The Devil And Drusilla

‘Or what I thought I saw,’ said Drusilla challengingly. ‘For I believe that you may be of the opinion that I might be indulging in hot air and supposition.’

‘Oh, you don’t think that, surely, sir?’ exclaimed Giles. ‘Why, Dru is the most sensible women I know—indeed, I would dare swear she is the only sensible woman I know.’

Devenish’s beautiful mouth twitched. Miss Faulkner said aggrievedly, ‘You want manners, Master Giles, and, as I have often said, if you are not to go to university, then a strict tutor ought to be employed to teach you the discipline you would otherwise have learned there.’

‘You interest me, Miss Faulkner,’ remarked Devenish. ‘I would be happy to learn to which university you refer. None of those with which I am acquainted had much to do with teaching their undergraduates any form of discipline—quite the contrary.’

Giles threw him a grateful glance. Miss Faulkner, who was not sure whether she had been complimented or insulted, gave a hesitant, worried smile. Seeing her discomfort, Drusilla surveyed Devenish with a measuring, judgmental eye, and said coolly, ‘Well, one thing is plain, m’lord, after that remark Giles would do well not to come to you to learn good manners—or perhaps Earls are exempt from them.’

‘Oh, my dear,’ gasped Miss Faulkner, ‘I am sure that Lord Devenish did not mean anything wrong by what he said.’

‘Oh, I am sure that he did,’ retorted Drusilla. ‘Did you not, m’lord?’

Her own daring in thus reproaching him for mocking poor Cordelia struck Drusilla when it was far too late to retract anything which she had said. She waited for the cutting riposte which was sure to follow.

It didn’t. Instead Devenish rose from his chair, walked over to where she sat and lifted her hand to kiss it.

‘You are right to rebuke me,’ he said, his voice gentle. ‘I have grown too accustomed to using my tongue to cut down those around me and who often feel unable to reply because of their lower rank. I must cease the habit.’

He turned to the astonished Miss Faulkner who stared at him, her mouth agape. ‘Pray forgive me,’ he asked, bowing to her, ‘for I spoke ungallantly to you—and not for the first time. I promise not to do it again.’

‘Oh, it was nothing, nothing at all, m’lord.’

‘Ah, but it was. It was most wrong of me. And now, ladies, you will lead me to the room from which Mrs Faulkner saw—what she saw.’

The smile he gave then was his dazzling one. Drusilla, who was already overset because of the sensation which his kissing her hand had created, found that she was quivering with excitement. She told herself that this was partly relief because he had not taken offence at her rebuke, but she knew that she was lying.

Well behaved or ill behaved, he was having the most profound effect on her. Worse, however much she told herself to ignore it, she was unable to do so. All the way up to her room she lectured herself—in vain.

She watched him look around it. It was a lady’s bedroom in splendid order and furnished in the most perfect taste. Devenish walked to the window, bidding her to stand beside him—Miss Faulkner was acting as their chaperon and hovered nervously behind them as Drusilla told her tale.

‘And after they had crossed the lawn they went that way,’ she ended, pointing to the steps down which the man and the woman had disappeared.

‘Which leads towards—where? Remind me, we have turned so many times since I entered Lyford that I have lost my bearings.’

‘Well, nowhere, really. I suppose that the nearest habitation in that direction is Marsham Abbey, Mr Harrington’s place. There is a footpath across the fields which leads to it—but it is rarely used these days. It also runs in the opposite direction, but since Swain’s Hall was pulled down it goes nowhere, because the path to the highway beyond it has disappeared through lack of use.’

‘I see.’ After that Devenish fell silent. Drusilla had been right when she had said that what she had seen had been unremarkable, and would have been unremarked—save to her housekeeper—had it not been for the sheep on the altar.

‘Does Harrington graze sheep on the Abbey’s fields?’

‘Oh, yes. But others around here graze them on their fields, including Farmer Ramsey—and you, of course.’

‘Of course,’ he echoed, and laughed. ‘You are a shrewd lady, Mrs Drusilla.’ He lowered his voice a little and asked, ‘Did your husband find you so? And did your husband mind your sharp tongue?’

‘Oh, I rarely had occasion to use it on him, m’lord.’

He laughed. ‘Oh, so you reserve it for my deficiencies. I suppose that I do deserve it more. He was young, was he not?’

‘Not quite twenty-five when he died.’

Devenish was grateful that the opportunity had been given him to ask these questions without seeming over-curious.

‘And you had not long been married, I collect. I suppose, then, that you and he were rarely apart, so that his disappearance must have come as a great shock to you.’

‘Oh, yes, but not so great a shock as his untimely and dreadful end.’

‘And while he was alive, neither you nor he ever saw strangers in your grounds?’

‘No,’ Drusilla answered a little sharply, for she was not sure where this questioning was going—nor why Devenish was engaging in it.

But something, somehow, in the quizzical look which he then gave her jogged her memory.

‘Except…’ she began slowly, and then stopped. ‘No, it could not be related to this.’

‘Except,’ Devenish mused, his bright blue eyes hard on her. ‘I do dislike excepts—when they lead nowhere, I mean. They intrigue me, and for the rest of the day I am more bad-tempered as well as being ruder than ever, I fear. Pray finish and do not condemn me to that—you would not like it, and consequently I should feel the edge of your tongue!’

‘Very well. He said one day, about nine months before he was found dead, that he was surprised that the path to the Abbey was being so heavily used, and that it must be at night, since he had never seen anyone on it during the day time.

‘He told me that he would investigate the matter as it seemed rather odd. But nothing further came of it other than that he had spoken to Mr Harrington of it and he had assured him that he must be mistaken. Two of his gardeners used it. And that was that. The path had become worn, he said, and it did not need heavy use to cut it up.’

‘Your husband never spoke of it again?’

‘No, never. I am sure that it was simply one of Jeremy’s whim whams—he was given to them. His father was the same, wasn’t he, Cordelia?’

‘Oh, yes. He had the oddest fancies which disappeared as soon as made, you know. Why, I remember old Mr Faulkner swearing that there were strange goings-on in the countryside around Lyford, but since his mind became very feeble before he died, no one thought anything of what he said.’

Another dead end. He could scarcely believe that the whim whams of the Faulkner men had any connection with dead servant girls and a sheep on an altar.

Except—and it was a good except, he thought wryly—that Jeremy Faulkner had died a strange and unexpected death. Like the sheep.

He dared pursue the matter no further even although it enabled him to stand next to Mrs Drusilla Faulkner and admire her pure and perfect profile. He dared swear that—like old Mr Faulkner—he was running mad to be so occupied by the charms of a country widow. Rob would be sure to twit him when he returned home.

All the way back to Tresham Hall what disturbed him the most was that it was not only her looks and figure which charmed him, but her ready, rebuking tongue. Who would have thought that such a gentle-seeming creature would be so morally fearless?

Rob met him in the stable-yard—and began to tease him immediately—and to warn him off.

‘So, how was the pretty widow, Hal? Not so overset as that companion of hers, I dare swear.’

‘No, not at all.’

‘And did you find her in looks?’

‘Why this inquisition, Rob? What point are you trying to make.’

‘A serious one, and I advise you to take what I am about to say equally seriously. This is a good woman whom you are beginning to pursue, not one of the barques of frailty who haunt London, and may be regarded as rightful prey. It would be wrong of you to treat her as a pretty toy to exploit in order to reduce the boredom of country living. You must not trifle with her affections. To do so would be most unworthy of you.’

‘How many moral guardians must a man acquire in one short afternoon before he is allowed to make his own judgements?’ Devenish murmured enigmatically. ‘The world and his wife are determined to have me turn parson, I see. Yes, I found Mrs Faulkner in looks, but it is not her looks which intrigue me. I leave you to discover what does—you might as well have something concrete to worry about rather than simply engaging in pious whim whams about my behaviour.

‘And speaking of whim whams, tell me this. You have lived here these past ten years. Have you observed any whim whams in the behaviour of the Faulkner father and son?’

‘Of the father, yes. He was light in the attic towards the end of his life. Of the son, no. He seemed a down-to-earth fellow to me, quite unlike his father.’

‘And tell me another thing before we adjourn. Were there any persons recorded as missing during the lifetime of old Mr Faulkner—or is that simply a phenomenon of the past few years?’

If Rob thought that Hal was engaging in whim whams himself he did not say so. He had too much respect for his employer’s intellect.

‘Not that I know of.’

‘And strange goings-on in the countryside, you have heard nothing of that?’

Rob shook his head. ‘Not until the servant girls began to disappear, and the two men of whom we spoke. Why?’

‘Nothing. Like my moral sense, my curiosity is light-minded and frivolous—as you well know. Only people are telling me different stories about the same thing.’

He did not elaborate, but left Rob looking after him, wondering what Devenish was up to now. Rob sometimes thought that perhaps Devilish was not a bad nickname for his friend, even though he knew that it was undeserved.

What was puzzling Devenish was why Drusilla and Cordelia Faulkner—who both struck him as possessing souls of simple truth—should believe that Jeremy Faulkner engaged in whim whams like his father’s, whilst Rob, that man of sense, did not. There must be a sensible answer to that, and one which he would endeavour to discover.

The advantage being that whilst he did so he could further his acquaintance with Jeremy’s widow.

Chapter Five

‘How very kind of Mr Harrington to invite me to accompany you on this visit to Marsham Abbey. The more particularly since this is the first time that he has ever asked anyone for more than a meagre supper. A whole week! It will be quite a holiday for us both.’

Miss Faulkner looked slyly across at Drusilla, and added, apparently absent-mindedly, ‘I wonder if Lord Devenish will be one of the party.’

‘Most unlikely if he weren’t.’ Drusilla was brisk. ‘What’s more, Mr Harrington has also asked Giles. Giles is over the moon for he thinks that this proves that he is no longer regarded as a child.’

‘Oh, but will you agree to allow him to accompany us? He is given to saying the most remarkable things, you know.’

‘Well, since Lord Devenish and Mr Harrington share the same failing, he will be in good company—and, being one of several, is less likely to be remarked upon himself.’

‘Oh, my dear, you must surely agree that it is one thing for a great personage such as Lord Devenish to speak his mind, and quite another for young Giles. He wants discretion.’

‘No, I don’t agree, Cordelia. Lord Devenish should be more discreet and so should Giles. As for Mr Harrington, like Giles, he does not know the meaning of the word, but Lord Devenish most plainly does—which makes his conduct the worst of the three.’

‘I thought that you liked him,’ Miss Faulkner murmured plaintively.

‘I do, but that does not mean that I am blind to his faults.’

It had become plain to Drusilla over the last week during which they had met Lord Devenish twice more that Miss Faulkner had no more sense than to begin matchmaking.

Her reasoning was as simple as she was and she was engaged in it whilst speaking to her late nephew’s wife.

Drusilla ought to marry again. Lord Devenish needed a wife and an heir—what better than that they should marry? Their lands marched together; they were both young and handsome, which boded well for the future Viscount Innescourt when he arrived. In her daydreams Miss Faulkner was ensconced at Tresham Hall, the baby Viscount lay in his cradle and Drusilla and Devenish hovered over it, adoring him. Miss Faulkner herself was hovering somewhere in the middle distance.

She came to with a start. Drusilla was speaking. ‘I need a new gown. Mary Swain must be sent for and shown the latest pattern books from London. I have some pretty pale green satin which would look well with the Faulkner pearls.’

‘Mary Swain,’ exclaimed Miss Faulkner aghast. ‘Oh, no, you must go further afield and find someone who will make you as comme il faut as the London beauties who surround m’lord when he is in town.’

‘Cordelia, I have not the slightest intention of competing with the London beauties. I am but a simple country girl and so m’lord must take me or leave me—if he thinks of me at all, which I beg leave to doubt.’

Saying which, Drusilla was aware that she was being deceitful. She might be but a simple country girl but she knew quite well that there was something particular in m’lord’s manner when he spoke to her which told her a different tale.

He was, in fact, thinking of her that very afternoon. Leander Harrington had ridden over to present him with his invitation in person.

‘If you accept it, Devenish, I intend to use this occasion to honour your arrival in Surrey and introduce you to as many notables as possible. Your late grandfather passed the majority of his life here and we should be charmed if you would do the same.’

‘Would you, indeed?’ replied Devenish drily. ‘I’m not yet sure that I would be charmed to spend mine likewise. But I will accept your invitation in the same spirit in which it is offered.’

‘And Mr Stammers? You will allow him to accept an invitation, too?’

‘Oh, that is a matter for Mr Stammers to decide, not for me. May I say that I’m a little surprised that your Republican beliefs would allow you to approach me first.’

‘But, then, Devenish, I was not yet aware that your attitude towards those who serve you was so very different from that of the late Earl. Every man in his place, knowing his place, was his motto.’

Oh, yes, that sounded like his late grandfather. Devenish smiled his most subtle smile.

‘A useful motto for those whose place is secure, you will allow.’

‘Oh, indeed, but in the new age of reason which will shortly dawn, all men will be judged by what they are and not by the bedroom they were born in.’

Devenish’s smile grew more subtle still. ‘That age not having arrived yet, sir, we must continue to endure our present fortunate condition. And that being so, I shall enjoy your hospitality at Marsham Abbey, as will I expect, my good friend Rob Stammers. Until then, I bid you adieu.’

It was Leander Harrington’s congé and he knew it. He gave his sweet smile and left. One of the delights of the new age of reason, he thought, would be a guillotine set up in Trafalgar Square where the liberated masses would cheer as each aristocratic head rolled in the dust—most particularly when m’lord Devenish’s landed there.

Nothing of this showed, however, when Devenish arrived at Marsham Abbey in the middle of a fine early August afternoon. Both men smiled at one another as though they had been bosom companions since boyhood. There was already a goodly sprinkling of guests on the lawn before the Abbey, that noble relic of the days of Catholic glory.

A long-gone Harrington had built his house using the Abbey’s north wall as his southern one, and retaining, Rob had told Devenish, the staircase down to the huge crypt. Over the centuries Marsham’s abbots had been laid to rest there, and there was still a chapel at one end of it, with a ruined altar.

This afternoon, though, no one was eager to visit dim underground rooms, least of all Devenish, who wished to mix with his neighbours as much, and as soon, as possible. His host led him on to the lawns where trestle tables had been erected and set out with food and drink and where burly footmen stood around ready to help those too helpless to help themselves.

Many of those already present were known to him and greeted him with the deference suitable to the honour of a peer. Devenish was just growing weary of being bowed and scraped to when he saw Drusilla Faulkner standing alone before a bed of roses, a glass of lemonade in her hand.

She looked divinely cool in white muslin and a wide-brimmed straw hat worn in such a fashion that it did not hide her charming face. The old trot, as Devenish unkindly thought of Miss Faulkner, was for once not with her.

With a muttered ‘Excuse me,’ he rescued himself from a tedious discussion about the respective excellencies of different breeds of sheep and walked over to her, picking up a glass of lemonade for himself on the way.

‘Alone for once,’ he offered, ‘no Gorgon of a duenna dancing attendance on you, no high-spirited younger brother ready to insist on your full attention. I am in luck.’

Surprised, for she had not seen him coming, Drusilla still had the presence of mind to riposte, ‘Now, is not that exactly what I should expect of you? That you would always wish the undivided attention of those whom you are with!’

‘Is not that what we all wish?’ he parried.

‘Oh, indeed. But few of us are lucky enough to get it.’

‘And you least of all,’ he told her. ‘For whenever we have previously met you have been surrounded by demanding others. Not so, now. And, if I see them coming, I shall whip you away down the nearest alley, claiming that I wish to admire the scenery with you, when all I wish to admire is you.’

This was plain speaking with a vengeance which surprised even the man who was uttering it. He had not intended to be so plain, so soon, but the sight of her had wrenched it from him.

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