02 - Down the Garden Path Page 11

  Something was different about both of them. They had dressed for lunch, Primrose by donning a rose-pink cardigan over her white silk blouse and Hyacinth by trailing plum lipstick across her mouth. Were they always this formal, or was the brightened plumage a response to the male presence?

  The gallant doctor, true to his name, hotfooted it over to Primrose. Removing the tray, he lowered it gently as a new-born infant on the coffee table. As the ladies took their seats he planted his hands behind his back, focussed on their expectant faces, and took a professional grip on himself. “The straight facts, ladies. We are dealing here with a very sensitive, we might even say precarious, situation. But”— his chest expanded—”some small headway has been made, the veil is lifting.”

  The sisters exchanged dubious glances.

  “Now.” He raised bespectacled eyes ceilingward. “It must be left to flutter free of its own accord. If it were to be brutally wrenched away in the clinical atmosphere of some backward cottage hospital I fear this girl could be thrust over the brink into the final abyss.”

  Stuff it, Harry.

  “Dear me,” murmured Hyacinth and Primrose.

  Dr. Hotfoot absently accepted the cup of weak tea handed him. “Gentle interrogation while the patient was in the semi-comatose state revealed that she was especially susceptible to the amnesia due to an already unsettled state of mind. A recent distressing love affair.” Tea slopped over the sides of the cup. The Tramwells would think him professionally distraught, I knew he was laughing. “The man must have been an animal. Any gently reared young girl would have been ... but I will not elaborate.”

  “Indeed we would not wish to hear,” tutted Primrose.

  “I don’t know, perhaps we ought ...” said Hyacinth.

  Dr. Hotfoot pursed his lips and I was terrified the moustache would fly off. He stroked it back down and continued. “A sad case. One shock following another, coupled with her appearing to be quite alone in the world, may delay her complete recovery somewhat. But I do believe it could be accelerated if you good ladies will continue providing a quietly sustaining atmosphere. One in which she may learn to trust humanity again.” He now calmed himself by a deep swallow of tea, leaving the moustache half drowned.

  Would he never leave?

  Hyacinth squared her already rigid shoulders. “Have no fear, doctor. My sister and I were raised to know our civic duty.”

  The doctor looked at the mantel clock. All urgings that he remain for lunch were hurriedly refused and, black bag in hand, he bowed over the sisters’ extended hands. Turning to me, he suggested that if I would show him out he would describe a series of simple mental exercises which might prove efficacious.

  “I’ll be in the Ruins every morning at three A.M. should you need to talk. You might want to bring a letter for me to post to your father,” he whispered at the front door and I nodded, almost pushing him out. I felt, rather than heard, Butler come up behind me.

  “Luncheon is served, miss. In the parlour.”

  The sisters were seated at the table contemplating a chicken salad when I rejoined them.

  “Not an offensive man, considering,” said Hyacinth as I sat down and unfolded my serviette.

  “Considering he is a doctor?”

  “That, and the moustache. Violet once had a very handsome admirer, but Father insisted that any man who wore a moustache was hiding something, so it all came to nothing. Shall we say grace?”

  The rest of the afternoon passed placidly. As we sat in the sitting room Hyacinth asked me to help her wind some wool, a rather pretty pink three-ply, for Violet’s youngest. The children did enjoy getting presents from England. But when I was at the point of asking more about this sister— when and to whom she was married—a knot was discovered in the wool. Primrose hovered over us, blocking out the light as we tried to unpick it.

  “Such a vast, brash country, America,” she said. “I never can quite understand how Violet has adjusted to the way of life, spirited though she always was. They don’t use bread and butter plates, I hear. No, we have never been. Violet has often urged us to visit, but her husband ... a deadly man.” A small titter hastily suppressed. “Yes, the least said about him the better, and Hyacinth and I have never been much for travel. Surprising if you believe in heredity. Our great-great-great-grandfather Sinclair Tramwell went all round the world.”

  “This Sinclair, he was an officer in the navy?”

  “A tea taster,” Hyacinth responded, the restored wool gliding once again through her fingers. “The first member of the family to go into trade. Considered highly deplorable at the time, but he did bring home some nice knickknacks.”

  “People were so narrow-minded years ago.” Primrose sat down and put her feet up on a small stool. “One of our ancestors married the innkeeper’s daughter; you’ll see her in the gallery—looks well-endowed. But Sinclair is the only one in our family to have had sea fever, along with the gambling spirit. Tea was gold in his day and he quite restored the shaky family fortunes.”

  “I saw his portrait in the gallery.” The ball of wool rolled to the edge of my lap and I started winding again.

  Hyacinth nodded. “Has the look of a pirate or a smuggler, doesn’t he? Either term would undoubtedly fit. Today he would simply be called an astute businessman. From stories told he was extremely popular among the tenants—not home to bother them much and when he was, lenient and open-handed. But of course a man like that has his enemies. He and the Squire of that time were always at each other’s throat. Here in this house, at dinner one night, old Grundy created an uproar, insisting the pilchards were off. He accused Sinclair of trying to do him mortal harm.”

  “One of my favourite anecdotes.” Primrose beamed. “The way Father told it, Sinclair leapt four foot above his chair shouting, ‘Churl! Such was not my intent in asking you to dine, you leprous fool, but I am more than ready to oblige!’ With which he lunged across the table crunching china to fragments and pinked the Squire good and proper.”

  “Was he badly hurt?” I asked, delighted.

  “Not bloodily so. Squire Grundy was mainly outraged that Sinclair had not bothered to wipe off his knife before taking a poke at him, and that he got pilchard juice all down his starched white shirt. However, one must bear in mind Father’s own delight in the dramatic.”

  “Do you think your father may have resembled Sinclair in ...”

  “Flamboyance?” Hyacinth’s wiggly black brows burrowed closer together. “Perhaps, but there was no resemblance in the financial sense. Father considered money the most vulgar word in the English language and forbade us even to think about it. He was a kind, loving, incredibly naive old ...”

  “Scallywag,” supplied Primrose. “When we were young most fathers did not participate much in child-rearing. He did. He even taught us to knit. He adored us all. The hours he spent playing tin soldiers, golden steps, and blind man’s bluff ... but he was never the same, after Lily.” Primrose moved the stool back and stood up. “My word, how dark it is getting. I’d better draw the curtains.”

  Father and Lily. What was it about that combination? The cheerful reminiscing mood in the room was what had suddenly darkened. Not the day itself. Had the adoring playful parent turned harsh and violent on discovering that his beloved—favourite—daughter was with child, and thrust her, unprotected, out on her own? Wouldn’t the mother have had something to say about that? I had such a strong feeling for Lily. Did that mean ... ? But I would not be cheated again. America was only hours away by air. And I would travel a lot farther to see and touch the woman who had held me as a baby. Tessa, slow down! Explore other avenues.

  “You say your father taught you to knit, didn’t your governess ... ?”

  “We never had one,” Primrose replied. “Father thought them frivolous.”

  So ...

  I snapped back to my surroundings to hear Hyacinth say, “On the subject of squires past and present I am rather surprised we haven’t heard from Godfrey. He had mentione
d a problem with Thursday, saying he might prefer having us for dinner tomorrow,”

  “Couldn’t you have phrased that some other way, dear?” Primrose sat down again. “You make him sound like a cannibal and us the main course.”

  “Well, if the main course is to be ...” Hyacinth stopped and stared as I gave a small gasp.

  That phone message! I had forgotten to relay it to the sisters. Biting the edge of a fingernail, I murmured guiltily, “Would the Squire be a person with a rather high voice and a mother in need of a new coat? He rang this morning to say Wednesday does suit him better this week and pigeons are on the menu.”

  “Perfect,” replied Hyacinth briskly. “I will go and phone Godfrey now to sort out the details. Take this wool, Prim, and Tessa’s ball. We can finish later.”

  She was only gone for a few minutes and on re-entering flicked the electric light switch by the door. “Yes, I know it is early, Primrose, but I don’t suppose Tessa finds sitting with only one lamp on as cosy as we do.”

  These rich people and their petty thrifts! But I forgot my amusement when Hyacinth casually informed us that Squire Grundy had been excessively enthused to learn they had a guest, and that he had invited me to join his little dinner party and the card game to follow. I could hardly contain my glee. What luck. What a splendid opportunity to meet other residents of Flaxby Meade. The Grundys were bound to include several other local people among their guests.

  “Oh, but I couldn’t,” I murmured.

  “Oh, but you must,” insisted Primrose. “You will so enjoy seeing Cheynwind. It is quite magnificent although much more modern than Cloisters. And, unfortunately, the Grundys are still considered something of outsiders, as their family has only been in residence for the past couple of hundred years. Besides which, several of the Grundy males have not married for rather obvious reasons. Not that I wish to imply that Godfrey is one of those pixie persons who are always coming out of the wardrobe these days ...”

  As fluttery as Primrose, I ran fingers through my tangled mop of curls, opened my eyes wide in wistful appeal and released a sighing breath. “How kind of Mr. Grundy to include me, but I don’t have anything suitable to wear for evening, and I don’t ... remember if ... I play cards.” Under cover of one hand I crossed two fingers into a knot. A close call that.

  “Indeed, child, I would not suggest your joining the play. The friendliest game of whist can be emotionally taxing. Not at all what Dr. Hotfoot ordered. And as for clothes—” Primrose reached out a childlike eager hand for me—“the romantic fashions being so much back in vogue we are bound to find something suitably delightful for you in one of the trunks in the attics. Hyacinth, wouldn’t she look delicious in white organza, an Empire waist, and those adorable puffed sleeves?”

  * * * *

  Hyacinth declined to join our expedition to the upper regions, saying she wished to gather up all the overdue library books. By the time we reached the rickety stairs leading to the attic I began to feel that my whole day had been spent climbing up and down mildewed staircases, but stepping on to the wooden floor of the attic was not quite like entering the priest hole. The illumination from the porthole window showed that this space was as congested as the other was barren. Trunks, crates, disused furniture, stacks of pictures, and mounds of tattered lampshades created a maze of pathways, wavering in the gloomy half-light. The whole place reeked of the past. A shivery tingle iced down my back. But it wasn’t unpleasant. The ghosts here would be the housewifely sort, not the kind in Abbots Walk.

  I was smiling to myself when I noticed that the attic was inhabited by a presence. A tall slim figure in a simple grey dress that clung like the Yorkshire mist about her body as she stood, back turned to us, gazing up at the window. Was it to her a mirror? Arms lifted in a graceful arc, a silver lace shawl over her floating dark hair.

  “Why, Chantal,” wheezed Primrose from beside me, “stargazing, I see. Do they tell you anything of interest?”

  “Certainly, madam,” came the softly throaty reply. The woman’s hands slid down, and she bent to pick up a picture lying face down on the floor, placing it on a trunk. Without turning she moved closer to the window. “They tell me many things about the second Tessa. And I will be happy to reveal them all, if she will cross my palm with silver.”

  Now she turned, slowly, the heavy hair moving with her in a dark sea wave. With the soft starlight falling around her I recognized her at once. Chantal was the girl in Harry’s bed.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  Blackmail! As I wafted up and down on my bedroom swing that night, growing sicker and fainter by the minute (I had been unable to force down a bite of food at dinner), that one word kept clanging inside my head. All the while Primrose and I had been riffling through forgotten finery I kept telling myself that Harry would never have discussed me, and the amnesia stunt, with a casual bedmate. Met at some pub, doubtless, between here and Kings Ransome.

  But he wouldn’t have needed to tell her anything. She was psychic, wasn’t she? Fergy had the sight herself. She often knew what I would do before I had finished plotting. But Chantal’s kind of vision was different. Evil. She had to be evil because she must have recognized me, as I had her. Blackmail, Blackmail. I floated down on a queasy wave. Why hadn’t she piped up with, “Lawks, Miss Tramwell, ma’am, the young lady is the friend of a friend of mine. If she don’t remember her name, he will”?

  I closed my eyes to stop the room from shifting. I must be providing immense amusement for her. And a superb opportunity for revenge. The swing shimmied to a standstill. My hands were chafed and I rubbed them against my face. To be, reluctantly, fair, I could admit that Chantal might be justified in feeling some spite for me. Especially if Harry had told her that he was ... interested in me. Harry! Was he her reason for keeping silent about my identity? Did she see herself having a better chance with him the longer I remained in never-never land?

  I got off the swing, steadying myself on a rope. Was it—was it possible that she was genuinely infatuated with him? I felt chilled through in my shroud nightgown. Harry was more than a highly desirable man, he was ... I was looking at the window which I had left slightly open. No wonder I felt cold. I clutched tighter at the rope. I’d given myself the creeps thinking about Chantal. It was stupid, but I hadn’t felt this scared in the priest hole.

  The priest hole. She had already enjoyed some revenge, had she? Good, because she wouldn’t get many more chances. And she wouldn’t get Harry ... tonight at any rate. Until now I hadn’t given another thought to his promise to be in the Ruins at three in the morning, but ... an apple tree stood directly outside my window. A quick flit down that and a race across the lawn—nothing could be simpler or safer so long as everyone was in bed.

  What time was it now? Instinctively I made for the bedside table, quite forgetting that I had not yet found my watch. There it was, lying in a neat coil of silver chain. Butler or Chantal must have found it—fallen on the floor—and put it back. Holding it was a kind of magic. White magic. I felt safer, stronger, more lovable. I missed Angus Hunt. He would have told me to tackle the powers of evil with a flourish.

  At the moment, alas, I couldn’t do much of anything; it was only a little after midnight. Rather than lying on the bed and risking sleep I drew a chair up to the window, and rested my chin on the ledge. I may have dozed. At any rate it did not seem much later when I lifted the watch chain away from my neck and saw that it was five minutes to three. Wide awake, I raised the latch, pushed the window outwards and heard the sound of enthusiastic barking, saw a rush of deeper shadow, and knew myself to be a prisoner.

  Even if Minerva went in within minutes I could not chance someone still being up when I descended. It was almost as if that someone had known. And might there not be more to her knowledge than the psychic gift? Chantal had been in the house during Dr. Hotfoot’s visit. He had mentioned hearing a woman singing as he came in. Was it possible that she had recognized Harry under the false moustache
and hidden eavesdropping in the hall when we arranged the meeting place?

  As I crawled into bed I faced up to two choices. I could somehow find a way to deal with Chantal’s knowing more about me than was healthy, or I could walk downstairs tomorrow morning with my memory intact and say a quick round of polite farewells. Rather like choosing between the hangman’s rope and the headsman’s axe, Fergy would say. But I knew as my eyelids drooped that I wasn’t going anywhere tomorrow, except of course to Cheynwind Hall.

  As I drifted towards sleep, the image of Chantal was still with me. Harry wouldn’t have forgotten if she had told him she worked at Cloisters as a maid. So what persona had she created for herself? Model? Actress? Opera singer? Wretched Minerva! It only I could have met Harry tonight, seen his face when I told him whom I had met in the attic. Funny about that . . vast yawn ... other than stargazing, what was Chantal doing in the attics Primrose had said no one ever visited these days? Borrowing old finery for her days out? I ground my teeth.

  Tomorrow, tomorrow. All would be made plain tomorrow. Untrue.

  * * * *

  I woke late feeling fusty and cross. I had to rush to get down before the sisters finished breakfast, and found myself distinctly peeved that neither asked how my amnesia was doing. Primrose twerped on instead about Minerva’s recent habit of wanting to be let out in the middle of the night.

  “Pretends she wants to go to the bathroom, but we think she has a gentleman friend. Don’t we, Hy? I do hope she didn’t disturb you, Tessa. It’s bad enough that Butler or Chantal has to get up. Naturally Butler is a nocturnal person, always up and about at the most inhuman hour, but even so …”

  My vision blurred, but I was not allowed time to coax myself back to vigour with a second cup of tea. Primrose chivvied me upstairs to a little turret room, reminiscent of the one where Sleeping Beauty came to grief with a spindle. My appointment was with an ancient treadle sewing machine.