Enlightening Delilah (16 page)

‘What is all that rumpus?’ demanded Sir Charles crossly. He was preparing to set out for London again. He had gained the squire’s permission and had got him to agree to a wedding in a fortnight’s time. He was anxious to return to London to make arrangements to bring Delilah home.

‘It’s Jane, one of the scullery maids,’ said his butler.

‘Why is she weeping and wailing like that?’ demanded Sir Charles.

‘She is with child,’ said the butler.

‘Then get the father here to me before I leave so I may constrain him to marry the girl.’

‘I am afraid the father is a strolling chapman she met at the fair last summer. We cannot find him now.’

Sir Charles made a noise of impatience and went out into the hall.

Jane, the scullery maid, was standing there with a small basket at her feet. Her eyes were swollen with crying and she was a most unlovely sight.

‘Stop blubbering,’ snapped Sir Charles. ‘How came you to get in this state?’

‘H-he s-said he l-loved me and would m-marry me,’ said poor Jane and fell to crying harder than ever.

Sir Charles fished in his pocket. He was about to hand the girl a couple of guineas and send her on her way, but as he looked at her, her weeping face under the squashed straw bonnet was replaced by that of Delilah, a Delilah whose voice sounded in his ears, saying, ‘What will become of her?’

‘Have you any family?’ asked Sir Charles gently.

It took her some time to answer, but at last she said, ‘No, sir. Got me from the orphanage.’

Sir Charles sighed. He said to his butler, ‘I shall not be leaving yet. I must call on the squire and the vicar again and see if we cannot find a husband for this poor girl.’ He was sure Delilah would understand and think he had done just as he ought.

*   *   *

The Tribbles were in a high state of excitement. Delilah was to be married and they already had a client to replace her. A letter had arrived that morning summoning them to an address in Croydon. A Mr and Mrs Perry-Sommers wished to engage their services as soon as possible. Money was no object.

On the following day after the letter arrived, Amy and Effy set out, telling Delilah to study her piano scales and keep a close watch on Yvette.

Delilah saw them off and decided to spend the day reading instead. Yvette had come up from the depths of despair and was so filled with gratitude for the Tribbles that it was unlilkely she would do anything silly.

Then Harris, the butler, came in, looking excited. He said he had received a letter from the Three Tuns Tavern to say that Miss Amy Tribble had arranged a special luncheon for all the servants.

Delilah was torn between amusement and exasperation. ‘How like Amy,’ she said, ‘to forget to tell me. Yes, Harris. You may all go. I shall do very well on my own.’

What an odd pair the sisters were, thought Delilah as she listened to all the excitement and bustle as the servants made their way out to enjoy this unexpected treat. Who else in London society would think of giving all their servants a luncheon? She decided to tell her father to present the sisters with some extra money. She knew Amy and Effy were constantly worried about their finances.

The house fell silent. The day outside was grey and cold and the lowering sky threatened snow.

Delilah was completely alone, and alone with her thoughts. She tried to tell herself she loved Sir Charles and that she had nothing to fear, and yet, as the minutes ticked by, she found she could not remember him very clearly or the passion he had aroused in her body.

A hammering on the street door roused her from her uneasy reverie. Callers, she thought, and was glad of the interruption. How odd whoever it was would think it to find her alone!

She ran lightly down the stairs and opened the door. Mr Guy Berkeley stood on the doorstep. Delilah made to slam the door, but he put his foot in it.

‘Hear me out, Miss Wraxall,’ he begged. ‘I am come to offer my most humble apology.’

‘Your apology is accepted,’ said Delilah curtly, pushing ineffectually at the door.

‘You must hear me out,’ he pleaded. ‘I am leaving England forever, but I cannot go without giving you an explanation of what happened.’

‘Well . . .’ Delilah hesitated.

‘Lady, had it not been for your flirtation with me, for the fact that you roused false hopes in my bosom,’ said Mr Berkeley, ‘then I never would have behaved so disgracefully. Pray, grant me an audience.’

Delilah remembered her own behaviour and her face turned pink. She had indeed led him on disgracefully and all to get revenge on Sir Charles.

‘But you hired a murderer to kill Sir Charles,’ she protested.

‘I swear on my oath that the silly fellow was not hired to murder Sir Charles. He was told to fire over Digby’s head to startle him and throw him off his aim while I fired in the air. Madam, I am a friend of the Prince Regent, I am a respectable member of the
ton
, I am not a murderer. Please allow me just a few moments.’

Delilah opened the door. ‘Just a little,’ she said crossly, ‘but I really do not know what else there is to say.’

She led the way up to the drawing room. ‘I should not be doing this,’ she said. She was about to tell him she was alone in the house and then decided against it.

She walked into the drawing room and sat down on the sofa.

‘Now, sir,’ said Delilah, ‘say what you have to say and please leave.’

‘You are alone?’ he asked. ‘The servants have left?’

‘Yes,’ said Delilah, and then her eyes widened in alarm. Everything rushed into her brain at once – the unexpected letter summoning the Tribbles, the unexpected lunch for the servants, and the rather nasty look which had appeared in Mr Berkeley’s eyes.

‘I have changed my mind,’ she said breathlessly, rising to her feet. ‘Go now. I do not want to hear what you have to say.’

She made to walk past him to the door, but he drew back his arm and struck her hard on the side of the head. Delilah fell heavily on the floor and he landed on top of her with such force that he drove the breath out of her body. His hands tore at her gown. ‘Jade,’ he said thickly. ‘I’ll teach you to make a fool of me.’

He forced his mouth down on hers and drove his tongue between her lips. She bit his tongue hard and when he swore and freed her mouth she screamed with all her might.

Upstairs in her room, Yvette, who had not gone with the other servants, heard that scream. Miss Wraxall! Miss Wraxall must have screamed. And she, Yvette, had heard the sound of a man’s voice a few moments earlier. Delilah screamed again.

Yvette had been mending Amy’s stays. One of the whalebones in her Apollo corset had come unfastened from its moorings and Amy had complained that the end of the stay had broken off so that it had been digging into her like a spear. Yvette had just been in the process of sewing in a new stay. The old one, with the sharp broken end, lay discarded on the work-table beside her.

She seized it in her hand and left her room and began to creep down the stairs.

Delilah’s head was reeling from all the punches Mr Berkeley had rained on it. Her skirts were dragged up and his hand was fumbling between her legs. She jerked her knee up sharply and caught him in a tender place and he brought both hands up round her throat and began to squeeze hard.

Yvette moved quickly into the drawing room and saw the man lying on top of Delilah, saw his hands around her throat. She raised the whalebone stay like a dagger and brought it down with the force of a madwoman right into the back of Guy Berkeley’s neck.

He let out a terrible animal scream. His eyes bulged in his head. He rolled off Delilah and lay on his side, the stay sticking out of the back of his neck.

Weeping and cursing, Yvette pulled the stay out and a fountain of blood spurted over her gown.

She pulled Delilah to her feet, ineffectually trying to hold the front of her torn gown together for her.

Delilah swayed on her feet and grabbed hold of a chair back to support herself.

‘Never mind me,’ she gasped. ‘Get a surgeon.’

‘For that
canaille
?’ said Yvette, giving the body a contemptuous kick with her foot. ‘He is dead.’

Delilah dropped to her knees and felt feverishly for Mr Berkeley’s pulse. There was not even a flutter of life. Delilah bent her head and began to cry.

‘Do not weep,’ said Yvette, crouching down beside her and holding her tight. ‘He would have raped you, killed you. It is better this way.’

Amy and Effy returned tired and cross. There had been no such address in Croydon and no such people. They had made inquiries all over the town before coming to the conclusion they had been gulled and had passed the bitter time on the journey back by speculating as to which of their jealous society friends would have paid such a trick on them.

They entered the house and straight into chaos. The servants were screaming and yelling. There was what appeared to be a whole regiment of the militia, two Bow Street Runners, two physicians, four gentlemen of the press, and Mr Haddon, standing in the hall, trying to stop the babble, his face like clay.

‘Silence!’ roared Amy. ‘Mr Haddon, what is going on. Delilah . . . ?’

‘Miss Wraxall is safe,’ he said. ‘Mr Berkeley lured the servants away from the house and then tried to rape Miss Wraxall.’

‘I’ll kill him,’ said Amy.

‘He has already been killed,’ said Mr Haddon quietly. ‘By Yvette. She fortunately did not go with the others and heard Miss Wraxall scream.’

Effy swayed against Mr Haddon and he caught her around the waist.

Despite her horror and confusion, Amy dragged Effy out of Mr Haddon’s arms and thrust her at Baxter, saying brutally, ‘Pull yourself together, Effy. Now is not the time to be miss-ish.’

Shouting, ordering and commanding, Amy sent the servants off to their duties, collected the officers of the law together and marched them into the library. She showed them the letter, saying she had no doubt now the handwriting would prove to be that of Mr Berkeley. They had arrested Yvette, and Amy howled at them to un-arrest her immediately or she would make them look like the biggest fools in Christendom. She became angrier and angrier and more and more overwrought until Mr Haddon stepped in and took command.

Amy fell silent and sat with her face buried in her hands while Mr Haddon competently set about dealing with the whole mess.

The village of Hoppleton received the London newspapers a day late. The squire settled down to read two of them beside a roaring fire. A blizzard was blowing outside, and he felt warm and snug.

He carefully read all the advertisements on the front before turning to the inside pages. The murder of Mr Guy Berkeley did not interest him. He had never heard of the fellow. He read the social notes and the foreign news. He was about to toss the paper aside and reach for another one when the sight of the name Wraxall caught his eye. He carefully read the details of the murder of Mr Guy Berkeley and felt himself grow as cold as the day outside.

Sir Charles Digby erupted into the room. ‘I must leave immediately,’ he said. ‘Have you read the news?’

‘This is dreadful,’ whispered the squire. ‘Why did I ever let her go to that beastly city?’ He shouted to his servants to get his travelling carriage ready.

‘No need for that,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Mine is ready outside. We can travel together.’

They drove only two miles out of Hoppleton in the blinding snowstorm when their carriage ended up in the ditch with the pole broken, the luggage scattered in the snow, and the terrified horses rearing and plunging. The squire was knocked unconscious and the coachman had a broken arm. Sir Charles and his two grooms laboured to get the squire’s unconscious body over the saddle of one of the horses, and, leading the horse, Sir Charles set out back to the village, worried out of his mind about Delilah.

The snowstorm raged over London, covering the sooty city in a white blanket, silencing the streets, making the great metropolis appear as dead and as lifeless as it had been during the Great Plague.

Delilah recovered quickly physically, but mentally she felt very low. She had promised to marry Sir Charles and now she felt she could not bear to see him or any other man again.

While the snow continued to fall, there was nothing that could be done. Amy and Effy had to consult their lawyers to make sure no blame would stick to Yvette. There were no callers, apart from Mr Haddon, who had arrived just before the full force of the storm and was now resident in Holles Street, as he was unable to get home.

The knocker was tied up, a sign to the press and the curious that the Tribbles were not receiving any visitors at all.

Amy was sick with worry, but she kept her worries to herself. It was hard to tell whether Effy was acting weak and distressed in order to arouse Mr Haddon’s manly sympathies or whether she was really upset. But she looked so scared and frail that Amy could not bring herself to add to her sister’s worries.

Delilah, who had been very quiet and serious since the attempted rape, finally sought out Amy and told her quietly that there was to be no marriage. She, Delilah, would return home to Hoppleton as soon as the roads were cleared.

Amy’s cup of bitterness was full.

‘I am sure your father and Sir Charles will soon be with us,’ she said. ‘They will have read the newspapers, but there is no way they can reach us in such conditions.’

Amy had meant to keep all her fears to herself, but that evening, after Delilah had retired, Amy watched Mr Haddon and Effy with a sour expression. Mr Haddon had a skein of brightly coloured wool stretched between his hands and Effy was winding it into a ball.

‘We look quite like an old married couple, do we not?’ called Effy gaily.

Amy’s temper snapped. ‘I held my peace while you looked as frightened and worried as I, Effy,’ she raged. ‘But now I see you must have been play-acting as usual. Here we are in a terrible, dreadful mess and you sit there, like some old harpy, flirting and ogling without a care in the world.’

Effy stole a look at Mr Haddon. ‘Can it be that Amy is jealous?’ she murmured.

Amy heard that murmur. She got to her feet and tore the skein of wool out of Mr Haddon’s hands and threw it on the floor.