A Kiss in the Dark (2 page)

“I believe Sir George Harcourt has put his place up for rent this summer,” Dauntry said at once. “It is not far from here, between Eastbourne and Pevensey.”

“Such a pity. I feel a fool,” the dowager exclaimed. “It never occurred to me that you meant Algie’s little falling-apart place. I made sure it was the dower house you wanted. Why do you not have a look at the dower house while you are here, Lady deCourcy? It is really quite charming. I have had it all turned out especially for you. And really, you know, it is not very likely you will find another cottage to let at this season.”

This gave Cressida the opportunity to retreat from her failed bluff without losing face entirely. “Well, perhaps I shall have a look at it before leaving,” she said.

She observed the silent working of Dauntry’s lips as he tried to swallow a smile. Hateful man! What was he up to that he was so eager to be rid of her? There was obviously something afoot here that he wished to keep a secret.

‘Will you not have some tea before leaving, Lady deCourcy?” he inquired.

“Of course she will,” his mama said.

“I am really not at all hungry,” Cressida replied with an icy glint in Dauntry’s direction. “If you will just show me to the dower house, I shall leave now.”

“I’ll give you directions,” Dauntry said. “You will find the door unlocked and the key on the table in the hall. Mama has sent a few servants down, as arranged in your letter.”

This went from bad to worse. Dauntry was not even going to accompany her to the dower house.

“I would go with you, but alas, I have a meeting with the parish board in half an hour,” he explained, drawing out his watch and glancing at it impatiently.

“I would not dream of inconveniencing you, milord.”

They rose, Cressida made her adieu to the dowager, and Dauntry accompanied her to the front door. “I do hope you will still be here when I return, Lady deCourcy.”

She turned a sapient eye on him. “Do you indeed, milord? You should be a little careful what you wish for. You may find you get it.”

“I certainly hope so, ma’am.”

He bowed and handed her over to his model butler. “Tell Lady deCourcy how to get to the dower house, Eaton,” he said, and left.

Lady deCourcy was so vexed, she had to ask the butler for directions a second time, for she had not heard a word of his first explanation. Fortunately the route was simple. Just turn left off the main drive and continue down the stone road to the second turning. The first obviously led to the cottage. She took the first turning.

She soon found herself cut off from the graceful park of the castle, where Repton had designed a winding stream to flow through artful rises and valleys, complete with “side screens” and “distances.” Nature had been left to run riot here, creating a tangled web of wild bushes and nettles with ivy creeping around their feet. She knew the cottage was built into the cliff midway down a rocky incline. Over treetops she could see its shingled roof, which appeared to be in perfect repair. She continued following the road until she reached the cottage, built on a plateau of rock, with a staircase carved into the stone leading to the beach. As there was no sign of life about the place, she alit from her high-perch phaeton to investigate.

Upon close examination she discovered a dozen new delights to entrance her. The whole cottage was made of cedar shingles, weathered to silver by the elements. A frieze of carved woodwork below the roofline displayed tulips and hearts. The same theme was picked up in the painted window shutters. The windows, leaded in the shape of diamonds, twinkled in the sunlight. They were not particularly small windows, either.

A refreshing breeze blew off the sea. Another railed balcony coming off the main floor had not been visible from the duke’s yacht. On it sat a delicate wrought iron table and chairs in a leafy design, speaking of intimate tea parties. An English garden grew in profusion, with sweet peas and roses clambering over the facade from a bed of ivy, campanulas, gentians, and wild strawberries. Ruby fruit glowed like jewels amid the greenery.

She mounted the steps to the veranda and peered in the window into the main drawing room. Across the room a stone fireplace with a hanging pot looked just like the sketches in her fairy tales. Brass-fronted firedogs gleamed in the sunlight. There was a cozy-looking stuffed sofa with a table fronting it. On the table sat a wine bottle and two glasses. The cottage was in occasional use, then. Odd the servants had not cleaned up the mess. Where were they? As she pondered this mystery, a shadow fell across the sofa. A man was there! She scampered down from the porch into her high-perch phaeton and proceeded to the dower house.

This edifice was all that Lady Dauntry had claimed, and more. It was nothing less than a mansion done in the same honey-colored brick as the castle, with its own stable and kitchen garden. Lady deCourcy was welcomed at the doorway by a stout, bustling housekeeper who introduced herself as Mrs. Armstrong, “But everyone calls me Tory, for Victoria is my name and I have been called Tory forever.” The first impression was of red, white, and blue, like the flag. Her hair, pulled into such a tight knob that it gave her eyes an Oriental cast, was white. Her face was
as red and round as a radish, and her eyes and gown were blue, the latter mostly covered by a starched white apron.

“I’ll just put on the kettle while you have a look around,” she said, and bustled off to the kitchen.

Cressida looked about the house, where the servants had been  busy with turpentine and beeswax. The woodwork glowed. There was not a mote of dust to be seen anywhere. A quick tour showed her a lofty Blue Saloon with a view of the sea beyond the front windows, a dining room that would seat a dozen, a small library, and large study. She climbed the broad, stately staircase to discover eight handsome bedchambers. Every new elegance made her more determined to remove to the cozy little cottage.

She was tired of elegance; she wanted to rusticate like Marie Antoinette at the Petit Trianon, perhaps buy a cow and play at being a milkmaid. It seemed hard that such a simple request should be denied her when Lady Dauntry had
promised
her the cottage. She returned below when she heard a commotion in the hallway. Miss Wantage and Beau had arrived, the former pale and frowning, propped up by the latter.

Miss Wantage was that unfortunate creature, the poor relation. To add to her woes, she was an aging spinster. She made her home in Bath with Mrs. Barnstable, another cousin, but no one could endure her for twelve months of the year. For six months she was palmed off on anyone who would have her, in three-month leases. Cressida’s turn had come. It was either have her for the summer, or be lumbered with her in autumn for the little Season. Knowing that Miss Wantage was an ardent foe of any sort of entertainment, Cressida had opted for the summer.

It was a mystery how Miss Wantage, whose second claim to fame after her religiosity was that she never ate, had grown to such ample proportions. Her face was as wide as a platter. Her blue eyes bore the glow of the religious fanatic, and her lips the accompanying pinched look of disapproval. Her pale brown hair was pulled back in a tight bun and covered with a plain muslin cap. Adornment was abhorrent to the Lord, and certainly to Miss Wantage. Her blue cambric round gown had no ornament save a simple silver cross worn on a black shoelace.

“I am rattled to a heap,” she said weakly. “I should have gone with you in the phaeton after all, Cressie. At least I would have had fresh air, even if I had been blown to pieces by the wicked sea gales. Just show me to a litter or a truckle bed, and I shall lie down out of your way.”

Cressida accompanied her abovestairs. “I have put you in the Green Room,” Cressida said. “It is the best room and has a lovely view of the sea. I shall have Mrs. Armstrong bring you something to eat.”

“I could not eat a bite! You can send her up to me. Perhaps a bit of black tea and some toast, to settle my stomach. My, it is chilly in here!” she exclaimed, shivering. “Odd you did not have a fire laid, but there. You are young and healthy and would not have thought of it. Pay no heed to me.”

“I shall ask Mrs. Armstrong to light the fire while she is here.”

Miss Wantage felt the bed, found the feather tick lumpy, and when she had changed into her nightie (after first asking Cressida to just step outside for a moment) detected a wicked draft from the windows. “Perhaps if you would just close those dusty old window hangings, it will cut down on the wind,” she suggested, and climbed into bed, drawing the counterpane up to her chin.

Cressida finally escaped to return below to welcome Beau, after first sending Mrs. Armstrong up to Miss Wantage. Beau Montgomery was actually her first cousin, but he had spent summers at Tanglewood after his parents died and was like a young brother to her. Just down from Oxford, he was enjoying a summer of leisure before taking over his estate in Kent, close to Tanglewood.

Despite his long, lean build and interest in matters of toilette, he had no air of the aesthete. His ruddy complexion and bright eyes spoke of a love of the outdoors. The bane of his existence was a crown of golden curls. He wished for black hair, straight for choice, to lend him an air of diablerie. Looked like a dashed girl, with that curl forever tumbling over his forehead.

“This is the last time I undertake a trip with that whiner,” he said with great feeling. “We had to stop every mile while she settled her stomach. If it was not hartshorn, it was taking her medicine, which had a decided aroma of rum, I might add. If you want my opinion, it was the macaroons she never stopped eating that was turning her stomach.”

“She is a sad trial to be sure, but never mind.”

“I say, Sid, this is something like!” he exclaimed, looking out at the marbled hallway and around the Blue Saloon. “I was afraid the cottage you kept prating of would be a dumpy, moldy little place.”

“This is not where we are staying, Beau,” she said.

“Let us have tea and you can tell me all about it,” he said as Mrs. Armstrong came through little door bearing a loaded silver tray. The tantalizing aroma of fresh gingerbread rose from the tray.

“I have sent Jennet up to deal with your cousin,” Tory informed Cressida.

Cressida discovered that the drive had given her an appetite, and enjoyed a good tea, starting with hot buns, clotted cream, and strawberries, and working her way through to the gingerbread.

“How did you find this place?” Cressida asked Beau.

“I went to the castle. Lord Dauntry directed me here.”

Cressida put down her teacup with a clatter. “Lord Dauntry? What was
he
doing there?”

“Your wits are gone begging, my girl. He owns the place.”

“But he said he had to leave at once for a meeting of the parish council. He could not even wait to accompany me here.”

“He must have got back sooner than he expected.”

“There has not been time. He never left. He was lying to me. There is something strange going on here, Beau. He said the little cottage I want is falling apart. I stopped there. It is in perfect repair, and with such a sweet little iron table and chairs on the balcony.”

“You are better off here, if you want my opinion. A dashed bargain. The place is a toy castle.”

“I don’t want a castle!” she said petulantly. “I want the cottage—and I mean to get it.”

“Well, if that ain’t just like you, Sid, wanting what you can’t have. You are becoming spoiled in your old age. All the attention you have been getting in London is going to your head. That is half your trouble. Why, we shall be merry as grigs here. The
Sea Dog
is on her way. Before the week is out we shall be out on the bounding main. I’ll teach you to sail.”

This was something to look forward to. Cressida knew she would not find any cottage to suit her better so late in the season, and had decided to remain at the dower house—until she removed to the Swiss cottage.

“Have you decided how many of your servants you’ll need?” he asked. “Muffet is fighting it out in the kitchen now with Mrs. Armstrong.”

Muffet was Lady deCourcy’s butler, and in a pinch, general factotum. It had been decided that he was the only servant who would accompany Cressida to the cottage. Miss Wantage insisted she would act as lady’s maid, for she liked to make herself useful. Lady Dauntry had offered the service of a few servants who were familiar with the ways of the cottage, its stove, washing dolly, et cetera.

“Mrs. Armstrong seems capable. I believe I shall leave my housekeeper at Tanglewood to keep an eye on things there. She will need the maids, as there will be a deal of dust and muss with the repairs going forth.” And when she removed to the smaller cottage, she would need fewer servants.

“Let us go and settle in, then. I want a ride to look over the place before dinner.”

“Ride past the cottage and see if there is anyone about,” Cressida said. “I saw a man there earlier. Lord Dauntry said it is not occupied. I should like to know what a bottle of wine and two glasses were doing on the table.”

Beau left and Lady deCourcy went abovestairs to speak to Miss Wantage. She found her propped up in the bed with a fully loaded tea tray before her. Miss Wantage hastily drew the sandwich she had been devouring under the coverlet and sighed.

“I feel I owe it to you to try to eat a bite to build up my strength,” she said. “I wonder if you would just bring that water basin by my bedside, in case I cast up my accounts. I fear I am a notoriously poor traveler. The faintest jarring of the coach upsets my stomach. But I will be better in a day or two, Cressie. Just leave me in peace and quiet. Who is to get out your night things, I’m sure I don’t know, for the girl who brought up this tray is as close to an idiot as makes no difference. And you accustomed to so much waiting on. You will have to send to Tanglewood for staff.”

“I can manage, Miss Wantage. Just rest. Is there anything else you would like while I am here?”

“Nothing for the moment, dear. Just toast and tea at bedtime. I shall call this little snack tea and dinner.”