The Trouble with Harriet (2 page)

“I should have got the lead,” she said with a toss of the Godiva locks. “It was silly of Mrs. Ambleforth to say I was too young to play Malicia. I tried to tell her that I’m an old soul, but there’s no talking to her. And as it is, I’m terrified of being typecast.”

“Really?”

“Well, you know I played a maid in the school play, and now I’m doing it again. Only this time I have fewer lines, although I do get to cry when I find Major Wagewar’s body. Would you like me to show you?” Dawn suddenly scooted smack bang in front of me, almost causing me to drop the serving dish. From what her mother had told me, she was remarkably good, even for a sixteen-year-old, at producing fake tears, but I have to say that I was extremely impressed when, without any change of facial expression, the water spouted from her eyes and cascaded down her porcelain cheeks.

“That’s certainly a gift,” I said.

“I should run in and tell everyone you’ve been horrid to me.” She shook her head, spraying me in the process. “But I won’t because I’m really not as diabolical as Mum makes out.” She darted away, and seconds later I followed her into the church hall, where we found Kathleen Ambleforth pacing below stage with a script in one hand and a whistle in the other. She was a forceful-looking woman even when glimpsed from the back. A person prone to old-fashioned tweed skirts, serviceable cardigans, and shabbily genteel hats.

“No, no, Brigadier Lester-Smith,” she admonished the middle-aged man standing woodenly behind the footlights. “You cannot be shot, die, and remain standing up. You have to fall to the ground with a resounding thump. Now, let’s try it again, if you please. And no more talk, there’s a dear, about getting your suit rumpled when you’re put in the trunk. I’ve been telling you for weeks to wear old clothes to rehearsal.”

“This is an old suit, Mrs. Ambleforth.” The brigadier sounded just a little petulant. He was a man who believed profoundly that duty to one’s apparel came next only to that required toward God and country. He was known for the razor-sharp creases in his trousers. A speck of lint on a coat sleeve was a violation of everything he held dear. But clearly the acting bug had bitten him. Perhaps he had hopes of impressing a certain Miss Clarice Whitcombe, who had recently claimed his bachelor’s heart. Sacrifices had to be made. He squared his shoulders and moved center stage, saying he was ready to do the scene again.

“Good man! And now”—Mrs. Ambleforth rolled the script into a paper truncheon— “where is that naughty girl?”

“I’m here!” Dawn’s voice was surprisingly meek as she slid around me and scampered up the steps to stand alongside Brigadier Lester-Smith. “Sorry I’m late, but I ran into Mrs. Haskell and she kept me chatting.”

I could have thrown the silver serving dish at her.

The vicar’s wife turned, noticed me for the first time, and hurried my way, tossing words back over her shoulder as she came. “You’ve always got an excuse, Dawn. If opening night weren’t just a few days away, I might have to think about replacing you. And please remember not to resonate quite so much this afternoon. I know I told you your voice has to carry to the back of the hall, but we don’t want tins of Heinz tomato soup flying off shelves in Tesco’s five miles away. Why don’t you and the brigadier go backstage and read through your lines with the rest of the cast who are back there. I’ll be ready for you in five minutes. These young girls!” She shook her head and smiled conspiratorially at me. “It’s quite exhausting trying to show them who’s boss. I’m glad my niece Ruth is past that trying stage. You’ll enjoy her in the play. She’s marvelous in the love scenes with your cousin Freddy. Strangely enough, those are the only times he doesn’t seem able to get fully into his part. A bit wooden, if you know what I mean. Which, as you might guess, is how the brigadier is from curtain up to curtain down. He never comes alive until he’s supposed to be dead. I just have to keep telling myself this isn’t a West End production. But having Lady Grizwolde onboard is bound to build the public’s expectations. Would you like to stay and watch her in action? She just took a break after shooting the brigadier for the fifth time.”

“Oh, I can’t,” I said quickly. “I just stopped to give you the chafing dish and wish you heaps of luck on opening night.”

“Such a pity you and your lovely husband will be away for it.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” I lied. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a lot of acting ability.

“You couldn’t have put off your holiday for a week or two?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Freddy must be so disappointed, but it is kind of you to let us
borrow this lovely piece.” The vicar’s wife-cum-beleaguered-director set my silver offering down on a table marooned in the middle of the room. “Now that you’re here, can’t you at least stay for five minutes? Even an audience of one is such a boost for the cast.”

Luckily, I didn’t get to answer, because a voice called out from the stage: “I’m ready if you are, Mrs. Ambleforth,” and Lady Grizwolde emerged from the wings; in reality, the space where the Hoovers and floor polishers were kept.

It was hard to believe that such a woman as her ladyship coexisted in a world with domestic appliances. She was a dark-haired, classic beauty of about thirty-five, with that elusive something called presence and the sort of figure that would have caused most men to drop dead at her feet without putting her to the trouble of having to shoot them. I found myself wondering if Freddy got to kiss her during any of their scenes together and if, in the process, he was able to remember that she was married in real life to a peer of the realm.

Kathleen Ambleforth had bustled away from me in a murmuring of thanks for the chafing dish and hopes that I and my lovely husband would enjoy our holiday. And I was suddenly sorry not to have the time to stay and watch Lady Grizwolde step into her starring role in
Murder Most Fowl.
I had only met her a few times without any sense of getting to know her. It had been a surprise when she had phoned to express an interest in hiring me to do some redecorating for her at the Old Abbey. A week later, I had come away from the consultation without high hopes. But she had got back in touch to say she liked my ideas and had chosen me over a London decorator. And after the first euphoria wore off, I wished I had a better feeling for what made her tick. That sort of understanding is crucial to doing the best possible job for a client. Now, as I was about to walk out of the church hall, I heard her ladyship speak from the stage in a throaty whisper that seemed to darken the room.

“It’s one of those funny facts of life that when someone doesn’t do things precisely to my satisfaction, they tend to end up very dead.” Turning around slowly, I saw that she was talking to Dawn, who, in the role of the maid, ducked a trembling curtsy before backing out of sight. Then, as I walked out into the gathering dusk, I told myself that my sense of foreboding was all tied in with the Gypsy’s nonsense and should be put right out of my head.

A few minutes later I reached the gates of home, standing open to the cliff road. The house had been built at the turn of the century at the whim of some distant cousin on my mother’s side. What a lovely man he must have been, I thought for the umpteenth time as I drove past what had originally been the caretaker’s cottage and was now my cousin Freddy’s digs.

In creating Merlin’s Court, Eustace Grantham had brought a fairy-tale castle to life, complete with turrets, a moat, and even a miniature portcullis. It had fallen into a sad state of disrepair by the time I visited as a child. But when my Prince Charming finally showed up (they don’t make white horses the way they used to), we moved in and eagerly set about removing the curses of time and neglect. We were so lucky, Ben and I, with our adorable, healthy children and this marvelous house in which to bring them up. If I had to walk around with my fingers crossed for the rest of my life, I would gladly do so. Not that I was superstitious. Far from it. I was already thinking about what I would have for my first dinner in France. The asparagus mousse or lobster bisque for a starter? Or possibly both?

It was only after I had stowed the car in the old stable that we used for a garage that I noticed another vehicle, a battered old crock, if ever there was one, parked in the courtyard. Could it belong to the Reverend Dunstan Ambleforth? He had been promising to pay us a call, and his wife had laughingly warned us not to be unduly surprised if he turned up in the middle of the night; apparently he was very much the absentminded clergyman. Especially after long hours spent in his study working on volume eleven of his
Life of St. Ethelwort.
But here he was, I presumed, at a perfectly seemly hour.

Crossing the moat bridge, I felt considerably cheered. Surely a spiritual visit from a man of the cloth would offset the Gypsy’s warning. Being exceedingly High Church, he might even offer to come out to the stable and sprinkle the car with holy water, just to be on the safe side. I was halfway up the stone steps when Ben opened the front door. He is a man who looks good in any light, but the violet shadows cast by the onset of twilight planed his face to perfection and did marvelous things to his jawline. Even in his old corduroys and navy blue sweater he could still make my heart miss a beat.

“Ellie,” he said, running lean brown fingers through his curly black hair, “there’s someone here.”

“I know.” The wind ruffled my hair as I glanced back at the parked car.

“It’s a man.”

“I thought it might be.” As so often was the case, I marveled that my husband’s blue-green eyes were flecked with gold.

“Not just any man, Ellie.”

“You’re right.” I understood what he was getting at. As our new vicar and a foremost authority on St. Ethelwort, Reverend Ambleforth deserved to be welcomed by Mrs. as well as Mr. Haskell on his first visit to Merlin’s Court. “I’m sorry I was so long, darling. The beastly cashier acted as though I had the getaway car at the door when I asked for traveler’s checks. He summoned the manager, who kept insisting, with all the authority conferred by his pinstriped suit, that our account was thousands of pounds overdrawn. Finally, he admitted that he had misplaced his bifocals and had read the plus as a minus sign, by which time I was ready to cosh him with my handbag.”

“Our visitor is in the drawing room.” Ben took my hand and led me through the front door into the flagstone hall.

“Well, I hope you made him a nice cup of tea,” I said.

“Of course I did, and gave him a good-sized piece of chocolate cake.” My husband drew me to him and kissed my cheek. “After all, sweetheart, it’s not every day that your long-lost father shows up out of the blue.”

When Ben and I came to live at Merlin’s Court, the hall was feebly illuminated by gas lamps that threw into ghastly relief the moth-eaten fox heads grinning down at us from the walls. Cobwebs had veiled the stained-glass window at the turn of the stairs. There was a strong, musty smell and mouse holes in the skirting boards. Not surprisingly, the twin suits of armor standing against the banister wall had looked as though they lived in perpetual dread of whatever melodrama would next befall the premises.

Now Felix and Fergy the foxes were gone, banished years ago to the St. Anselm’s Church jumble sale, where they had failed to sell even when reduced to 10 pence each. There was a faint but encouraging smell of furniture polish. A copper vase filled with chrysanthemums and autumn leaves stood on the trestle table across from the stairs, and a Turkish rug took the chill off the flagstones.

“Could he be a figment of your imagination?” I whispered, eyeing the drawing room.

“Your father?”

I nodded tremulously while clasping a hand to my heather-tweed bosom.

“If so, he’s rather a large one.” Ben managed to look cheerful, which couldn’t have been easy given the fact that much as he loved our children, he had swept me into his arms the moment they left and proclaimed: “Alone at last!”

“How do you mean ‘large’?” I asked him.

“Corpulent. Which is a good thing, Ellie. One wouldn’t wish one’s father-in-law to have a lean-and-hungry look.”

“But Daddy was always rather slight.”

“Did you only ever see him standing sideways?”

“This is no time to jest,” I snapped, something I had vowed not to do during the blissful interlude of togetherness. “I’m just wondering if he really is my father. It seems such an enormous coincidence given the Gypsy’s prediction.”

“What Gypsy?” Ben raised a dark eyebrow.

“The one who warned me against our going to France. Which is now a moot point, because we can hardly go bunking off on holiday, leaving Daddy to fend for himself,” I said, striving to sound patient.

“Perhaps he’s only come on a flying visit.”

“That doesn’t look like an overnight bag to me.” My voice faded as I looked toward the cord-bound suitcase, the size of a seaman’s trunk, positioned between the two suits of armor.

For years, during my single days, I had dreamed of receiving a letter from my father asking me to join him in Cairo or Katmandu. But his brief scrawls had made it clear he preferred to roam the globe unshackled—an aging vagabond riding off on his camel into the sunset. Only my mother would have been amused. She had been such a whimsical fey creature. And Daddy had adored her. Had I failed to understand his raging grief at her loss? Tears misted my eyes as I crossed the hall at a run. So much lost time! So much to say!

Flinging open the door, I cried: “Darling Daddy!” then gulped down a breath. Ben’s warning had not fully prepared me for the vast girth of the man who was endeavoring to pry himself out of the Queen Anne chair. The thought flitted through my mind that he must indeed be an impostor come here in hopes of some evil gain. A con man wearing a tropical-weight beige suit and a navy-blue-and-white-spotted bow tie. Daddy had never worn bow ties, or suits for that matter. I remembered he’d had a fondness for Nehru jackets. But at second glance I saw that his reincarnation did bear a slight family resemblance to the father I had known. His hair had thinned, revealing more of his domed head, his blue eyes had faded, and his lips were fuller (that’s always one of the first places we gain weight in our family), but his voice was as of old. Rich and plummy. Mummy used to say that he could read a grocery list and leave you desperate for the sequel.