Gunpowder Plot (2 page)

As her host maundered on, telling how the fireworks had begun as a demonstration of loyalty to the first Stuart king and continued as a much anticipated local event, Daisy grew increasingly desperate. The baby had decided to bash her in the bladder, over and over again, as if bouncing a ball off a wall. She might be a modern, emancipated, working woman, but explaining her situation to the baronet was more than she could face.

To her relief, Lady Tyndall came to the rescue. A faded, delicate, anxious-looking woman, she inserted herself between her husband and her guest and said almost pleadingly, “Harold, I’m sure Mrs. Fletcher will be interested in your stories later, but first she wants to wash off the grime of the journey and put her feet up for a while before tea.”

Though Sir Harold looked offended, he made no objection. “I’ll see you at teatime, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, and stamped off.

“The downstairs cloakroom is over there, as I expect you remember,” said Lady Tyndall, pointing.

Daisy fled.

When she emerged, feeling much better, Gwen was waiting for her.

“Mother said she took one look at you and knew what you needed. I saw you were desperate, but I thought it was just my father. He often makes me feel that way. I didn’t dare interrupt when he was on his hobbyhorse. Sorry I didn’t realize what was wrong, but I’ve never been pregnant.”

“The little brute was kicking me like mad, in a sensitive spot. It’s a very strange sensation. You’ve no idea.”

“I can’t imagine! Come on up to your room. Your stuff’s been taken up. I had Jack fetch the typewriter and camera because I knew you were concerned about them. You’re all right on the stairs, aren’t you?”

“Perfectly all right.”

“I must say you look positively fit as a fiddle. Addie used to fuss like anything when she was pregnant, and Mother cosseted her.”

At an easy pace, Gwen led the way up the superbly carved Jacobean oak staircase. Following, Daisy asked, “Has Adelaide come back to live at Edge Manor? Her husband was killed in the War, wasn’t he?”

“No and yes. She married a neighbour and lives with her mother-in- law just down the lane, between here and the village. Stephen was killed in ’ 15, when she was pregnant with Adrian.”

“Widowed at twenty, with two young sons!”

“I know it’s hard, but Addie really manages to make the worst of things. She never stops moaning and groaning, and she spoils the children abominably when she’s not complaining about their mischief. I’m afraid Mrs. Yarborough encourages her to spend most of her time here in the bosom of her family.”

For all her brave words, Daisy was tired from the train journey and glad to reach the top of the stairs. “At least the boys are old enough to go away to prep school, aren’t they?” she asked as they crossed the landing, a gallery open to the hall below.

“Yes, but she won’t send them. They go to a day school in Eve-sham, where the discipline appears to be nonexistent. And she intends them to go on to Prince Harold’s Grammar in Evesham, so there’s no relief in sight. She claims she can’t afford a Public School.”

“Wouldn’t Sir Harold . . . ?”

“He might, if he could be persuaded that it’s his own idea. The trouble is, Reggie and Adrian are scared to death of him, so they behave themselves when he’s around. One really can’t go talebearing, and they’re beginning to realize it, so threats don’t work very well any longer. I’m not sure he’d really cane them anyway. He was so proud of Addie when she produced two boys so quickly, he’s inclined to think they can do no wrong.”

“Pity!”

They had turned up another three steps into a passage and passed several doors. Now Gwen announced, “Here’s your room. Mind the steps down. Two of them.”

The warning came just in time as Gwen opened the door on a dazzling flood of golden evening light.

Descending the steps with care, Daisy had an impression of com fortable blue furnishings, but her attention was on the view across the Vale to the Malvern Hills, so near her own childhood home.“Oh, lovely! I do envy you your view. There are advantages to living in St. John’s Wood, so close to central London, but views aren’t one of them.”

“Mother told me to give you the best spare room, not stuck away up on the second floor with the rest of us like when you were a mere school friend. It doesn’t run to its own bathroom, though, I’m afraid. You’ll share with the parents, but there’s plenty of hot water. That’s their rooms we passed on this side, bathroom, et cetera, opposite, and Father’s den at the end.”

“Are you still up at the top?”

“Yes, Babs and Jack and I, and Jack’s friend who’s visiting.” A faint pink rose in Gwen’s cheeks as she mentioned her brother’s friend. Miller, Daisy recalled, the bounder who was encouraging Jack in his aeronautical nonsense and might— or might not— have his eye on Gwen. “I expect you remember what a strange layout this house has.”

“Vaguely.” Daisy took off her hat and coat and went over to the washstand, waving Gwen to a chair.

“We live on the west side and the servants get the east side, facing the hill. Difficult as it is to get servants since the War, I keep expecting such as remain to rebel one of these days and demand a decent share of light and air. On the other hand— I don’t expect you remember our butler, Jennings?”

“I have a vague impression of an ancient personage in rusty black.”

“He’s even more ancient now, but he refuses to retire to a nice comfy cottage, and to give up that coat. He can’t manage the stairs anymore and he only appears at dinner. Most of his time seems to be spent doing the silver, but he still rules the staff with a rod of iron.”

“Another reason for them to quit en masse, I’d think, besides the dark rooms.”

“At least they have electricity now. When Father put in the generator, he had the servants’ side electrified as well as the rest.”

“Anything that makes things easier for the servants must make things easier for your mother. I thought she looked . . . not very well.”

“She’s been ‘ not very well’ as long as I can remember. I suppose we never thought twice about it when we were children, but looking back, I can see she was always fragile. But she hasn’t had to run the house since the end of the War. As soon as Babs and I were de-mobbed from the Land Army, I took over.”

“Babs still works on the land, though?”

“She found she really enjoyed farming, and she needed something to keep her occupied. We both lost fiancés in the War, you know. Three unlucky sisters— it sounds like one of the grimmer fairy stories, doesn’t it?” Gwen fell silent, a faraway look in her eyes.

Daisy nearly told her that she, too, had lost her fiancé. But Michael had been a conscientious objector, a Quaker pacifist who had been blown up driving a Friends’ Ambulance Unit. Though he had been at the front, he had not fought, and the prejudice against “conchies” remained strong. Besides, though her first love would always have a place in her heart, she had found a second, whereas the Tyndall sisters had not.

Or was there something going on between Gwen and the unknown Miller? Before Daisy could come up with a delicate way to probe, Gwen sighed and went on.

“But your brother was killed, wasn’t he? We’re lucky that Jack’s the baby of the family by several years and was too young to join up. It would have killed Mother to lose him. I just wish he hadn’t invited . . . But I mustn’t trouble you with our squabbles.” She stood up, with an effortful smile. “The Guy Fawkes fête always makes Father feel frightfully Lord-of-the-Manorish and he’s thrilled that you’ve come to write about it, so he jolly well ought to be in a good temper. I’ll leave you in peace now. I’ve got to go and try to persuade Addie to punish those blasted boys. Tea in half an hour in the drawing room, if you feel up to coming down.”

“I’m eating for two, remember. I’ll be there,” Daisy promised, hoping the bounder Miller, sower of dissension, would be present. She was dying to meet him.

2

W
hen Daisy left her room and turned towards the stairs, Lady Tyndall was coming out of a room ahead of her, the last on the right. She saw Daisy and waited for her.

“I hope you’ve managed to rest a bit after that dreadful journey.”

“Oh yes, thank you. I put my feet up for a while.”

“That is my sitting room.” She gestured back at the door she had just closed. “You are very welcome to make use of it, to relax in, or for your writing.”

“That’s very kind of you, Lady Tyndall. My bedroom seems to have everything I need.” Even a second bed, which she wished Alec was occupying.

“I know Gwen had a desk moved in for you. I wasn’t sure if it was adequate for a professional journalist.”

“Perfectly. I’m looking forward to writing about your celebration. hope my dashing away like that didn’t upset Sir Harold so much that he won’t be willing to tell me the rest of the history.”

“Harold isn’t used to being thwarted.” Lady Tyndall gave her a tired smile. “Usually, I don’t find it worth the effort to cross him, but I could see you were in dire need of rescue.”

“I was,” Daisy said gratefully. “It’s one of those flies in the ointment they don’t warn you about. In general, I’m very well.”

“I’m glad. I was unlucky; my pregnancies were very difficult. But you look blooming.”

“I’m healthy as a horse, and with an appetite to match, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t worry, there will be plenty to eat at tea. Pam is always hungry, and Jack— if he’s too thin, it’s not because he doesn’t eat enough. He’s just a boy still, in many ways. But he’s too old to accept his father’s laying down the law, if Harold would only realize it.” Lady Tyndall had been speaking half to herself. As she and Daisy reached the foot of the stairs and started across the hall, she gave herself a little shake and said, “I expect Gwen told you we have another guest.”

“Yes, a Mr. Miller?”

“He’s a friend of Jack’s . . . rather unsuitable, I’m sorry to say. Not quite what you might call ‘ out of the top drawer.’ I hope you won’t mind meeting him.”

“Of course not, Lady Tyndall. I’m a journalist, after all. I write about all sorts of things and talk to all sorts of people. My articles about stately homes were the thin end of the wedge in a way, something I could do that most journalists can’t.”

“I’ve read some of them. Most impressive.” She ushered Daisy into the drawing room.

Everyone in the room was at the windows, absorbed by the sunset, a spectacular fiery blaze set off by expanses of cool green and lemon yellow. They turned as Lady Tyndall shut the door against draughts from the hall.

“‘ Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight,’ ” Jack Tyndall quoted. “It looks as if we’re going to have good weather for the fireworks. I’m glad you didn’t come all this way, Mrs. Fletcher, just to attend a washout.”

“So am I,” Daisy assured him.

“May I introduce a friend of mine? Martin Miller— he’s an aeronautical engineer.” This last was pronounced in a defiant tone.

The man who stepped forward was not in the least what Daisy had anticipated. The “bounder,” far from being dressed in flashy bad taste, wore a perfectly acceptable dark suit, well cut, if not of Savile Row tailoring. He was older than one might have expected of a friend of the youthful Tyndall heir, with the beginnings of crow’s- feet at the corners of his eyes and dark cropped hair greying at the temples. At least forty, she judged; perhaps that was why his influence over Jack was feared, though he seemed rather on the serious side, more likely to be a good influence than bad.

As for his possible influence on Gwen, he wasn’t particularly good-looking, but there was nothing to object to in his appearance. And Gwen was a spinster of twenty-seven in a world where a large proportion of men of “suitable” age and class had perished in the War.

“How do you do, Mr. Miller.” Daisy offered her hand and he shook it, his clasp firm, warm, and dry— no handshake like a filleted fish to make Sir Harold take against him. “Were you building aeroplanes during the War? My husband was in the Royal Flying Corps, a spotter pilot. Perhaps you had a hand in producing the ‘ crates’ he flew?”

He smiled, but his eyes were wary. “I did, though not so much actual production. My company was mostly working on design.” The final
g
of
working
was voiced, faintly but distinctly grating on the ear and placing his origins firmly in the Midlands and the lower middle class.

Not that Daisy cared, but Sir Harold was bound to take a dim view.

“What are you doing now?” she asked. “I mean, now that we don’t need fighters any longer. I presume you’re a believer in the future of air passenger travel?”

Jack intervened eagerly. “We still need war planes! Germany can’t be trusted. And now Winston Churchill— he was Minister for Air after the War, remember? It took awhile but he ended up convinced of the necessity of air power. Now they say he’s going to join the Conservative cabinet, and he’s bound to push for rearmament.”

“Ridiculous waste of money!” Sir Harold had come in unnoticed.

“The Bosch knows when he’s beaten. As for air travel, no one in his senses would risk his life in the air only to save a little time.”

“With all due respect, sir,” said Miller, “a number of airlines have been operating here and in Europe for several years. Now that the government has formed Imperial Airways and started to subsidize—”

“Ridiculous waste of money!”

Daisy was torn between interest and trying to think of a polite way to escape.

“That’s a matter of opinion, Father. The fact is, people are going to go on designing and building aeroplanes, and I want to be one of them.”

“And my company needs bright young engineers like Jack.”

“Over my dead body! What this country needs is landowners who take care of their land. Where should we be without farmers to feed us, eh? Jack’s place is right here, running the place like twenty generations of his forefathers.”

“But I’m not in the least interested in farming, sir,” Jack protested.

“Babs knows all there is to know, and what’s more, she likes doing it.”

“Babs is a girl.” The baronet glared at his eldest daughter, who had just come in, switching on the electric lights at the door. “No, by George, Babs is a woman, and if she doesn’t stop messing about on the estate and hurry up and find herself a husband, she’ll be past praying for.”

Babs shot her father a look of venomous dislike. Though she had changed from trousers into a tweed skirt and long hand-knitted cardigan, it was obvious that she didn’t expend much effort on her appearance. She had made no attempt to disguise with powder and lipstick the effects of her outdoor activities on her complexion. Her straight dark brown hair was bobbed very short. She wore flat shoes, and her only jewelry was a Victorian ring, a diamond and ruby half hoop, on her ring finger.

An heirloom engagement ring, Daisy assumed, destined never to be joined on the work-roughened hand by the intended wedding ring. Gwen’s ring finger was bare, she thought; could it be a sign that Gwen had new hopes? And if so, was Martin Miller their focus?

With an abrupt nod to Daisy, Babs went over to her mother and Gwen. Both were still standing at one of the windows, looking out, but Daisy guessed from their taut stance that both had been listening to the altercation behind them.

They turned to greet Babs. The family resemblance between the three women was obvious. All were slight and fine-boned, perfect for the current low-waisted, straight-up-and-down fashion. In Lady Tyndall’s case, this was emphasized by the frailty of ill health, as Daisy had already noted. In contrast, the way Babs moved suggested a wiry strength still brimming with restless energy after a day out and about on the estate. As for Gwen, Daisy remembered the delicate prettiness of her girlhood and wondered which was most responsible for its fading: the passage of time, the loss of her fiancé, or the anxieties of life with her irascible father.

Gwen was still pretty when she smiled, but now, distressed, she looked quite plain. Seeing Daisy stuck amid the squabbling men, she said something to Babs, who shrugged. After a moment’s hesitation, Gwen visibly braced herself and moved forward to extricate her friend.

By this time, the antagonists were repeating themselves. Daisy decided she wasn’t going to learn anything new. She was about to slink away to forestall the rescue effort, when a couple of maids came in with the tea things.

The argument stopped short. One maid started to set out cups and saucers and plates of bread and butter, cakes, and biscuits on the tea table, near the fireplace. The other girl went to draw the cream-and-gold curtains, hiding the last embers of the sunset. The room was transformed from a scene of battle to the cosy haven proper to afternoon tea. Lady Tyndall went to sit behind the table, ready to pour.

Under cover of the bustle, Gwen apologized. “I’m so sorry, Daisy. I didn’t realize you’d got caught up in the conflict.”

“Merely as an observer. They forgot I was there. I dare say I could have sneaked away without their noticing.”

“Jack used to be good at coping with Father, but since he came down from Cambridge, he’s become so stubborn. . . .”

“I imagine he’s growing up. He knows what he wants to do with his life— which, I must say, sounds to me perfectly reasonable— and he has Mr. Miller to back him. Miller seems to be a staunch, sensible sort of a chap.”

“You like him?” Gwen asked eagerly.

“I like what I’ve seen of him. I haven’t seen nearly enough of him to form an opinion. Have you known him long?”

“I met him last spring. One of Jack’s lecturers worked with him during the War and invites him to Cambridge every Lent term to speak to the mechanical-engineering undergrads about the aircraft industry.”

“Don’t tell me you attended a lecture on mechanical engineering!”

“Heavens no! Come and sit down near the fire. It’s a beastly cold night. I’ll fetch you a cup of tea and tell you how it happened.”

But as Gwen turned away, her father approached with a cup and saucer and a plate heaped with food, which he presented to Daisy.

“Need to keep your strength up, eh?” he said genially, sitting down beside her. “If you ask me, half my wife’s trouble was that she didn’t eat enough when she was expecting the girls. I kept hoping for a son, but she kept dropping females.”

A number of sharpish retorts raced through Daisy’s mind, but she reminded herself that Sir Harold was her host. “You got a son in the end,” she pointed out, and seeing a scathing comment about Jack on the tip of his tongue, she hurriedly added, “Not to mention two grandsons. Aren’t you going to have a cup of tea?”

“Never touch the stuff. ‘ Cat lap,’ my grandfather used to call it.” He raised his voice. “Dodie, where are the boys? Weren’t they up here today?”

Lady Tyndall looked helplessly at Gwen, who said, “Addie took them home, Father. I think she decided they needed an early night. They were getting a bit . . . overexcited about the fireworks tomorrow.”

Not to mention the fireworks today, Daisy thought. “You were going to tell me the history of your Bonfire Night celebration, Sir Harold,” she reminded him.

That kept him happily occupied while she devoured the plateful of delicacies and sipped distastefully at the tea, which was far too sweet. Lady Tyndall wouldn’t have sugared it without asking, so perhaps Sir Harold was trying to feed her up. Kindly meant, no doubt.

While listening to and taking mental notes on his lecture, she watched the others. Jack and Babs had their heads together, both with disgruntled expressions but eating with unimpaired appetites. Gwen and Miller sat on either side of Lady Tyndall. All three looked unhappy and their conversation appeared to be desultory.

Gwen glanced over and happened to catch Daisy’s eye just as she took a sip of the syrupy tea. Perhaps Daisy’s nose wrinkled involuntarily. At any rate, Gwen said something to her mother, and a moment later Martin Miller came over.

“Beg pardon for interrupting,” he said, “but Miss Gwen wondered if you’d like a fresh cup of tea, Mrs. Fletcher? Yours must be getting cold.”

“Yes, please. A spot of milk, no sugar, thanks.”

He grinned at her, his sober face lightening. Daisy wondered if Gwen had tried to stop her father oversweetening the first cup. “Right you are. Can I fetch you anything, sir?”

“No, thank you,” Sir Harold said ungraciously. As Miller left, the baronet went on, quite loud enough for him to hear, “Running errands for Gwen! He needn’t think she’ll get a penny from me if she takes him. Dashed counter jumper!”

“Whatever Mr. Miller’s origins,” Daisy ventured, “engineering is an altogether respectable and necessary profession.”

“So is street sweeper. That doesn’t mean I’ll accept one as my son in-law. Did Gwen invite you here to try to talk me round? Because, I warn you, you might as well try to drink the Severn dry.”

“Certainly not. She invited me because she thought, quite rightly, that I’d be interested in writing about your Guy Fawkes fête. I am a journalist, after all. A profession of doubtful respectability and questionable necessity.”

Sir Harold waved his hand dismissively. “An odd hobby for a young lady of your birth, to be sure, but there can hardly be any question of your respectability.”

Daisy fumed. Not that she wished her respectability to be questioned— though she did wonder what Sir Harold would think if he knew her husband was a policeman— but writing was her profession, not a hobby, and she had made a living at it before she married. She fumed silently, however. Having come all this way, she was jolly well going to get her article. She was too
professional
to spoil it by quarrelling with her infuriating host.

“You were telling me about when Prince Albert died,” she reminded him.

“Yes, that was in 1861, in December. The following November, the Queen was still in mourning, so my grandfather was of two minds about holding the fête.” He blathered on about his grandfather’s quandary.

Miller brought Daisy’s fresh cup of tea and deposited it on the table at her elbow. She thanked him with a smile. Sir Harold talked on, ignoring him as though he were a servant. The younger man’s answering smile died and his lips tightened.