Sheer Folly (11 page)

“Get up. It's a glorious day.”

“What time is it?” Daisy mumbled, screwing her eyes tight shut.

“Breakfast-time. Come on, darling, we daren't miss a moment of this sunshine. It could be snowing by midday.”

“I can write perfectly well in snow.”

“But I can't take photos, as you know very well. Besides, you wouldn't want to walk along that path in snow, would you?”

“Nor in rain, come to that, which is much more likely.”

“In any case, even if it's shining the sun will be all wrong later.”

“Right-oh, I'm on my way.”

“Fifteen minutes, or I'll be back to fetch you,” Lucy threatened.

“Have a heart! Twenty. Now buzz off and let me get dressed in peace.”

When Daisy went down, she encountered Barker crossing the entrance hall with a silver coffee-pot on a tray.

“The breakfast parlour is that way, madam, second door on the left. May I venture to enquire as to whether madam has suffered any ill-effects from last night's—ah—adventures?”

“Not at all, thank you, Barker. The hot bath and cocoa were just what was required. Do you know how Lady Ottaline is faring? She had the worst of it.”

“I understand her ladyship desires to remain abed this morning, madam, but Sir Desmond does not consider it necessary to send for a medical attendant.”

“Thank you, Barker.”

“Does madam prefer anything in particular for breakfast? Tea or coffee?”

“Tea, please. Indian. For the rest, I'll take what's going.”

“Very good, madam.”

In the breakfast parlour, Daisy found Lucy with Pritchard, Howell, and Armitage. None of the other ladies had yet put in an appearance. Pritchard bustled about seating her, helping her from the buffet.

“Will you try a little Welsh ham, Mrs. Fletcher? You've likely not eaten it before. We cure a leg of mutton instead of pork, you know, Wales having the most flavoursome mutton in the world. I believe you'll find it tasty.”

“Thank you, do give me a slice.” Daisy glanced at Lucy to see if she was indulging in Welsh ham, but she was sticking to her usual coffee and toast. “You're very patriotic, Mr. Pritchard. I'm surprised you ever left Wales to come and live in England.”

“That was my father's doing. He started the firm in Wales, just when people were beginning to want indoor plumbing. As it grew, he found most of his sales were in England and it was more practical to have the factory here. That's when Owen's father, my wife's brother-in-law, invested in the company, which made the move to Swindon possible. My da made the right choice. We've continued to prosper. Then Appsworth Hall came on the market just when I was thinking of leaving the day-to-day business to Owen. Glenys wanted to move out of the town, so here we are—or rather,” he said sadly, “here I am.”

“I hope your wife had a chance to enjoy living here.”

“We had a couple of good years before I lost her, thank you kindly.”

Daisy was itching to find out what had become of the Appsworth family. However, she didn't think it proper to ask the man who had profited, however legitimately, from their misfortunes.

Absently consuming the Welsh ham, she turned her gaze on Armitage. He was said to be “taking a look at” old papers left at the Hall by the Appsworths. What his work involved and for whose benefit he was doing it had not been mentioned. He was the obvious person to ask, all the same.

Lucy was telling him about the photos she had taken of the front of the house in the evening light the day before.

“Would you be willing to sell me a print?” he asked. “I've taken a few snaps with my Kodak, but I'd like to have a good professional picture of the old place.”

“By all means, if they come out well after the way Rhino was chucking my stuff about.”

“Chucking your stuff about?” Howell demanded in outrage, temporarily forsaking his methodical attack on his breakfast. “Your photographic apparatus, you mean? Chucking it about? Why was he chucking it about? Did he damage anything?” Clearly the thought of machinery being abused was anathema to him.

“I don't think so,” said Lucy, “but I can't be sure till I develop the plates.”

“He fetched Lucy's tripod for her,” Daisy explained, “then dropped it on top of the camera and bag of plates.”

“How on earth did he come to do anything so halfway helpful?” Armitage exclaimed.

Lucy exchanged a glance with Daisy and they both laughed.

“My car was in the middle of the drive and he couldn't get past,” Lucy said dryly.

“Of course,
force majeure
. The only possible explanation.”

Pritchard said a trifle fretfully, “I don't see why an earl can't be as polite as the next man. If it was up to me, he'd be long gone, but Winifred won't hear of me asking him to leave.”

“You don't need Mother's permission to kick him out, Uncle Brin.”

“Ah well, my boy, it's her home, too, now, and it doesn't do to cross a woman in her own home. It just makes everyone uncomfortable. Be thankful Lord Rydal is a late riser and won't be here forever.”

“I am, Uncle, I am.”

Presumably Rhino would stay until the Beauforts departed, so Owen Howell's heartfelt retort suggested that his heart was not preoccupied with passionate love for Julia. On the other hand, he was not a demonstrative man. Could his outward calm hide a passionate heart? Daisy wondered.

He had returned to his pigs-in-blankets, unconcerned or oblivious of Daisy's scrutiny. She was still watching him when Julia came in. He looked up from the bacon-wrapped sausages to say good-morning, and his expression was definitely admiring. Still, Julia in a tweed skirt, silk blouse, and cardigan was just as ravishing as Julia in an evening frock. No man under eighty could possibly look at her without admiration. Only in this mercenary age could she have failed to find a suitor acceptable to both her mother and herself.

Though to be fair, Daisy thought with an internal sigh, one had to make allowances for the fact that so very many altogether eligible young men had died in the War.

Pritchard bustled about again to get Julia settled with her breakfast. Sir Desmond and Carlin came in and helped themselves to hearty platefuls. Howell took out his watch and checked the time with a frown. But the civil service could not be expected to keep business hours. Daisy had more than once heard Alec animadvert upon the slothful habits of bureaucrats.

Lucy, on the contrary, was all business this morning. “As soon as you're ready, Daisy,” she said crisply. “I left my equipment in the hall.”

Daisy swallowed a last gulp of tea. “I'm right with you.”

“Would you mind if I came with you?” Armitage asked. “I'd like to see how you work, and I can be your packhorse, eh. And
being well acquainted with the grotto, from a hermit's point of view, of course, I may have helpful information.”

Lucy looked dubious, but Daisy said firmly, “We could definitely do with a packhorse. Those photographic plates weigh a ton.”

He grinned. “I'm wholly at your disposal.” As he stood up, he exchanged a glance with Julia and she smiled.

“I may drop by later,” she said, “if it won't disturb you, Lucy.”

“Why not? I might as well invite the whole world.”

“Don't be snappish, darling,” Daisy admonished her. “I'll herd them out of your way if they encroach.”

“A packhorse and a sheepdog,” said Pritchard with a chuckle. “That's the ticket.”

The walk to the grotto was very different on that bright morning. Urns on the terrace spilled cascades of aubretia with a few purple flowers already opening here and there. The gardens were sheltered to the north by the house and to the east by a high beech hedge still thick with last year's leaves. Daffodils, narcissus, and crocuses already bloomed in great sheets of colour, mostly yellow, as if reflecting and intensifying the sunlight.

“The Victorian gas lamp standards add a delightful touch of whimsy to the landscape,” Daisy remarked, and pleased with the phrase she whipped out her notebook to write it down.

“You may want to save the word
whimsy
for the grotto,” Armitage suggested. The heavy satchel of plates didn't appear to discommode him in the slightest. He carried it over one shoulder and the tripod over the other.

“Since follies are whimsical by their very nature,” said Lucy, “Daisy's trying to avoid overuse of the word.”

“This is for my article about the house, darling, not the grotto book. I can be as whimsical as I like.”

“You still intend to write that, eh?”

“Definitely. I'm sure my American editor will be interested,
even if
Town and Country
isn't. I don't want to bother you with my questions, though. I expect I can get enough information at the British Museum library. Victorian vicars were forever writing dim little volumes about the history of local notables.”

“I've read a few, but I haven't been able to trace any from this parish. No, I said I'd help you, and I will. But you never told me what sort of articles you write.”

“Oh, I just describe interesting country houses, with little tidbits of the history of the family thrown in. I don't write about the present residents—well, just a bit about ‘gracious permission' and so on—nor any of the skeletons in cupboards if they don't want me to. Most don't mind as long as none of those concerned are still living.”

“You may write about dead skeletons, but not living ones, eh? That sounds reasonable. All right, you can ask, though I can't promise to answer.”

“Fair enough. The best stories usually come from members of the family, who've grown up hearing them. What—”

“Not now, Daisy,” Lucy interrupted. “Wait till we've finished what we're doing. Let's concentrate on the grotto for the moment.”

They came to the first set of three shallow steps. The path was now leading them up the lower slopes of the downs. The lawns on either side gave way to rough tussocks. Ahead, sheep-cropped grass rose steeply to the rounded summit, crowned with a spinney. More steps, then they reached the bridge over the stream.

Here Armitage paused. “You may not want to mention this,” he said, “as it somewhat detracts from the picturesqueness, but the channel is lined with some sort of tile. Otherwise, I'm told, the creek would often dry up in the summer.”

“It tends to happen in chalk and limestone country,” Daisy said.

“You grew up in this sort of country?”

“No, quite different. The valley of the Severn, in Worcestershire. It's just one of those useless bits of general knowledge one remembers from school.”

“Knowledge is seldom useless, especially for a writer, though its usefulness isn't always immediately apparent.”

“That must be why Daisy's such a successful writer,” said Lucy, impatiently moving onward. “She has a vast fund of apparently useless information.”

“Whereas you, Lady Gerald, have a vast fund of specific technical information.”

“I wouldn't say
vast
,” Lucy demurred, but she looked pleased.

Amused, Daisy realised he was buttering them up, in a rather roundabout and subtle fashion. Doubtless he wanted them on his side if Julia asked what they thought of him. She was sure by now that they were attracted to one another, though to what degree the attraction was acknowledged she couldn't guess.

The stream was below them now, though the gorge was by no means the fearsome chasm it had seemed last night. On the far side, here and there, small plants clung to the whitish cliff. They turned the corner of the bluff. The sun, still quite low in the southeast, shone directly into the mouth of the grotto. Sparkling, the waterfall flung itself down into a pretty pool fringed with reeds and watermint. It was a delightful scene, but Daisy was glad she had seen its dramatic aspect the previous evening.

Lucy called a halt. Armitage put down his burdens and started setting up the tripod at her direction.

“I'm going up,” Daisy said. “I'll make a list of things I want to write about, and then you can decide which will make good photos.”

“Right-oh. Stop at the top, though, while I get a couple of shots. A human figure gives an idea of the scale,” Lucy explained to Armitage.

Gazing back the way they had come, he made some indistinct reply. Daisy grinned. Lucy shrugged, shook her head, and rolled her eyes.

Daisy went up the steps, much less steep and narrow by daylight. At the top, she went over to the the stream. As it approached the lip of the cave, the low wall confining it to its bed
sloped down from eighteen inches high to no more than six, so that it wasn't noticeable from below.

She moved forwards, stopping a prudent couple of feet from the edge, and waved to Lucy, who was peering through her viewfinder. Lucy motioned her to come closer. Daisy shook her head.

Lucy turned to Armitage, who by now had returned at least part of his attention to what she was doing. (Another part was on filling his pipe.) Pointing up at Daisy, she said something. As he replied, he glanced back down the path again. Lucy looked at her wristwatch, tapped it, and shook her head vigorously. Daisy guessed what she was saying: “Julia won't be here for ages. She was just starting breakfast and she may seem ethereal but she has a healthy appetite.”

Armitage blushed, cast one last longing look backwards, then headed for the steps, his unlit pipe clenched in his teeth. Lucy generally got her way when she was being forceful.

“Besides,” said Daisy as the lovelorn swain arrived in the grotto, “she won't want people to think she's chasing after you.”

“How did you know . . . ? What people?”

“Pritchard, Howell, Sir Desmond, Carlin, for a start. Anyone else who goes down to breakfast. Barker—he was just coming in with fresh coffee when she said she'd join us. Then there's her mother, who'd be bound to wonder where she was if she got up and found her missing. She'll probably go up to her and tell her we—Lucy and I, that is—are working in the grotto and she's going to pop along to see how we're doing.”