H ow are you feeling?” He stood looking down at me, and it was a moment before I realized that Ben had stepped aside to make room for him or that Mr. Plunket, Mrs. Foot, and Boris had ebbed out the door. The doctor, a rotund five foot six to his lordship’s magnificent six foot three, also might not have been there. The same could be said of Mrs. Malloy, who had stood up in acknowledgment of Lord Belfrey’s general greeting. Preen though she might, she was a shadow on the wall. I was in shock: Cary Grant… Carson Grant! Down to that entrancing cleft in the chin. Was I in a movie or a book? “Forgive me if Mrs. Foot forced one of her abominable cups of tea on you. She considers brewing up her main mission in life.”
His voice enhanced his every other charm; it was deeptimbred, with a slight blurring around the edges. I shifted to a more upright position on the sofa, the better to bask in his smile, which so engagingly crinkled the skin around his eyes. He had a wonderful mouth… perfect teeth, particularly remarkable for a man in his fifties. Poor Mrs. Foot, with that sizable gap. I regretted every unkind thought about her.
“Really,” I insisted, “there’s nothing wrong with me but a tension headache. It was nerve-wracking driving in the fog, and I haven’t eaten in ages because we couldn’t find a restaurant. That must have been what caused me to faint.”
“A sandwich and a glass of brandy would have been helpful.” Ben sounded none too friendly, especially it seemed to me when adding, “Your lordship.”
“Of course. Although I’m not sure anything prepared by Mrs. Foot would have made you feel any better.” A wry and utterly beguiling smile. “Georges LeBois, who is here for the filming, is refusing to eat. And regrettably I don’t keep alcohol in the house on account of Plunket having a weakness for anything that isn’t orange juice”-again the kindness came through-“but if my cousin Tommy, here”-placing a hand on the doctor’s shoulder-“prescribes a medicinal dose of brandy, or better yet cognac, for Mrs. Haskell, it will be fetched. A relation of ours lives within walking distance and she keeps an excellent cellar.”
“Quite right.” The doctor nodded his head vigorously. He had the round, guileless face of a schoolboy, his brown eyes shining with goodwill and his white hair fringing his forehead. His upper teeth (I was really noticing teeth or the lack thereof at Mucklesfeld) gave him endearingly goofy looks and a slight lisp. “I’m a teetotaler myself, for no reason other than I prefer lemonade, but it will be no trouble for me to walk over to Witch Haven, Celia’s house.”
“She’s the daughter of our cousin Giles, who was at Mucklesfeld before me,” explained his lordship.
“Interesting,” said Ben.
“I’m also a Belfrey, or should be,” the doctor chimed in cheerfully, “but my father chose to adopt my mother’s maiden name. He was estranged from the family, believing he’d never been fairly treated as the third son. Silly, these family feuds. Now, if you do not object, Mrs. Haskell, I will take a quick look at you.” He was opening his bag with great importance, encouraged by his wearing his big-boy suit instead of his play clothes. I pictured his mother agreeing on the condition that he didn’t play in the dirt.
“What sort of a look?” I asked uneasily.
“Nothing that will require any undressing. Just an examination of your head and eyes. It’s entirely possible,” he continued cheerfully, “that you fractured your skull or suffered a concussion in that fall.”
“It wasn’t a fall,” I protested. “It was a… slide. And please,” feeling a ridiculous desire to be made one of the family, “do call me Ellie.”
“Short for Eleanor?” Did Lord Belfrey frequently display that knack of indicating a vital interest in something of minor importance?
“Giselle.” Mrs. Malloy assumed the role of speaking for me, given that the balance of my mind was disturbed. “Her husband is Ben,” no appreciative smile from that quarter, “and my name’s Roxie.”
Lord Belfrey acknowledged this information with a smile that puffed up Mrs. Malloy’s bosom under her taffeta ensemble and doubtless turned her knees to water. Could I begrudge her the thrill? Yes! She would get him alone at the speediest opportunity and propose herself as a contestant on Here Comes the Bride. No sooner thought than done. She made her move. The hussy coyly suggested to his lordship that it might be proper for the two of them to leave the room while his cousin examined me. His consummate gallantry would have demanded this of him, but I watched him go with more regret than was appropriate in a woman with a husband of ten magical years standing devotedly at her sickbed… sofa.
Dr. Rowley-Tommy, as he urged me to call him-produced one of those eye-inspecting gadgets with all the enthusiasm of a schoolboy pretending to be a grown-up.
“A bright light!”
“Yes.” I wanted to ask him what he thought of Lord Belfrey’s plan to find a wife.
“Wear glasses?”
“No. Your cousin…”
“Aubrey?”
“An aristocratic name.”
“And I got stuck with plain old Thomas.” He chuckled while setting aside the instrument and beginning to probe the back of my head with enthusiastic fingers. “That hurt?”
“Some. Mr. Plunket mentioned that his lordship inherited the title from another cousin.”
“Lie still, sweetheart,” Ben urged.
“That was Giles.” Tommy was now probing my neck. “Our paternal grandfather had three sons. Each of whom fathered only one child. The eldest produced Giles, the second Aubrey, and the youngest got stuck with me.”
I murmured a protest before saying: “Didn’t Giles have children?
“Another only and this time a girl.” Tommy continued to beam encouragement while laying my head back on the cushion. “Celia, who lives at Witch Haven and is likely to have brandy in the house. What does that make her to Aubrey and me? Daughter of a first cousin! I always have trouble working these relationships out. Always seem like something out of Genesis to me, this begetting or is it begatting? Too much to work out for a simple country doctor. That’s the trouble with being the son of the third son, means a job. Not that Aubrey didn’t have to work.” Tommy blushed, embarrassment written all over his cherub face, as if in anticipation of a rebuke from his form master. “He went out to America as a very young man and stayed there, working for an insurance firm, until coming back last year when Giles died.”
America! So that explained his sounding, as well as looking, like Cary Grant-another transplanted Englishman.
“It seems he didn’t return with the proverbial fortune.” Ben’s tone was hard to read.
“No.” Tommy was standing, repacking his bag in readiness for another game of let’s pretend to be a big, grown-up doctor. “The firm went under. Unethical behavior on the part of several of the high-ups. Hard on Aubrey. Clean as a whistle in his own dealings.” His voice deflated like a ball bounced too often. “Anyone can tell that, even after only a year of getting back to knowing him. And now when he’d come up with this plan, which couldn’t have been made lightly, to restore Mucklesfeld, we have this evening’s tragedy.”
“My wife is going to be all right?” Ben demanded sharply.
“Oh, yes. I don’t see any reason for alarm.” Did Tommy sound ever so faintly disappointed? Was he aching for the chance to do a bit of delicate suturing or better yet wield a laser gun? “I was speaking of the car accident that took the life of one of the contestants.”
“You were brought in on the scene?” Ben did not sound abashed by his error, which was understandable, given the husband he is. I hoped Tommy would see it that way. He was very likely a married man himself.
“Oh, yes! Aubrey, after discovering that the phone was out, as happens not infrequently here when the weather is bad-he drove to my house knowing I have a cellular, which he doesn’t. After getting in touch with the police, I came back with him in his car. It was that drive that made him think it would be better-quicker-for him to walk, as I had done on returning home, when he needed me again. Don’t remember such a fog! Not at all surprising what happened to the poor woman-Aubrey told me her name was Suzanne Varney.” Tommy’s round brown eyes shone more brightly than ever with what had to be the gloss of tears. My heart warmed to his childlike sensitivity. “Only forty-five, so Aubrey said. Severe blunt chest trauma. The autopsy will get to the nub of it. Only minor damage to the face. It was obvious she had been a pretty woman.” A tear trickled down a rounded cheek. “She won’t need much fixing up by the mortician to have her looking her very best for the funeral if the family chooses an open coffin. That’ll be a consolation.”
“Let’s hope,” said Ben.
Tommy wiped away the tear with his jacket sleeve and drew a shaky breath. “You’ll have to excuse me; I’m a sentimental old bachelor. My daily helper, Mrs. Spuds, keeps going on at me about getting a cat. It is a temptation. But I’m not sure I’m ready after losing Blackie. It still hurts too much after forty years. He was my birthday present when I was ten, and twelve and a half when he got out onto the road and was hit by a…”
I wondered sadly-with thoughts of my own Tobias-if there had been any fixing Blackie up for the funeral.
“But enough of myself.” Tommy blinked bravely.
“My wife?” Ben prodded, not looking quite as moved as I was.
“Indeed, yes. I think you have it right-although I could be wrong, we doctors so often are. A bad tension headache, possibly-or perhaps a migraine.”
“She fainted.” Ben sounded determined on a bleak diagnosis.
“Explained most likely by the stress she mentioned.”
“She fell.”
“Yes, well… uhmm.” Tommy appeared rattled. Maybe he wouldn’t be a doctor when he grew up. Clearly patients could be awkward, expecting a fellow to be sure of his facts. Better perhaps to go back to wanting to be a fireman or a bus driver. But hadn’t his mum and dad always told him not to be a wussy puss? Suddenly he straightened to his full five six, squared his shoulders, and stuck out his rounded chin. Time to assert himself. “People usually… generally… almost invariably, although this is arguable, don’t fall hard when they faint. They… crumple.”
“The latest medical term?”
“Oh, Ben, please! Dr. Rowley has to know what he’s talking about. He must see hundreds of patients.”
“I can’t say that,” demurred the truthful boy. “Grimkirk is a very small village, just a couple of shops and a strip of cottages. But I do see the occasional farmer and person on holiday. Let’s say,” chuckling convincingly, “I keep my hand in.”
“I’m sure you do.” My maternal instinct was aroused, and I was further touched on seeing when he bent to unlatch and relatch his bag that there was bald spot on the back of his head. What he needed more than a cat was a grown-up wife to tell him he was wonderfully clever. I wondered about his daily-Mrs. Spuds (who could forget such a name?). A woman who liked cats had to be nice, but like as not she already had a husband who wouldn’t take kindly to her marrying someone else, bigamy not having the cachet it once did.
“Ellie,” Ben sat down beside me on the sofa, “what sort of husband would I be if I didn’t worry about you?”
“But I’m feeling better,” I said, and realized it was true. Mrs. Foot’s gray biscuit and dreadful tea had settled. I felt less queasy and my headache was barely noticeable if I lay still.
“My prescribed treatment,” Tommy puffed out his chest, “is for you to go immediately to bed and once there be given a light meal and a drink, after which you will take the tablets I will leave for you. Two to be repeated every four hours if you should wake and feel the need.”
Lovely as this sounded, I had to explain the obvious. “But I can’t go straight to bed. We have to drive home or at least find a place to spend the night.”
“Out of the question.” Tommy was back to his beaming schoolboy self. “Aubrey will insist you stay here. If I know him, he will already be seeing that a room is prepared for you-preferably one that isn’t layered in dust; although I could prescribe a mask.” Radiating cheerful self-approval at this clever solution to what might or might not be a problem, he gathered up the bag and, saying that he would inform Aubrey and my friend of the situation, trotted from the room.
“Sweetheart,” Ben got off the sofa to pace, “I don’t put much faith in our Dr. Rowley.”
“That was blatantly apparent. You must have hurt his feelings horribly.”
“How do we know he’s even a doctor? Mad as hatters, everyone in this house! Not a normal person among them!”
“Lord Belfrey…!” I protested.
“Him!” My adored spouse presented a nasty sneer. “The worst of the lot. Stalking around doing his impersonation of Cary Grant!”
“He can’t help it if he’s the spitting image. Besides,” sidling my legs off the sofa the better to face him, “normal is highly overrated. My parents certainly thought so. To their way of thinking, normal was the real weird!”
“Sweetheart,” Ben just missed colliding with a marble Aphrodite on a pedestal and a six-foot urn containing a dead shrub, “don’t get worked up. You’ll make your headache worse.”
“And you shouldn’t be ungrateful. You should be down on your knees in gratitude to Lord Belfrey for providing a port in a storm.” This was nonsense. We rarely quarreled. But for some reason I couldn’t put a lid on it. “I hope you enjoy the satisfaction of saying I told you so if Dr. Rowley’s diagnosis proves wrong and I wake up in the middle of the night to find myself in a coma!”
“Is she always this much of a histrionic nutcase?” demanded a querulous male voice.
Ben and I froze in place, but Aphrodite jumped or… did a wobble on her pedestal. Gliding his circuitous way from the opposite end of the mile-long room was a man in a wheelchair. He was cloaked in shadow, as the cliché goes, which to my bewildered mind made him appear the more ominously substantial. He cleared the edges of the table bearing the tea tray and rolled to a silkily soft halt a few yards from the sofa. An enormously stout man, with a bloated bloodhound face, and sparse, greasy black hair combed over a high, bald dome. His eyes bored into mine, conveying a distaste that flattened my back to the sofa. Only by biting down on my lip did I prevent myself from quiveringly inquiring what right he had to call me histrionic. Then he smiled, a jovial smile that seemed instantly part and parcel of his brown and yellow checked waistcoat and voluminous cravat.
“I was teasing, my dear. Only teasing! I adore a spirited woman. You are a lucky man, sir,” he swiveled around to look up at Ben, “what zest she must put into your life and so captivating in her looks. I have always been an admirer of the subtle beauty of the woodland nymph fleshed out to full womanly glory.”
“Ellie and Ben Haskell,” I said hastily. “Wherever did you spring from?”
He performed a half-swivel this time, waving a vastly plump hand as he did so. “Through an archway beyond the dark reaches of all these hellish medieval furnishings. What possesses people to accumulate the hideous? The British nobility and their excesses! Take the Empire, for one small example. Ah, but as someone, possibly myself, so pertinently phrased it-vulgarity on a vast enough scale achieves a certain grandeur. For myself, I prefer the Spartan elegance of midcentury modernism in my London and Paris pieds à terre. But each to his own, and Aubrey Belfrey is a decent enough chap, perhaps not to be blamed for the sins of his forebears. One has to be broad-minded.”
“My wife is an interior designer.” Ben offered this tidbit warily.
“We don’t have your name,” I pointed out.
“Apologies! Apologies! Did I not say? It is Georges LeBois. Forgive the lack of a French accent.” He performed another of those hand flourishes. “My formidable English nanny, may she rest in peace,” eyes raised heavenward, “drilled it out of me. She was less successful in inuring me to milky puddings and toad-inthe-hole.” His vast stomach quivered noticeably at the horror of memory. “Is it any wonder that I escaped into the world of make-believe and at the conclusion of my incarceration within the vilely conceived British public school system studied film and became a director? I am here, at the aptly named Mucklesfeld Manor, for the making of Here Comes the Bride.”
“So we have been told.” It really was too bad of Ben not to make an effort to sound impressed. Monsieur LeBois might look and sound like a self-satisfied, overfed bloodhound, but he might also be a very nice man. Although perhaps not fanatically truthful. I doubted that he was French. The only trace of an accent he possessed sounded as if it had been born within sound of Bow bells. Probably started out as George Woods and had the imagination to reinvent himself. I doubted the nanny and the posh schooling, too.
“And I have been told that you are a chef.” A stark hunger came into his eyes as he looked at Ben. “Have you any idea what a godsend that makes you in this house, where that gruesome female in need of wooden teeth to go with her Georgian male wig serves up food that a starving rat wouldn’t eat! My dear, noble sir! In one day I have become the shadow of the man I once was. I endure torturous rumblings”-he placed his fat hands tenderly upon the enormous waistcoated stomach-“soon, I fear, there will be an outcry from within equal to that of the mob that stormed the Bastille! Believe me, I have not suffered such outrage to my constitution since the horse-riding accident that placed me in this wheelchair. An egg, one superlatively cooked simple egg, is all I ask of you. Even that foul creature cannot get inside the shell of an egg to pervert its intrinsic goodness. And your wife!” The purplish bloodhound jowls shook with emotion. “Surely you will not subject her to being poisoned before your eyes, when all that is required of you is to follow me down a warren of damp corridors to the kitchen.”
“What state is it in?” All Ben’s professional instincts were aroused, as evidenced by the tilt of his dark head, the flash of blue-green in his eyes, the fact that he proceeded to turn his back on me. For the moment, my headache and I were nothing to the intriguing challenges to be met behind a green baize door.
“A dungeon. All the well-rusted implements for drawing and quartering. Livestock in the pantry, I wouldn’t doubt, and typhoid in the drains!” Georges LeBois eyed Ben narrowly through puffy lids, a professional sizing up how far to push his actor, shifting and leveling the camera to get the reaction he wanted. “A challenge surely no chef of any spirit with an ounce of stuffing inside him could resist.” I was wondering where his assistants were lurking when Ben asked Georges how he had discovered he was a chef.
“From Plunket. And I do, despite my aversion to men with pimples, have to give the mealy-mouthed fellow some points for trying to cheer me up upon seeing how low I was feeling following the accident. You know we lost one of our contestants? Most unfortunate-particularly for the woman herself, of course-but five is an awkward number to be left with. Still, I knew if I pressed that point too hard, Belfrey was liable to back out and we wouldn’t want that. I’m convinced this one could be a winner.”
Something flickered behind his eyes. Did I glimpse a cold-blooded ruthlessness that would let nothing stand between him and what he saw as his big chance to become a household name? I’d certainly never heard of him before today, not that that meant much. Or was he a man driven to the edge of reason by a frenzied desire to rend a pork roast limb from limb?
“Ben makes superb omelets,” I said.
My beloved had eyes for me once more. “Would you like one, sweetheart?” he asked tenderly.
“Well, yes-I would rather. If you can find a mixing bowl and utensils to sanitize and a pan could be radiated.” I broke off when the door opened to reveal Lord Belfrey and Mrs. Malloy, and all thought fled at the sight of her smug smile. His lordship’s expression was that of the concerned host. He said he was pleased to see that we had met Georges LeBois and explained that Dr. Rowley had spoken with him, expressed relief that I hadn’t seriously injured myself, and hoped I would pass a comfortable night in the bedroom that was ready for me.
“Is it the room that was to have been Suzanne Varney’s?” I asked. Somehow I hated the idea. I pictured her setting out on her journey to Mucklesfeld, a pretty woman, so Tommy had said, not all that much older at forty-five than myself. Had she been excited? Nervous?
“Not that one,” Lord Belfrey assured me, “but I’m afraid there weren’t many to choose from. What were the family apartments and the nursery wings are in a bad state of disrepair, which leaves the servants’ quarters. Small rooms with space only for single beds.” He looked questioningly from me to Ben, who said it wouldn’t bother him to sleep on the floor. Of course I wouldn’t let him do that; we could squeeze cozily in together. Even as I thought it, I knew he wouldn’t agree to that. He’d insist that I get an undisturbed night’s sleep.
His lordship provided an alternative. “The room I picked has a cubbyhole attached that has a small window. I had Plunket set up a bed in there, and I think you may be quite comfortable despite the rather tight squeeze, Mr. Haskell.”
“Ben. This is very good of your lordship.”
“My pleasure. Shall I show you both the way?”
“Who’d have thought when we set off in the car, Mr. and Mrs. H, that we was in for such an adventure?” Mrs. Malloy fluttered her false lashes, attempting to look soulful, but merely looking as though she had something in her eye.
“I’d like my next adventure to be that omelet we were talking about.” Georges LeBois spun his wheelchair in a circle and brought it back to face Lord Belfrey. “You do know this man’s a chef, Aubrey?”
“Plunket told me.”
“Manna from heaven, my dear fellow. Do what it takes to keep him here. Choose him as your bride! Now that would be a reality show!”
His lordship smiled and Ben did not. What had happened to my beloved’s sense of humor? My headache was coming back full force. I barely restrained myself from snapping at Mrs. Malloy when she suggested accompanying us.
Lord Belfrey eased the moment by encouraging her to stay and get acquainted with Georges. After a momentary pout, she set her face back to rights and waved me off as if watching a liner shift away from the quay to carry me to parts unknown. Which was the truth of the matter in the small scheme of things. Icebergs and squalls might not await, but as we followed Lord Belfrey down a corridor and up a flight of angular stone steps, I did have the feeling we were entering alien and possibly hostile territory.
Ben’s muttering “Damn!” (for want of a worse word) upon stumbling in the ubiquitous half-light didn’t help my increasing feeling that Mucklesfeld Manor did not embrace a visitor with promises of warm and fuzzy delights to come. His lordship flipped light switches with efficient speed, but a candle would probably have worked better. Several more passageways and series of steps loomed. I felt rather like a piece being shuffled forward on the board of Snakes and Ladders-always in danger of shooting precipitously back down to the bottom and having to start the whole business over again. His lordship turned every dozen paces to make sure that we were comfortably keeping up with him.
“Where are we at this minute?” Ben asked with, I was pleased to hear, just the right amount of interest as we stood in a small room off a landing. It was lined with shelves containing nothing but dust and the occasional mildewed cardboard box.
“Used to be one of the linen closets in the days when there were mattresses on the beds and working taps on the baths.” His lordship spread expressive hands.
“It must be next to impossible to keep places like Mucklesfeld up these days,” said Ben conversationally as we passed into yet another passageway. I knew he was thinking that the time had come to throw in the towel… if there were any to be had.
“But we owe the past something, at least that’s my assessment,” his lordship replied, and it seemed to me that his eyes sought mine in hope of understanding. Or was he worrying that what seemed to have been a twenty-mile trek had exhausted my weakened constitution?
“I can appreciate the sense of responsibility,” I said.
We plunged on, up another flight of steps to another landing, down again, and along what proved to be the last stretch. His lordship opened a door, flipped the switch to his right, and surprisingly the round globe in the center of the ceiling produced a sufficiently decent light to reveal a box of a room provided with a narrow bed covered with a faded paisley eiderdown. There wasn’t much else to observe: a couple of clothes hooks protruding from the discolored plastered walls, a bentwood chair, a door in addition to the one we had entered, presumably giving entry to the cubbyhole in which Ben was to sleep, and a narrow window sliced into the sloping ceiling.
Lord Belfrey followed my gaze upward. “We are directly under the roof of the east wing. For centuries the female servants slept in one vast open space up here, but sometime in the early part of the twentieth century it was divided up into a warren of single or double rooms to provide them some privacy when they came off duty for the night.”
“That must have been a treat,” I said, adding with what I hoped was a cheery smile, “Is it much of a bus ride to the bathroom?”
“Right next door on your left. It is why I selected this room for you.” His dark eyes seemed to take in my every movement as I sat gingerly down on the chair that didn’t look as if it could support a Teddy bear. “I wish I had better to offer you.” He did not embellish, there was no need. His voice said it all. “As for a meal, I’ll take your husband to the kitchen and hopefully between the two of us we can concoct something that he can bring up on a tray.” He turned to Ben, who was still standing in the doorway to the passage, and now asked him about the tablets Tommy had said he would let me have.
“We’ll get them from him.” “Then best to get going.” Ben cast me an anxious look that was not alleviated by my bright statement that there was no rush because I was feeling almost back to normal. “Lie down, sweetheart, and try to rest.”
“What about my night things?”
“I’ll get our cases from the car.”
“Plunket can bring them up and put them outside the door,” Lord Belfrey assured me in a voice equally soothing to that of my husband, adding that he’d had Mrs. Foot put a hot-water bottle in the bed. Perhaps I should have kissed them both before they left me. Ben was so incredibly dear, and his lordship emanated a secret sorrow that it was surely the duty of any compassionate woman to assuage. Let it be hoped, I thought rather woozily as I got off the chair, that in one of the contestants he would find a love that went beyond gratitude for helping him save Mucklesfeld. Perhaps an all-consuming passion was too much to be hoped for under the circumstances, especially as at the age of almost fifty-six he must have known and had his pick of countless women. Very likely he had been married in the past. At any other time I would have imagined a scenario to match his fascinating good looks, but I discovered that I was so desperate to lie down that I crawled under the eiderdown without worrying that it was filled with moths or that the pillow on which I laid my head had been around since the plague.
My feet searched out the hot-water bottle and discovered that it was lukewarm, which didn’t surprise me given my opinion of Mrs. Foot’s incompetence or malevolence… no, there I was being unkind. I turned on my side in hope I would find the lumpy mattress more comfortable that way. My original impression of her had been fueled by pure silliness. She was not the hag who had rejoiced in Wisteria Whitworth’s subjugation at Perdition Hall. And if, as seemed credible, she had dropped the lamp shade on Mrs. Malloy’s head, anyone doomed to live in this house might be excused for occasionally giving way to giddy attempts at humor. I lay thinking about the odd trio of Mrs. Foot, Mr. Plunket, and Boris, who presumably had a last name. Had his lordship hired them because they were affordable or because he was kind and doubted anyone else would?
If I lay completely still and kept my eyes squeezed shut against the light, which I should have turned off, but hadn’t because the idea of complete darkness was even more unappealing, my headache receded. Except when the window rattled irritably. Checking the latch would have required standing on the flimsy chair and I did not want to risk a pair of broken legs that might keep me at Mucklesfeld beyond the morning. I was wondering what Mrs. Malloy was up to when a jolt jerked me up, and my eyes flew wide open, to find her there, arms akimbo, staring down at me.
“Did you have to bump into the bed?” I grumbled.
“I didn’t.” She was smiling dreamily.
“With the force of the Titanic hitting the iceberg.”
“Not feeling better, Mrs. H?”
“I was. More to the point-why are you looking as if you just swallowed a dozen canaries?”
“Sure you’re up to hearing?” She sat down at the foot of the bed, her ringed hands folded demurely, and I knew instantly what was coming. Even so, my heart gave a thump when she said the words. “I’m to replace the dead lady as the sixth contestant. Now, don’t go looking at me like that, Mrs. H, it’s not a case of me dancing on her grave, just being practical like, and after all we do owe his lordship for taking us in out of the fog.”
“So you proposed marriage to him out of a sense of obligation?”
“What makes you think I asked him?”
“Well, didn’t you?”
“And why shouldn’t I?” she demanded haughtily. “Really, I don’t know what’s got into you, Mrs. H. I’d have thought you’d be thrilled for me, getting the chance to live out me romantic dreams. All them books we’ve both read with the blissfully happy endings.”
I could have pointed out that these invariably occurred after a couple of bodies had turned up along the way, either in the millpond or the suspiciously locked turret additionally guarded by the yellow-eyed black dog, but I restrained myself out of concern for my head, which had been good to me over the years. “This isn’t a situation that invites the grand passion, Mrs. Malloy, it’s a reality show. Which some people might consider vulgar.”
Understandably, she bridled. “You’re saying that his lordship-my intended-lacks refinement?”
“No, no!” I protested hastily. “I’m sure only dire necessity drove him to this course…”
“Coarse?” Her voice rose, along with the rest of her, but fortunately she sank back down without grabbing my throat.
“Course of action. I suppose it could even be said that there is something noble in his desire to save his ancestral home. What really worries me is the thought of your being hurt when… if, he doesn’t select… choose you as his bride.”
“Well, that’s the chance I’ll be taking. Tomorrow we’ll get to size up the other candidates, won’t we?”
“We? But Ben and I will be going home first thing.”
“What? Rush off before you’ve had breakfast?” She eyed me as if I had just produced a stake to thrust through her heart. “Or lunch. Well, I must say, that wouldn’t be treating his lordship very nice after all he’s done for you.”
“He didn’t say anything to me or Ben about his arrangement with you.”
“And why should he?”
Why indeed? It was unreasonable of me to feel left out in the cold. Perhaps, despite Tommy’s assurances to the contrary, I had injured my brain when I fell.
“It’s not like I’m under age, needing a guardian’s approval,” Mrs. Malloy pointed out.
“I’m sorry. This house must be getting to me.”
“What’s wrong with it? I think it’ll be lovely and comfy with a little tweaking.”
Make that demolition, I thought.
“Although,” Mrs. Malloy addressed the wall behind the bed, “being the gentleman he is, his lordship said as he wouldn’t make the agreement final until he had a word with you and Mr. H. I suppose, despite me mature charms, he saw the vulnerable girl inside.” Her purple-lipsticked mouth flickered like a butterfly landing on a dewy rose. Then her eyes hardened, giving off an iridescent sparkle to match her shadow. “But that doesn’t go giving you license to stand in me way. Of course, I understand how you’ll miss my slaving away for you at Merlin’s Court, but it’s not like I won’t come over to visit you and Mr. H and the kiddies when I can find time away from opening the summer fête or hosting a ball.”
“What about our partnership as amateur detectives?”
“Well, we still could-no, I suppose it wouldn’t do.” Faint sigh. “A proper husband wouldn’t want his wife risking her life getting mixed up in the sordid.”
So much for Ben!
“I didn’t mention that aspect of me life to his lordship and I’d rather you didn’t neither, Mrs. H; I wouldn’t want him thinking I’d be the snooping sort. And then there’s that requirement of his that the contestants all come from ordinary lives, not the glamorous pampered-puss sort. I’ve even wondered about keeping dark having been three times chairperson of the Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association. That sort of office could come across as being snooty.”
Before I could answer this one, Ben came though the doorway carrying a tray. While he was settling it in front of me and asking me to taste the tomato soup, which regrettably came from a tin, and sample the Marmite toast and fruit salad, also tinned, she teetered out of the room on her high heels, brazenly humming “Here Comes the Bride.”
“How are you feeling, sweetheart?”
“Better.”
“The tablets the doctor ordered are on that saucer. He said to take them as soon as you’ve eaten. That beverage in the glass is evaporated milk thinned with water. My poor darling, it seemed safer than what was in the bottle.”
“Everything looks delicious.” I smiled up at my husband while striving to keep my legs rigid in order not to create a tsunami.
“Georges wasn’t so appreciative. There weren’t any eggs. It looks as though the contestants are expected to prove their survival skills by going out and foraging in the woods.” He shrugged expressively. “I suppose they think they know what they’re getting themselves into.”
“At least Mrs. Malloy has the advantage of having met Lord Belfrey and getting a glimpse of the reality involved.” I studied his face as I went on to explain. When I concluded with the statement that I would hate to leave her behind when we set off in the morning, I was surprised that he merely said we would have to take tomorrow as it came.