“Now,” whispered Freddy. He grabbed the sleeping figure.
Which shot up and screamed and screamed. A shaft of moonlight fell on the terrified features of Mrs. Jerry Trumpington.
“Sorry,” babbled Freddy. “Thought it was my room.”
Mrs. Trumpington’s lady’s maid rushed in and began to scream as well. Sir Gerald Burke appeared in the doorway. Freddy and Tristram tried to get past him but he blocked the way. More guests began to appear carrying bed candles.
Daisy joined the crowd. When all attention was focused on the guilty pair, she slid Rose’s card neatly out of the holder and put back Mrs. Trumpington’s card.
“What is going on here?” demanded the Lord Hedley.
“Frightfully sorry, wrong room,” pleaded Freddy.
But Mrs. Trumpington had recovered from her fright. As her maid lit the gaslight, a distinctly salacious look began to appear in her small eyes.
“Two of you got into my bed. Why was that?”
“Too much to drink,” said Tristram desperately.
“Oh, you naughty, naughty boys,” said Mrs. Trumpington.
“What’s the matter?” Mr. Trumpington, a small man with a beaten air, shuffled to the front of the crowd wrapped in a violently coloured silk dressing-gown.
Mrs. Trumpington laughed. “I do believe these wicked, wicked boys were trying to seduce me.”
“Can’t be true,” said her husband. “I mean, why?”
“Downstairs, you two,” said the marquess to Freddy and Tristram. “The rest of you go to bed.”
Daisy slipped quietly back up to Rose’s room. Rose was fast asleep. She had not awakened during the whole commotion.
¦
Rose entered the breakfast room the following morning still blissfully unaware of the happenings of the night before. One long sideboard was laden with a row of silver dishes kept hot by spirit lamps. There was a choice of poached or scrambled eggs, bacon, ham, sausages, devilled kidneys, haddock and kedgeree. An even larger sideboard offered pressed beef, ham, tongue, galantines, cold roast pheasant, grouse, partridge and ptarmigan. A side table was heaped with fruit:melons, peaches, nectarines and raspberries. And in case anyone should prove to be still hungry – scones and toast and marmalade and honey and specially imported jams.
Rose, an early riser, was relieved to see there was only one other guest in the breakfast room, Margaret Bryce-Cuddlestone.
“You look very bright and fresh,” commented Margaret. “Never tell me you slept through the whole thing.”
“What whole thing?”
So Margaret told her. “This is outrageous,” exclaimed Rose when she had finished. “I’d better go home.”
“These things happen. No one else will mention it to you and the two culprits will never dare even approach you again. It is my belief that someone took the card from your door and put it on Mrs. Trumpington’s door. Mr. Pomfret and Tristram Baker-Willis were so ruddled with drink that they had lost their minds.”
Rose still looked distressed, so Margaret said, “Just think of it. The awful Mrs. Trumpington remains convinced it was her favours they were after.”
Rose began to laugh. “That’s better,” said Margaret. “Let’s go for a walk after breakfast.”
“I suppose I’d better get Daisy to accompany me.”
“Daisy?”
“My lady’s maid.”
“You call her Daisy?”
“Her surname is Levine and my mother wanted me to rename her Baxter, but I didn’t like that so I compromise by using her Christian name.”
“Yes, bring her along, I call mine by her first name. She is Colette Bougier and she complained that the English servants called her Booger. As she is a very good lady’s maid I capitulated and now I call her Colette.”
¦
The castle gardens lay outside the walls. The lady’s maids walked behind their mistresses, who had both changed into walking clothes after breakfast.
Colette put her hand on Daisy’s arm, causing her to stop until Margaret and Rose had moved out of earshot. “Terrible last night, was it not?” she whispered. “The way they do go on. In France one keeps the mistress discreetly hidden.”
“My lady is nobody’s mistress,” said Daisy hotly.
“I did not mean that. I mean, they say they put the cards on the bedroom doors so everyone can know which is their room, yes?”
“Yes, surely –”
“No, it is because perhaps some gentleman is protected from making the dreadful mistake of sleeping with his wife instead of his mistress.”
“You mean they ain’t got no morals,” said Daisy and quickly corrected herself, ever mindful of Rose’s teaching. “They haven’t any morals?”
“Only the young ladies go on as if they are in the convent.”
“Going to be a dull party, then,” said Daisy cheerfully. “Mostly young ladies.”
“Ah, but even they can fall. I know…”
“Colette! My shawl,” called Margaret, “And do keep up with us.”
Colette ran forward and wrapped the Paisley shawl she had been carrying around her mistress’s shoulders.
Rose had been telling Margaret all about Sir Geoffrey Blandon and how her father had hired a certain Captain Cathcart to find out about him.
“I’ve heard a rumour about a certain captain who fixes things, covers up scandals, things like that. What’s he like?”
“Nothing out of the common way,” said Rose stiffly. “Quite rude, in fact.”
“Has he done any more work for your father?”
Rose longed to tell her new friend all about the king’s aborted visit but decided that it was something she could
¦
The house party settled down to a routine of shooting and hunting for the men in the afternoons while the ladies read or sewed or played croquet. Then, after another long boring dinner, there were charades or cards. Rose found the company of Sir Gerald Burke amusing and her new friendship with Margaret enjoyable and yet she longed to go home.
There was an atmosphere in the castle she did not like. Almost at times a feeling of menace.
And yet the marquess paid her a great deal of fatherly attention. Finding out she liked to read, he took her on a tour of his library, proudly showing off leather-bound books bought by the yard from the bookseller, with little attention to content.
The weather had turned dark and stormy and the folly of having arrow slits in the walls of the towers was soon revealed as the wind screeched through them like so many banshees.
One particularly vile night, Rose sat up in bed reading a novel by H.G. Wells, unable to sleep because of the noise of the wind. Draughts were everywhere, seeping through the windows and under the doors, causing the flames of the candles to flicker.
And then she thought she heard a voice calling, “Fetch the doctor.”
She got out of bed just as Daisy came into the room. “I heard something, my lady. Did you hear it?”
“It sounded like someone calling for a doctor. I hope nothing has happened to Miss Bryce-Cuddlestone. Pass me my dressing-gown, Daisy.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Daisy.
Wrapped in dressing-gowns, they opened the door. There were faint sounds coming from downstairs on the
