Down the Garden Path (18 page)

I could not help myself. I dozed off in my chair, dreaming of being chased by an alligator into Mrs. Grundy’s lab, where she stood stirring a bubbling pot in which sat the Reverend Snapper. I woke to see Mr. Whitby-Brown leaving. Disgruntled voices and Primrose’s delighted laughter followed me back down into sleep until I snapped fully awake, as if someone had switched me on, to hear Hyacinth cry, “Herr Wortter, I am appalled by your suggestion.”

“Shocking,” twittered Primrose. “No Englishman would suggest playing for such stakes. You insult my sister’s and my integrity.”

What was going on?

The eyeshade was now pushed up atop Primrose’s silvery curls, and her whole body was shaking. “Hyacinth, I think we should bid Godfrey goodnight and be making tracks for home. I really don’t think Dr. Mallard would approve ...”

“Ven you have settled your debts, then you may leave.” Herr Wortter’s voice stabbed like a bayonet; poor Primrose shrank back into her chair looking every minute her age. How dare he do this to her, and how dare Godfrey sit there smirking! How much could she have lost in an evening, above what she had collected from Angus Hunt—ten pounds?

I was in the act of standing up when Herr Wortter pressed the monocle closer to his eye and flicked out at a sheet of paper. “Two thousand pounds is vot you owe me. Does anyone vish to check my figures?” For twenty seconds I remained half up, half down, before sagging back into my chair. As I stared, frozen, at the foursome the tableau seemed to be lit from within by an ice-cold fire. The tips of Hyacinth’s needles shone silver. Godfrey was panting gently. But it was the faces of the two antagonists that dilated slowly as if viewed through binoculars. I could count the bristly hairs on Herr Wortter’s head and the grains of powdered blush standing out on Primrose’s cheeks.

Thank God the Tramwells were rich. Godfrey should be ashamed of himself, enticing them to play with hardened gamblers; but perhaps after this they would stick to whist. Best for me to pretend to be asleep while Primrose dealt with the embarrassment of settling up. Two thousand pounds!

“You leave me no choice, Herr Wortter.” Primrose drew the green shade back down on her forehead. “I vill—will play.”

“My dear, you can’t!” expostulated Hyacinth.

“I must.”

“Naughty of me, but I can’t help but enjoy myself.” Godfrey squirmed in his seat. “Better than a ringside chair at the Colosseum.”

Those shocking stakes discussed while I slept ... surely Primrose would not be so reckless as to risk Cloisters on the turn of a card? Mesmerized, I watched through half-closed lids as Godfrey unwrapped a new deck of cards and removed the jokers. If Primrose would not listen to her sister, could I hope to achieve anything by begging her to halt this folly?

“So, my dear fraulein, I am to understand zat you in no vay misunderstand ze payoff? Should I lose zis hand you vin back all the moneys you have lost to me this effening....” Herr Wortter’s face cracked into a mirthless smile and I bit the edge of a nail. Even if Primrose were incensed at my interference, I had to speak. “But if I vin”—now came a ghoulish wheezing—”I get to spend vot is left of zis night, in any manner I choose, vith the young and so lovely Miss Tramwell.”

No! Only the onset of total paralysis prevented my leaping screaming from my chair. This sort of horror only happened in those hateful Regencies, the only difference being that usually it was the sozzled Papa tossing the heroine into the gaming pot. And in the way of happy endings, she was always rescued before the actual despoiling. Primrose understood the Barbara Cartland rules on chastity; she would never permit my being dragged screaming from the room. Breathing like a dying kitten, I gripped the sides of my chair, feigning sleep with all my might. Primrose must have an ace up her sleeve.

“I trust I have your word as a gentleman of sorts that you will not resort to violence or anything of a particularly sordid nature,” she tweeted, head nodding emphasis. “My sister and I are so opposed to that kind of thing.”

She was mad! How could I have not seen it before? Some feeling was creeping back up through my limbs. As soon as they became absorbed in the cards I would slip away.

“Madam”—an even deadlier sputter of laughter—”force vill not be necessary. You underrate my powers of persuasion. And don’t tell me a vager of zis nature has not occurred before. Vat other reason vould there be for a presence so enchantingly frivolous?”

No response to this. For a full minute the only sound was Godfrey’s hands squelching together, and then the mode of play was discussed. I was not listening. With my eyes narrowed to slits, I saw the cards whizz across the table like plastic missiles. All four heads were bent now. Hyacinth still knitting. On my mark, get set—go. I eased from my chair and made for the door. A channel crossing for a novice swimmer could not have seemed more agonizingly long, and the hall, when reached, was grimly hostile country. How could I get across its length before footsteps pounded after me? Silly, cowardly me! Footsteps were not coming after me, they were coming towards me, and the butler was asking with freezing deference, “Does Miss require anything?”

Fergy said bribing God was not something to be attempted lightly, but there
is
a severe shortage of Protestant nuns, and celibacy isn’t much of a penance. If Dad’s Boss would only turn the butler into a pillar of salt ... He didn’t. My past life didn’t merit such favours. I would have to go it alone, and trust my smile to reach the man beneath the servant, “Thank you, but all I require is a little fresh air.”

“Excuse me, but I really must warn against that—so very unhealthy at this time of the night. Mr. Godfrey would never forgive me if I let you leave the house.”

“What nonsense. Why, I shall do exactly as ... you advise. “ My voice ended not so much in a whisper as a whimper. He had not moved except to flick a speck of invisible dust off his sleeve, but the slow intentness of the gesture was translated by my paranoid brain into a warning.

“Good evening, miss.” He escorted me back to the drawing room door, opened it, and saw me safely imprisoned once more. Shuddering, I moved blindly back to my velvet chair, sank down, and picked
A Thousand and One Practical Jokes
off the floor. Not much of a weapon, but I’d chuck it
and
the chair at Herr Wortter’s first step towards me. My gaze was fixed miserably on Primrose. How could she do this to me? No wonder I had made no progress in finding my mother when I was such a gullible fool. And did I want to be associated with such a family? Harry had warned me I might not like what I was looking for when I was good and stuck with it. But all was not lost yet. Primrose had a fifty percent chance of winning.

A terrible broken sigh, cards fluttering like dead leaves upon the table. And the dread paralysis of my legs set in once more as Primrose’s frail body slumped across the table. But hold on! Fergy always chided me for jumping to conclusions. Primrose may not have lost. She could as easily be fainting from the excitement of winning.

“My regrets, madam.” Herr Wortter ground out the words. “But you never had a chance against zis friendly pair of aces.”

Godfrey’s moist rosebud mouth opened to a gleeful O; Primrose remained in a limp huddle; Hyacinth had stopped knitting; and I thought, in dazed outrage, that the vilest part of all this was that no one—including Herr Wortter—even glanced in my direction.

Hyacinth squared her wilting shoulders and lifted her chin. “Surely, we can appeal to your honour as a man who poses as a gentleman. This jest has gone far enough.”

“Only children think card playing a game. As for my being a gentleman ... I thought you English had a monopoly on zat breed. Time for me to claim my prize, ja?” Sweeping his hands across the table in a dismissing gesture, Herr Wortter rose, and without looking at me, bent a finger in my general direction.

I wasn’t frightened anymore. I was livid with anger. Herr Wortter was evil personified. Godfrey was the ultimate weed—and the sisters! To say I was exceedingly disappointed in them was an understatement. As I stood up, my book at the ready, Primrose raised her head from the table, removed the eyeshade, and slowly smoothed out her silver curls. “It would seem, Hyacinth, my love, that the sacrifice must be made.”

How dare she, a sixty-year-old spinster, speak with such placid regret? Where was the broken woman of seconds gone?

“As our dear father always said”—her voice held only the merest suggestion of a tremor—”one must face our losses as impassively as our wins. Herr Wortter—I am ready.”

“You—for vot?”

“Why, for you, sir.” She was fussing with her cuffs now. “Pray don’t be shocked, Hyacinth, but as resistance would obviously be futile, I must confess I am prepared to make the best of a bad business. Needless to say, I do wish Herr Wortter were a trifle younger, and a great deal better-looking, but I shall just close my eyes and think of Maurice Chevalier.”

“Vot in Gott’s name are you talking about?” My words— but uttered by a man who looked as though he had stumbled accidentally into the trenches during an evening stroll with his Dachshund.

“My dear barbarian.” Dimpling coyly, Primrose walked around the table, holding out both hands. “You did say, didn’t you, that there must be no misapprehension? Forgive me, at my age one does tend to be a little hard of hearing. One gets muddled and forgets things, but I was so certain that I understood the terms of play. ‘The young Miss Tramwell.’ Were those not your words? And no offence to dear Hyacinth, but I would have thought it quite apparent that she is years my senior. As for Tessa”—she smiled sweetly, if vaguely in my direction—”I said she was a family connection, not a word about her last name being Tramwell. You may take my word that it isn’t, so—shall we go, Fritz?”

During the drive back to Cloisters I pretended to doze. I wasn’t the least tired but that climax to an incredible evening had left me speechless. Besides, I felt safer with my eyes closed. A decided worsening of the weather had not forced Hyacinth to resort to the wipers.

“A splendid evening.” Her voice was a bare whisper. “My dear, you were marvellous. I thought the spluttering beefburger would get apoplexy. Ranting on that it had all been a ‘leetle joke’ and begging to play one more hand.”

“His winnings against my little seed pearl necklace,” tush-tushed Primrose. “But he was all to pieces, poor man. My dear, I would appreciate your carrying my bag into the house; my arthritis is bothering me in all this damp, and carrying anything that heavy would just be too much.”

“No trouble, General. Brilliant, the way you unsettled Herr Wortter early in the evening!” chortled her sister.

Whatever had happened to the sibling rivalry and petty squabbles? A flash of light penetrated my lids. Wild honking as another vehicle sloshed past us.

“Fool,” snorted Hyacinth, forgetting to whisper. “Some people shouldn’t be allowed on the road. Would you believe it—more lights heading straight for us!”

“Could you be on the wrong side of the road, dear?” enquired Primrose placidly.

I clutched the door handle of the hearse. Oh, God, save me! I am sorry for all my wickedness. We were going to be killed and I would go straight to hell in the company of the Tramwells, for surely there were no heavenly harps for those who gambled away the family fortune.

“Dear me,” chirped Primrose as we entered the house. “Butler has properly let us down, Tessa; usually he is in the hall to greet us and announce the imminent arrival of a cup of tea. The lazy scamp must be in bed.” He was not. When I entered the nursery after bidding the sisters a groggy goodnight, and went to take a hanger from the wardrobe, Butler stepped out.

“Pardon me, miss.” He bowed. “Just checking for moths,” and he sailed loftily from the room.

Nothing surprised me anymore in this house, but what had been Butler’s
real
reason for sneaking up here? As a former crook, did he suspect me of invading the premises with villainous intent? Had he hoped to find some hint of what I was up to?

The clocks went into action in all parts of the house. Three A.M. Harry would undoubtedly be in the Ruins, waiting again. I had to get to him. He had a right to know what was going on and I ... needed to know if Dad and Fergy had written. Like many unpunctual people I had known, Harry did not like being kept waiting, but I could not risk descending the apple tree until I had given the sisters time to drink their cups of tea and go to bed.

Stepping out of my fancy attire I dressed in my day clothes. The clocks chimed the half-hour and the house buried itself in silence. Tiptoeing to the window I found it fogged with damp although the rain had ceased. The wind blew my hair around my face as I inched out the casement and crawled over the sill. Careful, those branches looked slick. But luck was with me, and apart from grazing one shin I reached the ground not only safe but cheerful.

A two-minute dash, and I would be across the lawn and narrow lane to the Ruins. A pity the moon chose that moment to sail out from behind the sheepskin clouds, but unless one of the sisters was in the act of drawing her curtains I should be all right. I was at the lane, heart thudding more in pleasurable excitement than fear, the humped stones awash with silver light, when a form separated wraithlike from the shadows. “Harry,” I whispered, flinging myself forward.

“Heavens above! If it isn’t the second Tessa,” came a voice I knew and loved to hate. Chantal. My feet skidded on the mushy ground and I swerved to a standstill.

“Minerva got out, and I thought I had better fetch her in before retiring.” As she spoke, a hollow barking came from deep within the Ruins. “Hush, you terrible dog. Come here and I’ll give you a bone.” Moonlight highlighted the curve of her cheek as she turned away from me. “I think the faithful hound may be chasing some tramp away; I was sure I saw someone lurking about.” She shrugged, and as Minnie came spiralling up to her, I tried to get my breathing under control. She couldn’t possibly know that the man was Harry. Could she?

“You exited by way of the apple tree, miss?” she continued.