Wiles of a Stranger (4 page)

There was no Mrs. Beaudel on hand to greet us. I assumed that her migraine kept her in bed, or provided an excuse to keep her away from her husband in any case. Odd how I had already taken her in dislike, without ever meeting her.

Lucien was accorded the honor of showing me to the nursery and to our rooms. He was a thoroughly competent guide. A fully grown servant could not have been more so, and would in all likelihood not have been half as informative.

“This oak stairway we are mounting, Miss Stacey, was built in the sixteenth century from timber taken off the forests of Glanbury Park. The flowers above us are said to have been carved by Grinling Gibbons. There is some more of his work below. Are you interested in architecture?”

“Very much. I see you are too.”

“Not really, but our house is one of the places shown in the guide books, and Lady Schaeffer takes people through it every year, to make money for her charity. I followed her on her tour, and heard her tell people about the staircase. I followed her fourteen times.”

“How very patient you are!”

“Not really. She is remarkably pretty, and when I walked behind her, I had an excellent view of her ankles.”

“Perhaps you would just step up ahead of me, Lucien,” I said, biting back a smile at this youthful lecher.

“I have already seen them, Miss Stacey. Very trim, I might add,” he said solemnly. “Our quarters are here to the left,” he ran on, as we topped the stairway. “Uncle and Aunt’s rooms are over there, to the right. Here is your room. I hope you like blue. Miss Little didn’t like it. She found the color cold. Do you like it?”

“Very nice,” I said, glancing around at a comfortable, though by no means luxurious, chamber, hung in blue cotton, with a patterned rug and uncurtained bed.

“Your trunk will be sent up here. We shall have to send to the inn for your trunk.”

“It—it will be arriving at the inn a little later,” I said hastily, although of course it would not arrive until I wrote to Mrs. Farell to pack and forward it. “Where is our schoolroom?”

“It is this way.”

We went along to the schoolroom, which was a graceless chamber paneled in dark wood, its only beauty a view from the large windows of the park and winding drive below. Through the branches of swaying beeches, the gate and road beyond were visible. There was a large desk, the one lately used by Miss Little. Various books and schoolwork were spread out on it. There was an open reader, face down at a story about a fox, and there was a sheet on which numbers were written for addition. Lucien was a bright child, I concluded, if he was already adding double digits at six years of age, and reading the book of stories here. I had no notion of puffing him off to his own face.

“This is what you were doing when Miss Little left, is it?” I asked.

He confirmed this with an unenthusiastic nod, but had soon hopped off to hang out the window, trying vainly to reach a bird’s nest perched on a ledge below, to the consternation of the mother bird and his new governess. I took a closer look at the books, to notice that Miss Little had been correcting the arithmetic. I could not believe she had had any thought of leaving so suddenly, when she was in the middle of all this work. Surely a governess would wind things up more neatly. She would not leave half an exercise unmarked. She would have finished it, or not bothered to begin.

“Do you want to see my room?” Lucien asked, becoming bored with pestering the birds.

“Yes, please.”

“It’s next to yours.”

We went along to it. Lucien was still sleeping in a child’s room. There was no hint of the elegance I was sure must be harbored on the other side of the house. There were well-battered chests and night tables, an open-faced row of shelves holding toy soldiers, horses, books, the paraphernalia of boyish childhood. While we were still there, a servant brought up my one valise from the inn.

“I’ll leave you alone to unpack, Miss Stacey,” Lucien said, having not only the mind but the manners of an adult. “Shall we meet in half an hour? I’ll show you the rest of the house and grounds if you like. In that way I shan’t have to have any lessons till tomorrow.”

“Quite a little dealer, Lucien.”

“Yes, I was forever striking bargains with Miss Little.”

“What sort of bargains?” I asked, immediately alert.

“Not to tell things on her, if she wouldn’t tell on me.”

“Lucien, if you know anything about her disappearance—”

“No, I don’t know anything about that,” he assured me solemnly. I didn’t believe a word he said. With a stealthy look at me, he began backing quickly away, before I should interrogate him. I let him go, thinking success more likely if I could catch him off guard.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll be waiting for you beneath the beech tree,” he said, pointing to the spot through the window. “That was our meeting place, mine and Miss Little’s. Shall it be ours too, Miss Stacey?”

“Very well.”

My mind was seething with questions as I hastily unpacked my few things and put them away. I meant to go over every inch of Miss Little’s room, in case she had left a clue behind as to where she had gone. The clothespress and dresser were empty of her possessions. Clothing and such personal items as toilet articles were all gone, indicating a fairly thorough packing session.

Disheartened, I looked around the room for other possible places. I walked aimlessly to the bookcase, thinking the books belonged to the house. I was considerably surprised to see Miss Little’s name inscribed in them. There were three rows of books, indicating a fair investment. Surely a governess would not leave behind the tools of her trade. My heart was beating a little faster as I pulled books out at random to see whether they all bore her signature. Her packing had not been as thorough and well planned as I originally thought.

Looking out the window, I saw Lucien patiently sitting on a white wooden bench by the beech tree, waiting for me. He was not alone. There was a very beautiful young lady with him. Without another thought to Miss Little and her books, I dashed out the door to find my way below to the park, and the beech tree, and Mrs. Beaudel.

Chapter Four

What is it that causes that emotional friction between some people, I wonder? Even before Mrs. Beaudel opened her lovely lips, I knew I would not like her, yet it was difficult to find a real fault in her appearance. She was still youngish, not so young as she appeared from a distance, but young enough to be Beaudel’s daughter. She was somewhere in the general vicinity of thirty. Her hair was of pale gold, its shade more reminiscent of moonlight than sunlight. It was dressed too elaborately for a country matron, unless she was to attend a ball. Her gown too was more elegant than the occasion called for, without being quite vulgar. It was pale blue in color, of fine muslin, the ostentation consisting in a ruched skirt, showing eyelet embroidery beneath, with bows attached. It hugged the bosoms closely, and drew in tight at the waist in a manner no longer considered the highest kick of fashion in the metropolis. I did not think it was an unawareness of the current trend that accounted for it. Mrs. Beaudel did not dress for the fashion, or for women. She was outfitted in a style that would appeal to gentlemen.

Her face was heart-shaped, the nose straight, the lips full and sensuous. But it was the eyes that ruled the countenance. They were not a nice color, rather a muddy green-brown, but they were large, almond-shaped eyes, heavily lidded and heavily fringed. They gave an illusion of her being sleepy. When one looked more closely, it was apparent she was very wide awake.

“So this is your new governess,” she said, directing her speech to Lucien, then she turned those orbs on me. They were full of suspicion. I could find no other word for it. She looked as though she would like to turn me off without another word.

“How fortunate we are, to have found Miss Stacey so quickly. Quite a coincidence, your being in Chelmsford and looking for a position, is it not, Miss Stacey?” The words were all sweetness and light, the tone sheer vinegar.

“Very fortunate for me as well, ma’am,” I answered, with a modest curtsey. “I assume you are Mrs. Beaudel?”

She inclined her head half an inch. “What brought you to town, Miss Stacey?” she enquired.

I gave her my story, then explained it again in more detail as she went over it, questioning me at every word, committing to memory Mrs. Farell’s address, asking even a third time what the inn’s serving girl had said to me. Of course I omitted that portion of the servant’s tale having to do with her. I also kept my temper in check, playing the grateful employee, to conciliate her. After about fifteen minutes of this cross-examination, she appeared to accept me, and condescended to explain her rudeness.

“You know of the troubles we have had recently,” she said. “Miss Little running off on us, that wretched fellow from London robbing us. One cannot be too careful.”

“I have heard of your troubles, ma’am,” I answered briefly, stifling my annoyance, my desire to defend my father.

“I must say you look harmless enough,” was her final insult, which was accompanied by a slightingly brief run of her eyes over my anatomy.

I have been called pretty upon occasion. Also good-natured, bad-natured, shy and bossy. I was never before called harmless. Compared to Mrs. Beaudel’s voluptuous charms, however, I daresay the word was not inappropriate, as she interpreted it. I noticed that she was looking over my shoulder, and could not fail to observe the little smile she put on, as it created a perfectly charming dimple at the corner of her lips. I expected to see Mr. Beaudel joining us, but it was only the butler.

“Only” is the wrong word, as I reconsider it. Hers was a butler like no other ever encountered. He belonged in some fashionable lady’s pocket, where I soon deduced he spent much of his time, the lady in question being Mrs. Beaudel.

I was harmless enough, and Lucien young enough, that they proceeded to enact an unblushing flirtation under our very noses. Beaudel, if he had any backbone, would have shown this man the door long ago. A butler is usually old, having worked his way up from the pantry. This fellow, Wiggins she called him, was no older than herself. He was tall, well formed, dark-haired and eyed, but with an insinuating manner any real lady would recoil from.

“Would Madame care for some refreshment?” he asked, with a bold smile, as he ogled her from her blond curls to her tiny waist, and back up again, with a longish pause at her bosoms.

“What had you in mind, my dear Wiggins?” she asked, with a batting of her heavy lids and long lashes.

“Madame’s wish is my command,” he replied, bowing.

She drew in a deep breath and held it, straining the seams of her gown to their limit. “Now, let me think,” she said, placing one dainty finger just by her dimple, while Wiggins, the bold rogue, continued to ogle her.

“Some lemonade would be nice,” Lucien suggested.

“Could I tempt Madame—with some lemonade, that is?” Wiggins inquired.

“Tch, you are shocking Miss Stacey, Wiggins,” she chided. Their eyes met in some secret but meaningful look. “She is Lucien’s new governess. Charles hired her this morning.”

“Fast work,” he answered.

This, of course, was not the sort of conversation one expected to hear between a butler and his mistress. “You will appreciate that,” she said, then turned to me. “You must beware of our butler, Miss Stacey. He is a fast worker himself.”

“He is not very fast with our lemonade,” Lucien pointed out.

Before more was said, a messenger galloped up to the house and dismounted. “Who on earth can that be? Wiggins— you’d best go to the door,” Mrs. Beaudel said, arising. “Take Lucien to the kitchen, Miss Stacey. Cook will make him some lemonade.”

She darted off to the house, a few steps behind Wiggins. She was certainly curious to learn what message was coming to them.

“So that is your Aunt Stella,” I said, taking Lucien’s hand.

“Yes, she is very pretty, isn’t she? I like her a lot, but she likes Wiggins better than me.” Wiggins, not Uncle Charles. Out of the mouths of babes!

We went to the kitchen for lemonade. I was also introduced to Cook and the other servants, who regarded me with suspicion, which turned to acceptance as I behaved myself with propriety and friendliness.

I was as curious as Mrs. Beaudel to discover what news the messenger had brought to the door. I did not learn it until that evening. The interval was passed interestingly enough with the promised tour by Lucien. It was a fine old house, but the details are not important, except inasmuch as I learned where the jewelry collection was kept—in a safe in Mr. Beaudel’s study. Oh, and I also saw the master bedroom, which was kept very properly waiting for its master, Sir Algernon Beaudel, who used it on his visits from Cambridge, and whom I learned would soon be its regular occupant, as he was finishing his course that year.

Charles Beaudel was not the encroaching sort who considered himself anything but a guardian for the two boys. He was not, from what I could see, trying to take over their domain. I was not shown into Charles’s room, but had a door pointed out to me as belonging to Aunt Stella with Beaudel’s room next it.

One cannot spend long under a roof without ferreting out the family’s little secrets. I discovered that evening that Mrs. Beaudel was bored to flinders with her aging spouse. I ate with Lucien abovestairs, but about an hour after dinner, Mrs. Beaudel came in person to suggest we join her and Charles in the saloon, “to become a little acquainted,” as she phrased it.       “For it is so tedious here in the country, with few callers.”

Both Lucien and I were eager to join them. When we entered the room, I observed that Mr. Beaudel was perusing the latest newspapers. A pipe had been allowed to go out, but its smoke still perfumed the air, reminding me of Papa, who likes his pipe after dinner. Would he be allowed to have it in jail? I wondered.

It was no cheerful, domestic scene, despite the pipe. What we were looking at was a tired old man taking his ease at the end of a day, while his young wife, dressed to the nines, fidgeted and wanted to go out, or at least to have someone in. No book, no magazine, no embroidery, no knitting or fringing was in evidence. A half-drunk glass of wine was on a table beside her, forgotten.