by Joan Aiken
This was all news to Delphie. And if she had not scrupled to ask questions of a servant, and if they had not all been so busy, she would have liked to find out much more. But, glancing at the carriage-clock, she exclaimed,
“Mercy! My uncle will be here in half an hour! I had better go and dress directly!”
She put on her white crape, and borrowed a silver necklace and a Norwich shawl from her mother, who, on hearing that company was expected, had declared that she did not wish to see anybody. Mrs. Carteret had kept her bed all morning, quite worn out with the fatigues and excitements of the previous day and night; she did get up in the afternoon for a short time to sit in the garden, but then returned to her bed at four, announcing that she should not stir from it again.
“Mrs. Andrews can bring me a little soup when you dine; that is all I wish for. And perhaps a handful of almond cakes.”
This decision was a relief to Delphie, who would have tried to persuade her mother to such a course had not Mrs. Carteret arrived at it independently. She had felt obliged, in honesty, to mention that Lord Bollington was expected, but when Mrs. Carteret said faintly,
“Oh, heaven! Not another of them?” in a piteous manner, Delphie thought it best to drop the matter entirely. She would have been very apprehensive as to the effect of such a confrontation upon her mother’s nerves—though she could not repress some curiosity as to Lord Bollington’s reactions.
Gareth came downstairs at four-thirty, dressed plainly but correctly in knee breeches, silk stockings, a white waistcoat, and a long-tailed jacket; if his apparel was plainly far from new, at least it looked in good trim.
“You are as fine as fivepence, cousin,” Delphie told him politely.
“You, too!” he responded. “I am afraid all this is a dead bore for you, and much more nuisance than I had intended; I must indeed apologize. I hope that Bardwell has done most of the work?”
“Pray don’t think of it,” said Delphie, smilingly waving aside all the hours she had spent in rolling pastry, paring apples, podding peas, boning, stoning, stuffing, larding, basting, stirring, beating, and chopping, under Mrs. Andrews’s exacting eye. “After all, think in what an excellent cause! To earn my uncle’s favor must be an object with us all!”
He gave her an ironical glance, but only observed, “You have a dab of flour on your nose, cousin.”
“Thank you—I must have got it when I took those wretched pies from the oven,” she said, rubbing at it. “What a fortunate thing you informed me! Do I hear a carriage outside?”
“You still have not got it—here—” he said impatiently, and, laying a light hand on her shoulder, turned up her face with the other hand. For a moment their faces were so close that she could see his eyes were not black but a very dark brown; she had the oddest feeling that he might kiss her—he did look very intently into her eyes—but at that moment came a loud peal on the doorbell, and he gently rubbed the end of her nose with his handkerchief, before moving quickly into the hallway, bracing his shoulders as he did so.
Evidently it took some little time for Lord Bollington to be extracted from his carriage, supported across the pavement, and inducted into the house; but at last he appeared in the parlor doorway, limping heavily, assisted by a thick ebony cane. As he gave a peevish glance about him, Delphie swept him her best curtsy.
“We are delighted to welcome you, great-uncle. Pray come to the fire!”
“No need to have piled up such a bonfire on my account!” he snapped, allowing Gareth to shepherd him to an upright chair with arms. “Good God! There must be half a stone of coals on the hearth!” Despite which criticism he seemed glad enough to sit and warm himself. He still looked far from well, but was dressed very correctly in old-fashioned evening attire. On his right middle finger he wore an enormous ruby ring with a stone large as a pigeon’s egg, which flashed dark gleams back into the flames.
It was plain that he did not wish his health referred to; he irritably turned aside any inquiries about it “You young ones have no idea what illness is! My afflictions are wretched—wretched! But I make nothing of them—I do not allow them to deter me from my duty, which is,” he said to Delphie, “to make sure that you and your cousin are properly established together.”
“I hope that your doubts on that head are now wholly resolved, Uncle Mark,” she said.
“Ay, ay,” he exclaimed testily. “You may smile! I dare swear it’s all smiles and sherry now, while you are new to one another—but how will it be in five years’ time, when the claws begin to show?”
“That, uncle, only time will reveal,” Delphie said, beginning, as Lord Bollington grinned his disagreeably malicious grin at her, to feel very sorry for poor Prissy Privett, and to wonder what sort of a wretched life the pair of them had led together until his unkindness had killed her. Delphie could not help thinking Great-uncle Mark a dismal old wretch.
Lord Bollington then demanded of Gareth where various heirlooms were which he had expected to see and did not. Delphie wondered if Gareth would tell his great-uncle that they were at Horsmonden, but he merely replied,
“I sold them, uncle!”
“What? Sold your father’s Cellini saltcellar—and the pokal—and the pineapple cup?”
“I was obliged to. Besides, the pineapple cup was hideous!”
“Would you not care to come to the table, uncle?” Delphie said hastily.
“Might as well,” Lord Bollington grumbled. “I hope to heaven you haven’t served up a lot of foreign fal-lals and kickshaws that I can’t digest.”
However, on the whole, he was pleased to approve their choice of menu and (for a confirmed invalid) ate an amazing, and, Delphie thought, a wholly injudicious quantity, particularly indulging in the buttered lobsters, the ducklings with cherries, the almond cakes, and the apple tarts. He called for cheese with the latter, which Bardwell was luckily able to produce. Delphie, too nervous to touch more than a few mouthfuls herself, watched his gastronomic prowess with startled eyes, until she chanced to meet Gareth’s amused glance, when she was obliged to press her napkin to her lips for a moment or two, and stare resolutely at her plate.
“Fishbone gone down the wrong way, niece?” inquired his lordship. “Swallow a little hock and seltzer—that’ll shift it.”
“Thank you, Uncle Mark—I am better now.”
“Brother Lance was devilish fond of hock and seltzer,” Lord Bollington observed. “Said it would sober him up, be he never so concerned!” His tone was melancholy, reminiscent; absently he removed his wig in order to scratch his (perfectly bald) head, then replaced the wig again, somewhat lopsided. “Always would have hock and seltzer at the end of an evening, Lance would. If only—but there! What’s the use to repine! But he was a devilish good fellow, m’brother Lance; good seat on a horse; sharp eye for a wench; it was a thousand pities that little twopenny ha’penny flibbertigibbet should ha’ come betwixt us at the end. If I’d known how it would all turn out, I’d far sooner ha’ dropped her in the moat—so spiteful and vixenish as she turned out to be!”
“And did you drop my great-uncle Lancelot in the moat?” Gareth inquired interestedly.
“No, no, boy—no! In course I didn’t! We fought fair—but it was a frosty night—leads were devilish slippery—poor fellow lost his footing—wouldn’t have had it happen for worlds,” Lord Bollington morosely remarked, staring into his glass of burgundy as if he hoped to see his brother Lancelot swimming there. “At the time, of course, didn’t expect to come into the title—Lance’s son still alive—but then your crackbrained brother had to run off and join the Navy!” he said, suddenly directing a glance of indignation at Delphie. “And get himself killed!”
“I think you must mean my uncle Tristram, great-uncle,” she said gently. “My mother’s brother.”
“Eh? What? Oh—er—yes, Elaine’s brother—yes.” For a moment he seemed confused, but presently inquired, “What’s your name, then?”
“I am called Philadelphia, uncle, but
my name is Elaine too, after my mother.”
“Philadelphia? What kind of a heathen name is that?”
“It has been a name frequently used in the Carteret—in my father’s family.”
“Yes!” he said, immediately striking off at a new tangent. “Then she had to run off too—elope—mizzle off! As if life was insupportable at Chase! None of them would stay there! And I dare say it was insupportable,” he added glumly, after a moment, “with that vulgar harpy at the foot of the table—not to mention her two base-born brats. They went off too,” he muttered. “But then the boy came back. Put in a fair job as agent, but never did like the cut of his jib somehow: always a bit too anxious to please. They’re all after me for what they can get!” he suddenly cried angrily at Gareth. “None of them love me for myself!”
How could they? thought Delphie dispassionately, gazing at him.
“It would have been different if I’d had one of my own! But that, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—do. Ah, the best of them all was Mary—your mother,” he said to Delphie.
“I think you mean my grandmother, Uncle Mark.”
“Mother, grandmother—what’s the difference? Ah, she was a real beauty—real class, she had. Good enough to be the Queen of England! But Lance had to get in ahead and snabble her—Lance always had to get in ahead,” Lord Bollington muttered moodily. “Still an’ all, I’m sorry I pushed the poor fellow in the moat.”
Delphie began to feel rather sorry for the poor old scarecrow, fretting away over his griefs, and sins committed so far back in the lost and ineradicable past. Whether or not he really had pushed his brother off the roof, it seemed certain enough that he had at least felt the impulse to do so. Perhaps, Delphie thought, he was one of those poor jealous souls who never crave something unless it is the property of somebody else; it seemed plain enough that he had coveted his brother’s wife, his title, and his mistress.
Her eyes met those of Gareth again; now she had no impulse to laugh.
“Do you think perhaps I should retire?” she murmured in a low voice.
“I think it would be better if he did,” Gareth responded in the same tone, and added, in a louder one, “Are you tired, Uncle Mark? Shall I send Bardwell for your coach?”
“Eh? Eh?” Lord Bollington jerked himself out of his sad reverie, coming back, it seemed, from an immense distance. His eye fell on Delphie.
“Did they treat you well at that school in Bath?” he suddenly inquired. “Queen’s Square Academy—whatever it was called? Felt at times I should have had you to Chase—but—well—t’ tell you the truth—couldn’t stand the prospect—child on her own, what could I do?—felt too bad about it all.”
“Never mind, uncle,” she said quietly. “It didn’t matter. I was quite happy.”
He raised sad, bloodshot eyes to her face.
“If only your mother had been alive—”
“But—uncle—my mother was alive! My mother is alive.”
“Eh? How can she be? Midwife’s letter came—saying she had died in childbed—”
“Would you not like to see her? To see for yourself—?”
Delphie was puzzled by his last statement, but all other concerns were obliterated by the knowledge that she could alleviate at least one of his many griefs.
“Wait!” she said. “And I will see if she is still awake—”
“Delphie, are you sure that what you are doing is wise?” Gareth said softly as she went toward the door.
“The poor old man! Surely it must ease at least some of his trouble, to see that Mamma is alive and well?”
“Mamma!” she called, tapping gently at her mother’s door. “Are you still awake?”
“Yes, I am, dear,” replied Mrs. Carteret’s voice, quite briskly, from within. “And, if you have any made, I believe I will take just a taste of tea! I have had such a refreshing nap!”
The open door revealed that Mrs. Carteret was up, sitting in her armchair, very fetchingly arrayed in her cap and frilled bed jacket.
“Certainly I will bring you some tea,” said Delphie. “But also—Mamma, would you mind very much if I brought Great-uncle Mark to see you, just for a moment? He is so very sad and sorry for all he has done wrong, that I think it would be the greatest kindness if you would do so? He is so wretched—about grandfather—about Uncle Tristram—about your running away—about everything!”
Mrs. Carteret looked very startled and uneasy. Her hand fluttered to her lips.
“Must I?” she asked fearfully. “Must I really, Delphie?”
“Just for one moment, Mamma!”
“Oh—very well! If you think it will really do him good.”
Delphie ran back to the parlor, where Uncle Mark was now tottering in the direction of the hall door, supported by Bardwell and Gareth, as well as by his ebony cane.
“Mamma says she will see him—just for a moment.”
“I still doubt if it is wise,” muttered Gareth. But he continued to help the old man along the hallway toward Mrs. Carteret’s door.
Lord Bollington reached the doorway, looked through, and saw Mrs. Carteret ensconced in the armchair, becomingly wrapped in her white frills.
He stared at her in silence for a long moment, his mouth ajar, his face working, his hands clenching and unclenching. Then—“Mary!” he ejaculated, in a hoarse croaking tone—and suddenly sagged heavily on the arms that supported him. His head dropped forward, and his cane clattered on the floor.
“Oh lord! I knew it!” Gareth muttered. Mrs. Carteret let out a faint cry.
“What has happened? Is he ill? Oh, the poor soul!”
“Go to your mother, Delphie,” said Gareth. “Shut the door.” Appalled, Delphie found voice enough to murmur,
“What is it? Has he—?”
“His heart has stopped,” said Gareth.
12
To Delphie, the rest of the night seemed to go on forever. First she had Mrs. Carteret to soothe, and that was no easy task; it was finally achieved by a drop or two of laudanum in a cup of tea, for the poor lady was so overset by what had occurred that a deep and oblivious sleep seemed the only solution for her. Leaving Mrs. Andrews nodding off in an armchair by her mother’s bedside, Delphie then returned to her own bedroom, at the front of the house, where Lord Bollington’s corpse had, for the time being, been laid.
During the time that Delphie had spent attending to her mother, Lord Bollington’s carriage had been dispatched to the house in Hanover Square, and had come back with both Mr. Fitzjohn and Dr. Bowles, Lord Bollington’s own doctor, who, by great good fortune, had escorted the old man to London.
Dr. Bowles, having carefully examined his defunct patient, gave it as his unhesitating opinion that the death had been caused by failure of the heart, following a severe shock, on the top of too much lobster, hock, and duckling.
“Not a bit surprised!” Dr. Bowles said cheerfully. “Could have happened any time this past seven years! Only amazed it didn’t! The old curmudgeon was such a stingy eater at home that, if ever he chanced to dine at someone else’s expense, he couldn’t resist overdoing it. Often and often I’ve warned him—haven’t I, Fitz?”
“You do not think,” Mr. Fitzjohn suggested gently, “that my uncle might have been er—poisoned—by any undesirable element in the food he has just consumed?”
“Poisoned?” said the doctor scornfully. “What kind of a totty-headed notion is that? Look at the others—ate the same food—they’re all right and tight! No need to poison the old feller, when he had duckling on top of lobster! No, no, old dame Nature has served him trick and tie at last, and no need to blame yourselves,” he said to Gareth and Delphie, who, silent and white-faced, had been awaiting his verdict in wretched suspense, “for he made as good an end as any man need! Wouldn’t mind hopping the twig myself after such a dinner as you describe!”
“And I do think,” said Delphie falteringly, “that although it was such a shock for him to see my mother, he was both moved and—and happy at the sig
ht of her. I believe he thought that she was her mother—my grandfather’s wife—for whom he seems to have felt a—a strong passion. Do you not think so?” she inquired of Gareth.
“Yes—very likely,” Gareth agreed gloomily. “He certainly shouted out Mary at the last.”
“Eh, well,” remarked the doctor, “there’s one more patient gone! Come along,” he said to Mordred. “We might as well return to our beds, there’s naught we can do here. I’ll make arrangements to have the body fetched in the morning—can’t go knocking up undertakers at this hour of night. He’ll be buried at Chase, I presume? Funeral in the chapel there?”
“But you can’t leave the body here!” said Gareth indignantly. “It’s in my cousin’s room! What about—?”
He caught himself up suddenly.
Delphie, who thought she had observed Mr. Fitzjohn casting some very sharp and suspicious glances, both at her and at Gareth, here said composedly,
“Of course the body must remain here, Gareth! That chamber is not required, in any case. You may return upstairs, and I, naturally, shall need to spend the night in poor Mamma’s room. I shall be exceedingly anxious about her until she has woken, and I can reassure myself that the tone of her mind has not been too rudely overset by such an experience.”
As this was eminently reasonable, Gareth made no more objections, and the other two men took their leave.
Gareth, locking the front door after them, said,
“But shall you feel safe in that back chamber, after the burglar last night?”
“Oh yes,” Delphie said tranquilly. “Bardwell—who, I must say, is the most useful creature in the world!—tells me that during the day he had a locksmith come in, who fastened the window so that it will not open more than a few inches. I shall feel perfectly secure. But thank you for your inquiry.”
