I have never been so angry in my life. Not when Mama and Papa told me I was to stay in England, not when James threw my best hat out the window, not even when Sophie Franklin wore that shocking dress to the school fete and lured Reverend Allistair’s son Robert away from me. Alan Creighton is the most arrogant, stupidest man I have ever heard of. It was I who discovered the house on the cliffs, and I who overheard Forbes and that man. He did not find a dead bird in his bed! Without me, he would know nothing at all. It is not fair!
He and Philip are closeted in Philip’s study. They have given orders that they are not to be interrupted for tea, or anything else. The door is too thick to let any sound through, and all the windows are shut, because of course it is raining again. I cannot bear it!
When I think that Alan is hearing the whole story, whatever it may be, I can scarcely keep from screaming. Perhaps I was wrong about Philip. But how am I to know that if I am told nothing? I daresay Alan will not even mention my plan of investigation. I am in such a flame, I can hardly write. I am going out walking; I don’t care about rain.
* * *
My head is clearer now, even though my walk was quite nasty. It is a thin, cold rain and gets down one’s neck and into all the crevices of one’s cloak. And when I came back, Rosalind was waiting in the drawing room looking dreadfully melancholy. Philip and Alan had not come out, and I could not be found, and she had been left there with the tea tray to worry. I had to sit with her for a while, and she looked so woebegone that I could not even hint anything was wrong. I told her I thought Alan was discussing some business matter with Philip, and this reassured her at once. We had our tea, and Rosalind chatted about the baby clothes being made by some village women. As soon as I could get away, I came back here to record what I have decided to do.
Of course I shall not give up. If Mr. Alan Creighton imagines that I will merely fold my hands and wait to be told the story when it is over, he has not understood my character. I intend to show him his mistake, and soon, because I have had an absolutely brilliant idea.
One of the trials of my childhood was Mama’s penchant for reading Shakespeare aloud. By the time I was six years old, I had endured uncountable sessions of nervous bewilderment. Mama reads with great enthusiasm, and so we were always conscious that terribly important things must be going on in what she read, but none of us ever understood more than one word in five. She would have to explain events to us every few minutes, which you might have thought would annoy her and make her wish to stop, but it didn’t. Until today, I have looked back on those afternoons as an utter waste, and that just shows that Papa is right when he says you never know what will turn out to be needed in the future. (It is his reason for never throwing anything away, no matter how disgustingly worn.)
But, as I was walking in the dreary wet shrubbery, I suddenly remembered one of the stories from Shakespeare. I can’t recall which play it may have been, but in it, the heroine disguises herself in order to find out the truth about something (I can’t remember what), and she dresses as a boy. This lets her go everywhere without being remarked and hear all sorts of things she never would in her proper clothes. And I suddenly saw how I might do the same, to discover what is going on in the village before Alan has any notion whatsoever. And the really providential thing is that Rosalind was showing me just the other day where all Philip’s old things are kept. The servants stored everything in his old schoolroom, which is just now being cleared out. I can use his clothes!
It is so perfect I almost had to jump up and down when I thought of it.
Of course, I am not so silly as to think I can just walk into a small country village and be told secrets. I shall have to have a good story. But I have thought of a splendid one. I shall tell them I am Alan’s valet. Only the servants here know that he has none, and I shall take care to keep out of their way. I am certain I can find out the truth before the masquerade is revealed. And then won’t Alan stare?
I am going to fetch the clothes now, while Rosalind is in her room dressing for dinner and the servants are busy below stairs. Then I shall be ready as soon as an opportunity comes along. I shall have to think what to tell Rosalind so that I may get away for several hours.
Of course, there is no question now of flirting with Alan Creighton. I would rather flirt with Forbes. I see now how easy it is to be mistaken in a man, just as Mama has so often told me. They may seem quite charming and reliable, but, when it comes to something important, they are simply not to be trusted. I hope I shall not find at each turn in my life that Mama has been right. How tiresome!