Sheer Folly (3 page)

“At least I pierced that insufferable shell of complacency, however briefly. Besides, you did your bit. That was a neat touch, asking him which was the brake.”

“Yes, that's all very well, but I do hope you're not going to spend our time here sniping at him.”

“Hardly, darling. We have work to do. It was a perfect demonstration, though, of why we mustn't let Julia weaken. Lady Beaufort's the sort who still believes parents can tell their daughters whom to marry.” Lucy stopped the car in front of the portico. “Here we are.”

They got out. As the Bentley swept past them and disappeared round the side of the house, Lucy retrieved the tripod from the dickey and handed it to Daisy. She shouldered her precious camera herself and heaved out the satchel of plates.

“Do you suppose the plumber will provide someone to garage the car for me, and bring in the rest of our stuff?” she added plaintively.

“If not, I'll do it,” said Daisy resignedly. She had been worried about her friend's attitude to Mr. Pritchard. Apparently she was going to have to protect Lord Rydal and Lady Beaufort from Lucy's scheming, too. She rather hoped Alec would be able to come down for the weekend to lend a hand.

 

A very
proper butler admitted Daisy and Lucy to the hall.

“Mr. Pritchard's chauffeur will convey your ladyship's motor to the garage, my lady,” he assured Lucy.

The grand staircase, black-and-white chequered marble floor, and pillared niches in the walls were just what one would expect to find behind the classical façade. However, Mr. Pritchard was clearly not bound by tradition. Illuminated by electric wallsconces, the cold stone of the floor was half hidden by a broadloom Axminster in green and gold chequers, and, instead of marble gods and goddesses, the niches held a selection of ewers. These ranged from white china decorated with forget-me-nots and rosebuds to elaborate gilt-rimmed porcelain with scenes from classical mythology. Gods and goddesses in fact, Daisy thought, amused—as well as reminders of the days before modern plumbing.

“At least, no chamber-pots!” Lucy hissed in her ear. A modern career-woman she might be, but like Queen Victoria, she was not amused. She instructed the butler in the proper handling of her camera equipment.

A short, spare, grey-haired man in a navy pin-striped suit
came bustling through a door on the right side of the hall. He greeted them with a cheerful smile.

“You must be Lady Gerald and Mrs. Fletcher.” He spoke the King's English with a slight Welsh intonation. “I'm Brin Pritchard. Very pleased to meet you, I'm sure. And I'm delighted my grotto's going to be in your book.”

Lucy muttered, “How do you do?” without offering her hand.

“We're looking forward to seeing it, Mr. Pritchard,” Daisy assured him, shaking his hand. “It's very kind of you to invite us.”

“Not at all, not at all. I had a marvellous time restoring it to its old condition, or maybe even just a bit better, and I like to show it off. I wish you'd been able to arrive in time to see it in daylight this afternoon. Barker,” he said to the butler, “bring a fresh pot of tea. Or perhaps you young ladies would prefer a cocktail at this hour?”

Regarding her host with a somewhat more kindly eye, Lucy declared that a cocktail would exactly fill the bill, while Daisy opted for tea.

“I expect you'd like to powder your noses before you join us,” Pritchard suggested, adding with an air of gallantry, “not that I mean to suggest your noses need powdering. The cloakroom's just through there, first door on the left.”

As they followed his directions, Lucy said, “Thank heaven he didn't offer to demonstrate the plumbing!”

“I wish you'd stop expecting him to drop a brick. I think he's rather a nice little man.”

When they returned to the hall, the butler, Barker, was waiting to usher them into the drawing room. It was a large room, furnished with an eye to comfort and cheerfulness. The only sign of plumbing was several radiators, augmenting with their welcome warmth the fire crackling in the Adam fireplace. The delicate plasterwork of the mantel was complemented by the ceiling's wreathes, rosettes, and ribbons. If Mr. Pritchard had been tempted to embellish these with depictions of urns, fountains, or other evidence of his trade, he had resisted the temptation. The walls hinted of watery influences, however, being
papered in willow-green with a slight sheen, narrowly striped in pale blue.

Pin-striped
, in fact, Daisy thought, as their equally pin-striped host bounced up from a easy-chair and came towards them. He must be in his mid-or late-fifties, she thought, but he was as spry as a man half his age, and his hair, though grey verging on white, was still thick.

“Come in, come in do, come to the fire and get warm. Let's see, now, you know Lady Beaufort, don't you, and Miss Beaufort? A reunion of old friends. What could be better?”

Sir Frederick Beaufort's widow, a large stately woman in forest green, seated at the fireside, gave a small stately bow, but her smile was friendly. “Lady Gerald, Mrs. Fletcher, how pleasant to see you again. Julia has been looking forward to your arrival.”

“I have indeed,” Julia said warmly. “Hello, Lucy. Daisy, it's ages since I saw you.”

“Years,” said Daisy. Seven years, since her father's funeral in 1919. What with the death toll of the War and the influenza pandemic, which had killed Lord Dalrymple, his funeral had not been well attended, but Julia had been there.

They had not been particularly close friends at school, in spite of both being fonder of books than sports. Julia had been shy, at that age a crippling affliction, one that Daisy never suffered from. Julia had been cursed with spots, while Daisy's Nemesis was freckles, much easier to live with. And though Daisy had never attained slimness, and now likely never would, Julia in her teen years had been positively pudgy.

But Julia, in her late twenties, had emerged from her chrysalis and was absolutely stunning. Her hair could have been described as spun gold without too much of the usual gross exaggeration. Worn in a long bob, it framed a spotless peaches-and-cream complexion with no need of powder or rouge. Without being rail-thin, she was slender enough to look marvellous in a silk teadress in the still-current straight up-and-down fashion, with hip-level waist, which Daisy had hoped would die a natural death long since.

Daisy looked at her with admiration and envy. The envy faded as she reminded herself that despite her own unmodish figure and merely light brown hair, worn shingled, she had Alec, whereas Julia apparently faced a choice between a rhinoceros and a plumber's nephew.

Not that Daisy had anything against plumbers.

Mr. Plumber . . . Mr. Pritchard, rather, next introduced a short, tubby woman, sixtyish, her coils of white hair sternly confined in a net, her plumpness sternly confined in a black frock embroidered with jet beads. “My sister-in-law, my late wife's sister, Mrs. Howell, who keeps house for me.”

“Acts as your hostess, Brin!” Mrs. Howell hissed crossly. Any hint of Welsh in her voice had been carefully obliterated. “You'll be making the ladies think I'm the housekeeper. I've been acting as Brin's hostess since my poor sister went to her reward, Lady Gerald. How do you do? My husband was Brin's partner, you see.”

“Partner?” Lucy enquired languidly, as though she had never heard the word before, though Daisy was pretty certain Gerald was a partner in a City firm, something to do with stocks and shares, as well as sitting on numerous boards.

“Business partner,” Mrs. Howell elucidated.

“Sleeping partner,” Pritchard corrected her mischievously.

“Owen's your Managing Director!” she snapped.

“My dear Winifred, you were talking about Daffyd.”

Short of an actual yawn, Lucy could hardly have shown her lack of interest more clearly.

To compensate, Daisy said, “I've always wondered what a sleeping partner is exactly. Presumably not one who comes into the office, puts his feet up on the desk, and slumbers away the day?”

Pritchard laughed. “Indeed, he doesn't usually turn up at the office at all, Mrs. Fletcher. It's what we call someone who invests in a private business without taking part in the running of it. Daffyd Howell was—”

“Really, Brin, I'm sure the ladies don't want to hear about the business.”

“Daisy's a writer,” said Lucy. “Writers are interested in the most unexpected subjects.”

“Later, perhaps,” Daisy suggested. Not that she was particularly interested in the financial arrangements of Pritchard's Plumbing Products, but she didn't like the way Mrs. Howell had snubbed her brother-in-law.

“Just say the word.” He gave her a cheerful wink. “Your tea will be here any minute, Mrs. Fletcher. Now, what can I get for you, Lady Gerald?”

“Gin and It, please.” Lucy followed him over to a huge oak Welsh dresser, beautifully carved. It had been converted into a drinks cabinet. The shelves were crowded with bottles, decanters, and glasses. One side of the top of the base section lifted to reveal a small sink—with running water, of course, given their host's business—and the cupboard below concealed an ice chest.

It was very neatly done, without spoiling a splendid piece of furniture. Daisy considered it vastly preferable to the current fad for glass and chromed stainless steel bars.

“Anyone else for a cocktail?” Pritchard invited, pouring Lucy's drink.

“I wouldn't mind a pink gin,” said Julia, going to join them.

Mrs. Howell muttered something disapproving about it being much too early for drinks.

Lady Beaufort said soothingly, “Young people today are very different from the days of our youth, aren't they?”

Though Daisy thought it was very kind of Lady Beaufort, who surely could have given the other a good decade, Mrs. Howell didn't appear to be mollified. “Not so young, neither,” she snapped.

“Old enough to decide for ourselves what we want to drink,” Daisy commented, “though the three of us are too young to vote for a couple of years yet.”

“Why women want to vote I simply can't see,” Mrs. Howell declared. “One thing I'll say for Brin, he's stuck by Mr. Lloyd George through thick and thin. So what need have I for a vote?”

Daisy refrained from pointing out the fallacy in this argument. “Ah, here comes my tea,” she said with relief.

Lord Rydal came in just behind the butler. He made a beeline for the drinks—or was it for Julia?

“I fetched your friends' bags from the station, Miss Beaufort,” he told her irritably, jabbing with his cigarette holder towards Lucy. “But I still don't see why one of the servants couldn't have gone. Slackers!” he said to Mr. Pritchard. “You should give them all notice.”

“But . . .” Pritchard caught Julia's alarmed eye and continued with a look of enlightenment, “but the only one who can drive is my chauffeur, and it's his afternoon off, I'm afraid. Sorry, Lady Gerald, I ought to 've changed his day.”

“That's all right,” Lucy said dryly. “I'm sure Rhino was delighted to make himself useful.”

Rydal snorted.

Daisy didn't hear any more. Mrs. Howell, having dismissed the butler with a brusque “That will be all, Barker,” asked her if she took milk and sugar in her tea. “The scones are all gone. I hope you didn't want any, because they're busy with dinner in the kitchen.”

“They're better hot from the oven anyway,” Lady Beaufort pointed out.

“There's plenty of Welsh-cakes,” Mrs. Howell went on. “Brin insists on Welsh-cakes. I myself consider sponge cake far superior.”

Daisy politely disclaimed any interest in scones. She accepted a Welsh-cake.

Without any reason that Daisy was aware of, Mrs. Howell seemed to have taken against her, not even having greeted her properly. Her curiosity was piqued. It didn't make sense. For one thing, if the woman disapproved of cocktails at half past five, she should have approved of Daisy's choice of tea. She could at least have apologised for the dearth of scones, or better, not mentioned it at all rather than aggressively announcing the lack thereof.

Lady Beaufort cast a mildly malicious glance at Mrs. Howell
and enquired, “Well, Daisy, how is Lady Dalrymple? The Dowager Viscountess, I should say. She seemed very well when we met her in town at Christmas.”

“Oh yes, Mother's flourishing, thank you.” Even though the lady in question bitterly resented living at the Dower House and still refused to admit that the present Lord and Lady Dalrymple had any right to Fairacres—but Daisy's mother wouldn't have been happy with nothing to complain about. “Did you see my sister, Violet, and Lord John? They didn't bring the children up on their last visit, alas. I don't see enough of my nephews and niece.”

“Lady John was there, but her husband had already gone back to Kent. I understand you have little ones of your own to keep you busy.”

“Twins, a girl and boy. They're just over a year. And my stepdaughter, of course. Belinda is nearly thirteen already and away at school.”

“I wish Julia would hurry up and give me grandchildren.”

During this conversation, the most extraordinary change had come over Mrs. Howell. Scarlet in the face and pop-eyed with indignation, she had jumped up and rung the bell (an electric button rather than a tasselled rope, as befitted Pritchard's discreet modernisation). When the butler came in, she berated him.

“Barker, why didn't you bring scones for Mrs. Fletcher?”

Surprised, Daisy was about to assure her she was perfectly happy without, when Lady Beaufort gave her a slight shake of the head. While the butler apologised with proper impassiveness and went off to repair the deficiency, Daisy finished off her Welsh-cake.

The reason for Mrs. Howell's change of heart was all too obvious. Until Lady Beaufort enquired after the Dowager Viscountess, their hostess hadn't realised that Daisy was a sprig of the nobility. The daughter of a viscount must not be denied scones just because the kitchen staff were busy preparing dinner.