The Passing Bells (5 page)

“That's a charming frock, Winifred,” he said. “It's very becoming.”

“Th-thank you,” Winifred stammered.

Roger choked on a piece of broiled kidney and coughed it up into his napkin. “Excuse me,” he blurted.

Lady Mary dismissed the apology with a wave of her taloned hand. “Nonsense, dear boy! Better to cough than to strangle, I always say.”

It would be a good match for Charles, Fenton mused, and he could understand Lord Stanmore's desire for it. The Marquess of Dexford was not only a rich man with an ancient title, but also a possible prime minister should the Conservatives ever regain power. Winifred was the marquess's youngest child and only daughter. He had four sons. No problem of handing down the title when he died. He would probably be content to see Winifred married to any man of good family and honorable profession. Her brother Andrew was a captain in the Horse Guards, and the marquess himself had served briefly with the colors during the Zulu war, something in which he took inordinate pride. There was food for thought there. He smiled warmly at Winifred, and she smiled shyly back. An easy bit of fruit to pluck from the tree, but of course he could do nothing positive about it unless or, rather, until Charles informed his parents that he would never become engaged to the girl, no matter what pressures they put on him.

Fenton stood up and gave a slight bow. “I leave you to breakfast. Perhaps we can form teams later for croquet.”

“How marvelous! We will enjoy that, won't we, Winifred?”

“Yes, Mama,” Winifred said.

“All right with you, Roger? You could team up with Lady Mary and show off your considerable skills.”

Roger looked quizzical. “Fine. Although I must say, Fenton, I find your own skills to be downright humbling.”

Ivy hurried up the back stairs cradling a stack of linens in her arms. The stairs were narrow and steep and the sheets and pillowslips felt like a ton weight by the time she reached the second-floor passage in the west wing. She opened the door slowly and peered hesitantly around it. The long corridor was empty. The housekeeping rules were emphatic: Maids must not draw attention to themselves, if at all possible. Should family or guests be seen standing in the halls, the maids should draw discreetly out of sight until the hallway is empty. There were so many rules that Ivy's head spun, trying to keep track of them all.

She looked to the left and to the right. The hallway that she was facing was known as the west wing gallery, an outer passage with tall mullioned windows on one side. She remembered those windows from the day before, when she had come this way to help Doris make up Miss Alexandra's bed. The room that she was looking for was to her left, past Miss Alexandra's suite and then down a short hallway which ran at right angles to the gallery. She stepped resolutely out of the stairwell, closed the narrow door behind her, and hurried toward her destination. As she passed Miss Alexandra's bedroom, the door flew open and the earl's daughter poked her head out.

“Velda?”

“No, ma'am.”

“I can see
that
,” the girl said petulantly. “I heard footsteps. Where's Velda?”

“I don't know, ma'am.” She had never heard of anyone named Velda.

The Right Honorable Alexandra Greville took a step into the corridor and glanced up and down. “Oh, bother!”

Ivy stared at her in awe. She had only seen her from a distance before this. So pretty—like the portrait on a candy box. A slim, oval face . . . blue eyes . . . thick blonde hair curled into ringlets. And she smelled lovely, too—an odor of lavender soap and eau de cologne. Her dress was open down the back, revealing silk lingerie fringed with frothy lace.

“You must help me,” Alexandra said quickly. “Hurry up, or I shall be late.”

“What?” Ivy said dully, gawking at this girl who was prettier than any princess in a storybook.

“Don't just stand there! Help do me up. I shall be—” The sound of a car horn cut off her words, and she rushed across the corridor to the windows and looked out. “Oh, she's here! Drat that Velda!” She whirled in a fury of motion back toward the open doorway. “Quickly! Quickly!”

Ivy had no idea what she wanted her to do. She stood rooted, the linens in her arms. Alexandra disappeared from view for a second and then reappeared in the doorway, hands on her hips.

“I shan't ask you again. Now
please
do me up. Drop what you're carrying and come
here.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Ivy blurted. Her arms parted as though they had a will of their own, and the clean sheets and pillowcases fell to the floor with a dull thump. She hurried into the room to find Alexandra standing impatiently in front of a mirror.

“The buttons . . . Do up the buttons. . . . Quickly, but don't miss any.”

“No, ma'am.” There seemed to be dozens of them, tiny ivory ones running from the waist of the dress to the neck. She began to button them, her fingers trembling. “There's ever so many,” she whispered.

Alexandra tried to look down over her shoulder. “Don't start off wrong or you'll have to do them all over again.”

“I—won't—ma'am.” The fabric was a beige wool challis, of such fine quality that it felt like silk to the touch. “Oh, miss, it's ever such a lovely dress.”

“Do you think so?” Alexandra asked anxiously.

“Oh, yes. So pretty.”

Alexandra scowled and ran her hands over the dress, smoothing the fabric across the hips.

“I was rather worried about it. I'm going up to London and I do so want to look nice. You're sure that you like it?”

“Oh, my, yes, ma'am.”

“I wasn't certain about the shade.”

“It's . . . so nice against your skin, ma'am. Like . . . like a pale brown mist.”

The young woman turned around and smiled. “Why, what a lovely thing to say. Quite poetic of you. A pale brown mist. Oh, I do feel better about it now!” She turned back so that Ivy could continue with the buttons. “I have a lovely hat that goes with it—a beige sailor with dark-brown velvet ribbons. You're new, aren't you?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“What's your name?”

“Ivy, ma'am. Ivy Thaxton.”

“Well, Ivy,” Alexandra began then stopped as she noticed a middle-aged maid hurry into the room. “Well, Velda, it's about time. Wherever did you run off to?”

“I am sorry, Miss Alexandra. I . . .” The woman hesitated when she saw Ivy, and her gaunt features clouded with anger.

“It doesn't matter,” Alexandra said with a shrug. “I'm buttoned now. But do hurry and get my hat. I'm in a most awful rush.”

“Yes, Miss Alexandra.” Velda gave Ivy one final withering look and then hurried into an adjoining room.

Alexandra bent quickly toward the mirror and gave her cheeks a firm pinch to redden them. “I shall ask one final favor of you, Ivy. I must kiss Mama good morning. Please hurry downstairs as fast as you can and tell the lady who just arrived—Miss Foxe—that I shall be down in a few minutes and that we must drive like the wind or we shall miss our train.” She spun away, pirouetting in front of the glass.

Ivy backed toward the door, her brain in a whirl. “A . . . Miss Foxe?”

“Yes, yes—quickly—quickly.”

Ivy flew out of the room and down the hall. She gave no thought to taking the back stairs. There couldn't possibly be time for that. She was on a mission, the importance of which escaped her understanding, but a mission nonetheless. She ran full tilt, clutching her little cap to keep it from flying off her head, down the L-shaped hall of the west wing to the central corridor of the main house. It was exhilarating to run along such a broad carpeted surface. She felt like laughing out loud. It was like running down High Street early in the morning when all the shops were closed, racing Cissy and Ned and Tom to school. She nearly collided with a footman on the upper landing above the great hall.

“Sorry!” she called out, descending the stairway two steps at a time. The startled man stared after her in mute astonishment.

The astonishment was shared by Mr. Coatsworth and two other footmen standing in the entrance hall. They could merely gape at the young maid coming so rapidly toward them and could not have been more shocked if she had come sliding down the banister.

“What on earth . . . ?” Mr. Coatsworth blurted. “What on earth . . . ?”

Ivy almost slipped on the highly polished parquet floor and came to a skidding momentary halt in front of the butler.

“I . . . I must find a Miss Foxe. Have you seen her?”

Mr. Coatsworth could merely point in the general direction of outdoors. The front doors were open, and Ivy could see a shiny blue automobile parked on the drive. A young woman with red hair sat behind the wheel, a tall dark-haired man in riding clothes standing casually beside the car talking to her.

“Thanks awfully,” Ivy said, making a dash for the door.

“Now, see here. . . .” the butler stammered. “See here. . . .”

Ivy slowed her frantic pace when she stepped out of the house and onto the hard-packed gravel drive. Her cap was askew and she straightened it, then tugged at her apron, which had begun to droop off one shoulder. She walked demurely toward the car, revealing the kind of deportment that the housekeeper had stressed.

“Are you Miss Foxe?” she asked respectfully.

Lydia Foxe looked past the tall angular form of Fenton Wood-Lacy. “Why, yes I am.”

“I have a message for you, ma'am . . . from Miss Alexandra, ma'am. . . . She says for me to tell you that she shan't be but a minute as she has to kiss her mother and that . . . and that you will have to drive . . . like the wind to keep from missing the train.”

“Oh, did she,” Lydia Foxe said with a husky laugh. “Dear Alex,” she said, looking up at Fenton, the presence of the maid ignored. “Honestly, that girl would forget her head if it weren't firmly rooted to her neck. I told her that we were driving up to London. I hate that smelly train.”

“Driving, eh?” Fenton said. “Bit of a rough trip for you, isn't it?”

“Oh, Lord, no. The road's quite decent once you're past Dorking.”

“Going shopping?”

“Alex has some dress fittings, and I have to see Daddy and then have the car looked at. There's a squeak of some sort in the differential.”

“His nibs has a good man. Wizard with cars.”

“I talked with Ross the other day in the village. He only knows English makes. And there's the question of tools. The Germans use different-size bolts or something. There's a Benz and Opel garage on the Edgeware Road.”

“Won't break down on the way, will it?”

“No. It's just a noise—more annoying than anything else.”

Ivy was at a loss over what to do—stand listening to the conversation until dismissed, or just turn and walk away? Not that she was in any hurry to leave. The woman in the shiny blue car fascinated her. She had never seen anyone so attractive—not pretty and soft like Miss Alexandra, a different kind of loveliness altogether. This woman had a hypnotizing, sensual beauty that caused Ivy to wonder if she might be on the stage. She certainly looked like an actress, not that Ivy had ever seen one except in the rotogravure section of the
Mirror.
Her hair was a deep chestnut red, coiled on top of her head and secured by a green velvet band. Her face was rather long, with high cheekbones and a slightly uptilted nose, the skin so fine as to be almost translucent. The mouth was large and full lipped, with a hint of wantonness in its moistness. Lip rouge? Ivy wondered. The woman's eyes were a luminous green that seemed to sparkle as she moved her head. Ivy gawked, spellbound, then pulled herself out of her momentary trance.

“Is . . . is there any message for Miss Alexandra, ma'am?”

A throaty laugh. “Oh, good heavens, no.”

“Yes, ma'am . . . very good, ma'am.”

“What an odd little creature,” Lydia said as she watched the maid walk slowly back toward the house. “Did you notice her staring at me?”

“No, but then I was staring at you myself so I can't blame the girl. You're a damn attractive woman, Lydia.”

She looked away from him, fingers toying with the heavy wood steering wheel, eyes narrowed against the reflection of the sun off the shiny bonnet of the car.

“Please, Fenton, we promised to talk only in generalities.”

He touched her shoulder, sensing the warm flesh beneath the cotton motoring coat and the silk dress. “I find that nearly impossible to do.”

She could see the reflection of the house in the car's paint—mellow brick and smooth stone, the faultless façade of Abingdon Pryory, home of the Grevilles and the earls of Stanmore for ten generations.

“I'm sorry, Fenton. Please don't make it difficult. You know how fond I am of you. You've been like a brother to me since I was nine years old and—”

His fingers tightened. “You can't look at me and say that, Lydia. But I shan't press you. I know what you're hoping to accomplish and I wish you luck. You shall need it.”

Ivy made her slow way to the second floor of the west wing, taking the back stairs. The tableau on the drive lingered in her thoughts: the beautiful woman, the gleaming motorcar, the tall dark-haired man. What wondrous, exciting events lay in store for these people on this sunny June morning? Drive up to London, the woman had said. Ivy could not even imagine what that entailed or what Miss Foxe and Miss Alexandra would find when they got there. She had never been to London, although she had seen pictures of certain places in London: Buckingham Palace, St. Paul's, the houses of Parliament, and the Tower. A grand place, London, filled with pageantry—the Guards in their bearskin hats, the Beefeaters, the Lord Mayor with a great gold chain around his neck. Still, there must be more to it than that. A workaday sort of place, surely. Rather like Norwich or Great Yarmouth, only larger—more crowded. People doing ordinary things. Even some chaps repairing motorcars. It was all so curious. So far away. What fun it would be to be going with them, seated in the motorcar as it raced like the wind through the countryside, whizzing through the little villages that she had seen from the train on the way down from Norfolk. Would they pause for luncheon on the way? Cold meat pies and cider in a little inn? Or would they eat when they got to London, dining in one of those posh hotels with waiters in livery hovering around them? That would be the most fun. Would madam care to sample the cutlets? Would madam like a glass of bubbly champagne? The thought made her smile, and she was still smiling when she left the service stairs and walked down the hall. She was being served bubbly wine from a silver bucket when she suddenly became aware of a small crowd standing in the hall outside of Miss Alexandra's room. Mr. Coatsworth was there . . . and one of the footmen . . . and the maid, Velda . . . and Mrs. Broome. They were all of them staring at her and they were not smiling. Not at all at all.