Delsie

by Joan Smith

  She was dreadfully aware of her inability to deal with even one of the evildoers, if it should be one of the Bristcombes. What if there was a group? Miss Milne’s doorway was only a step beyond Bobbie’s. She ducked in and shook the girl’s arm. She wouldn’t ask her to come downstairs, but just let her know she was going in case... In case she didn’t come back. Hardly a reassuring thought. And if the girl insisted on coming along, that was quite her own affair. To Miss Milne’s credit and Delsie’s infinite relief, the governess insisted on accompanying her mistress.

  “I woke up all of a sudden, ma’am, and thought I heard something fall over down below. A clattering sound it was, like a shovel or rake,” the girl said, perfectly wide-awake. “I didn’t bother getting up to have a look. There was only the one man, you say?”

  “Yes, I saw only one.”

  “I wonder who it could be? I’ll go down with you, and we’ll each take a poker for our defense.” Miss Milne went in the dark and took up her own weapon, while Mrs. Grayshott decided to have one from the saloon below. Without any candle to betray their presence, they huddled together down the stairs, tiptoeing and clinging to each other’s arm. All was silent, and dark, and extremely frightening. They crept to the French doors that were beneath Mrs. Grayshott’s window, stood with their pokers at the ready, staring into the black night, seeing nothing more treacherous than the naked black branches of trees, swaying against skies hardly less black.

  “I’ll just open the door and listen a moment,” Mrs. Grayshott said. This met with no disapproval, and it was done. A somewhat eerie moaning of the low wind through the nude trees was added to their discomfort, as was a piercingly cold breeze. For two minutes they both listened, ears on the stretch, till they were convinced the intruder was gone, at which point Miss Milne mentioned wondering what had been knocked over.

  “It can’t have been more than a step away. I’ll slip out and have a look,” Mrs. Grayshott decided. This was only half her reason. What she truly wished to see was whether any more bags of guineas had been dropped.

  “I’ll go with you,” Miss Milne offered at once. Really, she was a perfect governess, becoming more valuable and less dispensable by the second. But still, a Miss Milne at the doorway was as good protection as one at her elbow, seeing what (if anything) was picked up.

  “Wait here. I won’t be a minute,” Mrs. Grayshott told her, and went alone out the door. “It’s a shovel,” she called back over her shoulder in a low voice as she discerned in the darkness the outline of one leaning against the side of the house.

  “I wonder if he was digging something,” Miss Milne called back in a whisper.

  “I’ll have a look while I’m here.” With eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom, the details of the night scene were becoming more easily recognizable.

  “Be careful!” Miss Milne cautioned, coming to put her head out the French door for purposes of surveillance.

  Delsie walked silently the few yards to the back of the building, looking about for any signs of either dropped canvas bags, or possibly freshly-dug holes, finding neither. A sudden keening gust of wind made her realize the folly of continuing the search in the middle of a black December night, wearing only a robe. She’d be lucky if she didn’t catch a cold as a result of this stunt. Just before returning to the French doors, she took a quick peep around the corner that gave a view of the back of the Cottage. She nearly fainted from shock. There, hiding in the shadows less than a yard away, stood the man, dressed all in black, his face a white blur, as he flattened himself against the wall. Some stifled sound of terror was in her throat. She tried to run, and discovered that, as in some nightmare, her limbs were frozen. Flight was impossible. She just stood, straining her eyes in the darkness at the man, who was staring back at her.

  The man recovered his wits first. His arms shot out, suddenly, swiftly, and his hands grabbed her wrists, jerking her around the corner. They were very strong hands. The lurching movement pulled her against him, where she could feel the brush of his jacket against her cheek. In a fog of absolute panic, she struggled to be free, pushing against his chest, catching some small metallic object that dangled from a pocket. His hands held firm.

  Suddenly one hand released its hold and the arm went around her waist. Before she had time to even wonder what was happening, his head came down and his lips found hers. She was being soundly kissed, with the man’s two arms around her now, holding her in an unbreakable grasp. It was a bizarre incident. It should have been horrifying as well, but her horror was not so strong as she would have thought. His cheeks were smooth; his embrace, while unwanted and in fact savage, sent a thrill through her. As a host of sensations jumbled through her brain, there emerged in the midst of them the thought that the man was a gentleman. This was patent nonsense. He was a criminal, but he was a clean-shaven criminal at least, not a dirty, rough, repulsive man.

  As quickly as he had grabbed her, she was released. The man turned and disappeared into the night. Delsie became aware suddenly of the chilly night air, and of the softly calling voice of her companion behind her. “Are you all right, ma’am? What’s happened?” Miss Milne asked anxiously. “Did he hurt you?”

  The unexpected reaction was a definite feeling of pique that Miss Milne had seen the embrace. “No. That is—you saw what happened.”

  “He was kissing you, the bold creature! Who could it have been?”

  “Let us go inside. I’m freezing.” They hastened their steps back into the saloon. “I’ve no idea who it could be.”

  “It looked like... But that’s impossible. He’d never behave so shamelessly,” Miss Milne said, chattering excitedly.

  “Did you recognize the man?”

  “Oh, no! I couldn’t see a thing but an outline.”

  “You said it looked like someone. Who did you mean?”

  “It was the size of Lord deVigne was what I thought, and wearing evening clothes too. I saw the white shirt against the black coat, and there aren’t many gentlemen hereabouts. But of course it could not have been him,” Miss Milne stated confidently.

  “I should think not, indeed,” the widow said primly. Then together the two remounted the stairs, parting at the governess’s door with a few words as to not mentioning this incident to Bobbie.

  “There’s one thing we’re sure of anyway, ma’am,” Miss Milne said. “It wasn’t Mr. Bristcombe, dressed up so fine. I wonder who it can have been.” Her voice sounded a little wistful.

  When she was safely back in her own warm bed once more, the widow was forced to admit that she too had been struck with the thought that it was Lord deVigne who had kissed her. She puzzled over this. The height was right, the clothing, the feel of it indicating a good quality, though she had not herself discerned that the man wore an evening suit. She knew deVigne had worn one that evening, just an hour before, when he had brought her home. And that little metal watch fob she had felt hanging from the man’s waistcoat pocket—it could have been a golden wishbone. Indeed, it was hard to conceive what else it could possibly have been—two little prongs she had felt between her fingers. And he had worn that fob tonight. She had particularly noticed he had the habit of fingering it unconsciously when he spoke.

  Why should Lord deVigne be skulking about the yard at an hour past midnight? Why indeed, when she had told him less than twenty-four hours before that men had been there. He might have been looking for them, trying to discover who they were, and what they were doing. It was entirely possible he had been there. The likeliest thing was that he had sent his carriage home without him and had stayed behind, so little time had passed between her entering the house and the sound outside. He had even mentioned having a look around. Of course it had been deVigne, which gave rise to the next question. Why had he kissed her? He had not, to her knowledge, the reputation of a flirt. His name was never linked with any of the village girls.

  Such a juicy bit of gossip would have been passed along by Miss Frisk. The riddle kept her awake for the better pa
rt of an hour. Before she slept, she was concerned too for how she should act when next they met, whether she should drop a hint of her suspicions. She thought she would not. It could not be other than extremely embarrassing. DeVigne was impervious to such trifling matters—he never reacted to anything. It would be herself who ended up with a scarlet face, feeling a fool for his misbehavior. Best to say nothing and hope he would have the grace to do likewise. If it had actually been deVigne, that is. And what if it hadn’t?

  This was a new puzzle, one that required a fresher head than hers. She was nodding off to sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Delsie awoke in the morning to her troubling memories, and to lead-gray skies, from which a cold rain streaked down. It was Sunday. Rain had never deterred her from attending church when she had had to walk, and it did not occur to her that it would be a reason when there were carriages to transport her. She dressed in her black gown before joining Bobbie and Miss Milne to descend to the breakfast table. In an effort to enroll herself in her mistress’s good books, Mrs. Bristcombe actually attempted a smile when she served the meal. Her wide girth was encased in a clean white apron, and her hair had been brushed. Taking these changes for tokens of obedience, Delsie said, “You and your husband have a bad day for your visit, Mrs. Bristcombe. It is a pity.”

  “It may let up by noon,” the dame answered, still smiling. The widow’s surprise was great when the woman next asked in quite a civil tone if there was any errand she could do while passing through the village. Delsie first said no, then changed her mind and gave her the letters to her former pupils to whom she was offering positions. She even condescended to tell her housekeeper the contents of the letters, assuring her that the girls were good, reliable workers, who would be a help to her. She thought the smile on Mrs. Bristcombe’s face wore a different character than before, but it was so new a sight to see any upturning of the woman’s lips that she could not be sure.

  “I’ll deliver them for you. Right on my way,” she said agreeably, and waddled from the room.

  “We shall wear our new bonnets, even if it is raining,” Delsie said to Roberta. “We can take an umbrella.” She wished to have some visible sign of her new status on this first trip up the aisle of the local church.

  “We don’t go to church when it rains,” Bobbie stated simply.

  Roberta seldom attended at all. Delsie tried to remember whether the others stayed away when the weather was bad. They were frequently absent, but they were sociable, often away visiting or in London, and she could not be certain Bobbie was correct. She made her own preparations to attend in any case, then went below to sit in the saloon and wait. Church began at eleven. She watched as the hands of the clock showed her ten-thirty, ten forty-five, ten-fifty, at which time she put aside her bonnet. Clearly there would be no church for her today. Before she had decided what to do, there was a knock on the front door. Bristcombe came to tell her deVigne’s carriage was waiting. It was too late. They would miss half the service. With a tsk of annoyance she hastened to the door herself, to give deVigne a gentle hint that a half-hour drive should be begun at least thirty minutes before the function was to begin. There was only a footman at the door. A glance beyond showed her a perfectly empty carriage.

  “Sorry we’re late, ma’am. The master don’t go to church when it pours so. He didn’t think to send the carriage to see if you’d like to attend, till just a minute ago.”

  “Pray thank Lord deVigne, but I do not plan to attend either when it has got so late,” she answered coldly, then went back into the saloon, miffed. The next preoccupation was how to pass the morning indoors, for the rain made going out impossible. She was eager to begin searching in earnest for further stores of hidden canvas bags. Lady Jane was not there to join her, but she would start anyway. Mr. Grayshott’s room seemed a likely spot.

  “I told you we don’t go to church when it rains.” Bobbie danced out the door to inform her as she passed down the hall. “I don’t have to study on Sunday either. What shall we do, Mama?”

  “We are going to tidy up your papa’s room,” she told the child, who dangled along happily at her heels. She would say nothing about the money if she found any, but set it aside for concealing in the vault later.

  “It certainly is untidy, isn’t it?” Bobbie asked her.

  The room had become Mr. Grayshott’s main living quarters during the last few months, and was cluttered with personal objects. Books, cards, games, old papers, and magazines abounded, littering every surface. No dusting or cleaning appeared to have been done since his death, or some weeks preceding it, by the quantity of dust everywhere.

  She looked systematically through the dresser, the clothes-press, the night table, under the bed, explaining to Bobbie that she was looking for dust.

  “There’s lots of it under the bed,” Bobbie pointed out.

  “Indeed there is. I shall be sure to tell the maids about it when they come. We are getting two girls from the village to help us. You will like them—young, jolly girls.”

  With a sigh and a last look about the room, she concluded there was no hidden wealth here. Then it occurred to her that a well-established place for hiding things was under the mattress. She was just considering how to hide any possible find from Bobbie when the governess tapped at the door.

  “There’s a message from Lady Jane, ma’am,” she said. “She’d like you to take Miss Roberta to her this afternoon after luncheon to spend the afternoon and stay to dinner. She doesn’t go out herself in the damp because of her joints aching. Shall I tidy her up? It’s nearly time for luncheon.”

  “Yes, thank you. Oh, and Miss Milne, as the Bristcombes are leaving this afternoon, you might like to come with us. You will not want to stay here all alone.”

  “I was going to suggest it, ma’am. My cousin Betsy works at the Dower House, and I thought I might have a wee visit with her.”

  “Excellent. You can come in the carriage that will be sent for us.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Grayshott.”

  She took Roberta away. Delsie quietly closed the door after them before tipping back the mattress. Mr. Grayshott had liked his comfort. A soft, bulging feather tick rested on top of the firmer straw-filled one. Removing them posed a difficult problem. The feather tick she finally managed to push off, listening closely for the telltale tinkle of coins from within. There was none. The firmer straw-filled one was more difficult to remove. In order to be rid of it, it was necessary to shove it aside, then climb up on the springs to complete the job. She was panting with the effort, and lay back a moment to rest.

  Casting up her eyes, she saw that the canopy sagged unevenly in the center, as though some weight bore on it. Her heart quickening, she leapt from the bed, dragged a chair to allow her a better view, and saw a whole heap of the canvas bags. She reached in for them, pulling them down and tossing them on the bed, one by one, counting each. There were an even dozen. Another twelve hundred stolen guineas! The feeling that settled over her was close to gloom. Was there no end to it? Was every nook and cranny of the house to yield more evidence of criminality on her husband’s part?

  She clambered down, felt under the straw mattress from both sides instead of trying to remove it completely, and satisfied herself that she had got them all. The feather tick was returned, then she went like a thief with her twelve bags down to her own room. Better secrete them in the vault. She wrapped them up in her pelisse to conceal them from the eyes of the Bristcombes, should they be skulking below. With trembling fingers, she shoved them into the vault, which would hardly hold such a cache. If she found any more, she would have to discover a new hiding place. She felt as guilty as if she had stolen them herself.

  Her upset continued throughout luncheon. She could hardly eat a bite, listened with only half an ear to Bobbie’s excited chatter about visiting Aunt Jane. The discovery even wiped from her mind the preceding night’s episode, which had been much with her throughout the morning. It was deVigne who came to take
them to the Dower House in his carriage. With Miss Milne and Roberta present, the news could not be relayed to him. She regarded him surreptitiously, trying to read whether he was showing any discomfort or guilt over last night. He looked impassive, as ever. It seemed suddenly impossible to credit that it had been he. Any number of gentlemen possessed an evening suit. The watch fob need not have been a wishbone. It might have been any small object. He suddenly spoke, interrupting her line of thought.

  “I’m sorry if I caused you to miss church this morning. I don’t know whether it is your custom to attend in such inclement weather. It is not my own, but I know you are fond of church. I didn’t think of it till too late, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, I always attend church on Sunday. I used to walk in the rain, and should certainly have gone had the carriage been there on time. But I hope by next week I shall not have to trouble you, deVigne. I hope to set up my own gig as soon as you manage to sell Mr. Grayshott’s carriages and horses.

  “Gig?” he asked, in a loud voice.

  “Yes, gig,” she answered firmly. There would clearly be an argument over this point, but, like the new discovery of money, it must await more privacy.