by Shéa MacLeod
She forked it over and I took a great deal of time stuffing my hair neatly under it.
“Quit dawdling, Ophelia,” Chaz ordered. “Or you’ll lose the bet.”
“We have a bet?” Aunt Butty asked with delight.
I ignored them and waded into the water, splashing out toward the boat. I was a decent swimmer, though apparently not as proficient as my aunt. Still, I’d spent more than a few summers at one of the small lakes near Chipping Poggs.
The boatmen didn’t speak a lick of English, but through a few wild gestures we managed to get me into the water and my feet onto the skis. It seemed a ridiculous thing, those narrow little boards. How the devil was I supposed to stand on them?
I wasn’t entirely ready, but the captain shoved the boat into gear and it eased out away from shore. I kept my legs straight as I’d seen Aunt Butty do, though my posterior was still dragging in the water. It wasn’t too bad. Perhaps I could do this.
The boat picked up speed, increasing pressure on the boards. I clung to the ropes for dear life, praying that I wouldn’t break my neck. The second boatman waved to indicate I should stand up. Was he insane? Still, I wasn’t about to let Chaz win this one.
Sucking in a breath, I leveraged my arms, tightened my core, and tried to push up on the skis. For a split second, I thought I’d done it, before going face first into the drink.
My right leg went one way. The left another. And somehow, I was tumbling head over tea kettle until I sank under the waves. Then there was an almighty crack. Pain splintered through my head and everything went dark.
Chapter 4
I don’t know if I passed out or what, but the next thing I knew, the brawny boatmen were hauling me out of the water coughing and spluttering. Me, not the Frenchmen.
I must have swallowed half the Riviera, for it took a while to get my breath back, and my head ached abominably. Once I did recover, the captain waved to the skis as if to ask whether I’d like to go back in the water.
“Heavens, no. Non! Take me ashore. This is utter nonsense.”
Clearly, they understood, for they took me to shore immediately. The moment we were close enough, I clambered out of the boat. Unfortunately, my legs went wobbly and I fell on my face in the water.
Elegance, thy name is Ophelia. Most embarrassing. I could only pray the press weren’t anywhere about.
Chaz was on his feet in seconds, running out to meet me. He hoisted me to my feet before I could drown. “Good lord, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I assured him, grateful for his help in getting to my feet. “I seem to have avoided damaging any body parts.”
“No broken bones or sprained ankles?”
“No,” I said. “Just a bit wobbly. And I might have a concussion.”
“That can be handled,” he said. With a swoop, he hauled me up into his arms and waded toward shore. It was very romantic and manly and everything a girl dreams of. Except for the part where it was Chaz, not Hale.
Aunt Butty wanted to ring for the doctor, but I assured her that, other than being a bit sore, having a raging headache, and having swallowed half the sea, I was fine. Just exhausted. “I do have training in this area,” I reminded her, referring to my time as a nurse during the war. “I think I’m going to go home. Chaz can stay and take his turn. Though I’ll be sorry to miss it. You’ll have to give me the details, Aunt Butty.”
Chaz insisted on carrying me to the car first, which was embarrassing to say the least, and entirely unnecessary. Mr. Singh drove me home while Aunt Butty and Chaz stayed behind to recover with liberal application of afternoon cocktails and possibly more waterskiing.
“That’s what you get for playing the daredevil, m’lady,” Maddie informed me tartly once I was back at the villa, ensconced in my bedroom. “You’ll probably catch your death. Swallowing all that dirty water.” She tutted.
“Thank you for your input, Maddie,” I said dryly as she fussed over me. I had insisted on walking into the house on my own steam. The thought of Mr. Singh carrying me was... ridiculous. I was, after all, perfectly fine. Except a raging headache.
“What you need is a nice cuppa,” Maddie said, giving my pillow a final fluff. “Too bad there ain’t none decent to be had in this heathen country.”
“What I need is some whisky,” I muttered. Probably that wasn’t the best thing. A nice analgesic would be better, but stick with what one knows, I always say.
She frowned. “Not sure that’s the best thing what with you almost drowning.”
I rolled my eyes. “I did not nearly drown. I am fine. Now get me some whisky or else.”
She propped her fists on her narrow hips. “Or else what.”
I gave her the evil eye. “Or else I’ll turn you over to Aunt Butty.”
Her eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare! Work in that madhouse?”
“So whisky then. And don’t forget the ginger ale.”
She snorted and marched to the bar where she sloshed together the ingredients for a highball. Then she marched back and shoved it at me. “There. Never let it be said I didn’t do my duty.”
I snorted. “Never. Oh, grab me one of those lurid romances from the library, will you? You know, the ones Aunt Butty likes to hide on the shelves and you like to steal.”
“Borrow!” She stormed out of the room.
I snickered as her footsteps stomped down the stairs. Riling Maddie up was one of life’s pleasures. Besides, I might as well milk this for all it was worth since everyone seemed to think a minor tumble was a near-death experience.
Settling in, I stared happily at the sunshine outside the window, though the bright light did make my head throb a bit. I’d a good view of the sea beyond, little sailing ships bobbing in the water like kites in the sky. Birds chirped sleepily from the nearby bougainvillea, and I caught the faint scent of something buttery baking. Hopefully it was something for tea as I was starving. Waterskiing really works up an appetite.
Faint voices echoed through the open French doors. One male and angry, the other female and cajoling. I got up and wandered out onto the veranda where I had an excellent view through a gap in the bushes of not only the garden next door, but of many of the windows and the rooms beyond. In fact, I could stare right into the sitting room where Lady Scrubbs sat on a divan, a magazine clutched in her plump, beringed hands.
Sir Eustace was pacing in front of the empty hearth, ranting about something. Again, I couldn’t hear the words, but he had most definitely worked himself in to a high dudgeon. The argument—though it could hardly be called that since Sir Eustace was doing all the arguing—went on for some minutes before Sir Eustace gave up and stomped out into the garden. Lady Scrubbs calmly went back to reading her magazine—Lady’s Companion, from the looks of it—while Sir Eustace began the brutal pruning of a nearby rosebush. I found myself wondering about the odd couple, how they met, why they married, and suddenly realized my fear that the next few weeks would be ones of boredom was entirely unfounded. Thanks to my neighbors, this was better than the pictures!
I went back in and dashed off a note to Lady Scrubbs, inviting her to afternoon tea that very day. One way or another, I was going to find out what was going on with the couple next door.
LADY SCRUBBS APPEARED promptly at four dressed in a flowy white day dress with double ruffle butterfly sleeves and a white hat with pale pink trim perched jauntily on her head. Once again, it was an outfit that would have looked smashing on a woman half her age but did nothing for her skin tone or thick frame.
“Hullo, neighbors,” she called cheerfully as she squeezed her way between the bushes and over the low rock wall, a broad smile wreathing her plump cheeks.
“Lady Scrubbs,” I greeted her. My headache had retreated to a dull roar, thanks to liberal application of whiskey. “Thank you for joining us. Please have a seat.”
“Elenore, dear,” she reminded me. “My friends never call me ‘Lady Scrubbs.’ Utter rot. So thrilled you invited me. Couldn’t stand it in
that house another minute. Eustace is in such a mood.” With that pronouncement, she plopped into one of the chairs around the veranda table. “What a spread!”
Aunt Butty coughed gently, clearly trying to hold back a laugh. “For a French woman, Cook does know how to do an English afternoon tea properly. Except for the actual tea part, of course.”
“Aren’t you just dying for proper tea?” Elenore said. “Haven’t had a decent cup in months. Eustace complains about it incessantly.”
While the other two talked, I poured coffee. I was a little stunned by the force of Elenore’s personality. Previously, I’d only ever seen her with Sir Eustace. In those cases, she’d been quiet to the point of being almost mousy. Shy even. I hadn’t expected this gregarious, smiling woman. She was quite charming, actually.
Chaz would have loved this, but he’d taken himself off to Nice. Apparently, he had friends in town and they’d invited him to spend the day with them.
Mr. Singh appeared, carrying a tray of delectable treats. While Cook did know how to do a proper afternoon tea, it had a distinctly French flair. Lobster sandwiches and tiny croque Monsieurs, mini quiches and tart au citron, petite fours and croissants with jam. And, naturally, coffee instead of tea.
“Thank you, Mr. Singh,” I said as he gravely distributed the goodies around the table before returning to the house with measured steps.
“That’s an interesting choice of butler,” Elenore noted. “Where did he come from?”
“India,” Aunt Butty said placidly. “He’s quite excellent. I couldn’t do without him.”
“Where are you from, Elenore? If I may ask.” I’d noticed her accent wasn’t quite as upper class as Sir Eustace’s. It wasn’t low-class, either, but broad, a little rough, almost... country.
“Yorkshire. I grew up on a farm, can you believe?” She let out a loud laugh before covering her mouth and looking around. “Sorry, Eustace hates it when I laugh like that.”
“A belly laugh now and then is good for the soul,” Aunt Butty said calmly.
“Nicely put,” Elenore said with another of her broad smiles.
“So you’re a farmer’s daughter,” I said, steering the conversation back to what interested me. “I’m a vicar’s daughter.”
Her eyes widened. “You married that lovely Lord Rample, didn’t you? He was such a nice man. I met him once shortly after Eustace and I married. He was very kind.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “He was. Aunt Butty introduced us. How did you meet Sir Eustace?”
“Oh, well, it wasn’t anything romantic. See, my father, he was what you call landed gentry. Plenty of money, certainly a gentleman, but no title to speak of, and he never liked being looked down upon. He always wanted to move up in the world. Be more than he was, if you know what I mean.”
“Quite,” Aunt Butty murmured.
“As soon as I was old enough, he went about trying to find me a husband with a title. Didn’t have much luck, though. I’m not precisely...” She glanced down at herself. “Well, I’m a little rough around the edges as they say.” And she laughed again, a little uneasily this time as if she suddenly recalled she had reason to be self-conscious and embarrassed of herself.
Which is when I realized that the quiet, shy woman I’d met on the ship was only that way because of insecurity. While I’d come to terms with the fact I wasn’t born with the proverbial silver spoon in my mouth and could care less what the upper crust thought of me, it was clear that Elenore had never done so. She still felt the sting of inferiority, as if the matter of one’s birth was the sole measure of value, and thus was uncomfortable in situations where she was forced to rub shoulders with the ton.
Apparently, dining with neighbors of dubious origin made her feel more at home, letting her true nature come out. I thought it was rather sad and took an immediate dislike to Sir Eustace for making his wife feel this way.
“We should go shopping together sometime,” I offered.
She smiled warmly. “That would be wonderful.” She glanced toward the house. “If I can get away.”
“I think you’re lovely,” Aunt Butty said bracingly. “I take it your father dug Sir Eustace out from somewhere?”
“Oh, he came along when I was in my late thirties. My father had nearly despaired of marrying me off, and since I was an only child... well, he’d given up on any sort of title. Of course, Eustace wasn’t what he’d hoped for, but beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.” She dug half-heartedly at a tart.
“But he did marry you,” Aunt Butty prodded.
“He did. Desperate for the money.” There was something hard in Elenore’s eyes as she bit into the tart.
Not that I blamed her. Knowing your husband married you only for your money, that he was ashamed and embarrassed of you... well, that had to be pretty soul-destroying. And if they’d married when Elenore was in her late thirties, that meant she’d put up with that nonsense for at least twenty-five years or so. I couldn’t even imagine it. My Felix had never treated me as inferior. Which showed what an incredible man he’d been.
“It’s lovely having such a charming neighbor as yourself next door,” Aunt Butty said, steering the topic away from what was clearly painful subject matter.
“Isn’t it a gorgeous villa?” Elenore’s face lit up. “I’ve wanted to visit the South of France for years, and I finally convinced Eustace to come. He didn’t want to, but...” Her face twisted again, before clearing. “We got an excellent deal on the rental. Belongs to a friend of Eustace’s. He’s thinking of selling. The friend I mean. I’d love to buy it.” Her expression turned dreamy.
“Why don’t you?” I said. “I think it’s marvelous having a villa in the sun one can come to whenever London gets too dreary.”
Her mouth turned down. “Eustace says we can’t afford it. Of course, we can, but he says it’s a frivolous waste of money.”
“Isn’t it your money?” Aunt Butty asked with an uplifted brow.
“Yes, it is.” Elenore glanced at Aunt Butty as if not sure where this was going and perhaps rather shocked my aunt would mention something so vulgar as money.
“Then why not purchase it if that’s what you want.”
Elenore stared at her for a moment, mouth open, tart hovering mid-air. Then her shoulders straightened. “You know, maybe I shall.”
“That’s the spirit.” Aunt Butty lifted her coffee cup. “To doing precisely what we want! If men can do it, why can’t we!”
“Hear, hear!” I said, lifting my own cup.
Elenore lifted her own cup. “And how! To buying a villa in France. And if that flat tire, Eustace, doesn’t like it, he can... go suck on an egg.”
“Elenore!” The bellow came from the neighboring villa. Sir Eustace, no doubt.
Elenore went pale. “I’d better go.” She dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Thanks ever so for the lovely tea, but—”
“Elenore! Answer me!” This time, he was louder. Angrier. Unease shivered through me. Across the water, storm clouds gathered, turning the sunny afternoon dim.
“He’ll be angry if I don’t hurry,” she whispered, and she shoved back from the table so quickly, her chair hit the terrace paving stones with an almighty clang. She threw us an apologetic look but didn’t pause to pick it up. Instead she dashed off toward Sir Eustace’s bellowing.
I watched her go, wincing as Sir Eustace yelled again. The unease took root and blossomed into something much darker. To say I had a bad feeling was a very big understatement.
A WOMAN’S SCREAM RENT the night air.
I startled awake, groggy and disoriented, as the scream was followed by the crash of breaking glass.
It took me a moment to realize I was in my bed in my villa in France. Darkness had fallen and the glowing dials of the little clock by my bed told me it was just gone midnight. Early for me, but after dinner I’d found myself nodding off. The day had taken its toll—nearly drowning took it out of a person—and Maddie, the rat, had no doubt dosed my after-dinner c
offee with something stronger than whiskey. One of Aunt Butty’s sleeping powders, no doubt. Whatever it was had knocked me out cold.
What had woken me? Oh, yes, a scream. A woman’s scream. Had someone broken in?
No, no. Mr. Singh would have heard. I swear he slept with one eye open. Beside which, I was fairly certain the scream came from outside the house.
Elenore! Surely it had been her screaming. It had come from that direction. I was certain of it.
I staggered to the open window so I could get a glimpse of the neighboring villa. However, the house remained dark and nothing stirred. Had I dreamt the whole thing? Surely not. I was absolutely convinced I’d heard that scream and crash, and yet there was no sign anything was amiss.
I expected that the scream would have awakened Mr. Singh or Maddie—Aunt Butty slept like a proverbial rock, thanks to the aforementioned sleeping powders. But nothing moved inside the villa. All was still.
I went back to bed and slowly lowered myself back onto the pillows, and though I fought sleep for as long as I could, eventually whatever drug I’d been given dragged me back into slumber.
I WASN’T SURE WHAT woke me next, but it was still dark outside. The wind had picked up, tossing the palm trees outside my window and casting eerie shadows over the bed. Rain fell, slanting sideways in the wind and splatting onto the tile floor beneath the open window.
Should I get up and close the windows? I’d hate for there to be an awful mess in the morning, but I was enjoying the cool breeze. Since I didn’t want the rugs destroyed, I got up and shuffled to the window.
As I grasped the sash, I caught a glimpse of the Scrubbs’s villa. The lights were on. I squinted at the clock. Two in the morning. Dashed odd time for someone to be up.
I stuck my head out the window—ignoring the fact I was instantly soaked from the shoulders up—and craned to see which rooms the lights shone from. Elenore’s bedroom light was on, as were the lights in what I assumed was the bathroom, but the shutters were pulled to, so I couldn’t see anything but a single shadow moving back and forth.
