Delsie

Chapter Ten

Bristcombe was not in the hallway waiting for her, but as Delsie mounted the stairs, she heard him come up from the kitchen and lock the front door. Abovestairs lights were left burning as well, and she called down to him that she would take care of them to save his coming up. Looking in on Bobbie upon her return from dinner was becoming a habit, as was the tender emotion she felt to see that innocent face, vulnerable in sleep. My daughter, she thought! Only a stepdaughter really, but mine. It was an awesome responsibility she had shouldered, with very little thought to the child, but only to herself, her own troubles and of course her gain. She was a responsible woman, however, and had no thought of trying to avoid the responsibility. She welcomed it, in fact. Life would be futile with no responsibility, empty with no one to love. Already she was coming to love her new family.

These were her warm thoughts as she prepared for bed, still with her as she put out her lamp and tried to sleep. The little snake in this new Eden was the mysterious business in the orchard, and the unwanted gold. She listened for sounds of intrusion from beyond her window and heard none. She had not been in bed long enough to be near sleep when she heard the noise, sharp and close by.

It was beneath her window-there where the French doors of the study opened onto a small shelled area that had once served as an outdoor conversation corner, before the shrubbery had encroached. It was a distinct rattling sound, as of a garden implement being knocked over or dropped. She was out of bed in a flash, looking through the window.

A tattered shred of cloud partly obscured the hazy moon, but there was enough light to make out a dark form bending over and picking up whatever he had knocked down. Her heart pounded with fear. Good God! Were they planning to break right into the house this time? She should rouse Bristcombe. This hardly seemed preferable to facing the invader alone. She watched, tense, to see if the man-there was only one visible this time, nor had she heard anything to indicate the presence of animals-tried to gain entry. He did not. He backed into the shadows, no longer in her view, but she knew he was there, waiting, while she waited and observed above. Then he left-just walked away, around the corner to the back of the house.

If he tried to enter by that means, Bristcombe would certainly hear him. The Bristcombes slept in a room off the kitchen. She was suddenly seized by an idea that was either madness or inspiration, she hardly knew which. Maybe the Bristcombes were in on it, whatever was going on. In a flash, the idea had gained control of her mind. The Bristcombes, that unsavory pair, were up to something. The woman trying to be rid of her, and the man never where he should he, or doing what he was paid to. They were using Bobbie’s house for some criminal activity. She must find out what it was. It would be dangerous, but there in the next room her innocent responsibility lay sleeping, at the mercy of these people. She squared her shoulders, slipped on her robe, shuffled into mules, and went to the door of her chamber. Her courage took a deep plunge there at the doorway to the dark corridor. What if they had guns, knives…?

She was dreadfully aware of her inability to deal with even one of the evildoers, if it should be one of the Bristcombes. What if there was a group? Miss Milne’s doorway was only a step beyond Bobbie’s. She ducked in and shook the girl’s arm. She wouldn’t ask her to come downstairs, but just let her know she was going in case… In case she didn’t come back. Hardly a reassuring thought. And if the girl insisted on coming along, that was quite her own affair. To Miss Milne’s credit and Delsie’s infinite relief, the governess insisted on accompanying her mistress.

“I woke up all of a sudden, ma’am, and thought I heard something fall over down below. A clattering sound it was, like a shovel or rake,” the girl said, perfectly wide-awake. “I didn’t bother getting up to have a look. There was only the one man, you say?”

“Yes, I saw only one.”

“I wonder who it could be? I’ll go down with you, and we’ll each take a poker for our defense.” Miss Milne went in the dark and took up her own weapon, while Mrs. Grayshott decided to have one from the saloon below. Without any candle to betray their presence, they huddled together down the stairs, tiptoeing and clinging to each other’s arm. All was silent, and dark, and extremely frightening. They crept to the French doors that were beneath Mrs. Grayshott’s window, stood with their pokers at the ready, staring into the black night, seeing nothing more treacherous than the naked black branches of trees, swaying against skies hardly less black.

“I’ll just open the door and listen a moment,” Mrs. Grayshott said. This met with no disapproval, and it was done. A somewhat eerie moaning of the low wind through the nude trees was added to their discomfort, as was a piercingly cold breeze. For two minutes they both listened, ears on the stretch, till they were convinced the intruder was gone, at which point Miss Milne mentioned wondering what had been knocked over.

“It can’t have been more than a step away. I’ll slip out and have a look,” Mrs. Grayshott decided. This was only half her reason. What she truly wished to see was whether any more bags of guineas had been dropped.

“I’ll go with you,” Miss Milne offered at once. Really, she was a perfect governess, becoming more valuable and less dispensable by the second. But still, a Miss Milne at the doorway was as good protection as one at her elbow, seeing what (if anything) was picked up.

“Wait here. I won’t be a minute,” Mrs. Grayshott told her, and went alone out the door. “It’s a shovel,” she called back over her shoulder in a low voice as she discerned in the darkness the outline of one leaning against the side of the house.

“I wonder if he was digging something,” Miss Milne called back in a whisper.

“I’ll have a look while I’m here.” With eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom, the details of the night scene were becoming more easily recognizable.

“Be careful!” Miss Milne cautioned, coming to put her head out the French door for purposes of surveillance.

Delsie walked silently the few yards to the back of the building, looking about for any signs of either dropped canvas bags, or possibly freshly-dug holes, finding neither. A sudden keening gust of wind made her realize the folly of continuing the search in the middle of a black December night, wearing only a robe. She’d be lucky if she didn’t catch a cold as a result of this stunt. Just before returning to the French doors, she took a quick peep around the corner that gave a view of the back of the Cottage. She nearly fainted from shock. There, hiding in the shadows less than a yard away, stood the man, dressed all in black, his face a white blur, as he flattened himself against the wall. Some stifled sound of terror was in her throat. She tried to run, and discovered that, as in some nightmare, her limbs were frozen. Flight was impossible. She just stood, straining her eyes in the darkness at the man, who was staring back at her.

The man recovered his wits first. His arms shot out, suddenly, swiftly, and his hands grabbed her wrists, jerking her around the corner. They were very strong hands. The lurching movement pulled her against him, where she could feel the brush of his jacket against her cheek. In a fog of absolute panic, she struggled to be free, pushing against his chest, catching some small metallic object that dangled from a pocket. His hands held firm.

Suddenly one hand released its hold and the arm went around her waist. Before she had time to even wonder what was happening, his head came down and his lips found hers. She was being soundly kissed, with the man’s two arms around her now, holding her in an unbreakable grasp. It was a bizarre incident. It should have been horrifying as well, but her horror was not so strong as she would have thought. His cheeks were smooth; his embrace, while unwanted and in fact savage, sent a thrill through her. As a host of sensations jumbled through her brain, there emerged in the midst of them the thought that the man was a gentleman. This was patent nonsense. He was a criminal, but he was a clean-shaven criminal at least, not a dirty, rough, repulsive man.

As quickly as he had grabbed her, she was released. The man turned and disappeared into the night. Delsie became aware suddenly of the chilly night air, and of the softly calling voice of her companion behind her. “Are you all right, ma’am? What’s happened?” Miss Milne asked anxiously. “Did he hurt you?”

The unexpected reaction was a definite feeling of pique that Miss Milne had seen the embrace. “No. That is-you saw what happened.”

“He was kissing you, the bold creature! Who could it have been?”

“Let us go inside. I’m freezing.” They hastened their steps back into the saloon. “I’ve no idea who it could be.”

“It looked like… But that’s impossible. He’d never behave so shamelessly,” Miss Milne said, chattering excitedly.

“Did you recognize the man?”

“Oh, no! I couldn’t see a thing but an outline.”

“You said it looked like someone. Who did you mean?”

“It was the size of Lord deVigne was what I thought, and wearing evening clothes too. I saw the white shirt against the black coat, and there aren’t many gentlemen hereabouts. But of course it could not have been him,” Miss Milne stated confidently.

“I should think not, indeed,” the widow said primly. Then together the two remounted the stairs, parting at the governess’s door with a few words as to not mentioning this incident to Bobbie.

“There’s one thing we’re sure of anyway, ma’am,” Miss Milne said. “It wasn’t Mr. Bristcombe, dressed up so fine. I wonder who it can have been.” Her voice sounded a little wistful.

When she was safely back in her own warm bed once more, the widow was forced to admit that she too had been struck with the thought that it was Lord deVigne who had kissed her. She puzzled over this. The height was right, the clothing, the feel of it indicating a good quality, though she had not herself discerned that the man wore an evening suit. She knew deVigne had worn one that evening, just an hour before, when he had brought her home. And that little metal watch fob she had felt hanging from the man’s waistcoat pocket-it could have been a golden wishbone. Indeed, it was hard to conceive what else it could possibly have been-two little prongs she had felt between her fingers. And he had worn that fob tonight. She had particularly noticed he had the habit of fingering it unconsciously when he spoke.

Why should Lord deVigne be skulking about the yard at an hour past midnight? Why indeed, when she had told him less than twenty-four hours before that men had been there. He might have been looking for them, trying to discover who they were, and what they were doing. It was entirely possible he had been there. The likeliest thing was that he had sent his carriage home without him and had stayed behind, so little time had passed between her entering the house and the sound outside. He had even mentioned having a look around. Of course it had been deVigne, which gave rise to the next question. Why had he kissed her? He had not, to her knowledge, the reputation of a flirt. His name was never linked with any of the village girls.

Such a juicy bit of gossip would have been passed along by Miss Frisk. The riddle kept her awake for the better part of an hour. Before she slept, she was concerned too for how she should act when next they met, whether she should drop a hint of her suspicions. She thought she would not. It could not be other than extremely embarrassing. DeVigne was impervious to such trifling matters-he never reacted to anything. It would be herself who ended up with a scarlet face, feeling a fool for his misbehavior. Best to say nothing and hope he would have the grace to do likewise. If it had actually been deVigne, that is. And what if it hadn’t?

This was a new puzzle, one that required a fresher head than hers. She was nodding off to sleep.