Delsie (19 page)

Next year I shall have that gown, she thought to herself, and sat musing over where she might be likely to wear it. She saw herself at deVigne’s table, dressed in a style to honor it. She must have some jewel to wear around her neck with such an elegant gown. Even a small jewel was not beyond her means now, with careful husbanding of her monies. A small strand of pearls was her modest dream. They could be worn with any color. And a set of earrings, too, would add a touch of glamor she knew to be sadly lacking.

In a happier frame of mind than she had been in since her wedding, she went to the dressing table and began pinning up her hair in a more intricate design than she normally wore. If I were rich, I would have a woman to do this for me, she thought, and found herself wondering whether the elder girl sent down from the Hall might not help with her toilette. She dipped into Louise’s pots of cream, rouge, and powder, to experiment with these dashing items. The rouge was not required, and not easy to apply either, but after prolonged efforts, she had achieved a result not too unnatural-looking. How Mr. Umpton would stare to see her painting her face, she laughed silently to herself.

Glancing at her watch, she noticed she had wasted an hour in this indulgence of vanity, and with a guilty thought to the morning, she prepared for bed. Her eye fell on the cocoa just as she was about to extinguish her candle. It was cold by this time, so she left it to be thrown out in the morning. As she snuggled into her blankets, her mind roved over her cozy future. Her house would soon be in order, she would have a carriage, new gowns, a stepdaughter to add meaning and pleasure to her existence. No real worry marred her reverie as she slipped into a sleep that promised to bring sweet dreams.

It was the sounds outside her window that woke her an hour later. She had been dreaming of herself at a ball, waltzing in the mint-green gown with Mr. Umpton, who wore a painted face, and suddenly the orchard loomed onto the dance floor. Her half-roused state tried to work the external sounds into her dream, when she was suddenly sitting bolt upright in her bed.

Awake now, she could not believe she wasn’t still dreaming. Impossible the pixies were back! Andrew was dead; the smuggling was finished, yet those sounds of voices, of jiggling harnesses and the clop of animals’ hooves, were clearly distinguishable. With a rush of anger she jumped out of bed and ran to the window. The caravan—there were at
least five mules!
—was entering the orchard. In the dim light of a new moon it was hard to see, but clearly the sides of the mules were disfigured with bulges—barrels of brandy. She peered hard to try to distinguish individuals—dark forms were visible, but no facial features. Then she saw one shape clearly different from the others—a large woman, wearing white. Mrs. Bristcombe, still wearing her white apron. She could not make a positive identification, but she was morally certain who that one person was.

Fear was forgotten in the first rash rush of anger. Her whole impulse was to run down to the orchard and order them away. But she had not lived most of her adult life in a seaside town without having heard tales of the behavior of smugglers, and her next thought was to bolt her door, jump into her bed, and pretend to be oblivious to the whole. In fact, she did this, but the racket continued with really very little effort at silence, till at length her fear lessened, and she began considering what she might do without endangering herself or the other innocent ones in the house.

She got out of bed, put on her gown, unbolted her door, and tiptoed down to Miss Milne’s room. Odd that Bobbie slept through the noise, she thought, but a glance into the room confirmed that the child was not awake. On to Miss Milne’s room, one door down. She entered softly and shook the sleeping form of the governess. What a sound sleeper she is, Delsie thought, and jiggled her arm harder. She had awakened more easily the other night—the falling shovel had awakened her. She began calling her name. For a full minute she indulged in this fruitless chore, till it was clear the girl was in no normal sleeping state, but was drugged. Who would have thought that nice Miss Milne took laudanum? It was impossible to rouse her. She wondered whether she had the courage to go above and try to awaken the girls from the Hall.

Then she thought again of Bobbie, sleeping like a top when she was a light sleeper. Was it possible she too was drugged? It was not long occurring to her what ailed them. It was the cocoa. They had all had it except herself, and Mrs. Bristcombe had
insisted
she have some too, to make sure they all slept through this latest smuggling expedition. Furious, she stood panting, while the full impotence of her position washed over her. She was in a house with no one she could alert, and outside the walls a band of villainous lawbreakers were piling up barrels of contraband in the orchard. She returned quietly to her room, determined to observe their every movement and discover, if she could, where the hiding place was. Tomorrow at the crack of dawn she would send for deVigne and place the mess in his lap, where it belonged.

The mules were being led out of the orchard when she resumed her post at the window, no longer bearing their felonious burden. Their sides did not bulge now. The men followed them, and two forms, the white-aproned one and another—the Bristcombes, of course—silently entered the house by the kitchen door. They hadn’t had time to do anything but place the barrels in the orchard, she figured. They had the impudence to leave their smuggled goods standing in plain view in her orchard. Her wrath knew no bounds, but she was helpless till morning. She must remain immured in the house, with the incriminating evidence waiting to be discovered by a revenue man or honest citizen who chanced by. It was infamous, and in her mind it was not her late husband so much as her husband’s brother-in-law who was held accountable for it.

Little sleep was possible in such a state of agitation as she had achieved, but in spite of this, she was awake at her old familiar hour of seven. She dashed immediately to the window. The trunks of the apple trees successfully concealed the barrels of brandy, but she knew they were there, a barrel ingeniously hidden behind each tree. Of that there was not a single doubt in her mind. She was still a little frightened to go alone, so went along to see if Bobbie or Miss Milne were up. The child slept, but the governess was dressed, just drawing a brush through her hair, while covering a yawn with the other hand.

“Oh, good morning, Mrs. Grayshott,” she said, jumping up at her mistress’s entrance at this unaccustomed hour. Her hands flew to her head, as though to hold it on. “I have such a headache this morning,” she said. “I don’t know why I should have, for I slept like a top. But with the
worst
dreams. I thought I was being dragged by a horse. Isn’t that absurd?”

“Not so absurd as you may think,” the widow answered, and, carefully closing the door behind her, she went further into the room.

“What do you mean, ma’am?” the governess asked.

“There is something very odd going on here,” Delsie replied.

“Yes, I know. It is something to do with the orchard, isn’t it?”

“Have you heard something, Miss Milne?”

“Only rumors, ma’am. I don’t get into Questnow much myself, but my cousin Betsy at the Dower House made an odd remark when I was there Sunday. I told her about what happened to you the night we saw the man in the garden. I told her about the noises that happen there from time to time as well, and she said she thought maybe it was smugglers.”

“I think so myself, but it has gone beyond smugglers in the orchard. Miss Milne, I think you were drugged last night.”

The girl’s eyes opened wider in fright. It was not necessary to ask whether she had administered any laudanum to herself. She was horrified. “How should it be possible?”

“How indeed? You will remember the cocoa you drank. Bobbie, as well, slept like a top through the most infernal racket.”

“What about yourself, ma’am? You had cocoa too.”

“No, I didn’t drink it. I heard men in the orchard last night, and tried to rouse you. You were in a deep, drugged sleep. I watched from the window, and saw them bring a load of brandy into the orchard. I mean to go down this minute and see if I’m not right.”

“Folks
do
say it’s better not to meddle with the gentlemen,” the girl suggested, reluctant to comply with the hint.

“Very well, then, I shall go alone. It is broad daylight. I don’t suppose anything will happen to me.”

“You daren’t... I’ll go with you,” Miss Milne decided, snatching up a shawl.

They went silently along the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door, opening and closing it with caution to avoid alerting the Bristcombes. Quietly they hastened around the corner to the orchard, there to stare at each other in speechless amazement. There was no sign of a barrel, nor of any disturbance. “I
know
they were here. I saw them with my own eyes,” Delsie declared in frustration. She performed the futile gesture of darting to the back of the orchard, to see the rank grass untouched, its dew undisturbed, not a blade trampled down. “They were here. I am not mad!” she insisted to the doubting governess, regarding her questioningly
.

“I had terrible dreams myself last night,” Miss Milne offered.

“Yes, because you were drugged,” Delsie stated firmly, with no outward show of wavering, though she was beginning to wonder if she had suffered a nightmare. “There is no point standing here arguing. I’ll speak to Mrs. Bristcombe about it.”

“Oh, Mrs. Grayshott, I wouldn’t!” Miss Milne warned.

“Am I to cower from my own housekeeper?” she answered indignantly.

“If you think she’s one of them... The tales Betsy told me of the village...”

“Yes, including the tale that is rampant there about
me!
My own students afraid to come to me because of the stories. It can’t go on. I’ll have this out with Mrs. Bristcombe.”

But when the steely-eyed Mrs. Bristcombe stood before her at breakfast, her nerve weakened. Not in front of the child, she excused her cowardice. I’ll speak to her later. “Did you sleep well?” the housekeeper asked, with a sly look on her face.

The gall of the question was sufficient to renew her fortitude. “No, I did not, Mrs. Bristcombe. Kind of you to ask. I slept very poorly, due to the disturbance in the orchard. I noticed from my window that you were present, and would like you to tell me what was going forward there.”

“Me?” the woman asked, with an amused grin on her wide face. “I was tucked up in my bed at nine o’clock, Mrs. Grayshott.”

“Not quite at nine, I think. You were kind enough to insist on making me a cup of cocoa at nine-thirty, if you will recall.”

“Oh, well, it may have been ten
,
” was the saucy answer, with a look that said, “Make what you can of that, milady.”

“Then again, it may have been two,” the widow replied frostily. She was suddenly aware of her vulnerable position. She and Miss Milne, who sat looking very much like a frightened bunny, and a child, were alone in the house with the Bristcombes. This powerful pair, allied as they were with the criminal smugglers—who could know what they might do? To delay bringing the matter to a crisis, she said, “I shall speak to Lord deVigne about it.”

I should fire her now, she thought, but was afraid. Her insides were shaking like a blancmange. She
was
cowering before her own housekeeper, as she had vowed she would not. But before the day was out, she would be rid of this woman and her husband.

“I’ll just see if Mr. Bristcombe knows what you’re talking about,” the housekeeper said. Her manner became more compliant at the mention of deVigne’s name. They did not fear herself, a defenseless widow, but they were still not intrepid enough to take on the lord of the village.

Mrs. Bristcombe left, and the others sat on, Mrs. Grayshott sipping a cup of very inferior coffee, and wondering why she had put up with the insolent hag for so long as a single day. She had known the first morning she came that they could never rub along. Bobbie was listless this morning, heavy-eyed after her drugged sleep.

“I dreamed about Daddy last night,” she said. “He put an engine in my bed, and made it dance. It was scary.”

“Now, isn’t that odd,” Miss Milne mentioned, casting a significant look towards her mistress. “I had a word with Nellie and Olive, the maids from the Hall, and they had bad dreams too. The whole lot of us had bad dreams.”

Because the whole lot of you were drugged, the widow’s knowing nod replied. They exerted themselves to make some light conversation for the child’s sake, but as soon as the meal was over, Mrs. Grayshott saw them upstairs to the schoolroom to allow her to proceed with a plan. This business was too serious to brook more delay. She would call on Lord deVigne, and shamelessly ask him to fire the Bristcombes. She was afraid to do it herself.

The trip proved unnecessary. He was on his way to the village, and stopped by to see if he could perform any commission for Mrs. Grayshott. He saw at a glance that she was full of news, as he stepped into the saloon. “More bags of gold?” he asked lightly.

“It has gone beyond a laughing matter,” she rounded on him. She opened her full budget, ending with, “And the Bristcombes will be turned off this day, as they should have been done the day I arrived.”

“Why didn’t you do it?” he asked her.

“Because
you
told me to give them a chance!”

“They have had their chance, and now it is time to be rid of them. This cannot go on.”

“I am surprised you agree with me. I made sure you would recommend I let them stay on, serving us all poisoned drinks.”

“No, I am not so fond of them as that. Give them their leave, by all means,” he answered.

“I shall,” she replied, but hesitantly, with a little questioning look, hoping he would suggest doing it himself. He was always interfering; why did he not do so today, when she wanted it?

“If you’re afraid, I’ll do it for you.” Every atom of her body wished to grab at the offer, but the wording of it made this impossible. “They are
my
servants;
I’ll
dismiss them,” she was forced to say. Just as she closed her lips, Bristcombe stepped into the room.