Daphne (2 page)

‘Yes, Papa. But he is a fine young man. The Somerset Archers, you know.’

‘No, I don’t. What has her ladyship to say to this? What was Annabelle thinking of not to inform me?’

‘Well, Annabelle is much concerned with baby
Charles and … and … I met Mr Archer at Lady Godolphin’s.’

The vicar breathed through his nose. ‘I’ll get to the bottom of this, miss.’ He eyed her narrowly. A full moon had risen, outlining Daphne’s trim figure, mondaine dress and beautiful face. ‘You could marry a duke,’ said the vicar sourly.

‘I am sure you would put my happiness before all worldly concerns,’ said Daphne with a primness worthy of her sister Minerva at her most
sanctimonious
.

‘We’ll see,’ said the vicar truculently. He was about to pursue the subject when his sharp little eyes spied the figure of Squire Radford on the other side of the village pond.

He did not want the squire to find out about the trap he had set for the bishop and so he hustled Daphne along the road as fast as he could.

When they reached the iron gates of the vicarage the vicar hissed, ‘Mrs Armitage don’t know nothing about the bishop, nor the girls either, so don’t you go sayin’ anything. Lor’! I forgot to warn Lady
Godolphin
.’ He charged off into the house, leaving Daphne to follow.

Mrs Armitage was not belowstairs to welcome Daphne home. That good lady had overdosed herself with patent medicine which had brought on one of her Spasms. Frederica was already in bed but Diana was waiting in the small parlour with wine and cakes.

‘I heard of your arrival,’ said Diana. ‘Jem from the village came running up about ten minutes ago.’

Daphne sat down sedately, spine straight as a ramrod, and neatly removed her gloves. Then she unpinned her bonnet and laid it carefully on a chair. Diana, who was wearing a much-stained riding dress, looked at her elder sister with contempt. ‘Still the same fashion plate, Daphne. I had hoped London might have
humanized
you. Oh, never mind. Tell me about Annabelle and the new baby.’

Daphne began to talk in her soft voice. Everything was well with Annabelle. The baby was lusty and healthy and had a fine voice. Behind Daphne’s calm brow flowed two streams of worry. What if the bishop broke his neck? Why had things at
Annabelle’s
been so uncomfortable and
edgy
?

Diana listened, surveying Daphne curiously and wondering if anything ever troubled her apart from a stray curl. Daphne’s midnight hair was arranged tastefully in artistic curls. She was a fashionable beauty, reflected Diana without even a tinge of jealousy. Straight little nose, large liquid eyes, and a small, beautifully shaped mouth.

‘And then we met Father out on the Hopeworth road,’ Daphne ended up.

‘Really? What on earth was Father doing? And you and Lady Godolphin arrived on foot. A Lady Godolphin sans paints and sans cicisbeo, no less.’

‘She gave both up for Lent and has become accustomed to doing without either,’ said Daphne. ‘I must retire,’ she added hurriedly, wishing to avoid lying about what Father had been doing on the Hopeworth road.

Diana followed her upstairs. ‘I wish you would speak on my behalf to Papa,’ she said.

Daphne turned, her hand on the bannister. ‘Why? Are you in love? Is there some gentleman?’

‘Pooh. Of course not. I wish to ride to hounds next time Papa goes hunting.’

‘But Diana,’ pleaded Daphne, her large eyes even larger in amazement. ‘You cannot! Only very coarse ladies go hunting.’

‘Stuff! I can ride better than Papa, I will have you know. But he will not listen to me.
Please
Daphne?’

Daphne slowly began to walk up the stairs. ‘I have not much influence with Papa,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Minerva …’

‘
Minerva!
Don’t talk fustian. Minerva would read me a sermon!’

‘But it is not very ladylike,’ persisted Daphne, walking into her bedroom. ‘You will soon wish to marry and you would not want the gentleman to have a disgust of you.

‘I don’t
want
to get married!’ said Diana fiercely. ‘I want to hunt and shoot and fish. ’Member what fun we used to have before you became so hoity-toity, Daphne. But you love clothes and dressing up and being bored by a lot of social chit-chat.
Please
Daphne.’

Daphne sat down on the bed and looked at Diana, her calm gaze revealing none of the busy thoughts underneath. Diana’s hair was worn behind her ears in a severe knot. Her mouth was rather large for beauty but her skin was flawless and her large,
sparkling, black eyes gave her face a gypsy look which was oddly attractive.

All at once Daphne envied Diana who had confidence in herself and knew what she wanted. She, Daphne, had once run wild about the woods and fields. But that was before she had discovered her own beauty could save her such a great deal of pain. People did not say cutting or hurtful things if you were beautiful. They did not seem to expect you to say very much either. ‘I will try, Diana,’ she said slowly. ‘But give me a little time.’

Diana gave her a hug, nearly knocking her back across the bed.

After she had left, Daphne carefully began to prepare for bed. John Summer had deposited her trunks, and the maid, Betty, had already hung her dresses and mantles away. Her heavy iron cosmetic box had been placed on the toilet table. Daphne would allow no one to unpack these precious articles but herself. Carefully she began to take out each item and arrange them in order on the table. There were four different types of rouge – vegetable, serviette (to be applied with a cloth), Liquid Bloom of Roses, and cosmetic wool (treated with red dye).

Then there was a large bottle of Vento’s Italian Water; a box of face powder called Powder Pearl of India, and a large swansdown puff. There was cold cream, beautifying cream, Pomade de Nerole and Pomade de Graffa.

Daphne used very little of these cosmetics, but she collected them as a magpie collects glittering objects.
After she had admired her collection, she removed the little rouge she had on her cheeks with cleansing cream. It was when she was twisting this way and that to try to unfasten the tapes at the back of her dress that she realized the maid, Betty, had not put in an appearance to help her for bed. Betty had been elevated to lady’s maid and a new parlourmaid called Sarah graced the vicarage. Although Betty had often acted as lady’s maid when the sisters went to London on visits, she had always had to resume her lower position when she returned to the
vicarage
. But her promotion had been the result of some only half-heard row that John Summer had had with the vicar. Betty never seemed happy these days, thought Daphne, and she had never married John either, although at one point shortly after Deirdre’s wedding, they had received Mr Armitage’s blessing.

The vicar was still rather mean when it came to the number of servants he employed. John Summer still acted as groom, coachman, kennel master, and whipper-in. The knife boy was still the pot boy as well as the page, and Sarah, the new housemaid, doubled as parlourmaid when the occasion demanded. There was a cook-housekeeper, Mrs Hammer, who held sway in the kitchen, and an odd-man who donned butler’s livery if the guests were very grand.

Betty had been in London when the eldest Armitage girl, Minerva, had made her come-out, and had subsequently returned with the next in line, Annabelle, and had been there when Deirdre had been wed. She had been happy and cheerful, cheeky
and frightened by turns, and after Deirdre’s wedding had shown signs of settling down to marry John Summer and live happily ever after.

Then she had become ill and had been ill for quite some time – so ill that Mr Armitage had sent her away to the seaside in the hope that the fresh air of the ocean would cure her.

The visit seemed to have effected a physical cure but had done nothing to improve the maid’s spirits. Betty had become surly and sad and no longer begged the girls’ old dresses or tied pretty ribbons in her black curls.

‘I must not worry so much,’ thought Daphne, as she at last pulled a printed cotton nightgown over her head and slipped between the sheets. ‘I will have wrinkles if I worry overmuch.

‘But I
do
hope the bishop does not come!’

Daphne, despite her worries, fell asleep very quickly. She had not thought of Mr Archer once.

The sun shone bravely in Daphne’s bedroom
window
at six in the morning. She awoke and blinked and then buried her face in the pillow and tried to go back to sleep. But a picture of the Bishop of Berham breaking his neck rose before her eyes to be followed by a picture of her father being hanged in front of Newgate Prison.

Daphne wondered whether to wake Diana and enlist her help. But Diana was her younger sister and must be shielded from harm.

It would not be so very bad, thought Daphne, if
she dressed and walked to where the pit was so carefully concealed in the road and shouted a warning should the bishop’s carriage appear.

Papa had said something about the bishop
arriving
early in the morning.

When Daphne let herself quietly out of the house a half-hour later, she did not look like the usual fashion plate she presented to the world. Her hair was brushed back behind her ears and confined at the nape of her neck with a pink ribbon. She wore serviceable boots under a drab gown of brown cotton.

The summer morning was sweet and still. Birds chirped sleepily in the hedgerows. A hazy mist was rising from the fields like a gauze curtain at the pantomime before the transformation scene. A few threads of smoke climbed from cottage chimneys into the lazy air. Daphne hurried along the edge of the village pond and along past the tall gates of The Hall where her uncle, Sir Edwin Armitage, lived with his chilly wife and two plain daughters. The road wound over the River Blyne. The river gurgled and chuckled over smooth round stones and
between
tall banks of rushes, the only busy thing in that early morning’s peace.

On past the blind shuttered windows of Lady Wentwater’s mansion went Daphne. Lady
Wentwater
had not been in residence for over two years and her nephew Guy who had once been a slave-trader was rumoured to have gone to America. Rumour also had it that Sir Edwin’s daughter, Emily, was still waiting for his return.

Daphne came out of the shade of the trees which surrounded Lady Wentwater’s mansion and looked down the long ribbon of road which led towards the crossroads.

Her heart seemed to stop.

A light carriage was upended in the vicar’s pit and a still figure was lying beside the road. The horses had climbed free and were standing nearby.

Daphne picked up her skirts and ran as fast as she could towards the prone figure. Once again, in her mind’s eye, she could see her father dancing on the end of a rope.

The figure resolved itself into that of a man, a large man. He was bespattered with mud and water from head to foot. His face was covered in mud.

Daphne knelt down beside him and gently took his head on her lap. ‘Don’t be dead,’ she whispered. ‘Please say something.’

A large tear rolled down Daphne’s nose and plopped onto the mud-covered face on her lap.

‘My lord bishop,’ said Daphne, praying aloud. ‘It was a most wicked thing to do. Only say that you are alive so that you may forgive us.’

The man’s eyes opened suddenly and he stared straight up into Daphne’s face.

‘Thank God!’ sobbed Daphne, taking out a dainty, scented handkerchief and trying to scrub some of the mud from his face. The man struggled to sit up and Daphne knelt back on her heels and stared at him anxiously.

Her dusky curls had escaped from their ribbon
and were tumbling about her face. Her enormous eyes were dark and beseeching.

‘Please give me your blessing,’ she said.

‘Certainly,’ said the man in a dazed way. He studied her face for a few moments and then began to smile, his teeth very white against the smeared mud on his face.

He leaned forward and neatly clipped Daphne about the waist, and, before she could even begin to think what he meant to do, he had pulled her into his arms and ruthlessly kissed her. Daphne struggled, filled with fear; fear of the strange heat flooding her body, of the masculine strength of his arms, of the faint bristle of his chin against her face.

When he released her, she jumped to her feet, scrubbing her mouth with the sleeve of her dress.

He staggered unsteadily to his feet and gazed down at her.

Daphne took a deep breath. ‘How dare …’

But shock and outrage stifled the rest of the exclamation. She received a smart slap across her bottom.

‘Run along,’ said the muddy gentleman, ‘and get some help.’

Daphne opened and shut her mouth, anger robbing her momentarily of speech.

At last she found her voice. ‘You, my lord bishop, are an insult to the cloth.’

‘Inbreeding,’ murmured the gentleman. ‘No,’ he said in a kind voice. ‘I am not a bishop. Bishops are a very rare breed. You must not keep thinking every gentleman you meet is a bishop, you know.’

‘But you
must
be the bishop!’ wailed Daphne. ‘My father, the vicar, dug this pit especially to trap him!’

The tall gentleman looked down at her, his yellowish eyes filled with pity. ‘There, there, my child,’ he said. ‘I shall manage for myself.’

He began to walk off down the road in the direction of Hopeworth. ‘A tragedy,’ he thought. ‘Such a beautiful girl. She should not be allowed to wander about the countryside without some sort of keeper.’

A patter of light steps behind him made him turn round. ‘Oh, sir,’ gasped Daphne. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Garfield, Simon Garfield at your service.’

‘Well, Mr Garfield, you must listen. You see I would like to help you but the bishop may come along at any moment and I must warn him …’

‘Very well, my child,’ said Mr Garfield. ‘You stay here and … er … warn the bishop.’ His horses had broken their traces and miraculously plunged free of the ditch. He had tethered them to a tree and left them to graze in the long grass at the side of the road.

He strode off, leaving Daphne twisting her hands in agitation.