by May Burnett
She smiled, but made no reply.
William looked around the table again, this time catching a look of hopeless longing on the face of the physician.
“Doctor Dorringley is a very handsome young man,” he could not help fishing for a reaction.
“I have always thought so,” Miss Bellairs said blandly.
He was a fool – he should not have brought the matter up. Whether the lady still felt something for her former suitor or not, his remark had been in poor taste, and unworthy. She put him off balance, had done so from the first. It did not help that he felt a strong impulse to grab her in his arms and carry her away from the Milldales’ dining room. Inside the civilised exterior, he was no better than a primitive savage. At least nobody would ever know of these immature fantasies, ridiculous in a professional man.
Miss Bellairs was dangerous. The quicker he finished his assigned task and left Bankington, the better for his peace of mind.
Chapter 11
At the conclusion of the delicious meal, Lady Milldale ushered the ladies into the drawing room.
“Sir Reginald promised the men will follow us in a trice. Let me ring for tea.”
As her hostess settled the older ladies on the selection of sofas and settees, Margaret’s eye was drawn to the large piano at one end of the room. The seats were disposed in a fashion that suggested musical entertainment was planned for the later part of the evening.
“We all remember how beautifully you played before you left the area, Miss Bellairs,” Lady Milldale said with an encouraging smile as soon as everyone was seated.
“Margaret is extremely talented,” Mrs. Bellairs said proudly.
“That was long ago, and I am out of practice,” Margaret dissembled. She had not played in public since her return from Italy, but during the past year in London, she had taken full advantage of the well-tuned instrument in Pell House, and lessons from a professional pianist and composer. Music meant too much to her to perform like a trained monkey for others’ entertainment. Only the immediate family had been allowed to listen to her recent playing.
“Too bad. Miss Betty, Miss Ruth, will you play for us four-handed, as you did at Mr. Langley’s dinner last month?”
“Let Ruth go first, and I shall play later,” Betty Harris said. Margaret understood perfectly: the girl did not want to waste her performance on the ladies only.
“Very well.” Ruth Harris sat at the instrument, and launched into a simple tune, to which she sang an old folk song in a pleasant, warm contralto. Though her voice was untrained, this thin, awkward girl had excellent pitch and expression. As she sang, the servants brought in the tea tray and a selection of sweets.
Listening to Ruth’s song Margaret remembered similar occasions in this very room, years ago, when she had performed on the piano and Christopher had sent her heated glances from the audience. They also had performed one or two duets together, though more often she had accompanied his tenor on the piano. Those had been different people, in a different life. Emily had not been out yet, and Margaret was only just allowed to emerge into society for a brief period, before her father’s death and the family’s ruin severed all social ties.
At the end of Ruth’s song, after thanking the girl, Lady Milldale turned to the Vicar’s daughter. “Miss Langley, will you play for us?”
Vanessa sat down at the piano willingly enough, and played a sonata with a dutiful expression. She was competent, but no more.
During her piece the gentlemen joined them. They kept their eyes politely fixed on the redheaded performer, and accepted cups of tea from their hostess with a minimum of noise.
As soon as Vanessa had finished, Betty Harris approached the instrument with a flirtatious swish of her pink skirts, the glossy slippers and embroidered stockings clearly visible. Her ankles were well-turned, Margaret had to admit. Would that impress Christopher Dorringley? When she slightly turned her head, she encountered his dark eyes fixed on her, rather than on Betty’s feet. Discomfited, she looked back at the piano.
Betty Harris had verve, no doubt about it, and though she missed the correct note once or twice, she received praise and applause at the end of her lively piece. She was easily persuaded to play another, and threw a triumphant glance at Margaret as she resumed her demonstration.
“You do not play, Miss Bellairs? I have heard much about your proficiency,” Lord Laxeley murmured, taking a seat close by Margaret.
“I do play sometimes,” she admitted, keeping her voice equally low, “but have not performed in public for some time.”
“What better occasion to resume performing than in such a small, familiar setting, amidst a sympathetic and admiring audience?”
She smiled a trifle ironically. What could it matter to him if she played tonight or not? Did the ladies always have to do the work of entertaining everyone?
“As you are clearly a music lover, do you play an instrument too, Lord Laxeley? If so, will you not delight your aunt’s guests with your own talent?”
He smiled in return. “Your guess is astute, Miss Bellairs. As it happens I have played the cello since my early teens. I have brought my instrument with me on this visit, but like you I rarely play for others.”
Apparently there was more to the Viscount than she had given him credit for. “Then you understand how I feel … if you agree to play the cello, I suppose I could play a piece on the piano.”
“Done,” he said at once. “Let me inform my aunt, and send for my instrument. It is in the music room, not far.” He stood up and quietly approached their hostess.
So. She had agreed to play after all, and wondered at the ease with which she had changed her mind. Whom did she want to impress? And what would be suitable for the occasion? Something Italian, perhaps, different from the offerings that had preceded hers.
There was a pause as the cello was carried in and tuned. Margaret could tell at first glance that it was an expensive instrument, belonging to a real connoisseur. Lord Laxeley had not exaggerated – he played very nearly at professional level. Vanessa Langley’s blue eyes never once wavered from the aristocratic performer, and Mr. Trey looked pleased and attentive. So did Ruth Harris, while Sir Reginald and Lady Milldale glowed with pride at the young man’s expertise. All the older guests were listening with varying degrees of admiration, except Mr. Buckley, who seemed on the verge of snoring.
Christopher Dorringley unthinkingly raised his right hand to tear on his dark locks, – a long-familiar gesture. He had done this even as a boy in times of worry or indecision. Betty Harris was watching him, rather than Lord Laxeley’s performance. She suddenly looked straight at Margaret, who almost recoiled at the venom in her eyes. He is all yours, I do not want him any longer, she thought. Too bad that a lady of breeding could not say such things out loud.
There was such enthusiastic applause after Lord Laxeley’s contribution, that another woman might well have hesitated before playing right afterwards. But Margaret hardly cared how her performance would be received by this rural audience. She settled herself on the short backless bench, took a deep breath, and began to play from memory, while the guests were still talking and murmuring, and teacups clinking.
Within seconds all noise ceased, as it should when she was immersed in music. She imagined herself in the Pell House music room, far away, playing for her own pleasure and solace. This instrument was not quite as good as she was used to, but serviceable. Her fingers danced across the white and black keys. A sudden wave of sadness washed over her, and she almost welcomed it. Better sadness than dull boredom.
Soon the joyful finale of her piece penetrated her mind, and she breathed deeply as she played. This, this had been missing since she arrived in Bankington. She needed music to keep herself on an even keel. In Italy, deprived of her piano, she had suffered from moodiness – now she understood better why she had been so irrational at times.
The last note echoed into total silence. Margaret slowly lowered her hands into her lap and looked up.
Mr. Trey, seated close by, looked transfixed. The rest of her audience, with the exception of the tone-deaf Mr. Buckley and a scowling Betty Harris, were almost similarly affected.
“I had no idea,” Lord Laxeley’s eyes were wide. “That was incredible. You are a true artist, Miss Bellairs, far out of our league.”
“Indeed,” Lady Milldale said. “Thank you, Miss Bellairs. I remembered you as a superior performer, but you have reached an infinitely higher level of artistry in the intervening years. Most extraordinary.”
Margaret remembered Mr. Trey’s contention that she had changed more since leaving Bankington than she herself could know. He might have a point.
“A revelation,” Christopher Dorringley breathed. Oh dear.
“That was lovely,” Miss Langley said, and Ruth Harris nodded in agreement.
Mrs. Bellairs preened at her daughter’s triumph. “Margaret has always been most accomplished,” she told the Vicar, who had taken the seat at her right side. “Not only at music, but at drawing, dancing, riding …”
Margaret felt a blush creeping into her cheeks. She wished her parent would find something else to discuss.
Nothing would do but that she regale the avid listeners with another performance. She briefly considered balking, but now she had consented once, it would be expected that she play each time they came together. She should have remained firm.
On the other hand, she had needed the music. It was the key to her peace of mind, maybe even to her health and happiness.
Chapter 12
The next morning Margaret was awoken by a loud cry of distress. She jumped out of bed and put on a warm robe and her slippers, before rushing out to investigate.
Mrs. Carney and her mother were still asleep, miraculously, but their small household was at sixes and sevens. The kitchen maid, the youthful footman, and the other two maids she had so far engaged were all huddled together, pale and shocked. At least none of them seemed to be hurt.
“What is the matter?” she asked sharply.
“Oh Miss, I’m that glad you are up.” The kitchen maid assumed the role of spokesperson. “There has been a burglary in the night! Someone went after the treasure you found!”
Margaret’s breath hitched in shock. “Why? The treasure is long gone.” She would have to check on the laundry pile right away, but in view of the burglary – if it was not too late – it was more important than ever to maintain the fiction that the treasure had been sent off.
“Maybe the robbers did not know that? We could all have been murdered in our sleep!”
“How do you know there was a burglary?” Margaret demanded.
While they all talked at once – “broken window” – “forced the lock of the writing desk” – “dirty footprints on my clean floor” – the door to the yard opened, to admit Mr. Trey and his assistant.
“Good morning,” they both said.
Margaret was uneasily aware of her undressed state and tangled hair – she had been too tired to plait it after the dinner party. At least the robe covered her rather more completely than last night’s evening gown.
Trey said tactfully, “Should we come back later?”
“They tried to steal the treasure!” Tom the footman informed the newcomers in his unsteady treble, his Adam’s apple bobbing with excitement.
Mr. Trey immediately dispatched Manning to walk around the outside of the building to look for traces of the miscreants, while he and Margaret, trailed by the entire staff, went to inspect the place where a window had been broken from the outside, and the cruel vandalism the thief or thieves had visited on the antique writing desk in the study. The drawers of a chest in the sitting room, and the contents of several other pieces of furniture had been torn out and carelessly thrown on the floor – in frustration, Margaret thought hopefully.
“Why don’t you go have tea in the kitchen, all of you, while I arrange my hair,” she suggested once everything had been inspected and properly lamented.
Nodding comprehension, Trey shepherded the others back to the kitchen, leaving her free to check on the treasure buried among the dusty curtains. It lay undisturbed, as she had hoped.
Vastly relieved, Margaret went back to her room to wash with cold water, and pin up her hair. She remembered shoving the ship brooch under her pillow and found it there, safe – it would be a bold burglar who reached under her own sleeping head, of course. The purse with money for their expenses was still in the padlocked leather trunk in her wardrobe.
When she returned to the kitchen, a cup of strong tea, slices of bread and butter and a pot of raspberry jam were immediately placed before her.
“Eat,” Mr. Trey said in his deep voice. “After a shock, nothing better than hearty food.”
“I’ll make scrambled eggs for you, Miss,” the kitchen maid announced.
“Thanks. But this was hardly the worst shock I have had in my life. Most fortunately the treasure is safely dispatched to London,” Margaret said with a significant glance at Mr. Trey. “But we really cannot have burglars entering the place while we sleep.”
“There are not enough warm bodies for such a big house,” the kitchen maid said gloomily. “Our rooms are so far from the main wing, nobody could have heard anything – except maybe the window breaking.”
“I did not hear that, and I slept much closer,” Margaret pointed out. “So did my mother and Mrs. Carney. When they learn of this, they will be horrified. My mother’s nerves are not strong.”
“Can it be that someone broke in during last night’s party, before your return around midnight?” Trey suggested. “Would you have noticed the broken window and the disturbed drawers?”
Margaret frowned. They had all gone straight to their bedchambers. “I cannot be sure,” she said, after picturing their homecoming just hours ago. “The fact that none of us heard the window breaking may point in that direction. The Milldale dinner party was common knowledge in all Bankington.”
“What about a guard dog?” Mr. Trey suggested pragmatically. “A big nasty brute that would prevent such attempts by its mere presence?”
“It may not be necessary, as we are here only temporarily. But I suppose it is a possibility.” They had never kept dogs in her childhood, to her regret at the time. Her father did not suffer pets in the house, particularly dogs that might have barked when he stumbled home drunk in the middle of the night.
“Mrs. Bellairs may wish to return straight to London,” Mr. Trey said. “That might be for the best, under the circumstances.”
“What, allow ourselves to be chased away by cowardly thieves? I shall depart Bankington when I think it best, not a day earlier or later, however many criminals take it into their heads to traipse through the house.”
The maids and the footman looked at her and then at each other. Maybe she had sounded a little too dramatic, but that was her nature, they would have to get used to it.
Margaret issued orders to replace the drawers and their contents forthwith. Mr. Trey promised he would take care of the broken window, along with the other repairs. “Will you inform the local magistrate, Miss Bellairs?”
“That would be Sir Reginald. Before sending him a message, we had better wait till we know if my mother’s jewels, or Mrs. Carney’s things, were touched. In fact I’d better check on both of them right now.”
She did so, waking the ladies and breaking the news as gently as possible.
Mrs. Carney barely batted an eye at the news that they had been burgled. Her modest possessions were all present and accounted for.
Mrs. Bellairs’ pearl necklace that she had worn at the dinner party and left on top of her dresser as she retired to bed, was gone, however. This evidence that the thief had actually entered her bedroom as she slept nearly induced hysterics. It took Mrs. Carney’s and Margaret’s combined efforts to calm her down.
Unfortunately at that point Mrs. Bellairs recalled that Margaret had hired Tom the footman and one of the maids in the workhouse, against her own advice,
and insisted that the theft must have been performed by one or both of these servants. “What can you expect when you hire staff from such a place as that?” Her voice trembled with reproach. “I never should have countenanced it. It is a miracle that we are still alive!”
Margaret argued that the window had been broken from the outside, and that the servants could have stolen from the household at leisure, without leaving such a mess. Mrs. Bellairs demanded that those two be dismissed forthwith, without a character. Margaret stood firm, declaring that she would not dismiss anyone without proof of wrongdoing.
“You have always been far too stubborn for your own good,” Mrs Bellairs said at last. “I shall write to Anthony, surely he will see that I am right. Let us hope we are still alive and well by the time he writes back to support my suggestion. If we had not accepted all those invitations, I would insist that we decamp right now.”
“In the meantime I shall try to find a big guard dog,” Margaret announced. “That may help you sleep more securely.”
“Oh, do what you like,” Mrs. Bellairs said, out of charity with the daughter whom she held responsible for the night’s crime. “You always do, anyway.”
After their argument it was with relief that Margaret turned to Mr. Trey. He offered to drive her to Sir Reginald’s house, to report on the burglary and theft of the necklace, leaving Manning in charge of the workmen.
Obstinately fixed on the culpability of the new servants, her mother did not suspect the workers. Margaret was less certain. The air in the Manor was tense when she and the architect departed.
“I did not have a chance to say so last night,” Mr. Trey observed as he loosened the reins and the horses began to trot briskly, “but your music profoundly touched me. I had not expected anything like your passionate performance. You are indeed most talented.”
“As my mother never ceases to point out,” Margaret said wryly. “Passion is not exactly in fashion these days, Mr. Trey. It is a good thing that music represents a harmless outlet for feelings.”
