Gwen and I set out from London for Somerset, and the first portion of the drive was uneventful. It was only after we turned off the main road that we realized Alfred’s vague directions left something to be desired. As we approached a crossroads with a faded signpost, I said to Gwen, “Slow down so I can read it. I think this may be our turn.”
Gwen’s foot touched the brake—something she’d rarely done since we’d set off from my lodgings. Gwen, so sedate and measured in her personality, lost all inhibition when she got behind the steering wheel. Her philosophy was to power along at as fast a pace as possible, saying, “If we’re wrong, we’ll turn around,” which we’d already done twice.
I looked back down to the page of scrawled directions. “Yes, take a right here.”
Gwen made the turn, then stood on the brake, flinging the directions and the map to the floor. “What is that?”
Arms braced on the dash, I said, “I have no idea.”
Now that we’d made the turn, a life-size figure of a clown pointing down the road came into view. Gwen let the motor roll closer.
“It’s papier-mâché,” I said. It was clothed in a bright harlequin-patterned suit and had a matching floppy hat.
“Sebastian is a bit . . . unconventional,” Gwen said. “Perhaps these are signposts to point the way to Archly Manor.”
“It would have been more helpful to have one at the actual crossroad,” I said.
Gwen returned her attention to the road, and the Morris surged forward. “Sebastian’s an artist. He’s more into theater than practicality.”
We saw three more papier-mâché figures—a mermaid, a knight, and, finally, a unicorn, which guarded the gates of Archly Manor. “They certainly are eye-catching,” I said as we passed through the gates. “It makes me wonder what’s in store for this party.”
“Nothing traditional, that’s for certain.”
The grounds of Archly Manor were extensive, and it was several minutes before the house came into view. Gwen tapped the brake so I could get a good look.
“Gracious,” I said. “Perhaps I should become a society photographer.” The white stuccoed mansion dazzled against the green background of the surrounding parkland. A two-story recessed portico lined with Ionic pillars formed the central block of the house. Above it, a balcony enclosed the second floor. Two wings, each with an octagonal design, bookended the entrance block.
“Family money. Violet says Sebastian bought Archly Manor so he could get away. Somewhere to go when he wants to get out of the hustle and bustle of London.”
“Pity that it’s family money and not his photos that paid for it. I could see myself becoming the dashing lady photographer.”
The drive leading to the house buzzed with activity. Gwen threaded between two lorries, then stomped on the brakes to avoid a servant pushing a barrow full of plants. She swept the motor around the man, then jerked us to a stop at the portico by the double front doors. A servant opened the door of the Morris and informed Gwen he’d put the Morris in the old stables then have our bags sent up to our rooms. He drove away around the side of the house.
Gwen and I stood on the sweep for a moment, taking in the activity. On the wide stretch of emerald lawn that gradually dropped down to a lake, gardeners were trimming the grass while others bent over the flowerbeds that surrounded the house. Several men in flat caps and work clothes carried boxes labeled explosives down to a boathouse while servants hurried back and forth from one of the side entrances to the house. Other workers tottered along with potted plants, or perched on ladders as they hung Japanese lanterns on tree branches.
A man emerged from Archly Manor’s front door. He held two green champagne bottles by their gold-wrapped necks and wore a three-piece suit with a gold watch chain across his vest. He transferred one of the bottles to the crook of his arm and came toward Gwen, his hand extended. He moved with a confident and leisurely stride. “Gwen, so glad you could come.” His fair hair was parted in the middle of his forehead and slicked back from his face, which was lean and bordered on gauntness. The sunlight highlighted his prominent cheekbones and the sockets around his eyes, giving him an almost skull-like appearance. The skin stretched tight over the bones of his face was a curious contrast to his obvious youthfulness. He couldn’t be more than a few years older than Gwen and me. He was in his early thirties at the most. I wondered if he’d been sick recently.
“Hello, Sebastian,” Gwen said. “I don’t think you’ve met my cousin, Olive.”
I shook his hand. His grip was strong and his handshake firm. I said, “I hope crashing your party at the last moment hasn’t caused any problems.”
“Not at all. We’re informal here, as you can see.” He lifted one of the champagne bottles. “In fact, we’re having a little pre-party-party, if you’d like to join us. We’re picnicking far away from this chaos.” He waved the champagne bottle at a servant carrying a stack of chairs. “Or you may retire to your rooms if your journey was too fatiguing.” He smiled as he said the words, but there was a critical edge to his tone, which also held the barest trace of ridicule. “Perhaps you’d like a bit of a rest?”
“I’m not as missish as that,” Gwen said. “And I know Olive won’t want a rest.”
“No, I love a picnic.”
“Excellent. This way.” He turned his back to the lawn that sloped down to the lake and led us around to the other side of the house. “We’re under that large chestnut tree. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I must speak to someone. I’ll be with you shortly.” He moved away to talk to one of the workers.
I raised my eyebrows at Gwen as we walked to the group gathered under the tree. “I can see why you don’t like him.”
Gwen’s steps paused. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to. I could tell from the way you spoke about him. Meeting him only confirmed my thoughts.”
“Really? That’s disturbing. Do you think he knows I don’t like him?”
“No. He’s far too pleased with himself to even wonder about what other people think of him.”
“Yes. Smug down to his very bones. That’s why I worry about Violet. Alfred is so closely connected to Sebastian, and it’s clear that Sebastian doesn’t think of anyone but himself. I’m afraid Alfred is cut from the same cloth.”
“And neither one of them has Violet’s best interests at heart.”
“Yes,” Gwen said, then glanced back at Sebastian, who was still by the house. “He thinks I’m a dried-up busybody out to spoil everyone’s enjoyment. That comment about needing a nap! As if I was Violet’s decrepit spinster aunt. Just because I don’t indulge in the frivolous life like he and his friends doesn’t mean I’m old fashioned.”
“You don’t have to convince me.”
She smiled. “Sorry. He does annoy me.”
As we approached the group in the shade of the tree, Violet, who was seated on a blanket and reclining against Alfred’s chest, shifted into a sitting position. Alfred rose and greeted us warmly, his grin wide. Violet didn’t look nearly as welcoming. “I thought you weren’t coming,” she said.
“You must have misunderstood,” Gwen said. “I said I was arriving later. I went to London to bring Olive.” Gwen turned to introduce me to two women in wicker chairs with fashion magazines spread across their laps. The woman closest to me was Lady Pamela. Like the day I’d met her with Jasper at the Savoy, she wore an exquisite gown, this one a flowing cream silk with a lace overdress. “Lady Pamela and I have met,” I said.
She tilted her head up slightly so the wide brim of her straw hat revealed one eye. “I’m afraid I don’t recall.”
“It was at the Savoy.”
“How nice.”
“With Jasper Rimington.”
Her eye narrowed. “Oh, yes. Now I remember. You were in that rather—er—intriguing frock. Of course, I’m sure you had no idea you were dining at the Savoy. Jasper is rather a dear—absolutely spontaneous. And he associates with such . . . eccentric . . . people.” Lady Pamela’s gaze traveled up and down my ensemble, which was a perfectly acceptable tricot dress in pale green. But beside her frothy garden party dress, I knew I looked dowdy—and she was making sure everyone knew it.
I tilted my head. “And I thought Jasper just enjoyed my arresting eyes and first-class brain.”
Gwen coughed as Lady Pamela’s eye became a slit.
Before Lady Pamela could launch into a speech, Gwen cleared her throat and indicated the woman seated in the next chair. “Olive, this is Mrs. Reid, Sebastian’s sister. She’s staying here at Archly Manor with him while her husband is in Brazil.”
She dropped her magazine and extended her hand. “Call me Thea. Everyone does.” Her clothing was in the same league as Lady Pamela’s, and her brunette hair was bobbed, but Thea Reid was probably about ten or fifteen years older than Lady Pamela, who I knew was in her mid-twenties. Thea’s plump cheeks were just beginning to show a tendency toward jowls, and her heavily powdered skin looked worn compared with Violet’s dewy-fresh complexion.
I shook hands with Thea. “Will your husband return from Brazil soon?”
“Not for months and months. I’d join him, of course, but it’s quite primitive there. Certainly not acceptable for the children. And someone has to oversee the workmen.” She motioned for me to sit in an empty chair beside her and settled back. “We’re updating the London flat. It’s completely uninhabitable. Workers in and out all day. It’s too fatiguing, and they never seem to do anything right the first time.” Thea held up two magazines folded back at different pages. “What do you think for the cocktail cabinet? The black lacquer with Bakelite or the walnut with chrome?”
“You can’t go wrong with either one,” I said.
Thea looked critically from one page to the other. “I’ve engaged Monsieur Babin—he’s terribly difficult to get, you know—and he assures me either one will look stunning, but I can’t decide.”
Lady Pamela shifted in her chair and her handkerchief fell to the ground. Gwen reached out to pick it up, but Lady Pamela snatched it up in a jerky motion. “Just pick the most expensive one. You always do.”
Thea said, “I always say it never pays to be cheap.”
At that moment, a boy of about seven dropped from the branches of the tree and landed lightly beside me. My startled reaction delighted him, and he giggled.
Thea slapped the magazines down and craned her neck to look around the trunk of the tree. “Muriel!”
I hadn’t seen the two people on the far side of the wide tree trunk. A young woman in her early twenties quickly stepped forward. The high waist of her plain gray dress with a full skirt was several years out of date, but her brunette hair was bobbed and lay against her creamy skin, which was now tinged with pink. She sent a sharp look at the boy beside me. He smothered his laughter. She asked, “Yes, Mrs. Reid?”
A man who had been standing behind the tree strolled over. He had a receding hairline, and his expensive suit almost disguised his thickening middle.
Thea said, “Take Paul and Rose back to the nursery. They’ve had enough time outdoors.”
“Yes, Mrs. Reid.”
Gwen indicated the young woman as she said, “Olive, this is Muriel Webb. Muriel, this is my cousin, Olive Belgrave.”
Muriel murmured, “How do you do?” But her attention was on Paul. She took his hand, and a girl a few years younger than the boy scrambled down the trunk of the tree without help. She dropped the last few feet and landed with a smack beside the man with the receding hairline. He stepped back a pace and examined his trousers for mud. Rose craned her neck and asked him, “Will you be back tonight?”
He shook his head. “No, I have to go into town.”
Thea waved the magazine. “Don’t bother Mr. Digby-Stratham, Rose. Go along with Muriel. Mum will come up and see you before the party tonight.”
As Muriel walked away with the children, Thea twisted around and called, “Muriel, did you take care of that letter?”
“I put it in the mail this morning.”
“All right.” She half-turned back to our group, then twisted around again. “And what about the striped wallpaper? Did you telephone Monsieur Babin?”
“Yes. It’s available but only in blue, not gold.”
“Oh! So frustrating,” Thea said as she settled back in her chair. “I so wanted the gold.”
Gwen caught my eye and gestured to the man with the receding hair line who’d been standing on the other side of the tree with Muriel. “And this is the last of our party. Olive, this is Hugh Digby-Stratham.”
We shook hands, and then I asked, “You’re not staying for the party tonight?”
He looked as if a foul odor had drifted his way. “No, I’m afraid I can’t.”
Lady Pamela, who had twisted her handkerchief around her fingers, unwound it. “What Hugh means is he doesn’t participate in shallow things. He’s far too serious for anything fun.”
Hugh did seem to have a starchy personality with his erect posture and his precise movements, but he clearly didn’t like Lady Pamela’s insinuation he was stodgy. “On the contrary,” he said. “I would rather stay, but duty calls.” He turned back to me. “I’m afraid I must run. It was a pleasure to meet you.” He took his leave of the rest of the group, then marched off across the lawn toward the house with a military stride.
Alfred, who had flopped back down onto the blanket after standing to greet me, plucked a grape from the food spread on the blanket. “Hard to believe stuffy old Hugh has actually gone and fallen in love.”
Gwen said, “I don’t see why you think it’s so surprising.” Gwen offered me a sandwich from the picnic basket. I took one, along with Thea, but Lady Pamela waved the plate away and shifted in her chair.
Gwen set the plate down. “I think she and Hugh will get on well together.”
With mock horror in his voice, Alfred said, “But she’s a governess. I bet Hugh had to talk his family around to that.”
“Muriel comes from excellent stock,” Thea said to Alfred. “The Webbs were an established and well-respected Dartmoor family.”
Violet twisted to look around to Thea. “Were?”
“Her parents were killed when she was young.”
“Both of them?” Violet asked. “What happened?”
Gwen widened her eyes. “Violet!”
Thea waved a hand. “It’s all right, Gwen. Muriel wouldn’t mind. Water under the bridge and all that. Her parents were killed in a motor smash.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Yes, I’m sure it was,” Thea said as she turned the page of the magazine.
“What happened to her?” Violet asked.
Thea pulled her gaze away from a dress advertisement. “Who?”
“Muriel? After her parents died?”
“Oh, Muriel. She was sent to live with an aunt. Apparently, they didn’t get on well, but it all worked out in the end.” Thea closed the magazine and picked up another. “Because of that experience, Muriel understands the importance of stability where the children are concerned. She’s wonderful at keeping up with my correspondence and my schedule too. So helpful and willing to do whatever is needed. She was kind enough to step in when my previous secretary left.”
I thought Muriel might have another perspective on her relationship with Thea. The preemptory way Thea had spoken to Muriel, and Muriel’s quick, almost guilty response, told me Muriel was much more interested in keeping her position as Thea’s governess-secretary than simply helping Thea. As someone who was desperate for a job, I recognized the signs.
Sebastian arrived and topped off the champagne flutes for those who already had them and handed new glasses to Gwen and me. He caught the end of the conversation and said, “Muriel will be a perfect political hostess. Just what Hugh needs, actually. She’ll fade into the background as a proper politician’s wife should. She doesn’t have enough beauty to distract press attention—or anyone else’s, for that matter—from Hugh at all those dreadful ribbon-cutting ceremonies and summer fetes in their future.”
I thought his words were harsh. Muriel wasn’t unattractive. She wasn’t as much of a natural beauty as someone like Lady Pamela, and Muriel obviously didn’t have the means of someone like Thea, who used beautiful clothes and cosmetics to delay slipping fully into a matronly stage. But Sebastian was a photographer. Perhaps he analyzed everyone with an artistic eye, assessing whether or not a person was beautiful.
Thea turned a page of her new magazine with a sigh. “Nothing’s official yet between Muriel and Hugh. But I can see which way things are going. I’m sure it will be announced soon. The Digby-Strathams recognize what a level-headed girl Muriel is. She’s circumspect and attentive to detail. But I am disappointed. I’ll have to go through that horrid business of finding a new secretary and a new governess. So tiresome.”
If I’d heard those words a day or two earlier, I’d have made it my objective to show Mrs. Reid what a good candidate I would be for Muriel’s replacement, but I was more interested in Alfred’s background at the moment. With that thought in mind, I moved to pick up some grapes from the picnic basket, then settled on the blanket near Alfred and Violet.
They didn’t look thrilled when I joined them, but Violet was too well bred to not at least make an effort to include me in the conversation. Unfortunately, the conversation centered on the upcoming party, evening gowns in particular. When we exhausted that topic, Violet squeezed Alfred’s arm. “But I’m looking forward to the fireworks most of all,” she said, then turned to me. “Alfred and I are going to watch them from the balcony at the back of the house.” She fixed her gaze back on Alfred. “It’ll be too, too romantic.”
Alfred tossed away several pieces of grass he’d been stripping apart and said in a disinterested tone, “It has the best view.”
I said, “We’re boring Alfred with all this talk about the party. Which of your friends are coming tonight, Alfred?”
“Several of the gang will be here.” Alfred stood up and extended his hand to Violet. “Come on, Vi. Let’s stroll. If they’ve finished using the boats to get the fireworks over to the island, we can punt about a bit.”
I watched Alfred and Violet walk away. I couldn’t chase after them and demand to be included in their boating party—that would be far too obvious—so I switched my attention to Sebastian, who was saying, “. . . well, it wasn’t quite cricket, but we used to challenge some pompous-looking city gents to a race and taunt them until they agreed. I’m sure Monty will deny this when he arrives, but it was his idea. I’d make a fuss, marking off a starting point on the pavement, very official-like. Then I’d shout, ‘Go!’ and they’d dash off. Monty would drop back and let the other chap have the lead, then as soon as they ran by a bobby, Monty would yell, ‘Stop, thief!’ The bobby would sprint off after Mr. Upstanding Citizen while Monty and I raced in the other direction.”
“How wonderfully terrible,” Lady Pamela said. “You were awful.”
“Yes, I was.” Sebastian turned to Gwen. “But I’m sure you don’t approve.”
“It sounds as if it was all in good fun,” Gwen said.
“Oh, it was.”
“You must tell them about the rag you pulled at university,” Thea said. “That one tops all the others.”
“I don’t think I have time. I must check—”
“You must.” Lady Pamela bounced in her chair. “I insist.”
“Well, then. I know Gwen will disapprove of this joke. I have no excuse, except that I was younger and much more arrogant.”
Gwen choked a bit on her tea but managed to keep a straight face. Sebastian gave her a long look, then cleared his throat. “A visiting scholar came to our college, and he was given the royal treatment—given a tour, wined and dined, the whole bit. We decided a few weeks later that another Nobel prize-winning chemist from Germany would drop in unexpectedly for a visit, Dr. Klaus Klausenstine.” He threw his hand out in a theatrical manner and pronounced the name with a heavy German accent.
“Who is that?” Lady Pamela asked.
“No one!” Sebastian said. “We made it all up.” Sebastian put his hand on his chest and bowed. “You’re looking at the good doctor now.”
“Didn’t someone recognize you?” Gwen asked.
“No. I wore glasses, and I had a large fedora pulled down low. I also glued on a spectacularly curly mustache.”
“You speak German?” I asked.
“Not a word,” Sebastian said, his grin seeming to cause the skin to strain over the bones of his face. “I nodded and smiled. Even the dean was taken in. It was all going swimmingly until Dr. Heidelberg wanted to chat.”
“What happened?” I asked, suspecting I knew the answer. Sebastian was far too shrewd to get caught.
“I had my ‘assistant,’ a chap who wasn’t at university, ‘translate’ I was unwell and had to leave immediately . . . which I must do now,” he said as everyone laughed.
Sebastian stood, saying he needed to check on the party preparations. As he walked away, Lady Pamela jumped up from her chair as well. “I must decide what to wear for dinner.” She turned to Thea. “You must come look at my dresses. The silver embroidered frock I picked up in Paris last month? Too much?”
Thea stood and shook out the folds of her dress. “Nothing is ever too much for one of Sebastian’s parties.”
Later that evening I stood in front of the looking glass in my bedroom, which was decorated in a pale green and furnished with a massive canopied bed. The maid who had unpacked my meager belongings earlier that day handed me my only jewelry, Mum’s opera-length string of pearls. They felt cool against the back of my neck. I doubled the necklace so that one section formed a choker while the rest of it draped in a longer loop. I powdered my nose and added a touch of red lipstick.
The maid, Jane, a young woman with her white-blonde curls under her maid’s cap, stood behind me. Her black gown blended into the shadows, except for the bright white slash of my gloves, which she held in her hands. I turned away from the mirror, and the pearls swung as I took the gloves from Jane.
“Will there be anything else, miss?”
“No, that will be all. Thank you.”
Jane left, closing the door behind her.
I smoothed the gloves up over my elbows. Unlike Lady Pamela, I had no trouble choosing my ensemble for the evening. Having only one choice tends to simplify things. In the shadows of my scruffy London room, the dress had looked fine, but against the sumptuous background of Archly Manor, it seemed homespun. I adjusted my sash and departed for the drawing room. I wasn’t here to show off my clothes. I was here to find out about Alfred, and the party should be a perfect opportunity to do it.