Lace for Milady (9 page)

George is almost entirely senseless, but what little he knows centers around riding and hunting. He gave me some helpful pointers. He showed me the proper manner in which to hold the reins. Why it should be required to hold them in such an unnatural manner, laced between one’s fingers, I still do not know, but have observed since that it is the approved way and I was determined to do the thing properly. I found his repeated injunctions to relax difficult to achieve, but tried to relax. Juliette is sensitive, he said, could tell I was nervous, and that made her nervous. She was becoming just a trifle frolicsome to suit me, and I dismounted to go into the saloon with George. He made a few deprecatory remarks, intended, I believe, for potential compliments after I had got a better seat, that at least I didn’t flop in the saddle like a sack of meal, and after I thawed out a bit, I wouldn’t sit like a block of ice either. We shall see.

“What you ought to do if you mean to ride is get yourself a habit made up,” Slack told me. I already knew it, of course. I had looked for a pattern in Eastbourne but not found one I liked.

“We’ll go to town now and pick a pattern and some material,” I said, for it was plain George had been ordered to hang about till ejected.

“It’s getting close to luncheon,” Slack reminded me.

“We’ll have it in town. It will be a change for us,” I said, and she, ever the gadabout, was not hard to convince.

George left, to have his ears singed by his mama for not accompanying us, I imagine. But at least he would have news to carry home, and that was a fraction of his duty. Slack had told him of our pending visit to Belview. I felt Lady Ing would come in person in the morning to hear all details.

I chose for my habit a rather dashing bottle green serge, and purchased a plain riding bonnet to go with the outfit. Black buttons and braid were selected and a pattern—a pleasant morning’s diversion, followed by an equally pleasant luncheon at the Lighthouse Inn. There was one incident during the luncheon which displeased Slack, however, since it cast her new beau in a bad light. The servant who brought our meal was a cripple. He had a left foot that dragged behind the other. It made service slow, but one feels compassion for the disabled, of course, and Slack asked him in a kindly way just before we left what had happened to him.

“I fell into one of the Dook’s mantraps,” he said. “Well, I don’t blame him. He was posted, but it’s hard times, lady, and a man has to feed his family. He didn’t prosecute,” he added, perhaps to let us know he did not have a criminal record.

“Very kind of him, I’m sure!” I said, and reached into my reticule for a larger pourboire.

“So much for your Duke of Clavering,” I told Slack.

“He had his signs posted,” she said defensively.

“Very handy for those who can read. You are no doubt aware many of the lower classes cannot.”

"That servant could. He wrote out our bill, so he can read, and knew he was taking a risk.”

She was beyond reason. We stopped to chat to a few acquaintances, and decided to go to the wharf for a view of the ocean before returning home. We were still new enough to the coast that we enjoyed to admire the spectacle of the ocean from all viewpoints. It was livelier here, at the port, than at our own cove, of course. The fishing boats had gone out and were not yet due in, but other commercial vessels were to be seen, and one ship of the Royal Navy was out anchored in the harbour, looking very trim with its white ensign flapping in the breeze.

"There’ll be rollicking in the streets tonight if the ship is to dock here,” Slack informed me.

I spotted Officer Smith across the way, doing nothing but looking at the ocean like ourselves, so far as I could see, and no doubt making a handsome salary on our taxpayers’ money for doing it.

He saw us and came toward us. “Have you had any more trouble with prowlers, Miss Denver?” he asked.

It was the first sign of interest; certainly he had not come out to us as he had said he would. “None. We have come to the conclusion it was not a prowler at all but some mechanical trouble in the chimney.”

“Very likely,” he agreed at once, always eager to absolve the smugglers of any blame for anything. I began to wonder whether he wasn’t in sympathy with them, but his next speech undeceived me.

He resumed glancing out to sea. There were several vessels in sight, but I felt he was looking at one in particular. It looked like a fishing boat to me, what the local people call a yawl, I believe. It has two masts and was a fair-sized thing. I have to this day difficulty distinguishing a boat from a ship. As surely as I use one term, my companion uses the other, placing just enough emphasis on the word to let me know I am in error. The difference seems to have to do with size—at some point a boat becomes a ship, but the turning point I have not yet determined. The same thing plagues me with ponies and horses.

“There’s the
Nancy-Jane
dancing around, up to no good,” Smith told me.

“You think it’s a smuggler’s boat?” I asked, following the line of his eyes.

“It’s
his
ship,” Smith said, pointing to a great hulk of a man ten or twelve yards away. Ship—wrong again. The lounging man wore a black toque, from which reddish hair stuck out, a black sweater and a pair of trousers that were dirt coloured and might possibly once have been fawn. “I
know
it’s used for smuggling.”

“Why don’t you arrest him?” I asked.

“He isn’t carrying a load. I’ve been out.”

“You have actually to catch him with the brandy aboard, do you?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. We need our evidence,” he replied, shocked at my question. “He is waiting for a good day to slip across the Channel.”

“You mentioned the other day you thought there was just the one smuggler here now. Is this the man?”

“That’s him. Louie FitzHugh. Lazy Louie they call him, and a less apt name would be hard to imagine. He’s an eel is what he is.”

I glanced toward him, and Lazy Louie seemed the more appropriate term. He stood in a lounging position doing absolutely nothing. I recognized the name as the same one Mr. McMaster had mentioned.

“He was caught bribing revenue officers, was he not?”

“It was suspected. They couldn’t prove anything. They laid off the officers and the criminal went scot free. There’s justice for you.”

“If the officers were taking bribes, they, too, were criminals, criminals paid out of the public purse.”

“Yes, if they were taking bribes. If the officers were guilty, then Louie FitzHugh is more guilty, but he goes on breaking the law, unmolested.”

“It is your duty to molest him, officer,” I pointed out.

“Only if he brings it in within the bounds of my jurisdiction. I think he must bring it in up the Romney coast. He is clean by the time he comes here, but you can smell it yards away, the brandy, on
Nancy-Jane.
The smell lingers, you know, there is no hiding it; but every time I board he’s clean. I’d like to know where he puts it ashore. Up Romney way they say he doesn’t come in there, but he must. He certainly doesn’t land it at Clavering’s shore. The Duke has his own patrol, and Lazy Louie is his special target. I work closely with Clavering. We are both determined to get him. Still, there’s no point watching him today.
Nancy-Jane
has no cargo but a half-load of fish, and they’re two days old or I miss my bet. Taken aboard to kill the smell of brandy. There, his horse is being brought to him now. Has a groom, like a gentleman, to look after his mount, and what a fine animal it is. I wish I had one half as good.”

A sleek, black animal was being led forth by a boy who was no worse groomed than his master. Rather better, in fact. Lazy Louie took the reins and mounted with a graceful, effortless movement that I envied. It was something achieved only by men, though. In the same easy way did Clavering stride his mount. Horse and rider turned and galloped off into town without so much as a glance at Officer Smith. This was the height of arrogance—not to even glance at your enemy. Really, there was a touch of Clavering’s arrogance in the man, as well as his equestrian ability.

“The fellow has a house, too. Lives in altogether too high a style for a fisherman that is not at market two days a week, nor one half the time. He’s a smuggler, not a doubt of it, and one day I’ll catch him,” Officer Smith promised. The grim set of his lips made me think he had been saying the same thing for some time. Maybe it was time Clavering did replace this ineffectual recipient of taxpayers’ money.

Slack began twitching at my arm, as though she hadn’t a tongue in her head, and I was made to realize it was time to go home. I spoke to her regarding Clavering and his mantraps on the way home, but not a word against him would she utter. When she likes someone, she is as faithful as a dog. She pointed out that he was within his legal rights to protect his valuable Roman ruins, and no regard for
moral
rights would turn her from her decision. He wasn’t even allowed to have a flaw, let alone a fault.

“I doubt that poor servant at the inn, with likely a dozen children to feed, was after his precious Roman ruins. A hare or a pheasant was all he wanted, and he is to spend the rest of his life a cripple because Clavering likes his privacy. I daresay he has maimed half the town. There is the helper in the butcher’s shop who is lame, too.”

"He has a club foot. He was born crippled, and the servant at the inn
shouldn’t
have a dozen children if he can’t afford to feed them without stealing.”

“Yes, Professor Malthus. Are we going to have a dissertation now on the necessity for moral restraint of the passion between the sexes? You go ahead and set out your shingle as an economist, and I shall employ my time more usefully by telling the Duke of Clavering what I think of his mantraps.”

To give him a piece of my mind, I put on my yellow lutestring gown, and rather wished it were dinner we were going to, so that I might wear the dashing green silk instead. No doubt the dinner party he had been entertaining before was composed of ladies gowned in the highest kick of fashion, and there was no reason Slack and I should appear as utter dowds before him. Slack’s only concession to the occasion was a negative one, namely bringing forth her old mustard-coloured netted shawl, which she
still,
after five years, refers to her as her “good” shawl. Really, he would take us for a pair of quizzes. With some difficulty, I got her to borrow my more elegant white cashmere before I recalled that I ought to take it myself. However, my gown had long sleeves, and Belview might be less windy than Seaview—Hillcrest—I must really get busy and find a new name.

It was this subject that made up our conversation en route to Belview. Slack, in the throes of her passion for the Duke, made not a single contribution. Seaview was a perfect name. Did we not have a view of the sea?

“Yes, and a view of Clavering’s spinney and the road as well, but we don’t call it Spinneyview, or Roadview.” My suggestion of Seacrest, combining her favourite and mine, was talked down as absurd, since the sea did not crest at our front door. “Denver Manor, then," I essayed. Slack pointed out, quite properly, that as I had not lands, let alone lands from which I extracted fees, the name was ineligible. There was one lone willow tree drooping over the home garden and quite ruining the produce of half that spot, and I thought I might call it Willow Hall, but no conclusion was reached when we turned up the tree-lined road that led to Belview.

We both stopped discussing names and goggled about without reserve. The road wound about this way and that like a snake, giving various vistas of rolling lawns, groups of trees, bushes, and once a gaggle of geese. At length it straightened to a broad curve, and Belview came into sight. It was enormous. The size of it was quite staggering. It stretched to left and right of an impressive recessed doorway and rose three stories high. The only feature in common with Seaview (or whatever the place should properly be called) was the lancet windows, and it was only on the ground floor that Belview had such windows. Perhaps other stories had been added later. The windows above were not so flamingly Gothic, with ornaments, but only pointed at the top for purposes of cohesion of design, I surmised. In fact, the place was an eclectic blend of Gothic and fortress, giving strangely the effect of a church transformed into a garrison, but it was cleverly done, so that the turrets on either end of the facade and the crenellated line of roof between did not look absurd at all. In such a large piece of architecture there was room for a variety of styles. I thought I had seen bartizans from the road, but they were not visible from the front. We looked our fill of the front, then went up the half dozen stairs to the doorway. Looking behind us, Belview, at least, we saw to be well named. The view was
tres belle
indeed. On the door there was a brass knocker in the shape of an anchor, in deference to our location by the sea. It was not quite so large as a real anchor, but heavy enough that I felt the weight when I lifted it.

It took no more than one knock to bring the butler, and as we were shown in, our eyes were again busy to take in the many glories of Belview. A veritable ocean of shiny oaken floors stretched into the distance before us, and to the left an ornately carved grand staircase with shallow, broad steps led upstairs, the stairway wall hung with painted faces, ancestors of the Duke. They were all as ugly as he, dark, and saturnine, even the women.

As I peered up at these framed faces, the flesh-and-blood Clavering descended, running lightly in a manner that was at odds with all the solemn formality of the house. He smiled faintly at me, reserving his better expression for his lady friend.

“How kind of you to come,” he said to her.

While she gushed out her delight at being here, I took another look around. No statues in niches, in fact, no niches. The walls were straight, covered with yellow silk, with a gilt-edged mirror hanging over a carved table where flowers in a real tub made of brass nodded at themselves in the mirror. But then the hallway was so immense that anything less than a tub would have been lost. How odd it was to think of one man living all alone in this museum of a home, with his fifty bedrooms.