by May Burnett
“Nobody who ever heard you play could use the word harmless,” he protested. “You do yourself an injustice.”
“Very well, but I have always been musical. It is just something I was born with, like the colour of my hair or the length of my nose.”
“Again, you underestimate yourself. Such mastery as you have achieved in music and drawing cannot be reached without years of steady practice, no matter how much natural talent someone is blessed with.”
“Doing something that gives me pleasure is hardly a great accomplishment. Enough, Mr. Trey, we have other things to discuss. As you must have guessed, the treasure is still safely hidden. I hope my brother-in-law sends for it soon. I am getting weary of the responsibility.”
“But they snatched your mother’s necklace, which must also be quite valuable. It seems too much to hope that the criminal will be satisfied with that.”
“But who can it be? There have never been any burglaries here in Bankington. Certainly not before we left for Italy, and if it had happened since, I would have heard about it.”
“A tempting opportunity can make a thief out of an honest man.”
“Then it could be anybody at all, and it will be impossible to catch the culprit.”
“Not necessarily. An amateur will have trouble disposing of a necklace or other distinctive objects without leaving a trail. We can assume there are no notorious receivers in this rural village. The robber must travel to a town, preferably London, to sell the necklace. Until his departure there is still a chance to recover it.”
“A very slim chance,” Margaret said pessimistically. “It is child’s play to hide an object of that size. And in a few months’ time, when we are gone and the matter is forgotten, the thief can sell it at leisure.”
“If he can afford to wait that long.”
“I am worried about my mother,” Margaret confessed, though strictly speaking she should not confide such a thing to a man she had only met such a short time ago. “This is the very worst thing that could have happened for her weak nerves.”
“Is there anyone in the neighbourhood who might counsel and console her? Maybe someone from her own generation?” Mr. Trey’s deep voice was calm and soothing.
“The Vicar,” she said immediately. “Unlike others, he has long been a good friend to all of us. I already asked him yesterday to help her choose a motto for my father’s monument, and he was most accommodating.”
“Then I suggest we pass by the Vicarage on our way back from Milldale Hall, and if we find Mr. Langley in, ask him to visit your mother as soon as convenient.”
Margaret nodded, relieved that for once she could share her worries with a pragmatic and sympathetic mind.
Chapter 13
William looked around at the three dozen ladies and gentlemen partaking of refreshments in Mr. and Mrs. Buckley’s extensive gardens. They presented a cheery, colourful picture. It had been risky for the hostess to plan an al fresco event in late September, but luck had favoured her. The afternoon was just mild enough, as long as the sun kept shining.
He had not initially wanted to accept the invitation, but had yielded to Miss Bellairs’ persuasion, uneasily aware that she could get him to agree to almost anything. Besides, he was not needed at the Manor; the current restoration activities were entirely routine and Jim Manning’s supervision perfectly adequate. Mingling with the local gentry might lead to more business, and he was not the only professional man there. Doctor Dorringley and Mr. Rilling, a local solicitor, were among his fellow guests.
But who even looked at these less important folk in the presence of a genuine Viscount? Lord Laxeley was the guest of honour, naturally, and Mrs. Buckley hardly left his side until she brought him over to the table where Miss Bellairs and her mother were nibbling at plum tartlets and drinking tea.
“Miss Bellairs, Lord Laxeley has expressed a desire to talk about music with you.”
There was no empty chair at the round table for six. Before William could offer his place opposite her, Margaret rose. “I would not mind walking to the brook and back, after sitting so long.”
Lord Laxeley immediately extended his right arm. “We shall be within view of the company,” he said, looking at Mrs. Bellairs. “You permit, Ma’am?” William felt a spurt of irritation. As though the young lady were a pet to be borrowed only with permission! Mrs. Bellairs nodded her complacent agreement. As the two music lovers walked sedately along the gravel path towards the brook, a number of envious glances followed them.
“They look very well together,” Mrs. Buckley said to Mrs. Bellairs before returning to her own table.
“Maybe Margaret will finally make up her mind to marry,” Mrs. Bellairs said to Mrs. Carney hopefully. William wanted to point out that the Viscount had not yet made any offer, but if a young lady as enticing as Miss Bellairs cast out lures, he would hardly withstand her. William certainly would not be able to, were he in Laxeley’s fortunate position.
“It would be a good match, and they have an interest in music in common,” Mrs. Carney said, “but it might be best to simply let events take their course. What will be, will be.”
“Not unless one occasionally makes a little push in the right direction,” Mrs. Bellairs grumbled. “I am getting tired of waiting. Margaret seems to think she’ll be young and beautiful forever.”
William wanted to shake the woman. Mrs. Bellairs herself was still quite attractive. Margaret, with those classical features, perfect teeth and dramatic colouring, presumably had many years of undiminished beauty ahead of her. Even in old age she would still be talented and clever. She did not deserve this constant harassment.
He excused himself and wandered amidst the raspberry bushes and cherry trees, the latter fruitless in this autumnal season, to walk off his irrational annoyance. Discovering a gate in the fence, he left the Buckley gardens and walked along the lane outside, away from the other guests, for at least half an hour. He returned at last, his equanimity recovered, and was handed a glass of mulled red wine by one of the servants. In his absence there had been a general movement from the tables towards the nearby hill, the picturesque brook, the rose garden and the spinney. Only the oldest guests remained where he had left them, such as Mrs. Bellairs and the Vicar, now sitting at the same table and talking with animation.
In the rose garden Lord Laxeley could be seen walking with Miss Langley, the Vicar’s daughter, on his arm. Where was Miss Bellairs – Margaret? William felt a spurt of alarm, which was quite ridiculous in the Buckleys’ carefully tended estate.
Still, he immediately turned to search the spinney. All kinds of mischief could take place in the relative privacy offered by the trees. Mrs. Bellairs was remiss to let her daughter out of her sight like this.
Presently William heard Margaret’s voice from behind a clump of hazel bushes, confirming his worst fears. His first impulse was to rescue her from whoever she was talking to. But her tone was calm enough; he would merely make a fool of himself.
When the man with her replied, however, his voice was anything but calm. William tensed, but hesitated. If he came across them now, it would be highly embarrassing all around.
“Say a single word, and I’ll be your slave forever,” Doctor Dorringley implored. “I thought I was over my passion for you, Margaret, but when I saw you in the Milldale’s house my heart turned over. It was as though the last years were but a terrible dream, and nothing else mattered.”
“That is unfortunate,” she said drily. “I have put the love we once shared behind me, Christopher. And I understand you are courting Betty Harris these days?”
“That was my mother’s idea … she keeps telling me that a physician ought to be married, and she wants grandchildren. But I assure you, my heart is not involved, and I now see it was all a mistake. Who would even look at Betty when you are nearby? She is nothing. There is no comparison at all.”
There was a short silence.
“That is the most ignoble thing I have ever heard you sa
y,” Margaret’s voice was cold. “If you marry her, I pity the girl. But as far as I am concerned, Betty may have you with my goodwill. It must have been my youth and inexperience that made me overlook your weakness of character. Let us go back, Christopher. Being apart from the company will only cause unnecessary gossip, and serves no purpose.”
“Margaret! You cannot mean it!” Dorringley cried with blatant desperation.
William had heard enough. Treading on a stick as heavily as he could, he pretended to be coming just then in their direction. Neither the physician nor Margaret said anything as he emerged from between the trees. “Ah, there you are, Miss Bellairs! Your mother was getting anxious, and asked me to escort you back to her table. Hello, Dorringley.”
The young physician’s face was drawn and morose, without looking any less handsome. Margaret put her hand on William’s arm without hesitation, with an expression of relief.
They walked in silence for a minute before she asked in a low voice, “How much did you overhear?”
“Enough to judge that the sooner this scene was ended, the better.”
She nodded. “Thank you. I know you will not talk of it to others.”
Halfway to the tables they walked by Betty and Ruth Harris. The former sent a murderous look at Margaret, who passed by oblivious, but William could not help worrying. A woman scorned could be vindictive, and unless he was much mistaken, Betty Harris was just the type to make mischief for a more successful rival.
“I never should have gone to the spinney with him,” Margaret said. “But he was talking of old times so calmly, that I had no idea.”
“Love can ambush one,” William said drily. “Nothing very bad happened, and you will not make the same mistake again. Don’t refine upon it too much. None of this is your fault.”
“I fear that as always, your view of me is too generous, Mr. Trey. I am certainly guilty of misjudgement, both today and in my youth, when I loved what I now perceive to have been an unworthy object. But the less said about that, the better.”
“Very good looks and youth are universally attractive, and judgement only comes with maturity,” he tried to console her. “If that is the worst error you are guilty of, I envy you.”
“I fear it isn’t… but that is a tale for another day. Why is it that I feel I can speak frankly with you, when in general I am reserved with new acquaintances?”
“My honest face?”
She smiled. “Maybe. I do like your face. One knows where one stands with you. In society, so many hide behind deception and subterfuge. It is tiring to be always on the qui vive.”
“Thank you.” He was absurdly pleased at the careless compliment. Though at his age, was guileless transparency something to be proud of? Miss Bellairs could be as expressive as he, but she also knew to hide her feelings behind an impenetrable wall when she wanted. She was a complex woman, and his fascination with her was growing by leaps and bounds. He had better take care, before he became as abject and unhappy as Dorringley.
***
Betty Harris pretended to admire a rose bush as Christopher Dorringley emerged from the spinney, but she could gauge his expression well enough from the corners of her eyes. What she saw in his face made her stomach drop. He looked like a man who had lost the most precious thing in life. Worse, he walked almost blindly towards the house, not even noticing her half-turned back.
When he had walked into the spinney with Miss Bellairs, Betty had wanted to follow, to hear for herself what they would say to each other. Ruth had held her back with a firm grasp on her sleeve, chittering about reserve and delicacy and manners – Betty had not yet forgiven her twin sister for that affected air of moral superiority.
Now that Christopher had not even noticed Betty, the girl he was supposed to be courting, Ruth actually looked at her with pity. Pity! From Ruth, who had never in her life had a beau, nor was likely to! It was intolerable.
“You will find someone more constant, Betty, who likes you best.”
“Shut up,” Betty hissed, startling Ruth so much that she fell indeed silent, and blinked in distress. Good. Betty did not mind sharing her own unhappiness. “It is all the fault of that horrible Margaret Bellairs, with her piano playing and fashionable airs. Once she goes away, all will be as before.”
“Do you really think so?” Ruth said drily. “I suppose it is hard to let go of illusions.”
Leaving Ruth, Betty flirted with Mr. Rilling over the little cups of elderberry wine served as the guests assembled indoors as the sun went down. Soon everyone would get into their carriages and return home. Already Mrs. Bellairs and her companion, that horse-faced harridan, were taking their leave of their hostess. Lord Laxeley was talking to the Vicar, of all people. The Viscount had not shown any interest in Betty at all, but she hardly minded. She did not want anyone other than Christopher.
“Did you have a good time, Miss Harris?” Mrs. Dorringley asked her. Christopher’s mother had favoured their match from the first.
“Yes, very pleasant, Ma’am,” Betty replied. “Though I had the impression that Miss Bellairs was putting herself forward a little too much.”
“Did she?” Mrs. Dorringley looked as though she had bitten into a bitter fruit. “She was always very self-assured.”
“That is normal enough with eldest children,” Mr. Buckley, who had listened to this exchange, commented. “I don’t know what gave you such an impression, Miss Harris. Miss Bellairs is a lady of excellent breeding.” He did not say, unlike others present, but he might as well have. Betty tossed her head defiantly. It was all the same: men seemed unable to see through Margaret, that arrogant witch. Buckley was not even musical enough to appreciate Margaret’s playing, and still he took her part.
She batted her lashes at that architect, Mr. Trey, just to keep in practice, but he ignored her completely. It was clearly not her day. Rather than court additional humiliation, Betty went to look for her parents.
Her mother had not failed to notice that the courtship between Doctor Dorringley and her daughter had run into some obstacle. After one look at Betty’s rigid face, she squeezed her hand consolingly. “My poor child. I shall have a talk with Mrs. Dorringley, to see what can be done. If we put our heads together, maybe the situation can be mended – if you want it to, that is?”
Betty nodded, not vouchsafing a reply. She placed little confidence in her mother’s mission, but she was not prepared to give up, and would do whatever it took to draw the most handsome physician in the British Isles back to her side. Even if Ruth disapproved; but then she disapproved of practically everything Betty did anyway. Her sister was already practising to be a sour old maid.
She, Betty, was destined for a very different fate.
Chapter 14
Margaret woke up early, restless, and had tea and toast in the kitchen, relieved that no new burglary had been attempted in the night. With any luck, the story that the treasure was long gone to London was now generally accepted. The servants were full of conjectures regarding the identity of the jewel thief.
Margaret would have liked to play the piano, but the instrument on which she had learned, that had stood in the Hall’s music room all through her childhood, had been sold off when they were ruined. There were distinct advantages to a portable instrument like Lord Laxeley’s cello. Though by no means small, it could be carried on visits to the countryside. Other instruments, like the violin or flute, were even more portable. Should she take up a second instrument, for those occasions when she did not have access to a piano? Given all the travelling she had been doing over the past three years, it might be worthwhile.
Margaret’s internal debate about the respective merits of the flute and the mandolin was interrupted by the now accustomed knock on the kitchen door. Mr. Trey put his head in.
“Come and have some tea,” Margaret offered. “Where is Mr. Manning?”
“Buying more tiles and sand. He’ll be along later in the morning with the additional supplies.”
The architect accepted a cup of tea from the kitchen maid, and thanked her courteously for the trouble. As he was about to drink, a loud whining noise could be heard from outside the door, rising in intensity in a most alarming manner.
Margaret looked at Mr. Trey, raising her brows. He shook his head ruefully. “She is unhappy at being tied up and left alone.”
“You have brought us a dog, Mr. Trey?” Margaret jumped up from her seat and nearly ran outside, forgetting all about dignity.
The animal that met her eyes was all legs and ribs; the shaggy brown fur was dusty, and the ears were hanging down at the sides of her longish head. The dog’s intelligent brown eyes – not all that different in colour from Margaret’s own – and a wet black nose immediately turned in her direction with cautious curiosity. Standing, the animal came up to the height of Margaret’s hip.
“Hello,” she said softly, holding her hand out for the dog to sniff.
“She looks big enough to scare most people off, but still a bit young,” the kitchen maid, who had followed her outside, commented. “She cannot have got enough food, poor thing. All her ribs stick out.”
“Is she a watch dog?” Margaret asked. “The size may frighten off the ignorant, but she acts too friendly to inspire much fear.”
“Once she has accepted you as her mistress and this house as her home, she will feel and act protective,” Mr. Trey predicted. “I am assured that she comes from a family of ferocious watchdogs. Her name is Berry, but you can change it, of course.”
“Berry?” The ears half rose and the animal looked at her attentively. “She answers to it – we might as well keep the name. Do we have anything to feed her?”
“I’ll have a look.” The maid retired to the kitchen.
“Thank you, Mr. Trey. I shall keep the dog with me. I hope my mother will feel safer too, once she has accustomed herself to the animal’s presence.” Which might not be easily accomplished, as Mrs. Bellairs had never been fond of pets. “But if she should become attached to us, what will become of Berry once we leave Bankington? I doubt she will fit in in Pell House.”
