Page 28 of Death at the Dower House
I can’t tell you who was walking, where they came from or where they were going. I can’t even tell you whether they were male or female. The footsteps didn’t click particularly, which might indicate that there weren’t heels involved, but who really knew?
What I can say, is that they slowed for a moment in passing our door, as if whoever was out there had contemplated trying the knob, or perhaps just hesitated to think about who was sleeping inside. But no one tried to get inside, and after a second or two, the footsteps moved on. Then a door closed somewhere else on the first floor, and everything was silent.
I thought about slithering out of bed again, to see whether I could spy a light under someone’s door. But it was late and I was tired, and still rattled enough about everything that had happened today not to want to risk running into someone who was up to no good.
It might be St George coming back from the garden, and while I would love the opportunity to twit him about what had happened outside, there is just something very lowering about having to admit to spying out the water closet window.
Or worse, it might be Marsden wandering around, looking for fresh prey, and the very last thing I wanted was to come face to face with an amorous Lord Geoffrey in the dark, in my pyjamas and bare feet, and with no one else awake who could save me if he decided to pick up where he had left off earlier.
And yes, if he did that I could absolutely defend myself. I had been constrained by good behavior in the parlor earlier. I hadn’t wanted to make a scene. If someone tried to grab me on the dark landing, I’d absolutely make a horrendous fuss and wake the whole house while I was at it.
But that didn’t mean I wanted to, for my own sake as well as everyone else’s. So I ignored the footsteps and turned over on my other side and closed my eyes and willed myself back to sleep.
Eight
I wasthe first one up the next morning, and the first one down to breakfast. Not surprisingly, perhaps, since I’d also been the first one to bed.
I made myself comfortable in the dining room, with a cup of coffee, and eggs and bacon and a piece of toast. “No newspaper, Dawson?”
The butler shook his head. “No, Miss Darling. The strike is ongoing.”
Of course it was. The general strike had been in the offing for a while, but it had started officially two days before Christopher and I came down to Sutherland Hall for the funerals. The Miners’ Union wanted higher wages and better work conditions, and going by the inconveniences the newspapers were describing, who could blame it?
On the other hand, the mine owners were citing diminishing returns, and with Germany now sending free coal to France and Italy as part of their war reparations, it was difficult to blame the mine owners, too.
Then a lot of other industries had joined in, and as a result, now a lot of things were at a standstill. Ironworkers, dockworkers, and the railway were included in the strike in addition to the newspaper industry, so if things went on for much longer, Christopher and I would have a difficult time making our way back to London after the weekend.
I picked at my eggs in annoyed silence, since there was nothing else I could do.
The others trickled in slowly. First came Gilbert Peckham, who looked rather the worse for wear, especially considering that most of his evening had consisted of minding the gramophone and keeping an eye on everyone else.
But perhaps he had become more involved in the festivities after I had gone upstairs. His eyes were bloodshot and his face haggard, like it had been quite a late night, and a not very pleasant one. He dragged himself through the door, and gave me a short nod but no greeting. Then he poured himself a cup of coffee, loaded up a plate with eggs and bacon, and tucked in, still without speaking.
Geoffrey Marsden was next. He bounded into the dining room as bright-eyed and bushy as if he hadn’t spent the evening drinking cocktails and feeling up unsuspecting young women. He nodded to Peckham, smiled warmly at me—as if I hadn’t been the young woman he’d been feeling up last night—and went to the sideboard, where he filled up a plate, before sitting down across the table.
I devoted myself to my own plate. I didn’t want to acknowledge Marsden’s existence, let alone have a conversation with him—certainly not about the general strike, a subject on which he was unlikely to be able to keep up his end of the discussion anyway—so I pretended he wasn’t there. It wasn’t easy. For being a well-trained member of the aristocracy, he ate very loudly. And his foot kept nudging mine under the table.
A double set of footsteps on the stairs heralded the arrival of Christopher and Francis. The latter gave the dining room a comprehensive glance as he entered, and he seemed disappointed not to see Constance. Christopher just grinned at me. “Hullo, Pippa. All right this morning?”
“Right as rain,” I said, with a glance across the table at Marsden. “Couldn’t be better.”
Christopher nodded. “I’ll keep you company. Just let me fill a plate, and I’ll be right there.”
He headed for the sideboard. Francis was already loading up, and when he arrived back at the table, he took the chair to one side of me. Christopher took the other, and Marsden’s foot withdrew.
“No St George?” I asked Christopher.
It was Francis who answered. “He was the last one out of bed this morning as well as last into bed last night. The poor beggar’s being run ragged.”
“He could easily put a stop to it,” I said callously. “If he doesn’t want to be pursued by all and sundry, he could simply say no.”
“I don’t imagine it’s that easy,” Christopher said gently, “do you?”
I rather thought it was, actually. St George was a man. He had some say in what happened to him. Unlike me with Lord Geoffrey, he could have simply removed Laetitia’s hand from behind his neck and her lips from his, and then he could have stepped away from her. And the same with Johanna in the garden later. It might have upset either or both women, of course. Might even have hurt someone’s feelings. But he was the one with the power. He didn’t have to put up with the aggression if he didn’t want to. Since he did put up with it, I assumed he did.
Want it, I mean.
Although I didn’t articulate any of that, because Francis added, “Here he is now.”
