Til Morning Comes

by Lisa Ann Harper

  Nigella did not open up to her like she had before, but their conversations began to take on a reflective, more thoughtful tone. She seemed to be searching, but would not say for what, or perhaps she did not know. Whatever was going on, Mallory did her best to be supportive. She was never quite sure if her accounts hit the mark. Since their return to the Park Nigella had lost her girlish impetuosity; she would simply nod or release a sigh. Nevertheless, she kept coming back.

  * * *

  A week later, when she returned from a drive to Cheltenham, Mallory was instructed by Reynolds to see Mr. Crosby immediately. She did not take time to change, but hurried over to his offices. The reception was stormy, the bailiff coming straight to the point.

  “We were tipped off Mason, no need to know by whom, but it lead us to the coach house. We found this.” He held a jewelled clip one of a pair, in his out-stretched hand. It was stunning: a cluster of small diamonds surrounding a rosette of rubies in the shape of a leaf. “Have you sold its partner already?”

  Mallory stared in disbelief. “Mr. Crosby, I’ve never seen this in my life.”

  “Baldwin says he’s seen you on a few occasions lurking in a private part of the Big House. Do you have an explanation for that?”

  “From time to time I do go to see her Ladyship, but I’m not lurking Mr. Crosby,” she protested. This was awful. She realised with dismay she was being accused of theft, but who would do this?

  “So you say Mason, but you’ve no business there at all unless, as I suspect, you’re up to no good.” He shook his head which set his jowls quivering. She could not say more, she had given her word and anyway, she would not be believed. In a low, hard voice he continued: “I would suspend you from all duties, but his Lordship wishes the matter to be investigated before we take that step. However, you are strictly limited to the servants’ quarters when unescorted.” With this order she was dismissed. “That will be all.”

  She walked back to her room anger seething inside, her heart pounding with suppressed indignation. She swore, only the once, but with a white-hot fury. The accusation had stung, like a burn from a flaming missile and her mind filled with foreboding: It could be up before the Captain’s table then ending my miserable days in Broadmoor, locked up with the criminally insane! As she bathed and changed before going over for supper, her brain revolved with farfetched notions. She had no idea who could have set her up like this. It was beyond all understanding, but whatever, she was in deep trouble.

  Her reception in the servants’ hall was frosty. The news is out then. As she took her seat, she could see most faces were curious, but no–one stood out as definitely smirking. Nothing was said. When the meal was almost at an end, Mr. Baldwin appeared, he did not eat with the servants, but with Mrs. Aldred in her private rooms. He delivered the command that his Lordship wished to speak to Mason immediately. They all turned and stared. This would be it!

  “Enter.” She stood before his massive desk and waited.

  “Mason, what’s this I hear?” Sir Eustace was full of bristling impatience as he looked accusingly over the rim of his spectacles, fixing her with a confronting stare.

  She took a staccato breath, but met his stare directly: “Your Lordship, I have no knowledge of this … at all.”

  Sir Eustace bit out through closed teeth: “I am very disappointed in you Mason. If I find out you’re telling me a pack of lies I’ll …”

  “Your Lordship …”

  “Silence! Don’t try to bluster your way out of this. I have called in the local constabulary. Detective Inspector Daniels will be here tomorrow to look into the matter and he and his sergeant will thoroughly investigate the circumstances of this theft. Lady Patchford missed her broach or whatever it is, last Friday. They’ll question everyone as to their whereabouts that day, so you will have a fair chance with all the rest to explain yourself.”

  She ground her teeth: “Yes Your Lordship.”

  “You’ve been doing good work Mason, but don’t think you are indispensable. I have someone else who has offered for the job and if I find you to be a thief, you will be out and he will be in. You are dismissed.”

  “Yes my Lord,” she replied hearing her voice shake, despite every effort not to betray her feelings. She left and returned to her room head down, thinking furiously all the while. Bloody hell this is serious. Last Friday? Have I been here a month already? Nothing special: an ordinary day just like the others. Did I go in to report to Lady Patchford? Shit a brick! That put her in the east wing … and this investigation? I can’t go through that. The masquerade would be discovered. Proved innocent or not, she could not risk being found out.

  She was sitting on her narrow bed, trying to think what to do, how to deal with this, when there was a quick, loud rap at the door. When she opened it, there stood Jake Beeson, one friendly face. “Ah Mr. Beeson, come in,” she breathed in relief and stepped aside. Jake, who had no pipe for once, entered and sat down.

  “I ’eard the news lad an’ I don’t believe it.”

  “Thank you Mr. Beeson.” In a voice that trembled she added: “For what it’s worth, I didn’t do this.”

  “I believe ya’, lad. But I’ve come t’ tell ya’ somat else.” She took the edge of her bed again, ready to listen.

  “Yes, I think as young Tricklebank ’as got it in fer ya’.”

  Len? “But why?”

  “Well … it’s like this. Afore ya’ come along, Tricklebank ’ad it in ’is ’ead t’ take over from the previous driver. ’e’d made no secret that ’e wouldn’t be a stable ’and all ’is life. ’es been goin’ t’ night school; studyin’ mechanics, you know fer them fancy automobiles.”

  “Ah!”

  “Yeah, then ya’ comes along out o’ the blue an’ pops right in, see?”

  “So you think this could be his way to get rid of me; take over?” Her mouth pulled tight, lips thin with contempt.

  “Ya’ got it lad, can ya’ clear yer name?”

  “I don’t know …” she replied thoughtfully: “… there’s going to be an investigation.” Her gaze was speculative as she looked across at the old man. “I guess I’ll have to wait to see how that goes,” she replied slowly.

  “All right Mason, I’ll be orf. Good luck anyway.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Nigella heard the news from Millie as they were going through their nightly routine before she retired for sleep.

  “I ’eard it from Dottie as ’eard it from Mrs. Cummings, they say there’s still one clip missin’. They reckon as ’e sold it already. Prob’ly short o’ cash ’e was.”

  Nigella stayed her hand as she was about to take out the pins to brush her hair. “Millie, are you sure?” she asked, as her heart beat terribly at the thought he could be in some trouble. Restlessly, she fingered the silver key on its gold chain: “That’s hard to believe. Papa would not keep someone short of money. He leaves all that sort of thing to Crosby … and he’d have no reason to do something like that.” Now her heart could not beat as she tried to suppress a rising fear: “You must be mistaken.”

  “’Is Lordship sent fer Master Mason at supper to give ’im ’is notice, I’ll be bound.”

  Once her maid had gone Nigella continued to sit at her dressing table, looking in the mirror, but seeing Mallory Mason as he had been on their last ride together. He was so handsome – it just could not be true. Such pleasing, well-defined features; a bearing she found so reassuring. She loved too, the way his hair would become untamed as they galloped for their lives across the meadows. She cherished those rides. A day that passed without seeing him was a day of dejection. No, this was not right.

  Since that fateful day when her mother had given her the key with the injunction never to remove it from her safe keeping, life had been wretched indeed. She had been told she could never divulge this to another soul. Her father did not know and if she knew what was good for her, he must never find out. She felt so isolated, forsaken; a changeling in her own home. She remembered the
nursery fairy tales and now their portents seemed to haunt her waking and sleeping hours. There was no one in whom she could confide. On her rides with Mason, she felt safe, away from the suspicious, prying eyes which were everywhere. They tortured her.

  She had thought to disobey her mother and speak to Ramona. There had been a moment when she could have approached her but when Ramona had confided her fears, it became impossible. She realised her sister was too overwhelmed with the prospect of this engagement and all that it meant to her future. Her courage had failed her. Instead, she had listened and tried to give support in her distress; provide reassurance that life with Lord Knowlesworthy could not possibly be as bad as she imagined. It was not as though she were being sent off to the poor house, or darkest Africa, was it?

  In their school-room days they had thought to take on the life of the missionary when they grew up; full of adventure and the saving of savage souls – all those lepers in the Congo. Everyone had been talking about it, but the proposition seemed to fade from popularity then they too, lost interest. No, solace was not to be found in that direction. She would have turned to her mother, but as the gala celebrations loomed ever nearer, she was increasingly absorbed in her responsibilities, becoming ever more remote. She took to fingering her mother’s key nervously, through the fabric of her dress then believed she was drawing too much attention by this odd behaviour. She had become so nervy, even a stranger to herself. Only on her rides could she find respite from this oppressive apprehension; or when she went to the Carriage House. There she felt safe.

  What was it about Mallory Mason that had this effect on her? He certainly was not like any other servant she had met, or gentleman for that matter. The servants were always respectful and the gentlemen usually intimidating. She reflected it had been like that with him in the beginning, but now they knew each other better. The differences, instead of upsetting her, only added to his fascination. She had to admit he intrigued her. Anyway, it was always pleasing to be in his company. He did make her feel better. He made the whole world feel better. Dismissed! Whatever will I do?

  Different outlines presented themselves, all in turn discarded. She thought for a while longer then her head shot up. That’s it! She jumped up and rummaged through drawers to find a ribbon to bind her hair, then hastily covered it with a silk scarf. Her warm coat would do to cover her nightgown and again she slipped into her velvet house-shoes. Closing the door quietly, she padded lightly down to the side entrance and out into the darkening night.

  Another knock at the dormer door: this time quieter, a little hesitant.

  “My Lady, what are you doing here?” She was totally astounded and immediately perturbed. If the young Mistress of the house were discovered – it would not just be Broadmoor she would have to worry about. Well, best not to have her in plain view, even on a night as dark as this. “Please my Lady, come in. You must not be seen,” she whispered urgently.

  Nigella hurried across the threshold and immediately turned to face him. “Is it true?” green eyes large with enquiry, hands clasping nervously. “I would have given you anything you needed,” she continued diffidently. “You would only have to ask.”

  “My Lady please, I am no thief.” Anger flared causing Mallory’s enraged eyes to flash icily. “I could hope … you of all people, would not believe that of me.” The heat of indignation suffused through her, but she did her best to cover this rising temper. She had recognised the generosity of nature revealed in the girl’s words.

  “No! I don’t think that at all,” Nigella was quick to negate. This is ruinous. I’m making a mess of things and he is becoming wrathful. She did not want to make things worse. “I only meant … I meant … I would always be willing…” her lips curved into an extraordinary softness: “… willing to help you,” she ended achingly, as her hand reached out.

  Mallory stepped back clumsily. She had seen love in those luminous eyes. Dear God! Nigella was so guileless, so open. Did she not know how easily she could be taken advantage of? She called out to her for safekeeping and she could feel herself respond, powerfully drawn to this natural innocence. She may only be a girl, but she was overwhelmingly attractive.

  Don’t go there Mal, for God’s sake. Don’t let your feelings run away with you.

  Her control would be iron-clad. She knew Nigella well enough to know how touchingly vulnerable she was at the moment. She did not know the cause but, if damage were not to be done, it was imperative she react to her emotional, unspoken demands with as much sensitivity as possible. To be honest, she had to acknowledge, the Lady Nigella was very important to her.

  Be strong! She must not let weak-minded sentiment rule her. She would maintain an appropriate distance – not as cold as to cause alienation; her need was for reassurance. “My Lady, please sit down.” She held out the chair and took the bed. “There’s no need to concern yourself. Everything’s cool.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” she asked perplexed again.

  “Oh sorry, I mean I’ve worked out a plan.”

  “What do you intend to do?”

  “I’m going to catch the train to Birmingham. I can start over. No-one will know me there.”

  “Birmingham?” Oh no. So far away! She felt a panic flutter in her stomach and impetuously declared: “You will need someone to help you. I can do that.”

  “My Lady, that is preposterous. You can’t live in a big city,” she declared bluntly. “Whatever could you do?” She was aghast at such a suggestion. It was derisible. What a child!

  “It isn’t. I’m not a child. If I’m never given a chance, how will you know what I can and cannot do?” With her instant indignation tears glistened, caught on her thick lashes.

  Oh the poor, hapless girl. “I don’t mean to be unkind, but my Lady you know nothing of city life. Your parents will be beside themselves. They’ll move heaven and earth to get you back.”

  “My parents,” she repeated bitterly and shook her head. “No, they wouldn’t.” Her face was a study in confusion – by turns resistant then wavering and finally entreating. She would not give up. The hands in her lap clenched tight. “I can help. Be supportive in whatever you do.”

  “No, no. It couldn’t possibly work. You must stay here,” her expression hardened and her mouth pulled tight. “You will be seventeen in two months and you have so much to look forward to.”

  “Please don’t send me away,” she persisted, her hand now coming to rest delicately on his arm. “I cannot stay here.” The full force of her imploring eyes bore into Mallory.

  “What’s this you’re saying my Lady?” Her body became rigid with shock and she pulled her arm away with a brutish jerk. Nigella reared back as though struck, but would not yield and continued: “I cannot. I will leave, whether it’s with you or alone. I have to go. There’s no future for me here.”

  “My Lady, you don’t mean this.” She felt badly for her harsh action having just resolved not to cause distress. She needed time to search and find the right words, to make the girl see sense, but her emotions were all consuming, robbing her of rational judgement. Nigella broke her train of thought with her insistence.

  “I do! My life has been intolerable since…” She stopped and changed course: “You know I’ve been miserable. You do, I know you do.” She hurled out the words, her cheeks flaming as her eyes glittered, her agitation becoming alarming.

  “Yes, yes,” Mallory was quick to soothe. “I do know something’s been bothering you, but surely not enough to make you want to run away.” She assessed her with manifest concern.

  “Yes, yes. Enough for that,” the girl insisted, eyes blazing with defiance.

  “My Lady, what is it? If I knew the reason then perhaps I could help.” And change your obdurate and unyielding pig-headedness.

  She shook her head. “I cannot tell you, but I promise I will explain … once we’re safely away and no-one can find us.” This time both hands reached out in supplication, but did not touch. “Please don’t make me st
ay. Take me with you.” This desperate pleading was making a direct hit. It did seem more than just a teenager’s adolescent need for attention. She could see real pain and desperation in both word and action. In her heart, Mallory knew she had relented, but – one more try.

  “My Lady, I’ll be busier than a one armed bandit, first looking for work then …”

  “So will I,” she interrupted; a stubborn set to her red lips. She would not dispute the ‘bandit’ not caring if she understood or not, how he could be capable of so much activity, determined only to achieve her own ends. She would not allow herself to be diverted.

  “But what can you do?”

  She lifted her chin. “What can you do?” she derided, her apprehension making her uncharacteristically aggressive.

  Finally they looked at each other with no words left, but the space between them charged and unsettling. Mallory had succumbed against her better judgement. This girl really did get to her. She stirred her sympathies in the deepest recesses of the heart. Perhaps it would be all right. She could find work get a job in one of those small manufacturers that flourished in the Black Country. They were always looking for fitters and turners. She had all her boxes ticked. She knew her way around machinery from helping Dad in the shed – enough to be taken on as an apprentice. Anyway, it would not be forever. Once Nigella was over this bad patch, she could return her to the bosom of the family, she rationalised. Everyone would be relieved, happy to see her safe return. Even if they have suffered a fright, we can make up some story to keep me out of it.