Snobbery With Violence - M. C. Beaton [22]
Rose, reflected Harry, was looking exceptionally beautiful in a white chiffon gown and with white silk roses in her hair. He wondered how Daisy fared in the rigid snobbish hierarchy of the servants’ hall.
He tried to engage Lady Hedley, who was seated on his right, in conversation. “The weather has been very fine this summer,” volunteered the captain.
“Yes, indeed,” she said. “Strawberries were fine. Yes.” Then she relapsed into silence.
“Lady Rose appears to be in full bloom tonight,” pursued Harry.
“Yes. Fine. Pity.”
“Pity?”
“All that beauty. Spinster. Can’t be anything else now.”
“Society has a short memory.”
“Not that short,” she said gloomily. She cast a sudden waspish glance in her husband’s direction and muttered, “Men with beards shouldn’t eat soup. Disgusting.”
There seemed to be nothing to reply to that, so Harry turned his attention to the pale cousin on his other side. What was her name? Ah, Miss Durwant-Flint.
“Do you live far away, Miss Durwant-Flint?”
“London.”
“Ah, where in London?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I was just making conversation,” said Harry.
“I don’t like conversing during dinner. No one should have to converse while they are eating. Barbarous.”
Harry gave up and finished his dinner in silence, which took quite a long time because there were eight courses. At last Lady Polly rose and the ladies followed her out. The gentlemen were left alone with the port.
Mr. Busy, the rector, had fallen asleep. His mouth was open. He should have been called Mr. Lazy, thought Harry.
Hedley told several smoking-room anecdotes and laughed immoderately at his own humour. Then he fixed his bloodshot eyes on Harry. “Don’t say much, do you?”
“Don’t get much chance,” said Harry coldly.
“You’re a young man. You should try to be more cheery” said Hedley, relishing the sound of the latest slang word. “Wait a bit. You’re that chap who fixes things.”
The earl looked at Harry and shook his head to convey the message that he had not been indiscreet.
Harry found he had conceived a strong dislike for Hedley, so he smiled enigmatically and said nothing.
“I asked you a question,” said Hedley.
Harry smiled and poured himself another glass of port. “And I didn’t answer,” he said.
Hedley gave him a baffled stare and then turned his attention to the earl. “Seems a shame you should all be in purdah because of little Rose. I’m giving a house party in a month’s time. Got a few eligibles coming. Young people. Send Rose.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said the earl. “I am sure my wife will be free to chaperone her.”
“Don’t need a chaperone. Her maid will do. M’wife’ll look after her.”
“Well, I suppose...”
“Just the thing she needs.”
“Oh, all right, then.”
What’s going on here? wondered Harry. Does this jovial marquess really want to do Rose a favour?
The village of Stacey Magna was one of those places that look so well portrayed on chocolate boxes and were uncomfortable to live in, the thatched cottages being damp and insanitary. The inhabitants lived a quiet rural life, but were saved from the misery of poverty which plagued other agricultural villages in England, for the earl was a generous landlord and made sure everyone had enough food and that there was a school for the children.
Two evenings later, the inhabitants went to bed soon after the sun had set, to save the expense of candles, and a deep quiet settled over the houses and the surrounding countryside.
But they were all awakened at midnight by a tremendous explosion. The braver ones rushed out to see what had happened; the others cowered in their beds tliinking the Day of Judgement was at hand.
It transpired that just before the main entrance to the earl’s estate, where a pretty hump-backed bridge spanned a river, the whole bridge had been blown up. Just as several men from the village were exclaiming over the smoking ruin, there was another huge explosion, bigger this time, from the direction of the railway.
They set off in that direction, keeping together, looking