The Paper Princess

Chapter Three

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.

He did not know that Bessie had seen the will poking out of Mr. Palfrey's back pocket as he strutted up and down the library. She now wanted to find some way to get her hands on it before Mr. Palfrey managed to destroy it.

“You'd best come with me, Bessie,” said John firmly. “If Master says you have to leave, then leave you must.”

“Oh! Oh!Oh! ” screamed Bessie, tearing her cap off and throwing it on the floor. “What will become of me? Please don't send me off.” She threw herself into Mr. Palfrey's arms, nearly knocking him flat.

He tried to push her away, but Bessie clutched hold of him, and the ill-assorted couple did a macabre waltz over the polished floor.

With a great heave, Mr. Palfrey finally sent her flying. She stumbled backward and just managed to stop herself from falling.

But she had seized the will and had it hidden in the folds of her apron. Pretending to weep, she rushed from the room.

“You're a good man, John,” said Mr. Palfrey. “You may go about your duties.”

“Why did you send for me?” asked John, curiously.

“Because… because I anticipated trouble with the maid and felt sure you would help to handle the situation. Where is Miss Felicity?”

“Out riding with Miss Chubb.”

“She should be accompanied by a groom. Now that she is soon to be a baroness, she must begin to observe the conventions. See to it.”

“Very good, sir,” said John, touching his forelock and bowing his way out.

Outside the library, he scratched his head. Mr. Palfrey would normally have instructed the housekeeper to get rid of Bessie. He must be worried about those jewels. John gave a slow smile. Well, Miss Felicity had them safe. Mr. Palfrey would never get them. Pity about Bessie. She had seemed such a kind woman before. John shook his head dismally over the fickleness and cruelty of women and made his way back to the stables.

Felicity and Miss Chubb swung down from their mounts at the cliff's edge, some distance from the castle. They tethered their horses to a stunted tree and both looked down at the wrinkled gray sea far below them.

“I know he burned that bit about the jewels,” said Felicity fiercely. “He is a liar and a thief. But he shall not have them!”

“You told me they were hidden in the priest's hole. Are there a great many jewels?” asked Miss Chubb.

“In truth, I never bothered to look inside the box. I have been too grief-stricken. I only checked to be sure it was there, where Mama said it was. Oh, poor Mama.”

Felicity turned her head away and began to cry. Miss Chubb shuffled her large feet like an old horse. She could not share in Felicity's grief, for Miss Chubb had always considered Mrs. Palfrey to be a very poor mother indeed. “If Felicity were my daughter, Miss Chubb told herself, “then sick as I was, I would have yet found the strength to rid myself of such a nasty character as Mr. Palfrey.”

She waited until Felicity had recovered and then said gruffly, “At least this period of mourning has put your marriage off. With any luck the baron might die before the year is out.”

“Do you know, Miss Chubb,” said Felicity, “this Lord St. Dawdy, though old, might be quite a pleasant sort of man.”

“You said your mama did not think so,” pointed out Miss Chubb. “And he is not liked in the county.”

“People can be hard, particularly on absentee landlords,” sighed Felicity. “And the baron has traveled a great deal. Besides, mama did not seem to be a great judge of people or she would not have married Mr. Palfrey. My sisters are content in their marriages. The arrangements worked out well for them. Penelope told me it was exceedingly pleasant to be mistress of one's own establishment and to have children. And I could take you with me.”

Miss Chubb brightened, but then her face fell. “I cannot see any man countenancing the presence of an elderly governess.”

“But if I were a baroness, surely I could elevate you to the rank of companion?”

“Perhaps,” said Miss Chubb gloomily. “But I would not count on it.”

“Look, the snow is beginning to fall,” said Felicity with a shiver. “Perhaps when the weather is better, we can don our disguises and ride down to The Green Dolphin for another adventure.”

“I was frightened last time,” said Miss Chubb. “Lord Arthur was a very unsettling sort of man.”

Felicity kicked a piece of turf. “Do you think there are many men like Lord Arthur in London, Miss Chubb?”

“He was very handsome and very grand,” said Miss Chubb reflectively. “No, not many.”

“It is of no use wondering about it,” said Felicity, “for I shall probably never go to London. Or not as a single lady, anyway.”

They rode together back to the castle to hear John's story of the sacking of Bessie.

“Poor woman,” said Felicity. “I have some pin money left. She may have it.”

When she and Miss Chubb entered the castle, the butler, Anderson, told them that Mr. Palfrey was searching everywhere for the blueprints to the castle and wondered if either of the ladies had seen them.

“No,” lied Felicity quickly. Mr. Palfrey must never find those blueprints, or he would discover the priest's hole.

She and Miss Chubb hurried up to the nursery, took the blueprints out of a desk, took them to the priest's hole, and put them up on the high ledge with the box of jewels.

Mr. Palfrey had just learned that one of his tenant farmers, Ebeneezer Pulkton, had called and was demanding audience. Mr. Palfrey hesitated, half-tempted to send the man away, for in his search for the blueprints he had not burned the will. Also, he wanted to study it again in peace so that he might be sure that bit about the Channing jewels-unaccountably absent from the previous will-was indeed there. But Mr. Pulkton was a toady, and Mr. Palfrey loved toadies-they being a rare commodity in Cornwall, where the population were singularly independent-minded and did not have a correct respect for their betters.

He had received a bad shock over that will. He longed to sit and drink a glass of port in congenial company. Mr. Palfrey had never felt lonely before. Now he did. In fact, he felt quite weak and helpless and wished his stern and domineering mother were still alive so that he could lay his weary pomaded head on her iron bosom.

“Show Mr. Pulkton in, Anderson,” he said, “and bring us a couple of bottles of the best port.”

Mr. Pulkton entered, hat in hand, his little piggy eyes darting here and there as if seeking something that he could turn into a profit. He was dressed in a holland drill smock, breeches, and ankle boots. His smock had three capes on the shoulders, denoting his status as farmer. In this age of elegance, even the farmers were dandies, and the front of Mr. Pulkton's snowy-white smock was embroidered with scarlet hearts.

“I din't like to come afore,” said Mr. Pulkton slowly. “But I felt I must pay my respects, like. Terrible trajdy, Missus dying like that.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Palfrey, giving his eyes a perfunctory dab with a wisp of handkerchief. “Sit down, man, and join me in a glass of port. Ah, Anderson. The table by the window, and we shall serve ourselves.”

Mr. Pulkton looked suitably gratified.

As she sat on the edge of her bed in the room she shared with three other maids, Bessie heard the sound of approaching footsteps and thrust the will she had been studying under her mattress. She was alone, having been told to go and get her belongings, while the three more fortunate maids with whom she shared the room went about their duties.

Bessie started in surprise as Felicity walked in.

“I have heard of your dismissal, Bessie,” said Felicity awkwardly. “Please take this money. It is not very much, but it will serve to keep you until you find another post.”

“Thank you, miss,” said Bessie. She had a sudden impulse to whip that will out from under the mattress and hand it to Felicity. Felicity had the same striking dark-red hair as her father, the same fascinating green-gold eyes. And Bessie remembered the late Mr. Channing very well. He used to throw open the castle once a year and entertain all the locals lavishly, a practice that Mr. Palfrey had not maintained.

But Miss Felicity was to marry a baron and would soon have all the money she wanted. Bessie knew that will could make her own fortune. She remained silent, and after giving the maid an embarrassed pat on the shoulder, Felicity left.

Bessie waited. She was to be allowed to stay the night before leaving in the morning. She must wait until she had guessed Mr. Palfrey had retired to his bedchamber and visit him there.

Mr. Palfrey climbed the stairs to his room after a euphoric drinking session with Mr. Pulkton.

His valet prepared him for bed, brushed out his sparse hair, gave him a glass of warm milk, and then left his master to sit by the fire.

Mr. Palfrey stared into the flames and sipped his milk. There was so much he could do now. He could fill the castle with the most beautiful treasures and become known around the world as a connoisseur of fine art. At last, he rose to his feet. Now for that will.

He was glad he had not burned it yet. There might be some hint, some clue, as to the whereabouts of the Channing jewels. He had told his valet to put his coat away without brushing it or emptying the pockets. He made his way to the wardrobe.

Behind him, the door opened.

Mr. Palfrey swung around.

Bessie Redhill stood there, smiling at him in a way he did not like at all.

“How dare you!” gasped Mr. Palfrey, one nervous manicured hand flying down to cover his private parts, although his nightgown was as thick as a bedsheet. With his other hand, he reached for the bellrope to summon help.

Bessie grinned broadly and held up the will.

With a squawk of outrage, Mr. Palfrey wrenched open the door of the wardrobe and scrabbled feverishly in the tail pockets of his coat.

Then he turned back to Bessie. His mind was working very quickly. The pleasant muzziness induced by his port-drinking session fled, leaving his brain sharp and clear.

He began to laugh. Bessie stared at him in surprise.

“You clever girl,” said Mr. Palfrey. “So you've got the better of me after all!”

“Well,” said Bessie, closing the door and moving into the center of the room. “I reckon we'll all be happy, sir, if we can do a deal.”

“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Palfrey, rubbing his hands. “Sit down by the fire; there's a good girl.”

Bessie sat down gingerly, clutching the will.

“Now, a glass of brandy to warm us while we get down to business,” said Mr. Palfrey cheerfully.

“Don't mind if I do,” said Bessie with a broad smile. Mr. Palfrey looked so ridiculous with his little, spindly, hairy legs poking out from the bottom of his nightgown and with his red nightcap perched rakishly on the side of his head.

Mr. Palfrey went over to a cupboard in the corner and fiddled with bottles and glasses and came back with two bumpers of brandy.

He handed one to Bessie. “Now, how much?” he asked pleasantly.

Bessie took a deep breath, her eyes glittering in the candlelight.

“Five hundred pounds.”

Mr. Palfrey stared. Five hundred pounds was a reasonable sum-very reasonable. But while he kept a smile on his face, his mind checked him by pointing out that Bessie would soon return for more. Like most of her class, she would probably drink to excess, drink would loosen her tongue, and before long the whole of the Duchy of Cornwall would know of his perfidy.

But just to make sure…

“And for five hundred pounds you will give me that will?”

“No,” said Bessie, an unlovely look of cunning crossing her plump features. She folded the single sheet of paper into a small square and thrust it into her bosom. “Reckon I'll hang onto it for a bit.”

“As you will,” said Mr. Palfrey. “A toast to seal our bargain. And to seal a bargain you must drain it to the last drop. Probably too much for you,” he said with a little laugh.

“Oh, I can take my drop,” grinned Bessie. She felt strong and powerful. She was now a lady of independent means. She would buy a silk dress and a carriage, and come calling on that housekeeper, Mrs. Jessop, and watch the old harridan's eyes pop out of her head.

She tilted the contents of her glass straight down her throat and then laughed and spluttered and gasped. Mr. Palfrey laughed as well and patted her on her plump shoulders.

“Now, wait here, Bessie,” he said, “while I go to the strongbox and fetch you the money.”

He darted from the room, but only as far as the other side of the door. He waited, his heart thudding against his ribs until he heard the sound of a heavy body hitting the floor.

His thin lips curled in satisfaction.

He opened the door again and went in.

Bessie Redhill lay with her head on the fender, as still as death. He bent over her and pried open one eye. “Still alive,” he muttered. “Better move fast.”

He had tipped enough laudanum into her brandy to kill anyone of a less robust stature.

He dressed himself in his traveling clothes, went downstairs, and roused his butler.

“Have my traveling carriage brought round to the front,” he said. “I am going off on private business. I shall leave in about half an hour. I do not want any servant to be visible. Is that understood?”

Anderson bowed. He saw nothing odd in the request. Mr. Palfrey was always complaining about the servants. Unless actually serving him with something, he expected them to be invisible.

Mr. Palfrey went back upstairs, trying not to run. He took a large linen laundry sack out of a chest and with great difficulty, but with the strength of acute fear, managed to stuff Bessie's heavy body into it.

The carriage having been brought round, the servants kept well out of sight but listened in amazement to the crashes and bumps from the staircase.

Mr. Palfrey was not strong enough to lift Bessie on his back and so, piously thanking God for polished floors, he had slid his burden to the top of the stairs and proceeded to drag it down behind him.

Once outside, he almost gave up and called for help. He thought he would never be able to get Bessie inside the carriage. But at last, with one superhuman heave, he stuffed her inside and slammed the door.

He climbed up on the box and set off into the night. The snow had changed to sleet and drove into his face. But the madness of fear was on him, and he felt no discomfort.

He was grateful that the port of Falmouth was not many miles away.

In Falmouth, he went straight to a tavern he knew was frequented by sea captains and soon found the sort of character he wanted.

Captain Ferguson was only too pleased to have the “present” of a fine, strong housemaid whom he could sell in America as a bonded servant. When Mr. Palfrey also gave him one hundred guineas, the captain swore lifelong friendship.

He saw nothing very odd or criminal in receiving a drugged body on board. In these days, when press-ganged victims could arrive bound and gagged, it was nothing much to take on the body of a drugged maid.

Luck was with Mr. Palfrey. The wind was fair, the good shipMary Bess, would set sail before the morning, and when Bessie came out of her stupor-ifshe came out of her stupor, for he might have broken her neck dragging her down the stairs-she would be well on the way to the New World.

Anxious to remove himself from the vicinity as soon as possible, Mr. Palfrey did not stay at the comfortable inn, but set out on the road home, singing snatches of song as he bowled along the Cornish roads.

Once back, his long-suffering valet prepared his master for bed again. Mr. Palfrey kept having fits of the giggles, for all he had drunk, both with Mr. Pulkton and the sea captain, had finally gone to his head.

The bed seemed to have a tendency to run about the room. He glared up at the canopy, willing the room to stop spinning.

All at once he was stark, staring sober.

The will!

The will was still somewhere in Bessie's capacious cleavage.

His mind raced and spun as the drunken room had done only a few moments before.

And then he gave a deep sigh. What could a bonded servant do about anything? If she survived the journey, which was unlikely, she would be sold. She would not be paid a groat until her seven years of slavery were over. Surely no American was going to listen to a mere housemaid's babbling about some will. Salt water, or rats, or sweat, or any of the hazards of the journey would probably destroy that paper before Bessie ever reached America.

Felicity was crossing the hall the next day when she saw a woman dressed in black bombazine standing with her face to the wall.

“It is I, Miss Felicity,” she said impatiently. “You may turn around, Mrs. Jessop.”

Felicity thought Mr. Palfrey's treatment of the servants was disgraceful.

The housekeeper bobbed a curtsey. “I heard the footsteps,” she said, “and thought it was the master.”

“Has Bessie left yet?” asked Felicity.

“Yes, but it's ever so strange. She did not take a thing with her, and she even left fifteen pounds on her bed.”

“I gave her that money. I was sorry for her,” said Felicity.

“You shall have your money back, miss. Mr. Anderson has it in safekeeping. I would not feel too sorry for Bessie. She could be lazy and a bit cruel with some of her remarks.”

“But if she left the money and her belongings, something may have happened to her,” cried Felicity.

“That's what I thought. But Mr. Palfrey told me he saw her slipping out of the castle last night, and he says as how one of his silver snuffboxes has been taken.”

“And did he inform the parish constable?”

“No, miss. He said he didn't want any scandal.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jessop.” Felicity went up the stairs, wondering a little about Bessie's sudden turn to crime. Then her thoughts moved to her prospective marriage. She felt tired and beaten down, and weary with grief. She had not made any further protest about the marriage.

A little glowing image of Lord Arthur Bessamy's handsome face rose before her eyes.

She gave a resigned shrug. Dashing and handsome and tantalizing men were for more fortunate females. Best put him completely out of her mind. She had not really liked him very much, so it was odd how much the memory of him kept returning to plague her. She would, in all probability, never see him again.

But Felicity was wrong.