Lydia Trent (12 page)

At
midnight, she blew out her candle, but still she did not go to bed.
Instead she sat a long while watching a patch of light on the lawn.
This light was shed from the candles in her stepmothers room, and it
was almost one of the clock before that light was finally
extinguished. Still Lydia did not move. She sat until she heard the
distant church clock striking two, and then she arose from her hard
chair by the table. Her petticoat was bulky, and this she removed,
before slipping on the dark grey cashmere gown she had been wearing
earlier. Then, with no light but the half-moon, she quietly slipped
out of the window.

There
was a narrow ledge, about 6 inches deep, running across the breadth
of the wall on that side of the house. It was about three feet below
the windows of the upper story, and partly obscured by the ivy that
grew thickly over the honey-coloured stone. Turning slightly so she
faced into the room, Lydia carefully lowered her feet onto that
ledge. Then, slowly, taking care not to make a sound, she began to
inch her way along the ledge.

The
thickly-clustering vines of the ivy were both a help and a hindrance.
The hard grey-green stems, which looked black in the dim moonlight,
afforded plentiful handholds, enabling Lydia to keep her balance.
Where they overgrew the ledge, however, they often impeded her feet,
and rendered her progress along the wall painfully slow. She had to
pass her stepmother's bedroom window, which stood open a little way –
fortunately the heavy curtains were closed – and here she paused
and listened intently. A slow, measured breathing told her that Mrs
Trent was soundly asleep. Lydia breathed a silent sigh of relief at
this – she had been about twenty minutes on this slow, silent,
creeping journey, and though she was a young woman of active habits,
she was still beginning to feel a little fatigued.

The
next obstacle to be passed was the corner of the house – and here
she found the ledge narrowed to about four inches, giving her barely
a toehold upon the wall, and rendering her ever more reliant on the
fragile handholds of the ivy. She had a few very tense moments as, in
traversing the corner of the house, her foot dislodged something –
a stone, an old birds nest – she could not tell what – which fell
to the gravel below with a crunch that, in the dead calm of the
night, seemed to echo from the very hills.

For
what seemed like an hour, though in reality but a few minutes, she
clung there, ears straining for the slightest sound of movement
within the house, but all was mercifully silent.

At
last, her goal was within reach. The casement of her stepmother's
sitting-room window stood open, but this presented a dangerous
obstacle. The window opening toward her, Lydia could not manage to
reach round the pane to the iron bar which propped the window open,
so she was forced to take her courage in both hands, and swing
herself out around the open window. For a moment she felt faint and
giddy, her head swam, her hands started to slip, and all would have
been lost had her instincts of survival not been strong at that
moment. Hardly knowing how she did it, she swung out over the
perilous drop, still inching her feet along the ledge, and sank
gratefully onto the windowsill. She was in her stockinged feet, and
so she was able to slip stealthily into the room.

Lydia
was dismayed to find that she could not see the desk, and even her
audacity dared not penetrate into the bedroom, but she carefully
examined some books and papers lying on the table. By the few words
she could make out by the light of the moon, most of these seemed to
be milliners bills, invitations and laundry lists, with the
occasional magazine of the lighter kind. Her search was rewarded,
however, as she lifted a pile of miscellaneous papers, to reveal a
small morocco-bound memorandum book. On closer examination, the
writing in the book, which was about three-quarters filled, appeared
to be in Mrs Trent's hand – though she could not make out a word.
Quickly, she slipped the book into her pocket, and restored the
papers, as close as she could remember, to their original order –
or rather disorder.

She
looked round once more for any trace of the desk, and then returned
to the window.

There
was a drainpipe running down the wall a couple of feet beyond the
window, and Lydia determined to descend into the garden rather than
risk the journey back the way she had come, for the sun would be
rising soon, and her arms screamed with fatigue. With the ivy for
handholds, she made a relatively easy descent, though she was forced
to jump down the last few feet, as the ivy was very thin at this
point.

When
Maisy came down shortly after sunrise to light the kitchen fire and
take out last night's ashes, she was very surprised to find her young
mistress already out in the garden. However, the girl forbore to
comment, or even to speculate, and so Lydia quickly slipped upstairs
and into Adeline's room.

“
Wake
up, Adele, wake up!” she stage-whispered, shaking her sister
gently.

“
Mmm?
Lyddy? What is it?”

“
I
HAVE GOT HER DIARY!”

Adeline's
astonishment at the news by which she was so suddenly awakened can
well be imagined, but it was nothing to the shock and amazement she
felt when she heard Lydia's account of how she had obtained the
little volume. Although Lydia attempted to make light of the perilous
feat, passing it off as a mere light scramble, barely more taxing
than crossing a footbridge, Adeline turned white and fell back among
the pillows, her hands clasped over her bounding heart, trembling
with alarm.

“
Oh,
Lyddy, I wish you had not. If you had been discovered – why, I
cannot imagine how you could possibly have explained yourself. And,
oh, if you had slipped and fallen! It turns me quite faint just to
think of it. I could not have done such a thing for the world.”

Lydia
gently refuted this, though in truth her heart had had all but burst
with fright, more than once, and the recollection of that moment of
giddy, sickening, dizzy terror she had almost succumbed to as she
swung out past the casement made her tremble even now, when the
danger was passed.

Of
the first consideration was the question of how to conceal their
prize until such time as they had sufficient leisure to examine it.
Lydia had, however, already carefully considered this as she strolled
in the garden, awaiting the first of the household to awaken.

“
It
shall not leave my person.” she declared, exhibiting the capacious
pocket she had tied around her waist, under her petticoats, for this
purpose.

“
But,
oh dear, Lyddy, whatever will Mamma do when she discovers the diary
is gone?”

They
did not have long to wait for an answer to this question. The girls
had barely finished their toilets, when they were brought out into
the corridor by the sounds of a violent argument in Mrs Trent's room.
The door swung open and Estelle was expelled forcibly into the
passage, expostulating in a voluble torrent of French. Not the prim,
ladylike French the girls had had drilled into them at school by
Madame Huillard - indeed that dry and genteel lady would in all
likelihood have fainted had she heard the words that now poured
shrilly forth from Estelle's lips. This was the French of the Paris
gutters. Madame mistress, on the other hand, did not receive these
execrations unmet.

“
Traitress!
Thief! Spy! Get out. Oh, have I nurtured a snake in my bosom? Get
OUT!” and similar remarks, delivered in an earsplitting screech,
punctuated by shoes and books, which were shied at the furious lady's
maid as swiftly as the lady could grab them. In a pause between
volleys, Estelle drew herself up loftily.

“
C'est
bien
, Madame. I am gone. I will stay here no more to be insulted
and accused. No servant could have been more devoted than I. As to
your little book, perhaps you burned it in one of your
mauvaise
moments.
I
never touched it,
certainement
. See, I leave
this place. Have someone pack my things and I shall send for them.”
and with this dignified speech, she glided off, as silent-footed as
ever.

Mrs
Trent, wild-eyed with fury, sprang across the passage into Estelle's
chamber, flung open the window, and began to hurl her belongings, by
heaping armfuls, out onto the gravel path below.

“
Mamma!”
cried Adeline. “Stop, you excite yourself, you will be ill!”

Evelyn
rounded on the girl, eyes flashing.

“
And
what care you for that? What cares anyone for me? Oh, I thought I
could trust the woman but she is as bad as the rest of them. A thief
and a traitress, spying and watching. Well, no more. I shall have no
more strangers to watch and spy on me. You shall wait on me.”
pointing at Adeline with imperious finger.

“
I
shall be glad to do anything I can for you, Mamma, but...”

“
Enough.
Is it not a dutiful daughter's place to serve her mother? Honour thy
father and thy mother, it is written. Come.”

Adeline
followed helplessly in her wake as she swept back into her own rooms.

“
Adeline,
it may be our chance.” hissed Lydia as Adeline passed her. “Watch,
dearest, and keep up your heart.”

Adeline
had need of this last injunction, for she soon found that to 'wait on
Mamma' was no light task. Not only was she to assist her to dress,
answer her letters, bring her meals and shawls and anything else she
wanted, rise before her in the morning and go to bed after her at
night, putting all her things in order before she could herself
retire, she was also expected to sit with her when she wanted
company, yet not stray beyond call when Evelyn wanted to be alone.
Fortunately this was often, so Adeline at least had some leisure
hours, though she could not leave the house. Much as she had disliked
Estelle, Adeline now accorded her something of respect. Of course, as
a hired servant Estelle had had the inviolable privilege of her
'evening out' – something which Adeline did not enjoy.

The
girl was really pining for fresh air and exercise. Alfred would bring
her flowers every day, but these cut blooms did not replace the wild
flowers growing in the meadows and hedgerows. She saw less of her
lover, too, for he and Lydia were examining the diary together, which
could not be done near the house. Nevertheless, Adeline submitted to
her duty, sustained by the hope that Evelyn would let slip something
about the past, or that she might get a peep into the elusive
writing-desk.

When
Alfred heard of the morning's events, he was filled with concern for
Adeline's situation, and admiration for Lydia's bravery.

“
Poor
girl, she will find it hard going I believe – Mrs Trent has never
been regarded as an easy mistress, and of course a daughter can be
worked harder than a hired maid. It was an unfortunate result – but
considering how hard you have been trying to get into your Mamma's
room, and here is Adeline invited – nay, commanded – in. It is a
bad situation, but something good may yet come of it.

“
And
you are a brave and noble girl, I am proud to know you. If you were a
man I should shake you by the hand.”

“
I
am not a man, but I do not see how that precludes you from taking my
hand.” said Lydia, drily.

“
Why,
so it doesn't!” exclaimed he, with the air of one making a great
discovery, and so saying, shook her hand heartily in both of his. At
that, Lydia began to laugh, and shortly Alfred was compelled to laugh
too.

“
What
an ass I must have sounded. I hope you will forgive me. And now shall
we take a drive? I am dying to take a peek at this diary, to see if
it is worth the fire and water you have gone through to secure it.”

They
drove for a while, until they found a comfortable, secluded spot, and
there they seated themselves and finally took their first look at the
book, but Alfred soon flung it down in disgust.

“
Why,
it is nothing but garbled nonsense. I cannot make head nor tail of
it. There are no dates, and random letters are stuck in every
sentence, and there are all sorts of queer words which make no sense
to me at all.”

“
I
do not believe it is nonsense – she uses a private code, that is
all. See here; 'I mislike Ws looks, ? he knows – called on DG, out,
found remedy in lancet.' Why, this must have been when father first
became ill – William, you see? Now, DG, DG... wait, I have it.
'William looks ill, I wonder if he knows it (she may have meant does
he know he is ill, or does he know I can see he is ill). Called on
Doctor Gillespie, who was out, but found a remedy in a volume of
The
Lancet
.'”

“
Why,
I do believe you are a genius!” exclaimed Alfred. “For now you
come to translate it, I can see the meaning clear, but until you did,
it made no more sense to me than if it were Hebrew. But looking for
details of your father's illness will not help us now. Let us look
farther on.”