Wiles of a Stranger

by Joan Smith

  "Shall I report to Mrs. Beaudel, or to yourself?” I asked him as we jogged along the road to Glanbury Park. He had not once mentioned her.

  "Either one. We both hold ourselves responsible for Lucien. She would have come with me this morning to meet you, but she had a headache. She is prone to migraine, my wife. I wish she would see a doctor."

  "Aunt Stella says the doctor makes her sick,” Lucien informed me, with a wise little laugh. “It is a joke. He should make her well, but he makes her sick. Why aren't you laughing, Miss Stacey?"

  "You offend Miss Stacey to say so, Lucien,” Beaudel pointed out, which sent me to look for a reason. I soon recalled my new persona.

  "My father is a doctor, you must know,” I said.

  I would have to be wary to remember who I now was, but at least I could stop being wary about being recognized by some employee of the Stag and Hounds. After some innocuous chatter from Lucien, I judged it not too forward to enquire of Beaudel whether anything more had been heard of Miss Little.

  "Not a word from her,” he said sadly, shaking his head. “I hope no harm has come to her. She is not the sort of woman I would have thought to behave in this manner. She was very conscientious in her duties. I would be afraid she had met with an accident, but for the fact of her closets and bureau being emptied. The police are looking into her disappearance."

  "None of your servants saw her go?"

  "They say not. Lucien was the last one to see her. She took him into town yesterday morning. Nothing unusual happened there. They went to some shops to buy a few things, then came straight home. Lucien went to the stables for a ride on his pony, and was told to meet Miss Little back in the nursery. When he went, she was not there. We thought nothing of it at first, thought she was in the kitchen, or even out for a little stroll, as the day was fine. But when she was not back after a few hours, the servants went to her room, and that is when we discovered all her things were gone. She had emptied her closets, slipped away, and left us without any notice."

  "I wonder if she might have received word from home—might have been too distraught to leave a message,” I suggested. There was something in Beaudel that asked for compassion.

  "I would like to think so, but it cannot be the case, Miss Stacey. It shows a kind nature in you to think it. No, the post had come long since with no letters for her. Nor was it possible for her to have taken a coach out of town. The hour was not right. She either walked or was picked up in a private carriage. I cannot think she walked, with a large valise. The police—I spoke to them before going to meet you—have been making investigations. No one saw her walking. She would hardly have headed off through the hills alone. Someone met her. It is a great mystery, but I can only assume it was an affair of the heart,” he said, with a passing glance off Lucien, as though to say “we know how it is, but will say no more before the boy."

  "Miss Little did not have a beau, Uncle,” Lucien informed him, very matter-of-factly. “She often lamented the fact."

  I looked at him, surprised anew at his ancient ways. To use such a word as “lamented” was not what one expected of a very child, and to be aware of the state of his governess's heart too was precocious. He looked up and caught me regarding him. He smiled, very slyly, I thought. I made a mental note that we would discuss the matter again in privacy. No stone would be unturned in my effort to prove my father innocent.

  "Do you have a beau, Miss Stacey?” Lucien asked.

  "You are very interested in romance for a young fellow!"

  "I will be your beau, if you like,” he offered.

  "Thank you, but you are a little too old for me,” I replied with a damping glance.

  "I don't think so. Uncle Charles and Aunt Stella are a May and December match, and they rub along very well,” he answered.

  Beaudel flushed a little pink. “Chatterbox. Miss Stacey is not interested in our family matters,” he chided gently.

  "Yes, she is. Servants are always interested in family matters. Miss Little told me so. She was always interested in us."

  "Did Miss Little not tell you that children do not contradict their elders?” I asked playfully.

  "I can't recall she ever did, but she told me so many things I may have forgotten a few of them."

  Glanbury Park lay roughly five miles from the town of Chelmsford. During the last of the trip we all fell into an uncomfortable silence. We had said all we had to say to each other, and turned our thoughts inwards. It occurred to me then for the first time that what I was about to do was rash, to say the least. Possibly even criminal. To go under false pretences to a home about which I knew nothing but evil was at least foolhardy.

  If I should either disappear like Miss Little, or end up in jail like my father, I would have no one to turn to. Who would believe the word of a prisoner's daughter? The mistress of the house was a hussy, and the boy in my charge wore a strange, sly smile. On top of it all, Mr. Kirby had disappeared. He would he taken for a fabrication, an excuse by Papa to get into Glanbury Park and steal their diamonds.

  The countryside at least was pleasantly pastoral. The finer country homes appeared to date from the fifteenth to seventeenth centuries. Many of them were timber framed, some with the elaborate parget fronts, fashioned in geometrical designs. We turned in at a set of black iron gates, drove through a small park, past a stand of firs, to my first glimpse of Glanbury.

  It was an old home, designed and built before Inigo Jones went to Italy and changed English architecture (for the better, in my own view). There was no Palladian symmetry in evidence. Glanbury was a large, rambling, climbing, sprawling, brick monstrosity of a place, the left side two stories higher than the right, and topped off with a tower. There was a foolish ornamental parapet on the roof of the lower half of the house. The doorway was too small, not even a double door, but only an oaken slab. Some Flemish strapwork was in evidence, as was the patterned brickwork of which my father often boasts. Windows were high and plentiful, hinting at a bright interior. The grounds were pretty. The sun striking the ornamental greenery around the building created a charming effect. In a different mood, the oddness of the house itself might have been found interesting, rather than forbidding.

  There was no Mrs. Beaudel on hand to greet us. I assumed that her migraine kept her in bed, or provided an excuse to keep her away from her husband in any case. Odd how I had already taken her in dislike, without ever meeting her.

  Lucien was accorded the honor of showing me to the nursery and to our rooms. He was a thoroughly competent guide. A fully grown servant could not have been more so, and would in all likelihood not have been half as informative.

  "This oak stairway we are mounting, Miss Stacey, was built in the sixteenth century from timber taken off the forests of Glanbury Park. The flowers above us are said to have been carved by Grinling Gibbons. There is some more of his work below. Are you interested in architecture?"

  "Very much. I see you are too."

  "Not really, but our house is one of the places shown in the guide books, and Lady Schaeffer takes people through it every year, to make money for her charity. I followed her on her tour, and heard her tell people about the staircase. I followed her fourteen times."

  "How very patient you are!"

  "Not really. She is remarkably pretty, and when I walked behind her, I had an excellent view of her ankles."

  "Perhaps you would just step up ahead of me, Lucien,” I said, biting back a smile at this youthful lecher.

  "I have already seen them, Miss Stacey. Very trim, I might add,” he said solemnly. “Our quarters are here to the left,” he ran on, as we topped the stairway. “Uncle and Aunt's rooms are over there, to the right. Here is your room. I hope you like blue. Miss Little didn't like it. She found the color cold. Do you like it?"

  "Very nice,” I said, glancing around at a comfortable, though by no means luxurious, chamber, hung in blue cotton, with a patterned rug and uncurtained bed.

  "Your trunk will be sent up here. We shall h
ave to send to the inn for your trunk."

  "It—it will be arriving at the inn a little later,” I said hastily, although of course it would not arrive until I wrote to Mrs. Farell to pack and forward it. “Where is our schoolroom?"

  "It is this way."

  We went along to the schoolroom, which was a graceless chamber paneled in dark wood, its only beauty a view from the large windows of the park and winding drive below. Through the branches of swaying beeches, the gate and road beyond were visible. There was a large desk, the one lately used by Miss Little. Various books and schoolwork were spread out on it. There was an open reader, face down at a story about a fox, and there was a sheet on which numbers were written for addition. Lucien was a bright child, I concluded, if he was already adding double digits at six years of age, and reading the book of stories here. I had no notion of puffing him off to his own face.

  "This is what you were doing when Miss Little left, is it?” I asked.

  He confirmed this with an unenthusiastic nod, but had soon hopped off to hang out the window, trying vainly to reach a bird's nest perched on a ledge below, to the consternation of the mother bird and his new governess. I took a closer look at the books, to notice that Miss Little had been correcting the arithmetic. I could not believe she had had any thought of leaving so suddenly, when she was in the middle of all this work. Surely a governess would wind things up more neatly. She would not leave half an exercise unmarked. She would have finished it, or not bothered to begin.

  "Do you want to see my room?” Lucien asked, becoming bored with pestering the birds.

  "Yes, please."

  "It's next to yours."

  We went along to it. Lucien was still sleeping in a child's room. There was no hint of the elegance I was sure must be harbored on the other side of the house. There were well-battered chests and night tables, an open-faced row of shelves holding toy soldiers, horses, books, the paraphernalia of boyish childhood. While we were still there, a servant brought up my one valise from the inn.

  "I'll leave you alone to unpack, Miss Stacey,” Lucien said, having not only the mind but the manners of an adult. “Shall we meet in half an hour? I'll show you the rest of the house and grounds if you like. In that way I shan't have to have any lessons till tomorrow."

  "Quite a little dealer, Lucien."

  "Yes, I was forever striking bargains with Miss Little."

  "What sort of bargains?” I asked, immediately alert.

  "Not to tell things on her, if she wouldn't tell on me."

  "Lucien, if you know anything about her disappearance—"

  "No, I don't know anything about that,” he assured me solemnly. I didn't believe a word he said. With a stealthy look at me, he began backing quickly away, before I should interrogate him. I let him go, thinking success more likely if I could catch him off guard.

  "Where are you going?"

  "I'll be waiting for you beneath the beech tree,” he said, pointing to the spot through the window. “That was our meeting place, mine and Miss Little's. Shall it be ours too, Miss Stacey?"

  "Very well."

  My mind was seething with questions as I hastily unpacked my few things and put them away. I meant to go over every inch of Miss Little's room, in case she had left a clue behind as to where she had gone. The clothespress and dresser were empty of her possessions. Clothing and such personal items as toilet articles were all gone, indicating a fairly thorough packing session.

  Disheartened, I looked around the room for other possible places. I walked aimlessly to the bookcase, thinking the books belonged to the house. I was considerably surprised to see Miss Little's name inscribed in them. There were three rows of books, indicating a fair investment. Surely a governess would not leave behind the tools of her trade. My heart was beating a little faster as I pulled books out at random to see whether they all bore her signature. Her packing had not been as thorough and well planned as I originally thought.

  Looking out the window, I saw Lucien patiently sitting on a white wooden bench by the beech tree, waiting for me. He was not alone. There was a very beautiful young lady with him. Without another thought to Miss Little and her books, I dashed out the door to find my way below to the park, and the beech tree, and Mrs. Beaudel.

  Chapter Four

  What is it that causes that emotional friction between some people, I wonder? Even before Mrs. Beaudel opened her lovely lips, I knew I would not like her, yet it was difficult to find a real fault in her appearance. She was still youngish, not so young as she appeared from a distance, but young enough to be Beaudel's daughter. She was somewhere in the general vicinity of thirty. Her hair was of pale gold, its shade more reminiscent of moonlight than sunlight. It was dressed too elaborately for a country matron, unless she was to attend a ball. Her gown too was more elegant than the occasion called for, without being quite vulgar. It was pale blue in color, of fine muslin, the ostentation consisting in a ruched skirt, showing eyelet embroidery beneath, with bows attached. It hugged the bosoms closely, and drew in tight at the waist in a manner no longer considered the highest kick of fashion in the metropolis. I did not think it was an unawareness of the current trend that accounted for it. Mrs. Beaudel did not dress for the fashion, or for women. She was outfitted in a style that would appeal to gentlemen.

  Her face was heart-shaped, the nose straight, the lips full and sensuous. But it was the eyes that ruled the countenance. They were not a nice color, rather a muddy green-brown, but they were large, almond-shaped eyes, heavily lidded and heavily fringed. They gave an illusion of her being sleepy. When one looked more closely, it was apparent she was very wide awake.

  "So this is your new governess,” she said, directing her speech to Lucien, then she turned those orbs on me. They were full of suspicion. I could find no other word for it. She looked as though she would like to turn me off without another word.

  "How fortunate we are, to have found Miss Stacey so quickly. Quite a coincidence, your being in Chelmsford and looking for a position, is it not, Miss Stacey?” The words were all sweetness and light, the tone sheer vinegar.

  "Very fortunate for me as well, ma'am,” I answered, with a modest curtsey. “I assume you are Mrs. Beaudel?"

  She inclined her head half an inch. “What brought you to town, Miss Stacey?” she enquired.

  I gave her my story, then explained it again in more detail as she went over it, questioning me at every word, committing to memory Mrs. Farell's address, asking even a third time what the inn's serving girl had said to me. Of course I omitted that portion of the servant's tale having to do with her. I also kept my temper in check, playing the grateful employee, to conciliate her. After about fifteen minutes of this cross-examination, she appeared to accept me, and condescended to explain her rudeness.

  "You know of the troubles we have had recently,” she said. “Miss Little running off on us, that wretched fellow from London robbing us. One cannot be too careful."

  "I have heard of your troubles, ma'am,” I answered briefly, stifling my annoyance, my desire to defend my father.

  "I must say you look harmless enough,” was her final insult, which was accompanied by a slightingly brief run of her eyes over my anatomy.

  I have been called pretty upon occasion. Also good-natured, bad-natured, shy and bossy. I was never before called harmless. Compared to Mrs. Beaudel's voluptuous charms, however, I daresay the word was not inappropriate, as she interpreted it. I noticed that she was looking over my shoulder, and could not fail to observe the little smile she put on, as it created a perfectly charming dimple at the corner of her lips. I expected to see Mr. Beaudel joining us, but it was only the butler.

  "Only” is the wrong word, as I reconsider it. Hers was a butler like no other ever encountered. He belonged in some fashionable lady's pocket, where I soon deduced he spent much of his time, the lady in question being Mrs. Beaudel.

  I was harmless enough, and Lucien young enough, that they proceeded to enact an unblushing flirtatio
n under our very noses. Beaudel, if he had any backbone, would have shown this man the door long ago. A butler is usually old, having worked his way up from the pantry. This fellow, Wiggins she called him, was no older than herself. He was tall, well formed, dark-haired and eyed, but with an insinuating manner any real lady would recoil from.

  "Would Madame care for some refreshment?” he asked, with a bold smile, as he ogled her from her blond curls to her tiny waist, and back up again, with a longish pause at her bosoms.

  "What had you in mind, my dear Wiggins?” she asked, with a batting of her heavy lids and long lashes.

  "Madame's wish is my command,” he replied, bowing.

  She drew in a deep breath and held it, straining the seams of her gown to their limit. “Now, let me think,” she said, placing one dainty finger just by her dimple, while Wiggins, the bold rogue, continued to ogle her.

  "Some lemonade would be nice,” Lucien suggested.

  "Could I tempt Madame—with some lemonade, that is?” Wiggins inquired.

  "Tch, you are shocking Miss Stacey, Wiggins,” she chided. Their eyes met in some secret but meaningful look. “She is Lucien's new governess. Charles hired her this morning."

  "Fast work,” he answered.

  This, of course, was not the sort of conversation one expected to hear between a butler and his mistress. “You will appreciate that,” she said, then turned to me. “You must beware of our butler, Miss Stacey. He is a fast worker himself."

  "He is not very fast with our lemonade,” Lucien pointed out.

  Before more was said, a messenger galloped up to the house and dismounted. “Who on earth can that be? Wiggins—you'd best go to the door,” Mrs. Beaudel said, arising. “Take Lucien to the kitchen, Miss Stacey. Cook will make him some lemonade."

  She darted off to the house, a few steps behind Wiggins. She was certainly curious to learn what message was coming to them.