by Robin Paige
Reluctantly, Rolls sat down on the sofa beside her, being careful not to touch her skirt. “I ... I feel I might talk to you, if you don’t mind my saying so. You are Patsy’s friend. And you’re an American, after all, and in my experience—not that I am all that experienced, of course, or have known that many women intimately, so to speak.” He coughed. “But I have observed ... I mean to say that I—I have remarked on several occasions that American women seem to understand certain matters better than English women. Matters of the—of the, well, tenderer sort.” He cleared his throat again and added, with a heartfelt desperation that Kate found quite touching, “May I come straight to the point, Lady Kathryn?”
“If you donv’t,” Kate said, “I shall never forgive you. Have you come to speak about Miss Marsden?”
The young man’s dark eyes opened wide. “Why, yes,” he said. “However did you know?”
Kate chuckled. “I did not notice that you made any secret of your attentions to the young lady. You seemed to speak to her a great deal more freely than you are now speaking to me.”
“Come to that, I don’t suppose I did make any secret of it,” Rolls said, rather abashedly. “But the thing is... that is, you see—” He shook his head. “The devil take it, I hardly know what to say. The plain truth is, Lady Kathryn, I have been something of a cad. And as a result, Patsy has gotten into serious difficulties with Lady Henrietta and Lord Christopher, and I can’t for the life of me think of how to get her out without—” He stopped, and the red rose from his cheeks to his forehead.
“Without offering for her hand, I suppose you mean. And you do not wish to offer for her hand.”
“It isn’t so much that I don’t wish ... I mean, Patsy is a perfectly lovely girl, but... To be beastly honest, I am just not cut out for—And I don’t suppose her mother and father would—” He took out a white handkerchief, mopped his face, and gave up the effort to explain. “In a nutshell, yes, Lady Kathryn. To be perfectly honest, that’s it, in a nutshell. I do not wish to offer for her hand. I suppose,” he added in a self-accusatory tone, “I must look a perfect fool, and worse. I’m a lot too cheeky and rash. Imprudent, too.”
Unhelpfully, Kate said nothing.
“Well, I shouldn’t blame you for believing that of me,” he said after a moment, with a look of abject misery, half of which Kate thought was feigned—but only half. “I suppose you know that I’ve been chucked out of the house over there. Her mother told me, in so many words, to pack my cases and leave and never again darken their doorway.”
“Miss Marsden has told me as much,” Kate acknowledged.
“I say!” He ducked his head. “I don’t suppose I have to assure you that I—that we, I should say, Patsy and I—We have done nothing wrong. Not a thing in the world, by George, beyond an innocent kiss or two in the rose garden.” And he struck his fist on the knee of his muddied trousers. “That girl is every inch a lady, no matter how she tosses her head and flirts.” His color became brighter. “That is, I mean—”
“I know what you mean, Mr. Rolls,” Kate said gravely, “and you do not have to assure me of Miss Marsden’s virtuous character. I know that nothing more than a bit of mild flirtation has taken place.” He started to speak, but she held up her hand. “Hear me out, won’t you? At the risk of preaching a sermon, I must add that sometimes even a small flirtation can create a very large expectation.”
He chewed on his lip. “I don’t believe ... You can’t mean ...” He raised his eyes, and they were full of consternation. “But I thought she was safe! Like me, I mean. Just out for a bit of fun and all that. You don’t think I’ve hurt her, do you? I say, I wouldn‘t—Oh, not for the world! Patsy’s a reg’lar peach of a girl!”
Kate began to take pity on this very young man. “In this case, Mr. Rolls, I think you are right. Miss Marsden is quite ‘safe,’ as you put it. You may have played with her heart, but I don’t believe you injured it. In another instance, however, with a less confident and assured young lady, such an amusement might have a very different result.”
He started to speak, but she laid her hand on his, silencing him. “I don’t presume to tell you how to behave, Mr. Rolls. But a girl may be out in Society, and have gone to dozens of balls and entertained a half-dozen offers for her hand, and still not be ‘safe,’ as you mean the word.” She paused, and added, with a smile, “I hope you will consider what I say. I am not speaking of morality, at least not as the word is commonly used. I am speaking of hearts.”
“Oh, I shall consider it,” he said earnestly. “I am considering it at this very moment. Then she is all right? But Bradford has told me that she plans to leave! I can’t really believe it, but...” He stopped and shook his head. “There was a filthy family row, you know, over the motorcars and the balloon and me and ... They were all in on it, and Bradford has already cut and run for London. I would have gone with him, if I hadn’t had to deal with the balloon, which must be repaired before the owner sees it again.”
“Yes,” Kate said, “I believe she does mean to leave.”
“But ... where will she go? How will she live?” He swallowed, and the apprehension came back into his voice. “You are sure that she does not expect me to—”
“She does not expect anything of you, Mr. Rolls. Please do not flatter yourself that her leaving Marsden Manor has the slightest thing to do with you, except insofar—and this is my own interpretation—that she admires your freedom and wishes to have some of it for herself.” She smiled. “I also think, Mr. Rolls, that you need have no special concern for her welfare. Miss Marsden is perfectly competent to choose her own direction and purpose. She has a spirit that is every bit as lively and adventurous as your own, you know.”
“Oh, yes, I know. I do indeed.” A reminiscent smile flickered across his face. “It was her spirit that attracted me to her in the first place.”
“Well, then. Perhaps you will not be surprised when you hear, some day, that Miss Marsden has photographed the Alps from a balloon, or motored across Russia with her camera, alone.”
“Motored across—” His eyes were like saucers. “You’re joking, Lady Kathryn! That kind of adventure would be far too dangerous for a woman!”
“And why should men enjoy all the danger, and monopolize every adventure?” Kate inquired sweetly. “No, I think you must not be surprised when you open a magazine or a book and encounter Miss Marsden’s photographs of the African crocodiles, or the Bengalese tigers. Or, for that matter, the naked cannibals of New Guinea, about to roast their dinner. And that is it, Mr. Rolls, in a nutshell.”
And she rose and swept out of the room, leaving the Honorable Charles Rolls with his mouth hanging open.
27
Behold, I shew you a mystery.
—I CORINTHIANS 15:51
Light refreshments, Lady Kathryn had ordered, and Sarah Pratt had been hard at it all afternoon with only a few moments out for tea and a biscuit with Bess, who seemed to have forgotten her animosity, although she had made a remark about tongues that ran on a bit too long.
In truth, Sarah was glad that her friend had been exonerated of all—well, nearly all—misdeeds. It had been wrong of Bess to conceal the jar of ointment in the gondola, and very wrong to lay a curse upon the motorcar, although of course there could be nothing at all to the curse, so perhaps that did not even count. But whatever Bess’s faults, she seemed to have redeemed herself by revealing the secrets of her ointment (although why Lady Kathryn and Sir Charles should take an interest in such a foolish business, Sarah did not for the life of her understand). And having told Lady Kathryn about the squire’s removal of the grapnel, she certainly felt easier in her spirit. Whipple could not be blamed for what he had not done, and perhaps Sir Charles could make the squire own up to it.
In the event, Sarah was happily at work, sailing back and forth from the stolid, predictable iron range to the skittish gas cooker, snapping orders to the kitchen maids and feeling that she was once again mistress of all she surveyed.
Lady Sheridan’s light refreshments were to include a sliced cold joint; a cold turbot, placed white side up and garnished with caviar and green mayonnaise; an ornamental salmagundi salad that showed off its colorful layers in a straight-sided crystal bowl; small sandwiches, cut into shapes and prettily decorated; a molded strawberry jelly; several hot and cold savories; and fruit. It was the first meal in weeks that Sarah felt confident of producing without mishap—and all because her iron range had been restored to her, and peace and harmony to the kitchen.
Entertainment, Sir Charles had announced for the evening, and put Lawrence in charge of the preparations. Lawrence had spent most of the afternoon in the darkroom, preparing lantern slides from various negatives, some of which had been taken by Miss Marsden, others by Sir Charles. The preparation of the slides was made much simpler by the enlarging camera that Sir Charles had recently purchased.
Lawrence enjoyed his darkroom work, especially now that he was relieved of the guilty burden that had so oppressed him this morning. Knowing that the Daimler had not crashed because he had siphoned out most of the petrol but because someone else had smeared grease on the brake, he could turn his mind to other matters, to the present work, although he had become so adept at it that it hardly required any special attention. And to the future—his and Amelia’s future—for which he must now construct some plan.
With the Daimler wrecked and Lord Bradford gone off to London, it did not seem so likely that Lawrence would be summoned thence. But that was not the end of it. His greatest hope had been the prospect of being employed by Sir Charles at Bishop’s Keep. But if that could not be, he would have to find work elsewhere. How far would he have to go? What would he have to do? If he had to travel as far as Colchester—fifteen miles away—to find employment, it would mean a choice between Amelia’s going along and giving up her situation and the cottage, or his living for the week in Colchester and seeing her only on Sundays and holidays.
But Lawrence did not have to puzzle over these problems for too many hours. He finished mounting the slides and took them out for Sir Charles to inspect. Constable Laken had gone, and they were alone.
“Thank you, Lawrence,” Sir Charles said. “I have taken several more photographs—here are the dark slides for you to develop and make into lantern slides. When you are finished, we can turn our attention to preparations for the evening.”
“Ah, Sir Charles,” Lawrence said hesitantly, “if ye ‘ave a moment, I ’ave summat to ask ye, sir.”
Sir Charles looked up from the lantern slides he was examining. “What is it?”
“ ’Tis about work, sir.” Lawrence was not accustomed to speaking humbly, but he did his best. “It seems that Lord Bradford will not be needin’ my services, now that the motorcar is no more. I’ve been hopin’ ... that is, Amelia an’ I, we—” He stopped, cleared his throat, and blurted it out. “Truth be told, Sir Charles, I ’ud rather work fer ye. An’ Amelia an’ I ‘ud far rather stay at Bishop’s Keep than go to London. I know I kin be useful wi’ the gas plant an’ the ’lectric an’ the photographin’ and such,” he added hurriedly, feeling that he was placing too much stress on what he and Amelia wanted, rather than on what they had to offer. “An’ o’ course, Amelia is ‘elpful to ’er ladyship. If ye kin see yer way clear to allowin’ us to stay, sir, we’d be most grateful, an’ work very ’ard.”
Sir Charles put down the slides and regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. “I have been thinking of purchasing a motorcar for Lady Kathryn.”
“I cud take care o’ it fer ‘er, sir!” Lawrence burst out eagerly. “Ye’d niver ’ave to worry about ‘er safety, with me takin’ care of it. An’ I cud keep the gas plant an’ the ’lectric an’—”
“Yes, I daresay you could do all those things, and quite handily, too. And in fact, Lord Bradford has already asked my help in finding you another place. If you prefer to work here, I think we have discovered a happy solution.”
Lawrence felt himself beaming from ear to ear, and so full of ecstasy that he could scarcely contain himself. “Oh, sir, thank ye, sir! Amelia will be overjoyed. An’ I—”
“I daresay the arrangement will be to all our advantages,” Sir Charles said. “Now, back to work. Let’s finish up with the slides, and then we shall set up tonight’s entertainment. Oh, and by the by, ask Mudd to step in here, will you? I have written notes that must go immediately to the coroner and to the doctor.”
Mrs. Pratt’s light refreshments (which were set out on the dining table and eaten standing, in the latest London fashion) were received with surly cheer but consumed, Kate observed, with a more ready relish. The conversation, however, rather lagged—Ponsonby, Bateman, and Dickson occasionally speaking to one another but never to Dunstable, Dunstable (resplendent in an embroidered purple vest) speaking to none but Charles, and Rolls failing miserably in his few attempts at wit. Charles himself seemed engrossed in his thoughts, and ate and drank hurriedly and then disappeared. The only guests who seemed to enjoy an amiable conversation were Vicar Talbot, Coroner Hodson, Dr. Bassett, and Squire Thornton—and of course, Patsy and Kate, the two ladies. Thornton, who had been watching Patsy with an avid eye, made several attempts to speak to her, but each time she avoided him.
Promptly at eight, after a murmured message from Mudd, Kate clapped her hands. “Sir Charles promised an evening of photographic entertainment,” she said. “It is ready, if you would care to adjourn to the drawing room.”
“Lantern slides?” Bateman muttered to Ponsonby. “They had better not be photographs of somebody’s trip to the Holy Land, or I tell you, I shall leave.”
“It will take more than an evening’s amusement to wash out the taste of the weekend’s woes,” Ponsonby agreed. He cast a nervous eye in the direction of Harry Hodson. “But I fail to see why that fellow is here—the coroner, isn’t he?”
Kate spoke lightly, as if she had caught just the last question. “Harry Hodson? He is a dear old friend, and a great admirer of Sir Charles’s photographic work.”
“Indeed,” Hodson said, coming up. “I am most eager to see what our wizard has been up to with his camera lately, Lady Kathryn. I have always enjoyed his revelations of photographic mysteries.”
“A documentation of the weekend’s events, I am told,” the vicar said. “The balloon ride and the chase.”
“And including,” the doctor added, joining them, “some lantern slides of the Daimler’s wreckage. Most appalling, I am told. Not for the faint of heart.” He frowned a little at Kate. “Perhaps not for the ladies, either.”
Kate gave a smiling shrug. “Ah, well,” Bateman said, with more interest, and even Ponsonby looked curious.
In the drawing room, Kate saw that Lawrence had set up the lantern screen with several rows of chairs facing it. Charles stood at the rear of the chairs, his projecting lantern on a small table, a box of slides beside it. The lantern was of the double-lens type, consisting of two optical tubes arranged one above the other. It enabled the projectionist to dissolve one photographic image into another, superimpose two images, or cast two images upon the screen simultaneously, one above the other.
“What is he going to do?” Patsy whispered curiously, as she and Kate took seats in the back row.
“I really can’t say,” Kate said. “He was too busy this evening to confide all the details to me. But if things go as he wishes, I suspect that the entertainment may well tend more to high drama than to light amusement.”
When the guests were settled in their chairs, Kate relaxed, curious to see how Charles would handle the presentation. She had no doubts about his skill, of course, but he would be dealing with men of volatile tempers. She was glad that the coroner and the doctor were there, and the constable not far away.
Charles signaled to Mudd to turn out all but one of the lights, and spoke. “The weekend has been a memorable one, gentlemen. I thought you might enjoy seeing pictures of its more interesting moments. The first few shots I will show you were taken in the Park yesterd
ay morning by Miss Patsy Marsden, an excellent photographer.” He threw a slide onto the screen. “Mr. Bateman, I believe.”
“That’s me, all right,” Bateman said, grinning at the picture of him standing beside a tree, smoking a cigarette and watching as the other drivers labored to start their cars. “See how easy it is to start an electric? Push of the button is all it takes. No crawling, no cranking.”
“But don’t forget where it ended,” Ponsonby said, with a snicker. “At the end of a tow rope.” A ripple of laughter went through the group.
Charles inserted several slides, one after the other, of the waiting motorcars, the fete activities as they got underway, and the balloon, surrounded by curious spectators, ready to go up.
“Ah,” Rolls exclaimed with satisfaction, “isn’t she beautiful! A work of art.”
“And here is one of our departure,” Charles said with a little laugh, “under duress, as it were. We are being pursued by natives armed with pitchforks.” He put up a slide of himself and Rolls scrambling into the balloon, while the ground crew held the mooring ropes. “And another. Thornton, I believe this is a picture of you.”
The slide was met by a momentary silence. Then, as the stunned audience took in the significance of the scene, gasps and murmurs were heard.
“Why ... why, it is you, Roger,” the coroner exclaimed in gruff amazement, “pulling the grapnel free! Why in heaven’s name would you do a thing like that?”
“Bless me, Harry, you’re right,” the doctor said, loudly incredulous. He nudged Thornton, who was sitting between them. “You sly dog, Roger. So that’s why you stood poor Whipple’s bail. You didn’t want to see the poor man suffer for something you did.”
The coroner leaned forward to speak to the doctor across Thornton. “Well, I don’t suppose I’m surprised, Bassett. I’m told that Mrs. Jessup has finally revealed that it was our squire here, and not Mr. Rolls, who paid the Jessups that mysterious thirty pounds.”