A Christmas Conspiracy (4 page)

They were really not wicked girls, he reminded himself. Just headstrong and frivolous. Had he been too harsh with them? Possibly. He had sent for Miss Walleye rather precipitously and was now beginning to regret his decision. She did sound like a terrible old quiz. Still, her letter had been so piteous, and she had been so clearly in need of some sort of occupation to support herself, that he could not but respond with an invitation. If she turned out to be entirely insupportable, he supposed he could find some other position for her—or take permanent refuge in his conservatory. Perhaps he would send her to Fanny, he thought with an infrequent flash of humor.

* * * *

Lady Fanny shivered beneath the rugs as her coach made its ponderous way through the rising snowdrifts. She had been regretting her foolish decision for the last hour, ever since the storm had worsened and the light had begun to fail. What a tedious, miserable journey! She had begun it in high spirits and even a little hope, but now she felt entirely ridiculous. How stupid it was to imagine she could drop into her husband’s life again and be greeted with anything but contempt! Moreover, it was bitterly cold and she was tired, but every time she drifted to sleep, Flops would contrive a way to steal her rug onto the floor where he curled up with it himself.

Lady Fanny was yawning for the hundredth time when she jerked forward in her seat as the carriage lurched to a halt. Outside, the horses whinnied and the coachman swore. After a moment, the lethargic Flops let forth a belated yawp of outraged inquiry.

“The gods are punishing us for our audacity,” she groaned. Flops shook his head vigorously, as if to complain that
he
was guiltless of any temerity. A moment later, the coachman stuck his grizzled head inside the door.

“Beggin’ your pardon, my lady,” he told her breathlessly, “but I can drive ‘er no farther this night. We be axle high in drifts and the horses foundering.”

Lady Fanny closed her eyes wearily and sighed. “It wanted only this,” she muttered.

“Beg pardon, my lady?”

“Nothing, John. Have you an idea where we are?”

“Na but two miles from the lodge. I’ll just have the lad ride ahead and ask them to send a cart back for you.”

A gust of wind blew a skiff of snowflakes in through the open door. Fanny shuddered, both at the cold and the notion of arriving at her former home in such an unstately manner. She was certain that even Giles would not turn her back on a night like this, but arriving in the back of a cart like a common gypsy would be an inexpressibly mortifying experience.

“I shall ride ahead, John,” she told him decisively. “There is still some light and I know the way quite well. I shall send a party back for you.”

John, a retainer of some twenty years, knew better than to argue with his mistress. Instead, he merely ducked his head in resigned acknowledgement and saw to the saddling of a horse.

Glad of the generous skirt of her traveling ensemble. Fanny assumed her mount with little difficulty and called for Flops to be handed up to her. The dog, out of sorts at being dragged from his warm nest of rugs, squirmed and whimpered, but Fanny tucked him firmly under one arm and rode forward into the gathering twilight. She was not fond of the little beast, but neither, she knew, were her servants. It would not do for him to be left by the wayside in this weather, as he might well be if certain parties had their way.

There was enough reflected light from the snow that she could make out the road quite plainly and maneuver her horse between the drifts. It was beastly cold. A very good thing, too, she reflected, for were it not, she would be tempted to turn the horse about and flee in the opposite direction.

Her journey was slow-going, however, and more than once she wished she had stayed with the carriage. Although she carried a muff and her pelisse was lined with fur, her nose had begun to feel as if it would drop off at any moment. Then, she reflected with a short laugh, she would look more than a little like the pug-nosed Flops. Ah, poetic justice! Giles had been quite right about her all those years ago. Her current predicament proved she was headstrong and thoughtless. Not likely to become any less so either, she decided with a sigh.

At last Fanny thought she could make out the lights of the gatehouse glowing through the snowflakes. From there it would not be far to her front door The gates, she knew, would stand open on a night such as this that travellers stranded by the storm might not be shut out.

She was tempted for a moment to stop where she was, to request such hospitality as the gatehouse might offer and avoid what promised to be an embarrassing entrance at her former home. Such cowardice, she scolded herself. She had come this far, after all, and there was nothing for it but to continue. Perhaps if her nose did drop off from the cold, Giles might at last summon some small compassion for her.

She urged the horse forward and passed through the gates. As the grounds came dimly into view, a rush of nostalgia swept over her. Although she had anticipated a response of some poignancy, she had not expected it to be so strong. A painful lump rose up in her throat. There was the gazebo and, beside it, the stubble of last summer’s garden poking up through the snow. Or perhaps it was even the remains of the last garden she had planted—who knew if anyone cared for such things after she left?

As the house came into view, she saw that many windows on the main floor were brightly lit. Perhaps they were dining, she thought with a shade of hope. Then she would have Bently take her upstairs and she could hide in her chamber. She knew she must make an entrance eventually, but she had far rather have the opportunity to repair what must surely be a disastrous toilette.

Taking a deep breath, she dismounted, marched to the door and pulled the bell. It was some time before this summons was answered and, as she stood in the chilling wind, Fanny could not help but feel a little sorry for herself. Flops had almost immediately squirmed free of her grip and was now looking up at her in an exceedingly aggrieved manner, as if she were herself responsible for the snowdrift from which he refused to move. Indeed, she was just beginning to read him a scold when the door was pulled open and she was greeted by Bently’s quelling gaze.

“I am sufficiently chilled already, Bently,” she told him in what she hoped, despite her chattering teeth, was a regal manner. “Do stop staring me out of countenance and let me come stand by the fire.”

“My lady?” Only the merest suggestion of a croak in the servant’s voice revealed his amazement at her sudden appearance.

“Yes, Bently. It is I. The prodigal returneth,” she said with a brittle laugh as she entered. Bently’s sober face betrayed not the least trace of curiosity, Fanny was relieved to note, although she would have been exceedingly surprised to detect any there. Bently was, after all, a model British butler: competent, correct, and utterly composed. In short, the sort of staid individual one wishes to see set upon by naughty children and large, boisterous dogs.

“My carriage is bogged down in a drift some miles back,” she continued. “You must dispatch a party to help them and call a groom to see to my horse. Now, what has become of Flops?”

By this time, however, Flops had already made his way boldly into the hall and was now industriously rolling on the carpet, drying his wet fur. As Bently went to dispatch a footman with her orders, Fanny looked about the entry way. It was hung with heavy garlands of holly and ivy. Red velvet ribbons held candles in place. Kissing boughs hung in every doorway. How welcoming it looked. How cruelly it twisted her heart. Apparently, everything went on, just as it had before.

When the butler returned from his errand, he led her to the green sitting room where a fire was burning brightly on the hearth. This room, too, was lavishly hung with seasonal greenery. Clearly, the holidays were as much celebrated now as in her own time.

“The family has finished dinner and are gathered in the gold salon. Shall I tell Sir Giles you are arrived, my lady?”

“I think it would be wisest if I waited until morning,” she told him. An infinitesimal twitch betrayed Bently’s consternation at this suggestion. “Do not forget I am still mistress here. I shall take complete responsibility. Now, I should like to be shown to my rooms.”

“I am afraid they will be quite damp, my lady. They have not been in use in . . .”

“I know how long it has been,” she said quietly. “Just the same, I should like those rooms.”

“I shall see they are prepared, my lady,” he said with a slight bow, “and I shall send Sally to attend you. Your trunks will be brought up when they arrive.”

“Very good, Bently,” she said. “As soon as I have warmed myself a little here, I shall find my own way up the stairs.”

Chapter Four

Lady Fanny leaned back against the chamber door and surveyed the room before her. One maid was already busily removing the Holland cloths from the furnishings while others quickly aired the bed and made it up. As she wrinkled her nose against the faint smell of dust and damp, she wondered if perhaps she should not have requested one of the guest chambers more currently in use. That she felt an overwhelming urge to sleep once again in her marriage bed seemed unaccountable. A silly humor to be sure, but, after all, how could a little damp harm her after her ride through the snowy twilight?

One of the maids, dark-haired with shining brown eyes and rosy cheeks, now came up to her and bobbed a curtsey. “You must be fair chilled to the bone, my lady! You must not wait until your trunks arrive to wrap up and go to bed. Half a moment, and I shall just go and see if I cannot find some suitable nightclothes for you in the young misses’ chamber.”

“Let me go with you,” Fanny cried suddenly. Then she quickly blushed. She was, after all, the mistress here, however nominally. She needn’t ask permission to do whatever she chose.

Nevertheless, the little maid smiled warmly at her. “Of course, my lady.”

Fanny hesitated a moment. “You are called . . . ?”

“Sally, my lady”

“Of course,” she nodded, remembering that Bently had mentioned that name. “Thank you, Sally.”

As Fanny followed the servant down the long, familiar corridor, her heart grew full with the emotions she had thus far kept in check. Behind her, Flops followed along, making disgruntled little snuffling sounds as his nails tapped along the parquet floor.

“Here we are, my lady,” Sally said, pausing before a doorway. She gave a tentative rap and listened for a moment, then opened it slowly and peeped in. A fire had been laid, but the room was empty. She held the door open for Fanny.

Fanny stepped inside and scanned the room. What clues might she find here, she wondered, to interpret her daughters’ lives and temperaments? It had been so long since she had seen them, so long since she had winced at their apparent indifference to her when they had come home at holidays during those last, failing years of her marriage. They had been insulating themselves, she knew, against the distress that seemed ingrained in the very woodwork in those days. And, as she and Giles had drifted further and further apart, she recognized that she, too, had withdrawn from the girls.

While Sally set about finding nightclothes for her. Fanny explored the room. There was only one large bed, but two of everything else: writing desks, dressing tables, chairs before the fire. She drew near to the bed and stroked the pillow nearest her. The delicate scent of lavender wafted up—along with the distinct crackle of paper. So, one of them had hidden something under her pillow, had she?

Fanny glanced over her shoulder. Sally was busily engaged in searching through a chest of drawers. Fanny slipped her hand under the counterpane and pillow, pulling from beneath it a twist of paper.

Fanny quickly smoothed the page and scanned it. It bore the same round hand as the letter she had received. So, she had been right—this whole adventure was the handiwork of one or both of her daughters. Headed with the mysterious phrase
Scheme to Thwart Miss Walleye,
the page contained what appeared to be a list of some sort. Several of the items had been neatly ticked off.

First among these was
Letter to Mama.
This was followed by the words
gift
and
atmosphere.
Still to be addressed, apparently, were the more mysterious notations,
masque
and
Belinda.
She knit her brows as she twisted the paper once again and returned it to its hiding place.

Who was this Miss Walleye, she wondered, and what did this list—most especially the letter they had written to her—have to do with anything? A sudden, unwelcome notion rose up. Perhaps, just perhaps, this Miss Walleye was the object of Giles’ affections! Stranger things had happened, after all. True, the name was unfortunate, for it conjured up all sorts of appalling speculations, but she had known several beautiful women with worse names than Walleye—Chastity Clappington, for one.

Rationally, she knew that Giles would neither seek a divorce nor expose his affairs in such a public way. Still, if she were correct in her suspicions, then the girls must be championing their mother’s cause. Darlings! What resourceful, audacious darlings! What sort of mother would she be, if she did not do everything she could to further their schemes?

“I have found everything you need, my lady,” Sally said as she came up beside her, carrying an armful of clothing.

Fanny turned away from the bed, her heart full of conflicting emotions: jealousy, love, gratitude, and, above all, amusement. It was now entirely clear she must stay on for at least a little while—if only to satisfy her own curiosity, she told herself.

“Now,” the maid continued as she led Fanny from the room, “we shall have you set to rights and tucked in nicely in just a moment. Would you like me to bring up some tea for you when you are settled?”

Fanny wondered whether the servant would be shocked if she asked for a decanter of brandy instead. She rarely touched spirits, but tonight they seemed more tempting than usual. As they reached her chamber, she merely smiled, however, and said, “Thank you, Sally, but I think I shall just retire for the evening.”