Harry, who had been kneeling on the floor, beside the cases of dynamite and percussion caps, rose to his feet. “Has it never occurred to you, Lady Rose, that your knowledge is unwomanly?”
“Not in the least. I see you are as stupid and old-fashioned as the other men in society. You would feel more comfortable were my conversation limited to discussion of the latest Nell Gwyn hat, the Camille Clifford coiffure, the Billie Burke shoes and the Trilby overcoat. Good day to you.”
I hope she never marries, thought Harry savagely, or her husband will wring her neck. But he put on a pair of gloves.
♦
He decided to go for a walk in the afternoon. The sound of voices came from the paddock at the back of the stables. He walked over and leaned on the fence. Rose was giving Daisy riding lessons. At first he did not recognize the chorus girl. Her face was free of paint and she was wearing a chic riding outfit which Rose had ordered for her from John Barker of Kensington for the princely sum of one hundred and five shillings. It had a tightly cut bodice, lightly boned to the waist, and the skirt was cut to accommodate the right knee when mounting side-saddle. Over the bodice went a very tight waistcoat.
“That’s right,” Rose was saying. “Stand on the mounting block. Oh, I nearly forgot. You must unbutton your waistcoat first. Never mount when buttoned up or the buttons will pop and fly all over the place.”
Daisy put a foot in the stirrup, grasped the pommel, heaved herself up and went straight over the other side. Rose gave an exclamation of dismay.
She rushed to help Daisy up and then both girls burst out laughing. Harry moved away, puzzled. What on earth was that little chorus girl doing with Lady Rose?
Up until that day, he had dined separately in the quarters he had set up in the east wing. He decided it was time he joined the family, and when he returned to the house he sent a note by a footman to say he would be pleased to join the earl and his family for dinner that evening.
Because of Rose’s disgrace, he expected there to be only himself as a guest. But the little earl was popular and had lately found courage to send out a few invitations. There were three guests other than Harry:the Marquess and Marchioness of Hedley, the rector, Mr. Busy, and a faded cousin of Lady Polly’s.
The marquess was a jovial man who liked to model himself on King Edward. He was heavy-set and heavy-bearded. His marchioness was a timid, crushed lady, as if her spirit had been borne down by her husband’s relentless joviality.
Rose, reflected Harry, was looking exceptionally beautiful in a white chiffon gown and with white silk roses in her hair. He wondered how Daisy fared in the rigid snobbish hierarchy of the servants’ hall.
He tried to engage Lady Hedley, who was seated on his right, in conversation. “The weather has been very fine this summer,” volunteered the captain.
“Yes, indeed,” she said. “Strawberries were fine. Yes.” Then she relapsed into silence.
“Lady Rose appears to be in full bloom tonight,” pursued Harry.
“Yes. Fine. Pity.”
“Pity?”
“All that beauty. Spinster. Can’t be anything else now.”
“Society has a short memory.”
“Not that short,” she said gloomily. She cast a sudden waspish glance in her husband’s direction and muttered, “Men with beards shouldn’t eat soup. Disgusting.”
There seemed to be nothing to reply to that, so Harry turned his attention to the pale cousin on his other side. What was her name? Ah, Miss Durwant-Flint.
“Do you live far away, Miss Durwant-Flint?”
“London.”
“Ah, where in London?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I was just making conversation,” said Harry.
“I don’t like conversing during dinner. No one should have to converse while they are eating. Barbarous.”
Harry gave up and finished his dinner in silence, which took quite a long time because there were eight courses. At last Lady Polly rose and the ladies followed her out. The gentlemen were left alone with the port.
Mr. Busy, the rector, had fallen asleep. His mouth was open. He should have been called Mr. Lazy, thought Harry.
Hedley told several smoking-room anecdotes and laughed immoderately at his own humour. Then he fixed his bloodshot eyes on Harry. “Don’t say much, do you?”
“Don’t get much chance,” said Harry coldly.
“You’re a young man. You should try to be more cheery” said Hedley, relishing the sound of the latest slang word. “Wait a bit. You’re that chap who fixes things.”
The earl looked at Harry and shook his head to convey the message that he had not been indiscreet.
Harry found he had conceived a strong dislike for Hedley, so he smiled enigmatically and said nothing.
“I asked you a question,” said Hedley.
Harry smiled and poured himself another glass of port. “And I didn’t answer,” he said.
Hedley gave him a baffled stare and then turned his attention to the earl. “Seems a shame you should all be in purdah because of little Rose. I’m giving a house party in a month’s time. Got a few eligibles coming. Young people. Send Rose.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said the earl. “I am sure my wife will be free to chaperone her.”
“Don’t need a chaperone. Her maid will do. M’wife’ll look after her.”
“Well, I suppose…”
“Just the thing she needs.”
“Oh, all right, then.”
What’s going on here? wondered Harry. Does this jovial marquess really want to do Rose a favour?
♦
The village of Stacey Magna was one of those places that look so well portrayed on chocolate boxes and were uncomfortable to live in, the thatched cottages being damp and insanitary. The inhabitants lived a quiet rural life, but were saved from the misery of poverty which plagued other agricultural villages in England, for the earl was a generous landlord and made sure everyone had enough food and that there was a school for the children.
Two evenings later, the inhabitants went to bed soon after the sun had set, to save the expense of candles, and a deep quiet settled over the houses and the surrounding countryside.
But they were all awakened at midnight by a tremendous explosion. The braver ones rushed out to see what had happened; the others cowered in their beds thinking the Day of Judgement was at hand.
It transpired that just before the main entrance to the earl’s estate, where a pretty hump-backed bridge spanned a river, the whole bridge had been blown up. Just as several men from the village were exclaiming over the smoking ruin, there was another huge explosion, bigger this time, from the direction of the railway.
They set off in that direction, keeping together, looking fearfully to left and right. When they reached Stacey Magna Station, the smoke was just clearing. Great holes had been blasted in the platforms on either side and the railway line was a twisted wreck.
The blasts were too late to feature in the morning newspapers, but they hit the headlines the day after. The press arrived but were kept firmly outside the gates of the earl’s estate. Crowds of sightseers came to see the destruction wrought by the Bolsheviks. And, of course, it must have been the Bolsheviks, for all the papers said so, and all claimed to have received anonymous threatening letters. Police combed through the debris and Detective Superintendent Alfred Kerridge was on his way to supervise the search.
The visitors brought some prosperity to the village, where lemonade stands and pie stands were set up, and the small pub, the Stacey Arms, did a roaring trade.
In all the fuss, Harry and his manservant, Becket, travelled in one of the earl’s carriages to a railway station farther up the line and caught a train to London from there.
“Glad that’s over,” said Harry. “I thought I might blow myself up by mistake. I never want to handle dynamite again.”