Midnight at Mallyncourt Read online

  “Do you understand?” he repeated gently.

  I nodded. He held me for a moment more, studying my eyes, and then he released me. My anger hadn’t abated one jot. I wanted to slap him across the face. I wanted to drive the toe of my shoe into his shin with a savage kick. I didn’t. I didn’t dare. Edward seemed amused, as though it had delighted him to display such brutal mastery.

  “I hate you!” I whispered fervently.

  “I think not, my dear,” he replied, relaxed now. “I could prove it to you if I cared to, but I really haven’t the time this morning. I still have to check over some ledgers and make sure Lyman hasn’t robbed us blind while I was out scouting for a wife.”

  “You—”

  “Later, perhaps, I’ll prove to you what your feelings toward me really are. It should be a—most pleasant task. In the meantime, think what you like, by all means. Don’t forget about that letter, Jenny luv. I’ll expect you to give it to me before we go down to dinner tonight.”

  Livid, I marched outside, slamming the door behind me in a most undignified manner, and, crossing the veranda, walked briskly to the white marble bench at the back of the lawn. I was so angry that I could hardly tear the letter open, but, curiously enough, the anger soon evaporated. The dazzling sunlight, the warbling birds, the heavenly scent of flowers: All cast their spell over me, and Laverne’s cheerful, gossipy letter completed the job. Folding the letter, putting it in the pocket of my skirt, I began to explore the gardens, and now, an hour later, the quarrel with Edward seemed trivial.

  He had been right, of course. Under the circumstances, I should never have written to Laverne. I took her letter out, rereading it as rays of mote-filled sunlight slanted through the boughs of the elm. I wasn’t really surprised to learn that the Gerald Prince Touring Company was no more. The engagement following Brighton had been disastrous, the box office receipts practically nil, and, to top it off, a fire had broken out backstage, destroying half the scenery and most of the costumes. Putting what money there was in his own pocket, Gerry had taken a train to parts unknown leaving the company stranded and, for the most part, penniless. Laverne had been fortunate. Having saved a few pounds for a rainy day, she departed for London where, miraculously, she learned from an old theatrical crony that the Haymarket needed a wardrobe mistress. She had applied immediately, got the job with no trouble at all and was now happily sewing spangles and feathers on tattered costumes, ironing threadbare gowns and mending holes in worn silk tights. Her letter was full of chatty anecdotes, and she even hinted at a possible romance with the stage manager, a gruff, grizzled chap of forty-some-odd who found her most appealing.

  Putting the letter away, I sighed, thinking about those four tumultuous, highly-colored years I had spent with the company. All that seemed so long ago now, a vague, distant memory, although it had been little over a month since I had departed from Brighton. I had been lucky to get away when I did. How like Gerry to leave the troupe stranded. It was a wonder the company hadn’t fallen apart years ago, I thought, resting my back against the sun-warmed brown stone wall, watching the play of sun and shadow shifting over the gravel. In the elm, a thrush sang lustily, chest puffed up as he celebrated the radiant blue sky, the heady spring air. I was pleased with Laverne’s good fortune. I was eager to write and tell her so. Oh, I would write the letter for Edward, just as he had ordered, but I would write another one secretly. I would explain that she wasn’t to write to me again and tell her why, and then I would give the letter to George to mail for me. Ever since I had discovered him with Susie, he was eager to serve me in any way he could.

  Idly brushing a twig from my skirt, I thought about the encounter with Edward this morning, no longer angry about it. In fact, it gave me a curious exhilaration to replay it now in memory. He had been vile, true, but at least he had shown some emotion. I hated him, I told myself, but, deep down, I knew that wasn’t true. So did Edward. I wondered about my feelings toward him. He was a fascinating creature, I couldn’t deny that. I remembered that kiss, remembered the sensations I had experienced in his arms. Was I merely an employee to him? If necessary, he was ready to marry me, but that was because of greed. He hadn’t mentioned that possible marriage again, but I frequently found myself contemplating it, wondering if I would agree to it. Of course not! I told myself harshly. I wanted only to finish my part of the bargain and leave. I wanted to open my dress shop. I wanted independence. Edward Baker meant nothing to me but five hundred pounds, and I would be delighted to see the last of him.

  I sat up with a start as I heard the voices.

  “She’s such a drab child,” Vanessa said.

  “She can’t help it if she’s not beautiful,” Lyman growled.

  “I simply fail to understand how I could be the mother of such an ugly little sparrow.” Her voice sounded strange, a bit too high-pitched. “She has no wit, Lyman, no sparkle. Surely a gypsy must have switched babies on us.”

  “Maybe so,” Lyman rumbled.

  The voices were coming from the herb garden, immediately behind me. I was appalled, afraid they might discover me, afraid Lyman might think I was eavesdropping again. Then, as the conversation continued, I frowned, puzzled. Lyman’s voice sounded peculiar, too, not nearly deep enough, and when Vanessa spoke again there was a tremulous quality, the sentence ending with a tight little squeak. I realized then that both voices were one, that both were exceptionally clever imitations. A third voice spoke. It was soft and crooning, incredibly tender.

  “Don’t you fret, precious. Mother loves you. You’re not beautiful either, but it doesn’t matter, you see. I love you just the same—”

  It was one of the most heartbreaking things I had ever heard. It hurt, hearing that voice, hearing those words, and I was unable to help myself. Rising, I moved to the wroughtiron gate that led into the herb garden. I opened it very quietly, closed it soundlessly behind me. A small, gnarled apple tree, frothy with pink and white blossoms, grew beside one of the uneven stone walls espaliered with neatly clipped green shrubs. The child sat beneath the tree, her legs folded under her, her simple yellow dress making a wide circle on the grass. In her arms she cradled a shabby, tattered rag doll, and beside her were several more dolls, far more splendid. One was male, black hair painted on china skull, wearing an elegant suit, and one was dressed in a golden gown, obviously the pair she had been using to represent her parents.

  In the sunlight, her long straight brown hair gleamed with rich golden highlights. Her pale, thin face had a pinched look, an undeniably plain face, but the sour, belligerent expression was missing. Her gray eyes, ordinarily hostile, were filled with tenderness now as she gazed down at the rag doll, her lashes casting soft shadows over the sharp, angular cheekbones. It was a poignant sight. I felt a lump forming in my throat. Unaware of my presence, Lettice continued to croon, rocking the doll in her arms. Then, gently, she placed it in the doll carriage setting beneath the tree and, sighing, stood up.

  She saw me. She bristled. The tenderness left her eyes. They snapped with hostility again. Her hands clenched into tight fists.

  “Hello, Lettice,” I said casually.

  “What do you want here!”

  “I—I don’t want anything. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was exploring the gardens, and I smelled the herbs. I thought I’d come and look at them. What a lovely knot garden, all laid out in geometrical designs. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a prettier one—”

  “Go away!”

  “You don’t want to be friendly?”

  “I don’t need friends. Besides, you’re a grown up.”

  “Does that mean I can’t be your friend?”

  “You feel sorry for me. I can see it in your eyes. Poor little Lettice, you’re thinking. She’s so lonely. She needs someone to take an interest in her. Well, you can forget that. I’m a very bright child, and I don’t want to be patronized.”

  “I see. Well, I suppose I’ll just have to do without.”

  “Do without what?”
she asked harshly, suspicious.

  “A friend. You see, I’m lonely, too. Your mother—I might as well be frank, since you’re so bright—your mother doesn’t care for me, and my husband has been very busy, going over the estate books. I’ve had nothing to do, no one to talk to.”

  “You play cards with my great-uncle. You play several games with him, every afternoon. He used to play cards with me.”

  “And you resent that. I understand perfectly. Well, that’s all right. I’d much prefer to have an adult friend anyway. Why should I want to be friends with a child? I’ve no idea.”

  Turning my back to her, I strolled over to the edge of the knot garden and peered at it. It was small, a patchwork of color, and beyond grew the beds of tangy-scented herbs. I could feel the child’s eyes glaring at me as I bent to examine a sprig, touch a petal. When I turned, her face was like the face of a fiery young Amazon warrior.

  “You still here?” I asked idly.

  “I was here first!”

  “My, you are a shrewish little thing.”

  “You don’t like me, do you?”

  “Of course not. No one likes a shrew.”

  “I don’t want anyone to like me.”

  “I quite understand, dear. Do go on about your business. Don’t let me bother you. Oh my, what lovely dolls—” I exclaimed, pretending to notice them for the first time.

  “You’re too old to be interested in dolls,” she said scathingly.

  “I know, dear. I gave them up years ago, but seeing them reminds me of Amanda.”

  “Amanda?”

  “She was such a dear thing—I loved her deeply. When I was lonely, when I was sad, I’d talk to Amanda. It was—very comforting. She had big blue eyes. She looked up at me. She seemed to understand every word I was saying. Poor dear, she’s stuck away in a trunk now.”

  “You still have her?”

  “Naturally. I used to make clothes for her. I made the loveliest little gowns. Hats, too. I covered cardboard with silk, pasted tiny colored feathers on them, and—oh my, you probably think I’m patronizing you! I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  Lettice scowled, intrigued in spite of herself but determined not to show it.

  “Amanda’s a stupid name for a doll!”

  “You think so? Perhaps you’re right, but I was inordinately fond of her just the same. She was quite the best dressed doll you’d ever hope to see. I wonder if I can still make doll clothes? It’s been such a long time since I’ve made any. Oh well, why should I want to?”

  “I—” She hesitated, still scowling.

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t believe you have a doll named Amanda! I believe you made it up. And even if you do, I’ll bet you never made clothes for her.”

  “I beg to differ with you, dear. I might be out of practice now, but at one time I was the best doll seamstress in all of York. Why, I even made clothes for other girls’ dolls. It was such fun—gathering up pieces of cloth, hunting for bits of bright ribbon. The other girls would bring their dolls over, and I’d sew for them, too. Of course, I charged—” That, I thought, was a very realistic touch. “A penny a hat, tuppence a dress. I made quite a lot of spending money that way.”

  Totally uninterested, or at least pretending to be, Lettice began to gather up the other dolls and place them in the carriage alongside the ugly rag doll. When they were all lined up, she pushed the small black hood in place, took hold of the handle and turned to me with a sour, derisive expression.

  “If you do have a doll named Amanda, you may bring her up to the nursery to visit tomorrow morning at ten. I don’t believe you do, though. I still think you made it all up.”

  Pointed chin at a haughty angle, long brown hair streaming down her back, she left the garden, the wheels of the doll carriage creaking noisily as she pushed it ahead of her. I was in rather a fix, I reflected. I had made the first tentative step toward breaking through Lettice’s crusty shell and winning her friendship. However snippy her voice may have been, she had invited me to come to the nursery, but I couldn’t go without Amanda. Amanda, of course, had been created from whole cloth. As a child I had been interested in books, not dolls, and I had no earthly idea how I was going to obtain one before tomorrow.

  Chapter Eight

  I WORRIED about it the rest of the morning, and after lunch I sent word to Lord Mallyn that we wouldn’t be able to have our regular card game that afternoon. Someway, somehow, I had to find a doll. When I explained my dilemma to her, Susie solved it promptly. Although she couldn’t understand why I would want to make friends with a thorny, ’ateful brat like that Miss Lettice, a regular terror if ever there was one, she informed me that there was a small shop in the village that sold a few toys and said I could probably find a doll there. She would send George down to the stables immediately and have arrangements made to drive me there.

  “It’s such a lovely day—I’d rather walk,” I told her.

  “Walk!” Susie was horrified. “That idn’t thinkable, Miss Jenny. Mr. Edward’s wife can’t walk to the village—unescorted, too! It’d cause a bloomin’ scandal!”

  “Don’t be absurd. Besides, no one in the village knows who I am, and in this old dress I’m wearing they’d never guess.”

  “Mr. Edward wouldn’t like it either. ’E’d be furious if—”

  “No one need ever know,” I said calmly. “I should be back by four at the latest, Susie.”

  Seeing that any further argument would be futile, Susie gave an exasperated sigh, told me where to locate the shop and added that if I’d walk through the woods and over the fields behind the tenant farms I could save a good half mile both ways. I set out, amused by Susie’s sense of propriety. I supposed it was rather unconventional, but then I had spent four years in the theater and was quite accustomed to breaking conventions.

  The walk was lovely, the woods thick and green and dark, filled with glorious smells and rustling noises. The fields I crossed, far from the road leading to Mallyncourt, were uncultivated, rather stark, going to waste. Lyman, I knew, wanted to buy this land and add it to the estate, claiming it could be made to yield a good profit, but Lord Mallyn refused to authorize such an expenditure. Pausing on a grassy knoll, the wind whipping my skirts about my legs and tearing at my hair, I looked down at the tenant farms almost half a mile from where I stood. They were lovely, lush, squares of gold, green, brown, all enclosed with their low gray stone walls. I saw a flock of sheep moving up a rolling green hill, fleecy white lambs gamboling after the ewes, and the sky was like a clear, incredibly blue canopy stretching overhead.

  The village was busy and bustling, for it was market day, farm carts from all over the county pulled up around the square, the air filled with noisy bartering. I was enchanted by the rustic charm of the place. The cobblestone streets were steep and narrow, and the old stone shops, brown and gray-brown and mellow gold-brown, had painted wooden signs dangling over their doors. Tall trees spread soft violet-gray shade over the pavements, thick green leaves rustling overhead. There was an ancient church with a tarnished copper spire rising over the treetops, and from the blacksmith’s shop came the monotonous clang of iron on iron. Although the village was crowded today, no one paid any attention to me as I moved past the market stalls and headed toward the shop Susie had told me about.

  It was wonderful to feel so carefree, so alive, to be Jenny Randall again and forget about the role I had been playing for the past weeks. The strain of those weeks had been worse than I thought, but now I could revel in freedom, if only for a short while. I stopped to peer over the wall at the old, moss-covered marble tombstones in the churchyard, moved on up the street to see the loaves of freshly-baked bread in the baker’s window. The shop I was looking for was located on the next corner, a dim, dusty place with a charm and character all its own. I found the doll immediately. It was very old-fashioned, a bit shopworn, but that suited my purpose nicely. I wouldn’t want anything too grand. The shopkeeper wrapped it up in a neat parcel fo
r me, and, my mission accomplished, I left the village just shortly after three o’clock.

  Moving down a narrow, sandy lane with wild hawthorns, ablaze with red and pink blossoms, growing thickly on either side, I soon reached the wooden stile that led into the fields. I climbed over it and stood there for a moment, marveling at the sight unfolding before me. To my right, as far as the eye could see, were the cultivated tenant farms belonging to Mallyncourt, while the fields on the left were gray green, moorlike, making a striking contrast. In the distance, a mile and a half away, I could see the rooftops of the great house, just visible beyond the woods. Silhouetted against the sky, a darker blue now, gray clouds drifting and casting great rolling shadows over the land, it all made a magnificent panorama. Something inside of me responded to this land, unlike any I had known before. It was so vast, so lovely. I could see why Lyman loved it, why it meant so much to him. Unlike Edward, he belonged here. He was a part of all this, as his ancestors had been before him. It meant nothing to Edward besides a source of income.

  I was in a thoughtful mood as I wandered slowly across the fields. How strange life was, I reflected, and how unpredictable. Five years ago I had been living in a genteel country house, surrounded by friends and two loving parents, a completely typical product of our age with a typical future in store: a husband, a home, children. That had changed so quickly, so abruptly, and now, after four years in the gaudy, flamboyant world of a ramshackle theatrical company here I was, strolling across a rough, grassy field with a doll under my arm. Six weeks ago I had never heard of Mallyncourt, yet now my whole life was centered around the house and the people who lived there. What did the future hold in store for me next? Would there be another abrupt, dramatic change? I wondered what I would be doing a year from now.

  Not paying much attention where I was going, I stumbled down a grassy slope covered with gay yellow buttercups and tiny, delicate pink flowers I didn’t recognize. The fragrance was delicious. I stopped to gather a handful, holding them up to my nostrils. A shadow fell over the land as another cloud passed over the sun, and everything was dark for a moment, gradually lightening again as the cloud rolled on. The sunlight was dimmer now, a pale, misty white, and the sky an even darker blue, blue gray. Moving on across the fields, I saw an old, deserted barn ahead, a weather-beaten relic of more prosperous days. The great doors sagged open, revealing the darkness within, and damp, ancient hay spilled from the loft. Absorbed in my thoughts, I drew nearer and nearer the barn, the ground rough and soggy underfoot.