Aurora (3 page)

Marnie was not allowed to lift a finger. Malone cut off a wedge four inches wide and passed it along. She often remained in the room when the ladies were together, and though she refused totally to ever take a seat, she likewise refused to leave. The only way to be rid of her was to hint that Mimi had need of her.

The hint was dropped by the child’s mother, and Malone was off in an angry rustle of starched aprons, with a Parthian shot tossed over her shoulder. “I’ll be back to read your leaves. A gypsy ain’t the only one can conjure up a beau. There’s more beaux in a teacup than ever came out of one.”

“That explains why I have had such poor luck in finding one,” Aurora said to her sister. “I never thought to look in my teacup.” She did so now, but to no avail.

Chapter Three

Aurora, Miss Falkner, decided to accompany her sister to Raiker Hall in the morning. It was not home to her as it had been to her sister, since she had not come to stay till after the death of Bernard, but she had visited there during Marnie’s marriage and had often been to call in the year she had been staying at the Dower House. She was familiar with the elegant Blue Saloon into which they were shown, and she had ample time to become familiar again, since Lady Raiker kept them waiting ten minutes. She glanced around at the white-painted walls with embossed designs, the handsome blue velvet drapes, the Persian carpets and polished mahogany furniture, and regretted that her sister had had so soon to part with all this finery. The Dower House was nothing to it, the saloon a panelled room less than a third the size of this one, and the window hangings there were of faded brocade, somewhat the worse for wear. Marnie’s eyes were only on the firescreen, worked by her own hands, and a constant source of irritation to her. She felt strongly about keeping what belonged to her. She was nearly as adamant as the elder Lady Raiker in that respect, but was less cunning, and less successful.

At the end of ten minutes there was the whisper of a silken skirt in the hallway, accompanied by a musky scent, and followed by the dramatic entrance of the dowager Lady Raiker. She was now in her early thirties, but held tenaciously to the accoutrements of youth. Her hair, blond like Marnie’s, was short and worn in a careful tousle suggesting that a brush had been drawn through it, no more. Her audience knew well enough that it took half an hour to achieve this casual effect. Her cheeks were shell-pink and unflawed by day, a shade less pink but still unflawed when she retired to her bed. Her eyes were large and lustrous and her teeth in good repair. Her figure too was still good, not the sylphlike frame that had first attracted old Charles, but not full enough to allow of the term “full-blown.” She carried a trailing wisp of heavily laced handkerchief in one hand, and entered smiling graciously, as became the chatelaine of Raiker Hall.

“So kind of you to come, my dear,” she said in a failing voice, wafting herself forward to take up a seat beside them. “Dear little Charles is abed with a fever. I was up with him half the night.” Her clear eyes belied this motherly statement, but no one argued with it. Polite enquiries elicited the information that there was no real fear— merely Mama’s concern had caused her to exaggerate the danger.

“I feel it is my own fault. I had him posing for me in the garden yesterday. I am taking his likeness to hang in my own room.” It was a bit of a relief to hear that the latest rendition would be put away from public view. Since Charles had come into his dignities and titles, Mama had executed a score of likenesses, one of which she stared at now across the room, wearing a wistful smile. The visitors’ eyes followed hers, to gaze on a handsome young fellow posed with a dog at his heels. It was well done. Clare was a talented painter.

“The doctor has been to see him, and assures me there is no danger.” The concerned mother face vanished, and a calculating look took its place. “So I have decided to consult with you about the manner in which we should announce little Charles’s accession. I thought some sort of a quiet do, to introduce him to everyone.”

“Everyone knows him. He has been declared the baron for nearly a year now. What do you mean, Clare?” Marnie asked.

“A little fête of some sort—a garden party or tea. It cannot be a ball; he is too young. Now that the year is up since your dear Bernard’s passing, we shall begin to go out a little again. Not that one looks forward to it in the least, but people in our position, you know, are not expected to keep entirely to ourselves.”

As Lady Raiker had made not the slightest move to keep to herself during the past year, this modest speech was greeted with open derision. “You are going to have a party, in other words?” the other Lady Raiker asked baldly.

“Some token gesture must be made to honour the occasion. The nisi decree has come down that Charles is now Lord Raiker, and it would be too backward not to acknowledge it. What do you feel—an outdoor party, or a rather more formal tea?”

“I expect Charles would prefer an outdoor party,” Aurora suggested, being so naive as to think Charles’s happiness was involved in the matter.

“Just what I thought myself,” the mother took it up. “But then the weather is unreliable. To erect Japanese lanterns and tents and a pavilion for dancing outdoors and have the whole spoiled by rain . . .”

Marnie’s brows rose to hear the extent of the modest celebration planned. “Very true,” she said, “and people do make such a mess of the lawns at an outdoor party too. The place was always a shambles after public day.”

“Had I had the foresight to redo the saloon, I would not hesitate a moment to do it inside,” Clare said, casting a condemnatory look at the opulence around her. “Really, the place was allowed to go to rack and ruin while you . . .”

Then she stopped discreetly. “But then I know you never cared at all for keeping up Raiker Hall, my dear Marnie. I do not say it in a reproving way, I assure you. I know your interests lay elsewhere, with your daughter and your charity work. Quite proper, I’m sure, but then we who are placed by chance in these old stately homes have a duty to keep them in good repair. Now that the court has finally placed some of Charles’s income at my disposal, I shall do what I can to repair the ravages of time. The party, however, I wish to hold immediately, as soon as it can be arranged. I am inclined to hold it here, despite the looks of the place. It is a great nuisance preparing the outside, and then if we should be rained out . . .”

“I cannot think the place so tatty you need be ashamed of it in the least,” Marnie said hotly. “I kept it up a good deal better than
you
did the Dower House.”

“Oh my dear, I have offended you! It is not at all tatty—it is only that I should like it to be seen at its best, as it used to be. But you are right; it is nothing to be ashamed of, and I’ll have a tea indoors. Now, I wonder if you would be kind enough to help me with this list I am working up. The Dougalls of course must be asked, and the St. Albanses, the Spencers and the Brewsters.” She went on to name off the illustrious of the parish, who were by no means her own set, and to omit all those persons with whom she generally consorted.

Her intention was soon discovered. As the mother of the baron, she wished to ingratiate herself with the proper people, and felt the likeliest way of achieving it was to show the world she had the support of the younger Lady Raiker. Bernard and Marnie had moved in the first circles; Clare had not. As a young widow at the Dower House, she had been befriended by the raffish, and been very happy, too, but now she was above the rich cits and wished to take her rightful place as the mistress of Raiker Hall. Marnie was under no misapprehension as to the use to which she was being put, but she felt it proper that Clare raise the
ton
of the callers at Raiker Hall, and was willing to abet her.

It was decided that Clare would “just scribble off the cards,” and Marnie would drop them off at the designated homes, adding her own personal entreaties that they be accepted. She had no other function except to attend the party herself and show her approval. All the planning and redecorating would be done by Clare; she would not be pestering dear Marnie in the least. As a reward, Clare said at the end, “I have been thinking, why do you not take that lovely little firescreen you made home with you? It would look well by your grate, and I have seen an appliqué one in the village that would suit me better.”

“I would like to have it,” Marnie said at once. “And the Wedgwood tea service in the—”

“Oh my dear! Don’t quite strip the place bare on poor little Charles!” Clare laughed.

Marnie held her tongue, but she thought that future help might bring not only her tea service but even her engagement ring back to her.

“By the way, Clare, the gypsies are back,” Aurora said before they left. “One came to tell our fortune yesterday. You must make sure Charles is not let out alone.”

“Are they indeed?” Clare asked, with a frightened look, the first genuine emotion she had shown. “I’ll have them run off.”

“They are harmless. Bernard never bothered with them,” Marnie said.

“Harmless? They are thieves and worse. You know the Raiker necklace was stolen by them.”

This was a piece of family legend that had not arisen till the death of Clare’s husband. When it had come time to turn over the heirlooms, the fabulous Raiker emeralds had been missing, and then it was revealed that it had vanished at the last visit of the gypsies. No public clamour had arisen, as the departure of the gypsies had also seen the departure of Kenelm, and there was just enough doubt in everyone’s mind that it was he and not the gypsies who had taken the necklace that it had not been officially reported as missing. Bernard, the heir, was the logical one to raise a fuss, but he had never done so.

“We don’t know they took it,” Marnie pointed out.

“We don’t know they didn’t. Still, they are full of mischief. One trembles to think what they might do if one treated them harshly. Charles will not be out alone, you may be sure. Indeed, I never let him outside alone; he is too precious to me. He is all I have left.” The wisp of lace was raised to her eyes.

The ladies took their leave, and as they travelled down the road with the firescreen bobbing precariously behind them, Aurora asked, “Do you think Kenelm stole the necklace?”

Marnie regarded her shrewdly. “She stole it herself. She knew her husband was dying and her days as a rich woman were numbered. It would make a good nest egg for her.”

“Why didn’t Bernard do something about it?”

“How could it be proved? Besides, she intimated in her own sweet way what a pity it would be for her to have to point out to the officials that it had vanished at the same time as Bernard’s brother. Blackmail is what it amounted to. I didn’t bother changing his mind. Emeralds don’t suit me, and it was entailed. I mean, I could only wear it while Bernard was alive. It’s not as though it would ever be really my own.”

This blatant self-interest did not surprise Aurora. She loved Marnie dearly, and accepted her little flaws with philosophy. Marnie continued, “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if
the necklace turned up any day now. She would have the use of it while Charles is still a boy, and while it wouldn’t suit her either; she would like to sport it, I think. The return of the gypsies might make an excellent excuse. She could say she got it back from them somehow. If it reappears, we shall know very well she stole it. Not that we could do a thing about it.”

“She’s horrid,” Aurora decided.

“Indeed she is, but at least I got back my firescreen, and she is welcome to the necklace.”

When they returned home, Malone demanded to know what the summons had been all about, and was told. “She hopes to trod her toe into decent society, does she?” she said, undeceived as to Charles’s being involved in any other capacity than an excuse. “Down dancing with the gypsies is where she belongs. Oh, I must warn you, there was one of them spying around this morning. A handsome rascal he was. Halter ran him off from the chicken coop. Empty-handed. He didn’t steal any. There’s none missing
yet.
I’ll keep my Mimi tied to my apron strings while they’re about, vicious brutes. At the far end of the woods is where they’re camped, down at the stream. What they’d want with water I can’t imagine, for it’s plain as a pikestaff it never touches their hides, and it’s not water they drink, or I’m a living saint. Heathen creatures.

“Come on and eat, then,” she continued. “Cook has made you up a mess of potash that he calls ragoot. Well named too—smells like boiled eggs. What a lady would want to be eating such glue for when there’s good ham and mutton in her larder is above and beyond me. I like to know what I’m eating. But the Frenchies are all alike, they don’t know a thing about cooking, but only that old French kweezeen. You made a big mistake to hire that foreigner, missie. Eats his weight in toadstools every day. I never saw such a man for stuffing hisself with toadstools, as though he was a fowl to grace the table. At least they’re free. He tossed some of them into your ragoot, but you just pluck them out. Don’t go sullying your insides with parasites.” She was off to rescue Mimi from her governess, and see that
that woman
didn’t go feeding the child toadstools.

Mr. Berrigan came to call in the afternoon. He had been a friend of Bernard’s, and had begun his calls as a friend and business adviser to the widow. By the time the business was settled, he had grown into a suitor, and before many months it was assumed he would escalate into a husband. Malone had not accepted him as a suitor for her mistress yet. He smoked nasty cigars and occasionally ruined his appearance by a Belcher kerchief, but on the other hand he knuckled under to her very mildly, and called her Mrs. Malone, which she rather liked. She had never had a husband nor wanted one, but liked the dignity of being called Mrs.

Aurora felt a bit out of place when Mr. Berrigan came. It was quite plain he desired privacy with her sister, and lately she thought Marnie wanted a little privacy with him too. After she had chaperoned them for fifteen minutes, she said, “I think I’ll go for a walk in the meadow.”