by Edith Layton
Again, she thought momentarily of writing to some senior member of that accursed family to complain of how she was being persecuted. And again, she vanquished the thought. She would have nothing to do with them, for any reason. And in truth, writing bizarre letters could not be construed as truly menacing behavior. They would shrug it off. They could not know that mere letters could call up so much that she had worked so hard to put behind her. No one, she knew, could understand how those simple letters upon blameless paper could have the power to so completely distress her, to so easily pitchfork her back in time to the worst time of her life. A time that had in a matter of hours changed the course of her entire future, ensuring that she could never live the life of a normal female. Even Papa, whom she knew could not forget it, and blamed himself for his part in it so continually that he still dreamed on it in nightmares that woke his wife in the deepest night, could not know the whole of it.
She was so lost in her appalled thoughts that she did not hear the farm cart rattling down the road, and half the district laughed that a deaf man could hear Joseph Pringle’s cart trundling along.
“Eee, missy,” that ancient chortled as he came abreast of the ashen-faced girl and stopped his horse, “have you gotten a letter from a ghost?”
“Why yes, Joseph,” Julia replied calmly, knotting the letter in her hand. “As a matter of fact, I have.”
So of course, Old Joseph had to regale his lovely passenger all the miles back to her destination with tales of ghosts in the district. She had taken him up on his invitation to a drive home because she had been so troubled with her own company. The fact that Ruby, his ancient horse, walked even more slowly than she could was an extra bonus, for thus she could be seen to be hastening back but could still enjoy the bright day longer without even a twinge of conscience to plague her.
“Aye,” Joseph continued regretfully, after a particularly convoluted tale, which Julia had difficulty following, that had to do with a spirit who seemingly, so far as she could make out, disliked wash days, “there’s never been a hint-of a haunt at Three Elms, so you’d likely never think on ’em, living there. But if you was to stop at the Manse, where the Mundfords dwell,” he said, brightening, “you’d be up to your pretty chin in ’em. Oh,” he said wisely, “not that she’d be like to tell you the tale over tea, not she, for she thinks ’em disgraceful, like they had to do with bad housekeeping, like mice or beetles. But there they do bide, mark me well.”
Old Joseph rattled off his tales of dire midnight doings as Ruby plodded down the drive to Mrs. Bryce’s house, thinking contentedly that he was entertaining the pretty lass handsomely from the way she sat silent and big-eyed, attending to him. But he could not know that it was not his ghosties and haunts that she was frightened of. Rather, she was aghast at the sudden realization of her own unwillingness to part from newly familiar friends such as himself to go to an unknown future more terrifying in its emptiness than any of the specters that capered through the Mundfords’ house.
When Ruby slowed as she came to the base of the drive, Old Joseph left off his story to comment with surprise, “Seems like you got company, missy. Could it be the cap’n’s back?” There was a certain amount of chagrin in his tone, for he liked to be the first to know the local gossip. But then, when he dropped the reins and lowered himself to the ground to help the young lady down from her high seat, he stood and looked closely at the equipage and horses being held by an unknown boy. “Nay,” he grunted, “I lie. For cap’n’s a seafaring dog, with never such an eye to cattle. Them’s spanking brutes, bang up to the mark.”
Glancing at the high phaeton and the two gleaming black horses as she straightened her skirts, Julia had to agree with Old Joseph’s outsize admiration. The pair of animals seemed to be of a completely different species than poor Ruby, standing head-down and patient.
“They do shine in the sun,” she commented.
“Pah, shine,” Old Joseph said, shaking his head at a female’s foolishness, “the shine’s in the brushing. Ruby’d shine too if I was daft enough to curry her half my life. No, those two could be covered in muck and still they’d be thoroughbreds. It’s in the bone, missy, it’s bred in the tone. You can see it in the eyes, in the points. It’s spirit and intelligence and line, missy.”
As it is with you, missy, Old Joseph thought as he touched his battered hat when Julia thanked him kindly for the ride before she disappeared into the house. Born and bred it is with you, too, whether you work for your bread or no. And then, casting one more admiring glance at the equipage, he clucked to Ruby, But in a tribute that would have warmed Miss Hastings’ heart had she known it, Old Joseph, though he had left his seventieth year behind in the winter, gave no further thought to the fine, glistening black horseflesh he had seen in the drive, but rather let his thoughts linger instead on a mane of heavy gleaming gold hair as he drove away.
Julia was consumed with curiosity as to who would call upon her mistress in such fine state, but she would not allow herself to sink so low as to question Mr. Duncan, the butler, as to the visitor’s identity. For, she thought as she mounted the stair to her room, it was enough that she had to work for her livelihood in others’ homes. If she began to try to live through their lives as well, she would be lost. But she had gotten only so far as the first landing when she heard her own name being called.
“Oh Julia, my dear,” Mrs. Bryce called from the bottom of the stairs. “Do come down, you have a visitor.”
Julia paused so long upon the stair, frozen in disbelief, that Mrs. Bryce became impatient. If her companion had compunctions about prying into others’ lives, she did not. Her little nose fairly twitched in excitement, there were high spots of color in her round cheeks, and her tight black ringlets shook, perceptibly, like little sausages hung before a butcher’s shop quivering in a gust of wind.
“Do come down, Miss Hastings,” she ordered in the voice of an employer.
When Julia had obediently, but dazedly descended, Mrs. Bryce clutched her companion’s wrist in her hand.
“My dear,” she said in a low voice, “what a lucky chance for you! I have been waiting for your return for hours. Oh,” she said quickly, “in the ordinary sense I would not have cared how long you tarried on your errands, but when the gentleman came, I could not wait for you to return. I stayed him with tea, for I didn’t want him to change his mind and leave, though he said he was stopping at The White Hart, which is not far from here at all, you know, and that he would come back later. But I wouldn’t have that,” Mrs. Bryce said, shaking her head so vigorously that her ringlets swung like carillon chimes at noon. “For who’s to say that he wouldn’t change his mind? He said he had your direction from the Misses Parkinson in London.”
Mrs. Bryce whispered as she drew Julia to the door to the salon, “And he said he had a position to offer you. So I could not let him go, though he’s had to have his horses walked twice as he was waiting. No,” she went on, as Julia paused and tried to fathom it all, “you don’t even need to change your frock, you look charmingly today. But here,” she said, steering Julia to a hall mirror, “only tuck some of your loose hair back, and you will do.”
Julia smoothed back the strands of hair that had escaped from their moorings. Ordinarily, she would have bound it back into a smooth bundle as befitted a proper aspirant for a position as governess or companion. But here in the countryside, though the easy life-style did not delude her into forgetting her position enough to venture to wear her tresses a la mode, she had been lulled by it enough to fall into the habit of merely gathering her heavy hair up in back and letting it fall from a high knot.
She stared at her reflection as Mrs. Bryce hovered at her elbow. Her deep blue walking frock was simple and neat enough and she had automatically put on her beige shawl as she always did in company, despite the warmth of the day, when Old Joseph had come along. There was nothing extraordinary in her appearance, but she looked amazed into her own amazed eyes. To be offered a new position just w
hen she most required one, was felicity indeed. At last able to absorb the good news, for these days it always took her a space to react to surprises, she smiled at Mrs. Bryce.
“Ready, ma’am,” she said.
“Now I’ll let you go in by yourself, Julia dear,” Mrs. Bryce said, “for he did say he wished to speak with you privately...” Here she hesitated, for though she knew very well that it was quite unexceptional for Julia to be closeted with a strange man in her house, since for all her gentility she was really only a variety of servant, still if a young and lovely female such as her companion were anything but an employee it would have been reprehensible to allow such a meeting. But then, she reminded herself, servants did not have reputations to worry about. At least, not like proper young females did. And then, feeling guilty about how very defenseless her lovely young companion actually was and extremely guilty about Julia’s having to seek a position at all, she attempted to absolve herself by saying happily, “At any rate, there is nothing to worry about, he is more than respectable. He is very high ton, actually. You ought to be honored. It was quite pleasant chatting with him until your return. He is no less than a baron.”
Julia paused at the closed door to the parlor as her employer went on, “Lord Nicholas Daventry, Baron Stafford, to be precise. I should think he had a marvelous position for you, but he won’t disclose—why Julia, whatever is it?”
Mrs. Bryce looked at her companion with alarm. For the young woman’s milk-white skin had achieved an impossible hue, becoming so leached of color that it appeared to be transparent. Miss Hastings held on to the doorframe, her eyes wide and filled with horror.
“Julia,” cried Mrs. Bryce, growing quite faint herself at the transformation that had come over the usually serene Miss Hastings. “Whatever has come over you?”
“I cannot see him,” Julia said frantically, backing away from the door. “Send him away. I shall not see him.”
“But why ever not?” Mrs. Bryce demanded, her pique at having this splendid solution to her problems with her companion solved and then ruined in a trice now overriding her concern for the overset young woman.
The door to the salon swung open.
“Yes, Miss Hastings,” the gentleman’s voice said coldly, “why ever not?”
3
It was not at all well done, not at all socially adroit. The gentleman stood at the doorway to the salon and stared intently at the shaken young woman. She, in turn, gaped back in frank astonishment at him. In the common way, Julia was to think later, it was most irregular for any female of breeding to subject a visitor to such naked, unrelenting observation. But then again, it was not at all correct for the gentleman to stand and gaze at her in such obvious, stark, unblinking appraisal either. She did not know or care to know the reason why he studied her with a growing sneer upon his lips, she only shook her head as she looked at him, wondering whether to disbelieve her eyes or her ears. For surely, one of her senses had betrayed her.
The gentleman Mrs. Bryce had said was Lord Nicholas Daventry, Baron Stafford, could not be the gentleman of that name who had composed and sent all those insane letters, one of which lay crumpled and twisted in her pocket at this very moment. This gentleman looked as though he had never committed an unconsidered or rash deed in his life. Everything about him was meticulous and correct. His clothes, from his tightly fitting blue jacket to the highly polished half boots which covered his buff-kerseymere-clad legs, fitted his trim, athletic form to an inch. His neckcloth, arranged in a perfect waterfall, was dazzling white, and his linen was no less well cared for than the white hand which held the quizzing glass he observed her through. His hair was dark and curling, his skin clear and of a flawless matte texture that any young woman would weep for. The watchful eyes were gray-green and well opened, ringed round with thick dark lashes. But even with these graces there was little else that was effeminate about the haughty face with its well-carved features: the thin aristocratic nose, the strong chin, and the high sculpted cheekline.
Whatever else this unknown gentleman was, Julia thought, with an admixture of relief and embarrassment at her reaction to his name, he could not be her unwanted correspondent, for he could not be above thirty years of age and he radiated health and fitness. But as she continued to stare at him, as if to reassure herself of the accuracy of her perceptions, the mobile lips opened to speak.
“Now that you have assured yourself of your ability to recognize me should we meet again, Miss Hastings, do you think you might be able to explain why you cannot have converse with me?” he asked in a chill voice.
Julia flushed, both in chagrin at her own actions and in anger at his less than gallant reminder of them.
“I apologize, my lord,” she said stiffly. “Obviously, I mistook you for another.”
He made no reply save for sketching a brief, ironic bow as Mrs. Bryce, sensing that the potential storm had blown over, rushed to say with evident relief,
“You see Julia? Just as I said. The baron is here to speak with you about a new position. I shall leave you now, my lord,” she simpered, “and hope for a happy resolution to your conversation.”
As Mrs. Bryce left the room, with an arch look given along with her curtsy to the baron, Julia experienced a moment of rebellious rage which she had to tamp down. For she had not been introduced to the gentleman, neither did it seem that he expected her to be. Rather she had been brought in for his inspection as though she were livestock he woe thinking of purchasing. But her talents were there to be purchased, in a manner of speaking, she thought sadly. And she was only a servant, and she ought to be used to it, she reminded herself quickly, so she collected herself and stood, her eyes downcast, waiting for his next utterance. When it came, it did nothing to restore her spirits.
“Who did you think I was?” he asked abruptly.
Taken by surprise, Julia spoke up more rapidly than she might have wished.
“A gentleman with a very similar sounding name has been writing to me,” she began, “offering me bizarre propositions...” But then, realizing that the receipt of such letters might imply that she had sought such correspondence in some way, she added quickly, “Indeed, I do not know why, he is an old fellow, wandering in his wits, and I can only assume that he has seized on me as his victim due to some aberration that age has wrought in him. I had thought to bring the matter to the attention of the authorities, but so far I have taken no steps as I have hoped the matter would end of itself. Pray disregard it, my lord. I’m sorry that such a distasteful subject came up at all, but that is why your name so unsettled me. My employer says that you have gotten my direction from the Misses Parkinson and have a post to offer me?” she continued, blaming her original misapprehension upon her employer’s bad diction and attempting to get the conversation back to a more normal level to discover what had brought him to Mrs. Bryce’s home.
He stared hard at her and then said smoothly, “I do indeed have a post to offer you and had you bothered to read my letters instead of dismissing them as ‘bizarre propositions,’ you would have known it before this. As it is, I got your direction from the Parkinson sisters, yes, but only after I had first gotten their direction from the Bow Street runner I had employed. You’ve been a difficult young woman to locate, Miss Hastings.”
“Sit down.” Julia heard the baron command, as her thoughts were scattered by his words. She did take a seat, for it seemed that she suddenly required one, but even as she did she found that overriding all the confusion in her mind was the irrelevant thought that he might have asked her to sit politely rather than insisting so rudely. But he spoke of Bow Street runners as though she were a common criminal, and he claimed authorship of the letters in the same harsh voice. She fumbled into her skirt’s pocket and with trembling fingers withdrew the missive she had received that morning.
“You wrote this?” she asked in bewilderment, as though that were the hardest fact to fathom of all.
He looked at the rumpled paper. “Yes,” he replied
in a hard voice, “and so I can see why I had to travel all this way to meet with you. Really, Miss Hastings, I was prepared to be quite generous. This race you have run me does not up my price at all.” Julia did not even bother to take in his words, as she was still thinking on what he had first said. Her only reply was to murmur in wonderment, “Bow Street!”
“Why yes,” the baron said bitterly, as though the subject was as distasteful to him as it was to her. “It was necessary to obtain their services. You cover your tracks well, my dear, and have moved about frequently, and your family was singularly unhelpful in providing a clue as to your whereabouts.”
Of course, Julia thought, catching onto that one warm thought in this cold interview as though it would thaw the chill of fear that had gripped her and restore her clear thinking. Of course, Papa would have nothing to do with anyone from that wretched family. So, “Of course,” she said, raising her head to look the gentleman in the eye, “for they know I would want nothing to remind me of that episode in my life. Really, my lord,” she said with more spirit, as if the very mention of her family itself had called them all back to her in truth and that they stood ranged beside her now to shore her confidence, “I cannot understand why you are come here. Nor can I understand the necessity for the letters. Three years have passed. For me, it is as though a lifetime has passed. What profit is there in raking up the past? I admit, I was going to many your cousin. But I did not. There’s an end to it. Why should you bother to seek me out now?”
“My nephew,” the baron corrected her absently, as he turned to look out the long windows.
“Your nephew?” Julia asked in bewilderment. “But Robin always spoke of his uncle as ‘Old Nick.’ He always spoke of him as his mentor, that is why I thought you—”
