“Yes, Your Grace,” Mrs. Raleigh said. She went to the door, then hesitated indecisively.
Consuelo looked up. “Was there something else?”
“Yes, Your Grace, I’m afraid there is. I don’t like to mention it, but…”
“But what, Mrs. Raleigh?” Consuelo felt impatient. There was so much to do, and never enough time. “Please, we don’t have all morning.”
Mrs. Raleigh’s lips thinned. “It’s Miss Deacon, Your Grace.”
Consuelo frowned. “What about Miss Deacon?” The week before, Mrs. Raleigh had reported that Gladys had accused one of the housemaids of having taken a silver comb. The comb had subsequently been found under the bed, but the hard feelings had lingered. She hoped this wasn’t another report of the same sort.
The housekeeper spoke with obvious reluctance. “The maid went in to take her tea and open the drapes, and she-Well, she wasn’t there.”
Consuelo felt a chill of unease. “Well, then, she’s gone out, I expect,” she said. “Perhaps she’s walking with Lady Sheridan, who loves early-morning tramps.”
“Walking?” Mrs. Raleigh’s tone was colored with a delicate disapproval. “Pardon, but I shouldn’t think so, Your Grace. Bess says her bed hasn’t been slept in. I realize that Miss Deacon has her own way of doing things. But if she intended to go off last night, she might at least have let someone know.”
Consuelo swallowed, grasping for control. As a hostess, she was certainly very much aware of the customs of English houseparties, which involved a great many noctural frolics-surreptitious tip-toeings down the carpeted halls, delicate tappings on doors, and muffled sounds of pleasure from the curtained beds. But everyone, even Gladys, knew the rules. It was always the gentlemen who went tip-toeing down the hall, never the ladies. And all must be back in their assigned rooms before the housemaids came with tea and a pitcher of hot water. If Gladys had not slept in her room Consuelo put down her pen and stood. She could feel her knees wobbling, and when she spoke, she was surprised to hear her voice sounding normal. “I imagine that she’s gotten back already,” she said. “But perhaps we’d better go and have a look.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
She’s only a bird in a gilded cage,
A beautiful sight to see.
You may think she’s happy and free from care,
She’s not what she seems to be.
It had been shortly after eight-thirty in the morning when Kate returned to Blenheim. She went upstairs and changed quickly out of her walking costume and into the slim blue skirt and white silk blouse she planned to wear until dinner, with the addition of an embroidered tunic at teatime.
The usual rule for houseparties was four changes of clothing: a relatively simple morning costume; a more elaborate luncheon and afternoon dress; a loose, luxurious tea gown-a teagie, it was called; and a sumptuous dinner gown. Each costume, of course, had its own accessories and jewels. Ladies who cared about such things made sure they didn’t wear the same outfit twice. For them, a four-day houseparty required sixteen different costumes and appropriate accessories, and since some of the skirts were voluminous, their luggage might include three or four large trunks.
Kate, however, viewed the business of multiple costumes as silly. She packed what she felt she needed-skirts and blouses for day, a tea gown, and one or two dinner gowns-and that was that. She did not require a maid to help her dress, and she wore her hair in a simple style that she could manage herself. If other guests were offended by her casual attitude toward dress and her natural look, well, so be it. Kate might have married into the peerage, but she valued her comfort and convenience much more than the opinions of ladies who chiefly dressed to impress.
A few minutes later, she was opening the door to the breakfast room-a lovely, light room wallpapered in green and ivory, with a wide window that overlooked the Italian garden. She had tucked the scrap of burnished gold cloth into her skirt pocket, hoping to see Gladys Deacon and give it to her privately. Winston and Charles were already there, discussing Chamberlain’s Imperial Preference proposal over plates of eggs and kidneys.
In the last few weeks, Winston had come out hard on the side of free trade, creating a great deal of bad feeling among his fellow Tories, who stood with Chamberlain and his protectionist policies. “But they’re going to have to hear me out,” he was saying gruffly, as Kate came into the room.
“If you’re not careful, Winston,” Charles replied, “you’ll find yourself crossing the floor and joining the Liberals.”
“Would that be such a terrible mistake?” Winston asked. He pulled his brows together and pushed out his mouth in what Kate had come to think of as his “bulldog” look. “And don’t smile, Charles. I’m in deadly earnest.”
“I’m not smiling,” Charles said soberly. “In fact, I should think you could work far more effectively from the Liberal bench.” He glanced up as the footman seated Kate at the table. “Good morning, my dear. Did you enjoy your walk to Rosamund’s Well?”
“Yes, thank you,” Kate said. She added strawberry jam to her buttered toast and accepted a cup of tea from the footman. “Thank you, Alfred,” she said with a smile. Of all the Blenheim footmen, she liked this one the best-a tall, blond young man, with a sweetly pleasant look and an accomodating manner. “Has Miss Deacon come down yet, Charles?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Charles replied. “You were here before I came down, Winston. Did you see her?”
“No, nor the Duke, either,” Winston said, “which is a bit odd. He’s always down for breakfast at half past eight.” He grinned at Kate. “You’re an early bird, Kate. Don’t tell me you’ve been around the lake already this morning?”
“Just over the bridge and back,” Kate said. “It’s the best time of day to walk.” She smiled back at Winston, whose energies she admired. “You’re welcome to go tramping with me any morning you like.”
“Thanks,” Winston said earnestly, “but I’d rather not expend energy on walking that will be needed for writing. It’s amazing how blasted hard it can be to write, especially when one is writing about one’s father.” He wrinkled his nose. “I hate to say it, but I do believe that he dared to offend every member of the party, at least twice.”
They all laughed at that, and the men went back to their discussion. Kate ate quickly, listening with half an ear. Gladys still had not put in an appearance by the time she finished, so she stood and excused herself.
“I’m off to work,” she said to Charles, putting her hand on his shoulder. “What are your plans for the morning?”
“I’m taking my camera into the Park. I plan to be back by picnic time, though.”
“Enjoy yourself, then.” She left the men, still talking politics, and went upstairs. It was nine-thirty, and Gladys was probably awake by now. Before she and Beryl settled down to a morning’s writing, she would go to the girl’s room and speak to her.
In the second-floor corridor, Kate paused in front of a heavy oak door, where a hand-lettered white card with Gladys’s name on it had been inserted into the brass slot. She knocked, expecting a sleepily irate reply. Hearing nothing, she raised her hand to knock again. Just then, she turned to see Consuelo hurrying toward her down the hall, looking troubled. Behind her was Mrs. Raleigh, the housekeeper, a short, round, bustling woman with a bunch of jangling keys at her waist.
“Oh, good morning, Consuelo,” Kate said, dropping her hand. “I was just looking for Gladys. She doesn’t answer my knock, but perhaps she has gone out for an early walk.”
Consuelo’s lips were pinched and her voice was low and distracted. “The maid reported that she doesn’t seem to have returned to her room last night.”