“Yes, dear. This afternoon. I was doing a spot of shopping and thought I’d drop in to see her.”
He narrowed his gaze. “Why?”
“Why what, dear?”
“Why would you take time out of one of the busiest days of the year to visit the mother of a maid who has been in our employ exactly a week?”
Cecily felt a stirring of resentment. “I thought Ellie might be ill. Besides, it’s not as if her mother is a stranger. Mrs. Tidwell supplies the hotel with apples and cherries from her garden. I have met her on more than one occasion.”
“What does all this have to do with you chasing after a missing maid? Why didn’t you send one of the footmen to enquire after her health?”
Cecily raised her chin. “I do not question the management of your business, Baxter. I would thank you for not questioning mine.”
He at least had the grace to look somewhat contrite. “I didn’t mean to criticize, my dear. I was merely concerned that you were getting yourself involved in another nasty mess that seems so prevalent around this time of the year. I-”
Once more they were interrupted, this time by a petite woman in a purple velvet gown and a pink wide- brimmed hat weighed down by an assortment of flowers, feathers, and bright red cloth cherries.
“Cecily, my dear! It has seemed simply ages since we last saw you, hasn’t it Frederick, dear?” She looked over her shoulder. “Frederick? Drat the man. He was right behind me. Where has he gone now?”
“The bar, most likely,” Baxter said dryly. He rose to his feet and gave the newcomer a light bow of his head. “Mrs. Carter-Holmes Fortescue. What a pleasure.”
“Oh, the pleasure is mine, dear Mr. Baxter.” Phoebe Fortescue giggled behind her fan. “As always.”
Cecily smiled at her friend. “Hello, Phoebe. I’m so happy you could join us.”
“Yes, well, I’m afraid we are a little late. Frederick takes such an inordinate amount of time to get ready. I swear that man falls asleep while he’s dressing.” Phoebe sank onto a chair and fanned her face, blowing little tendrils of hair about as she did so.
Cecily was never quite sure whether or not to believe the rumor that Phoebe was quite bald and wore a wig under her massive hats. The fact that she had rarely seen her friend without a hat seemed to add credence to the supposition. Not that it mattered to her, of course. Phoebe was a dear friend, bald or not.
“Yes, well,” Baxter said, making no effort to sit down again, “perhaps I should seek good old Frederick out, in case he has nodded off somewhere.”
Phoebe looked up with a little gasp of gratitude. “Oh, would you, Mr. Baxter? So very good of you, I’m sure.”
“Not at all.” Ignoring his wife’s cynical shake of her head, Baxter bowed again and hurried off.
Cecily watched him leave, feeling an acute disappointment at having been robbed of her chance to dance with him. There was such little opportunity these days, and she missed the pleasure of whirling around the floor with him.
Much as she had enjoyed her two-step with Sir Walter, it could not compare with a lively waltz in the arms of her beloved husband.
“Such a gentleman, your husband.” Phoebe closed her fan and laid it on the table. “Tell me, Cecily, will Madeline and the good doctor be attending the ball tonight?”
“I’m afraid not, Phoebe.” Cecily picked up a plate of hors d’oeuvres and offered it to her friend. “Madeline didn’t think it was a very good environment to bring a baby.”
“Oh, of course.” Phoebe sniffed. “I forgot. She doesn’t have a mother with whom she can leave the poor child. Such a detriment to her social life. I wonder how Dr. Prestwick feels about being trapped in his house for the entire Christmas season. He always so enjoyed going out and about.”
Cecily resisted the urge to say something biting. Phoebe and Madeline had been at each other’s throats for as long as she could remember, and she had never understood why. She doubted very much if either of her friends knew why. It was a silly feud that went on and on without any signs of being resolved, and there were times when Cecily grew quite tired of having to resolve their arguments and keep the peace.
Phoebe took a miniature sausage roll from the plate, studied it for a moment, then popped it in her mouth. “I suppose she will have a good excuse not to attend my pantomime. She will be missing an excellent performance this year.”
Cecily rather doubted that. Phoebe’s presentations were known more for their mishaps than for any glowing tributes. Her cast of dancers had much to do with that. Not only were they miserably inept, their contempt for their director was made obvious both on and off the stage.
Phoebe usually lost control of the proceedings, and much to the delighted expectations of the audience, the result was, at times, utter chaos.
“As a matter of fact,” Cecily murmured, “Madeline will be at the pantomime. She and Dr. Prestwick will be bringing little Angelina with them. I think they would both be quite disappointed to miss your performance.”
“Oh!” Phoebe lifted her hands to straighten her hat. Having recovered from her surprise, she added, “Well, it is the highlight of the season, after all. I shall look forward to seeing the baby.”
She went on prattling, but Cecily wasn’t listening. She was envisioning a single shoe lying in the coal shed. Mrs. Tidwell’s words ran through her mind, shutting out all else.
CHAPTER 8
The following morning brought a heavy shower, and Pansy lifted her skirts as she stepped across the puddles in the courtyard. She’d been sent with a message for Samuel, and she intended to make every moment count. It wasn’t often she had an excuse to see him alone in the stables. She wasn’t about to squander the opportunity.
She’d taken a moment or two to pull strands of hair out from under her cap. Mrs. Chubb would have a fit if she saw that, but it was worth the risk to look modern and daring like the models in Mrs. Chubb’s magazines that her daughter sent her all the time.
Humming to herself, Pansy skipped across the last big puddle and smoothed down her skirt and apron. She pinched her cheeks to give them color, then spit on her finger and smoothed it across her eyebrows.
Secure in the knowledge that she looked the best she could, she marched into the stables. The smell took her breath away for a moment, and she tried not to breathe in too deeply as she scanned the stalls for a sight of Samuel.
She heard his voice before she saw him. By the soft tones he used she could tell he was talking to one of the horses. Creeping forward, she noticed three motorcars in the stalls opposite the horses.
Samuel had told her about them the first night they’d arrived. The first one, a sleek silver machine, belonged to Lord and Lady Millshire. Then the dark blue one in the next stall, that was Sir Walter Hayesbury’s. The third one, a small dark green motorcar, belonged to the crackpot in room nine, Mr. Mortimer.
“You have to learn to drive it first,” Samuel said from a few yards away.
She jumped, and swung around. “What?”
“The motorcar. If you’re thinking of stealing it, you have to know how to drive it.”
She tossed her head, wafting strands of hair across her face. Snatching them out of her eyes, she muttered, “I wasn’t thinking of stealing one. I never stole nothing in my entire life.”
Samuel laughed. “I know that. I was just teasing.” He walked a few steps toward her, then stopped. “I want you to meet a very good friend of mine. She’s sweet and pretty and I think you’ll like her.”
Pansy’s heart sunk. If it was that twerp Ellie, well, she’d already met her thank you very much. She didn’t want to meet any girl that Samuel thought was pretty and sweet. “I can’t stop,” she said, already turning away. “I just came to give you a message, that’s all.”
“It won’t take a minute.” To her surprise, Samuel looked over his shoulder and whistled. “Come here, Tess!
