The Paper Princess (4 page)

Lord Arthur made his way to the coffee room, and there, sitting by the fireplace under the Abraham Hondius painting,
Stag Hunt,
he recognized the wilting figure of his friend, Charles Godolphin.

“You look,” said Lord Arthur pleasantly, “about the sickest thing in London, Dolph. There is an inn in Devon called The Green Dolphin that would suit your complexion perfectly.”

“Been drinking Blue Ruin,” groaned Mr. Godolphin. “Don't tower over me, there's a good chap. Sit down, do. Craning up at you makes my head ache.”

Lord Arthur sat down and surveyed his friend. Dolph was a tubby man, so small that his plump legs, encased in black Inexpressibles, did not reach the floor. His starched cravat supported two chins, and his short-sighted green eyes were crisscrossed that day with little red veins. He had teased his thick head of fair hair into the Wind-swept that morning, only to see it spring back into its normal style which resembled the thatched roof of a Tudor cottage. In despair, he had told his man to set it by using a mixture of sugar and water. That had seemed to do the trick, although it had given his hair a rigid, stand-up appearance that made him look as if he had been struck by lightning. The sugar and water mixture had dried on the road to the club, and little crystals of sugar now decorated the shoulders of his coat like some exotic type of dandruff. A pair of new corsets was playing merry hell with his swollen liver. In all, Dolph felt terrible.

“Did you mention The Green Dolphin?” he asked, as Lord Arthur sat down in a chair opposite him.

Lord Arthur nodded. “I was thinking of an inn of that name down in Cornwall, near Tregarthan Castle.”

“I know it,” said Dolph. “Deuced good food. I had to escape there from the claws of a grasping relative.”

“Which one?”

“My Uncle Frank. He's Lord St. Dawdy. You know I'm always short of the ready, and I've been dipping deep. It occurred to me that the old boy might look at me in a kindly way in his declining years.

He jaunters to the Continent a lot—had just got back when I arrived on his doorstep. We had an abominable supper, everything put in a pie, Cornish-style, but with great heaps of pastry to make up for the absence of meat.

“Still, I thought my digestion might be able to stand it—just. I asked tenderly after his health and said he must be curst lonely. Lives in a drafty, miserable place which looks as if it had been built by gnomes on an off-day— you know, low, low roofs, beams that bang even such a small chap as myself on the head, and sloping floors. He grinned and winked at me—he's a gross, vulgar, brutish man—and said he would not be alone for very much longer. ‘Why not?’ I asked, hoping he meant that he would soon be among heavenly company. He said he was getting married to a fine, lusty girl who would bear him sons. Well, after a rocket like that, there didn't seem much point in staying. I murmured something about urgent business and fled to the nearest hostelry—The Green Dolphin.”

Lord Arthur took out a lace-edged cambric handkerchief and flicked a piece of dust from one glossy hessian boot. “When you were at The Green Dolphin,” he said, “did you by any chance notice a weird couple of fellows in the tap—a big, heavyset man and a slim, pretty youth?”

“No one like that.”

“And what is the name of the lady your uncle is going to inflict himself on?”

“Felicity Channing.”

“Ah, that name again,” murmured Lord Arthur. “Is this Felicity indeed a girl—or only a girl to someone of your uncle's age?”

“You may be sure I asked, hoping the marriage would not come to anything, you know. But it seems that even if Miss Channing does not want the baron, she will be forced to marry him nonetheless.”

“I have heard of a Bartholomew Channing of Tregarthan Castle, although that was when I was in short coats. My father said he was an admirable gentleman.”

“Ah, but he died, and the widow married a Mr. Palfrey, a man-milliner sort of fellow, much despised by the locals. He arranged marriages for the elder three of the widow's daughters—not bad marriages as it turned out, but he has settled on my uncle for the youngest, and what he says goes.”

“How very gothic. Do you attend the wedding?”

“Have to. He may yet leave me something.”

Lord Arthur sighed and stretched. “Take me along with you, Dolph,” he said finally. “I have a whim to see that part of England again.”

Mr. Palfrey sat back in the carriage that was bearing him back to Tregarthan Castle and beamed with satisfaction. He had forced the baron to agree to only a very small dowry, explaining that Felicity's youth and beauty were dowry enough. He had had miniatures of all the girls painted as they reached the age of seventeen, but instead of showing the baron Felicity's miniature—for Mr. Palfrey privately thought Felicity a very poor sort of female in the looks department—he had shown him instead a miniature of Maria; Maria who had all the formal beauty of the Channings.

That had settled the matter, and the baron had almost drooled over that miniature and had agreed to the tiny dowry. Then Mr. Palfrey frowned. He did hope his wife was not going to make trouble over this marriage. But she had never made any trouble before. Still, she obviously doted on the odd little Felicity.

Better to have a stern word with her.

But Mrs. Palfrey was beyond listening to any stern words. When he arrived in her bedchamber, it was to find her lying serene and tranquil in the endless sleep of death.

Before summoning the servants, Mr. Palfrey sat down at her desk to that he could prepare himself to act the part of grief-stricken husband. It was all his now, he thought in a sort of wonder. Tregarthan Castle, the Channing fortune, and the Channing estates. All his. It was tiresome that Felicity's marriage would have to be delayed while a decent period of mourning was observed.

He half rose from the desk. And then he saw his wife's Last Will and Testament. He lit more candles and sat down to read it with a fast-beating heart.

The spasm of fury that consumed him was so intense that he thought his heart would burst through his chest. He looked at Bessie Redhill's signature and then at John Tremayne's mark. The head groom was illiterate, and perhaps the maid had not read what she was signing. And what was this about the Channing jewels? What jewels?

The earlier will, leaving everything to him, reposed downstairs in his desk in the library.

He must burn this one, and then see if he could quiet those servants. He picked up the will and carried it over to the fire. But the fire had burned very low. He threw on some coal and eagerly waited for it to burst into a blaze.

The door opened and Benson, the lady's maid, walked in.

Mr. Palfrey thrust the will into the pocket in his coattails.

Benson was staring in anguish at the still figure on the bed.

“My beloved wife is dead,” said Mr. Palfrey. He thought again of that will, and tears of rage spurted out of his eyes. Benson said afterward she had never until that moment realized how very much Mr. Palfrey had loved his wife.

Felicity's courage appeared to vanish with the death of her mother. She was crushed down under a load of grief.

Her stepfather cried a great deal as well, but Felicity had noticed the strong smell of onion coming from his handkerchiefs and knew he was acting, but she did not even have the strength to become angry.

There was some comfort for her in the arrival of her sisters for the funeral. She was able to share her mourning and found a great deal of solace in noticing that not only Penelope and Emily appeared happy with their husbands, but that Maria was content with her bishop. He was a large man with a hectoring manner and a booming voice, but Maria appeared to hang on his every word. There was something to be said for arranged marriages after all, thought Felicity. Marriage to Lord St. Dawdy would at least mean having a home of her own.

Despite her grief, she could not help hoping the baron might ride over to attend the funeral, but Mr.

Palfrey said Lord St. Dawdy detested funerals, and Felicity thought the baron must be a very odd man indeed to stay away from his intended bride's family mourning.

All too soon, Mr. Palfrey managed to fuss the sisters and their husbands out of the castle, which settled back into its usual deadly glacial quiet.

Felicity and Miss Chubb decided to go out riding the day after the Channing sisters had left, although the sky was darkening and there was a metallic smell of snow on the wind.

John Tremayne saw to the saddling of their horses himself. After he had helped Felicity up, he stood with his hand on her stirrup and looked up anxiously into her face.

“I do not wish to distress you, Miss Felicity,” he said, “but has the will been read?”

“Yes,” said Felicity curtly, putting a hand down to pat her little mare's neck, for the animal had sensed her sudden rush of anger and had begun to fidget. “It is as I expected. Everything goes to Mr. Palfrey.”

“But, miss, you remember when you came for me the day Mrs. Palfrey died? You told me to find another loyal servant because Madam wanted two witnesses? I took the maid, Bessie Redhill, with me.

Madam gave us a piece of paper with writing on it to sign. I can't read nor write and though Bessie can, she said she didn't have time to see what was on the paper.”

“So, Mama did write that codicil,” said Felicity slowly.

“What ... what was it, that thing you just said?”

“Look, John. I shall tell you and Miss Chubb, but you must keep it to yourselves and not ever tell anyone, not even Bessie. Tell her only that the piece of paper was nothing important. You see, I believe my stepfather found that codicil which left mama's jewels to me, and burned it. But I know where they are hidden, and I am not going to tell him!”

“I promise, miss. I'll never tell a soul, and if Bessie mentions that piece of paper, I'll deny it, that I will.

It'll be her word against mine, and I think master'll be more inclined to believe an old servant.”

At that moment, a groom came running up and said John was wanted in the castle by Mr. Palfrey.

“He probably wants to ask you where I am,” said Felicity. “Stand clear, John. Come along, Miss Chubb. Off we go!”

John made his way slowly toward the castle.

Bessie, who had also been summoned, arrived outside the library before him. She had hugged the knowledge of that other will to herself. Surely Mr. Palfrey would pay, and pay well, to have it kept a secret.

Mr. Palfrey had an extensive wardrobe. He had changed into the coat he had been wearing on the day of his wife's death. It was the first time he had worn it since then. He was sitting down at his deck in the library when he heard the crackle of parchment from the pocket in his tails. He drew out his wife's last will, cursing that he had not destroyed it before this. When he had found the coat that morning, it had been folded in a chest with some papers in his bedchamber, and he had forgotten why he had thrust it there. It was as well he had not put the coat with his others, or his valet would have found the will when he cleaned out the pockets. Why on earth had he been convinced he had already destroyed the will? He had drunk long and deep on the night of his wife's death. His memory of thrusting that plaguey will between the bars of the library fire must have been a drunken dream. It must be got rid of at once! He bent over the library fire.

Then he heard Bessie's heavy footsteps approaching across the hall and crammed the will back into his pocket.

He eyed Bessie carefully as she walked in. She seemed a pleasant, motherly woman. Probably there would be no difficulty in dealing with her.

“I am afraid I must give you your notice, Bessie,” said Mr. Palfrey. “With the ladies married and my poor wife in her grave, there is no longer any need to maintain such a large staff.”

“You're getting rid o’ me because I know the missus wrote a last will leaving everything to Miss Felicity.”

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Palfrey, turning a muddy color.

The door opened, and John Tremayne walked in.

Bessie looked at John triumphantly. “I was just telling Master that we signed a will that Mrs. Palfrey wrote—the day she died, it was.”

John looked at her stolidly. “I never signed anything,” he said.

“That you didn't,” said Bessie scornfully, “you not being able to write. But you made your mark!”

Had Bessie told him that the will was one leaving everything to Felicity, John would have changed his tune. But he thought it was only that bit about the jewels he had witnessed, and Mr. Palfrey must never know about the jewels.

“I neither made my mark nor know anything about any will,” said John firmly.

Color began to tinge Mr. Palfrey's cheeks. He had been about to fire John as well, never having liked the relic of the Channing dynasty who had come to the castle as a little stable boy when old Mr.

Channing was still alive, but the fellow was obviously beautifully stupid, and just what he, Mr. Palfrey, needed.

“There you are,” said Mr. Palfrey pompously, beginning to stride up and down. “You may pack your things and leave this day, Bessie.”

Bessie looked from one to the other, appalled. Without John to back her, she had no proof there ever was a will.

John started. “I did not know you were getting rid of Bessie, Master,” he said. “She is a good maid, and

‘tis hard to find work hereabouts.”

“That is not my concern,” said Mr. Palfrey, fortifying himself with a pinch of snuff.

John hesitated, almost tempted to tell the truth, because the dismissal of Bessie had shocked him. But two things, apart from loyalty to Felicity, made him stay quiet.

The first was that he had overheard Bessie joking with one of the other maids only a week before. The maid had been teasing Bessie, saying John Tremayne was sweet on her, and Bessie had tossed her head and replied that she could do better for herself and had done nothing to encourage the attentions of an old and smelly groom like John Tremayne. John, a wiry man in his forties with a pleasant, weatherbeaten Celtic face, had been badly hurt by the insult.

Added to that, he now surprised a look of cunning and greed in Bessie's eyes that changed her appearance entirely, making her look almost sinister.