Little sleep was possible in such a state of agitation as she had achieved, but in spite of this, she was awake at her old familiar hour of seven. She dashed immediately to the window. The trunks of the apple trees successfully concealed the barrels of brandy, but she knew they were there, a barrel ingeniously hidden behind each tree. Of that there was not a single doubt in her mind. She was still a little frightened to go alone, so went along to see if Bobbie or Miss Milne were up. The child slept, but the governess was dressed, just drawing a brush through her hair, while covering a yawn with the other hand.
“Oh, good morning, Mrs. Grayshott,” she said, jumping up at her mistress’s entrance at this unaccustomed hour. Her hands flew to her head, as though to hold it on. “I have such a headache this morning,” she said. “I don’t know why I should have, for I slept like a top. But with the worst dreams. I thought I was being dragged by a horse. Isn’t that absurd?”
“Not so absurd as you may think,” the widow answered, and, carefully closing the door behind her, she went further into the room.
“What do you mean, ma’am?” the governess asked.
“There is something very odd going on here,” Delsie replied.
“Yes, I know. It is something to do with the orchard, isn’t it?”
“Have you heard something, Miss Milne?”
“Only rumors, ma’am. I don’t get into Questnow much myself, but my cousin Betsy at the Dower House made an odd remark when I was there Sunday. I told her about what happened to you the night we saw the man in the garden. I told her about the noises that happen there from time to time as well, and she said she thought maybe it was smugglers.”
“I think so myself, but it has gone beyond smugglers in the orchard. Miss Milne, I think you were drugged last night.”
The girl’s eyes opened wider in fright. It was not necessary to ask whether she had administered any laudanum to herself. She was horrified. “How should it be possible?”
“How indeed? You will remember the cocoa you drank. Bobbie, as well, slept like a top through the most infernal racket.”
“What about yourself, ma’am? You had cocoa too.”
“No, I didn’t drink it. I heard men in the orchard last night, and tried to rouse you. You were in a deep, drugged sleep. I watched from the window, and saw them bring a load of brandy into the orchard. I mean to go down this minute and see if I’m not right.”
“Folks do say it’s better not to meddle with the gentlemen,” the girl suggested, reluctant to comply with the hint.
“Very well, then, I shall go alone. It is broad daylight. I don’t suppose anything will happen to me.”
“You daren’t… I’ll go with you,” Miss Milne decided, snatching up a shawl.
They went silently along the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door, opening and closing it with caution to avoid alerting the Bristcombes. Quietly they hastened around the corner to the orchard, there to stare at each other in speechless amazement. There was no sign of a barrel, nor of any disturbance. “I know they were here. I saw them with my own eyes,” Delsie declared in frustration. She performed the futile gesture of darting to the back of the orchard, to see the rank grass untouched, its dew undisturbed, not a blade trampled down. “They were here. I am not mad!” she insisted to the doubting governess, regarding her questioningly.
“I had terrible dreams myself last night,” Miss Milne offered.
“Yes, because you were drugged,” Delsie stated firmly, with no outward show of wavering, though she was beginning to wonder if she had suffered a nightmare. “There is no point standing here arguing. I’ll speak to Mrs. Bristcombe about it.”
“Oh, Mrs. Grayshott, I wouldn’t!” Miss Milne warned.
“Am I to cower from my own housekeeper?” she answered indignantly.
“If you think she’s one of them… The tales Betsy told me of the village…”
“Yes, including the tale that is rampant there about me! My own students afraid to come to me because of the stories. It can’t go on. I’ll have this out with Mrs. Bristcombe.”
But when the steely-eyed Mrs. Bristcombe stood before her at breakfast, her nerve weakened. Not in front of the child, she excused her cowardice. I’ll speak to her later. “Did you sleep well?” the housekeeper asked, with a sly look on her face.
The gall of the question was sufficient to renew her fortitude. “No, I did not, Mrs. Bristcombe. Kind of you to ask. I slept very poorly, due to the disturbance in the orchard. I noticed from my window that you were present, and would like you to tell me what was going forward there.”
“Me?” the woman asked, with an amused grin on her wide face. “I was tucked up in my bed at nine o’clock, Mrs. Grayshott.”
“Not quite at nine, I think. You were kind enough to insist on making me a cup of cocoa at nine-thirty, if you will recall.”
“Oh, well, it may have been ten,” was the saucy answer, with a look that said, “Make what you can of that, milady.”
“Then again, it may have been two,” the widow replied frostily. She was suddenly aware of her vulnerable position. She and Miss Milne, who sat looking very much like a frightened bunny, and a child, were alone in the house with the Bristcombes. This powerful pair, allied as they were with the criminal smugglers-who could know what they might do? To delay bringing the matter to a crisis, she said, “I shall speak to Lord deVigne about it.”
I should fire her now, she thought, but was afraid. Her insides were shaking like a blancmange. She was cowering before her own housekeeper, as she had vowed she would not. But before the day was out, she would be rid of this woman and her husband.
“I’ll just see if Mr. Bristcombe knows what you’re talking about,” the housekeeper said. Her manner became more compliant at the mention of deVigne’s name. They did not fear herself, a defenseless widow, but they were still not intrepid enough to take on the lord of the village.
Mrs. Bristcombe left, and the others sat on, Mrs. Grayshott sipping a cup of very inferior coffee, and wondering why she had put up with the insolent hag for so long as a single day. She had known the first morning she came that they could never rub along. Bobbie was listless this morning, heavy-eyed after her drugged sleep.
“I dreamed about Daddy last night,” she said. “He put an engine in my bed, and made it dance. It was scary.”
“Now, isn’t that odd,” Miss Milne mentioned, casting a significant look towards her mistress. “I had a word with Nellie and Olive, the maids from the Hall, and they had bad dreams too. The whole lot of us had bad dreams.”
Because the whole lot of you were drugged, the widow’s knowing nod replied. They exerted themselves to make some light conversation for the child’s sake, but as soon as the meal was over, Mrs. Grayshott saw them upstairs to the schoolroom to allow her to proceed with a plan. This business was too serious to brook more delay. She would call on Lord deVigne, and shamelessly ask him to fire the Bristcombes. She was afraid to do it herself.
The trip proved unnecessary. He was on his way to the village, and stopped by to see if he could perform any commission for Mrs. Grayshott. He saw at a glance that she was full of news, as he stepped into the saloon. “More bags of gold?” he asked lightly.
“It has gone beyond a laughing matter,” she rounded on him. She opened her full budget, ending with, “And the Bristcombes will be turned off this day, as they should have been done the day I arrived.”