Читать книгу The Devil And Drusilla - Paula Marshall - Страница 11

The day’s events had so excited Drusilla that she found it difficult to sleep that night—especially since the night was warm, even for summer.

For some reason she could not get out of her head the sight and sound of m’lord Devenish. One moment she was remembering his mocking voice, and the next she had a vivid picture of him holding little Jackie in the crook of his arm, displaying a strange tenderness of which she had not thought him capable.

Worse, he stirred her senses after a fashion which no one had ever done before—not even Jeremy. She was reluctantly beginning to understand that what she had felt for Jeremy was nearer to friendship than to passionate love.

And why was she thinking of Lord Devenish and passionate love in the same sentence? Could she passionately love such an apparently cold-blooded man? Especially since it was not his beautiful face which attracted her, but his beautiful voice saying shocking, unexpected things.

The kind of things which quiet, respectable Mrs Drusilla Faulkner had often thought but had never dared to say!

This insight into her deepest mind set her wriggling in the bed, her cheeks hot and her body strangely alive. She decided against calling for her personal maid, Mary, who had slept in a room near to hers ever since Jeremy’s sudden death. Mary deserved her night’s rest—and of what use could she really be? There was a pitcher of water and a glass by her bed, and she could surely pour a drink for herself without disturbing another’s sleep.

A sound outside around eleven of the clock—a bird or a wild animal calling, perhaps—had her sitting up and deciding to open one of the windows to let in a little air.

Without using her tinder box to light a candle since it was the night of the full moon, she rose and threw back the curtains and opened the window just as the noise came again. It was neither a bird nor a wild animal, but stifled human voices, one of them laughing, the other murmuring ‘Hush’.

Drusilla looked down. She saw, briefly in the moonlight, a man and a woman, fully dressed and holding hands, running across the back lawn, down the steps from it, and into the avenue below. She was unable to see their faces or identify them in any way.

Silence followed, broken only once by the cry of an owl. The man and the woman did not reappear. Who could they be? Servants, perhaps, but doing what—and going where? And who else would be in the grounds of Lyford House in the middle of the night. She would speak to Mrs Rollins, the housekeeper, in the morning.

This strange disturbance, added to her mind’s refusal to let go of her memories of Lord Devenish, made sleep impossible for some time, but she heard nothing more.

A long time later she fell asleep for a few short hours before morning arrived all too soon. She ordered breakfast to be brought to her room and drank chocolate and ate buttered rolls in blessed silence.

Why did she think blessed silence? Because her mind was still in turmoil after yesterday’s strange events. Cordelia Faulkner begged to be admitted, but Drusilla fobbed her off with a fib, saying that she had a megrim and would go to church only for the evening service.

One person whom she did admit was Mrs Rollins, the housekeeper. She was a tall, austere woman in early middle age, the terror of the under-servants. The Mrs was an honourary title for she had never married.

She had terrified Drusilla in the early days of her marriage, until she discovered that Mrs Rollins possessed a sense of loyalty to the Faulkners which was almost fanatical. That loyalty was now transferred to her.

Drusilla began without preamble, speaking of what she had seen the night before and asking if it were possible that she had witnessed a pair of servants who had left the house after nightfall without anyone’s knowledge or permission.

Mrs Rollins heard her out before saying, ‘It is quite impossible, ma’am, for any of the servants to leave the house at any time, particularly at night, without the knowledge of Britton or Letty Humphreys.’

Britton was the under-butler, a young man who had a room off the menservants’ dormitory in the attic, which was locked by him at ten o’clock at night. The same arrangement held good for the maids who were similarly supervised by Letty, the chief parlour-maid, a stern elderly woman.

The senior servants had rooms of their own, but they were all of mature years and Drusilla was sure that the pair she had seen were young.

‘Someone from one of the villages, ma’am,’ Mrs Rollins suggested. ‘Larking about the grounds at night.’

‘But we are such a long way from either Tresham Magna or Tresham Minor,’ Drusilla said, frowning. ‘And why should they come here? It might be more sensible of them to lark in the grounds of Tresham Hall.’

‘Harder to break into them,’ suggested Mrs Rollins practically.

Drusilla had to let that be the last word, but for some reason the little incident had disturbed her—and why it should was mysterious. She told herself not to be troubled by such mental cobwebs, brought on, no doubt, by a poor night’s sleep. She went downstairs where she found an anxious Miss Faulkner about to set off for morning service at Tresham Magna, Lyford Village possessing no church of its own.

‘You look pale, my dear,’ she told Drusilla agitatedly, ‘It must be all the excitement yesterday. Lord Devenish may be a great man, but he is scarcely a restful person.’

Drusilla thought that Lord Devenish’s sharp tongue must be catching for she found herself saying, ‘One imagines that great men are rarely restful, Cordelia, but in any case I find his manner refreshing. We practise a deal of hypocrisy, you know.’

Consequently she said nothing of what she had seen the night before to Miss Faulkner for she did not wish to disturb her further.

She might have saved herself the trouble; when Miss Faulkner arrived back in the middle of the morning instead of at the end, her face was pale and she was trembling violently.

‘Whatever can be the matter?’ exclaimed Drusilla. ‘What brings you back so early?’ She poured out a glass of wine and handed it to her companion, ‘Here, drink this, it may help you to compose yourself.’

‘Nothing can do that,’ gasped Miss Faulkner, ‘nothing,’ shivering as she drank the wine down in one unladylike gulp. ‘I shudder to tell you, but I must. Of all dreadful things when Mr Williams arrived at the church this morning he found—oh, I cannot tell you, it is too dreadful.’

‘My dear,’ said Drusilla gently, ‘I fear that you must.’

‘Yes, I must, mustn’t I? Oh, my love, of all things he found a dead sheep on the altar and the bishop must reconsecrate the church—Lord Devenish had been sent for, and I regret what I said of him earlier this morning. He was so kind. We are to use the chapel at Tresham Hall, he says, to save us having to go all the way to the church at Tresham Minor. So very gracious of him!’

Drusilla sat down, plainly shocked. ‘Who could have done anything half so dreadful—and why?’

‘No one knows. It seems that Farmer Ramsey had an argument with Parson Williams over the tithes—which he lost. But one cannot imagine such a jovial fellow as he is doing such a thing in revenge.’

‘No, indeed,’ said Drusilla faintly, thinking of the jolly red-faced man who had often given her sweet milk to drink, fresh from the cow, when she had been a little girl.

And so she told Devenish when he visited them that afternoon to reinforce his invitation to use his chapel.

‘I thought that I ought to come to inform you that we shall make every effort to identify and punish the miscreants,’ he told them.

Giles said eagerly, ‘Vobster, our head groom, believes that it may have been Luddite sympathizers at work. Even down here, he says, there are those who talk and plan sedition.’

Devenish had surprised himself—and Rob Stammers—by finding that he needed to reassure the two ladies and young Giles that the authorities were not taking this matter lightly. He had ridden over to Lyford House as soon as he decently could, to be received with tea and muffins.

He said soberly, ‘Oh, everyone has a different explanation, from Farmer Ramsey’s annoyance over his tithes to a prank by unnamed villagers.’

‘And which do you favour, sir?’ asked Giles who had, much to Devenish’s secret amusement, adopted him as a kind of honourary uncle of whom advice might be asked.

‘I?’ said Devenish coolly, accepting a cup of tea from Miss Faulkner, ‘Why, I favour none of them until some kind of evidence emerges which might support any of the explanations offered. So far all we have is hot air and supposition.’

He looked across at Drusilla who was staring thoughtfully into space, ‘You seem a little engrossed, Mrs Faulkner. Forgive me for questioning you, but is that because you have something of matter to import relating to what we are discussing?’

He was reading her mind again. Drusilla lifted her head and gave him a splendid view of a pair of candid grey eyes.

‘I suppose,’ she said slowly, ‘that what I am about to say may be of the order of hot air and supposition. On any other day I might have dismissed what I saw late last night as mere innocent playfulness, but after this morning’s events—who can tell?’

Devenish leaned forward. ‘You intrigue me, madam. What exactly did you see last night?’

Without embroidery, Drusilla told him, as soberly as she could, of the two strangers in Lyford’s grounds on the previous evening. She added, equally soberly, ‘When I questioned her this morning, my housekeeper was firmly of the opinion that I had not seen two of my servants who had broken the staff rules by leaving their beds after lights out.’

Miss Faulkner exclaimed faintly, ‘Oh, I wonder that you could have slept after that. I am sure that I couldn’t have done.’

‘Ah, but Mrs Faulkner is made of sterner stuff, are you not, Mrs Faulkner?’

Was there the usual faint tinge of mockery in his comment? Drusilla did not know. Perhaps not, because after he had leisurely demolished a muffin and the clock had ticked on in the silent room, Devenish said, ‘Would I be considered to be grossly intrusive if I asked to be allowed to visit your room so that you might show me exactly what you saw—and where?’

‘Or what I thought I saw,’ said Drusilla challengingly. ‘For I believe that you may be of the opinion that I might be indulging in hot air and supposition.’

‘Oh, you don’t think that, surely, sir?’ exclaimed Giles. ‘Why, Dru is the most sensible women I know—indeed, I would dare swear she is the only sensible woman I know.’

Devenish’s beautiful mouth twitched. Miss Faulkner said aggrievedly, ‘You want manners, Master Giles, and, as I have often said, if you are not to go to university, then a strict tutor ought to be employed to teach you the discipline you would otherwise have learned there.’

‘You interest me, Miss Faulkner,’ remarked Devenish. ‘I would be happy to learn to which university you refer. None of those with which I am acquainted had much to do with teaching their undergraduates any form of discipline—quite the contrary.’

Giles threw him a grateful glance. Miss Faulkner, who was not sure whether she had been complimented or insulted, gave a hesitant, worried smile. Seeing her discomfort, Drusilla surveyed Devenish with a measuring, judgmental eye, and said coolly, ‘Well, one thing is plain, m’lord, after that remark Giles would do well not to come to you to learn good manners—or perhaps Earls are exempt from them.’

‘Oh, my dear,’ gasped Miss Faulkner, ‘I am sure that Lord Devenish did not mean anything wrong by what he said.’

‘Oh, I am sure that he did,’ retorted Drusilla. ‘Did you not, m’lord?’

Her own daring in thus reproaching him for mocking poor Cordelia struck Drusilla when it was far too late to retract anything which she had said. She waited for the cutting riposte which was sure to follow.

It didn’t. Instead Devenish rose from his chair, walked over to where she sat and lifted her hand to kiss it.

‘You are right to rebuke me,’ he said, his voice gentle. ‘I have grown too accustomed to using my tongue to cut down those around me and who often feel unable to reply because of their lower rank. I must cease the habit.’

He turned to the astonished Miss Faulkner who stared at him, her mouth agape. ‘Pray forgive me,’ he asked, bowing to her, ‘for I spoke ungallantly to you—and not for the first time. I promise not to do it again.’

‘Oh, it was nothing, nothing at all, m’lord.’

‘Ah, but it was. It was most wrong of me. And now, ladies, you will lead me to the room from which Mrs Faulkner saw—what she saw.’

The smile he gave then was his dazzling one. Drusilla, who was already overset because of the sensation which his kissing her hand had created, found that she was quivering with excitement. She told herself that this was partly relief because he had not taken offence at her rebuke, but she knew that she was lying.

Well behaved or ill behaved, he was having the most profound effect on her. Worse, however much she told herself to ignore it, she was unable to do so. All the way up to her room she lectured herself—in vain.

She watched him look around it. It was a lady’s bedroom in splendid order and furnished in the most perfect taste. Devenish walked to the window, bidding her to stand beside him—Miss Faulkner was acting as their chaperon and hovered nervously behind them as Drusilla told her tale.

‘And after they had crossed the lawn they went that way,’ she ended, pointing to the steps down which the man and the woman had disappeared.

‘Which leads towards—where? Remind me, we have turned so many times since I entered Lyford that I have lost my bearings.’

‘Well, nowhere, really. I suppose that the nearest habitation in that direction is Marsham Abbey, Mr Harrington’s place. There is a footpath across the fields which leads to it—but it is rarely used these days. It also runs in the opposite direction, but since Swain’s Hall was pulled down it goes nowhere, because the path to the highway beyond it has disappeared through lack of use.’

‘I see.’ After that Devenish fell silent. Drusilla had been right when she had said that what she had seen had been unremarkable, and would have been unremarked—save to her housekeeper—had it not been for the sheep on the altar.

‘Does Harrington graze sheep on the Abbey’s fields?’

‘Oh, yes. But others around here graze them on their fields, including Farmer Ramsey—and you, of course.’

‘Of course,’ he echoed, and laughed. ‘You are a shrewd lady, Mrs Drusilla.’ He lowered his voice a little and asked, ‘Did your husband find you so? And did your husband mind your sharp tongue?’

‘Oh, I rarely had occasion to use it on him, m’lord.’

He laughed. ‘Oh, so you reserve it for my deficiencies. I suppose that I do deserve it more. He was young, was he not?’

‘Not quite twenty-five when he died.’

Devenish was grateful that the opportunity had been given him to ask these questions without seeming over-curious.

‘And you had not long been married, I collect. I suppose, then, that you and he were rarely apart, so that his disappearance must have come as a great shock to you.’

‘Oh, yes, but not so great a shock as his untimely and dreadful end.’

‘And while he was alive, neither you nor he ever saw strangers in your grounds?’

‘No,’ Drusilla answered a little sharply, for she was not sure where this questioning was going—nor why Devenish was engaging in it.

But something, somehow, in the quizzical look which he then gave her jogged her memory.

‘Except…’ she began slowly, and then stopped. ‘No, it could not be related to this.’

‘Except,’ Devenish mused, his bright blue eyes hard on her. ‘I do dislike excepts—when they lead nowhere, I mean. They intrigue me, and for the rest of the day I am more bad-tempered as well as being ruder than ever, I fear. Pray finish and do not condemn me to that—you would not like it, and consequently I should feel the edge of your tongue!’

‘Very well. He said one day, about nine months before he was found dead, that he was surprised that the path to the Abbey was being so heavily used, and that it must be at night, since he had never seen anyone on it during the day time.

‘He told me that he would investigate the matter as it seemed rather odd. But nothing further came of it other than that he had spoken to Mr Harrington of it and he had assured him that he must be mistaken. Two of his gardeners used it. And that was that. The path had become worn, he said, and it did not need heavy use to cut it up.’

‘Your husband never spoke of it again?’

‘No, never. I am sure that it was simply one of Jeremy’s whim whams—he was given to them. His father was the same, wasn’t he, Cordelia?’

‘Oh, yes. He had the oddest fancies which disappeared as soon as made, you know. Why, I remember old Mr Faulkner swearing that there were strange goings-on in the countryside around Lyford, but since his mind became very feeble before he died, no one thought anything of what he said.’

Another dead end. He could scarcely believe that the whim whams of the Faulkner men had any connection with dead servant girls and a sheep on an altar.

Except—and it was a good except, he thought wryly—that Jeremy Faulkner had died a strange and unexpected death. Like the sheep.

He dared pursue the matter no further even although it enabled him to stand next to Mrs Drusilla Faulkner and admire her pure and perfect profile. He dared swear that—like old Mr Faulkner—he was running mad to be so occupied by the charms of a country widow. Rob would be sure to twit him when he returned home.

All the way back to Tresham Hall what disturbed him the most was that it was not only her looks and figure which charmed him, but her ready, rebuking tongue. Who would have thought that such a gentle-seeming creature would be so morally fearless?

Rob met him in the stable-yard—and began to tease him immediately—and to warn him off.

‘So, how was the pretty widow, Hal? Not so overset as that companion of hers, I dare swear.’

‘No, not at all.’

‘And did you find her in looks?’

‘Why this inquisition, Rob? What point are you trying to make.’

‘A serious one, and I advise you to take what I am about to say equally seriously. This is a good woman whom you are beginning to pursue, not one of the barques of frailty who haunt London, and may be regarded as rightful prey. It would be wrong of you to treat her as a pretty toy to exploit in order to reduce the boredom of country living. You must not trifle with her affections. To do so would be most unworthy of you.’

‘How many moral guardians must a man acquire in one short afternoon before he is allowed to make his own judgements?’ Devenish murmured enigmatically. ‘The world and his wife are determined to have me turn parson, I see. Yes, I found Mrs Faulkner in looks, but it is not her looks which intrigue me. I leave you to discover what does—you might as well have something concrete to worry about rather than simply engaging in pious whim whams about my behaviour.

‘And speaking of whim whams, tell me this. You have lived here these past ten years. Have you observed any whim whams in the behaviour of the Faulkner father and son?’

‘Of the father, yes. He was light in the attic towards the end of his life. Of the son, no. He seemed a down-to-earth fellow to me, quite unlike his father.’

‘And tell me another thing before we adjourn. Were there any persons recorded as missing during the lifetime of old Mr Faulkner—or is that simply a phenomenon of the past few years?’

If Rob thought that Hal was engaging in whim whams himself he did not say so. He had too much respect for his employer’s intellect.

‘Not that I know of.’

‘And strange goings-on in the countryside, you have heard nothing of that?’

Rob shook his head. ‘Not until the servant girls began to disappear, and the two men of whom we spoke. Why?’

‘Nothing. Like my moral sense, my curiosity is light-minded and frivolous—as you well know. Only people are telling me different stories about the same thing.’

He did not elaborate, but left Rob looking after him, wondering what Devenish was up to now. Rob sometimes thought that perhaps Devilish was not a bad nickname for his friend, even though he knew that it was undeserved.

What was puzzling Devenish was why Drusilla and Cordelia Faulkner—who both struck him as possessing souls of simple truth—should believe that Jeremy Faulkner engaged in whim whams like his father’s, whilst Rob, that man of sense, did not. There must be a sensible answer to that, and one which he would endeavour to discover.

The advantage being that whilst he did so he could further his acquaintance with Jeremy’s widow.