A Deception at Thornecrest

by Ashley Weaver

  I picked it up and walked to her. I expected, as I handed it to her, to see a look of confusion cross her face. But, instead, she looked up at me, her expression both miserable and pitying. “Yes. That’s him.”

  2

  I FELT A little surge of surprise followed by a sinking feeling in my stomach. I had been so sure this was all some sort of mistake, a case of stolen identity or some such thing. But it seemed rather improbable that someone might have stolen both Milo’s name and his face.

  There was, of course, the possibility that this young woman was operating some sort of scheme. Perhaps she had seen our picture in the gossip columns, read of our past marriage troubles, and assumed that I would pay her off to end the matter. It seemed the only possible solution.

  But I looked at her, and, try as I might, I could not bring myself to believe that there was anything sinister in her motivations. One could feign sorrow and distress and even tears, but there was something in her whole attitude that made me believe that, whatever the true situation, she had been deeply affected by the experience.

  Inwardly, I sighed. What a mess all of this was. I needed Milo to come home at once.

  Until then, there was nothing that could be done. Although, I supposed I could at least help this young woman in the meantime.

  “Where are you staying, dear?” I asked.

  “I … I hadn’t thought about it.”

  I realized belatedly that she had no doubt intended to stay here when she met up with her erstwhile husband. How very awkward this was becoming.

  “You must stay here,” I offered, though some part of me was very much hoping she would decline. Whatever the truth behind this situation was, things were bound to get even more uncomfortable than they were now. Granted, Thornecrest was large enough to accommodate a great many people without pushing them into one another’s company, but the fact remained that I was not particularly looking forward to playing hostess under the circumstances.

  “Oh, no!” she said quickly. “I couldn’t. Is there, perhaps, a hotel nearby?”

  “There’s an inn in the village, the Primrose Inn. And there’s an elderly lady, Mrs. Cotton, who lives in the blue house next to the apothecary shop. She offers short-term room and board.” I rattled off the list of available lodgings a bit too quickly, perhaps, but I was very much relieved. I liked to consider myself a hospitable woman, but there were limits, after all.

  “That will do nicely. Until … until things are resolved, I’ll register under my own name: Prescott.”

  This was another relief. What a thoughtful girl. I could only imagine the talk that would spread amongst the villagers if she were to register as Mrs. Milo Ames.

  “I’ll have my driver take you there,” I offered.

  “Oh, no. I can walk.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “Yes. I … I need some time to think.”

  I imagined that both of us would be doing a good deal of thinking over the next few days.

  “I’ll ring you when Milo gets back.”

  She nodded, her expression miserable. “You’ve been very kind. I’m so sorry to have come here and caused so much trouble.”

  “You haven’t caused any trouble,” I assured her, though we both knew that this wasn’t precisely the truth.

  “I … I just can’t understand it,” she said softly.

  “I know, dear. But don’t worry. We’ll sort it all out.”

  She took her leave then, and I rang for Grimes.

  “Yes, madam?” he asked when he arrived in the doorway. I was certain that he must be curious about my encounter with the other Mrs. Milo Ames, but his expression gave nothing away.

  “Will you please see if you can locate Mr. Ames and tell him to come home as soon as possible?”

  * * *

  THE WAIT FOR Milo’s return would no doubt be a long one, so I was glad that I had an afternoon engagement to keep me occupied. The Springtide Festival was to be held next weekend, and I was a member of the committee of ladies who were overseeing the preparations.

  The annual village event was held on the grounds of Bedford Priory, the home of Lady Alma Bedford, one of our local eccentrics. The youngest child of the Earl of Endsley, she had purchased and restored the Priory, the property of which abutted Thornecrest, nearly thirty years ago, after her father’s death. Now nearing fifty, she was a striking woman with strong features, short iron-gray hair, and sharp, dark eyes. She had a direct but not unfriendly manner and spent all her time and a good deal of her fortune on her stables.

  If there was anyone in Kent who was as enthusiastic about horses as Milo, it was Lady Alma. She had never married but referred to her horses as her children. She seldom wore anything other than riding clothes and was often seen galloping about the countryside in all manner of inclement weather.

  The first festival, a small gathering to celebrate the beginning of warmer weather with friends, food, and horse racing, had been her idea. With the initial backing of her wealth and her forceful personality, it had occurred annually ever since, growing in size and significance. We now had a fully formed committee with an allotment of local charitable funds to support the enterprise.

  The Springtide Festival was a source of great excitement and pleasure in Allingcross, a chance for the locals to pit their best horses against one another in a race and hedge-jumping course, to eat and be merry, and to be outdoors and enjoy the sunshine now that winter was passing.

  Though the event was held on the grounds of Bedford Priory, the ladies of the committee met at the vicarage. The vicar’s wife, Mrs. Elaine Busby, was confined to a wheelchair after a dreadful automobile accident that had injured her and claimed the life of her daughter fifteen years before. She moved about quite easily in her chair, but Lady Alma thought it best that we meet at the vicarage and had tactfully argued that it was in a more central location than the Priory.

  We had managed to get most of the planning done at prior meetings, and this was our final gathering before the festival. For most of the meeting, we simply enjoyed tea and idle chatter, drawing around to business matters only after the last of the biscuits had been consumed.

  “The vendors are settled, and all of the food has been taken care of, I think?” Lady Alma looked at Mrs. Busby, who was overseeing that aspect of the planning.

  She nodded. “It’s all settled. We’ll have the usual tea tent, which will serve refreshments periodically, as well as the various vendors who have chosen to set up booths with items for sale. I’ve spoken to everyone again this week. And then, of course, there will be tea following the races.”

  They talked for a few minutes then about what sorts of food would be available—cakes; sausage; puddings; tarts; apple, cherry, and pear jellies and jams from local orchards—and my mind wandered. Truth be told, I was glad to be little more than a nominal member of the committee this year. Now that my pregnancy was nearing its end, it seemed that the strain of every task was multiplied.

  “There are several new locals with wares for sale this year,” Mrs. Unger said as the conversation drifted to the other festival events.

  “I know several ladies have spoken of entering the pickling competition,” Mrs. Norris put in.

  “My husband will be offering pony rides to the children,” Mrs. Hampton reminded us. “And I believe Mabel will be telling fortunes.”

  The door to the sitting room opened just then, and a young woman stepped into the doorway. It was Marena Hodges, one of the village girls. Her shoulder-length dark hair was windblown, and her cheeks were flushed from the cool breeze. Even the thick woolen jumper and mud-flecked leather boots she wore did nothing to diminish her prettiness and the elegance of her bearing.

  “Oh, excuse me,” she said, casting her amber-colored eyes over the assembled guests before settling them on Mrs. Busby. “I didn’t realize that you had company, Aunt Elaine.”

  “It’s quite all right, dear. You’re welcome to join us, if you like. We’re discussing the festiva
l.”

  A smile flickered across the girl’s face, and there was some mixture of amusement and complacency in it. Her eyes, though they moved about the room, had a faraway look in them, as though her mind were elsewhere.

  “That’s kind of you, but, if you ladies will excuse me,” she said, “I’ve a few things to attend to. You know I shall be only too glad to help you on the day of the festival, of course.”

  “I suppose I should be going as well,” Lady Alma said, rising from her chair with her habitual swiftness. I was reminded rather of one of her geldings clearing a hedge. “I like to visit my darlings before dinner.”

  This was the committee’s cue to adjourn. One by one, the assembled women took their leave, until it was just Mrs. Busby and me alone in the little sitting room. For some reason, I felt disinclined to go. Perhaps it was only that rising from chairs was getting more difficult with each passing day.

  But it was also true that there was something comforting about the warm little parlor. For as long as I could remember, I had always felt at peace when visiting the vicarage. I supposed it had as much to do with the Busbys themselves as with the homely atmosphere of this room. Mrs. Busby, with her silvery hair, warm brown eyes, and gentle spirit, was the picture of a grandmother any child would be glad to have.

  “You look tired, Mrs. Ames,” she said as I worked to summon the effort to begin to rise from my chair. “Would you care for another cup of tea?”

  I was prepared to refuse but thought better of it. I wouldn’t mind a few more minutes of company. After all, it was a good distraction from all the thoughts swirling through my head.

  “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

  Mrs. Busby refilled my teacup. Despite the limitations of her chair, she moved easily and with natural grace.

  “I suppose you’ll be glad when the baby has arrived,” she said, stirring sugar into her own cup of tea. “I know the last month or two is always a great strain.”

  I nodded, my hand straying to my stomach. “Though I must say, I shall miss feeling him so close to me.”

  “Yes, that is a special time.” She looked wistful for a moment, and I felt a little as though I had made a faux pas. The Busbys had lost their only child, a daughter called Sara, in the accident that had confined Mrs. Busby to her wheelchair. Though I had not known them then, people often spoke of the way in which the vicar and his wife had borne the tragedy with strength and dignity. Their lives had changed immensely since the accident, but I had never known them to be discouraged. Nevertheless, I had noticed the way Mrs. Busby smiled, with just the faintest hint of sadness, when she interacted with the children of the village.

  The sound of music filtered into the room, a rousing jazz piece. Marena had apparently turned on the radio in the room above us.

  “I’m not sure if you’ve heard that Marena has been staying with us for the past few months?” Mrs. Busby asked.

  “I heard something to that effect,” I answered honestly. Though I tried very hard not to participate in village gossip, it was nearly impossible not to glean bits and pieces of news.

  Though she called her “Aunt Elaine,” Marena was not really Mrs. Busby’s niece. Marena’s mother, Mrs. Jane Hodges, was a rather grim local woman who lived in a cottage isolated from the village and had always seemed a good deal more concerned with the bees she kept than with her daughter.

  In consequence, Marena had spent a good deal of time at the vicarage in her younger days and had been great friends with Sara. She had, in fact, been in the automobile with Mrs. Busby and Sara on the day of the accident.

  After Sara’s death, Marena and the Busbys had remained very close, and Marena often spent time at the vicarage, doing her best to help Mrs. Busby adjust to life in a wheelchair.

  “She and her mother have had another falling out.” She sighed. “I don’t know what to think of that woman. She doesn’t realize that the harder she pushes Marena, the farther away she’s going to drive her. It all started with Marena’s young man, Bertie. I knew that the more Mrs. Hodges objected, the stronger Marena’s attachment would be. That’s the way with young people, isn’t it? She should have just let the matter run its course.”

  I wondered if that was why Marena had seemed so starry-eyed. She had been walking out as of late with Bertie Phipps, a young man who lived not far from Thornecrest. He’d often helped both Milo and Lady Alma at their stables, and I thought he seemed intelligent and keen to make something of himself. Perhaps the two of them had been building castles in the air together. Marena had always been a dreamy sort of girl.

  “Well,” Mrs. Busby said brightly. “I just hope that the festival goes well. Mrs. Hodges will be there selling her honey, so perhaps she and Marena will be able to sort out some of their differences.”

  “Yes, perhaps they will,” I answered vaguely.

  Though I was sympathetic to Marena’s situation, I was very much preoccupied with my own family difficulties.

  “… and with Marena’s new position at the inn, it’s been easier for her to stay here, but still…”

  I nodded, but my thoughts had shifted back to Milo. I wondered if he was on the train yet. Grimes had reached Milo and confirmed that he would arrive home that evening. It had occurred to me more than once that I ought to have rung up Milo myself, but I didn’t want to talk to him about the matter over the telephone.

  As my thoughts switched to Milo, so, it seemed, did Mrs. Busby’s.

  “And what of Mr. Ames?” she asked. “How is he feeling about the arrival of the baby?”

  She had always been very careful when she spoke to me about Milo, tiptoeing around mentions of him as someone might of a person with some dreadful disease. Sin being the prevailing ailment in his case.

  “I think he’s very much looking forward to it,” I said.

  “I’m glad. I saw him in the village this morning, but it was from a distance, and I didn’t have the chance to speak with him.”

  Milo had been in London for two days, so it must have been another morning, but I didn’t bother to correct her. My mind was still preoccupied by her question and my answer to it. Milo had given every indication that he was ready to be a father.

  Unless, that is, he had married another woman in Brighton.

  * * *

  I AT LAST bid Mrs. Busby farewell and returned to Thornecrest where I ate dinner alone and then went to my room to read, studiously avoiding looking at the clock.

  I tried not to worry about the situation with Imogen, but it was very hard not to. The truth of it was, Milo and I had had a somewhat rocky relationship for much of our marriage. It was only in the past two years that things had begun to grow better between us. While I really didn’t believe that he would have committed bigamy, I couldn’t help but feel that there was something amiss here, for I couldn’t quite discount Imogen’s teary-eyed sincerity.

  He arrived home quite late. I was sitting in our bedroom, my eyes trained on the same page of a book that they had been rereading for ten minutes.

  “Hello, darling,” he said, his gaze sweeping over me in that way he had of late of assessing my condition whenever he saw me. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. That is … I’m not quite sure.”

  “Do you feel unwell?”

  “No, no. I’m quite well.”

  “Grimes said that you weren’t ill, but I was concerned, just the same.”

  Though perhaps it wasn’t quite nice of me, I had been counting on that reaction to a certain extent. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve taken his time about coming home; he certainly would’ve waited for the morning train rather than returning at this hour.

  “I’m sorry if I worried you,” I said, a tad facetiously.

  “Well, I’m glad to be home anyway. The flat always seems so empty without you.”

  He came and sat down on the bed, pulling at his necktie with a sigh. “So what was the reason for the summons? Did you miss me?”

  “You didn’t happen t
o marry another woman in January, did you?” I asked lightly.

  He turned to look over his shoulder at me. “I beg your pardon?”

  I gave him the faintest smile. “It’s a simple enough question.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  I tried to gauge his reaction, to see if there was anything telling in it. There wasn’t the faintest glimmer of guilt or even unease in his bright blue eyes, but I knew from experience that this was not conclusive proof of innocence.

  I continued in a casual tone. “A very pretty young woman named Imogen Prescott came here today and said she married you three months ago in Brighton.”

  He laughed.

  I searched his face, still trying to detect any sign of deception. It was very difficult to tell with Milo, for he was excellent at hiding his thoughts and, as a general rule, suffered little remorse for his misdeeds. But I was fairly certain that he was genuinely amused at the suggestion, and a bit of the weight I had felt on my chest since this afternoon seemed to lift.

  Since I had said nothing, he seemed to realize that I was in earnest, and his brows rose. “You’re serious.”

  “Quite serious. She identified a photograph of you.”

  His answer was swift and unequivocal. “Then she’s lying.”

  “You’re quite sure?”

  He looked at me as though I had said something very silly indeed. “Yes, darling. I’m quite sure I did not marry a young woman in Brighton in January.”

  I let out a little sigh. “I had rather hoped you’d say that.”

  “You don’t mean to say you believed her?”

  “I didn’t know what to believe,” I admitted. “It didn’t seem likely to me, but she was very convincing.”

  “Whatever she was, you ought to have known better than to think I would commit bigamy, of all things. One wife is more than enough to contend with.”

  I gave a little laugh. “Somehow I thought you might consider it from that angle.”

  “And, of course, I wouldn’t want another wife when I’ve got you,” he added belatedly.