Sick of Shadows - M. C. Beaton [42]
The earl, who had just returned from his club, was told by Brum, “Sir Peter Petrey wishes to speak to you, my lord.”
“Does he now!” Lady Polly and her husband exchanged glances.
When they entered the drawing-room, Peter rose to meet them. “My lord, my lady, I will get directly to the point of my call. I wish to marry your daughter.”
“You have my permission,” sighed the earl. “I’ll send Rose to you, but don’t get your hopes up.”
“Lady Rose has already intimated that she would be pleased to accept my suit.”
“Splendid! Splendid!” said the earl. “Leave you to it.”
Harry was so furious when he read the announcement that Becket did not dare tell him it had been his idea.
Instead Becket said cautiously, “I fear, sir, that Lady Rose may have been anxious to set up her own household and found in Sir Peter someone amiable who would let her have her own way.”
“Oh, to hell with her,” raged Harry. “I’m well out of it. I’m going to see Kerridge.”
At Scotland Yard, Kerridge looked sympathetically at Harry. “It’s your own fault,” he said. “You did neglect her.”
Harry shrugged. “I may as well tell you now. It was an arrangement between us to stop her being sent out to India.”
“That’s a pity. I always thought the pair of you were eminently suitable. Still, that’s an end to her detecting. She won’t be getting into any more trouble now.”
In the following weeks Rose began to relax and feel she had made a wise decision. Peter was always in attendance and was a free and easy companion. But there was still some black little piece of sorrow inside her. She told herself it was because she missed the excitement of being with Harry and Becket and solving cases.
One morning, she remembered guiltily that it had been some days since she had last visited Miss Friendly. She went up to the attic. She stopped outside the door. Miss Friendly was singing in a high reedy voice:
“Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.”
Rose pushed open the door and went in. “I heard you singing. I assume that means you are still happy with us, Miss Friendly?”
“So very happy, Lady Rose. Funnily enough, I was just remembering when Roger, the blacksmith’s son, used to sing that song. It was originally a Longfellow poem. He had such a lovely voice.”
“I wish I knew where this Roger is now,” said Rose. “What are you working at?”
Miss Friendly flushed slightly. “I regret to say that I am working for myself just now. I have put on weight and I am letting out a gown.”
Rose laughed. “You needed to put on weight.” Then she said, “Did you ever do any charity work?”
“When Papa was alive I used to call on the unfortunate of the village. There were so many. I would give them what food we could spare.”
“Miss Levine has suggested that I might do some work in the soup kitchens of the East End. Perhaps you might care to accompany me?”
“Gladly. Charity work is very rewarding.”
“Then I shall let you know when we are setting out.”
Rose went back down the stairs and told Daisy they would be taking Miss Friendly with them when they set out on charity work. To Daisy, a trip to the East End of London was a journey back into her past that she was reluctant to make.
She asked, “Did Miss Friendly remember anything more about Dolly that might be important?”
“No, she was just saying, however, that this Roger Dallow had an excellent singing voice.”
Daisy’s green eyes gleamed. “If I were a blacksmith’s lad and had a good voice and had endured enough hard labour to last me a lifetime, I’d try to get a job in the music hall.”
“I never thought of that. But there are so many theatres in London.”
“I could go out and buy a copy of The Stage Directory. The offices are in Covent Garden opposite the Theatre Royal.”
“And you think he might be in there?”
“Perhaps.”
“Good. Let us go now. I do not have an engagement until this evening.”
They took one of the earl’s