Peril at Somner House (24 page)

Very late that night, Angela and I sat huddled in bed with a hot cup of chocolate.

“It was good Hugo remembered to deliver your message,” Angela began as we analyzed this bizarre and almost lethal holiday. “And good,” a slow seductive tease elbowed itself into the cranny beneath my arm, “you had not
one
but
two
valiant heroes to come to your rescue. I shudder to think what might have occurred if they had delayed a moment longer.”

I echoed the same acute relief and delight in being rescued by my friend Sir Marcus and the handsome and charismatic Major Browning.

Our ebullience vanished as Angela confessed her terror-filled hours in jail, confined and without hope. “I know exactly how Josh must have felt. When one is pushed to extremes, death seems the only answer.”

“I'm thankful you were returned to us before you journeyed down that terrible path.” I shuddered.

“What would Davis have done with you?” Angela mused aloud. “Poisoned you, I suppose? Unless he fancied you alive?”

I shuddered again.

“He cleverly ruined Josh's life,” Angela continued. “Oh, and I have a good piece of news.” Her smile turned to a self-satisfied smirk. “Mr. Zoland has suspended Fernald. It so happens Zoland found Fernald out due to several discrepancies he'd noticed in his method, manner, and the recent stroke of good fortune that Fernald said he received from a wealthy aunt. Zoland's fastidious with details and Fernald has no aunt. It appears Mr. Davis paid him handsomely to have Josh Lissot arrested.”

“He sentenced the man to death.” My voice sounded shrill in the semidarkness.

“It's a shame,” Angela reflected, “that the sea deprived him of a trial, for people like that deserve to be punished for what they've done.” She lowered her eyes. “You must promise never to tell our parents what I did, Daphne. You do promise, don't you, Daphne?”

Huddling together, I gave her my promise. “You try and get some sleep now. I might read for a while.”

“I took the liberty of booking our passages,” she said at the door. “I hope Thursday isn't too soon for you?”

She meant that she hoped it wasn't too soon for Lord Roderick, but my heart went out to another. No, two days wasn't too soon, for I'd learned that the Major planned to leave the next day on the same boat as Sir Marcus.

But dear Roderick. When he'd come to my room I had to give him my answer.

“I'm sorry. I cannot marry you,” I said. “I am too fond of you and have too great a respect for you to mislead you. You deserve a girl who loves you thoroughly and I'm afraid I am not that girl.”

My confession disappointed him greatly, but I prayed he would find love. In so doing, I earned the immense gratitude of Miss Bella Woodford.

She brought me breakfast in bed the next morning. With her glasses removed, she looked quite pretty and I told her so.

“Thanks.” She blushed.

She did not thank me for refusing Roderick, but she didn't need to do so for her face betrayed her joy. The prospect of finally becoming Mistress of Somner House gave her the greatest pleasure.

 

They exhumed the substitute body and Max took his rightful place in the family crypt. There was no second funeral, though a wreath of flowers appeared on his grave every morning from that day on.

“It's my token,” Lady Kate, dressed in black, murmured as I went to pay my last respects.

“What will you do now?”

“Though it would give me unrivaled pleasure to steal Rod away from Bella, I will return to town. I still have friends and a small annuity from the estate. I daresay,” she paused, gazing out to the horizon, “I daresay I shall do quite well.”

 

I found it very difficult to see off Sir Marcus and the Major.

“You must write this tale,” Sir Marcus gave solemn instructions, “with
me
as the hero. A pirate of the far seas or a dashing swordsman. Indeed, I take no offense to either. Alternatively, you can always look me up and marry me, you know. Mysterious M is in need of a good wife.”

“I can recommend one…Kate.”

“Oh no.” He looked horrified. “She is not my type! So, what say you, dearest Daph? Don't tell me you're saving yourself for the dashing Major?”

I cast my gaze to where the Major and Kate stood arm-in-arm.

“Don't wait forever for him. There is always
me,
and comrades should not be long parted. Do visit me at my grand estate and I shall convince you.”

“I will,” I promised, watching him organize his copious luggage in the motorcar.

“I've never seen a man travel with so much,” the Major remarked, and Kate, Angela, and I laughed.

Another car arrived to collect the Major. His men had come to fetch him. Duty beckoned and it was a call any man of credence must heed.

However, my heart floundered. I floundered. I wanted to beg him to stay. I couldn't make any sense of my emotions. Since my rescue, we'd had no moments alone. I had not mistaken the tender look in his eyes, had I? He did care for me, didn't he? We were more than friends, weren't we? I longed for a moment of reassurance, for a moment alone, but it seemed impossible.

“You won't be so foolish the next time, making deals with the devil.” He grinned, sweeping my hand up and slowly raising it to his lips.

Since his farewells to the others had been formal and circumspect, I drew a little confidence from his manner.

“And I am happy to see,” he dropped his voice to an ardent whisper, “that you are not going to marry a house. Houses are pleasing but they cannot keep you warm.”

His lips still lingered over my hand.

“How could you even think it?” I whispered back, my eyes full of what I felt for him. “You know me. You know how I feel.”

All joviality deserted him. “I have a mind to kiss you senseless, but that, unfortunately, shall have to wait.”

I bit my lip. “Does it have to?”

“Unless,” he smiled, “you care to have Arabella Woodford as spectator?”

“Oh, no. I'll wait. I don't want to ruin it.”

His hand lightly caressed my face. “Adieu, my girl. Try and stay out of trouble, at least until you get home. I shall call upon you within two weeks.”

As we waved them off, pride, oh, hateful pride, prevented me from running after the car. Putting on a nonchalant demeanor, I smiled when Kate shepherded us out to the terrace for tea.

It was immeasurably unfair, I thought, to be the last ones to leave.

The next day, I praised the stars we had remained on the island, for it began with my hasty sprint to the darkest corner of the parlor where Hugo placed the Somner House correspondence.

A letter, from a publisher, awaited me.

Care of Somner House, St. Mary's Island, Isles of Scilly, Cornwall.

I blinked twice. Had I read it correctly? Dare it be an acceptance?

“Yes!” Flinging myself into the corner of the room, I hugged the letter to my chest. Yes, it was true. My dream had come true.

And the Major and Sir Marcus weren't even here to witness my success.

“Punch Magazine!”
Leaping to her feet, Angela seized the letter from me. “‘The Widow's Secret.'” Her eyes sparkled as she tapped the letter on her chin. “I wonder who provided inspiration for that story, hmmm?”

Fortunately, her question went unheeded in the excitement. Kate, busily making plans for her move to London, effusively clapped her congratulations while Arabella mumbled congratulatory remarks.

Since the one whose praise meant the most to me was far away, Lord Roderick filled the void.

“I shall be the first man to subscribe to
Punch Magazine.
” He smiled the unadulterated pride of a fellow scribe. “And I shall collect it myself from the post office saying, ‘I know the author!'”

 

Before I left Somner House, I visited the library one last time.

Inhaling the scent of old books, pausing sadly at the desk once belonging to Max Trevalyan, treasuring those elusive moments with the Major, Sir Marcus, and Roderick Trevalyan, I drew a sense of peace, a sense of finality that must lay at the end of any story, and this story had reached its end.

The house whispered its silent thanks. No wastrel master remained to torment it, nor the fearful cries of its former mistress.

Lastly, I felt I must say good-bye to my widow. Tearing out the sheet of paper from my journal, I sat down to compose a letter to Rachael Eastley. I did not mention the story, for it was but a foregleam for the novel I wanted to write one day about the widow she had inspired. I bid my farewells and condolences about Max.

Packed and about to climb into the front seat of the motorcar, Arabella stopped me. “Nice meeting you, Daphne and Angela.”

She stood there, rigid, precise, very much the next Lady Trevalyan.

I did not embrace her, but waved a sincere good-bye.

 

The journey home seemed interminable.

Rather than spend a night or two in Cornwall and Devon as we'd originally planned, Angela and I opted for the short way back to London. After hours on a train, we both needed to be home.

Mother and Jeanne expressed their joy at our arrival.

“Finally.” Jeanne rolled her eyes, sliding down the banister of our London house. “I've been bored witless.”

Mother failed to chasten her unladylike behavior. Emerging from the sitting room, paper in hand, she raised her eyes to the ticking clock. Shock registered at the unseemly hour before we found ourselves embraced by her warm, loving arms.

“Your father's away,” she informed after ordering some fresh tea and bowls of soup leftover from dinner. “But I've received a letter from him. It seems he ran into Teddy Grimshaw, that wealthy America, at the club and we've all been invited to a wedding.”

“A wedding?” I gasped, recognizing the name. “Who is the bride?”

My mother smiled,
relishing
her news. “It may come as a shock to you, Daphne, but it's your friend Ellen, Ellen Hami Hon…”

Mother sighed. “It is all very inconvenient but he's received three letters from the Baron now and has run out of excuses. It appears, my girls, we shall have to spend the spring in Italy…the Villa d'Ablo awaits.”