“Always good to see his nibs enjoying himself.”
“My, what fun you all have at Mucklesfeld Manor.” Mrs. Malloy oozed rapt admiration, drawing Mrs. Foot’s attention not so much to her as to what lay at her feet.
“Now how did that get in here? It’s the one from the gallery table lamp.”
“It dropped from the banisters onto my friend’s head,” I said.
“And if I’m not complaining who should,” fired back said friend, “a very handsome shade and no damage done to me hat, as isn’t my best by a long shot. I’ve a much smarter one at home that me friends,” her voice took on a most unbecoming simpering quality, “call me lady of the manor hat.”
I was watching Mrs. Foot as closely as possible, given the weak lighting. She was shaking her head, batting the gray locks against her neck. Her look of amused wonderment was perfect, but I again felt the prickle down my spine that spread to a subzero chill. She was smiling her jovial gap-toothed smile, but I saw the face peering malevolently through the banisters. Did she believe I hadn’t seen her?
“Well, isn’t that something!” She looked from Boris-who had shifted further to her side-to Mr. Plunket, and back again. “I was up there at the time crawling around the floor doing a lastminute bit of dusting, and when I got to my feet you’d,” turning those globs of eyes on me, “you’d gone down in a faint and I can’t say I noticed the lamp shade on the other lady’s head, let alone saw it go over the railing. Like I’ve said, odd things do happen at Mucklesfeld that have us all scratching our heads.”
I hoped she wouldn’t put action to words. That hair of hers looked as though it had been around far longer than she had been on this earth and I was afraid of what might fly out.
“How’s the tea?” she asked.
The truthful answer would have been dreadful, but I said it had put life back in me. To prove the point, I attempted to get off the sofa, but was compelled by an upsurge of ridiculous dizziness to sink back down. The nibble of gray biscuit had clearly not sat well with me. And the headache was back in sickening force. I wondered if I had a migraine. I’d never had one, but as the cheerful cliche goes, there is a first time for everything. Given the stresses of the day, coupled with an atmosphere that seemed ripe for a lifetime of languishing as an invalid waiting for the doctor to arrive with his medical bag stuffed full of leeches and the recommendation to keep the hartshorn always at hand, I wouldn’t be surprised if I’d come down with something worse. Ben eyed me worriedly, but Mrs. Malloy appeared cheerfully oblivious. The thought even crossed my mind that she was looking on the bright side of things.
“Mrs. Foot makes a very good cuppa.” Mr. Plunket’s face creased into admiration.
“Best tea maker in the world.” Boris cracked a smile that was ghastly to behold. Mrs. Foot’s smile was pleased but modest.
“That’s going a bit far. But wouldn’t say much for me if I hadn’t got the hang of it after brewing up more pots of tea than was ever seen in China during all the years I was a ward maid, trundling the trolley around to the patients. Poor dears, it was what they lived for-a cup of char and a biscuit.”
Unbidden, I pictured her handing Wisteria Whitworth a cup of pale slop and ordering her to drink it down or could be her next treatment wouldn’t go as nice and smooth as would be hoped. I was being unfair. Blame that on the fact that even Florence Nightingale’s cool hand upon my brow wouldn’t have brought me bounding back to life.
“Yes, poor dears is right. Sad, it was, how few visitors most of them got. I used to say to the doctors it wasn’t right them lying there without a loved one’s hand to hold when they got weepy. ’Course there was exceptions…”
“I must get my wife to a doctor.” Ben was out of patience. He is always at his most handsome when agitated on my behalf. A pity I wasn’t up to appreciating the flaring of his nostrils, the muscle twitching in his left cheek, the arrogant set of his dark head. “Is there one nearby that I could phone and ask to see her?”
“There’s Dr. Rowley, him that’s his nibs’s cousin and has his surgery in his house this side of Grimkirk village,” replied Mr. Plunket, looking all at once like an important pumpkin. “But there’s no need for you to get on the blower. Right after bringing the lady in here, his nibs went off to fetch him. Said, given the fog, he’d walk rather than take the car. Sensible after what happened earlier. Could be he got there to find Dr. Rowley was out or just couldn’t go at a quick pace…”
He was interrupted by the door opening to reveal a man who was the living image of an older, silver-haired Cary Grant… or equally believably Carson Grant. He who had loved with invincible tenderness Wisteria Whitworth. Behind him came a lesser member of the male species holding a doctor’s black bag. My headache and queasy state notwithstanding, the centuries-old, murkily lighted room came suddenly and vibrantly to life. Amazingly, it was obvious as he crossed the room that this impossibly handsome… virile… authoritive (need I add urbane?) man had eyes only for me.
3
H ow are you feeling?” He stood looking down at me, and it was a moment before I realized that Ben had stepped aside to make room for him or that Mr. Plunket, Mrs. Foot, and Boris had ebbed out the door. The doctor, a rotund five foot six to his lordship’s magnificent six foot three, also might not have been there. The same could be said of Mrs. Malloy, who had stood up in acknowledgment of Lord Belfrey’s general greeting. Preen though she might, she was a shadow on the wall. I was in shock: Cary Grant… Carson Grant! Down to that entrancing cleft in the chin. Was I in a movie or a book? “Forgive me if Mrs. Foot forced one of her abominable cups of tea on you. She considers brewing up her main mission in life.”
His voice enhanced his every other charm; it was deeptimbred, with a slight blurring around the edges. I shifted to a more upright position on the sofa, the better to bask in his smile, which so engagingly crinkled the skin around his eyes. He had a wonderful mouth… perfect teeth, particularly remarkable for a man in his fifties. Poor Mrs. Foot, with that sizable gap. I regretted every unkind thought about her.
“Really,” I insisted, “there’s nothing wrong with me but a tension headache. It was nerve-wracking driving in the fog, and I haven’t eaten in ages because we couldn’t find a restaurant. That must have been what caused me to faint.”
“A sandwich and a glass of brandy would have been helpful.” Ben sounded none too friendly, especially it seemed to me when adding, “Your lordship.”
“Of course. Although I’m not sure anything prepared by Mrs. Foot would have made you feel any better.” A wry and utterly beguiling smile. “Georges LeBois, who is here for the filming, is refusing to eat. And regrettably I don’t keep alcohol in the house on account of Plunket having a weakness for anything that isn’t orange juice”-again the kindness came through-“but if my cousin Tommy, here”-placing a hand on the doctor’s shoulder-“prescribes a medicinal dose of brandy, or better yet cognac, for Mrs. Haskell, it will be fetched. A relation of ours lives within walking distance and she keeps an excellent cellar.”
“Quite right.” The doctor nodded his head vigorously. He had the round, guileless face of a schoolboy, his brown eyes shining with goodwill and his white hair fringing his forehead. His upper teeth (I was really noticing teeth or the lack thereof at Mucklesfeld) gave him endearingly goofy looks and a slight lisp. “I’m a teetotaler myself, for no reason other than I prefer lemonade, but it will be no trouble for me to walk over to Witch Haven, Celia’s house.”
“She’s the daughter of our cousin Giles, who was at Mucklesfeld before me,” explained his lordship.
“Interesting,” said Ben.
“I’m also a Belfrey, or should be,” the doctor chimed in cheerfully, “but my father chose to adopt my mother’s maiden name. He was estranged from the family, believing he’d never been fairly treated as the third son. Silly, these family feuds. Now, if you do not object, Mrs. Haskell, I will take a quick look at you.” He was opening his bag with great importance, encouraged by his wearing his big-boy suit instead of his play clothes. I pictured his mother agreeing on the condition that he didn’t play in the dirt.
“What sort of a look?” I asked uneasily.
“Nothing that will require any undressing. Just an examination of your head and eyes. It’s entirely possible,” he continued cheerfully, “that you fractured your skull or suffered a concussion in that fall.”
