A Lady in Disguise

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  Day, from which nothing can hide, showed the gamekeeper supporting a woman suddenly given in to the weight of her years. Lady Genevieve’s proud face was torn and ravaged by terrible anxiety. “She’s gone, Thorpe! She’s gone!”

  Thorpe put his arm about his grandmother’s waist. Lady Genevieve slumped against him. Gently, he said, “We know. We’ve been looking all night. We’ll find her. I promise.”

  Lady Genevieve gave him a look of scorn that had almost all the fire of which she was capable. “Not that ridiculous baroness! Addy. Addy’s gone.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “How do you know she’s gone?” Thorpe demanded. His face, frozen by shock, might have represented some sculptor’s unattainable ideal. “She runs stark wild a good half the time.”

  “No. She’s gone. We were to have breakfast this morning. Addy never forgets me. When she did not come down, I sent for her, thinking she might be unwell or sleeping late. Burrows said the child’s bed was cold. She could not have been in it for hours, not since Lillian returned Addy there late last night.”

  “Price,” Thorpe said, looking over Lady Genevieve’s head. “Do you think your children might know .. . ?”

  “I’ll go an’ ask the runts this next minute, sir.” And the gamekeeper took off, his angular dog loping at his heels.

  “Come to the house!” Thorpe shouted after him.

  Down the hill came Mr. Canfield, shaking his head. “If you give up now, my boy,” he said, “those servants of yours won’t shift another step.”

  Thorpe, Lillian saw, looked at her father rather blankly, as though he knew neither what the other gentleman referred to nor even who he was. Hastily, she said, “Father, young Addy has apparently disappeared as well as Paulina.”

  “What’s that? The little girl gone? What goes on here, Lillian? Fairies?” She could only shake her head in reply. More solemnly, Mr. Canfield said, “Everard, you take who you need to find the child. I’ll carry on looking for Paulina on my own.”

  Lillian patted his arm. “Thank you, Father.”

  Approaching Lady Genevieve, she took the older woman’s other arm. Lillian met Thorpe’s eyes and was rewarded by a tiny lift at one corner of his mouth, as though his charm was operating independently of his thoughts. Her heart turned over. She tried to encourage them both by saying, “Come, Lady Genevieve, we’ll take you to your room. You’d like a cup of tea, wouldn’t you?”

  “You’re a good child. I wish now that I had been kinder to you, but... I thought—”

  “Never mind that now,” Lillian said, nodding to Thorpe. Together, they supported the old woman into the house.

  Thorpe showed infinite patience and kindness to his grandmother, quite as though he’d never been angry with her in his life. He guided the cup to her lips when her own hands shook too much to lift the porcelain, turning away her teary-eyed thanks with a soothing smile and a light denial of any need for gratitude. Yet Lillian could tell, all the time, that his ear was tuned, not to Lady Genevieve, but to the door, listening for the step of the gamekeeper. When she touched him, handing him a handkerchief soaked in eau de cologne to press against Lady Genevieve’s forehead, Lillian felt that he quivered like a resonating glass under the tension.

  The knock came quickly. Price had hardly stepped over the threshold when Thorpe turned, asking, “Well?”

  “The wife, sir, says she saw Miss Addy down by the lake this morning ... early ... with my own young uns. She’s seen not a hair of any of ‘em since, save Gina and that for none but a moment.”

  Lady Genevieve grasped Thorpe’s hand. “She’s drowned, she’s drowned, I know it.” Her breath, it seemed, strangled in her throat, and then her head dropped to one shoulder.

  “Is she dead?” Lillian whispered. The question seemed perfectly natural in light of the odd occurrences of the past twelve hours. She would not have been surprised to find that Lady Genevieve had made her last utterance.

  “No,” Thorpe said, gently releasing Lady Genevieve’s hand. “She’s fainted. She is past seventy, you know, and these excitements cannot be good for her.” He looked at Lillian. “If the lake is the last place anyone saw Addy, I suppose it is the first place we should look. I’m sure she is off on some adventure or other and all will be well soon.” But the concern in his eyes told her that he no more than half believed in his own words. “Do you stay with Grandmother, Lillian. I’ll come back here when I’ve found Addy.”

  Price followed Thorpe from the room, as Burrows stood back from the doorway to let the men pass by. “What’s going on here, then?” she asked, looking at the lax figure in the chair.

  “She’s fainted,” Lillian said. “I know you must be utterly exhausted, but could you take care of her?” She could not stand the thought of playing a sedate nurse’s part while Thorpe searched the woods in desperation.

  The path to the lake left no details in her mind. Emerging from behind the hedge, she found Thorpe bent over searching the mud at the edge of the water. “The marks are confused,” he said without looking up. “I can’t tell how long ago they were here, or if anyone was with them. When did your wife come out, Price?”

  “Price isn’t here.”

  Thorpe straightened. “Who’s with Grandmother?”

  “Burrows. Lady Genevieve will be fine. What are you looking for?”

  “Traces of the children.” He frowned as he looked down. “I can’t tell if these are the children’s prints or Mrs. Price’s. They are very smeared, but I think these are larger prints than Mrs. Price would account for. She cannot be much more than five feet tall.”

  Lillian came closer to him, heedless of the mud that dragged at her hem. What she looked like after the night she’d spent, she dared not think, yet she faced his gaze squarely. ‘Thorpe, what are you afraid of?”

  His eyes shifted beneath her own. “Grenshaw became very agitated after you took Addy back to bed the night of the ... ball. He threatened that if I didn’t give him what he wanted, or if I pressed him to leave England, he’d go, but he’d take Addy with him. Mrs. Grenshaw made worse threats, if anything.”

  “What threats?”

  “To tell Addy that I’m not her true father.” He whispered the words so quietly that she almost missed them.

  “But that’s ridiculous,” Lillian said instantly. An expression of wonder came into his eyes as his head snapped up.

  “What?”

  “Anyone can tell that is a lie! One has only to look at the two of you together to know that. Besides, she looks so much like Lady Genevieve, especially when they’re plotting, there is no possibility in my mind that she could belong to any other family. Where on earth did Mrs. Grenshaw find such a ludicrous notion?”

  “From Emily. She enjoyed making a game of that sort. She kept hinting and teasing that there’d been others. I can only assume she told her mother the same thing.”

  Blushing, Lillian mumbled, “Was—was there any reason for you to believe her? I have no experience in such matters, but it would seem to me that a girl as frightened of having a child as your wife was would never risk ... that is ... as her husband, you would have the right to turn her out if... Oh, I truly believe there is no cause for you to believe for an instant that... one has only to look at Addy.”

  Thorpe chuckled and Lillian stared at him in surprise. “You are the most peculiar combination of innocence and intelligence that I have ever struck. What a woman you will be once you have ... experience.”

  He touched her cheek and grinned at the heat that flared up there. “My doubts as to this matter are of the three o’clock in the morning kind, which in daylight I do not believe, or hardly at all. But were a rumor of it to reach Addy, I cannot imagine the damage it might do to her. Mrs. Grenshaw is a vindictive and thwarted woman. She might choose this for revenge against me, for not being a better husband to her Emily.”

  “Do you think of her then, as Mrs. Grenshaw’s Emily?”

  “Yes,” he said, gathering her in an embrace. “
Just as I think of you as mine.”

  Lillian forgot the mud, forgot her sleepless night, forgot everything as Thorpe’s arms caught her against his body. He kissed her swiftly as though he would but snatch at this moment as a promise to begin again when time pressed less. Then she felt him pause, his lips still on hers but not moving. She thought perhaps something about her displeased him and moved slightly back to ask what was wrong when he said, “Hush! Did you hear that?”

  Beginning to shrug, Lillian held her breath. There was something, but whether it was the laughter of the water rippling against the shore, the merry singing of birds on their morning way, or the unearthly gaiety of fairies, Lillian could not tell.

  Thorpe whispered, “I’ll kiss you again and see if we hear it. That seems to be the cause.”

  “Whatever you say,” Lillian said, oddly shy. She wavered forward, her footing unstable in the mud. Tilting her head, she saw Thorpe smile compassionately.

  “You’ll just have to get used to it,” he said, tasting her lips once more, very lightly. The gentle pressure was enough to keep Lillian from thinking of this as merely an experiment.

  The sound they heard this time was definitely identifiable as a giggle. The laughter of a hugely delighted child came from behind a bush, shaking the branches with merriment. In one moment, Thorpe had stepped from Lillian and was reaching into the thicket to bring out a grubby child only vaguely recognizable as Addy.

  He lifted her out, all stick covered and mud slicked as she was, and cradled her in his arms. Then he put her down and said, “Young lady, from now on you tell someone where you’re going and what you’re doing. Don’t you know you frightened us all half mad? We didn’t know what had happened to you or whether you were all right.”

  “I’m sorry. Papa,” Addy said, but she looked not in the least contrite. She turned a gleaming smile from her father to Lillian. “You were kissing! I know what that means.”

  Fascinated, Lillian saw Thorpe blush. “Now, Addy ...” he began.

  “Oh, I know. Papa. You kiss lots of ladies.” Her father’s dusky skin grew richer. Addy began to count them off on her fingers. “Great, Aunt Lucilia, Grandmother, Cousin Perdita, Cousin Nora and sometimes—”

  “Er, that’s enough.”

  “No,” Lillian said. “By all means continue.”

  “Well, once I saw Papa kiss Mrs. Wilkins, but I don’t think he liked it. Besides, she’s married already.”

  “Oh?” Lillian asked, giving Thorpe a look she knew was arch. “I shall have to meet her.”

  “You can’t,” he said. “She moved to York when Mr. Wilkins died.”

  “She was sadly disappointed, I’m sure.”

  Addy, impatient at being left out when a moment before she’d been the center of attention, said, “But you’re not married, Miss Cole, so Papa has to marry you now because he kissed you. He did, I saw him!”

  Now it was Lillian’s turn to become rather warm and red cheeked. She started to stumble through an explanation. “Addy, just because—”

  “Addy, do mean you wouldn’t mind if I married Miss Cole?” Thorpe asked, taking the child’s attention.

  “No. Great says it would be a good thing, and I suppose she knows. She said it would be much better than you and Cousin Nora getting married or you and Lady What-is-it.”

  Half way through Addy’s speech, Lillian had begun to find the view of the water most interesting. She dared not look Thorpe in the face, for she knew he must be laughing. After all, he’d never intimated in words that there was to be any sort of formal... in short, he’d never proposed matrimony. She knew how she felt, that there were strong bonds between them from the day they’d met, but it was impossible to judge his feelings toward her. All the love she’d thought she’d felt in his arms might have been nothing more than self-delusion.

  She heard his voice shake with wonder. “Great wants me to marry Miss Cole?” There was no answer, so Lillian glanced at Addy. The child’s head bounced up and down like a ball in complete assent. Bravely, Lillian stole a peek at Thorpe. Would he be angry that his grandmother was once more attempting to direct his life?

  “Well,” he said with the beginnings of a smile, “she is a very wise woman.”

  Lillian’s attention returned immediately to the water.

  In a clamorous whisper, Addy urged, “Ask her. Papa, you’ve got to ask her.”

  “Miss Cole? Lillian?” Thorpe came around to stand directly in front of her. She had to look up. “My dear, I’ve been requested to ask on behalf of Lady Genevieve Everard and Miss Adrienne Everard if you will do me the honor of becoming my wife.” The green eyes sparkled with as clear a joy as the breaking of sunlight through a forest of green leaves.

  Lillian looked at him solemnly. “You know I cannot. You do not know who I really am.”

  “A scullery maid? A lady-in-waiting to the Empress of China? I care not. I love you. My family loves you.”

  “The servants don’t. Mr. Becksnaff—”

  “Put my ring on your finger and Becksnaff will fall on your neck. He’s a terrible sycophant, you know. Besides, an Everard can do no wrong. If I thought that the affection of my butler means more to you than...” He became more serious when he saw that she meant what she’d said. “Very well, then. Surprise me. Who are you?”

  “He told you. I’m Lillian Canfield, not Cole.”

  “What’s the matter, Papa? Kiss her again.”

  “Enough, Addy,” he said without turning his head. “You’re Lillian Canfield. Then what is the trouble now?”

  “I lied to come here,” she said urgently yet softly enough so that Addy standing behind her could not hear.

  “So you did. And I think Lady Pritchard conspired to send you here. I can guess why, though I fear my self-love will grow too great if I ever let myself in on the secret. My grandmother knows too, does she not? I thought so. Very well. Miss Cole— or Canfield—I believe I must call you darling from now on. I forgive you.”

  “What?”

  He lifted his big shoulders and let them fall. “I forgive you. You lied to come here. That’s easy to forgive. If you’d never come, I’d never have fallen in love with you, and I’d probably be marrying Paulina Pritchard or Nora Ellis or some other woman I could never care tuppence for. But here you are and here I am, and I think I should stop proposing to you and kiss you, as Addy so wisely suggests.”

  Lillian gave up. In face of the forces against her, she could do nothing but surrender. Their kiss was discreet, for the gleefully dancing Addy was near, yet not without a decided pledge of delights to be fulfilled. The warmth and sweetness that flowed between them was no transitory passion, but a love as firm and solid as the second Mottisbury Castle. Lillian knew she never again need fear any secret passage or ghostly chill.

  * * * *

  Addy swung between the adults’ hands all the way back to the castle. She broke from them and ran down the hall, shouting, “Great, Great!”

  Thorpe said, “Perhaps we shouldn’t let Addy disturb her now. After all, Grandmother did faint.”

  “Seeing Addy will be the best medicine.”

  Thorpe stopped and kissed her in the middle of the hall. As they were alone, Lillian could demonstrate her feelings more generously. When Thorpe looked down at her a few moments later, he said, “Had I known what was in store for me, I’d have given in to my first impulse and kissed you the moment I brought you home. I wanted to, you know, very much. Actually, I think I first wanted to kiss you at the inn at Mottisbury. You were standing in front of a window and the sunlight turned your hair to dark fire.”

  “I think from now on I shall give in to all my first impulses.” Lillian pressed her lips to his slightly prickly jaw. She murmured, “I loved you when first I saw you.”

  His breathing became rougher as he tried to joke, “And you didn’t tell me. That’s a missed chance I hope you’ll always regret. We could have had at least ten more days of bliss, and from now on I intend to keep count....”
<
br />   How long they would have stood at the base of the stairs, kissing and exchanging these sorts of compliments, Lillian wished she could have time to discover. But a door opened at the end of the hall and Lady Genevieve, dragged by the arm, entered. “So it’s true,” she said. “My dears, how wonderful!”

  In the middle of wedding plans, for Lady Genevieve would not hear of any delay, Addy jumped up and down, saying, “I did it, I did it, I did it!”

  Thorpe, who’d regretfully but smilingly surrendered Lillian to Lady Genevieve, called his daughter over. “So you’re responsible, are you?”

  Lillian turned to listen, smiling at the easy repartee between father and daughter. But she and Thorpe exchanged a shocked glance when Addy said cheerfully, “Oh, yes, it was me. Do you want me to tell where Lady Who’s-it-is now?”

  “Do you know?” Lillian asked.

  “ ‘Course.” Her smiling self-confidence faded at their expressions of dismay. “I—I hid her. I didn’t want you to marry her, Papa.”

  “You better show me where, Addy,” Thorpe said, standing up. Lillian took Addy’s hand, giving her reassurance that no one was going to be too angry with her, except, perhaps, Paulina.

  Outside, they met Price, coming up the walk with his two children. “Sir, it’s them as did it. I brung ‘em to tell you. Speak up, lad.” Frank looked sheepishly down at his large feet and Gina hung her head.

  “Never mind,” Thorpe said. “Addy told me already. All I want now is to recover the baroness. Then we’ll discuss what is to be done with you.”

  The room in which Lillian and Paulina had passed their vigil seemed much less eerie by daylight and with a crowd. Mr. and Mrs. Becksnaff were there, as were half the other servants, pressing around to exclaim with wonder as a pair of bricks, cunningly pushed, caused the entire back of the fireplace to swivel. Thorpe shook his head. “There are more secrets in this building than the new castle has windows.”

  Mr. Canfield, crouching down to peer into the darkness, said, “Funny lot, you Everards. I wager some high old times were had in this place.”