirloin of beef. This was followed, for a second course, by a pair of ducklings with cherries and green peas, various vegetables, a dish of apple tartlets, and some almond cakes—hardly an elegant repast, as Bardwell said, sighing, but at least a neat, plain dinner. However, since Lord Bollington spent so little time in town, was not in the habit of fashionable fare, and was known to be a frugal eater at home, Delphie hoped that the meal would do well enough. Fortunately Mrs. Andrews had proved to be a notable cook, and such dishes as they had managed to produce could not be faulted. Bardwell, casting his eye over the side board, announced that he thought they could all congratulate themselves.

  Delphie had taken a great liking to Bardwell, a lean, spare, grayhaired personage who, she learned, had been his master’s batman in Spain, during the two years Gareth had served in the Peninsular War before, on his father’s death, he had been obliged to sell out of his regiment and return to assume the management of the manor at Horsmonden and his sister’s affairs.