Edwardian Candlelight Omnibus

by Beaton, M. C.

  Jeffrey Beardington-Smythe began to bluster. “I say, talk like a gentleman,” he snapped. “I was always fond of the old boy.”

  “It seems to me,” said Lord Gerald with irritating good nature, “that you’ve taken a long time to show it.”

  The four of Mr. Frayne’s relatives now looked at Lord Gerald de Fremney with dislike. He was a very tall young man with thick fair hair and black eyes; an exotic combination of color that had made more than one feminine heart flutter. He was impeccably dressed in a biscuit-colored suit with a pale-gold waistcoat embroidered with yellow freesias (That shows the fellow’s a cad, thought Jeffrey), and had rather studied languid movements—a hangover from his Oxford days—that belied his muscular athletic figure. He spoke in a light, pleasant, rather mocking voice that was usually held to be charming but which struck the ears of his present audience as downright irritating.

  Miss Briggs began to sob noisily. “How can you, Lord Gerald, when you should know I have always loved Uncle dearly?”

  “Rubbish,” said Tansy Bloomington nastily. “I’m the one Uncle has most in common with. We talk man to man.”

  “Dear me,” said Lord Gerald, and Tansy rammed another cigarette into her holder as if she dearly wished she were shoving it somewhere else.

  “He—he’s quite right, you know,” said Cyril Booth from his position by the fireplace. “I’m only after the old b-boy’s m-money. I h-hate deceit, you know. So shuddery. So frightfully, terribly ugh.”

  “Ugh? Ugh? What kind of language is that, you poor clown?” snapped Tansy.

  Cyril gave her a weary look from a pair of limpid blue eyes and refrained from answering.

  “What I really came to tell you,” said Lord Gerald, “is that Mr. Frayne wishes to see you. All of you.”

  “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” howled Jeffrey Beardington-Smythe, heaving his great bulk out of a delicate Chippendale chair.

  In a hurried, undignified scramble, the four scrambled for the stairs, each one eager to reach the bedroom door first. Lord Gerald followed at a more leisurely pace.

  Mr. Giles Frayne was lying back against the lace pillows of his fourposter bed. His eyes were lusterless and his face was like wax. Cancer had been eating away at him for the past year and he looked as weary of this life as he actually was. His thin cadaverous face looked like a skull and his sparse gray hair was neatly combed across his yellow scalp.

  Something flickered in the depths of his eyes as the visitors entered but apart from that the figure in the bed did not move. He waited until Lord Gerald arrived and then he spoke. His voice was dry and rusty and seemed to come from very far away.

  “I want to talk to you lot about my will,” said Mr. Frayne.

  “Oh, Unky! Don’t!” wailed Miss Briggs, bringing her handkerchief once more into play.

  “Yes, do, Uncle,” countered Tansy, and turning to Miss Briggs, she said, “Uncle doesn’t care for all that wishy-washy nonsense, Barbara. Let him get to the point.” And with that she blew a ferocious cloud of cigarette smoke around the sickchamber.

  “Don’t keep interrupting me,” said Mr. Frayne in a slightly stronger voice. “I haven’t got much time. Glad to see you, Lord Gerald. We ain’t had much in common but you’ve been a good neighbor and the only person I know who appreciates my library. You shall have it.”

  “That’s very generous of you,” said Lord Gerald. “There are some fine books in your collection, sir.”

  The four relatives heaved an almost audible sigh of relief. That was Lord Gerald de Fremney disposed of. Now to the meat of the matter.

  “My house,” quavered Mr. Frayne, “my beloved house, Courtney, my town house, and all my money is to go to—” Here he was overcome by a fit of coughing while the four relatives craned eagerly forward.

  He recovered and raised one skeletal old hand, holding a handkerchief to his mouth. “All I possess,” he went on, “will go to Miss Ginny Bloggs.”

  “MISS GINNY BLOGGS!” screamed four voices in unison.

  “Yes, that’s who. She’s the daughter of a coal merchant up in Lancashire—don’t remember the address but the lawyer’s got it. Never met the girl but her late pa saved my life. I was up Bolton way on business and got into… er… bad company.” A mirthless laugh shook him. “Yes, it was in a low sort of public house, and I got into a fight and this gang of toughs were going to kill me. Well, in steps old Bloggs, hands like hams he had, and he lays about them like Jason. Took me home and looked after me, he did. We corresponded from time to time and he told me all about Ginny. His wife died and then he passed away. Wrote to me before he died and begged me to look after his little girl, but what could I do with a girl on my hands? I’ve been feeling bad about it though and I mean to put it right.”

  “Oh, Unky, how could you?” said Miss Briggs, sobbing wildly.

  “So,” the old man went on as if she had not spoken, “to that effect I’m providing for you lot.”

  A gleam of wild hope appeared in the four faces around his bed only to be extinguished at his next words. In a fainter voice, Mr. Frayne said, “You will be supplied free room and board here at Courtney and a generous allowance each until such time as the girl marries. You are to teach her how to go on in society and prepare her for a Season and introduce her to the right chaps. Lord Gerald, I want you to see that they obey my requests to the letter.”

  Lord Gerald gave an impatient nod.

  “Well, that’s that,” said Mr. Frayne. “Now take your faces out of here and send Doctor Gillespie up. I want to die in peace.”

  The grim relatives assembled once again in the drawing room. Lord Gerald had taken his departure.

  There was a silence and then all four burst into speech at once.

  “A common little girl to get all that…”

  “Money should have come to me. Not even a member of the family. I’ve a good mind to…”

  “Good mind to what? If we don’t take care of the little upstart, we won’t get anything at all….”

  “By Jove. Well, well, well, well. By Jove.”

  The latter was mumbled by Jeffrey Beardington-Smythe, who seemed to be in the worst state of shock. Miss Briggs’s tears had miraculously dried and she was hard-eyed and thin-lipped. Tansy was chain-smoking, erupting little puffs of Turkish tobacco-scented smoke like a thin and angry volcano. Cyril Booth was white and trembling, his delicate features twisting with emotion.

  “P-perhaps he’ll change his mind b-before he d-dies,” he said at last.

  The others stopped their lamentation and looked at him thoughtfully.

  “You’ve got a point there,” said Tansy slowly. “We could all rally ’round and be very sweet to him and persuade him that his house would be better run by a member of the family. Either that or we might be able to have him committed. If we all stuck together, we might be able to prove him mad.”

  Jeffrey rang for drinks. He was beginning to feel optimistic again, although he was also beginning to feel the full effects of the recent shock and was sure that his blood pressure was teetering on the danger level.

  When the drinks arrived, the four fortified themselves and then drew their chairs together. “How I see it,” said Jeffrey, “is that we should form some plan of action. All together, mind! No one person sneaking up to the old man’s room and trying to get it all for himself—or herself.”

  The others nodded in agreement while each of them silently plotted to do just that as soon as they had a chance.

  “Right! Any suggestions?” asked Jeffrey. “What about you, Tansy?”

  A discreet cough from the doorway made them all jump in their chairs and some of Cyril’s gin and French slopped onto the Aubusson rug. Dr. Gillespie stood in the doorway. He said, “This will come as a terrible shock to you, although we have all been expecting it for some time. Mr. Frayne is dead.”

  Four appalled faces stared at him and Dr. Gillespie felt ashamed of his previous convictions that they were only interested in the old man
for his money. He bowed his head and tactfully withdrew to leave them alone with their grief.

  There was a long silence. Tansy looked around the exquisite room: at the white enameled piano with its large Chinese bowl of azaleas; at the delicate Chippendale furniture, and the delicate Chinese-silk panels on the walls; at the pale sunlight shining in through the long windows where the Brussels-lace curtains floated on the most delicate of summer breezes.

  She groaned aloud and then voiced the feelings of the rest.

  “Well, it’s all yours now, Miss Ginny Bloggs, and I for one am going to make sure you never enjoy a day of it!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Three weeks had passed since the funeral of Mr. Giles Frayne and the day of Ginny Bloggs’s arrival at Courtney had dawned.

  Lord Gerald wished he could wash his hands of the whole thing. But he had promised to keep an eye on Ginny and she was in for quite a dreadful welcome. A large house party had been planned for her arrival, full of the most terrifying members of society, all of whom seemed determined to put the coal merchant’s daughter in her place.

  All had been outraged at the idea of a member of the lower-middle classes inheriting Courtney. Lord Gerald had visited the Frayne mansion two days before to find it alive with comments such as:

  “Bound to smell of the shop.”

  “No breeding, mark my words.”

  “Probably got a common accent.”

  “How can we socialize with someone who could be one’s scullery maid?”

  And so on.

  Lord Gerald had been asked to invite guests of his own and had grimly chosen the type of men and women he admired most. He detested what he termed “old-fashioned girls”—the kind interested only in getting married and having babies. He liked his men friends to be cultured and witty and his women friends to have careers and do things. He liked women to wear long, lean lines instead of the depressingly fashionable laces and frills.

  He liked them to have well-kept hair and well-kept short nails and to state their views with the forthrightness of men. He abhorred flirting. Romance was a tinsel invention of sentimental poets. Lord Gerald believed firmly in the marriage of true minds. He was by no means a virgin, having experienced several interesting affairs in his early twenties. But now from the height of his thirty-three years he could smile indulgently at the follies of youth. The urgings of the human body were a depressing hangover from prehistoric days and could be easily subdued by either hard work or a cold bath. He had been celibate for four years and had, he reflected, enjoyed every minute of it.

  The trouble with Lord Gerald was that he had never had to seek female admiration. His combination of good looks, a title, and a great fortune were enough to secure him the attention of every woman when he walked into a room. He felt more comfortable with his court of hard-bitten, chain-smoking, intelligent women who, he felt sure, admired him for his mind alone. Surprisingly enough he had no liking for Tansy. She was too avaricious for his taste. Too blatantly grasping.

  The more he thought of Ginny Bloggs, the more he found he was looking forward to meeting her. A girl from her class of society would have experienced something of the rougher side of life and would surely be no pampered doll. His women friends at least were not snobs. Weren’t they always talking about the equality of birth and opportunity?

  He glanced at the clock. Miss Ginny Bloggs was due to arrive at any minute. The least he could do was to be there to meet her.

  The house party moved about the lawns and rooms of Courtney, waiting for the imminent arrival of Miss Bloggs. There was something predatory about them, thought Lord Gerald. He turned with relief to his friend, Miss Alicia Benson, enjoying her appearance, her neat straw hat, hard, clever face, and the masculine lines of her Paquin suit, which, instead of being ridiculously hobbled, had a sensible skirt that allowed Miss Benson to move as freely as a man—which she did.

  Tansy was, as usual, dressed in something angular and nasty, and Miss Barbara Briggs had erupted in an avalanche of old lace that fell in cascades from her massive bosom to her tiny swollen feet. Her wide voile hat was so embellished with fruit and flowers and feathers that it looked as if Miss Briggs might sink slowly into the lawn under its weight.

  A long straight avenue of limes stretched in an unbroken line from the entrance of the house past the ornamental lake to the lodge and the gates beyond.

  Lord Gerald found Jeffrey at his elbow. “Who has gone to the station to meet Miss Bloggs?” he asked.

  Jeffrey turned an unlovely color of puce and mumbled something about “the gel makin’ her own way, what.”

  “Do you mean,” said Lord Gerald, appalled, “that no one—not one of you—has gone to London to meet the girl off the train?”

  “Well, why didn’t you, hen?” said Jeffrey with an irritating bray of laughter. “Got you there, laddie!”

  Lord Gerald turned away in disgust.

  Just then a stillness fell over the crowd. The croquet players stopped playing croquet, the gossipers stopped gossiping, and the walkers stopped walking. A carriage was coming up the drive at a great pace, pulled by four prime horses.

  It swept up to the front of the house in tremendous style and a liveried footman jumped down from the box and opened the carriage door.

  Miss Ginny Bloggs stepped down.

  She turned vaguely and stared in silence for one whole minute at the open-mouthed crowd. An elderly gentleman got out and shook her hand.

  “You’ve been so very kind to me,” said Miss Bloggs in a pleasant, well-modulated voice. “So very kind of you to escort me home. I really didn’t know what to do when I found there was no one to meet me. It must have been a mistake, of course.”

  Ginny had addressed her last remark to Barbara Briggs, who rushed up stammering apologies. They had thought she would have her own carriage. They had not thought for a minute that she would be alone.

  “Then it’s just as well I’m not,” replied Ginny with a dazzling smile. “This is Sir Philip Vere, who kindly rescued me. I met him by chance at the station.”

  Sir Philip raked Miss Briggs up and down with a fiery glance. “Humph!” he said. “Must be on my way. See you look after this little lady, now, or you’ll hear from me. By gad, never heard the like!” And off he went.

  The company surveyed Miss Ginny Bloggs in stunned silence. Lord Gerald smiled cordially to conceal his disappointment. Why, she was like a China doll.

  And indeed, Ginny did look rather like a very expensive doll. She looked as if she had stepped out of a bandbox rather than someone who had just endured a long journey on a hot day. She was wearing a blue chiffon dress with a high boned collar, and her waist could not have been more than nineteen inches. The blue of the dress was not one of the smoky colors so fashionable at present. It was an uncomplicated blue: a clear summer’s sky-blue; a bright-blue straight from a child’s paint box. Her large and startling eyes were of the same color, set wide apart in an exquisite heartshaped face. Her hat was a ridiculous floppy thing in straw of the same blue, the crown being formed by a nosegay of artificial sweet peas. Tiny white openwork shoes with ridiculously pointed toes peeped out from beneath her hem and she carried a blue lace parasol with an ivory handle.

  After a glance in Jeffrey’s direction, Lord Gerald stepped briskly forward with Alicia Benson. Alicia was feeling cheerful. To anyone else, of course, Miss Bloggs might appear glamorous, if you liked that chocolate-box type of look. But she knew that Gerald did not, and the girl typified everything he most despised in women… as long as she didn’t turn out to have a brain….

  “Welcome to Courtney,” Lord Gerald was saying. “I am your next-door neighbor.”

  “Oh, good,” said Ginny with a dazzling smile. “We shall be able to have long chats over the fence.”

  “Long chats over the fence!” said Tansy with a bray of laughter. “My dear Miss Bloggs, we’re not in Bolton now.”

  Ginny gave Tansy a bewildered look. “Of course we are not,” she said gently.
“We are at Courtney, in the county of Kent.” And then she added in an undertone that was somehow perfectly audible to the listening guests, “Poor, poor lady. Imagine not knowing where you are? But then… it’s said there is one in every family.” And then, raising her voice, Ginny said, “I would like some tea. Do you think that is possible, Lord Gerald, or may I call you Jerry?”

  “No, you may not,” said Lord Gerald firmly. “I dislike nursery names. Tea you shall have. Would you like to have it on the terrace?”

  “Yes, please,” said Ginny. She sailed forward gracefully and sat down. “What a lot of people,” she remarked. “Do they all live here?”

  “No, no,” said Barbara Briggs, laughing. She had dumped herself down on the chair on one side of Ginny while Lord Gerald and Alicia took the other two. “This is simply a house party in your honor, my dear.”

  “Good,” said Ginny with devastating simplicity. “I do not like crowds of people to live with, although I do love parties.”

  “I’m sure all this must be very bewildering for you, Miss Bloggs,” said Alicia earnestly. “But you shall find I shall be of inestimable help to you. I have done a great deal of charity work among the lower classes.”

  “Indeed,” said Ginny, picking out the most fattening cake she could see. “Are part of my duties as mistress of Courtney to run charities?”

  Alicia winced. “No, my dear. You misunderstood me. You will find this way of life a great deal different from the one you have been used to.”

  “Oh,” said Ginny blankly. “In what way?”

  “Well…” Alicia hesitated delicately. “There’s the running of the household, of course. You are surely not used to so many servants.”

  Ginny looked at Alicia with a wide, blank, blue-eyed stare for a minute and then around, and waved the butler forward.

  “Are you the butler?” asked Ginny.

  “Yes, madam. Harvey is my name, madam.”

  “And have you been here long?”

  “Nigh on twenty years, madam,” said the butler proudly.

  “And you run this household? I mean—all the servants come under you?”