by Winona Kent
“Then it is my pleasure,” said Sarah, “to inform you that I perceive a very clear advantage making itself known today.”
On the other side of the great cloth, where the butterflies and honeybees danced among the nodding yellow cowslips and buttercups, Charlie offered Mr. Deeley a morsel of cake.
“I do not believe,” he said, “a more enchanting confection than this could possibly exist.”
“Oh, Mr. Deeley,” Charlie teased. “You trifle with me.”
“There is trifle too…?” Mr. Deeley answered, hopefully.
Charlie laughed. “I do love you, Mr. Deeley,” she said, impetuously, entirely ignoring the code of etiquette she was certain forbade such outrageous declarations.
“As I do you,” Mr. Deeley replied, with sudden seriousness.
Charlie paused. He had surprised her.
And it was not an unpleasant discovery.
But it was completely unexpected.
She had not anticipated this at all.
“Head over heels,” she said, slowly, as a small cloud drifted across the flawless blue sky, momentarily shadowing the sun.
Mr. Deeley looked up towards the manor, and frowned.
“Here comes a complication,” he said, unhappily, getting to his feet.
Charlie stood also, and saw what Mr. Deeley had observed: the lesser Monsieur Duran, marching furiously down the hill, towards their meadow.
“Good day, sir,” said Mr. Deeley.
But his greeting was not returned. Indeed, the lesser Monsieur Duran brusquely pushed his groom aside, and instead addressed Augustus, who had remained seated beside Sarah.
“You, sir, are required in France,” he said, removing an important looking piece of paper from a pocket, and waving it in his father’s face. “My brother has dispatched this by messenger.”
“I observed no messenger’s arrival,” Augustus replied, fixing his son with a steady gaze.
“Then you must have been otherwise distracted,” the lesser Monsieur Duran answered, impatiently. “You must go.”
Augustus took the piece of paper from his son’s hand, and studied the almost illegible scrawl that covered it.
“As you can see,” the lesser Monsieur Duran said, “the matter is urgent.”
“It may be urgent,” his father replied, “however it is also impossible to decipher. What is the nature of Gaston’s dilemma, that he so desperately requires my return to Amiens?”
Charlie could see that the lesser Monsieur Duran’s temper was beginning to fray.
“It is the chateau,” he said. “He believes it is under siege.”
“Under siege?” his father inquired. “By whom?”
“By orphans. Cats. Dogs. Villagers intent on revolution. You know how he suffers from l’hystérie. He is in fear for his life.”
Augustus considered his son with a less than charitable look.
“Your brother is to be congratulated on his ingenuity at managing to dispatch this letter without hindrance. I wonder why he didn’t simply come along with it. Or seek assistance from one of his consumptive orphans.”
“Unlike you, sir, he would never abandon the chateau.”
The lesser Monsieur Duran looked at Mr. Deeley.
“And as for you,” he said. “This picnic was your devising?”
“No,” Charlie said, stepped boldly between them, “this picnic was my devising.”
She faced Sarah squarely.
“I know who you are destined to marry, Sarah—and it certainly isn’t this…wanker.”
The lesser Monsieur Duran furrowed his eyebrows. “Wang-coeur?” he said. “What is this, wang-coeur?”
“Perhaps,” Sarah ventured, quickly, smoothing her gown, “it is an expression of curiosity—from London.”
“No, it is not an expression of curiosity,” Charlie said. “From London or anywhere else.”
“This picnic,” the lesser Monsieur Duran continued, fixing his cold eyes on Mr. Deeley, “could not have occurred without the conspiracy of you.”
He glared at his father.
“And you. And after last night, it is clear that you are both against me. So.”
He again addressed Mr. Deeley.
“You are no longer in my employ. You may depart at your earliest convenience.”
“No!” Charlie shouted—but Mr. Deeley touched her arm, silencing her.
“Sir,” he said, evenly. “If I have offended you—”
“Enough!”
The lesser Louis Augustus Duran raised his hand to silence his groom.
“I have heard that Madame Foster has ceased to be employed with the vicar of the church in the village. This is true?”
“It is true,” Sarah said.
“And you therefore have no means by which to support yourself?”
“That is none of your business,” Charlie said.
“It will be my business, madame,” the lesser Monsieur Duran replied, “in a month or two, when your cousin tires of scrubbing the soiled underthings of other people in order to have the meat and bread put on her table.”
“I would rather scrub the filthy linen of strangers than any belonging to you,” Sarah replied, boldly.
A thin smile appeared upon the lesser Monsieur Duran’s face.
“I employ the servants for these tasks,” he said. “You would have no need. But I believe you have been confused, Madame Foster. I believe that my father’s attentions may have caused you to not know your own mind. No matter.”
He looked at his father.
“Why do you still occupy here? You are henceforth banished. We shall see no more of you.”
“I shall go,” Augustus replied. “However I suspect your brother’s delirium may well have been cured by the time I arrive. Or he will have been murdered.”
“I sincerely hope,” his son replied, impatiently and disingenuously, “that it is the former.”
Augustus took Sarah’s hand, and held it with great tenderness.
“I must take my leave, Mrs. Foster. I suggest we address this postponement at a more opportune time…”
Augustus here fixed his son with another penetrating glare.
“…before I succumb to an impulse thoroughly unbecoming my paternal affiliation.”
He then turned to Charlie.
“It has been my very great pleasure to also make your acquaintance, Mrs. Collins. I look forward to our future friendship, as I intend to return to this village sooner, rather than later.”
And with that, he departed, trudging up the hill by way of the winding cart track, and without looking back.
Charlie’s spirit deflated as she watched him make his way back to the manor. She pressed her hand to her side. That pain. Again. And it was not getting better. In fact…it was becoming considerably worse. Last night’s dancing had not done it any favours.
“With any luck,” the lesser Monsieur Duran said, sourly, “my father’s little boat will capsize in a gale as he crosses the channel.”
“You,” Charlie said, “are an exceedingly unpleasant individual, Monsieur Duran.”
The lesser Monsieur Duran ignored her.
Emboldened, Mr. Deeley stepped forward. “Is this the same sort of banishment you arranged for Mrs. Foster’s late husband?”
Monsieur Duran glowered at him. “You, sir, should also be gone.”
“I will be gone, sir,” Mr. Deeley answered, defiantly.
“Children!” Sarah called. “The picnic is finished! We are leaving!”
Playing in the long grass beside the meadow, where she had created a make-believe den for a flock of French fairies with gossamer wings and an English princess who was about to be crowned Queen—and who also knew how to stand on her head—Mary was crestfallen. “But Monsieur Duran promised to teach me how to juggle!” she cried.
“Monsieur Duran has departed,” his son replied, curtly. “And so should you, if you do not wish to incur my wrath further. Now—go.”
Chapter 25
And so, they went, quickly and without further discourse, gathering up the remains of the picnic and carrying it, in three baskets, back to the tree-shaded garden behind Sarah’s cottage.
At the bottom of the garden Mary was perfecting a cartwheel. Before the interruption of their picnic, the greater Monsieur Duran had imparted this new skill to her. He had observed her technique and judged her an expert, far advanced for her years. And certainly much better at it than Gaston, who had no sense whatsoever of up and down, and was far more likely to end up flat on his back on the ground and complaining about the ankle he had sprained falling off a wall when he was six.
“Perhaps,” Sarah ventured, “we might send Tom and Jack back to the manor, to seek permission to collect your possessions, Mr. Deeley. Perhaps Mr. Rankin might be persuaded to assist in this endeavour.”
Sitting beside Charlie on the grass, Mr. Deeley finished the last of the lemonade that they’d rescued from the picnic.
“I am certain Mr. Rankin would gladly oblige, though he would do so with a heavy heart, for he is my friend, and he will not be pleased to learn of the circumstances of my dismissal.”
“Where will you stay?” Sarah asked. “Mary—do stop showing us your pantaloons. I am certain Mr. Deeley would much rather have another cup of tea.”
“My friend Mr. Wallis will provide me with a bed until I am able to locate other lodgings,” Mr. Deeley replied, as Mary, reluctantly, abandoned her cartwheels. “Tea would be most appreciated. And for you, Mrs. Collins?”
“Yes, thank you—” Charlie replied, but she caught her breath before she could finish her sentence, and bent over in pain.
“My dear,” Sarah exclaimed. “You are unwell!”
“It is nothing,” Charlie gasped.
“It is not nothing!” Sarah insisted. “You must come inside immediately and lie down. And I shall fetch the surgeon!”
“No,” Charlie said, as the pain subsided a little, and she regained her composure. “No…please. I would rather you did not. I will go to the manor and request Mr. Rankin’s assistance. I know where to find him, and I can slip inside without attracting undue attention from the lesser Monsieur Duran.”
“If you are certain,” Sarah answered, doubtfully.
“I am certain,” Charlie assured her.
She was less certain about the pain than she had admitted to Sarah. Indeed, it was not nothing. And it was growing more persistent, like a nagging reminder that, inside, there was something going on that was not right at all.
Really, she thought, as she trudged up the rise for the second time that day, she could have done with some kind of diagnostic app on her phone. Something where she could key in her symptoms, and it would reply with a clever selection of suitable ailments and cures. Or a link to a website that would accomplish the same thing.
But her phone would not connect to the world wide web. She’d already tried. The best the old oak tree could manage was short messages and the odd attachment.
Which was, she thought, as she reached the top of the hill, in itself, something of a marvel. Considering what year it was. Considering what century.
Charlie decided she would ask Nick to ask Sam. The next best thing to the Mayo Clinic, having your own district nurse on call.
As she approached the kitchen garden, thinking she would slip inside the manor the same way she had before, she heard a familiar-sounding voice.
It was the lesser Monsieur Duran, pacing up and down between the rows of vegetables.
Charlie concealed herself just outside the gate in the brick wall, where she had an unobstructed view of the garden. The lesser Monsieur Duran was deep in conversation with someone she couldn’t see.
Upon closer scrutiny, however, she realized he was alone.
“There is the risk, indeed,” he reasoned, aloud. “There is the inheritance.”
He reached the end of the lettuces, and turned.
“If my father decides now to remove me from the will, and everything is left to my brother…”
He paused.
“Gaston has not ever refused when I have demanded. On pain of intolerable suffering and miserableness. So. The will is easily resolved.”
He continued pacing, until he had reached the cabbages.
“And now. Madame Foster. She will discover soon the marriage with me is the preferable to poverty. I will husband her. Because once I make up my mind, I do not ever change it again.”
Not, Charlie thought, her anger rising, if I have anything to do with it.
But she was very quickly brought back to reality. Her nudge hadn’t worked. In fact, it had backfired. Badly.
She had no idea how Sarah and Augustus would manage to marry now.
“There remains,” Monsieur Duran’s son continued, from the carrots, “the complication of les enfants.”
He bent down, and pulled up one of the plants.
“Les enfants are of course the necessary to produce les héritiers. However they are mostly a nuisance and even more so usually in the way.”
He tossed the uprooted carrot into a corner of the garden, and continued walking.
“I will send les garçons to a school. In Scotland. But la fille…”
He paused again, and contemplated a stand of rhubarb.
“La fille will not be of the marriageable age until ten years after now.”
He broke off one of the leafy red rhubarb stems, and used it as a thinking stick.
“She might however live in France until the suitable husband is located.”
He bit off the end of the stalk, and chewed it, thoughtfully.
“She might however cohabit with cousine Cosette. Her hearing is gone. And she is blind in one eye and confined to the bed. But Cosette has not ever been married and now requires a companion.”
He took another bite of the rhubarb.
“The child will quickly learn the care of the elderly invalide. So. I will send a lettre to Cosette tomorrow.” He threw the stalk of rhubarb after the discarded carrot. “And as for the interfering cousin from Londres…she is too much the unconstrained. This is not ever a good thing in la femme. I shall arrange her to go.” The lesser Monsieur Duran turned again, and walked purposefully back to the scullery door, then went inside the manor.
Infuriated, Charlie followed him, ducking into the scullery so that she remained out of sight. She watched as the lesser Monsieur Duran walked quickly past Mr. Rankin’s room and the kitchen, all the way to the other end of the hallway. The door at the end of the hallway was not locked. As Charlie continued to watch, the lesser Monsieur Duran entered quickly and quietly, closing the door behind him.
He was inside the room, Charlie judged, for no more than a minute. He reappeared quickly, shutting the door again, and beating a quick retreat upstairs by way of the servants’ staircase.
Charlie waited a few moments more, then slipped out of the scullery and ran to the door at the end of the hallway. Opening it, she peeked inside.
It was Mr. Deeley’s room. It could belong to no one else. There were many books, and framed paintings of horses, and several brass harness decorations being used as paperweights on a small side table.
Charlie peeked at what was written on the papers underneath the brasses.
Poetry!
Mr. Deeley was a secret poet, musing upon the sun, the moon and the stars.
For this, she loved him all the more.
The remaining furniture in Mr. Deeley’s bedroom consisted of a narrow but neatly made bed, a chair, and an upright wooden wardrobe, varnished and very plain, and similar to the one in Mr. Rankin’s quarters.
Curiously, Charlie opened the wardrobe door. Inside were drawers and shelves and hooks and hangers. And all of Mr. Deeley’s clothes, smelling faintly of straw and stables and horses.
Charlie wasn’t certain what the lesser Monsieur Duran had been doing in Mr. Deeley’s room. Everything seemed neat and tidy. There were no signs of vandalism. Nothing looked out of place.
Co
nfounded, she closed the wardrobe door again, and then slipped out into the hallway, to look for Mr. Rankin.
Chapter 26
“The lesser Monsieur Duran has always disliked me,” Mr. Deeley said. “My services were inherited with the manor. My father was the head groomsman, and I naturally filled the position following his death. The lesser Monsieur Duran has never been an easy man to work for.”
“He had no right to go into your room,” Charlie maintained.
Mr. Deeley was more philosophical. “He is not one to respect the privacy of his household staff. But because of this, I made it a habit to exercise caution, and would never incriminate myself with a careless note left lying about, nor any other article which might be construed as less than respectful.”
“You are very wise,” Charlie said.
She had returned to the cottage with news of Mr. Rankin’s agreement to facilitate the removal of Mr. Deeley’s belongings the following day, Monday. She had also imparted to Sarah and Mr. Deeley the one-sided conversation she had overheard in the kitchen garden, followed by the lesser Monsieur Duran’s subsequent and decidedly odd visit to Mr. Deeley’s bedroom.
“Indeed,” Mr. Deeley replied. “But in the end, it seems my wisdom did not serve me well at all. No matter. I will request a reference from the greater Monsieur Duran, and I will find employment in another country house, or at a stable. Perhaps Mr. Ferryman has need of an extra person at the inn, to help care for the overnighting of his guests’ horses.”
Charlie could think of other establishments which would make better use of Mr. Deeley’s talents and skills as a horseman and groom, but she kept silent.
However Mr. Deeley’s mention of Mr. Ferryman reminded her of the conversation she’d had with him the day before, after her lunch at the manor and as he was returning from his visit to the inn.
“Mr. Deeley,” she said. “Do you recall what you told me yesterday, about Mr. Ferryman’s most recent acquisition?”
