“She is become too bold,” thought Miss Snapper. “I must speak to her very sternly.”
Miss Snapper's restive mind turned to Alice's uncle, as it frequently did. He had not said he would return, but surely he would visit London again some time to see how his niece fared. He had said he planned to make an extended stay on the Continent, but what French anti-Bonapartist wanted to be anywhere on the Continent at such a time?
A little smile played around Miss Snapper's thin lips. She felt sure a certain attraction had sprung up between herself and Alice's uncle. Now, if Alice were to become married, Miss Snapper would lose her position. But, her busy mind raced, Alice would need his permission to marry, and surely he would return for the wedding. Miss Snapper closed her eyes and gave herself up to a blissful dream of Alice's wedding where she, Miss Snapper, would stand beside Alice's uncle, the Comte, receiving the guests. “This marriage has put ideas in my head, Miss Snapper,” he whispered, pressing her hand in a feverish grip. By the time Miss Snapper emerged from this particular dream, she was convinced that Alice's uncle had been well and truly smitten with the fair Miss Snapper and had not received enough encouragement.
Alice was dancing with Harold Webb a second time and they seemed to be getting along famously.
“Ye ... e ... es,” thought Miss Snapper, observing the couple through narrowed eyes. “A marriage. That is what is needed to bring him home.”
It was with pleasure that Miss Snapper, therefore, gave Webb permission to take Alice driving at the fashionable hour next day. It was with less pleasure that she discovered she had a rebel on her hands. Webb was due to call for Alice at five in the afternoon. Miss Snapper, rising late, discovered that Alice had left much earlier with her lady's maid to go shopping.
She fretted and fumed until Alice returned, her carriage laden with parcels.
“What have you done?” cried Miss Snapper as two footmen carried in the parcels. “Such extravagance! What your dear uncle would...”
“I have no time to talk to you, Miss Snapper,” said Alice firmly. “I am awaiting the court hairdresser, Monsieur Antoine. Tiens! How red your face has become, Miss Snapper. A soupçon less rouge, I pray.”
And with that Alice swept on up the stairs, leaving Miss Snapper glaring impotently after her.
But Emily Snapper was not easily defeated. Taking a deep breath, she mounted the stairs to Alice's bedroom and stared in dismay at the array of silks and satins spread about the room. “That is not all, madam,” said Alice gaily. “The rest, they come later. The ones that are being made specially.”
“You must give me your uncle, the Comte's direction,” said Miss Snapper firmly. “He would not approve. Only see this gown! It is nigh transparent.”
“It is, how you say, all the crack,” said Alice. “But it is useless asking me for mon oncle's direction since I do not know. I can furnish you, however, with the name and address of my man of business, Monsieur Bower. He will assure you I have sole control of my fortune.”
Miss Snapper thought rapidly and decided a strategic retreat was best. She would catch young Alice when she was in a more vulnerable mood.
Alice heard the closing of the door and sighed with relief. She was sure her small stock of courage had been about to run out. She could not believe she had already been so brave. But she was to drive out with the handsomest man in London. She would be the envy of the ladies of the ton and young Alice was human enough to relish that idea.
At precisely five o'clock, she descended the stairs, wearing a sprigged muslin gown with small puffed sleeves and deep flounces at the hem. Her long black hair had been cut à la victime and the saucy crop made her face seem more piquant and her eyes larger and brighter.
Seemingly oblivious to Miss Snapper's disapproving silence, she tied a chip straw bonnet on her head and picked up a lacy parasol as Lord Harold Webb's high perch phaeton drew up outside the door.
Hyde Park at the fashionable hour was a wonderful spectacle. Glossy horses, silks and laces, taffeta and feathers, uniforms and quizzing glasses and curving top hats. The warm sun blazed down on the high gloss of the carriages, on the spun glass wigs of the coachmen, on the rich color and embroidery of hammer cloths. Clouds of dust sailed up into the summer air making the whole moving, shifting scene seem unreal, as if the whole panorama were being viewed through gauze.
Webb's voice was like music in Alice's ears. He told her what should be worn in society and what should not be worn. He told her that Mr. Brummell, that famous leader of fashion, was nothing more than a popinjay. That the Prince Regent was a disgrace to the country and his extravagences were shocking, and that he, Harold Webb, had told his Royal Highness just that.
“Fact!” he declared, under Alice's awed stare. “Walked right up to him at Carlton House t'other day and I said, ‘Prinny,’ I said, ‘You're a disgrace.'”
“Weren't you afraid?” breathed Alice.
“Pooh!” he said, deftly edging his phaeton through the press. “A Webb is never afraid.”
A shadow crossed Alice's little face. “Not even of ghosts?” she asked in a low voice.
“No,” he said stoutly. “And Harold Webb can tell you why, for Harold Webb has seen one! Fact! With these here eyes.”
“Please tell me,” said Alice urgently. Oh, the relief of finding she was not alone with her phantoms!
“Well, it was like this,” he said, vastly pleased at her interest. He reined in under a stand of trees and settled back slightly to make the most of it.
“I was at Lord Framont's place, down Surrey way, with my friend, Mr. Russell. Deuced old barn of a place it was. Very damp. Harry—that's my friend, Mr. Russell—he says, he says we would catch the ague. ‘Webbs never catch the ague,’ says I. ‘Place is bound to be haunted,’ says he. ‘There ain't no such thing as ghosts,’ says I. But one night after we'd been playing piquet with Framont and some friends, we didn't finish until the small hours and Harry—that's my friend, Mr. Russell, the thin chappie who was at the ball t'other night—and I shared a candle up to bed. All of sudden, there comes this great wailing. ‘What the devil'—beg pardon, Countess—says Harry, that's Mr. Russell, my friend, ‘is that?’ ‘Fore the words were out of his mouth, this great thing all in a cursed sheet and chains and things, comes flying across the room. Harry—that's my friend—he turns as pale as things. But me, now I'm a Webb, and us Webbs don't take count of anything, no matter which side of the grave it's on.
“'Get thee hence,’ says I, ‘cos I'd read that somewhere in a vastly entertaining book and that's the sort of thing one says to ghosts according to this book, that is. And Harry—Mr. Russell—he says, ‘By George! You've done it. It worked!’ And as sure as I'm standing here—hem, sitting here, it had!”
“I wasn't thinking of that kind of ghost,” said Alice sadly. Almost involuntarily her mind reached out, trying one more time to call her ghost, but there was nothing there, nothing at all.
He leaned forward and pressed her hand. “I have frightened you with my talk of ghosts,” he said softly. Alice blushed rosily, taken aback by the unexpected familiarity and delighted at the same time to have this extremely handsome man paying court to her.
“I had better take you back to the crowd,” he said, looking down at her roguishly, “or I shall quite forget myself. I was saying to Harry—that's my friend—only t'other night. I said, ‘That Comtesse is a deuced fine gel!’ There! That's what I said,” declared Webb, noticing with great complacency, the ebb and flow of blood mantling Alice's cheeks.
Harold Webb was always plagued with a nagging fear that one day he might “lose his touch,” that he might no longer be able to make a pretty girl blush and tremble.
As he tooled his carriage back to the throng, he kept giving Alice little sidelong glances. She was almost beautiful, he decided. Quite the way she looked when he had first seen her.
“That fellow with the yaller hair,” he said abruptly. “Friend of yours?”
“I'm afraid I don't...”
began Alice.
“The one at Wadham Hall.”
Alice went very still, very rigid. “Alors, m'sieu,” she said slowly, her French accent very marked. “I fear you are mistake.”
“No. No. It was you,” said Lord Harold. “At the Christmas ball.”
Alice almost visibly relaxed. “Oh, that was my uncle, Gervase. He is on the Continent en ce moment.”
“Y'know,” he went on, “talking of ghosts. ‘Fraid I must have had too much to drink at that ball. I could have sworn, you and that uncle vanished right into the wall.” He leaned back and roared with laughter, oblivious that Alice had turned quite pale.
Alice suddenly longed for the security of that little secret room and then banished the thought resolutely from her mind. Those days were gone, never to return. She was young and rich and free and the handsomest man in London was paying court to her.
Now, had Alice been more alive on all suits, she would undoubtedly have found Webb a crashing bore, but she had only been used to the conversation of the kitchens and, until the evening before, had not much listened to what anyone said on her social outings in London. Her witty ghost, she discounted, because he was a sort of god to her and she did not expect any mortal to achieve his magnificent standards.
And so it was a very grateful Alice who allowed herself to be courted by Webb. An Alice, so grateful, that she did not realize she had blossomed into a great beauty. She could not quite throw off the yoke of Miss Snapper's bullying and derogatory remarks although she stuck grimly to her own mode of dress.
“It will not be much longer anyway,” thought Alice one day, “for I am going to be married and have children and one day I shall have the courage to go to my poor ghost's grave and lay flowers on his tomb.” For Alice now firmly believed the Duke had returned from whence he had come. On Sundays, while Miss Snapper murmured a litany of prices of various bonnets beside her in the pew, Alice prayed for the soul of the Duke.
And then, it seemed inevitably, Webb proposed and Alice accepted. Miss Snapper was in seventh heaven. Her dream was about to come true. She had been very gentle with Alice of late as that picture of herself and the Comte receiving Alice's wedding guests, grew clearer.
Carefully, Miss Snapper considered her own background. She was one of the Snappers of Surrey and she was the last of that noble line. That the Snappers had never distinguished themselves in any field whatsoever was something of which she was very proud. Only vulgar people brought themselves to the notice of the many-headed.
She thought it odd however that Webb had not asked her permission to pay his addresses and could not refrain from saying as much.
“My uncle signed papers before he left,” said Alice, “allowing me complete control of my affairs—not only my monetary affairs, but my marital affairs.”
Miss Snapper cast down her eyes to hide the bitter disappointment and resentment in them. She badly needed this job, for her family had fallen on hard times before her father's death. But to see Alice so glowing, so happy, so uncle-less, was infuriating, to say the least.
That this little French chit should have so much while she, Emily Snapper, sprung from one of England's oldest families, had nothing, was a thought which planted the seeds of burgeoning hate.
She longed for a weapon but never did she think for one moment that it would be Lord Harold who put it into her hands.
He called one day while Alice was out with her maid expressly to see Miss Snapper and, as that lady listened eagerly, the problem was soon explained.
Alice and her dashing clothes and smart hair crop was hem, attracting too much deuced attention. He wanted his wife to be modest and well, don't you see, more the way she had been when he had seen her at the opening ball of the Season.
“Leave it to me,” said Miss Snapper, patting Lord Harold's hand with her own bony one, encased in a lace mitten.
“Is Alice expected soon?” asked Webb.
“She should be back in half an hour,” said Miss Snapper. “That gives us time to discuss a little plan of campaign...”
Alice, very flushed and beautiful, sailed in some forty minutes later from her walk and then stood, quite still, surveying her fiancé and Miss Snapper. Miss Snapper had a little curved smile pinned on her mouth, and Webb was staring at the toe of one polished boot.
He did not even rise to his feet.
“What is the matter?” asked Alice. “Has something gone wrong?”
Webb continued to stare at the toe of his boot.
“Sit down, my love,” said Miss Snapper, patting the edge of the striped sofa next to her. “Lord Harold Webb and I have just been talking about you.”
"Tiens!" said Alice. “I would have thought Harold would have had the courtesy to speak to me about anything that worried him.”
“There are times when the advice of an older woman is needed,” said Miss Snapper smugly. She had not enjoyed herself so much in weeks. “Now, I have told you Alice, that your mode of dress and behavior leave much to be desired. You would not listen to me. Perhaps you will listen to Lord Harold Webb.”
Alice sat down nervously on the sofa and looked inquiringly at the handsome face of her fiancé.
“Alice,” he said heavily. “There is something about you that is not ... well ... quite ... well, hem ... your behavior is not that of a lady.”
Alice, the scullery maid, crouched on the sofa, half putting up a hand as if to ward off a blow.
Webb saw her cringe and that excited him in a pleasurable way. “Yes,” he went on in a more assured manner. “I wish to take you to meet my parents this weekend. They are surprised that I should consider marrying a foreigner. They will be even more surprised if they find I am escorting a fast female.”
“What is up with my appearance?” demanded Alice, fighting to regain some of her spirit.
“It pains me to say this,” said Webb, getting to his feet and coming to stand over her. “There is something a trifle common in your bearing.”
How Alice trembled. The modish Alice fled and the servant came back. “Mr. Brummell, he said I was the daintiest creature,” she ventured.
“Pah! Brummell!” said Webb in accents of loathing.
Alice was by now too crushed to protest. She had been so sure she looked all the crack. Had her style only been that of a kitchen maid?
“Miss Snapper will select your wardrobe for your forthcoming visit. Now, if I may have a word in private with my fiancée, Miss Snapper?...”
Emily Snapper rose reluctantly. She did not want to leave them alone together in case Alice persuaded Webb to accept her as she was. But Webb was already holding open the door for her.
When Miss Snapper had left, Webb came forward and took both Alice's hands in his own and raised her to her feet. She really looked deuced pretty, he reflected. Too pretty by half. He had been acutely aware, as Alice had not, that she was already attracting a great deal of warm attention from the gentlemen of the ton. And he liked her like this, cringing and beaten and humble.
He caught her in his arms and pressed his mouth hard against her own. Alice's tired mind registered that her lord had had garlic at some point earlier in the day, small beer and eggs, but apart from that, she felt no stirring of the senses.
“There!” he said triumphantly drawing back. “You must not faint from excess of emotion,” he added kindly, although Alice was standing, quite rigid, and never had any woman looked less like falling down in a faint.
“I shall call for you on Friday, my love,” he added. “Now, you will obey Miss Snapper for my sake. It is the duty of a wife to obey her husband implicitly. Do you know that?”
“Yes, Harold,” whispered Alice. Oh, she must change her ways and do as they say lest they guess her guilty secret.
* * * *
The late Duke of Haversham had not returned to the grave. He was in fact very much alive—if a ghost can be said to be alive. He had found his days extremely lonely without Alice and had found himself thinking of her constantly. But, he tol
d himself sternly she would have to make a life without him, else how could she achieve a successful marriage? Then he wondered why these noble and altruistic thoughts left him so depressed. Finally he was almost able to put her completely from his mind. At times, he felt uneasily that she was in trouble and calling him, but he built a mental brick wall against her pleas in his mind. The sooner she forgot about him, the better. He had not visited the present Duke since the night he had lectured his successor on the evil of his ways.
Haunting had lost its savor. He traveled far and wide from the Hall, ranging over the country at night. At last, he decided to settle down in the secret room and write his memoirs. For once, he was relatively content, and the only thing that occasionally marred his nights was a longing to see the light of day again. But try as he could, he could not materialize after the first cock crowed and the sky paled in the east.
And then one night when he was raiding the kitchen after all the servants were abed, he saw a newspaper lying on the table in the butler's pantry.
Idly he picked it up and popped it on the tray next to his evening meal. He drifted over to the wall and, as he did so, he noticed that the paper was open at the social column. The next minute the black type seemed to leap out of the page and scream at him that Alice, Comtesse de la Valle-Chenevix, was engaged to Lord Harold Webb. He lost his concentration and walked slap bang into the wall, and the contents of the tray spun out off over the kitchen and fell with a horrendous crash.
He rubbed his forehead in a dazed way, picked up the newspaper as he heard the sound of approaching feet, and melted through the wall—this time successfully—and drifted upward through the floors to the secret room.
The Duke lit the candles and sat down at the table, spreading the newspaper carefully out in front of him. There was no doubt about it. Alice was engaged.
He looked at the date at the top. The paper was two weeks old.
The Ghost and Lady Alice Page 6
