by May Burnett
“Theirs were badly cut, which makes all the difference. Flounces and roses are certainly in fashion, but I always feel that less is more. It all depends on whether they interrupt or enhance the overall outline. I can sketch some styles that would suit you easily enough, but you’ll need to find a different and better seamstress to construct them.”
“The Harris family use Mrs. Fisher,” Vanessa said. “I know someone who might do better.”
“Do you have sufficient funds? Pardon me if the question should be indelicate.” Margaret had passed over two years in dire poverty, with no funds to buy anything pretty except for that pittance from the War Office. She would have resented such a question then.
Vanessa shook her red curls. “No offense taken. That was never the problem; we are by no means poor.”
Lucky girl. Margaret led Vanessa to her wardrobe, and had her try on several dresses in front of the mirror, discussing what would suit her, and why, or why not. Once she brought her considerable intelligence to bear on the subject, Vanessa proved a willing and attentive pupil. By the time they called for tea and cake to restore themselves after their consultation, considerable progress had been achieved. They arranged to meet again the next afternoon, at the Vicarage, to go through Vanessa’s existing choices and discard whatever was too passé. Margaret had the uneasy feeling that Vanessa would be left without anything suitable to wear.
Once Vanessa had departed to deliver her other invitations, there still was ample time to walk Berry before dinnertime. The dog was only just adapting to the leash, and had a tendency to stand sniffing, or roll in the grass, instead of following her mistress. Mr. Trey had told Margaret that these first days were crucial, that she had to assert her authority over the animal if she wanted it to become a useful guard and companion. After some energetic tugging and scolding Berry understood what was expected, and they rambled contentedly for over an hour.
Returning to the house, warm and rosy from the brisk walk, Margaret realised that the boredom and melancholy she had felt so recently were completely gone. Was it the exercise? The company of the dog, who would never pester her with reproaches for not deciding on a suitor quickly enough? It had been pleasant to make friends with a girl close to her own age – very well, two years younger, but close enough – and to be useful to her.
Was that the key? Margaret had enjoyed helping Mr. Trey plan the alterations to their house, and drawing up the sketches for the inventory of the treasure, even though it had meant many hours of work. She had felt wide awake when they found the immured box, when she chose its current hiding place, and even when inspecting the aftermath of the burglary.
In the past, she had been secretly proud of the detailed and analytic reports about Austrian military matters, that she had sent to the War office under a false name. As dismal as her moods in Italy had been, challenge and activity had invariably been beneficial. It seemed so very obvious in retrospect.
Thinking back, by and large her periods of melancholy and listlessness had coincided with those times when she was superfluous, unneeded, treated like an encumbrance despite her brains and accomplishments.
The conclusion was clear: she must ensure a constant and varied diet of useful activity. No more endless rounds of boring morning visits in her mother’s company.
But how? As a lady, she was hedged about and hampered in every direction, and that would not change much after she married. Especially after she married, if she considered what life with a man like Christopher Dorringley or her cousin Conrad Bolland would entail. Motherhood and devoted domesticity would be expected to define her whole existence. The average man would try to dictate what books she was allowed to read, with whom she was allowed to associate.
Even before understanding what she most needed, her instincts had steered her away from that sort of half-alive existence. But what she had now was hardly better.
What should, what could she do? Everyone said she was clever. If Margaret could find a satisfactory answer to this conundrum, they might just be right.
Chapter 16
The long-awaited letter from Anthony arrived at last, but no guard to escort the treasure. Under her mother’s curious gaze, Margaret opened and read his missive, then re-read it more slowly, her heart pounding with excitement.
Dear Margaret, her brother-in-law wrote,
It seems a very good thing that you offered to go to Bankington yourself, to oversee the repairs to your ancestral estate. If ever I have seen an example of duty rewarded, your finding that treasure must be it.
I must also commend you on the exemplary, detailed inventory you sent, with sketches that allowed Emily and me to clearly picture the contents of your walled-in box. Devoid of any artistic talent myself, I have long appreciated your excellence as a draughtswoman. Maybe you could establish a similar inventory for my Roman and Celtic collections when you return, if you find time between your social engagements?
Based on your list and sketches, the total value of your find should be somewhere between nine and eleven thousand pounds, I am told, depending on the quality of the stones – their purity makes a great difference.
You asked for a guard to bring the contents of the box to London, but surely you can simply take it with you when you return to us in a few weeks’ time. I have given orders to send two additional outriders along when you depart.
However, the decision what to do about the treasure is yours, Margaret. Emily and I agree that apart from the Roman coins, which would fit well into my collection, and the sapphire bracelet for Emily, the Bellairs treasure belongs to you as the last living Bellairs by descent (I count your sister as a Wetherby by virtue of our marriage.) The box was hidden by one of your direct ancestors, after all.
By the way, I am glad that the architect has proven so helpful and competent, and will certainly keep Mr. Trey in mind for other and larger building jobs, as you suggest. That he declined any reward gives a most favourable impression of his character. I leave it to you how to reward the two workmen who actually tore down the wall.
Please give my best regards to your mother, and assure her that her grandson is healthy and thriving, as is her daughter Emily, who sends her love to both of you.
Re-reading the letter did not change its import: apart from one bracelet and a few old coins the treasure belonged to her, Margaret Bellairs!
“What does Anthony write?” Mrs. Bellairs asked impatiently, expecting to be handed the letter for her perusal, but Margaret hesitated. Like everyone except Mr. Trey, her mother believed that the treasure had already been dispatched to London. Anthony’s letter contradicted that white lie. Would her mother be able to keep such a secret to herself? Not likely, and the unknown burglar must on no account learn that the gold was still on the premises.
She folded the letter and tucked it into her sleeve. “Anthony writes to thank me for sending the treasure to London. Apart from some old coins and a bracelet he gives it to me, since it came from my Bellairs ancestors. I must write back to thank him, and ask him to take good care of the box till my return to town.”
“Congratulations,” Mrs. Carney said. “What splendid news!”
Mrs. Bellairs sat bolt upright, staring at her daughter. “He gives it to you, just like that? What a generous man Anthony is! Not only does he give you a dowry, now he is returning the treasure also! That means your dowry is that much larger. Does he write how much the gold is worth, in guineas?”
“Nine thousand pounds, he estimates.”
“Nine thousand! And you were to have ten thousand already. That is very satisfactory indeed. Few men would turn up their noses at nineteen thousand, plus the connection to Anthony’s family.” After a moment’s consideration she added, “It is just as well, considering that you will be turning twenty-three in December.”
Margaret felt her fists clench. Lately, everything her mother said rubbed her the wrong way. This windfall was not part of her dowry. Those constantly cited ten thousand pounds she was supposed to get were
a mere promise at this point, a benefit that would only materialise upon her marriage. Now that she had the gold in hand, she would write to Anthony that she no longer needed a dowry at all.
The gold in the old box was solid and hers to do with as she saw fit, to spend or invest or bury again. As much hers, in fact, as the eight hundred pounds she had received as back pay from the War Office the previous year. Those she had carefully tucked away as emergency funds, since she could not know what other dramatic turns her life might yet take. But eight hundred were far less than nine thousand, or more. The larger sum represented security; possibly even independence, if carefully invested.
All at once, the treasure’s hiding place among the dusty curtains seemed pitiably inadequate. What did it say about her, that while she had considered the gold Anthony’s, it had appeared quite safe enough?
As soon as breakfast ended she checked on her new fortune, still resting undisturbed exactly where she had hidden it. Due to the weight she had had to bring it to the hiding place in portions; but for all she knew their local burglar might be as strong as Mr. Trey, or bring confederates.
After carefully relocking the door, she went to search out Mr. Trey in the gardens. He was watching the workmen on the roof replace the last of the faulty tiles. Berry was near him, resting her head on her big paws, but attentively watching both the architect and the men on the roof – or maybe the crows flying overhead. Her ears twitched as she heard Margaret approach, but she did not immediately jump up. From the first, Berry had shown a distinct predilection for Mr. Trey’s company.
“Good morning. The roof will be done by tonight,” he told her in a tone of satisfaction. “I am glad we got that done while the weather was comparatively dry. After another winter it would have been twice as much work and material.”
And more than twice as expensive, no doubt, but gentlemen rarely discussed money with ladies. She looked around; nobody was within hearing distance. Nonetheless she kept her voice low. “Mr. Trey, I have come to consult you. I have heard from Lord Pell at last. He is not sending anyone to escort the box to London; instead he is donating its contents to me, apart from some antique coins and a bracelet. I shall be giving three guineas each to the workmen who found it – is that enough, do you think?”
“It should be. They will be happy.”
“But I am greatly worried about the burglar. Is there still no news?”
He shook his head. “No. The search for your criminal is the main subject of conversation in the whole village. Without any known miscreants to suspect, or anyone displaying suspicious wealth all of a sudden, from what I heard in the inn last night Sir Reginald is making little progress. Whenever I get the chance, I mention how lucky it is that the treasure was already dispatched to Lord Pell when the burglary occurred.”
“Thank you. I only wish it were true. I need a more secure hiding place. Maybe even wall it back up, until I break it open again. Do you have any suggestions?”
He considered. “We shall be working on some of the interior rooms in the next few days, but remember that for a builder who puts up walls, breaking one down is far easier than for the layman. I would have to do the bricklaying myself, and in such a way that the men don’t notice the difference the next day. Hmm.”
“I am not sure I want to have the gold in quite such an inaccessible place, anyway. When I leave I shall take it with me. But until then, nobody must have the slightest idea it is still in Derbyshire.”
“In that case I am honoured by your confidence, Miss Bellairs.” He smiled. Mr. Trey had a very attractive smile. It made him look younger and more carefree.
For some reason, right from the first, Margaret had known that Mr. Trey was a man she could trust, who would never disappoint or betray her. Had she ever felt like that about any other man? Anthony was trustworthy, of course, but she had not felt any particular esteem or admiration upon their first meeting, or indeed for weeks afterwards. Emily, it had to be admitted, had appreciated his value far more quickly. Mentally passing over the list of her suitors, Margaret had to conclude that she would not have trusted any of them with the secret of her treasure.
If Mr. Trey had been a candidate for her hand, instead of an architect sent to assist with the restorations, she might have been curious to further explore this strange affinity. Her eyes darted to him, as he stood there so stolidly, content to wait until she had thought the matter over and let him know what she wanted. He made her feel comfortable, secure. Talking to him always alleviated the irritation at her mother that was plaguing her so much lately.
When she did not speak for another minute, Trey suggested, “A built-in safe in a hidden location might be the best solution. It will be useful on future occasions as well, and with your permission I can include it in the overall restoration expenses as another improvement. Only the most professional robbers can break into such a safe, and those hardly ever ply their trade in a small village like Bankington. They stick to the richer pickings of town.”
“That would be ideal,” she agreed, “but where can we get one, at short notice?”
“The lock is the most essential part, and will not be available locally. We’d have to send for it. I know where to order it, but it will take a week at best.”
“With this criminal sniffing about, I am not sure I can wait that long. Maybe I could bury the box in the ground till the new safe can be installed.”
“That might serve,” he agreed, “as long as nobody sees you – or me, - digging, or notices the fresh hole in the ground. They take a little time to grow over, you know.”
Margaret looked about her. In a well-tended garden, as this one had been some ten years earlier, there would be flowerbeds and vegetable patches with newly disturbed earth. In this overgrown wilderness, a newly dug hole would stick out like a sore finger. “I see I must think of something else,” she said. “Will you see to ordering the safe right away?”
“Of course, Miss Bellairs.”
“Have you been invited to dinner at the Vicarage, Mr. Trey?”
“Indeed, and I look forward to the evening.”
“My mother and the Vicar are going to discuss grave monuments, I fear.”
“That is a perfectly acceptable and even interesting subject for an architect. I know a good stonemason, if they do not yet have a particular artist picked out. And do not pretend that a lady as artistic as you does not have strong opinions on the subject. You could sketch the monument your mother wants, for the stonemason to copy.”
“Only if she asks me to do so,” Margaret said drily. She did not want to discuss her reservations about the project, even with Mr. Trey. Margaret might say something shockingly unfilial, if she allowed her true feelings to find expression. “As this monument was the main reason my mother consented to this journey, I prefer to leave all details to her.” Her mother already resented her enough for taking the hiring of servants and supervision of the restoration of the Hall upon herself.
“How are you getting along with Berry?”
“I am growing fond of her, but I fear the same cannot be said of my mother. She tolerates her in the interest of safety, but I sense an edge of fear in her, whenever the dog comes too close.”
“Many people feel like that – some were bitten as children, but in others it is instinctive. You are made of stronger fibre, Miss Bellairs.”
He said it with admiration. Margaret wondered if he ever spoke in that warm manner to other women – if Mr. Trey was married or engaged. Surely he would have mentioned such a circumstance during one of their daily discussions that rambled from nature to architecture to art and music. But not necessarily; he might be one of those very private men who kept their home life completely out of the conversation.
“Is anybody anxiously awaiting your return back in London, Mr. Trey? If so, should we feel guilty that your work here is keeping you away from town so long?”
He blinked at the question, coming out of the blue. “Kind of you to worry about me, Miss Bellair
s, but apart from my crotchety landlady nobody is waiting for me. Though I have been thinking of getting a dog too – but it would be cruel having to leave him behind when I travel on business, such as now; and the city is not the best place for an animal.”
“No,” she said, looking at Berry, who was watching her attentively.
“I am not quite alone in the world, mind – I have a married sister and my uncle.”
“I was not meaning to pry,” Margaret lied, glad she was not as prone to blushing as Vanessa Langley.
“I’d better go and order that safe. I’ll see you in the afternoon, Miss Bellairs; remember we were going to check on the garden wall, the folly and the pump for the monumental pool. I am determined to get that to work again, the empty expanse is too unsightly.”
“Maybe we should simply break it up and fill the hole with earth.” She was relieved at the change in subject. What was the matter with her? But when she met Mr. Trey’s grey eyes she felt no more embarrassment. Here was one man who would always judge her kindly, with understanding and generosity. She felt an impulse to take his hand in hers, and restrained herself only with a conscious effort, before retreating to the house in some confusion.
What was the matter with her?
Chapter 17
It did not take long for the news to spread all over Bankington. When Betty Harris learned from her maid that Lord Pell had deeded the treasure to Miss Bellairs, she threw a vase across the room to relieve her strong feelings. It was all of a piece – some people had all the luck.
It was up to her, Betty, to see that Margaret Bellairs received her comeuppance.
This was not the only recent news to irk her, and not even the worst. Her mother had conferred with Mrs. Dorringley the previous afternoon. After hearing her report, Betty fervently wished her parent had never undertaken this mission. Since no actual engagement existed, technically Christopher did not owe Betty any explanation, and probably would not have said a word to her directly. The two mothers, however, had ambushed him between patients and demanded an explanation of his conduct at the Buckleys’ garden party.
