by M C Beaton
“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 told 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 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.
Well, this is what he had wanted for the girl. She was only a scullery maid and now she was marrying a Lord. She had done very well for herself.
He turned his concentration wholly on his memoirs, becoming so absorbed that he even forgot to eat. He put aside his manuscript with a sigh and looked at the clock on the mantle. Nearly dawn. He had not much of a life in summer, he reflected wryly.
And then, quite clearly, like a bell in his brain, he heard her calling him, heard Alice calling for help.
He started to his feet—and groaned. A glimmer of livid gray was spreading along the horizon. He could do nothing until night came again.
When he awoke the next evening, or came to, or materialized—he was never quite sure how to describe the phenomenon of his rebirth to himself—he did not at first remember Alice, but was instantly plagued with a nagging feeling of unease. Then his eye fell on the newspaper, still lying on the table, and he remembered. Alice. Engagement. Her cry for help.
The Duke quickly dressed in evening clothes, missing for the first time Jamieson, his valet of the old days who could surely have dealt with all these difficult, modern styles of hairdressing. “It was easier in my day,” he mused. “I could simply wear a wig. Of course, many still do, but I was never démodé in my time, and I do not intend to be in this.”
As he floated swiftly over the countryside, his fears for Alice had begun to recede. He should not have left her alone so soon. She had probably found it extremely difficult to accustom herself to society. Perhaps she had forgotten her French accent.
When he arrived at Alice’s house it was to be met with the intelligence that Alice and Miss Snapper were visiting Webb’s parents’ home. Webb’s parents were the Earl and Countess of Markhampton. Their home lay a few miles outside Tunbridge Wells.
The Duke was thankful that he had passed his early days since he had left Alice traveling extensively over the countryside. He had become adept at finding his way about the sky and espying familiar landmarks on the ground at night, particularly on a fine starry night like this one.
The black, straggly mass of the town of Tunbridge Wells was soon reached and then he veered east, searching for Runley Manor, Webb’s parents’ home.
At long last he found himself above it. He wondered if they kept country hours but, as he sank lower, he saw that the windows of the Manor were ablaze with lights and there seemed to be a ball in progress in a great room on the ground floor.
The long windows were open to the night air. He floated gently down and stood on the shaven grass of the lawn. He decided to watch Alice first. He did not want to startle her by approaching her. He moved quietly up the terrace steps and eased himself through the windows, standing partly concealed by the curtain.
At first he did not recognize her—and then all at once she was almost in front of him. She looked happy and animated although the Duke, putting up his quizzing glass, could not quite believe the fussiness of her dress or the clumsiness of her hairstyle. Alice was dancing with a fresh-faced young man in an ill-fitting suit. They were waltzing and he seemed to be dancing on her toes most of the time, but he looked easy and amiable. The Duke thought this must be Lord Harold Webb. Well, he was not the most elegant of creatures but he looked a good-hearted soul. He would do very well.
The Duke was torn between leaving immediately now that he had found Alice in good spirits, or staying to give her a lecture on the dowdiness of her dress.
It was then he noticed the shadows under her eyes and that her eyes themselves were suspiciously puffy.
He stayed, his bright blue gaze fixed on her every movement. The waltz finished at last and Alice began to promenade with her partner as was the custom. Suddenly, a tall, very handsome man with a rather pompous face came up to Alice accompanied by Miss Snapper. Miss Snapper seemed to say a few short sharp words at which Alice flushed miserably and stared at the floor. Her unresisting hand was taken from her partner’s arm and placed by Miss Snapper firmly on that of the handsome young man who led Alice off to the side of the ballroom, talking fiercely in an undertone and, to the Duke’s horror, he caught the glint of tears in Alice’s eyes.
It was time to make his appearance. He sauntered across the ballroom floor in Miss Snapper’s direction, examining the companion as if for the first time and not liking what he saw.
Her gown, he noticed, was extremely rich and around her scrawny neck was a ruby necklace which he recognized as having belonged to his late wife.
“Monsieur Le Comte!” gasped Miss Snapper as the Duke appeared before her. “We had not heard… did not expect you…”
Her thin hand flew to the necklace at her throat.
“Where is this Lord Harold Webb?” said the Duke sternly.
“Ah, he is flirting with Alice and us old things should not intrude,” said Miss Snapper, flirting horribly with her fan.
“Madam,” said the Duke awfully, “I am not yet in my dotage although you may be. I find your personal remarks offensive in the extreme. You forget yourself. Pray, present me to my niece this instant.”
Miss Snapper quailed under his icy gaze. The pleasurable bullying of Alice in which she had so freely indulged was going to be discovered unless she could have a word with Alice first in private and threaten her into silence.
“Indeed, yes, milord,” she murmured, ducking her head in a nervous gesture. “Pray wait here. I will return with Alice.”
The Duke stood by the side of the ballroom floor, staring about him with interest. The Earl of Markhampton appeared to be wealthy. The room was decorated with fine silk hangings of green and gold.
Hundreds of the most expensive scented candles perfumed the air. Hothouse flowers and palms were placed around the perimeter of the floor, and from the supper room came the delectable aroma of good French cooking. He was just thinking that Miss Snapper was taking an unconscionable time about bringing Alice to him when a latecomer entered the ballroom and he raised his quizzing glass and let out a sigh of pure appreciation. A beautiful blonde had entered with her chaperone. Her hair owed all to art but was magnificent for all that. It gleamed like burnished brass in the candlelight and her enameled face was a flawless oval. She had a wicked pair of black eyes, a diaphanous gown which was dampened to the point of indecency and, wonder upon wonders, her toenails were painted gold!
He straightened his waistcoat and headed purposefully toward her.
And so it was that Alice, entering the ballroom with Webb anchored firmly to one side and Miss Snapper to the other, saw her “uncle” for the first time since he had left her that winter’s night. He was smiling down into the eyes of a bold blonde and seemed to have forgotten the existence of everyone and everything else.
Miss Snapper gave a malicious titter. “You see how happy your uncle is?” she said. “He is content to leave you in our good care. We have your best interests at heart, Alice. You must tell him you lent me this pretty necklace.”
“But I didn’t!” exclaimed Alice.
“Say you did,” hissed Miss Snapper. “I know he admired it and he would not like to think you ungenerous to your poor companion. Only vulgar people are cruel and mean.”
Alice winced. Miss Snapper had found she could get Alice to agree to practically anything provided she told the girl that things were “vulgar.” Alice lived in fear that Miss Snapper would discover her humble origins, not knowing that Miss Snapper merely thought Alice, being French—and who wanted to be French?—was taken up with the idea of becoming the perfect English lady.
Poor Alice numbly watched the Duke as he flirted outrageously.
She wanted to run to him and tear him away f
rom that blonde harpy. She wanted to cry to him that she was lonely and hurt and lost, that she had made a terrible mistake, that Webb and Miss Snapper were bullying the life out of her.
But the heartless ghost philandered on, and at last Alice could bear it no longer and begged to be allowed to retire.
Miss Snapper and Lord Harold cheerfully agreed. There would be no confrontation with Alice’s uncle that night.
When Miss Snapper had seen Alice safely to her room, she descended the stair to the ballroom where she found Webb awaiting her.
“I think, my dear Miss Snapper,” said Webb in measured tones, “that we must plan. Come with me!”
Her hurt at the Duke’s snub abating under the interest of this newfound intrigue, Miss Snapper eagerly followed him.
