Death at Daisy's Folly (7 page)

Wickett snorted. “Ses ‘oo?”

“Ses ‘e,” Amelia shot back proudly. “An' 'e knows wot ‘e's talkin' about, 'e do!” She bestowed a fond glance and a caress on Lawrence. “Nobody knows motors like Lawrence Quibbley.”

Lawrence grinned, his heart warming at Amelia's ready defense. “Ses me,” he agreed mildly. “Wanter lay a bob on't?”

“Yer on.” Wickett slapped the flat of his hand on the table. “Chelmsford an' back i' three hours er less.”

“Not countin' th' time spent i' the work'ouse,” Lawrence amended. He would have to have a word with Lord Marsden about the wager in order to ensure that there was no dallying. But he knew his employer well, having served at Marsden Manor in various posts—footman, manservant, and now mechanic—for going on eight years. Lord Marsden came of sporting stock and enjoyed a wager better than some. He would rally. And Lawrence himself would see to the automobile's readiness. The bob was as good as in his pocket.

“I'm sure I don't know why the Countess would want to take His Royal Highness to the workhouse,” sniffed Richards. He was valet to a visiting gentleman named Wallace and obviously felt that he was not among his betters. He laid mutton on his buttered bread with a judicious hand. “‘Tis not a fit place for His Highness, nor for her ladyship neither, however good-hearted she may be.” He pursed his pale lips censoriously. “I wonder Lord Warwick doesn't set her to rights.”

“Lord Warwick!” grunted the sullen-faced young footman on the other side of Wickett. “Wot makes ye think he kin tell her ladyship wot t' do?” He hunched his shoulders. “A law to herself, that woman is. Anyway, she ought t' go t' th' poor‘ouse. She needs t' see it fer 'erself. At th' rate she's spendin‘, she may git there on 'er own.”

“That'll do, Marsh,” Wickett warned. “You wudn't speak that way ‘bout 'er ladyship where Buffle cud 'ear ye.” Buffle was the Easton Lodge house steward, who in addition to his other duties was responsible for the good behavior of the footmen and under-footmen, who were sometimes spirited and inclined to youthful hijinks.

Lawrence understood Wickett's caution, for it was a servant's responsibility, and the better part of discretion, to speak well of his employers, whatever private opinion he might hold. And servants
did
hold strong private opinions, of course, for they were witness to all sorts of secret and immoral behaviors—drunkenness, violence, rage, lechery, adulterous intrigues. But as it happened, Lawrence agreed with Marsh's opinion. The Countess of Warwick was widely known as a woman of questionable judgment. Well-meaning and full of the milk of human kindness, perhaps, but a bit short when it came to knowing how to do things. In a word, foolish.

“Buffle can't hear me, now, can ‘e?” growled Marsh, who was hardly more than eighteen. He had a brooding mouth, badly pocked cheeks, and heavy black eyebrows over eyes that were dull as lead. “I'm sick o' ever'one sayin' as ‘ow th' Countess is so gen'rous an' kind an' good-doin' an' this an' that.”

“But she is, i‘n't she?” asked Amelia wonderingly. “Jes' yestidday, when we got 'ere, she'd gone out takin' jellies an' port t' th' sick.”

“Jellies an' port, when it's a better livin' we need?” Marsh raised his voice ringingly, and his dull eyes showed a spark. “Let ‘er go t' th' work'ouse, I say! Let 'er see wot ends pore people're fetched to, when they got no other way t' live.”

Amelia shrank back against Lawrence, startled by the young man's passion. Wickett looked uneasily over his shoulder to make sure there were none in the room who might carry tales. “You an' yer fam‘ly 'ave a ‘ard cross t' bear, boy,” he said in a low voice. “But all of us 'ave our share o' grief i' this miser‘ble world. Yer father may be laid low, but 'e's a man o' pluck an'—”

“A‘n't ye 'eard?” the boy growled into his mug of tea. “Me father died a fortnight ago. She
killed
‘im, sure as she'd blowed off 'is ‘ead instead o' 'is leg!”

With a sympathetic shake of his head, Wickett put down his fork. “Ooh, I'm that sorry t‘ear it, young Marsh. Yer father was a proud man, fallen on bad times.” He frowned. “But 'is shootin' was a accident, pure an' simple. Beaters is allus i' danger. She may've shot ‘im but she pensioned 'im, too, di'n't she?”

“Killed ‘im wi' kindness, she did,” the boy said mockingly. “Bein' under-gamekeeper were 'is 'ole life. Yer a proud man, Mr. Wickett. 'Ud ye take a quid a week fer yer leg? ‘Ud ye let a 'oman try t' wash away 'er guilt wi' money?”

Put this way, the coachman had to reconsider. “A pension's cert‘nly no recompense fer a leg lost through a 'oman's folly,” he admitted. “An' ‘er ladyship's a unsteady shot, t' be sure. She ought niver t'uv bin on th' line, is wot th' loaders say.”

“But ‘tis not just 'er, an' not just me dad,” Marsh said, leaning forward and dropping his voice. “It's all o' ‘em abovestairs, th' wemmin wearin' jew'ls an' fine dresses, th' men boastin' ‘bout their 'orses an' their yachts. An' not one o' ‘em give a thought t' th' rags an' th' 'ovels an' th' sickness ‘round 'em.” His voice was almost a whisper, his dull eyes suddenly brilliant, mesmerizing. “But their time is comin‘, fer th' people can't bear it much longer. 'Twill be as ‘twas 'cross th' Channel, when th' Frenchies rose up an'—”

“Quibbley!” boomed a woman's loud, rough voice. “Lor' be blessed, it's Quibbley 'isself!”

Lawrence, who had found himself drawn into Marsh's hypnotic polemic, was suddenly shocked to full attention, and something very close to fear. He fancied himself a strong man, but no strength was equal to that of the woman who stationed herself close behind him and wound substantial arms around his neck, pulling him backward against the soft pillow of her bosom. Furthermore, Lawrence felt within himself the stern consciousness of guilt. Inwardly, he quailed.

“Winnie,” he cried weakly, grasping her arms in an attempt to extricate himself. “Winnie Wospottle, 'erself! I'm glad t' see yer.”

“Glad t' see me indeed!” Winnie bent her cheek to his and wound her arms more tightly around his neck, as though she would choke him. “I ought t've sued yer fer breach o' promise, ye scalawag! Makin' sport wi' a pore foolish young girl wi' a babe in ‘er arms, whose 'eart was that set on yer. Ye done a bunk an' left me waitin' at th' altar, ye did!”

The men opposite had decently averted their eyes from this embarrassing spectacle, but Amelia had gone rigid. Lawrence hazarded a glance and saw that her delicate face was white as a winding sheet.

“Amelia,” he began desperately, “this is someone 'oo I knew back in Brighton when I was jes' a young—”

But Amelia had clambered over the bench and gone in a flash, leaving her tea unfinished on the table. Winnie, seizing the opportunity to occupy the vacated space, loosened her grip on Lawrence and lowered her ample self into it.

“Well, now, Lawrence Quibbley,” she demanded, “wot 'ave yer bin doin' wi' yerself since yer deserted me back in Brighton?”

“I di‘n't desert yer,” Lawrence growled, beginning to recover his breath. He would have gone after Amelia, but he could see that it was of no use. He would have to explain to her later—if he could. “Like I tol' yer back then, Win, I di'n't want t' be married, an' that was th' long an' th' short o' it. Ye don't need t' make me out a rotter ‘oo'd betray a girl when she was countin' on 'im.”

“That's as may be.” Winnie leaned forward and tweaked his nose familiarly. “But we've met agin, Quibbley, an' I'm that glad t' see yer.”

Lawrence pulled away, eyeing her. The years—eight, nine, was it?—had been reasonably kind. Winnie was as charmingly buxom as ever, her brown hair as tightly furled, her cheeks as rosy, her lips as full and welcoming. “Wot're ye doin' i' th' country, lass?” he asked, not unkindly. Winnie had always loved Brighton, with its beaches and bathing machines and gay dancing. “Ain't it a bit out o' th' way fer yer? An' where's yer babe?”

Winnie pulled herself up. “I'm th' laundress,” she said proudly, and even Lawrence was impressed. The position of laundress, while not quite equivalent to that of the other Uppers—cook, housekeeper, steward—was nonetheless an important one, with a fair amount of independence. “Me babe is ‘alf-grown now and livin' wi' 'er father. An' as fer bein' out o' th' way—” Giggling, she leaned forward and took his cheek between her thumb and forefinger and shook it. “There's compensations, wudn't yer say, luv?”

Lawrence brushed her hand aside, knowing exactly what she meant. “Oh, er, Win,” he began uncomfortably. “I say, ol' girl, I've got other—” He broke off and cast an appealing eye at the bandy-legged coachman. “Wickett,” he said, “‘ave ye met Winnie Wospottle?”

Across the table, Wickett was taken with a fit of coughing and had to leave. With a disgusted look, Richards rose from the bench, too, followed by surly young Marsh. Lawrence had been abandoned.

Winnie leaned seductively toward him. “Don't tell me ye don't know wot goes on at these country ‘ouse parties, Quibbley.”

“Wot d'ye mean?” Lawrence managed, trying to maintain the appearance of innocence.

“I see th' sheets when they come down t' th' laundry,” she said in a conspiratorial tone. “There's foolishness afoot abovestairs. Ev‘ry lady's got 'er gent, ev‘ry gent's got 'is lady.”

“But o' course,” Lawrence said, making a last effort. “The ladies an' gents 're married, ain't they?”

Winnie boxed Lawrence's ear smartly. “Lor' bless th' man!” she exclaimed. “Did ye jes' ride in on th' hay wagon, Quibbley? Th' lords an' ladies don't tumble wi' th' ones they're wed to, not a bit of it!” She grinned suggestively, showing a gold-capped tooth. “Why don't ye meet me i' th' ironin' room t‘night, luv? There's a corner by th' 'ot water boiler that's private an' not too uncomfort'ble.”

The sight of Amelia's white face rose before him, and Lawrence knew he had to resist Winnie's wiles. He shook his head determinedly. “I got t' admit, yer beaut'ful as ever, ol' girl, but—”

She stroked his arm. “We don't ‘ave t' do nothin', if ye don't feel like it, Quibbley,” she murmured. “Jes' come along an' 'ave a bit o' tipple wi' me, fer ol' times' sake.” She looked up at him. “Pleeze?”

And Lawrence, who had once been brave enough to jump onto a runaway motorcar and bring it to a halt, found that he lacked the courage to say no to Winnie Wospottle.

When lovely woman stoops to folly
And finds too late her heart's betrayed,
She'll learn to practice stratagems
And wield her power undismayed.

—BERYL BARDWELL
The Loves of Lady Lenore

 

 

A
melia had no way of knowing the extent of Lawrence's perfidy, but she could guess. Imagining the worst—Lawrence reunited with a love he had once jilted—she stumbled out of the servants' hall. Halfway up the back stairs, she could go no further. She sank down, sobbing, brokenhearted.

After a few moments, she felt a hand on her shoulder. “Amelia?” a voice asked. “Wot's wrong, dear? Is there anythin' I kin do?”

Amelia looked up into the face of the young girl—one of the laundry maids—whose room she had shared last night. Hearing the comforting voice, she broke into a fresh fit of weeping.

The girl, whose name was Meg, sat down beside her on the step and put an arm around her shoulders. “Whatever ‘tis,” she said practically, “ 'tain't bad ‘nough t' carry on that way.”

“Yes, 'tis,” Amelia insisted, sniffling. “It's
worse.”

“It's yer sweet‘eart, I bet,” Meg said, patting her arm. “Ye ought t'do what th' upstairs ladies do, Amelia. ‘Ave more'n one sweet'eart. That way, when one betrays yer, there's another one waitin'”

Meg's advice was sensible enough, but Amelia's gentle heart almost gave way at the thought of dealing with more than one treacherous man at a time. “I cudn't do that, Meg,” she said, and dropped her forehead on her knees. “I'm too true.”

Meg sighed. “I know,” she said forlornly. “I cudn‘t, neither. First one, then another—I doan't see 'ow th' ladies do 't. I was allus taught t' love one fer life, good er bad, wotever ‘e does t'yer.”

Amelia wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “But wot d‘ye do when
'e's
not true?”

Meg stood up slowly, shaking her head. “Suffer, I reckon.” She stood for a minute, looking down. “I'll see yer t'night,” she said, and was gone.

Amelia sat on the stairs for a few moments more, then wiped her eyes and settled her cap. Lawrence might be a faithless traitor and her heart might be broken, but it would soon be time for the dressing bell and there was work to be done. She climbed the stairs and went down the long hallway to Miss Ardleigh's room, where she tapped on the door and opened it.

Wearing her dressing gown, Miss Ardleigh sat at the writing desk in front of the velvet-draped window. When Amelia came in, she hastily stacked the pages on which she had been writing and stuffed them into the leather portfolio that she took with her wherever she went. Usually Amelia smiled at this little effort at concealment, because all the servants at Bishop's Keep knew exactly what Miss Ardleigh—or Beryl Bardwell, for that was the name under which she wrote her sensational fictions—was up to. But it was part of the game to make believe that they saw nothing, so when Amelia happened on Beryl Bardwell engaged in the labor of authorship, she smiled and pretended not to notice. This evening, though, she could not summon even a flicker of a smile in response to her mistress's cheery greeting.