Lady Hester Blendish jerked the lace curtains of the drawing room window closed to shut out the dazzling late spring sunshine and turned to face the young man who was reclining in a chaise longue at the other end of the room. A stray sunbeam lit up the gold in his curly hair and her hard face softened.
“I find it a very hard story to believe, dear boy. This female, you say, simply won game after game?”
Jeremy Brent nodded.
“And,” she pursued, “you believe that Lucy and Harriet are one in the same?”
Again Jeremy nodded.
“But surely there must be some other way— other than marrying the girl.” She moved toward him. “After all, my love, there is me to consider.”
The sunbeam that had so attractively gilded Jeremy’s curls was not so kind to Lady Hester. It cruelly illuminated the network of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth.
His voice sharper than he had intended, Jeremy said, “I told you. The father is a pretty dangerous character. Besides, think how happy we could be on her money. We have not enough of our own.”
Lady Hester Blendish had indeed been a friend of Jeremy’s mother. She had, however, been his mistress for the past two years. She was as much an adventuress as Jeremy and still a remarkably fine-looking woman, with a regal figure and an impressive head of auburn hair. But lack of money was beginning to drive them apart. Jeremy, she knew, was looking for an heiress. Better perhaps that he should settle for this mysterious Miss Balfour-MacGregor. At least he expected her to help him with the plot.
“And you have not been able to see her?”
Jeremy shook his head. “They have a great barracks of a place at Cheyney Street in Regents Park. Every time I call, some fish face of a butler tells me that ‘Miss Balfour-MacGregor is not at home.’”
“I must call, myself,” said Lady Hester. “Scotch, you say. A very superstitious people.”
“And what do you mean by that?”
“Simply that it is a long time since we have used Madame Rejinsky.”
“Ah, a séance. Voices from beyond the grave telling her to marry Jeremy.”
She gave a little laugh. “Not quite so crude. But that is the general idea. Ring that bell, Jeremy dear. There is no time like the present. Onward to battle.”
Lucy was practicing her curtsy when Lady Hester was announced. The lady of quality, chosen by MacGregor to secure Lucy’s entrée to court, Lady Vivian Rochester, raised her thin eyebrows in surprise.
“Now what does she want?” she murmured.
Lady Vivian was a dashing young matron with masses of fair curls and wide blue eyes. She was not in need of the generous sum that MacGregor had offered her but very much in need of something to alleviate her boredom. Her husband, Harry, was in the diplomatic corps and at present on duty in Moscow, a capital which Lady Vivian frankly detested. Bringing the pretty young Scottish girl “out” had seemed an ideal plan and she had entered into her duties with enthusiasm.
“Is there anything strange about Lady Hester?” asked Lucy.
“Not in the slightest,” said Lady Vivian. “She comes from a good old family, but on the other hand, she is a very high stickler and not in the habit of making unsolicited calls on young debutantes.”
“I seem to have heard her name before,” said Lucy, handing a large ostrich-feather fan which had been part of her rehearsal to her lady’s maid. “That will be all, Sally.”
“Yes, mum,” said the lady’s maid. “You does your curtsy beautifully, if I may say so, mum. I was wondering …”
“Yes, Sally?”
“Could I have the afternoon off to see my mother? She’s terrible bad about the legs.”
Lucy hesitated. She had planned to go shopping that afternoon. “Is it really necessary, Sally? You had the afternoon off yesterday, you know.”
“Oh, yes, mum. I know I’m being terrible asking you like this. But honor thy father and thy mother, I allus say, mum, and she ‘as been took bad, my mother, that is.”
“Oh, very well.”
“Thanking you ever so kindly, mum.”
The lady’s maid bobbed her way out of the room.
“You allow that girl far too much license,” said Lady Vivian severely.
Lucy flushed with annoyance and bit her lip. Despite MacGregor’s objections she had hired a young lady’s maid who had had little experience. Remembering her own experience, she had perhaps been more lenient than most and, in the most engaging and grateful way, the maid appeared to be making the most of it.
“Lady Hester Blendish,” announced the butler with awful majesty, as if to underline Lucy’s ineptitude in hiring servants and show that he, on the contrary, came from a long line of references.
Lady Hester hesitated slightly at the sight of Lady Vivian. “Ah, Lady Rochester. I thought you were in Russia.”
“No.”
There was a little silence. “Pray be seated, Lady Hester,” said Lucy, feeling awkward. Lady Hester looked extremely chic in a cream silk blouse with a brown belt, brown skirt, and a saucy straw boater trimmed with brown poppies. Her only piece of jewelry was a magnificent rope of pearls.
“We have a friend in common,” began Lady Hester. “Mr. Jeremy Brent.”
Lucy’s face lit up with pleasure. After all the new faces and new friends she had met since she had arrived in London, Jeremy Brent did indeed seem a very old friend. “He was concerned about you and begged me to call,” went on Lady Hester. “He has called, himself, several times and has always found you out.”
Lucy frowned as she realized that MacGregor had probably given instructions to the butler to refuse Mr. Brent admittance. She forgot about her own suspicions and only remembered him as a very pleasant young man. She chatted enthusiastically of their meeting in Monte Carlo and then in Herrenbad—and then bit her lip in vexation. Jeremy Brent had met Lucy in Monte Carlo and Harriet in Herrenbad. She could only hope that Lady Hester would not pass her conversation on to Jeremy, word for word.
“I really must go, Lucy,” said Lady Vivian, getting to her feet and smoothing down her frock. “I shall call again this afternoon. Will you accompany me, Lady Blendish?”
“No thank you, Lady Rochester. I have many things to discuss with my new friend,” said Lady Hester. Lady Vivian gave her a rather hard stare before she made her exit.
“Now,” said Lady Hester when the door had closed on Vivian, “I must tell you, I was so excited when Jeremy told me you were Scotch.”
“Why?” said Lucy, amused at her new friend’s fervor. “There’s a lot of us about, you know.”
“Ah, but not with your aura … your ambience, my dear. Are you fey?”
Lucy thought momentarily on her own incredible luck at cards. “No,” she laughed. “Sometimes I am very lucky.”
“That is because perhaps you can see the future … see what is in the cards. Metaphorically speaking,” she added hurriedly, as a twinge of anxiety crossed Lucy’s face at the mention of cards. “I believe you have a sister. Harriet.”
“Poor Harriet,” said Lucy with carelessness she did not feel. “Gone into a convent in Belgium, I’m afraid.”
“Anyway,” pursued Hester. “My dear friend, Madame Rejinsky, is giving a séance this evening. I do wish you would come with me.”
“I am afraid I do not believe in any of that—that—”
“Mumbo-jumbo. Say it, my dear. Neither did I. But Madame is remarkable. Have you any plans for this evening?”
Lucy slowly shook her head. MacGregor, she knew, was going to his club, having managed by some peculiar ingenuity to get himself elected to White’s.
Lady Hester had been living on her wits for quite a time. She had a compelling charm which she knew to an inch how to use.
She turned the full glare of it on Lucy. “Do say you’ll come, my dear. Perhaps she can tell you if a tall, fair man is going to come into your life.” Lady Hester laughed, thinking of Jeremy Brent, and Lucy laughed, thinking of Andrew Harvey.
After all, thought Lucy, why not? Andrew Harvey had not yet returned to London and, without him, life seemed to be very gray and flat. She suddenly smiled. “Very well. What time?”
“Good girl! I shall call for you at eight? Good.”
Lucy rang for Jobbons, the butler. Lady Hester walked down the beautiful, curving staircase from the drawing room, her eyes taking inventory. Everything of the first quality. That tapestry alone must have cost a fortune! Such a nice little pigeon for the plucking! And with these comfortable thoughts, she climbed into her open brougham and settled back against its pale blue upholstery with the satisfied air of a woman who had done a good job. Her coachman allowed himself a fleeting glance at his mistress’s pleased face. He knew that look of old. Milady had found a new source of income. He might be paid his wages after all. He gave a cheerful crack of his whip, Lady Hester unfurled a primrose-yellow parasol, and the brougham swept off through the busy London streets, making the less-fortunate passersby stare with envy and long to be one of the idle rich themselves.
Lucy drew back from the window after she had watched Lady Hester’s departure with a pleased little feeling of anticipation. It would be nice to have a friend who had not been chosen for her by MacGregor. He would probably object to any friend of Jeremy Brent’s. Well, she would not tell him about the séance.
She had had a few exhausting months since their arrival in London, doing what MacGregor said, meeting people MacGregor thought she should meet, not learning to ride because MacGregor had said that Lady Angela rode almost every day in the park when she was in town and that she must never have an opportunity to examine Lucy closely. Lucy could, on the other hand, attend balls where Lady Angela was to be present, provided she kept her distance. The Season was about to begin and Lucy was already exhausted. Idle rich, indeed! Society sweated as much at their pleasures as any housemaid at her work. Dress had to be changed at least six times a day. Stays had to be lashed as tightly as possible and feet crammed into tiny boots. Great hats with hatpins like rapiers had to be secured on top of hot padded headdresses. Conversation had to be light and inane—strictly of the “do you know old so-and-so?” variety. Then there was a long list of people to cultivate and people to snub, and the people she was supposed to snub always seemed to be the more attractive of the two lists. Had it not been for Andrew Harvey, she would have taken the next train north.
But every time she thought of him she experienced a dull ache of longing and a determination to suffer it all until his arrival. How many long nights she had lain awake imagining him alone with Didi in Dinard. She often wished savagely that the wretched Didi had committed suicide.
A discreet cough from the doorway broke into her thoughts. “There is a person who says he is a friend,” said Jobbons severely. “A Mr. Jones.”
It must be Mr. Jones from Dinard, thought Lucy. “Show him up,” she said eagerly. “What now, Jobbons?”
“Beg pardon, madam, but Sally has left for the afternoon.”
“I know.”
“May I say, madam, that Sally gets far too much time off?”
“That will be all, Jobbons,” said Lucy coldly, but immediately felt guilty after the butler had left. She really must speak to Sally. It was not fair to the rest of the staff.
“Mr… er … Jones,” said Jobbons.
Mr. Jones came in at a rush, both plump hands held out in welcome. “My dear Miss Balfour-MacGregor. So kind of you to receive me. How is your plumbing?”
Lucy thought for one awful minute that this was some risqué way of asking about her digestive tract and then remembered Mr. Jones’s business.
“As far as I know, it is in order,” she said faintly.
“Pray let me examine it,” he said earnestly. “I have heard that you and your father are an extremely fashionable pair. And … and … Oh, I do so hope you will not think me impertinent, but although I am retired—my son runs the business—I occasionally visit the old works. Well, they have developed this very, very latest water closet. Really extraordinary. Very powerful. One pulls the chain and whooosh—there is a veritable Niagara. It’s the most exciting thing I have ever seen. Now, dear lady, if you were to allow me to install some examples in your mansion—my present, I assure you—perhaps the beau monde would follow suit! I see I have amazed you. But only think! Milliners and dressmakers persuade certain society ladies to wear their creations free of charge as a kind of advertisement. Why not water closets, I ask?”
“Yes, yes,” said Lucy impatiently, having hardly heard a word that he had said. “What is the news of Dinard?”
“Still very backward,” said Mr. Jones, his face drooping like a mournful child. “I cannot persuade them to move with the times. Why, I said to the mayor only the other day, I said, the medieval monks had better sanitation than this town and furthermore …”
“I was inquiring about my friends,” said Lucy, interrupting him. “What of Miss Didi?”
“Oh, the little American miss. Yes, that was indeed a whirlwind courtship. Do you attend the wedding?”
“No,” said Lucy bleakly. Damn MacGregor and his “absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
“So I gather you do not object?”
“How can I?” said Lucy miserably, thinking that he meant Didi’s wedding.
“Splendid! Splendid! I took the liberty of having the truck with the men wait outside. I shall go directly. You are a very modern young lady, Miss Balfour-MacGregor. Don’t ring for your butler. He is backward. Plumbing means nothing to him. I can read it in his face.”
He darted from the room leaving Lucy sitting like a statue. She had not moved an hour later when MacGregor burst in with a howl of rage.
“What on earth is going on in the house? There are workmen carrying toilets everywhere I look, plaster everywhere, and the water’s turned off,” he roared.
“Didi is to be married,” said Lucy sadly.
“Didi is to be … What the hell’s that got to do with it?”
“Oh, who cares about the plumbing,” said Lucy. “I repeat. Because you took me away from Dinard, Didi is to marry Andrew. Mr. Jones told me.”
“Jones! Oh, so that’s why the house is upside down. Didi marrying Harvey. Nonsense! Probably someone else. There’s been no announcement.”
Lucy began to sob bitterly. “She probably forced him to marry her. The wedding was probably conducted at the edge of a cliff.”
MacGregor looked down at her and frowned. There was no danger that any member of society would remember MacGregor as a butler. With his magnificent waistcoats and imperial beard and a toupee forming a widow’s peak on his forehead, he looked an autocratic and imperious figure. Already several dowagers were inclined to sigh over him and point him out to their less-distinguished offspring as a shining example of the old aristocracy.
“Don’t mope about it until you find out if it is true,” he said at last. “Tell you what. I won’t go to the club. I’ll take you to the Palace Theater instead.”
Lucy shook her head. “I think I will stay home and read. This is the first free evening I have had in a long time.” She now wanted desperately to consult the oracle at Madame Rejinsky’s. But she still had no intention of telling MacGregor.
A pale blue dusk had settled across London, bringing out the evening smells of leaves and flowers from Regents Park. MacGregor turned from the window where he had been watching a lamplighter moving from lamp to lamp with his brass pole, like a magician leaving a blue gas flower to sputter and bloom every time he stopped, waking up London for its nighttime revels.
“You’re all dressed up for an evening at home,” he remarked suspiciously as he drew on his dog-skin gloves. Dressed in a spring-green organza frock with a high boned collar, Lucy kept her head bent over her book and did not deign to reply.
“What are you reading? H. G. Wells? For heaven’s sake. You’ll be joining the suffragettes next.”
“And why not?” demanded Lucy, putting down her book. “Why shouldn’t women have the vote? Why shouldn’t—”
“I’m going. I’m going,” said MacGregor. “If there’s one thing I can’t bear, it’s an educated woman.” He took up his hat and his cane and hurried off.
He stood on the front steps while the carriage was being brought around and began to feel slightly guilty. Here he was having the time of his life and all thanks to Lucy, and she was moping upstairs with a book. He settled his silk hat on his head with a tap and, resting on his cane, leaned forward in the carriage as it turned the corner from Cheyney Street and clattered sedately along beside the park. Another carriage moved past into Cheyney Street and MacGregor had the feeling that it had been waiting for him to leave. He called to the coachman, told him to wait, climbed down, and made his way leisurely back to the corner.
Lucy was climbing into a closed carriage. MacGregor swore and ran back to his own carriage and gave the coachman rapid instructions.
Madame Rejinsky lived on the ground floor flat of a house in Cheyney Walk. As she told Lucy shortly after the girl arrived, it was a convenient location because the water spirits came to her bidding from the River Thames outside and the rent was low. She seemed to have spoken the truth for the water spirits had left their marks in the small overgrown square of mud that passed for a garden, and had draped their watery fingers down the wallpaper in the small parlor. The whole place reeked of damp, cats, and cabbage water.
Madame Rejinsky was a large, fat white woman, dressed in purple velvet with peculiar markings which Lucy was at length to judge came from enthusiastic and inexpert use of a flatiron on the wrong side of the cloth. Madame smelled strongly of benzine and eau de cologne.
The overstuffed parlor was crammed with innumerable photographs and daguerreotyes, aspidistras, and pampa grass in Banaras brass bowls. Tea and seedcake were passed around by Madame which seemed to Lucy a very ordinary and domestic thing to do. Surely invisible hands should have dealt with the chore. She wished she hadn’t come. Her head ached and her heart also. The séance was to take place after tea. There were two elderly ladies who glittered with jet ornaments and a thin young man in a celluloid collar. First names were the order of the day. The old ladies were Ernestine and Josephine and the young man was George.
“Don’t be put off,” whispered Lady Hester. “The exciting part is just coming.”
The tea things were cleared away by a slatternly-looking maid, the gas was turned out, and one black candle was lit in an alcove in the corner of the room.
Madame Rejinsky’s fat white face seemed to hang in the darkness. The company joined hands around the table and waited breathlessly for the other world.
To Lucy’s horror the table began to float and move. A high, thin voice suddenly wailed “Ernestine.” The old lady screamed. “Be quiet,” hissed Madame Rejinsky. “Ernestine,” wailed the voice. “This is your brother, Bertie.”
“What is it, Bertie?” quavered Ernestine.
“You must give money,” wavered the spirit voice. “You will never reach the spirit world after your death if you hold on to your earthly riches.”
“You always was after my money when you was here and you ain’t changed a bit,” grumbled Ernestine. Lucy had an insane desire to giggle.
“I do not wish the money for myself,” said the spirit voice with almost human rancor. “I wish to save your soul. Donate your money to those who help build bridges with the spirit world.”
“I’ve already given Madame Rejinsky two hundred pounds,” wailed Ernestine.
“Give more. Give more …” entreated the spirit and suddenly choked. There was the sound of a scuffle and a thump. Lucy was aware that Madame Rejinsky was trying to get up.
“Be seated,” said another spirit voice. Madame Rejinsky, who had half risen to her feet, sank down with an exclamation which sounded halfway between a gasp and a moan.
“Do not listen to Bertie,” wailed the other spirit. “We have no need of money here. Keep all your money, Ernestine. Buy shares in Hancroft Engineering and you will double your money.”
“This is ridiculous,” gasped Madame Rejinsky.
“What is ridiculous?” said the spirit in a high unearthly voice. “Only the fake medium is ridiculous. The machinations of the fake can be revealed easily by this spirit, Madame.” Madame Rejinsky went very still and silent.
“Lady Hester,” wailed the voice. Hester’s hand holding Lucy’s jerked convulsively. “Lead not the young astray with false prophets,” moaned the voice.
“This is tommyrot,” snapped Hester. “Oh, please be quiet,” hissed the terrified voice of Madame Rejinsky.
“Lucy Balfour-MacGregor,” moaned the high, sexless voice, like the wind sighing in the tops of the pines.
Lucy experienced a real frisson of terror. “Didi eloped with the Compte de la Valle. This is Ugmar from the spirit world bidding you good night.” The spirit let out a high, screaming cackle of laughter.
Then, there was silence.
The guests and Madame Rejinsky sat transfixed. Lucy felt a wave of elation sweeping through her. It must all be a trick. It must be. But what a marvelous trick!
At last Madame Rejinsky lit the gas and they all blinked at each other in its yellow glare. “Please leave,” she pleaded faintly. “Please!”
One by one the guests shuffled out. Only two of them looked happy: Lucy and the old lady called Ernestine who was muttering, “Hancroft Engineering, well I never,” and writing busily in a small book.
Lady Hester was silent for some minutes on the journey back and then she looked cautiously at Lucy. “I am sorry to have taken you to such a farce. I think Madame Rejinsky goes in for fakery.”
“It doesn’t matter,” smiled radiant Lucy. “I enjoyed it very much.”
“What was all this business about Didi?”
“I don’t know,” lied Lucy. “Anyway, you didn’t take any of it seriously?”
“No. Of course not,” said Hester hurriedly. “I hope we shall be friends, Lucy. Perhaps I may call on you tomorrow?”
“By all means,” said Lucy smiling as the carriage drew up at her door. “Oh, there is my father just arriving home. Would you care to meet him?”
“Tomorrow,” said Lady Hester. She felt she could not cope with any more novelties.
Lucy waved good-bye and then ran lightly into the house and went in search of MacGregor.
She found him standing out on the terrace at the back of the house with a glass of whiskey in his hand.
“I thought you weren’t going out this evening?” he remarked without turning around.
Lucy decided to tell the truth. “Well, I get a bit tired of you saying who I can and cannot see. Lady Hester Blendish called today. She is … she is a friend of Jeremy Brent. She is very charming and … and …”
“You thought I wouldn’t let you see her. Well, you’re right. I’m still a little suspicious of that young man. Go on.”
“She invited me to a séance. Oh, I know it was a crazy thing to do but it turned out to be fun and … and … very harmless.”
MacGregor raised one cynical eyebrow. “You don’t mean to tell me you believe in all that balderdash and poppycock?”
Lucy shook her head and then remembered the strange spirit message. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,/ Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”
“I’m thinkin’ ye must have got a verra interestin’ messaige from the ghosties and ghoulies,” said MacGregor, lasping into his former accent.
“Yes, I did,” said Lucy defiantly. “I was told that Didi eloped with the Compte de la Valle.”
“I could have told you that,” said MacGregor lazily. “Yon wee man Jones imparted the information during one of his brief spells when his auld head wasnae down the cludge.”
“What exactly happened?” cried Lucy.
“Well, I gather Andrew Harvey stayed at his aunt’s villa writing a book and Didi was wandering around Dinard breaking her heart when along comes the compte. He has a bit of a flirtation with Didi and Didi falls for him as much as she did for Harvey. Now the compte’s family don’t want to have anything to do with Didi even though she’s a dollar princess, because blood means more to them than money. So Didi tells the compte that she is going to cut her wrists and the compte believes her and orders the fastest post chaise and off they fly to the kirk, and the compte’s wed and bed Didi ‘fore you can say ‘Bob’s your uncle.’”
“There you are!” cried Lucy. “The spirit voice spoke the truth. Good night, my adopted Papa. I’m the happiest girl in London!”
She turned to leave and then froze in her tracks. The high spirit voice of earlier in the evening suddenly sounded in her ears. “Why don’t you listen to your father’s advice, Lucy? False friends will be the downfall of you.”
Lucy turned around slowly and stared at MacGregor. “You couldn’t possibly … you didn’t … Hamish MacGregor, I’m ashamed of you!”
“Aye, just so,” said the ex-butler with an evil wink. “There are more tricks up the MacGregor’s sleeve than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Lucy Balfour-MacGregor!”