by Joan Smith
“No, she has a husband and family.”
“If she doesn’t require anyone, why should I go there?”
“Because it is close to Downsfield—convenient,” he added.
“To wait for Mary.” She nodded. “I ought not to call your sister Mary, but I hear you do so, and have caught the habit. You will find it hard to credit, I once had some notions of propriety.”
“You behaved like a very proper young lady on the stage to Wickfield. I noticed it particularly. Shall we go? It is a longish drive home.”
“I’m sorry our holiday is nearly over. I enjoyed it very much. Thank you, Whewett.”
“Thank you, Miss Farnsworth. I enjoyed it, too.”
They continued to enjoy the dregs of it on the return to Willowcrest. As they approached Wickfield, Grace again effected the change to Augusta. She had no sooner got her hair pulled into tails and the ribbons tied on than the carriage rolled into town. The first person seen on the street, with a basket over her arm, was Mrs. Sempleton. “I don’t believe it!” Whewett exclaimed, pointing her out.
Grace ducked her head, while Whewett returned the woman’s wave. “She lives on the street,” he scolded.
“She is going to see us together before we get out of this place. Are we past?” Grace asked.
“Yes, get up. We should let her see us together. It would make her day, trying to figure it out.”
“Why should we cavil at a Mrs. Sempleton, indeed, when everyone else has seen us? If we meet her again, I shall wave and tell her you have adopted me.”
Whewett smiled. “I wished, when you told her on the stage that girls talk too much, that I could know you better. Did you mean it for a leveler?”
“Of course I did. You must know a lady never insults anyone accidentally.”
They fell silent till they were nearly home, then Grace asked, “Do we tell Grandma we went to the Pump Room and the park, and not mention the Townsends?”
“That will be best. The connection is on my own side, not Lady Healy’s. There is no reason Mrs. Townsend should be in touch with her,” he said unconcernedly.
How should a widower who took little interest in gossip suspect the curiosity of an arch-quiz, or know to what lengths she would go to ferret out news and cause mischief?
Chapter Fourteen
Over dinner Lady Healy demanded all the details of their outing. At eight o’clock, she informed a bright-eyed Grace that she looked burned to the socket and must retire early.
The hour till Whewett was sent abovestairs passed pleasantly in memories of her day. As soon as she heard footsteps in his room, she went to the door and tapped before turning the knob. To her surprise, the door was locked. “What is it?” Whewett called, without even approaching the door.
His voice sounded withdrawn, emotionally distant. Grace was aware of a new sense of impropriety in the situation herself. It was having been an adult all day that accounted for it. “Is everything all right?” she asked.
“Of course. She suspects nothing. How should she?”
“I don’t know. You sound—strange.”
“I am tired. I’m going straight to bed. Good night, Grace.”
Her first reaction was annoyance, which soon dwindled to sadness. “Good night.”
She was acutely conscious that night of the unseemliness of sleeping next door to Whewett without even a lock on her side. He must find her farouche, to say the least. The oddest thing of all was that until this evening, the arrangement had not struck her as questionable. Even when he had inquired once if she was inviting him to sneak into her room after the household was asleep, she had only laughed. But the question showed that it had at least occurred to him.
When she eventually fell into a fitful doze, it was of their outing that she dreamed. Much later she awoke and saw a beam of light beneath Whewett’s door. She heard a measured tread that told her he was pacing. He, too, felt this new strangeness in their relationship and a reluctance to defy convention.
In the morning she examined his behavior closely to see if he revealed what thoughts had kept him awake the night before, but with Lady Healy at the table, he behaved exactly as usual.
After breakfast Whewett took Daugherty over the estate, and Grace went for a brisk walk, as she had carelessly “lost” her skipping rope. She was not within view of the road when an antique black traveling carriage drove up to the door, nor would she have recognized Mrs. Townsend in any case.
Half an hour later Grace was completing her circuit when the carriage left. A black bonnet within suggested an aging female caller. Some old friend or neighbor of Lady Healy, she thought, and went lightly into the hallway, calling “Grandmama!” in her childish voice.
“Come in here, miss. You have some explaining to do,” Lady Healy called. Her voice alerted Grace to trouble.
A glance into the Purple Saloon sent her heart sinking. There on the table sat her new poke bonnet with the pink feather. Beside it rested her slippers, left in the carriage the day before. Lady Healy regarded these items, her face set in a grim, horrible frown. As Grace watched, the dame’s one free hand went to her hip in a bellicose attitude strangely at odds with her years and her cane.
“Yes, ma’am,” she answered timidly, and walked in.
“Will you be so kind as to tell me what these articles were doing in Whewett’s carriage?” she demanded.
Grace swallowed twice, while her mind worked feverishly. “How did you find out?”
“I’ll ask the questions, miss!” She also went on to give the answer. “Mrs. Townsend has told me the whole, so there is no point in lying. That takes you by surprise, eh?”
“Yes.” Her answer was an echo of regret. How much had Mrs. Townsend learned? The woman had not seen her.
Lady Healy’s next speech gave her a rush of hope. “Never mind trying to protect your papa. He met that Farnsworth creature in Tunbridge Wells. I know the whole, except what he did with you while he cavorted about the Pump Room with that hussy. I know you were not with them. And why did she leave her things in the carriage?”
“I—I believe he bought Miss Farnsworth a new bonnet,” Grace said. No plausible explanation for the slippers occurred to her.
“The gudgeon, letting himself be fleeced by a trollop. But where were you all the while, Augusta?”
“I was in the park.” The important thing was to conceal the masquerade. Whewett must make his own excuses.
“Alone?”
Those black eyes seemed to bore right into her soul. “Yes.”
“Your father abandoned you alone in a public park while he made a rendezvous with a lightskirt? Is that what you are telling me, Augusta?”
An awful wrath was gathering in the old lady. Grace wished to decrease it, but hardly knew how. Lady Healy ranted on, gathering steam as she advanced. “I’ll not leave your fortune in his hands. He has no more sense or common decency than a dog. I shall appoint the court as guardian of your inheritance.”
Grace had a strong feeling that Whewett would hate this. It would be a blow to his self-esteem, to be held untrustworthy, publicly deemed an improper parent. It was also unfair, for whatever else he was, he was an outstandingly good and loving father.
High spirits and daring in Augusta, on the other hand, had never been entirely unacceptable to the old lady. “No! Papa would never do that—” Grace looked fearfully to assess the degree of danger and punishment that might proceed from a different version of the afternoon.
“Aha! I knew it! Whewett ain’t a complete ninnyhammer. Never was a womanizer. Tell the truth now, missie, and it had best be good!” The dark eyes examining Grace held a greedy light. “What was the bonnet doing in the carriage?”
“It was me. I wore the bonnet.” The dark eyes glowed with satisfied shock, encouraging her to continue this tack. “For a lark, you know. I—I convinced Papa to buy it for me, when we went in to buy a present for Invers.”
“You did not wear such a bonnet in public in short skirts. What
did you wear with it?”
“A long skirt. I—I found one in the clothes press in my room and wore it pulled up till I was in the carriage. And the slippers—we bought a used pair at Sempleton’s Cobbler’s shop in Wickfield, to complete the outfit. It was just a little masquerade, Grandma, for fun. It’s my fault. I talked Papa into it. No harm was done.”
“You are a saucy minx, Augusta. You have caused a good deal of gossip with this prank. I know what it was all about. You wanted to go into places a young lady would not be allowed—to drink wine in a fancy inn and make a cake of yourself. Did you have wine, eh?”
“Champagne,” she admitted in a small voice, with her head bent to denote shame.
Lady Healy was not at all horrified, nor one bit angry. She could hardly keep from laughing aloud. Here was a reincarnation of herself, a madcap ready for any rig. Of course some punishment must be meted out for the looks of it.
“Baggage! This will not go unpunished. I ain’t a cloth-head, even if your papa is. He ought to have a good whipping as well.”
As well? Grace looked up with real fear, in light of this new twist. She didn’t doubt for a moment that Lady Healy was capable of it. “Papa never whips me!”
“I know it well. That is exactly the problem. You deserve a stick across your back, and you shall have it.”
Grace regarded her warily. She was old, her arms weak. Her blackthorn stick jiggled with the effort of standing. She could not hit very hard. It would be a tap, and there would be a gift afterward to atone for it.
“You’ll feel this,” she warned, lifting the black stick. The unfinished piece of wood was blistered with knobs and looked a hefty weapon.
Grace gauged her opponent and alit on an alternative punishment. “Hit me, then. That is better than being locked in the attic!”
Her ruse worked. An expression of relief flew to the sagging face that looked down on her. “Is that what you fear most?”
Grace lifted her chin boldly. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Except being locked in the attic.” Without further conversation the groom-butler was summoned. “Lady Augusta will be locked in the attic till dark without food. Take her away.”
The dame turned on her heel and stalked to the window, her heart beating wildly with excitement. She wanted to run after Augusta and hug her, but discipline was clearly required here.
The unwonted turmoil caused a twinge in her chest. Wayward girls were the devil of a nuisance, though she had no use for any other kind. Could she handle Gussie in Scotland? MacTavish was forever cautioning her against undue excitement. But of what good was life without it?
Grace had no opportunity to garner up her creature comforts before she was shown up into the sprawling attic of Willowcrest. The attic, a vast unpartitioned expanse with sharply slanting walls, was hot and close. Rectangles of light from the windows showed dust motes suspended in the air, but beyond these patches, the room was forbiddingly dark.
Her first act was to look for a means of escape. The butler had locked the one door to the story below. It must be a window, then. She ran from one to the other, examining them, noticing with dismay that they had actually been nailed closed, with long, sturdy nails, to prevent banging or drafts.
There was just one that had been secured with wooden pegs, perhaps to permit access to the roof below. She jiggled the pegs out without much trouble and slid the window up. She leaned out, gasping for fresh air.
There was no immediate danger of falling the several stories to the ground, for the gabled window was only one story higher than the roof below. The major difficulty was that if she hopped down to the roof, she had no means of regaining the attic, and she was not at all sure that being stranded on an open roof in the baking sun would be better than being inside. No tree was close enough to permit descent by that means, or even to provide shade.
There was nothing to do but await Whewett’s return. To pass the time she had a look at the attic’s contents. Ancient gowns and jackets smelling of camphor and dust beneath their coverings held little appeal. Chairs with one leg broken, lamps with a cracked chimney or base, blackened iron pots, and odd pieces of lumber provided slim prospect of entertainment.
Before long she was back at the window, trying to decide how to contact Whewett and warn him of what had happened before he entered the house. She could see the stable from here; she must take up a vigil at the window and call to him as he came home. He had left three hours ago. He would not be much longer.
She clambered to the window ledge and sat with her legs dangling outside to wait for him. From her perch, the countryside looked like a patchwork quilt done in shades of green, with an occasional house, barn, or road to relieve the monotony.
In less than thirty minutes she spotted Whewett approaching the house. He was with Daugherty and Bronfman. She waved her hand wildly, but the men were talking and did not chance to glance up at the window. Desperate to draw his attention, she jumped, down to the next roof and hurried to the edge, calling as loudly as she dared when they drew near. The three men looked all about and finally discovered her, leaning over the edge of the roof.
“Good God, she’ll fall and kill herself!” Bronfman exclaimed.
Whewett just looked, speechless.
“Papa, I must speak to you at once,” Grace called. She waved at the other men with a sheepish smile. “Grandma locked me in the attic,” she said.
“You gentlemen run along inside. I shall be in presently,” Whewett said. “It will be best not to mention this to Lady Healy,” he added.
They spoke some joking words of agreement and left. Whewett looked up and called, “Stand back from the edge of that roof before you fall and break your neck!”
“The worst thing, Whewett. She has found out about yesterday. Mrs. Townsend has been here.”
“What does she know?”
Grace briefly outlined her ruse. “Don’t spoil it,” she warned. “She is livid with you, too. She is threatening to use her cane on us.”
His jaw tensed, and his voice lashed like a whip. “Did she touch you?”
“No!”
“Stay there. I’ll be right up. And get away from that edge.”
Whewett disappeared. In less than a minute he strode briskly into the Purple Saloon, where Lady Healy sat with Daugherty and Bronfman. “I’ll have the keys to the attic,” he said, extending a hand peremptorily.
“I’ll speak to you later, Master Jackanapes,” she replied.
“The keys, Lady Healy. Now!” The word was a bark.
The dame’s notions of propriety did not permit squabbling in front of the lower orders. She could bring Whewett to heel more satisfactorily later. “The butler has ‘em.”
Whewett stalked into the hallway and got the keys. He mounted the stairs two at a time, wrenched open the attic door and continued his swift ascent into the attic. In his warm condition the heat hit him like the blast from a furnace. He uttered one of those expletives that lurk at the bottom of all men’s vocabularies, then ran to the window. Grace stood beneath him on the roof, looking up, and wondering how she was to get back inside. “Whewett!” she exclaimed in relief.
“Are you all right?” He had his foot on the windowsill, prepared to join her.
“Don’t jump!” she shrieked. “We’ll never get back inside. Can you help me up?”
“That woman is insane! It’s hot as hades up here. You’ll be prostrate with the heat. Here, give me your hands.”
He got a firm grip on her wrists and began lifting her up. With the poor leverage the window allowed, however, it was impossible to haul her more than six inches off the roof.
“You’re pulling my arms out of their sockets,” she complained. He released his grip immediately. The suddenness of the release sent her sinking on her knees. In a split second there was a thump beside her as Whewett landed on the roof.
“Are you all right, Grace?” he asked, leaning down to help her up. She saw the fear and anger in his eyes and he
ard the rough edge of concern in his voice.
“My skipping ankle has had another wrench,” she said with a cringe as she tried to put her weight on it. His hands, around her waist from helping her up, enfolded her, pulling her against him, where her head nestled against his chest.
The strength and protection of his arms were welcome after her ordeal. She was ambushed by the temptation to stay there forever, safe from the ugly present and worse future. For a moment she relaxed. She felt one hand move to her head, stroking her hair in a caressing way that went beyond mere comforting, and felt flustered.
She pulled her head back and discovered a peculiar expression on his face—a softening of the harsh lines just seen. “You shouldn’t have jumped, Whewett. We’ll never get back in now,” she said breathlessly.
“Are you all right? Did she hurt you? How’s the ankle?”
Grace detached herself from his arms and tried her weight on it. He held her hand for support. “It will be all right.”
“How long were you locked up here?”
“About an hour. You must remember to tell her--”
“An hour! Good God! I’m telling her the truth. This is ridiculous, locking you in attics, as though you were an unruly child, and threatening to whip you.”
“Us,” she corrected. “You are for the thorn stick, too, for allowing me to behave so badly.” She related at more length the story she had told Lady Healy.
“We’re marching straight down there and telling her the truth,” he said, lifting his chin in a determined way. Then he looked about him, gradually realizing that he was not able to do anything of the sort. “As soon as I figure out how we are to get down from here,” he added.
“Now don’t be rash, Whewett. We have been through too much to throw it all to the winds now. Think of Augusta’s fortune.”
“To hell with Augusta’s fortune. We don’t need the money. It is a luxury. How dare she treat you like this! As though you were a—”
“Yes, but so far as she knows, I am a child. She hasn’t an inkling of the truth. It will only be for another day or so. Is Daugherty going to buy the estate?”
