Death at Dawn - Caro Peacock [61]
‘How soon can you take it? Tomorrow?’
‘Yes. If I leave at first light, I can be back by the time the children have to be got up.’
She knelt on the carpet and took my hand between both of hers.
‘Oh, I am so very grateful. I do believe you’ve saved my life.’
‘Not quite as dramatic as that, surely.’
‘Oh, you can’t know.’
I said, as gently as I could manage, ‘Are you so very scared of your stepfather?’
‘I am scared of him, yes, but that isn’t the worst of it. Miss Lock … Oh, I can’t go on “miss”-ing you. What’s your name?’
‘Lib—, Elizabeth.’
‘Elizabeth, there are things I mustn’t tell you. But do believe that I might be in the most terrible danger of being put in prison or … or killed even, for something that isn’t my fault at all.’
I wanted to say that there was no need for this drama because I’d carry her letter in any case, but I bit my tongue and slipped my hand from hers.
‘I’d better go back to the children.’
‘How shall I know you’ve sent it?’ she said.
‘That bench we sat on, in the flower garden – if I’m back safely, I’ll pick a flower and leave it there.’
‘Yes. I mustn’t be seen talking with you too much, specially now Stephen’s back. He notices more than Mama.’
‘Where has your brother been?’
‘He stays in London, mostly. He’s studying to be a lawyer.’
I wondered whether to tell her about my conversation with Stephen. It would have reassured her, of course, but I was still annoyed by her dramatics.
Or perhaps I was falling into the spy’s habit of secrecy.
I got back to the schoolroom just in time for my share of minced mutton and green peas. In the afternoon, as a treat for the children, we were allowed the use of the pony phaeton to take them over to the keeper’s cottage on the edge of the estate to see a litter of month-old puppies. Mrs Beedle had half-promised Charles he might have one for his own, if my reports on his progress in Latin and arithmetic were satisfactory. It was good to see them playing and laughing with the puppies, so much more at ease when they were away from the house.
‘I shall tell her he’s doing well, whether he does or not,’ I whispered to Betty.
‘Yes. Goodness knows, they don’t have an easy life, poor mites.’
Betty was watching Henrietta clutching a wriggling puppy and not caring about her dress for once. It seemed an odd thing to say about three children who lived lives of such privilege, but that evening I had an illustration of what she meant. The bell rang as usual, and we escorted them downstairs. Only the immediate family were present, including Stephen. He was sitting on a chair beside his mother’s sofa, showing her something in a book. Lady Mandeville was smiling, more animated than I’d ever seen her, as if he were a lover instead of a son. When James went running to her, she hugged the boy as she usually did and spoke to him, but still with half her attention on Stephen. Celia was sitting by the square piano painted with swathes of roses and forget-me-nots, but didn’t look as if she’d been playing it. She said good evening, mostly to Betty rather than me. Mrs Beedle was by the window, sewing as usual, and Sir Herbert was standing by the fireplace, reading letters and paying no attention at all to the rest of his family. Henrietta, who hated to be ignored, went over and stood beside him.
‘Papa, may I have a puppy too?’
She said it in a wheedling lisp, so at first I wasn’t sorry when he ignored her and went on reading.
‘Papa, may I …?’
He gestured to her to be quiet. Lady Mandeville called across from the couch.
‘Henrietta, come here and stop bothering your father.’
Anybody could tell the letter was annoying him. His face was going red, his shoulders rigid. But the child wouldn’t budge.
‘Cowards. Miserable, temporising pack of damned cowards!’
He shouted it at the top of his voice, crumpled the letter and threw