by Joan Smith
“Yes, and I know why too! Because you and your aunt have decreed that she is persona non grata. “
“For a very good reason!” he shot back.
“What reason is that, Acton? Your mind was made up the minute you laid eyes on her.”
“It certainly was!” he shot back, then stopped, as if he had said more than he intended.
“And what is this mysterious reason? Mama and I deserve to know if you have some positive proof that she is a scoundrel.”
“I notice you no longer reject the notion out of hand. Getting too hot for you to handle, is she?”
“Not in the least. Unlike some, I am willing to listen to reason, or reasons.”
“You were right the first time, there is only one, but it is incontrovertible. She is not my sister. Have I ever lied to you, Kate?”
“Not until now.”
“As you are clearly overwrought, I shall let that insult pass. I am not lying now either, Kate. Especially not now. Why do you choose to take the word of a complete stranger, someone you have never seen before, over mine?”
All my doubts came washing back over me. I felt an awful urge to cry, something I rarely do, and never in front of anyone. When life becomes too much for me, I shed a quiet tear alone in my room.
“For God’s sake, Acton, tell me. You have no idea what the past two days have been like.” I choked back a snort of frustration. Acton’s anger melted away like a snowflake in the sun. I believe he thought I was sniffling.
“Kate,” he said in a gentle voice, and drew me into his arms. “You’ll know soon enough. There has been a slight delay in bringing the proof, but it is on its way.” Then he set me off at arm’s length, his strong hands gripping my wrists and said, “Now tell me what that appalling woman has done to reduce you to this condition.”
“Oh it’s not her. It’s everyone else. We suffered a half dozen visits of the local worthies this afternoon, every one of them come to insult Lorna. And on top of it all, she has been acting rather — strangely.”
“Tell me all about it.”
Since I had already told Beamer, there was no point keeping it from Acton, for Beamer would tell him. I omitted only my midnight trip to the Abbey. We began to walk up towards the house, holding hands. I told him about our various callers, about Mr. Chalmers, who had been in Colchester the day we went there, and of his arrival at the inn in Kelvedon the day Lorna arrived at the Abbey. I also mentioned seeing her twice with Taylor.
“The first time I thought it was an accident, but what would your man be doing in our spinney twice in one week? He didn’t have a gun or fishing rod, so he wasn’t after rabbits or fish.”
“I’ll ask him.”
“The odd thing, though, is how much alike they looked, there in profile, both with that Acton nose, and Taylor is your brother after all, even if he was born on the wrong side of the blanket.”
“I grant you there is a slight resemblance in the nose. I noticed it when she came to the Abbey, but then you know a Roman nose is by no means limited to Rome. I could name you half a dozen in the parish, and Papa was not responsible for them either. Taylor is the exception, and that was before Papa married. He did the right thing by his one by-blow, had him educated and kept him on the estate. He would never have cast off a daughter. She is not my half-sister, if that is what you think.”
“No, that’s not what I thought at all. I thought she was Lorna, and you were all determined to deny her to hide the shame of a blot on the family escutcheon.”
He came to a dead stop, his grip on my hand tightened and he turned to me. His face might have been made of stone, his expression was so hard and stiff. He hesitated a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. And when he spoke, his voice had a hollow sound to it. “What shame?”
“I thought she might not have been kidnapped at all, but run away with the gypsies because she was in love with one of them. She was said to be a wild, headstrong girl, and fond of men.”
I couldn’t make heads or tails of his reaction. I thought at first he was stunned that I knew, then decided he was merely relieved. The frozen face melted back to flesh and blood and he actually gave a weird, relieved little laugh. “You should be writing novels, Kate,” he said. “Aunt Maddie would be enthralled with such a plot. Throw in that she was being forced to marry a villain, turn the gypsy into a prince in the last chapter and let them live happily ever after.”
Now I knew what had not happened to Lady Lorna, but still had no idea what had become of her. But I was half convinced that our house-guest was not Lady Lorna.
“Come to tea at the Abbey tomorrow, Kate. I’ll talk to Aunt Mary. Perhaps ...”
“You’ll let her tell me the great secret?”
“Actually she’s the one more determined not to tell anyone, but when she hears what conclusion you had come to, she might feel the truth is no worse.”
“I think you had better speak to your aunt first, Acton. She might dislike to see me at the Abbey.”
“It’s my abbey,” he said. “I can invite whomever I like.”
“You might change your mind after speaking to her.”
His frown was back in place. “Unless you have been tying your garter in public or parading yourself in church in dampened gowns — “
“Just talk to her,” I said. “I really must go now. I’m already late for dinner.” I darted off and left him standing there in a state of confusion, which was only fair. He had left me in the same state.
Chapter Fourteen
Balky had the front door open, waiting for me when I returned. “Your Mama’s been holding dinner for you,” he said with disapproval. “No need to change. It’s only the two of them. The roast is overdone as it is.”
I handed him my bonnet, tidied my hair and rushed to the dining room without changing my gown or even washing my hands. “What kept you, Kate?” Mama asked.
“I was walking in the park. I lost track of time. Sorry.”
Lady Lorna gave me a close look. “That was Acton’s travelling carriage in the park, was it not?”
“Yes, I met him. He’s just back from London.”
“What did he have to say?” she demanded, trying to hide her anxiety.
“He was talking about Larson’s rout. He thought we would be going, you see,” I replied, without quite lying.
“Thanks to him we’re not,” Lorna snipped. “How does he expect me to prove myself if he keeps my old friends from me?”
“None of your friends recognized you this afternoon,” I reminded her.
“They were not my friends, merely acquaintances from decades ago. They were Lady Mary’s friends. She had ordered them not to recognize me.” Odd she seldom called her Aunt Mary. She had lost no opportunity to call her Auntie that night at the Abbey.
Mama mentioned some old friends of Lady Lorna’s with a suggestion that we must be getting in touch with them. Lorna did not follow up on this but began complimenting Mama on the roast beef. It was not at all dry, though it might as well have been for all I cared. Every bite felt like a rock in my throat.
What kept me on nettles that evening was not worrying that the constable would call, but that Acton would. What would he do when he found out I had sneaked into his house with Lorna? He would be furious, of course, but if she was not Lorna, why should they all care so much that she had sneaked in? Surely Lorna herself was the only one who would know if something helpful to her cause was to be found there. It seemed to me they were afraid she would find something to prove she — was who she said she was.
Lady Lorna claimed a sick headache that evening and went to bed early. Acton did not come. Very likely he had gone to Larson’s rout. As I worked with the accounts in Papa’s office, I wondered who he was dancing with. Probably Lady Anne Everley, some cousin or connection of Mrs. Everley, who always managed to be visiting her cousins for their annual rout party and made a dead set at Acton.
After adding the same column three times and getting three wildly di
ffering totals, I gave it up and went to join Mama in the salon, where she sat staring into the grate with a sullen expression on her face. She was peevish at missing the rout. Perhaps it was her knowing Lorna was the cause that began to turn the tide against our guest.
“Thank goodness we have an evening free of her,” she said with a sigh. “I am sick and tired of hearing the stories of how hard her life has been. It has been no bed of roses for me either, losing my husband. She is no fun any more. Naturally I am sorry for her and fond of her, very fond, but there is no denying life is intolerable with no one calling on us but Bernie, and he always reading me lectures. Those dames who called today only came to insult her, and not one of them invited us to return the call. She really must get busy and call on folks who can prove she is Lady Lorna.”
“You knew her well, Mama. Make a list of the people she was closest to, and let us invite them here.”
“I have suggested half a dozen people, but she says her cousin George Prieur never did like her, and cousin Annabelle Turner was always jealous of her, and the rest of the cousins would be afraid to set themselves up against Acton. I daresay she is right about that.”
“People other than relatives — her friends.”
“Oh, the Actons are related to everyone,” she said angrily. “I don’t know what we are to do with her, Kate. I am about at my wits’ end.”
“I believe Acton has something in mind.”
“What did he really say this afternoon?” she asked eagerly.
“Nothing definite, Mama. He found something or someone in London he seems to think will prove his case. Prove she is not Lorna is what he meant.”
Mama’s shoulders sank. “But who else could she possibly be? If I am wrong, we will be ostracized, Kate. No one will speak to us. Yet I do think she is Lorna. It is just that the low company she has been obliged to keep all these years has changed her so much I find I am no longer so comfortable with her as I was used to be. She has become a trifle coarse in her language, and she takes no care of the things I lend her. She rouges her cheeks, you know, and rubs it off on my handkerchiefs. And she never liked roast beef before either. Pork or mutton she would eat, but she said when she saw roast beef, she always thought of Daisy’s beautiful eyes. Daisy was a prize milcher Acton had in his herd. I daresay when she was starving in Europe she could not afford to be sentimental. I know she had to eat a deal of cabbage there, and cannot abide the sight of it. Nor can I.”
“I think it will soon be decided one way or the other, Mama.”
“If Acton has pulled some strings to prove she is not Lorna, we are sunk.” So she accepted the possibility that her guest was not Lorna, or at least could not prove it.
Mama soon gave herself a headache and went up to bed, saying, “I shall take a sleeping draught or I shan’t get a wink of sleep. Don’t stay up too late. We can’t have you losing your looks. It is bad enough without your becoming glued to the shelf.”
I was expecting some injunction regarding the placement of my shoes by the bed — pointing the wrong way can be bad luck, but she was too upset to remind me.
I feared I would also have trouble sleeping and went to the library to get a book, hoping the trials of one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s heroines would distract me. But as the long case clock at the foot of the stairs issued its twelve tinny chimes, I was still awake, with my mind racing over Lorna’s story, alternately finding corroboration for her claim, and something to cast doubt on it. I decided some warm cocoa might make me sleepy. I lit a taper and went quietly down the staircase.
As I passed the library I heard a soft whooshing sound through the open door. No one was there, or at least no light was lit. I took a tentative step in, my mind alert for danger, and felt a cool breath of wind fan my cheek. By the taper’s dim light, flickering in the breeze, I saw the French door was ajar. It was the wind I had heard.
A cool breeze blew over me as I stepped in to lock the door, reminding myself to tell Balky about it in the morning. I locked the door and hurried down to the kitchen to heat the milk. Cook left the stove fire banked at night so I didn’t have to try to start from scratch. I was just preparing to take my cocoa upstairs when a dark form loomed up at the doorway, scaring the life out of me. I didn’t recognize Balky at once, for he was wearing a nightcap and a very handsome blue and rose brocade robe over his nightgown. Who would have imagined this streak of the peacock in him?
“Oh, it’s you, Missie,” he said. “I thought I heard someone moving about upstairs and when I went to have a look, I saw from the head of the stairs a light just heading down here.”
“I couldn’t sleep, Balky. You left the library door unlocked. I locked it, of course, but tomorrow, make sure all the doors are locked before you retire.”
“It was locked, Miss Simmons,” he said, offended. “I remember very well checking to see it was locked as I do every night. It’s only used to go into the rose garden, and your mama wasn’t out there today, nor was Stubbins.”
“Well, it was not locked. In fact it was actually ajar,” I said.
“Then someone unlocked it. Very likely your guest. She often goes in there after dinner. I daresay she may have stepped out for a breath of air, or to sniff the flowers and left it ajar.”
“Mama and Lady Lorna have been in bed for hours. It was likely one of the servants. You’d best speak to them.”
“What, that lot read a book?” He scoffed. “More likely sneaking out that way to meet a beau without Cook seeing them. You may be sure I’ll speak to them, Miss Simmons.”
I went up to bed, wondering which of the servants was sneaking out, and why. Very likely one of them had found a beau. I had seen Bessie, the upstairs maid, in town with an ostler from the inn on her day off. Mama is not a tyrant in that respect. She is a deep-dyed romantic who knows young girls will want a beau, and is quite lenient in allowing them to meet, though not late at night.
For that sort of rendezvous, they would have to sneak out. I thought nothing of it till the next morning. We were at breakfast when Balky came in wearing the highly satisfied face of a servant about to announce a household accident or misfortune for which he is not responsible.
“I regret to inform you, Madam, that we’ve had a burglar. A window in the library has been broken,” he said with grim satisfaction. He turned to me and added, “Odd you did not notice it last night, Missie.” When I am upbraiding him, I am Miss Simmons. When he has the upper hand, I am Missie.
“It was not broken when I was there last night, Balky. Someone must have broken it to sneak in after I retired.” This had to be explained to Mama as I never worry her about inessential details, and especially not at this time.
“Has anything been taken?” she asked in alarm.
“Nothing from the library, so far as I can tell,” was Balky’s reluctant admission.
“A thief would hardly break in to steal books,” Lorna said. “Did you check the silver, Balky?”
“My first duty is always to report to Madam. I’ll do it this minute!” he said, and dashed out.
Mama’s head moved to each of us in turn as we spoke, then she said in a dying voice, “Do you mean to say we have been burgled on top of everything else?” I knew she meant on top of the awful inconvenience of Lady Lorna’s visit, and I think Lorna realized it as well. She looked so guilty and apologetic I felt sorry for her. She was certainly inconveniencing us, but life was not pleasant for her at this time either.
Balky was soon back to announce that the silver was all present and so far as he could tell, no one had got into the safe. Mama gave a stifled scream and told me to run and check to see if our jewelry was still there. “If they have taken the pearls Mama gave me! Not that I ever wear them because of the bad luck, but still they are very valuable.”
Balky did not have the combination, only Mama and I. I was happy to report that Mama’s pearls and our other jewels were still there.
Balky loitered about the breakfast room, unwilling to leave the scene of su
ch exciting goings on. He was never reluctant to puff himself off. “It was my coming downstairs that startled him into leaving before he filled his pockets,” he said. “Lucky I was on the qui vive.” But that was just hinting for undeserved praise.
The window had not been broken until both Balky and I had gone back upstairs. I did not believe he had been on the qui vive last night either. He had not heard me coming downstairs as he claimed. I had walked quietly, and as Balky slept at the farthest end of the hall from family, I doubted he had heard me at all. He had probably gone down to help himself to a glass of cooking sherry. Cook had hinted at it to me before, but I did not begrudge him that simple pleasure, so long as he did not drink to excess. We don’t make Cook put salt in it to prevent servants from having a sip, as some skints do.
“Best see to getting the window replaced,” Mama told him, “and call the constable. If there is a house breaker in the neighbourhood he must post up a notice to warn others.” She was too upset to find a superstition to suit the occasion.
Lorna and I exchanged a guilty look. Neither of us wanted the constable anywhere near the house, in case Lady Mary had reported our uninvited visit to the Abbey. She had not sent the constable to call on us, but she might have said something, and he might let something slip.
“I was about to suggest it, Madam,” Balky said.
“There’s really no need. It will just be giving crooks ideas. Nothing’s been taken, and we are on our guard now, Lucy,” Lorna said hastily. “Probably just some young fellows on a lark.”
I told them my opinion, that a servant had got locked out and chosen that inconvenient way of getting back in after her tryst. Balky would read the riot act to them.
“Bessie Hudson,” Mama said with a sigh. “I knew that lass would be trouble. Too pretty by half, and a sassy eye in her head. I shall speak to her myself.”
I went to the library after breakfast to see which window had been broken. It was the nearest window to the lock. Shards of broken glass littered the floor. Someone had broken the glass, put her (or his) hand in, turned the lock and stepped in. It had certainly happened after I locked the door. I would have noticed a broken window, right beside the handle and lock.
