Daphne, p.1
Daphne, page 1
Chapter 1 John Maximillian Adolphus Wade-Hambledon was bored. Very bored. Bored with his social acquaintances, his fine houses, the round of parties and pretty little chorus dancers, his stable of horses, his title, yes, especially his title, and even with his money. Thoroughly, totally, unmitigatedly, definitively bored.
Not that this particular country manor wasn't a bit better than most. He approved of the slightly shabby plum-colored drapes his hand was fingering, the air of easy informality long rooted in country ways, the lack of pretension. In fact, he had decided previously to visit his cousin and heir. The Honorable George Wade-Hambledon, in his place in the country for the sole purpose of enjoying just such simplicity, but Wade Hall was rather too spruce for Max's taste. He had noticed the newness of the carpet laid down in the hall, the overnight disappearance of a spot he himself had left on the gray damask upholstery of the settee in the library, the absence of any dead leaves beneath the potted plants in the small conservatory, the rigid standards of the Hall's staff...
He was fortunate in being able to flee his kinsman's uneasy hospitality for this more casual welcome, at St. Wilfred's Close, a neighbor of George's. Now, standing as he was in the long gsdlery of the Close, admiring the riotous garden tucked in among the many els of the house's wings, he was regretting the necessity of leaving, dreading the return to the stiff courtesy and agitated attentions of the Hall. But his business with Sir Wilfred was at an end, a trifling matter of some blood stock settled, and reality must be faced.
As he thought about it, he nearly convinced himself that St. Wilfred's Close would probably be as bad as Greorge's neatish property if he were to stay there long enough. The velvet drapes, their former grandeur a trifle faded by strong sunlight, a scruffy patch where the material had been pushed carelessly aside by hand after hand, would soon lose their charm.
The air wafting through the French windows was warmly laden with the sounds and smells of the garden. That curious mixture of fragrances, which has far more charm then the odor of one mere flower, the murmuring of doves in the eaves of the old buildings, the drone of a giant bumblebee, occasionally visible among the bright flowers, flooded over him and he was taken back to his childhood simimers on his grand-father's country estate, where he had been allowed to forget who he was and be an ordinary little boy looking for fun and mischief. The doves became less persistent in their droning.
A flash of white drew his attention to the far side of the garden. Someone was performing a curious rite beneath the opened window sash of a room across the way. His attention stiffened as an arm, noiseless and efficient, swung up toward the open window. Something seemed to fly through the aperture into the room beyond. The white figure waited. Then the arm went into play again. Another wait. Another small projectile was sent into the room.
Max stood on tiptoe, straining his six-foot frame to provide himself with a better vantage from which to observe. A head with tousled dark blond curls came into view from behind a stand of daisies, the firm now almost invisible. Another object went through the window.
He opened the window wide and stepped through. Sir Wilfred, or his gardeners, had eschewed the fancy of graveling the surface of the path, and on the grass he gave no warning of his approach. Once around a stand of holly trees that were blocking his view, he was able to observe the mystery, now shorn of most of its secret. The hollies also gave him excellent cover, so that he was himself unobserved.
A young person, a girl in fact, was stooping under the window of what must be the music room of the mansion, if his glimpse of the harpsichord inside was any clue. The vague whisper of voices told him that the room was occupied, but whoever was there did not seem to notice the intrusion of the child's strange little gifts shooting in from the garden. The girl, who looked to be no more than fourteen, clasped a small box in her left hand, to which she repaired whenever new ammimition was required. An occasional squeaky, scrabbling sound heightened the sense of mystery.
Another offering was sent on its way.
Max waited for the girl's next move. This pause seemed longer than the earlier ones. Was she to continue this senseless pantomime? Had she revealed herself to the unseen occupants of the room? Why did she comport herself with such secrecy and stealth? And above all, what in the world was this all about?
A shake of the box told him one thing. It had apparently surrendered its last, its last ... its last whatever it was she was throwing. What in the world could it be? Damn!
The curly head lifted cautiously to the sill of the window, sufficient to allow the child a view of the room, but no more. Max wondered with amazement that the people inside were sufficiently engrossed in their conversation to have remained in ignorance of the whole situation. Whatever was being thrown at them, it seemed not to have attracted their attention. Looking closer, he saw quite clearly a pout of disgust on the child's face.
Or perhaps she wasn't quite a child. Now that he could examine her at his leisure, he saw that he must revise his estimate of her age. True, the schoolroom dress was in keeping with his first impression of extreme youth, as was the general air of childish practical jokes that surrounded the incident. But it was an outfit of fine muslin, slightly soiled, trimmed with bright blue silk ribbons and a row of lace at the hem. It was the dress of a young lady, or at least of a girl of gentle birth. This was no gardener's child bent on mischief.
The sunlight played over her hair, highlighting the shots of true gold that wove through its tawny splendor. Eyes that were dark blue without a hint of paleness glimmered imder long sable lashes. The figure showed unmistakable signs of maturity, the mouth had a lilt to it that spoke of self-possession.
The figure, with its magnificent color and abundance, reminded him of the portrait in the grand hall of the present baronet's lady on the occasion of her wedding. Perhaps this was a daughter, a younger child just on the verge of leaving the schoolroom. He had a vague recollection of an elder daughter to be shot off in the coming Season, but this girl seemed too young to be her. The rumor he had heard was that a series of family disasters had postponed that elder girl's presentation to Society for the whole of three Seasons, making her a bit long in the tooth to be mistaken for this minx.
So, a younger daughter, caught in the midst of some prank. Childish and rather amusing, an incident that brought back memories of his own youthful mischief. He stopped to analyze his data, then smiled to himself as he reshaped his conclusions. A younger daughter of Sir Wilfred's, perhaps encouraged to keep her childish ways until her older sister was happily settled. The theory fit neatly. For, from what he could see, this child had the sort of looks that would give the other young lady unwanted competition on the marriage mart. It was wise of the parents to dispose of one daughter before releasing this imp on Society. She'd turn many a head.
But time was passing. In all likelihood, his host would soon return with the papers he had set off in search of, and Sir Wilfred would be wondering where Max had gone to. And Cousin George would be donning his oh, so proper gloves, adjusting his modish hat to a nicety, as he courteously refrained from wondering aloud at his relative's dilatory habits.
The girl had begun to creep away from the house, making her way with caution through the herbaceous border she had trampled into for a more convenient post beneath the window. Max saw that the promise he had glimpsed was more than fulfilled. A beautiful face with small, straight nose and curving mouth, framed by that mane of hair, a rounded figure and above-average height carried by graceful carriage, but above all, that indefinable elan of poise and expression that marked the beginning of a natural style, all were there. On an impulse, he allowed her to walk some distance from the open window, and its listeners inside, before he stepped forward to accost her. For speak he must. Too many questions teased his brain to allow him to let the opportunity of having them answered slip away.
"Good afternoon."
It was a commonplace greeting, one he wished he could improve on, but he was willing to make do with it in a pinch. It did not explain the girl's guilty start and the noisy gasp she made as she spun around to face him, eyes wide with panic. So she did have a conscience. Or perhaps Sir Wilfred was a strict parent, despite the appearance of easygoing ways.
**Who are you?"
He thought for a moment, then smiled. "My name is Max Wade-Hambledon. And whom might you be?"
"Wade-Hambledon? Oh, no! You must be another relative of George's."
He caught himself smiling at the sound of dismay in her voice. "Is that so bad?"
"Bad? No, not a bit, but it is a trifle awkward. Have you been in the garden for some time?"
"Perhaps. But you have yet to tell me your name."
This brought her back to some realization of her duties of courtesy, and she executed a hasty curtsy and murmured apologetically, "I'm Daphy, I mean Daphne St. Wilfred. Do forgive me, but I was so busy—^I mean, I was so surprised when you appeared like this—I mean, I had no idea ... And you would be a relative!" She cast an anxious glance back at the window. "I say, you won't give me away, will you?"
"Give you away?"
"Then you must not have seen . . . Thank you so much, so very much, I'm sure, if you will just excuse me now. Mama and Miss Singleton will be looking for me, Fm sure. I must go present myself." Her relief was palpable.
He arrested her flight with a cautionary hand. "You are altogether too quick to jump to conclusions. Perhaps I did see something."
"Oh, dear."
"And I'm not above a spot of blackmail, either, young Miss Daphne."
"Blackmail?"
"I won't, provided you answer one or two little questions for me."
Despite her anxiety, she greeted this request with caution. "Whatever can I tell you? I'm sure you can't be interested in anything I know. Miss Singleton says that I don't know much of anything at all." She smiled with such guileless innocence that he almost laughed aloud.
"But there are one or two things that only you can tell me."
"Oh, surely not!" She sidled toward the path.
"We shall see. For example, whatever were you taking from your box and tossing through the window?"
With a sudden giggle, she glanced down at the box still in her hand. The eyes that rose to meet his were alight with mischief "Why, it was but a collection of small things, of no importance, sir."
"But nonetheless, you must appreciate my curiosity."
By now she was grinning. "Very well, sir, I shall assuage it. My box was full of mice."
He would never have imagined such an answer to his question and could not help doubting he had heard right. "Mice?"
"Mice."
She turned as if to leave, the mischievous grin on her face showing that she was more than satisfied with his reaction to her oh, so simple answer. But her explanation was too simple for his tastes, and he grabbed her roughly by the arm and dragged her to a bower formed by the overhanging branches of the peach and cherry trees that grew on the other side of the brick wall. He pushed her onto the stone seat, having cleared a space for her among the branches. The bees active in this end of the garden refused to let so minor an event disturb them, and the conversation was carried out to their lazy, moaning accompaniment.
Young ladies don't play with mice, Miss Daphy, I mean. Miss Daphne!"
"I don't want to be a young lady."
"Well, perhaps you are but a schoolgirl, but still. . ."
"Mama and Papa say that I'm not that, either. At least. Papa says that it's high time—" He interrupted her with an impatient wave of his hand.
"Now, what is this all about?"
The grin played once again on her lips. "I mustn't tell." It was obvious to him that she had somehow lost her fear of him.
"If you don't, I shall tell your papa!"
"Oh, no, you wouldn't! That would be ungentlemanly and disloyal of you." She was sure of her reasoning, but indignant at his callow sham.
He produced his most forbidding scowl, the one reserved for intimidating only the most recalcitrant of his retainers.
"Oh, please, I meant no harm. It was for their sake—Greorge and Emily's."
The scowl was replaced by an uplifted eyebrow. "That tells me nothing."
"Oh, well, I suppose I must tell you everything, in that case. But only if you promise not to breathe a word of this to anyone! I was not enjoying idle mischief, I assure you. In fact, my motives are of the noblest."
A look of amused doubt entered his eyes, but he nodded his agreement. "But I must warn you that this promise is conditional. I'll reserve the right to judge the case if your tale is not a convincing one."
"It's all for the sake of Emily and Greorge," she repeated in a rush, not heeding his words.
**By George I assume you mean my cousin, George Wade-Hambledon. But who is Emily?"
"Why, my sister is Emily, of course. She is some four years older than I."
"I wonder that I've never met her."
"That's just the problem. And she and George were finally together, alone, in the music room, after I had tried so hard to get them there, and this was my very first chance to help them along a bit, so you see, my intentions are really of the purest. I really could not let such an opportunity slip through my fingers," she ended wistfully.
"My dear young lady, I understand nothing at all. Do start at the beginning. All of this seems nonsensical at best."
"But the beginning was Great-aunt Emily—^that's Emmie's godmother and namesake, you understand— and as I was saying, the beginning was with her falling so dreadfully ill that we despaired for her life three years ago, and she insisted on having Emmy at her bedside throughout—"
"Wait, wait! I'm understanding even less. Nothing at all. Perhaps you should answer my questions. If only I can guess what to ask."
"Certainly." She arranged the white muslin gown, charming despite its innocence of allure, into demure folds on the bench, and waited, a polite expression on her face. She reminded him of a well-mannered schoolboy being asked to recite by his master, awaiting the cue to trot out his hard-won hoard of knowledge. Despite himself, he felt the first overwhelming swells of laughter rising in him, and he firmly pushed them away.
"For some reason it is important that George and Emily are together, alone, in the music room."
"It really doesn't matter which room, you see—"
He sternly shushed her. "Now, this seems highly improper, I must say, and Fm surprised that any well-regulated family would allow such a thing to happen, but if it is so, it is so."
"Fm supposed to be with them, or at least in the vicinity, but it is all so innocent between them, and George is really the epitome of respectability—in fact, rather a dull dog—that Mama wouldn't mind if she knew that I had wandered into the garden. She would understand, in any case. They are discussing nothing but music, which I find excessively dull, you see. They never seem to be interested in any of the gay tunes I sometimes hear Papa's hunting guests sing after dinner.
"I can imagine." And Max could well guess at what some of Sir Wilfred's cronies would sing after an evening at board, passing the port amongst themselves, and the image of his prim cousin George singing such songs was so out of the realm of possibility that the laughter within him began to win over decorum. "What is the significance of this tete-^-tete? If they are but discussing music—"
"I want them to discuss more than that. I was only trying to give them an opportunity, you see," she explained, eagerness lighting her face.
"But why?"
"It's so simple! They're to make a match of it." Her pleasure was so palpable, as she made this outrageous explanation, that he almost felt compelled to hurry to the music room and congratulate the young couple on their good fortune.
"My dear child—I mean Miss Daphne—I believe that my cousin would have informed me of such a state of affairs, if that were the case."
"Oh, they don't know it yet."
His mind began to spin before the onslaught of her unbelievable statements, each presented with such an air of candor and assurance that he suspected that there was something she had not yet told him. Or perhaps he had missed some vital point in his concision.
She interrupted his thoughts with alarming non-. chalance. "Of course."
"Of course." It would appear that Miss Daphne's imagination had slipped the restraints of reality, but Max refused to be daunted. In fact, he thought he was beginning to enjoy this wild adventure even more. Whatever she was up to, it seemed harmless enough, and he did not recall having a similar conversation with a young lady of birth and breeding at any time in his career. Then the memory of the carefully-aimed missiles, those mice, intruded on his thoughts.
"Whatever have the mice to do with it? I didn't think that young ladies would touch such things. Shouldn't you have fainted at the sight of one?"
"Exactly! You do understand, after all."
"But I understand nothing!" he protested. "Aren't you afraid of mice?"
"No. But Emily is."
He was tempted to follow this alluring sidepath, but her possession of the mice still teased him. "Where did you get them?"
"From Sym in the stables. He trapped them for me."
"Is that a part of his normal duties?"
"Oh, no—it was all a secret, of course. I paid him a penny a head for them. That was what he insisted they're worth. I'd never bought mice before, so I really couldn't be sure if it was a fair price."
"I'm relieved that you haven't made a career of tossing mice into windows."
"It was only for an emergency, you see. I had it all planned, after George's last visit, when they went into the music room to look at some sheet music, and I had Sym save me a whole boxful. You don't think I paid too much, do you?"
