by M C Beaton
“Why?” asked Lord Peter. “Has she a hunched back or a squint?”
“You jest, my lord, you jest. There is the dinner bell.”
Lord Peter stood his ground. “Perhaps you would do me the honor of presenting me to your daughter, Cassandra, at dinner tomorrow night.”
“Of course, if that is your wish,” said the earl, and then the guests moved off toward the dining room.
Now what was she going to do? thought Cassie. Not only did she not want to meet Lord Peter again, she had promised Miss Stevens.
For Miss Stevens, who had become more and more elated at the sight of Lord Peter’s guineas, had invited Cassie to dinner on the following evening, and Cassie had accepted.
Then she had an idea. She went up to the schoolroom and rummaged around in a cupboard until she found a tube of red paint and a paintbrush.
She went to her bedroom and sat down at the toilet table after placing a branch of candles on it and then carefully began to paint red spots all over her face.
The footman who arrived half an hour later carrying Cassie’s dinner on a tray nearly dropped it at the sight of her. He ran downstairs and told the butler, who ponderously bent over the earl at the dinner table and informed him his daughter had broken out in spots.
“Sophia? Not a blemish on her,” said the earl, who only ever thought of his elder daughter.
The butler bent his head again.
Lord Peter heard him exclaim. “Cassandra! Oh, send for the physician immediately.”
Upstairs, Cassie now carefully arranged in bed, awaited the arrival of the doctor. He arrived an hour later. His name was Dr. Ferguson, a dour and taciturn Scot. He examined Cassie, studied the spots, and then went over to the toilet table and soaked a cloth in water, and returning to the bed, wiped her left cheek and then looked grimly down at the wet paint on the cloth.
“Oh, dear,” said Cassie, “you’ve found me out.”
“Wasting ma guid time like this. What’s the game?”
For some reason Cassie decided to be nearly honest. “Miss Stevens has come into a little money. She invited me to dinner tomorrow night. She … she is lonely, as you know, and does not have much fun. Papa is going to insist I join them for dinner tomorrow night, and I know Miss Stevens will even now have begun the preparations. I … I could not bear to disappoint her.”
The doctor frowned down at her and then suddenly began to pack his implements back into his bag.
Lady Wychhaven entered the room at that moment, and Cassie quickly covered up the clean cheek with her hand and looked appealingly at the doctor.
“What is wrong?” asked Lady Wychhaven.
“Lady Cassandra has eaten something that has given her an allergy. Of course, it might be the chicken pox. I think she should be confined to her room for a week and not given verra much to eat.”
“Very well, Dr. Ferguson. Does she have a fever?”
“Yes, my lady, but not verra high. But she can move about. Do not let the servants near her in case the infection spreads. Leave her meals outside her door. You will find she is capable of getting them herself.”
“An infection! Good heavens, imagine if Sophia should become marked! Go to sleep, Cassie, and do please keep to your room. Think of Sophia.”
***
The next afternoon Lord Peter was informed slyly by the earl that Sophia was in the rose garden. So Lord Peter took refuge in the library with a book behind a screen in the corner beside the window that led out onto the terrace.
He had suggested earlier to the countess that he might pay a visit to her sick daughter as he had once had the chicken pox and was not likely to get it again, but the countess had treated this kind idea with horror. What if he carried the infection on his boots from the sickroom! she had shrieked just as if Lord Peter had announced his intention of jumping on Cassandra. What if poor Sophia got spots? His mind kept drifting away from the printed lines in front of him. He was in his undress, wrapped in a silk banyan, and had no intention of putting on a starched cravat, waistcoat, coat, and breeches until the dressing bell sounded later for dinner. It was just too hot. If Sophia liked to posture about the rose garden in the burning heat, then she was welcome to her own company.
Then he heard voices from the terrace and drew his chair back behind the shelter of the curtain so that he would not be seen.
“It is a vast pity that Lady Cassandra is ill, Mr. Braithwaite,” came Mr. Jensen’s voice. “She is remarkably bright and lively, and I must confess I find the company here dull.”
“I have never seen her,” came Mr. Braithwaite’s voice. “Is she a fright? I am told she has none of her sister’s beauty.”
“Lady Cassandra is an attractive waif. They are ashamed of her because she has red hair.”
“Then they should dye it,” said Mr. Braithwaite. “Lady Torrance was a famous beauty in my youth. Men stood up in their carriages to get a better look when she drove past. No one knew her hair was dyed and yet it was. Its natural color was brilliant red.”
“I do not think her parents have enough interest in her,” said Mr. Jensen, “to do anything about her one way or t’other. Care for a game of billiards?”
Their voices faded. Lord Peter put his book in his lap. There could not be two girls in the neighborhood with red hair, surely.
He was still speculating idly about this daughter, Cassandra, as his valet helped him to dress for dinner. His room faced the back of the house, that being where the grandest guest apartments were. He was looking out the window as he was adjusting his cravat when he saw a slight figure walking through the shrubbery. He caught a glint of red hair shining under a frivolous bonnet covered with silk flowers.
He dismissed his valet and then made his way out. He saw a footman bearing a decanter and wineglasses to one of the other guest’s rooms and asked him, “Which is Lady Cassandra’s room?”
He was informed it was on the floor above, directly above his own. He told the servant he could find his own way.
He hesitated outside Lady Cassandra’s door. There was a note pinned to it. “I do not wish dinner. Please do not disturb me at all.”
He cautiously opened the door. There was a still figure lying on the bed. He was about to retreat when a light breeze moved the curtains and a shaft of sunlight struck the bed, lighting up the head of the figure. He gave a stifled exclamation and went closer. He reached out a tentative hand and then gently drew down the bedclothes. There was a dummy lying on the bed made out of two pillows, a nightdress, the top of a wig stand, and an improvised wig of red wool.
Lord Peter went down to his own quarters and informed his valet that he was to tell the company that he was indisposed. Then, with a feeling of freedom he had not experienced since he was a boy, he made his way out of the house and down the drive, very quickly, expecting any moment that the earl would send some servant after him to call him back.
***
“Don’t answer it,” urged Cassie some time later as she and Miss Stevens were preparing to sit down to dinner. Miss Stevens had gone to a lot of trouble and felt very grand having dinner at the new late hour of seven o’clock, just like they did in London. The knocking at the door which had disturbed them became more peremptory.
“It cannot be a tradesman,” said Miss Stevens. “A tradesman would call at the kitchen door. The vicar perhaps?”
And then they looked at each other in alarm as they heard the door being opened, and then the next moment Lord Peter had walked into the parlor.
Miss Stevens rose to her feet, flustered and nervous. “My lord, what an unusual hour to call. We were just sitting down to dinner. Perhaps you would care to join us …?!”
“Delighted,” he said. “You are most kind.”
“Perhaps I should explain why dear Ca—dear Lucy is joining me at table. You see, as I have already told you, she is a lady by birth, and as I did not expect company …”
“Think nothing of it.”
“Now I must get James and Jane
and tell them we have a guest.”
Miss Stevens bustled out.
“Do sit down, my lord,” said Cassie. “This is a very low-ceilinged room, and I do not like you towering over me. How did you know I would be here?”
“Because you work here, do you not? Besides, I have taken a liking to Miss Stevens.”
Cassie rose and went to the dresser and took out cutlery and began to lay an extra place at the round table in the middle of the parlor. “I think,” she said, “you are come to torment me. Miss Stevens is not exactly in funds, and you are stretching her meager resources by dropping in for dinner like this.”
“I will make it up to her,” he said. His eyes teased her. “Did you get your dowry?”
Cassie hesitated. She wanted to say she did not want it, but Miss Stevens must already have spent part of it on this wretched dinner. “Thank you,” she forced herself to say.
“Of course, to me it was not much, but it will perhaps secure some tradesman for you as a husband, some very small tradesman.”
“The butcher, Mr. Evans, is under five feet in height, but alas, he is married.”
“I meant someone not too prosperous.”
“Did you now? I would never have guessed that.”
Miss Stevens entered then with the first course and fictitious tales of what had happened to her servants. To Cassie’s infinite relief, Lord Peter set himself to please, telling them of the countries he had visited on the Grand Tour and of the paintings, statues, and objects d’art he had brought back with him. His tales of Venice in particular fascinated both ladies, Cassie dreamily imagining the glory of a sunny city where the streets were canals. For his part, Lord Peter found the simple dinner excellent. Thrifty Miss Stevens had not spent too much on luxuries. The meal consisted of green pea soup, roast forequarter of lamb with mint sauce, peas, and new potatoes, followed by gooseberry pudding and strawberry tartlets.
When the meal was over, Miss Stevens surprised Cassie by rising and saying they would leave Lord Peter to his wine.
“Now what?” asked Cassie as they stood in the back garden where neat rows of lettuce glimmered palely in the dusk and bats fluttered overhead, wheeling in circles as if they were toys being held by children on strings.
“The night is warm,” said Miss Stevens. “It is cooler here, Cassie, than in the drawing room.”
“Miss Stevens, I do not wish to upset you, but you don’t have a drawing room, and that he will find out when he comes in search of us.”
Miss Stevens looked blank as she always did when caught out in one of her lies.
“Never mind,” said Cassie gently. “He can find us here. It was a lovely dinner, Miss Stevens, much better than anything I could get at home.”
“He is pursuing you, Cassie.”
“He is amusing himself, Miss Stevens. If he had an interest in billiards, say, he would not find diversion in chasing a housemaid. I wonder if he still thinks I am a housemaid. I hope he did not see me leaving the castle and follow me.”
“I am sure he would have said something to that effect if he had.” Miss Stevens gently took Cassie’s arm. “Do you not think he is very fine? He would make you an excellent husband, Cassie.”
“Lord Peter is too old, too cold, and altogether too terrifying,” said Cassie.
“But do you not sometimes dream of a beau, my dear?”
Lord Peter, who had just entered the garden in time to hear the last question, stood listening.
He heard Cassie give a wistful little sigh and then he heard her say, “Of course, Miss Stevens. I dream of someone young and handsome and full of life and fun, someone who does not particularly care for beautiful things, someone who would find me beautiful, red hair and all. Such as Lord Peter has no interest in me. He wants some beautiful creature who will supply him with beautiful sons and who will be as stately and cold as he is himself.”
Lord Peter quietly retreated into the house. He sat down once more at the table and picked up his half full wineglass. Was that really how he appeared? Did such as Cassie know what it was like not really to have enjoyed any youth at all, to have been at war since age sixteen, leaving him with a craving for stillness and peace?
When Cassie and Miss Stevens eventually came in search of him, he promptly rose to his feet and bowed over Miss Stevens’s hand, thanked her for a splendid dinner, and said he must take his leave.
He looked so somber and grim that Miss Stevens felt uncomfortable and wondered whether her cooking had given him indigestion.
Lord Peter strode back to Bramfield Park under a full moon. The air was full of scents of summer, wild roses mixed with the tangy smell of wild garlic. A fox slid across the road in front of him. It was a night made for love and romance, a night for wandering through the country lanes with someone you loved.
Strange, he had not thought of love for a long time. All those yearnings he had had in his early youth, he had considered long gone. As he approached Bramfield Park, he pictured the elegance of its rooms, the dullness of the conversation, which no amount of beautiful objects could compensate for, and then he thought of his own home in Wiltshire, of its cool, elegant, lifeless rooms, and felt quite bleak. He had been so anxious to escape from Bramfield Park, to bring his visit to an end, but to escape to what? And then there was the ball to come. He knew that despite every appearance to the contrary, the Wychhavens expected him to announce his engagement to Sophia at the ball. He suspected that Sophia with her overweening conceit had helped to give her parents this impression. And would Lady Cassandra grace the ball? Would she find that handsome young man of her dreams, and while he propelled the chilly statue that was Sophia through the steps of some dance, would he have to witness the spectacle of a Cassandra who was blissfully happy?
He decided he was becoming maudlin.
He marched up to his room and allowed his valet to prepare him for bed. He banished all thoughts of Lucy or Cassandra or whoever the hell she was firmly from his mind, closed his eyes, and ordered himself to fall asleep.
But early the next day he rode into the village and told the surprised tradespeople of Bramfield that Miss Stevens was to have credit on all goods until the end of the year and that all bills were to be sent to him.
***
After a few days of being confined to her room pretending to be ill, Cassie grew weary of the game, now that there was no need for it. She made her way early one morning to Miss Stevens’s cottage and found that lady in raptures because she had discovered that she had unlimited credit in the village shops until Christmas, thanks to Lord Peter’s generosity.
“So you see,” said Miss Stevens, “it means I can now afford a real maid.” Miss Stevens was too happy to explain away her previous fictional servants. “Little Lucy Dasset would be glad of the training, and her parents say they would not expect me to pay her much more than meal and board. I shall have a real Lucy! And she starts today.”
Glad of Miss Stevens’s good luck but feeling strangely restless, Cassie finally left and walked through the village, heading for the woods at the other end. She strolled slowly along the path through the woods, hoping that she might hear a call behind her, hear a light quick footstep, but there was nothing but green silence. The day was so hot that even the birds had ceased to sing. She walked for a long time that day, even returning to Miss Stevens’s cottage for tea, but there was no sign of Lord Peter.
Despite herself, she was drawn again to spying on the drawing room that evening. This time Lord Peter appeared to be paying a great deal of attention to Sophia. But why, wondered Cassandra bleakly, did she feel so lost and alone?
Again the next day Cassandra wandered off through the fields and meadows, ending up at Miss Stevens’s cottage, but there was no sign of any tall figure pursuing her. She returned wearily to Bramfield Park, using the front door, just as her mother was crossing the hall.
“Cassie!” exclaimed the countess. “This is the outside of enough. You are, I gather, fully recovered. The dressing bell has
just gone. Come upstairs with me. You will present yourself to the company, and high time, too.”
Cassie sat miserably while the lady’s maid looked out a suitable gown under the countess’s supervision. She twitched nervously while the maid did up her hair. Lord Peter would make a joke of it, of that she was sure, about how she had been acting as Miss Stevens’s housemaid. Her parents would laugh, and then her father would see to it that she was locked up for at least a month.
With a feeling of going to the scaffold, Cassandra at last walked downstairs, head held high, train of her white dinner gown looped over one arm.
Lord Peter was walking around the drawing room with Sophia on his arm in that way the upper classes had of taking promenades in their rooms as if extensive gardens and the whole wide countryside did not exist. He flicked an uninterested glance in Cassandra’s direction and went on talking to Sophia. When would he tell them? wondered Cassie. Probably at dinner so as to be surrounded by the largest audience possible.
Mr. Jensen came up to her, followed by Cassie’s uncle Wilbur. “Glad to see you are recovered,” said Mr. Jensen.
“Hot, hey?” wheezed Uncle Wilbur. “But the weather will break soon, mark my words. Do you know what has caused all this unnatural heat, Cassie?”
Cassie shook her head, uncomfortably aware that Lord Peter’s eyes were now on her.
“Balloons, that’s what. Interfering with the elements. Damaging the clouds. Frightening them off. Unnatural, that’s what it is, like coaches going at thirty miles an hour. Thirty miles an hour! Demme, enough to cause damage to the brain.”
“You are looking amazingly pretty this evening, Lady Cassandra,” said Mr. Jensen, pointedly interrupting Uncle Wilbur’s diatribe. “And for someone recently risen from sickbed, you have a healthy tan.”
“Oh, dear.” Cassie gave a nervous laugh. Would this evening never end? “Most unfashionable.”
“Pooh! Suits you,” said Mr. Jensen.
Lord Peter eyed them coldly. Mr. Jensen was forty if he was a day, with a thin white face and graying hair, but Cassandra seemed quite enamored of him. He did not know that Cassie was desperately hanging on Mr. Jensen’s every word to try to ward off from her mind thoughts of the exposure to come.
