A Difficult Disguise (20 page)

Added to this, the boy was still eating his evening meal with Hedge, who ate later than the rest of the servants because no one wanted to sit downwind of the bandy-legged Cockney.

Beck, whom Lethbridge had approached with his questions concerning this arrangement, had been less than useless, muttering only that all would be explained shortly, an explanation that was not sufficient to satisfy either the butler’s curiosity or his injured sensibilities.

All the afternoon and evening Lethbridge had pondered this new problem, which, added to his master’s bizarre—in the butler’s opinion—behavior ever since returning from the fleshpots of London, worried the old man more than he could say.

Well, perhaps not more than he could say, for he, after soul-searching all through the dinner hour, at last approached Aunt Belleville with his concern once that dear woman had retired to the yellow saloon while Fletcher and Beck lingered over brandy and cigars in the dining room. At that time he expounded on his fears at some length.

Contrary to the reaction Lethbridge had expected—nay, hoped for—the lady did not fall on his neck, weeping in fear for her beloved nephew’s sanity. No, indeed.

“Ill, you say, Lethbridge?” Aunt Belleville exclaimed, clasping her hands tightly at her waist then rubbing her palms together in what looked most suspiciously like unholy glee. “The poor dear! The poor, poor dear! It was the war, you know, Lethbridge.” She leaned forward. “Oh, yes. It has to be. I’ve heard about this a dozen times or more. His wits are temporarily deranged from all the torment a soldier sees, all the carnage. Isn’t it above everything wonderful?”

Lethbridge couldn’t believe the woman had heard him correctly—or, for that matter, that he could have heard her correctly. “But, madam, only think,” he stammered, taken aback, “this is terrible. What are we, who love him, to do? Poor Master Fletcher should have our pity.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Aunt Belleville agreed quickly, clapping Lethbridge just above the elbow, for that was as high on his person as she could reach without extending herself. “Our pity. But more than that, Lethbridge,” she added, her eyes sparkling as she cheered herself with the thought that the gilt ceiling in the music room was still possible to obtain, “Fletcher must have my care—my personal, undivided, extended care.”

At last Lethbridge understood, and a slow smile creased his thin, poxmarked cheeks. He bowed in Aunt Belleville’s direction, acknowledging her clear if self-centered thinking. “He wishes the boy summoned to the yellow saloon in a few minutes, madam, most probably so that the two of you should meet, and you shall have a chance to observe your nephew’s actions firsthand, seeing them at last through informed eyes. But you must be brave, madam, for he can appear, as I have said, rather queer.”

Aunt Belleville barely heard him, as she was already busy mentally running down her store of medicines in search of the one cure that was sure to work—eventually. Even as she applied her mind to that project, a part of her was recounting the contents of her sewing basket, wondering if her supply of colored thread was sufficient to embroider a pair of slippers for her patient. She could always send a servant to the village for more, the amount to be added to her nephew’s bill, as usual. Wasn’t it nice that Fletcher had only gone mad and not been rendered penniless!

“Tell me more about this stable boy, Lethbridge,” she ordered after a moment, settling herself once more on the settee. “He is not taking undue advantage of my nephew’s derangement, is he? I mean, he has not asked for anything, has he?”

The butler shook his head. “Only a bath, madam, which I, of course, refused. No need to encourage the lad to put on airs, watching while his betters race about carrying pails for him. And he seems to dislike his new position, still choosing to eat with Hedge rather than the other household servants.”

“I see,” Aunt Belleville responded, not seeing at all, for, if she should find her station in life suddenly elevated, she would most certainly not be timid in taking what was offered with both hands, even if it were only the chance to sit at a higher table. “Yet you say the boy is to be brought in here, to sit with the family.” She looked up at the butler. “He—he isn’t too dirty, I should hope?”

“His hands and face are clean, and Master Fletcher ordered me to supply a clean shirt, madam, and—and unmentionables.”

“Good.” Aunt Belleville relaxed slightly, for she was not looking forward to spending the remainder of the evening with her scented handkerchief pressed to her nostrils. “Now be quiet, Lethbridge. I believe I hear my nephew approaching and he mustn’t learn that we have been discussing him.”

Lethbridge bowed once more, reluctant to leave the one woman who had ever showed herself to be kindly disposed to him, but aware that his presence in the yellow saloon could no longer be justified.

As the butler passed out of the room, Fletcher, who had entered through another doorway across the room, called out to him, reminding him that young Billy Belchem was to join them shortly.

“And don’t take no for an answer,” Fletcher added warningly, watching as Lethbridge’s bony shoulders stiffened.

“Billy Belchem?” Aunt Belleville questioned, seeing her opportunity and grabbing at it with both hands. “I wasn’t told we were to have an after-dinner guest. How very delightful. Beck, take a moment to look at Fletcher, if you please. Don’t you think he appears to be rather pale?”

Beck, who had just spent a half-hour vainly trying to convince Fletcher to give up his plan to put Rosalie through hoops and have done with his foolishness—all to no avail—was more than happy to agree with the lady. Threaten him with a voyage to Jamaica, would he? Well, Beck had a way to pay him out for that one. “Yes, madam, I had noticed it,” he agreed solemnly. “I believe your nephew got himself a bit of a soaking this afternoon and may have taken a chill.”

“Wretch,” Fletcher said quietly, wondering why he had bothered to tell Beck what had happened, only so that man could hold the incident over his head.

“A soaking?” Aunt Belleville was confused, for the entire day had been fine—a rare occurrence in the district—with nary a drop of rain. “Too much water is not salutiferous to the body,” she warned, shaking her head. “Why, my dear neighbor in Bath... Have I ever told you I once resided in Bath? I did, you know, for several months, while Cousin Albert was dying. But that is nothing to the point, is it? My neighbor made a religion of bathing every day, even though I warned him against it, and he died before his time.”

“You spent some months in Bath? I hadn’t realized, dearest lady, what a giddy life you’ve had.” Fletcher shot a decidedly mischievous look at Beck. “What a waste, Aunt, that this gentleman—and Cousin Albert, of course—should have died. How old was he—the gentleman, that is?”

The lady gave a deep sigh. “No more than sixty,” she answered, shaking her head. “And we were becoming such dear friends.”

Chuckling silently, Fletcher marveled at the lengths a man would go to escape Aunt Belleville’s ministrations. Dying seemed to be a step or two too far, but then he had only been the object of his aunt’s smothering ministrations, and not her subtle amorous advances.

Hearing a slight commotion at the rear of the house—most probably caused by Lethbridge’s attempts to bring Rosalie to the yellow saloon as per his instructions—Fletcher leaned forward in his chair to address his aunt. “As I was saying, my dear, we will be joined shortly by young Master Billy Belchem, my companion while traveling about the district these past days. You may remember stepping on him the day I arrived from London. Anyway, I discovered, while we were traveling, that he is not what he pretends to be.”

Aunt Belleville was nonplussed. “He—he only pretends to be a stable boy?” she asked, clearly incredulous. “Why would anyone wish to do anything as silly as that? I mean, if a person were to pretend he was someone he isn’t, wouldn’t it be much nicer to pretend he was someone important? I know I should, if I were of a mind to pretend I was someone I wasn’t, although I never would, would I? Would you, Beck? No, of course not. Who would? It makes no sense.” She squinted at Fletcher. “Are you quite sure you shouldn’t be lying down, nephew?”

Beck, who had been doing his possible to preserve his countenance with an iron will he was sure even Wellington would admire, discreetly hid his smile behind his handkerchief. If Fletcher was having this much trouble explaining half Rosalie’s story to his aunt, being present while Fletcher told her the whole would be a treat he wouldn’t wish to miss.

A noise outside in the foyer interrupted all their thoughts, if indeed they were still having any, for it had been a most confusing conversation, and the doors opened to admit a rather disheveled Lethbridge.

“Sirs, madam—Master Belchem,” he all but growled, reaching behind him to catapult Rosalie roughly into the room by way of her shirt sleeve. “Shall I bring in the tea tray now, and would you perhaps like a glass of warmed milk for this scamp—this boy?”

“Poor Lethbridge appears upset,” Fletcher commented to Beck. “Must be his diet that makes him so cranky, don’t you think?”

Rosalie angrily shook herself free of the butler, who had refused to listen to her several very good reasons why she should not be sent to the yellow saloon, and strode purposefully across the room to confront Fletcher.

“To what purpose are you doing this?” she railed, uncaring that she was most probably making a thorough idiot of herself. “You’re mad as Bedlam, do you know that?” She turned to face Beck and Aunt Belleville and repeated, “He’s mad as Bedlam.”

Hearing her private diagnosis spoken aloud did wonders for Aunt Belleville’s formerly negative opinion of the stable boy. Patting the empty cushion beside her, she said kindly, “Come sit down by me, little boy, and I shall have Lethbridge bring you the milk he has so kindly suggested.”

Eyeing the older woman warily and not seeing any malice in her eyes—nor much real intelligence, for that matter—Rosalie shot one last, stunning look at Fletcher and then did as she was bid, muttering her thanks as she sat herself gingerly on the edge of the settee. She had promised Hedge she would behave, and she owed the man at least that much.

A decidedly uncomfortable silence followed, during which time Lethbridge personally rolled in the tea cart and placed the silver service in front of Aunt Belleville.

Although no words were spoken aloud, entire volumes passed back and forth between Fletcher and Beck, Aunt Belleville and Lethbridge, and Rosalie and herself, who felt no real lapse in not having a partner with which to exchange meaningful glances, as she was always comfortable making conversation with her imagination.

Once the tea had been served and the butler had withdrawn, albeit reluctantly, with one last, long imploring look passing between he and Aunt Belleville, Fletcher spoke. “There now, everyone,” he commented jovially, just as if no undercurrents existed and they were just four people enjoying their tea, “isn’t this cozy? Billy, does this bring back any memories of your life before taking to the road? Does it make the thought of being transported to your aunt’s home in Tunbridge Wells any more palatable?”

“Not if you intend to have evening prayers,” Rosalie grumbled meanly, staring at her toes and remembering the cuff on the head and lengthy homily Lethbridge had given her for daring to enter the house in her muddy boots. She shrank back on the settee as Beck gave out a shout of laughter.

She felt more exposed, more vulnerable, than she had before, the perpetual smuts on her face now washed away, and found it unbelievable that Aunt Belleville, if no one else, could not see through her disguise. Was she so plain, so boringly ordinary, that none of the three of them, plus Lethbridge, had been inclined to look at her closely?

Silence reigned once more as Fletcher, who was enjoying himself immensely, made no move to make Rosalie feel comfortable, and Beck, who was afraid to say anything for fear Rosalie would say something else outrageous, concentrated on his teacup.

Aunt Belleville, having taken a good look at Rosalie and decided that the stable boy’s appearance in the house was merely a symptom of her nephew’s malady, and not the cause of it, cudgeled her brain for another topic of conversation that might shed some light on Fletcher’s problems.

“Have you heard any more about this missing Rosalie person you asked about the other day, dear?” she asked, remembering Fletcher’s volatile mood when he had heard about the existence of a letter mentioning that name. “You never did say anything about it again, now that I think on it, but then I was called away to minister to Mrs. Kelsey’s cough, wasn’t I, and we really haven’t had much time for a comfortable coze since then, have we?”

Rosalie felt her throat constrict. Fletcher hadn’t told his aunt that he had become her guardian? Was it so unimportant to him? Or had he, after downing several bottles of strong spirits and indulging himself in an orgy of self-pity, chosen to ignore William’s letter?

“You didn’t tell your own aunt that William Darley named you as guardian to his only sister, Rosalie?” Beck questioned archly, looking at his friend. “But wasn’t it she who first read the letter from Mrs. Beale?”

Mrs. Beale. How Rosalie hated hearing that woman’s name spoken aloud. Her small hands bundled into fists. The woman had somehow found her out. How could that be? Even though Fletcher had mentioned the woman’s name that night in the stables, Rosalie still found it difficult to believe the woman possessed the wit to link her disappearance to Lakeview. She had thought she had covered her tracks so well.

Yet Mrs. Beale had only written a letter. It wasn’t as if she and Sawyer were actually here, at Lakeview. Rosalie bit her lip, her head still down, and waited for Fletcher to speak.

She was to be disappointed, for Aunt Belleville, who had been sitting very still, exploded, “Your ward! Fletcher! You never said a word. You mean to tell me... No, obviously you never meant to tell me. How can you sit there so calmly when your ward has gone missing? That’s what the letter said. The little girl has gone missing, run away from her home. I don’t understand this. You bring a stable boy into the house in anticipation of returning him to his family in Tunbridge Wells, but you do not lift a finger to rescue a poor, helpless female who remains out in the wide world somewhere, in terrible danger.”