At least Williamsburg was far better than anything Bessie had expected. She had imagined with dread a wild and barren land. A former governor, Francis Nicholson, had planned “a green country town.” Williamsburg was divided into half-acre lots on which dwellings were set back, by law, six feet from the street. The impression was one of prettiness, elegance, and cleanliness.
Bessie, standing on the auction block, envied the Scottish servants. Provided they had a clan name like Macleod or Macdonald, one of their American clansmen would buy them on the spot and set them free.
She was too tired and dazed to really know what was happening. The fierce heat on her uncovered head was making the colorful scene swim before her eyes.
“Get down, Redhill. You're took,” barked the auctioneer. Numbly, Bessie stepped down.
A black manservant in neat livery said, “Follow me. Mistress is waiting in the carriage.”
Bessie stumbled after him through the crowd.
A lady was sitting in an open carriage. “This servant shall travel with me, Peter,” she said to the servant.
The manservant opened the carriage door and, catching the eye of his mistress, helped Bessie in.
“I am Mrs. Harrington,” said the lady, unfurling her parasol. “Walk on, Peter.” The carriage moved off.
“I must make one thing clear… Bessie, is it not? I am the wife of the Reverend Hereward Harrington. We do not believe in slavery. You will commence your duties as a kitchen maid until you are trained in our ways and may rise to a better position. You will be paid wages and you may, as from this moment, consider yourself a free woman.”
“Thank you,” whispered Bessie, tears of weakness and relief beginning to roll down her cheeks.
“You poor woman. You will be nursed back to health before you start your duties. Now, do not try to talk. Here, take this parasol, and keep the sun from your head.”
Bessie looked into Mrs. Harrington's kind eyes and then at the saucy silk parasol with the ivory handle that she was holding out to her, and for the first time in her life, Bessie Redhill began to believe in the existence of a merciful God.
Dolph had felt more cheerful the next day after a good dinner and an excellent night's sleep on a comfortable bed at The Green Dolphin. But his feeling of well-being did not last long. It transpired that Lord Arthur had rented a rowing boat and expected his friend to accompany him to help in the grim search for the bodies.
The sea was mercifully calm, but the landswell was enough to make Dolph begin to wish he had not dined so well. Hatless and in his shirt-sleeves, Lord Arthur rested on the oars for a moment.
“One of the fishermen told me, Dolph, that bodies are often swept out to sea. I fear they may end up in France.”
“In that case…” said Dolph hopefully.
“But we shall continue our search. Perhaps a little farther out.” Lord Arthur began to pull away from the cliffs with powerful strokes.
Lord Arthur was the youngest son of the Duke of Pentshire. He was very rich. All of which, thought Dolph queasily, should have made the noble lord remember what was due his position. He should have hired men to search and men to row.
“There's something white in the water,” shouted Lord Arthur suddenly, making Dolph jump. “Over on the port side.”
Dolph looked over to his left and saw a white shape bobbing on the water. “Oh, dear,” he moaned.
“Get the grappling iron,” ordered Lord Arthur, shipping the oars.
Dolph closed his eyes while Lord Arthur fished in the water. When he opened them again, Lord Arthur was standing in the rocking boat, looking thoughtfully at a sopping white dress on the end of the iron. “More clothes,” he murmured.
He took the dress off the iron and then sat down in the boat, shook it, and held it up. It had been a pretty little dress with a flounced yoke and a flounced hem.
“How tall would you say Miss Channing was?” asked Lord Arthur.
“Little under my height,” said Dolph, surprised. “'Bout five foot four inches, I would guess.”
Lord Arthur studied the dress again, and then looked thoughtfully at the cliff.
“You know what puzzles me, Dolph,” he said. “Clothes have been found. But you would have expected trinkets to have been lying down the cliff, or floating about-fans and ribbons, shoes and laces.” He picked up the oars and began to row powerfully back in the direction of the little harbor below the village.
“Where are we going?” asked Dolph.
“Back to Tregarthan Castle. I want a look at that trunk that was recovered.”
“Why?”
“Oh, just an idea.”
When they got to the castle, it was to find that the portcullis was indeed a working one, for it was firmly down at the end of the drawbridge.
“Mr. Palfrey must be frightened of a hanging,” said Lord Arthur.
There was a bell beside the portcullis of the same size as the one beside the front door. He gave it an energetic peal and waited until a servant ran out to answer its summons.
“I was to let no one through, my lord,” said the servant, “and Mr. Palfrey is lying down, having taken a sleeping draft.”
“I merely want to examine the trunk of clothes that was found yesterday,” said Lord Arthur. “Raise this silly contraption immediately.”
He and Dolph waited while the servant ran to fetch three of his fellows, and it took the combined efforts of the four to winch up the portcullis.
Anderson, on hearing their strange request, turned them over to the housekeeper, Mrs. Jessop, who took them up to Felicity's bedchamber.
“I had not the heart to take the clothes out and wash them,” said Mrs. Jessop, beginning to cry.
“Do not distress yourself,” said Lord Arthur. “Leave us for a little. We shall take our leave shortly.”
Watched by Dolph, Lord Arthur carefully took items out of the trunk and studied them. Two strangely small dresses, an old pair of shoes, an ugly tartan scarf, four old bonnets-not the sort of styles one would expect the modish Miss Channing to wear.
A slow smile curled Lord Arthur's lips. Then he began to laugh.
Dolph looked at his friend in shock and outrage.
“Have you gone mad?” he cried.
“No, no, my friend,” said Lord Arthur. “I fear the tragedy has overset my nerves.” He put the clothes back in the trunk, slammed down the lid and left the room, with Dolph trotting at his heels. Grief took people in very strange ways, thought Dolph.
Princess Felicity of Brasnia made a triumphal exit from the town of Falmouth. The mayor bowed and a military band played a brisk march. Felicity waved graciously until the people and the town were left behind.
“Thank goodness that is over,” said Felicity, leaning back with her head against the squabs. “It is amazing, this business of being a princess. No one will let us pay for anything. I feel such a fraud.”
“They all enjoyed themselves,” said Miss Chubb. “But the one thing now troubling me is our lack of servants. It will look odd if we do not hire some. You have only John. And, oh, how difficult it will be with a retinue of servants. We shall have to play our parts even in our sleep.
“Perhaps our John will think of something,” continued Miss Chubb. “He is proving to be amazingly clever.”
“Well, at least I can take this heavy tiara and collar off for a little,” sighed Felicity. “Do you really think Mr. Palfrey will believe us dead?”
“Bound to,” said Miss Chubb bracingly. “It all went off splendidly.”