by Tessa Arlen
Mrs. Lovell was the first to push past her to open the door, crying out as she did so,“What on earth?” in her deep voice, loud with alarm.
For there, collapsed among the tipped-over chairs, was a disheveled Mrs. Wickham, her golden curls in tangled disarray. “Help me,” Mrs. Wickham cried out as she tried to struggle to her feet, looking over her shoulder back into the night through the open conservatory door. “Oh please … help me.” And she slumped forward into Mrs. Lovell’s arms, howling like a terrified child.
“What has happened to you, Dorothy?” There was no answer from the sobbing Mrs. Wickham as she took shelter in Mrs. Lovell’s embrace. “For heaven’s sake, dear, stop crying and tell me what has happened.” But Mrs. Wickham’s sobs only became more desperate, and to Clementine’s ears they sounded like the hysterical cries of a woman on the edge of losing reason.
Mrs. Lovell, still supporting the young woman in her arms, said, “Ring for the footman so he can help us get her into the salon.” Despite her solid build and broad shoulders it was clear that she was having some difficulty in keeping Mrs. Wickham upright. “Come on now, Dorothy, you managed to run in here, surely if I help you, you can walk into the salon. We can’t stay out here in the dark.”
Mrs. Haldane, standing close enough for Clementine to see her expression, caught her eye and looked away, clearly humiliated by this display of hysteria in her conservatory. “What can have happened to her?” Clementine asked and was astounded to hear Mrs. Haldane say under her breath, “She has got herself into some scrape or other, I expect. She is incorrigible.”
“Maud!” Mrs. Lovell’s voice, uncharacteristically sharp with impatience, brought Mrs. Haldane to her senses. “Will you please call for the footman—now?”
Clementine reached out a hand and switched on the overhead electric light and the scene before them leaped into detail in its glare: Mrs. Haldane surrounded by overturned chairs and scattered cushions with her hand over her mouth and Mrs. Lovell bent awkwardly and holding in her arms what might have been taken, at first glance, as a bundle of last week’s washing, until Mrs. Wickham lifted a dirty, tear-stained face from under the lee of Mrs. Lovell’s shoulder.
“You had better ask him to bring some brandy too, Mrs. Haldane.” It was quite evident to Clementine that Mrs. Wickham’s plight was a good deal more serious than a mere scrape.
“No! Do not call anyone … anyone at all!” Mrs. Wickham’s alarm was so great and her appearance so disturbing that Mrs. Haldane, who had been standing stock-still, her face blank with astonishment, was roused to action. “I will go to the drawing room and bring brandy myself.”
“And I will help you take her into the salon, Mrs. Lovell.” Clementine slipped her arm around the young woman’s waist as Mrs. Lovell disengaged Mrs. Wickham’s arms from around her neck and turned the still sobbing young woman to support her left side. With Mrs. Wickham slumped between them they managed to get her through the conservatory door and into the salon.
“Maud, please put down that cushion. I can manage now. Just go and get some brandy,” Mrs. Lovell commanded as she sat the distressed young woman down in a corner of the sofa.
For the first time since Mrs. Wickham had crashed into their evening they were able to completely take in the extent of her alarming disarray.
Her hair was tangled and halfway down her back, her tear-stained face was blotched and bruised, and the lacy bodice of her evening dress torn to reveal livid red marks on the exposed fair skin of her neck and back.
Mrs. Lovell almost recoiled from this desperate sight before she recovered her sense of compassion. She turned to Clementine. “The poor thing is quite horribly hurt. Oh my goodness, would you just look at her dress? Quickly, Lady Montfort, I think she is going to faint!”
Clementine pushed forward an ottoman and carefully lifted the young woman’s legs up onto it so that she did not pitch forward onto the floor. She noticed that her pale blue satin shoes were scuffed and dirty and that as she slumped back against the sofa cushions, the remains of what had once been both an expensive and lovely necklace was dangling from her neck, still dropping the occasional pearl onto her lap. Despite the still warmth of the night she was shivering, and Clementine heard her teeth chattering as Mrs. Wickham turned her eyes, dark with fear, to the door leading into the conservatory as if she believed that at any moment someone would come bursting in on them.
“You are safe, Mrs. Wickham. It’s all right now, you are quite safe,” Clementine said, trying to reassure the frightened young woman, and then to Mrs. Lovell: “She is in shock, her hands are like ice.” Clementine chafed Mrs. Wickham’s limp hands and looked across the room to Mrs. Haldane, who had returned with a brandy decanter and glasses on a tray.
“Wrap her in this,” Mrs. Haldane said as she slipped her evening shawl from her shoulders, and Clementine draped the heavy length of embroidered silk around Mrs. Wickham’s shivering shoulders, covering the ragged tear at the neck of her evening dress and the ugly marks on her back that were already darkening to bruises.
Mrs. Haldane took the stopper out of the decanter and with an unsteady hand started to lift it from the tray. Clementine crossed the room and took it from her, taking the opportunity to say, “Whatever happened to her out there involved considerable violence. I think you should ask your butler and footman to search the grounds.” Which caused Mrs. Haldane’s eyes to widen in alarm as she cast a look of utter dismay toward the immobile figure on the sofa. “Perhaps now, Mrs. Haldane, before it is too late?” Clementine pursued. “Mrs. Wickham has clearly been the victim of a vicious attack.”
Mrs. Lovell waved Clementine over and took the brandy glass from her in her right hand, slipping her left arm behind Mrs. Wickham’s shoulders. Mrs. Wickham winced as she was helped to sit forward. “Take a tiny sip, my dear, just a little one. There you are, now. Poor thing, she is so cold. Come on, another sip—that’s the girl. There now, that’s better.” Although Mrs. Lovell’s tone was solicitous, Clementine noticed that her expression was speculative as she coaxed the young woman to drink the brandy. Mrs. Wickham sipped, coughed, sipped again, and then lifted her tear-streaked and dirty face. “Yes, yes, much better, her color is not quite as bad.” Mrs. Lovell cupped Mrs. Wickham’s hands around the brandy glass. “There, sip that slowly, and now, my dear, you had better tell us what happened.”
There was a considerable pause as they waited for Mrs. Wickham to bring herself under enough control that she could speak. Eventually she lifted her head and glanced again toward the conservatory before she began.
“I was attacked,” Mrs. Wickham said and dipped her head to weep some more.
“So it would seem, but who attacked you?” Mrs. Lovell looked over the young woman’s bowed head to Mrs. Haldane, her eyebrows raised, her head inclined.
“I saw no one, no one at all,” cried the girl in great distress, and Mrs. Lovell shook her head at Mrs. Haldane, not in disagreement, thought Clementine, but in incredulity.
“So you were outside alone in the garden when this happened?” Mrs. Lovell asked and glanced up again to Mrs. Haldane.
Mrs. Wickham must have caught some of the disbelief in her voice because she said in a low, reluctant voice, “I was walking alone in the garden—and then someone, I don’t know who, came up behind me and I was thrown down on the floor.” The brandy had restored a little color to her face, but her pupils were still dilated with fear. This young woman has had the most terrible time of it, thought Clementine, and these two are still behaving like cross spinster aunts as if she has done something foolish.
“Are you quite sure you did not see who it was, Dorothy?”
She might as well have said, “Oh really, you must take me for a complete fool,” thought Clementine as the expression on Mrs. Lovell’s concerned face turned from sympathy to evident disbelief. Does this young woman make a habit of wandering the grounds alone at night? was all Clementine could arrive at, judging by Mrs. Lovell’s doubtful expression.
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p; “It wasn’t…?” Mrs. Lovell started to ask and then compressed her lips in tight disapproval. She turned her head to Mrs. Haldane, who was still rooted to the spot by the brandy decanter. “She is clearly frightened out of her wits and most horribly hurt…” she said to her friend, who nodded her concern. “I can’t imagine what can have happened … she has certainly been given a very bad time of it. Perhaps we had better call Dr. Arbuthnot?”
“No!” cried Mrs. Wickham. “There is no need, I will be all right in a moment, I am not that hurt.” And Mrs. Lovell nodded her understanding. “If you think you do not need a doctor, Dorothy, then we will not call one.”
Clementine remembered Mrs. Haldane’s initial reaction to Mrs. Wickham’s distress, that she was “incorrigible,” until the extent of her hurt and fear were made apparent.
They are not surprised she was outside alone in the garden at this hour of night, she realized, but they are as horrified as I am by her appearance and what has evidently happened to her.
“What did you see, dear?” Mrs. Haldane finally asked, her face expressing concern—possibly to what she might be told.
“It was dark; I couldn’t see. They came up from behind.” And to Clementine’s surprise, Mrs. Haldane’s tense face relaxed and she quickly looked away.
“They? How many were there?” Mrs. Lovell asked, pulling back from the young woman so she could look into her face.
“Just one, I think. I couldn’t tell. He, she, they—I don’t know.” Her voice was so hoarse from her earlier bout of hysteria that Mrs. Wickham could now speak only in the barest whisper. “I couldn’t see anything. But someone threw something over my head and knocked me to the floor. I raised my head to cry out for help and I was struck and kicked, hard, several times, so I lay as quiet as I could, facedown on the floor.”
There were exclamations of shock from both Mrs. Haldane and Mrs. Lovell, all expressions of disbelief now gone.
“But did you hear anything?” Clementine could not contain herself; Mrs. Lovell and Mrs. Haldane were asking all the wrong questions.
“Yes, I heard footsteps running away.” Mrs. Wickham bent her head and tears slid from the corners of her eyes onto the silk cushions of the sofa.
“Light footsteps, heavy footsteps? Do you think it was more than one person?” Clementine pursued.
Mrs. Wickham lifted her head and gazed at her vacantly for a moment. “No, it was just one person; my head was wrapped up in my shawl. That is all I know.” She lifted a hand to wipe away the tears; her eyes were glazing with exhaustion.
“And where were you when this happened?” Clementine asked, and Mrs. Wickham muttered indistinctly, “I was in the garden—near to the shrubbery.”
Judging by the genuinely puzzled expression on Mrs. Lovell’s face, it was clear that she was now taking Mrs. Wickham’s unknown attacker quite seriously. Why on earth had she doubted the veracity of her story before? Clementine wondered, and consciously transferred her attention from the victim on the sofa to the two older women in the room.
“Could she have surprised some burglars on the grounds?” Mrs. Lovell turned to her friend, who was sitting silently in a chair by the door.
Mrs. Haldane lifted her head and looked straight into her friend’s face. “Yes,” she faltered, and then as if more certain: “Of course, Amelia, that is what probably happened. She evidently surprised intruders. Oh, poor Dorothy, how frightened you must have been.” Mrs. Haldane looked almost relieved, grateful even, that perhaps Mrs. Wickham had come across a group of house burglars.
What sort of idiocy is this? Clementine asked herself in exasperation as she observed this exchange. Had Mrs. Haldane guessed who might have harmed this young woman and was hoping perhaps that the victim had not recognized her attacker? Her mind rapidly replayed the events of the night from the moment Mrs. Wickham had burst into the conservatory, scattering chairs and calling out for help. Did Mrs. Haldane believe it might have been her husband who had gone out into the night and found the lonely Mrs. Wickham and forced his attentions on her and when she resisted had done this? She heard Mrs. Haldane’s wretched cries of the night before as she stared across the salon at the anxious face of her hostess. I really must pull myself together and pay attention to what is actually going on here and not give way to drama.
“I will ring for Evans to take the menservants to look around outside,” said Mrs. Haldane.
“No, do not ring for anyone.” Mrs. Wickham for the first time spoke without hesitation, her voice surprisingly firm, and she pulled out her handkerchief and dried her wet cheeks; the brandy had evidently helped her to pull herself together.
“But why were you alone outside at this time of night, Mrs. Wickham?” Clementine asked, trying to sound concerned as she remembered the pert behavior of this young woman earlier that day when she had felt the need to point out Mrs. Jackson’s unchaperoned trip to the orangery in the broad light of day with an old family friend. She saw Mrs. Lovell’s arm close protectively around the young woman’s shoulders, as if she need not answer this intrusive question.
Mrs. Wickham blew her nose on her handkerchief. It was quite clear she was thinking carefully about how best to answer this question.
“I went for a walk in the grounds before bed to clear my head. It is such a warm night and my room felt rather stuffy.”
“And where did you go? Tell us exactly,” Clementine pursued.
“Through the shrubbery to the croquet lawn and back again … to the rose garden, which is where I was attacked.”
“You were attacked in the rose garden?” Clementine asked.
There was no answer from Mrs. Wickham—she had started to cry again.
“And you saw no one, no one at all,” Mrs. Lovell interrupted with this statement, making Clementine wonder if the kindly Mrs. Lovell was forestalling more answers to nosy questions.
“Someone came up behind me and threw something over my head and pushed me to the ground.”
“There you are—she ran into intruders!” Mrs. Lovell turned to Mrs. Haldane, who nodded.
Mrs. Wickham is changing her story, Clementine thought. Why is she so reluctant to say where she was?
“I am ringing for the butler now; of course we must investigate, dear.” Mrs. Haldane’s hand was already on the bell pull.
Evans responded to Mrs. Haldane’s summons almost immediately. “Mrs. Wickham ran into some intruders outside in the garden, Evans, please take Charles and the hall boy out to check as quickly as you can. I think it would be a good idea to search thoroughly throughout the grounds and not just the gardens.” Mrs. Haldane’s voice was firm and, for the first time since Clementine had come to the house, she was very much in control. “And you had better tell Mr. Haldane what has happened.”
The butler looked across to Mrs. Wickham on her sofa as if he was trying to ascertain the exact level of her distress and its possible causes.
“Certainly, madam, but Mr. Haldane is working in his study and expressly forbade us to interrupt him; perhaps I should investigate first and then report back to him?”
Mrs. Lovell’s voice rang out from the sofa: “Evans, you must tell Mr. Haldane what has happened immediately and then find Mr. Wickham and ask him to come to us here.” She glanced at Clementine and said, more to herself than to her, “If he is capable of giving her comfort, poor little thing.” She gently smoothed Mrs. Wickham’s tangled hair and eased her back into the cushions of the sofa, displaying, thought Clementine, genuine compassion toward the young woman whose face was still slack with shock.
The butler bowed his head in acknowledgment of his quest and left the room. Mrs. Haldane, having judged it was safe to leave Mrs. Wickham sipping her brandy on the sofa, joined her friend on the other side of the room where they discussed in hushed tones the increasing numbers of men who were tramping the countryside looking for work.
“They turn up at the kitchen door and ask if they can cut wood for a free meal…” Mrs. Haldane reported with considerable resent
ment. “The other day Reverend Price told me that several men had come to the vicarage asking for food in return for a day’s labor. He said one of them was a giant of a man, practically dressed in rags.”
Clementine bent over the back of Mrs. Wickham’s sofa and asked as matter-of-factly as she could, “So your attacker knew who you were, Mrs. Wickham?”
Surprised, the young woman lifted her head and before she could stop herself said, “Yes.”
“Not a tramp, then?” Clementine asked.
“I don’t know, it might have been. No, probably not.”
“But your attacker was a man?” Clementine watched the young woman’s careful expression as she weighed up the significance of her question.
“All I know is that whoever it was was strong enough to throw me to the ground, and when I lifted my head … hit and kicked me with considerable force.”
But earlier you said you were pushed to the floor, so you can’t have been in the garden, Clementine remembered.
From across the salon the murmured voices of Mrs. Haldane and Mrs. Lovell could still be heard discussing the problems of lawless vagrants wandering the countryside.
“… And they tramp from village to village to steal food or beg at cottage doors and terrorize women…” Mrs. Lovell poured herself another brandy.
“They should put them all in the workhouse…” Mrs. Haldane added, her pale blue eyes wide with indignation.
Clementine had no intention of joining this unenlightened conversation about the plight of the indigent. There was clearly no more information to be had from Mrs. Wickham who, having finished her brandy, was now half asleep in her corner of the sofa.
She walked through the open door into the conservatory and switched off the electric light. Closing the outer door to the terrace, she stood and watched through its glass-paned walls the lights bobbing around on the lawn and in the shrubbery. Mr. Evans and the menservants were searching the grounds, but she guessed they would find no one out there.
