Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

“Tell me what to do, Pippa,” Constance said.

The party was over, at least for the two of us. There were a few stragglers still downstairs, but they were slowly making their way up, too. We could hear them on the staircase, and out in the hall, and above our heads. I ought to be up there myself, given the late hour, but after Christopher and I had dragged a legless Francis up the stairs and into Bluebell—I’m taller than Constance by several inches, so it made more sense for me to take Francis’s other side while his distraught fiancée ran ahead, wringing her hands, to open the door—she had pulled me into Primrose and shoved me onto the divan.

“I don’t think there’s anything you can do,” I said, folding my hands primly in my lap and getting comfortable. “He was going to backslide sooner or later. He did in July, after Abigail and the baby showed up at Beckwith Place. Now it’s September. Honestly, I don’t think two month intervals are terrible.”

Constance didn’t say anything, and I added, “And all he’s doing is drinking too much. Christopher will make sure he doesn’t get into anything else. Not that there’s likely to be anything to get into. Francis doesn’t travel with Veronal anymore…”

“You told me about Mr. Rivers,” Constance said tonelessly. “He’ll have whatever Francis requires.”

“Christopher won’t let that happen.” And besides, I doubted that Dominic Rivers traveled with a suitcase full of pharmacology, just on the off-chance that someone might ask him for something he could provide. If someone had invited him here for an exchange of goods for money, Dom would have brought the requested substance with him. That was how it worked. But he probably hadn’t come prepared for a bustling evening of business. Certainly not of anything Francis might want to indulge in. He’s not much for party dope, my cousin. When he uses, it’s with the purpose of dulling the senses, not enhancing them.

Constance looked doubtful, and I reassured her. “I promise. Christopher will take care of him. He’s a light sleeper. If Francis tries to get up in the middle of the night, Christopher will wake up and go with him. He won’t let Francis do anything stupid. And honestly, with as much as he has had to drink tonight, the only place he’s likely to go, is the lavatory.”

Constance bit her lip, and I added, “Just be prepared that he’ll be a bear tomorrow morning. Give him lots of coffee and water. Make sure he eats something. And keep him away from Wolfgang for the rest of the weekend.”

Constance looked wretched. “Are you angry with him, Pippa?”

“Of course not,” I said. How could I be? “Francis spent two years in the trenches, being shot at by people who sound like Wolfgang. Robbie died in the War. So did a lot of other people Francis knew and presumably cared for. Of course he’s upset.”

Constance nodded.

“But it wasn’t Wolfgang’s fault. He wasn’t there. He was too young to be conscripted, and he didn’t volunteer. Francis oughtn’t take it out on him.”

“I imagine it’s not that easy,” Constance murmured. I was about to respond, but before I could, there was a knock on the door. “Come in.”

I had expected Francis, in case he had gotten a second wind between the time we had left him in Christopher’s care and now, or perhaps Christopher himself, to let us know that Francis was settled and asleep, and for Constance not to worry.

In a pinch, I suppose it might have been Laetitia Marsden, looking for a heart-to-heart with her cousin. Not that they’d ever been on those terms, but miracles do happen, even if Laetitia was far more likely, in my opinion, to have her heart-to-hearts with one of the Bright Young Things.

As it happened, it was neither of the above. Instead, the young maid I had noticed in the ballroom earlier, the one who had brought Constance the cup of tea, stood in the doorway. “Would you like help before bed, Miss Constance?”

“No, thank you, Nellie,” Constance said gently. Nellie looked younger than the both of us, a fresh-faced twenty-one or so, and quite pretty, in that perfect English rose way, with big, blue eyes and soft brown hair trimmed in a tidy French bob under a little frilled cap.

She turned to me. “Miss Darling? Do you require help with your toilette?”

I shook my head. “That’s not necessary, thank you, Nellie. I’m used to dressing myself.”

Nellie nodded. She made no move towards the door, however, and after a moment, I added, “Some of the other young ladies might appreciate it. I don’t get the impression that Laetitia or that cow who was dancing with the insufferable Bilge handle their own toilette.”

Nellie looked like she wanted to smile but didn’t quite dare to. Constance had no such compunction. “The cow is Bilge’s wife, Lady Serena Fortescue,” she told me with a giggle. “And no, she’s definitely not used to handling her own toilette. Nor is Laetitia. But she has her own lady’s maid. So does my aunt. Nellie is just stepping up for the occasion.”

“That’s kind of you, Nellie,” I said. “I’m sorry we have no need for your help.”

“That’s quite all right, Miss Darling.” She took a backwards step towards the door. “Perhaps I’ll go see if Lady Serena is in need of assistance.”

“Or Violet,” I said. “Or Cecily. Or Olivia Barnsley.”

“Lady Violet is in the garden with Lord Geoffrey,” Nellie said, “and Miss Fletcher is in her room with Mr. Rivers.”

Was she really? The two of them hadn’t looked like they were flirting earlier, but perhaps I had misunderstood something. Or perhaps Cecily was the reason Dom Rivers was here. If so, her appearance earlier—pale and tired, with dark circles under her eyes—was certainly no advertisement for his services.

It was none of my concern, however, so I merely said, “Crispin is with Laetitia, I suppose?”

“No, Miss Darling,” Nellie said. “Lord St George excused himself to his room.”

Oh, had he? I exchanged a glance with Constance, who rolled her eyes. “That can’t have made Laetitia happy.”

“No, Miss Constance,” Nellie agreed. “Miss Laetitia tried to talk Lord St George into coming in with her, but he pleaded a headache.”

Of course he did, the coward. Trying to put off the inevitable, no doubt. I snorted.

“Don’t be unkind, Pippa,” Constance admonished. “I’m sure this is an adjustment for both of them.”

“I’m sure it is. I just find it funny that after proposing and being accepted, now he’s doing everything in his power to stay clear of her.” As if that was going to be an option after December.

Constance gave me a jaundiced look before turning back to Nellie. “How long have you been here at the manor, Nellie?”

She herself had lived across the valley at the Dower House until early May, so Nellie must have arrived since that time, I assumed, or Constance would already know the answer.

And indeed, Nellie explained that she was new to the manor; she had only been in the Marsdens’ employ for a month.

“Has anyone bothered to warn you about Geoffrey?” I wanted to know, since Constance had told me all about the speed with which Lord Geoffrey moves through the female staff. Nellie would be particularly exposed, I figured, being both quite young and quite pretty.

“Yes, Miss Darling.” She looked a bit uncomfortable to be asked, although she answered the question readily enough. “Mrs. Frobisher?—”

“The housekeeper,” Constance interjected.

Nellie nodded. “—told me that Jane?—”

“The previous chambermaid.”

“—was let go because of Lord Geoffrey, so if I value my job, I should keep my distance.”

I snorted. Well, that was typical, wasn’t it? “It’s easier said than done to keep your distance, when someone isn’t inclined to give you space to keep yourself to yourself.”

Nellie didn’t answer, and I added, persuasively, “You can tell us, you know. Miss Constance can talk to Mrs. Frobisher and make sure that she knows it isn’t your fault and that Geoffrey’s being a bother.”

I had no idea whether the housekeeper would believe that—likely not—or what she could do about it if she did, but at the moment I was really just saying whatever I thought I had to, to put Nellie at ease so she would feel comfortable enough to be honest with us.

She looked a bit discomfited, but she shook her head. “That won’t be necessary, Miss Darling. No one is bothering me. Although Miss Laetitia warned me to stay away from her new fiancé last week, too.”

“It’s the curse of being young and pretty,” I told her. “Although you don’t have to worry about Lord St George. He has his faults, but seducing the staff isn’t one of them.”

“No, Miss Darling.”

“Although Laetitia isn’t likely to be understanding, so it’s probably best if you keep a wide berth there, too. Just to avoid upsetting her.” She was liable to be more of a problem than Crispin, as far as Nellie was concerned.

The maid nodded. “Yes, Miss Darling.” She flicked a glance at the door, outside which there was the sound of footsteps and a soft laugh. Over our heads, the ceiling squeaked as someone crossed their bedroom floor.

“You may go, Nellie,” Constance said. “Miss Darling and I can manage on our own tonight.”

“Yes, Miss Constance.” Nellie withdrew. The door shut behind her with nary a snick of the lock.

We sat in silence for a moment before Constance sighed. “I never know whether to warn them or not. It always makes me feel guilty, whether I do it or I don’t.”

And quite understandably so, too.

“He’s your cousin,” I said. “I’m sure you love him. But he can’t be allowed to carry on the way he does. It’s one thing when he tries to push me into the corner of the sofa and paw me. I can take care of myself, and I have people around me who’ll come to my rescue. It’s altogether different when he does it to the maids. They can’t really say no. Not if they aren’t willing to risk their livelihood in the process.”

Constance nodded. “And Nellie’s so young. And also so very pretty. I’m honestly surprised that Geoffrey hasn’t already begun his offensive, but you know it’s just a matter of time.”

Indeed. “At least she knows now that it’s coming, and she can decide for herself what she wants to do about it when it does.”

“It’s an automatic dismissal either way if Aunt Effie finds out,” Constance said. “You know she wouldn’t keep a maid on after she’d dallied with Geoffrey, so it’s a case of damned if you do, damned if you don’t, really.”

Yes, of course it was. No good options at all.

“I thought about asking her about Lydia Morrison,” I said, “and whether anyone has heard from her, but if Nellie’s only been here a month, she wouldn’t know Lydia Morrison to look at, would she?”

Constance shook her head. “Morrison was before her time. I suppose one of us shall have to inquire of Mrs. Frobisher tomorrow.”

I supposed so. The whole convoluted mess was getting on my nerves, and the fact that no one knew where Lydia Morrison was, was frustrating.

Up until recently, Morrison had been the late Lady Peckham’s maid at the Dower House, while Margaret Hughes had been her counterpart at Sutherland Hall. Before that, though, while Crispin and Constance (and Christopher and I) had been babies, it had been the opposite. Back then, Morrison worked for Aunt Charlotte, while Hughes worked for Constance’s mother. The two gentlewomen had been old friends, and at some point while their children were infants, they had decided to switch maids. Morrison had ended up at the Dower House with Constance’s mother and Hughes had come to Sutherland to work for Aunt Charlotte. And so it had been for more than twenty years.

Until that awful weekend at Sutherland Hall this past April, when Morrison had received a phone call from persons unknown. The next morning she had been gone. No one had seen or heard from her since. And now Hughes was dead—the victim of a botched mugging in a Bristol alley—and Morrison was still nowhere to be found, and I was beginning to be irritated. A grown woman of fifty-odd shouldn’t be able to just vanish into the ether like that.

“Of course not,” Constance agreed, “but short of asking Mrs. Frobisher, I don’t know what to do about it. Why don’t we start there? Tomorrow?”

I nodded. It certainly seemed like a good enough place to start.

“You should have let Francis know about your German friend before this evening, Pippa,” Constance said. There was nothing particularly accusing in her voice, but I squirmed guiltily anyway.

“I understand why you would say that, Constance. And I agree that what happened downstairs was not ideal…”

“Hardly,” Constance said.

“But if we had told him—and everyone else—about Wolfgang last night, Francis would have spent last night and all of today fretting about it. He would have driven you mad, and you know it.”

“Don’t you mean that he would have driven you mad?” Constance wanted to know. She flicked a glance at me from where she was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands tidily folded in her lap.

I made a face. “That too, certainly. Although to be honest, I thought there was a chance you already knew.”

Christopher had rung up Crispin the same evening Wolfgang had appeared in our lives. It wouldn’t have been surprising if he had let his parents in on the news, too.

“No,” Constance answered when I said as much. “No one has said a word to us about your German suitor. Not Christopher, nor Lord St George, nor his father.”

I arched my brows. “He’s not my suitor, you know. Just a friend, or more accurately, a distant relative.”

“So Christopher said,” Constance nodded. “Does that mean you’re German nobility, too?”

I shook my head. “Lord, no. My mother shocked everyone when she ran off to the Continent and married a commoner. My father was nobody. If I’m related to Wolfgang at all, it’s on the distaff side of the family, and several times removed.”

Constance made a little humming noise. “So Lord St George…” Her voice tilted up at the end, making it a question.

“You’re practically married to Francis,” I told her crossly. “You’re soon to be Crispin’s cousin by marriage. On both sides of the family, since you’re Laetitia’s cousin, too. You can call him by his given name.”

She gave me a look. “So can you, but I don’t see you doing it.”

“That’s different. And he has known about Wolfgang since the day we met him. Christopher wasted no time in ringing him up; God knows why.”

Constance muttered something, but I ignored it. “It was when he insulted Wolfgang—and by extension, me—that I suggested he should propose to Laetitia. I thought he might have whinged to his father about it, and that Uncle Harold may have included it in the happy news when he called his brother and sister-in-law to let them know that Crispin is engaged.”

“No,” Constance said. “If His Grace mentioned anything about the Graf von Natterdorff to Roslyn and Herbert, neither of them said anything to Francis or me about it.”

I nodded. “Well, you’re right. Considering what happened downstairs, it would undoubtedly have been better to prepare him. But we thought—Christopher and I—that it would be easier if he didn’t know. At least he wouldn’t have time to stew.”

In retrospect, stewing might have been better than what happened. Then again, there was no reason to think that stewing would have prevented it, either.

“He’ll be all right,” I added, optimistically. “He’ll sleep it off tonight, and as long as you and Christopher keep him away from Wolfgang tomorrow, I don’t think there’ll be a problem. Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert will be here then, too, and they’ll help.”

Constance nodded.

“And in the worst case scenario, he can take the Crossley and drive back to Beckwith Place. Crispin will understand.”

She opened her mouth, and I added, “You can stay or go with him. It’s your Crossley, and by now you have suffered through the first part of the engagement weekend anyway. It’s understandable if you want to leave before the second half. Especially if your fiancé is going.”

“You can go, too,” Constance pointed out.

“I could, although I don’t think Christopher would approve of that. He’ll want to be here to support Crispin. And I enjoy watching him squirm, you know. Besides, there’s Wolfgang. Now that I’m here, I don’t think I ought to leave him to the wolves.”

Constance nodded, and I added, “Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert will be coming down in the Bentley tomorrow. We can return to Beckwith Place with them.”

“I suppose we shall have to wait and see how things look tomorrow morning, then,” Constance said. “Who knows, Francis may be feeling better after a good sleep.”

He might. And if not, he could always leave early, before Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert made it here. That was if the hangover didn’t keep him in bed until the late hours of the morning, of course.

“I should turn in,” I said and pushed to my feet. “Will you be able to sleep, or should I ask someone for something?”

“I’ll be fine, Pippa.” She gave me a warm smile. “What about you?”

“Oh, I sleep like a log.” I headed for the door. “I’ll see you in the morning, Constance. For… a shooting party, wasn’t it?”

Constance wrinkled her nose. “It was.”

“I’ll sit that one out,” I said. “So will Christopher. He doesn’t like to shoot at things.” Much to Uncle Herbert’s chagrin.

“Francis doesn’t anymore, either,” Constance said.

No, of course not. “They can both keep us company, then.”

“And your German friend?”

I had no idea how Wolfgang felt about hunting, but I would guess, based on the Mensur scar on his cheek, that he wasn’t opposed to blood sports. “I would assume he’d hunt, but I have no idea whether that’s true or just my own perception of his character. He didn’t volunteer for the war effort, at any rate. I suppose we’ll find out.”

I pulled the door open and stepped through and into the hallway. “Sleep well, Constance. I’ll see you for breakfast.”

“Good night, Pippa. Be careful walking through the house.”

Of course. Although if the handsy Geoffrey was in the garden with Lady Violet, or perhaps holed up in his room with her now, he wasn’t lurking in the shadows looking for me, and I doubted I was in danger from any of the other gentlemen present. Even so, I kept a sharp eye out as I wandered down the hallway towards the back stairs.

Lady Euphemia and Lord Maurice had the suite on the eastern end of the manor house, Constance had told me, and Laetitia was next door to her mother. I assumed that would have been the Countess’s decision, and not Laetitia’s own, since I couldn’t imagine the latter wanting the former to cramp her style at this point in her life. There was no light trickling out from below the doors of either Laetitia’s room, or those of her parents.

The light was likewise out in the room that Christopher and Francis shared. I sidled up to the door and put my ear to the crack for a moment as I passed by, and could hear loud breaths from Francis—I wouldn’t go so far as to say that he was snoring, but it was something like it—and I also heard rustling as someone turned over in bed. It might have been Francis himself, or perhaps Christopher was unable to sleep with the noise, and was trying to get comfortable.

For a moment I thought about knocking, to see whether my best friend was awake and wanted to talk—we hadn’t had a chance to converse privately after the scene in the ballroom—but then I thought better of it. I didn’t want to risk waking Francis and having him go off on me again—or worse, go off looking for Wolfgang, or for more to drink—and besides, if Christopher really was asleep and was simply moving restlessly, I didn’t want to wake him. We’d have plenty of time to talk on the morrow, when everyone else was out shooting pheasants.

Crispin’s room was next door to his cousins, and the light was out there too. He must be asleep already, because when I sidled up to the door—not for long; I didn’t want Laetitia to suddenly come into the hallway and find me listening at the door to her fiancé’s room—there were no sounds whatsoever from within.

The room on the other side of the staircase was a different matter. There was flickering light coming from under the door—romantic candlelight as opposed to the glare of electricity—and the sound of laughter and of murmured voices wafted out from within. I didn’t recognize them, and furthermore had no idea who was staying there. Judging from what I did know, it might have been Geoffrey’s room, and he was in there with Lady Violet, or perhaps the room belonged to Bilge Fortescue and his wife.

The room across the hall was similarly dark—Geoffrey’s, if the couple was the Fortescues, or perhaps the Fortescues’ if the giggler was Lady Violet—and beyond that was another suite of two bedrooms on the far end of the house, all dark and, as far as I knew, empty. I assumed Uncle Harold would be bunking in one of them tomorrow, and that Uncle Herbert and Aunt Roz would end up in the other.

The staircase was around the corner from what was either Geoffrey’s or the Fortescues’ room, and I scurried up and into what was clearly the servants wing upstairs. Three small bedrooms and a lavatory were crammed together in one corner of the house. At this point, the reason for Geoffrey’s chosen room was obvious: he hadn’t been attempting to get away from his parents—or rather, that was of secondary benefit. What he had really wanted, was easy access to where the maids slept. All he had to do was step across the hallway downstairs and creep up the stairs, and here he was, with his pick of maids.

I wrinkled my nose and pushed the green baize door open. And there was my bedroom, at the end of the hall and on the left.

There were six bedrooms up here, in addition to the maids’ quarters, and two washrooms. I hadn’t been surprised to find my own tiny bedroom squeezed into the corner beyond one of the lavatories: that was certainly Laetitia’s doing. Violet, Cecily, and Olivia had the three bedrooms across the hall, and then there was Wolfgang on the other side of the lavatory from me, and the duo of Reginald Fish and Dominic Rivers, who seemed to be bunking together.

The lights had been turned down low in the upper hallway, which I took to mean that everyone was where they were supposed to be at this point, or if not that, at least where they wanted to be. Two of the girls’ bedrooms were dark, so two of them were either asleep or—in Violet’s case—still out with Geoffrey. In the third, the light was on, and I could hear the murmur of voices as I tiptoed past. One male and one female, but too soft to make out words, or even whether they belonged to anyone I knew. I wouldn’t be able to tell Cecily Fletcher’s voice from Lady Violet’s, of course, but I’d probably be able to tell Dominic Rivers’s voice from, for instance, Geoffrey’s.

I was in front of my own door, and had my hand out to grab the handle, when there was the slight scrape of a doorknob somewhere on this level. I stopped where I was, torn between ducking inside my room quickly so I wouldn’t be seen, and wanting to discover who else was sneaking around after everyone else was in bed. That latter impulse won out, and I turned and peered down the hall for who was stirring.

There was a soft click as one of the doors across the hall opened, and a figure came out. The moon glimmered for a moment on fair hair, and my stomach dropped.