 
Twelve Gnomes and a Budgerigar

By

L. Savage

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

Published by:

L. Savage on Smashwords

Twelve Gnomes and a Budgerigar

Copyright © 2011 by L. Savage

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Twelve Gnomes and a Budgerigar

For the mater, as usual

Chapter One

In the small village of Little Pearshire there lay and still, to this day, lay two stately homes. It would seem, for one village, one grand stately home is enough but Little Pearshire had decided not only to have Bramton Hall but, down the hill and in clear sight, Millford Lodge.

The village had outdone itself in as many ways that a village can outdo itself in a personifying way.

Of course, the reason for the construction of these two wealthy homes near each other has nothing to do with our story. In fact, it dates almost two hundred years before – straight into the early eighteenth century while we sit comfortably in 1935.

But I'll tell you the story of it, anyway, as it is of some interest.

There were once two feuding families – a wonderful and overused cliché – who had been at war with each other since the invention of the wheel.

What had originally spawned the war, no one can quite agree on, though it is believed it involved a piece of string and a small swatch of cowhide.

By the 1700s, it was decided that their feud would turn to land – as feuds properly should – and, thus, both families did everything in their power to buy as much as they could to have more than the other and then be able proclaim themselves the 'better situated.' But, by the powers that be, both families had decided to start their purchasing in what is now Little Pearshire and bought and bought until each had a fair share of land that sat right beside the other – a situation that had been completely unplanned, yet rather funny to the casual observer.

The families I speak of, if you have not been bright enough to guess, are indeed the ancestors of the Bramtons and the Millfords – their present surnames remaining unchanged. They were the two leading families of biscuit production in England – furious rivals in the world of eighteenth century teatime.

Now, your dear author knows as much about marketing land in the 1700s as a snail knows about walking and therefore cannot comment exactly on how these transactions passed as smoothly as they did without either party knowing the other party's actions.

All that can be said for sure is that it did happen. Or, at least, it is the story that is told and the one everyone believes.

What can be spoken of without realty loopholes is the reaction of the families to the revelation that they had not only purchased the same amount of land, but that the pieces of land were directly beside one another.

The revelation came when the heads of each family commissioned a fence surrounding their property to be built. Those working for the Millfords and those working for the Bramtons slowly constructed their fences on opposing sides of their respective estates until the two groups met – their fences, if they had been finished, were so exact to each other that they could have been connected.

The work, of course, was quickly called off and the head of each family marched angrily in their high boots through the Pearshire mud to the parting in the fences.

Ready for a fight, both patriarchs spoke in shouts, though there was little to argue about. All land had been bought fairly and the fence lay precisely on the dividing line of their estates – all of this, of course, was shouted over the three and a half hours the men stood working this out in the rain.

They finally parted ways when it began to thunder and died of pneumonia a month later – give or take a day each – from having stood in the cold for so long.

Thankfully, both also left sons – a vital necessity of that period.

Within several years of their deaths, construction of both Bramton Hall and Millford Lodge went underway – overseen by the eldest sons, each of whom now held a grudge against the other for they believed the reason for their fathers' illness was the relentlessness of the one father who made the other father stand for so long in the rain shouting.

I have often found that part of the story to be rather childish, personally.

And, what was even more childish, were the designs of these two homes.

Less than a mile apart, both homes were in plain sight of the other. Bramton Hall took advantage of the hill on the property and built atop that while Millford Lodge hid itself in the vast gloves of trees that surrounded it. Thus, the Bramtons could easily look down upon the Millfords while the Millfords could stay hidden in their trees and stand on the roof with an expensive telescope that remains at the house to this day and watch the Bramtons.

To think of it, it was like a very large game of cat and mouse that neither team played very well at all. The most ever reported was the planting of the first rose bush on the Millford estate.

By the time that generation had died, the families were beginning to see the errors in their ways and became friendly with each other – which I am sure the reader does not want to hear. There is nothing better than a story about two feuding families and the nonsense (depending on who you are reading, of course) created as seen by their very origins.

What I mean by 'friendly' is merely cordial. You would not find Bramton marrying a Millford nor a Millford marrying a Bramton but you can bet they played skittles on the lawn and invited each other to dinners and balls when they were held.

This cordiality lasted through the nineteenth century and into the twentieth. The families no longer were biscuit proprietors – their fortunes having been made long ago and work now completely unneeded – nor did they own as much of Pearshire as they once did, though their land tally remained precisely the same for historical purposes.

The only tiff that remained dated back to the unfinished fence. The small strip of land that stood between the ends of the now dilapidated fences could not be called the Bramtons' nor could it be called the Millfords'.

At two meters long and hardly half of a single meter wide, it was still cause for controversy.

It was and still is creatively called 'the strip.'

Then again, I suppose it was not so much 'controversy,' in truth, but more of a 'reminder' to the states of their families. They had to have a little battle going on to preserve their heritage, even if they were friendly with each other. It was a pastime that continued into the 1930s where our story does, in fact begin as I have previously mentioned.

"I say: he that can hold his breath the longest claims the strip for a fortnight. Agreed, Lord Bramton?"

"Agreed, Sir Millford."

"On my count?"

"On your count."

"On three then. One... two – wait, how shall I know you're not cheating? You could very well breath through your nose."

"I could say the same of you. Then we would be standing here all day seemingly defying science."

"We shall pinch our noses then."

"Right-o."

"On my count, Lord Bramton."

"On your count, Sir Millford."

"One... two... and –"

Sir Millford and Lord Bramton both took a heaving breath in, shut their bloated mouths and pinched their noses as they stood on their respective sides of space in the fence.

And it was a tradition.

Every fortnight the two men would meet on a Sunday afternoon and think of a new way to decide who would have the most land until the next challenge. When they were younger – in their forties, that is – they would do far more athletic feats having their valets judge the winner or declare a 'redo' when the outcome was unclear. Now that the men had been doing this for over twenty years, though, the challenges became less athletic and the valets unneeded for judging.

Sometimes they played cards. Other times they stared at each other until one of them broke eye contact and laughed. Holding their breath was actually one of the more physical challenges they had set up to date.

And for the next fortnight, the strip would be Lord Bramton's.

Sir Millford's stamina gave out and he began to hack up phlegm after letting out his breath through pursed lips creating a sound similar to that of a tea kettle sounding off.

Seeing the two holding their breaths, it was clear Lord Bramton would win no matter what for, unlike Sir Millford, Lord Bramton was fit and toned in his old age. He was stocky and built – even his grey mustache had a muscle in it for its ends curled up too well for mere wax to hold it in place. Sir Millford was hunched a bit and lean – almost gaunt. Facial hair dared not grow and the wisps of longish silver he had on his head stayed safely under his tweedy cap.

"All right there, Millford? Overexert yourself a bit?" Bramton asked now standing on the strip.

Millford spit out a yellowish wad and pulled himself upright. "No, you bloody twat. I believe I may have a cold."

"Then why did you suggest we hold our breaths?"

"I refuse to accept I do, in fact, have a cold."

"Ah."

"If I accepted it, Millicent would send for the doctor and I won't have that. Yellow phlegm is the healthy phlegm, correct?"

"I shouldn't know. How long has it been yellow?"

Millford went into his vest pocket and removed a small memorandum book. Out of another pocket he took out his spectacles and perched them on his long thin nose. With a lanky finger he searched through the little book of scribbles, tapping it when he found what he was looking for.

"Yellow phlegm first made its appearance three nights ago when I was placing a book on the birds of Pearshire back on the shelf in my study. Before that, I was not congested. My notes would say."

"Well, you're not dead yet. I suppose it's healthy. I would watch for it to change color, though, and then admit to your sister you have a chill."

"Mm, perhaps." Millford replaced all of the items and kicked a bit of dirt over the offending lump. "Green, maybe."

"My Penelope heard from Millicent that your eldest daughter is coming home for a visit?"

"Not a visit, no. She plans to stay for some time. That's not what I'd define as a visit."

"No. But, I don't quite blame her," Bramton crossed onto Millford's land and sat on a fallen tree that served very well as a bench for the two men. Millford, though, remained standing. "Her husband did kill six prostitutes in London and, knowing women, the gossip must have been unbearable."

"I never liked him."

"I don't believe any of us did. I mean, those at Bramton Hall. Can't say for Millford Lodge. I remember, faintly, Millicent being fond of him."

"Oh yes, my sister was. She's always been a startlingly good judge of character. But that was solely because he was eyeing a space at Parliament when he met my Margery. Everyone had high hopes for him. Of course, that never happened and he spent the last few years of their marriage boozing and gambling at clubs."

"Isn't that what most boys do now, though?"

"I don't know. I haven't been to London quite some time and I haven't any sons," said Millford with a shrug. "You've two. Well, three if you count your nephew's boy."

"Oh, don't bring up my lot! I've enough trouble thinking about them as I do talking about them – the daughter included. They're driving me to an early grave."

"Luckily your fit as a fiddle. And you own several lovely automobiles so the ride there won't be terrible."

"Joking aside, Millford, you realize I haven't a grandson by either of those boys. Much less a wedding."

"Yes – but that's hardly precarious to your name. And they're not old and gouty yet. I've two daughters – that's it. The Millford line dies with them."

"That's a depressing thought."

"Yes, well... it isn't really a big to do as it once was – having sons and all, is it? I mean, the land will go to Margery... Millfords will still own it. Just a different surname."

"Don't put yourself in the grave, yet. Besides – you're a widower. Marry a girl young enough and the Millford name might not be lost."

"I have no sights on marriage. Millicent wouldn't allow me to, anyway."

"Why not?"

"Millford Lodge is her domain. Brining a new lady into the house would be off-putting and you know how Millicent is when she's put-off."

"Lord, yes."

Millford began to hack again but did not grace the ground again with his phlegm.

"When does Margery arrive?' asked Bramton, slipping a cigarette out of a thin case and putting it between this thin lips.

"Soon. Margot knows the exact date. Margery's organizing business at the moment – closing the house in London and such. But she's promised to be here by the end of the month. Oh, and she has pulled her daughter out of that boarding school she stuck her in, so your nephew will have a playmate."

"Grand-nephew, if we're being exact, Millford. And I suppose that's pleasant, though."

"Yes. Olive's seven or so – not quite sure. How old is Willy's boy?"

"Oh, twelve I believe. There's a bit of a gap, but there are hardly any children in Pearshire. I'm sure it won't matter."

"No, children are adjustable creatures. It's in their nature – constant molding going on until they're twenty at least. Would you look at the time?" Millford had pulled out his pocket watch and flicked it open. "Best be off. Millicent is unpleasant when I'm late for dinner."

"Right, then. Have a pleasant evening, Millford."

"And yourself, Bramton. Pleasant trip to London. Give my regards to Penelope."

With this the two men parted ways – or at least, Millford began to walk towards the Lodge and Bramton remained on the tree trunk, lighting his cigarette and deciding internally to sit there for a bit.

Bramton had in his mind figured out that by the middle of that century, not only the Millford line would be lost, but the Bramton's line would, too, if nothing was done. That is, if nothing cared to happen. But Bramton was not a man for concocting solutions. Well, concocting well thought out solutions. His side of the family never claimed planning as their forte.

He merely waited most of the time for something to happen and approved or disapproved of it when it did.

Most of the time.

Bramton had already resigned himself to the fact he would die disapproving of the world for the most part and Millford would go the opposite, smiling calmly and being just as passive to his family's fate.

Or, at least, that is what he told himself.

Most of the time.

Chapter Two

"Sir."

"Sir."

"Report."

"Nothing to report, sir."

It was raining in London. It had been raining for the first few minutes of daylight the city was experiencing though calling it daylight merely puts to use a synonymous term for morning. No sun could be seen – only its bright glow behind a smudge of gray clouds.

Two men stood in Hyde Park under two black umbrellas. One was aging and very thin and tall with gray curly hair under a smart bowler. Two was a similar height though younger and a bit bumpy near the tummy area with light brown hair brushed back under a cap to hide the fact he was balding.

But only a little.

"Nothing to report?" asked One with an air of complete dissatisfaction that lay in the fact he was standing in the rain and cold of early morning to merely hear the word 'nothing.'

"Nothing, sir," replied Two. "But, ah –"

"Yes?"

"She is thinking of going to her family's estate in the country. Well, no, she's quite set on it to be sure."

"What?" One wanted to be sure he heard right. It was raining hard and it was thundering in the distance. Two could have said 'she knew about the murders' for all he hoped.

"Mrs. Spencer has decided to go to her father's estate. She plans to remain there, her father's – I mean, until she can find a suitable home for herself and her daughter that isn't in London. She is thinking Bath, but –"

"Get to the point!" One demanded

"Sir, I really don't think she has anything to do with the murders at all. I do believe she is completely innocent and me following her to her family home is very unnecessary. Plus, I don't like lying to her. We've become very good friends and –" Two went on, but his words faded out.

But One, hearing only the first two sentences Two had spoken, would not have it. Oh no – they hung the woman's husband for murder over a year ago now and the very sight of those swinging twitching feet made the detective all giddy for another cracked open case. There had to be more than just a well-to-do gent murdering six prostitutes – where was the fun if it was as straight-forward as that?

"The wife had to know something," said One. "My Marianne can tell when I'm lying and when I'm not – when I've been to the pub and when I've lost my shirt. It's all in the demeanor, Chuckie Boy, all in the demeanor."

"Of course, sir. I wouldn't know, sir, being a bachelor all forty-so years of my life but, I was in the house when Mr. Spencer was still alive and –"

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Spencer seemed entirely indifferent to him and he to her so... so your talk of 'demeanor' may not be as relevant –"

"You said it yourself: you're a bloody bachelor – don't presume to know what it is like to be married until the ball and chain is firmly attached to your ankle – thank-you-very-much-sir!"

"My apologies, sir. I'll – um – be sure to enjoy Sir Millford's garden whilst I am there. It is rumored to be spectacular and –"

"You will continue to look into Mrs. Spencer is what you'll do – especially if she is leaving the city."

"Yes, sir. Sorry sir."

"And when she goes back to her family – if she doesn't go off on the run – if she is truly going to her family, we can only hope she will be comfortable enough to reveal something to them that we have yet to uncover. If not then – well, then she will run off in America and we'll know she's guilty and move on from there. Justice – Chuckie – this is for justice."

"Right, sir. Justice."

"Now," Once checked his pocket watch, "go back to work."

Charles Potter had worked as detective at Scotland Yard for twenty years of his bachelor life and had not grown so much as a wisp of a reputation, though his hair wasn't in that terrible a state. He had neither heated nor cooled a case and thus went through life under the radar in his profession. He found more excitement in the ending of an Agatha Christie novel than there was in his own job, which was mostly concerned with how he sat behind a desk.

He supposed it was his rather ordinary existence that pushed him straight to the center of the Spencer Murder Case – or what was then called, for popular publicity reasons, the Son of Jack the Ripper Slayings. When Mr. Spencer had become a suspect, Charles was slipped into the house as Spencer's new valet – completely coincidental, of course, that the man was in search of one.

The detectives called it 'getting lucky.' Charles didn't know if that was an official term or not, so he only assumed that it was.

Charles liked having something exciting to do – listening in on phone conversations discretely, following Mr. Spencer here and there in his plush Rolls Royce, reporting in the wee hours of the morning to his superior, tasting some of the wine left over from the grand dinners Mr. Spencer liked to hold. Oh, it had been a good job then. He felt important and well taken care of on top of it.

But it was a job that Charles believed should really have ended once Spencer had spilled the beans after being caught wooing a prostitute in an alleyway. Charles was quite sure Mrs. Spencer had nothing to do with her husband's indiscretions. As he had told the detective that morning quite plainly: the woman was indifferent to her husband and their marriage was held together only for reputation and monetary purposes like most marriages of their society in London.

Too, Charles very much watched to return to his little flat in London. There, on the roof, he had been able to grow a small little garden that he was sure was overgrown with weeds by now – even if he had paid his landlady to look at it from time to time. It needed a caring hand, a gardener's hand – Charles' hand. He always sighed a very melancholy sigh when he thought of it.

"Really, Potter, I'm so thankful you're here," Mrs. Spencer said to him later that morning. She had been burning up papers in her husband's study – the paperwork the police had not confiscated and had been cleared as unhelpful and useless. "I swear I'll write you a doozy of a recommendation when the time comes – oh dear, have you been looking yet for a new position?"

"Not yet, ma'am, no. I thought I would make sure you and your little daughter were settled before I left."

"Oh, Potter –"

"Really, ma'am, I wouldn't be able to sleep at night if I just upped and left. I'm here as a... a... friend now, if I may say so, ma'am."

Mrs. Spencer smiled kindly. "You may. And thank you, Potter. Very much. You're a very good friend at that. I'll write that in your recommendation, too. Is it still raining out?"

"I believe so, ma'am. Same, I'm told, for tomorrow and the weekend as well."

"Terribly dreary time to go into the country. And – knowing the mud in Pearshire – quite a messy one. We'll have to wear dark clothing, Olive and myself... our trunks will be sent ahead, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am. Seeing them off myself."

"I am horribly abusing you, Potter?"

"Yes, ma'am, but er... crack the whip if you must."

Mrs. Spencer laughed a little and poked at the fire, her brow furrowing at the sight of the scribbled on paper curling and singeing. Charles did a small bow and left her to her work.

"Oh – Potter – one last thing."

Charles turned back around in the doorway.

"I was going through the library – picking out books that belonged to Harold. I don't want them brought with us but I came across a lovely garden book I thought you'd enjoy. You did say you liked to garden didn't you?"

"Ah – yes, ma'am. Very much. Of course, I merely admire. Practicing is a bit difficult in my line of work."

"I imagine if we had a garden, you would be my first choice in gardener. But, please, have a look at the book and keep it if you wish. There are plenty of those sorts of books, anyway, at father's."

"Thank you ma'am. That's very kind. Thank you."

He turned with another small bow to go down the corridor but let out a scream similar to that of a prepubescent girl at the sight of mouse – but for Charles it was a female child standing before him.

The little girl began to laugh. From inside the study, Mrs. Spencer shouted: "Olive, don't scare Potter like that!"

"Potter – Potter, come play cards with me, will you? One last time under the table – please!" The girl tugged on Charles' sleeve, looking up at him so much so that the back of her head touched her back.

"Olive, you have schoolwork. Mrs. Graham will not be pleased when we get to Pearshire that you've not worked on your multiples!" he mother called out after hearing her daughter's request.

Olive went to fight back but Charles hushed her and nodded his head. Olive smiled brightly and rocked on her tiptoes in excitement.

"Yes, mummy!"

Olive Spencer was a strange little child and Charles, having been a strange child as well, took to her. When word had gotten out that her father was a suspect in the brutal slayings in the city, Mrs. Spencer pulled Olive out of St. Wilma's School for Girls, which was located somewhere in the countryside, and set her daughter up with a tutor in the city, so she could be shielded better from the gossip. This, of course, also meant Olive would be completely alone – without the companionship of other children. So, naturally, Olive had filled that gap with Charles.

The problem in pulling Olive out of her school – her home – was that she hardly minded the gossip there. Her parents were strangers to her, having chosen the social world over their small family. And, if one of her parents happened to be a lunatic murderer, it was just an inconvenience to Olive – hardly the end her world as they had never really been a part of it to begin with.

"Are you excited to see your Granddaddy?" asked Charles as Olive dealt the cards out.

They played under a lace-covered table in the parlor. Charles just fit but Olive was comfortable sitting cross-legged.

"Not really, no."

"Why not?"

"I don't know him very well. We don't visit. He came once before but with Auntie Millicent. Oh, I hate her – Auntie Millicent, I mean. I don't want to go. But mummy said that it will only be for a little while and then I'll go back to school and she'll move into a brand new home."

Mrs. Spencer had already dealt with a solicitor in the matter of selling the property she had shared with her husband. She wanted to purge him out of their lives completely and selling the very structures they lived in seemed a good course of action to start. Of course, she knew very little about selling her homes, so Charles had helped her out in that area in order that she wouldn't be cheated.

Olive could have cared less that she would never see her home in London again. All Olive wanted was to go back to her boarding school but – since the pun was available in Charles' mind – that was not in the cards, it seemed.

"I do like Aunt Margot, though – mummy's younger sister. She comes without Grandfather and used to visit more often until everything started. And Grandfather isn't horrible – what I know of him – he's very funny. It's Auntie Millicent. She looks like a toad, you know. Or... or a very ugly badger. They say that I get my dark hair from her since mummy and Aunt Margot have very pretty yellow hair. I hope I don't get my hair from her."

"What color is your Grandfather's?"

"Grey. I don't think it ever had a different color. Mummy never said, at least."

"Maybe you get your hair from him."

"I hope so. Mummy doesn't like Auntie Millcent either. They once got in a very big fight when she came to visit. After Aunt Margot stopped visiting."

"A fight?"

Olive nodded. "About daddy – do I have to say 'God rest his soul' now?"

"I don't know. I suppose you could since he's dead."

"I don't want to." Olive furrowed her brow as she pushed her cards into a neat pile. "But it was because of him – the fight. I overheard them in the dining room after dinner. It had something to do with... oh... something to do with something daddy couldn't get up."

"What?" Charles hit his head on the table in surprise at what the little girl had said.

"Auntie Millicent said something about daddy 'not getting it up.' I don't know what she meant but that's what she said and mummy got very angry and was afraid daddy would hear. Do you know what it means, Potter?"

Charles' face reddened and he quickly grabbed the cards from between them, sorting them and shifting them so he would not have to answer or even look at Olive.

"Oh," said Olive slyly. "It's an adult thing, isn't it? Well – adults fight over very stupid things. Lots of things don't go up that should. It has something to do with something called 'gravity,' I think." She looked over the cards Charles dealt her one by one then, with a sigh, added: "Or balloons."

Chapter Three

Lady Penelope Bramton was quite a brilliant woman – beautiful and smart, neither of those deteriorating in age. Coifed silver hair was held in place with an adorned pin, bright eyes tittered back and forth over her elegant writing. Slender and tall she stood, smiling she ruled over Bramton Hall with a gentle hold that gave just enough power to her husband to make him think he was in charge and just enough freedom to her children to banish any resentment towards her in the house.

Many thought these same traits had rolled off onto her only daughter Billie, who was born over a decade after her elder brother Douglas. Needless to say, her birth was not expected, but nevertheless welcomed for Penelope had wanted more than one child in Bramton Hall. And another female presence was a very good bonus. All Bramton himself cared about was having a son and that was sufficed with Douglas' birth, so Billie's own birth was hardly an event for him.

Another son, Edward, followed little over a year after (Bramton was said to have been quite excited to hear there was another male in the case Douglas kicked the bucket early) and the family was deemed complete – though Penelope would have preferred for Edward to be a little more intelligent – more like his siblings and not so damned sentimental for he was, very much, a sentimental boy.

"Are you sure you want to travel, Billie?" Penelope asked, not looking up from the letter she was writing to her sister. "You've been away for so long already."

"I know... I'm just in a bit of a rut, that's all," answered Billie, who was sitting slouched in the corner of the sofa in her parents' London flat with a beaker of warm tea cupped in her hands. "I want it kept quiet though – for now."

"My lips are sealed. By the bye, I heard from your father – he won the strip last night. He'll be coming back here to London tonight though – in time for dinner."

"Oh, it is so silly! Who on earth cares who owns the most land these days?"

"You're testy today."

"I don't feel well."

Penelope looked up from her writing from the first time and saw that her daughter was indeed on the pale side – well, paler than usual for Billie did have very light skin set off by dark waved hair that had a sort of uncontrolled frizz about it. Her little figure was rather stuffed in the corner of that sofa, buried in a green cardigan.

"What?" Billie didn't like to be stared at.

"Should we send for the doctor?"

"Of course not, mother. Really, it was something I ate. That and I'm very agitated, to be honest."

"What over?"

"Dougie."

"What about him?" Penelope put down her pen to listen but Billie said nothing. "Wilhelmina, tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong. Douglas is being an ass. I can't help that no matter what I do or what Henry does, either."

"What are you talking about? I saw Douglas only yesterday and he seemed fine."

"Yes, of course he seemed fine but –"

"But what?"

Billie faltered.

"Wilhelmina Bramton, speak!"

"He –"

Penelope would not learn from Wilhelmina what was in Douglas' letter. At that very instant her daughter was about to tell her about her eldest son, the front door opened and Henry Dermot was let in. Billie stood quickly and muttered something about getting her coat.

When she had left the room, Penelope's eyes settled on Henry, her daughter's obvious lover and the best friend of her eldest son. He was a man in his late thirties – tall and moderately fit, he had a kind face and a cheeky grin that made you think he was up to something childish. And he usually was. He wore thin wire glasses and, peeking from under a cap, he had coarse dark hair that hadn't been properly combed. He was a successful playwright, his wealth made on his own, and he was Irish – not that the latter was of any consequence.

"What on earth have you two done to her?" Penelope asked.

"What do you mean?"

"She was going on about Douglas a minute ago. And she doesn't look very happy with you, either."

"Are you ready, Henry?" Billie seemed to have an extra sense, having entered the room before Henry could answer. "I'll ring you, mum, on what we spoke about. Traveling."

"Yes... yes, all right."

Billie gave her best smile and walked out of the flat so quickly Henry had to rush to catch up.

"What did you say to her, Mina?" he asked when they were finally on the street and walking in synch.

"I didn't say a word!"

For some reason, Henry could hear Billie's heel clicks over the loud bustle of the London street. "You must have hinted at something!"

"I said Douglas was irritating me – that is all."

"Oh... but you said nothing about the 'm' word?"

Billie let out a small cry and began to walk faster. Henry quickly ran after her, grabbing her by the arm.

"You have to meet Wodehouse in ten minutes," Billie said.

"You're not coming?"

Billie shook her head.

"Is it because I won't propose? That I positively hate the 'm' word? Are you throwing a tantrum because I won't propose and marry you?"

"Oh, just shut up Henry! I'll get back to the flat on my own."

"Fine!" Henry threw up his arms and walked to the edge of the sidewalk, ready to hail a cab. He turned to see if Billie had taken off but she was coming towards him. "Now you're going to follow me?"

"Henry –"

"No, no, no – go 'travel' or whatever I heard you tell her mother - it will get the bloody thought of a wedding off of your addled mind!"

"Henry!"

"I'm not going to have your father after me to add to it! He already hates me enough!"

"He's going to hate you more!"

"I'm sure he is for he always does – " He kissed her quickly. "Now – I've promised to meet Wodehouse at the club as you pointed out. I will see you back at the flat and we can argue more there." He kissed her again and put his hand back up for a cab. "I love you – I love you – adieu –"

"I'm going to have a baby!" Billie suddenly shouted.

Henry was about to get a cab. He stopped, almost as if he had frozen. He walked back to Billie, pointing at her with a pale face.

"What – what did you just say?"

"I'm pregnant," Billie whispered.

"Shh!" Henry covered her mouth with his hand. "Get in the cab – quick!"

It was the most silent cab ride either of them had ever experienced.

Billie entered the flat first – Henry followed, slamming the door after her. Pigsley came rushing from the kitchen, hearing the commotion.

"Sir?"

"Not now, Pigsley."

"Right, sir," Pigsley retreated back to the kitchen.

Billie stood watching Henry pace – pulling at his hair and muttering.

"Henry?"

Henry looked at her wildly. "Baby?" he asked.

Billie nodded.

"Whose?" he asked in all sincerity.

"Excuse me?"

Henry hurried back to her and asked again: "Whose baby are you going to have?"

"Whose do you think?" Billie snapped.

"Pigsley's?"

If Charles Potter had an opposite in the world, it was Kingston Pig – an unfortunate surname that had garnered him the pet name 'Pigsley' by his employer Henry Dermot. He was a tip-top valet upon whom Henry relied on for life in general – Billie, too, had come to love the lanky man with long fingers that laid out Henry's suit for the day only to become quite flustered when he realized she was in the room, hidden in the sheets of Henry's bed.

Oh, yes, she enjoyed sitting up and startling him routinely but she really did appreciate that he too had a hand in keeping Henry sane. And he, in his turn, enjoyed watching the pair go insane together.

"Henry!" Billie slapped Henry across the face then pulled back her hand, shocked at what she had done. "Oh... oh, God... I'm so... I'm so sorry."

Billie watched Henry's wide eyes roam the ground for a moment.

"We... we're going to have a baby?" he muttered, as if sense was slowly coming back to him.

"In several months time, yes."

"And you were going to travel? You are mad!"

"You're not angry?"

"Why would I be angry? We're having a baby – that's fantastic!" Henry picked Billie up and twirled her in a circle, kissing her repeatedly as he put her feet back to the ground.

"No... No – I mean, I hit you," said Billie, holding his face close to hers.

"Oh... I didn't quite feel it, to be honest. And I deserved it." He kissed her deeply, but broke it quickly. "But traveling, Mina? What did you mean by 'traveling'?"

"I can't go home to Pearshire!" Billie's voice was high but hushed. "Father can't know about this yet! It was a plan – mum doesn't know about this, but traveling is a good cover! Father cannot know!"

"No, that's true," he kissed her again. "But I'm not going to have our child born in bloody Timbuktu! What if you were to stay here instead? Say you're going off to China and really just stay in London?"

"For how many months? I wouldn't be able to go out, Henry! What about Bath? Or Brighton? I don't believe we know a great number of people who are permanently there! Henry, this is why I want to get married!"

"To kill your father twice over?"

"No – it would go over better with him if he knew you married me and I wouldn't have to be confined somewhere as if we were in the dark ages. Personally, I do agree with you and think the station of marriage horrid this day and age – we must think it is, we're writers – but thinking about the issue more and more I believe father would be less angry if –"

"We'll discuss this later –"

"But I'm pregnant now!"

"Bath – Bath, what were you saying about Bath?"

Billie huffed. "I'd rather be there than London is what I said!"

"That's far!"

"So is London!"

"But it's still closer!"

"I can't stay in one flat for months at a time as I've already told you – I would go mad! Anyway, what we should think about is what to do after that time as there will be a baby and they're rather hard to hide! That's why we should –"

"No – no 'm' word right now! Let's just think about this... I'll have a few months there, right? I'll... I'll get Lord Bramton to warm up to me. I'll go to Pearshire."

"That's impossible."

"No... no not if I work at it – I've never actually worked at making you father like me before – "

"Wait, wait, wait – putting everything aside for a moment – you tell me my father's creatively suffocating practically every day. How could you possibly write back in Pearshire? You're working on a new play, aren't you?"

"Yes, well... I am and he is, but I'll figure something out. The thing is, your father would probably put the baby in a sack and drown it, if I don't at least try – sorry, that was a bad image, wasn't it?"

"Just a bit. I'm not having a litter. But seriously, Henry, what about your writing? We'll have another mouth to feed. We're far from poor – I know – but to have some stability beyond inheritance, if anything should –"

"I will think of something."

"You say that, but how will I know what you're really doing when I'm off in Bath? I don't want to feel guilty –"

"Oh, I can go down to the Millfords' if I need to – I've done it before. Don't you dare, for even an instant, feel guilty –"

"The Millfords'? When have you done that?"

"Only once or twice. Sir Millford thinks it's a hoot watching me scribble away – I'm not an inconvenience. Wait a minute – you said Bath and we said London."

"Henry!"

"Right, what will it take for you to stay in London?"

"Pigsley." Billie didn't need a moment to think.

"What?"

"I want to have Pigsley with me. I can't take my own maid, as she will no doubt be gossiping with the rest of the staff at home. Give me Pigsley for the next few months and I will stay in London."

"That's cruel... that's like taking away... taking away a limb..."

"Henry, I'm having your child and you won't surrender your valet?" She played with the collar of his shirt. "So you can stop father from drowning the child?"

"I thought we agreed that was a horrible image?"

"I want Pigsley."

Henry let out a groan but couldn't refuse her – not now – she was grinning in that cheeky way and talking about the drowning of their baby in a sack. God, she was a horrible thing to be in love with sometimes. And he adored it.

"Fine... fine... Pigsley, then. But you do realize the damage you're doing – he could be vital in saving the mess that's going to happen there – and you know a complete mess is unavoidable."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll figure something out to handle father... and Dougie whenever he comes home. But I can have Pigsley then?"

Henry nodded grudgingly. "I'll say he's for protection when you're in the wilds of the Amazon."

Billie laughed and sunk deeper in his arms.

"A baby, though... that's brilliant, Mina. Spiffing."

"Spiffing?"

"Doing my best to be a little colloquial when I'm not magnificently eloquent."

Billie laughed and Pigsley slowly came back into the room.

"Ah! Pigsley!" said Henry rushing forward. "Call Wodehouse – say I've become unavailable for the day!"

"Yes, sir. And, if I may, congratulations."

Chapter Four

"You have to play it slower!" said Billie, leaning on the piano in the parlor before dinner as Henry tried his best to play the title song from Anything Goes. "Really, mother," said Billie, turning to Penelope, who was standing near by, "it's a great number."

"Agreed," Edward said, holding up his glass in a mock toast. He had arrived in London with his father only hours before but was returning home the same evening – the city had never suited him – there was something about it being too busy and a little less than romantic.

Billie began a few of the words to it once Henry had found the right pace, but she was cut off by Lord Bramton entering the room and proclaiming:

"Dermot, get away from that piano! The only person who can play right in this house is Douglas and he isn't here, is he?"

"Oh, stop it, father," said Billie. "Henry plays just fine."

"He doesn't. Come along, now – I believe dinner is ready."

The Bramtons and Henry made their way into the dining room, taking the usual seats around the table. Billie sat with Penelope on the right and Edward and Henry were on the left. When Douglas was there, Penelope would sit at the opposite head of the table for then they spread out more but since he was gone there was no need of it.

And why one person made a difference in this order, one could not really say.

It was Lord Bramton who began the conversation that evening.

"Did your mother tell you, Billie?"

"Tell me what?"

"I've invited McNaulty's son to the Hall for a bit. You remember him from some time ago? Came on his father's behalf? He's going to build a new hothouse and turn the old one into a bowling lane."

"You're joking, father."

"No. No, why would I kid?"

"A bowling lane? What for?"

"I quite like the game. Haven't you played?"

"Yes. But... it seems so unneeded."

"Nonsense," said Edward. "I think it will be fun."

"You would!" Billie snapped.

"I have to side with Mina," Henry said over the soup. "I don't really think it's needed. A little extravagant – even for you."

"And I really don't think your opinion matters – I didn't ask for it."

"Leave him alone," said Penelope. "Really, you're being a brute today, Bramton."

"Am I?"

"Yes. You are. Billie, you know he's not invited McNaulty here for just the hothouse. The man is still a bachelor and he's wealthy – do the addition and reach the equivalent."

"Father!" cried Billie, catching on. "Oh, that's quite it, I have had enough!"

"Enough?"

"Yes!" Billie quickly controlled her voice and took a breath before speaking again. "I've decided I'm going away – I'm going to travel. No, I'm not bringing Henry with me before you even ask. I'm going to go alone and you're not going to stop me."

"Really? That's very childish of you. Very rash. Lower your voice. But, while we are on this ridiculous subject, who, may I ask, is going to fund your excursion if not your father, who only wants the best for you? You've yet to even tap into your pocket money from that little story you wrote!"

"For your information, father, I've been living off of that little story I wrote for the past year – you haven't spent a pence on me and I'm glad of it! I can pay for the travel myself, thank you! And to be quite honest, I've come to believe that you think the best for me is marrying a man you alone approve of and buying my affection!"

"Of course I do! When did that become a question? And all women can be bought for some price or another."

Billie was so offended she was struck speechless for a moment.

"I will pay," Penelope, who was equally as struck, hid her eyes with her fingers. "She has as much right to travel if she wants and I'll be glad to help her as her mother."

"Oh, thank God, you said it, Penelope. I was ready for Dermot to be the gallant one."

"The traveling is news to me –"

"I'm sure it is! You probably put the idea in her mind!"

"I did not!

"You're insufferable! My daughter would be better off with McNaulty's son and you know it!"

"And do you know something? You're suffocating! Creatively suffocating! No wonder Billie hasn't written a bloody word in months! I can hardly think straight in your presence!"

"Henry!" Billie reached over and touched his arm to calm him.

"I am very sorry for that but you don't have to be here tonight, you know, Dermot – you don't live here! You are a guest!"

"My guest!" Billie interrupted, but her father ignored her and went on.

"I have enough mind to kick you out!"

"Go ahead! I welcome it to get away from you!"

"Stop it!" Billie shouted. "Just stop it!"

The room went silent as the butler entered with a silver tray. A telegram sat atop it. Lord Bramton took it, almost ripping the whole plate out of the man's hand.

"Who is it from and what does it say?" asked Penelope flatly.

"Douglas. He's sorry but he cannot make dinner tonight. He is dining with the Smiths."

Billie shook her head and as Henry reached for the wine she had yet to touch.

"Well, if he decides to ever come home to Pearshire," Bramton began as he folded the paper mindlessly, "he could say hello to Margery. According to Millford, she'll be coming to stay."

Billie coughed and whatever water she had been trying to drink now spewed out into Edward's face.

"I say! What on earth are you upset about now?" he asked as he wiped his face frantically with his napkin.

"Henry, we need to leave," said Billie, trying once again to be calm. "Henry... now!"

Penelope glanced at Henry and gave him a curt nod to take Billie away.

"More for us, then!" said Bramton, waving in his steak.

Penelope watched the two men have their plate brought in. She shook her head at her own and left the dining room as well, unable to retain her appetite.

"Billie, dear, is there something beyond a baby that you're – and I'm putting little inverted commas around this in the air, see? – forgetting to mention to me?" Henry asked as they entered the flat.

Billie said nothing. She simply went into the roll-top desk that sat near the window of their flat and, in one of the small compartments, took out a letter.

She handed it to Henry and said:

"Read it."

Henry's eyes skimmed over Douglas's writing. "No..." he muttered.

"Yes."

Henry looked up. "We've a problem."

"Yes. Quite a large one as I can't figure out any way to solve it."

"How long have you had to think? Never mind... this... this is very bad, Mina," Henry muttered falling onto the sofa. "The minute those two see each other..."

"War."

"Or sex."

"Or both."

"Nice of Douglas to tell you he's engaged through a letter – or did you know before, because I know you two keep secrets like the little devils you are."

"No. This was the first I heard about it. The letter came today. I thought Dougie was coming to dinner to tell the family so I kept quiet about it. I mean, we shouldn't be very surprised as we did meet her and her family while we were in New York last month. And he did make his intentions clear enough."

"Yes, we did and he did and we told him more than once not to propose to her. My God, Miss Daisy Smith is dumber than Eddie and I didn't think that was possible until I met her face to face. Her intelligence could not fill the small blank niche on a corner of a page of a pocket memorandum."

"Henry!"

"I'm sorry, love, but your youngest brother isn't very bright."

"Yes I know. All right – worst case scenario."

"Worst case scenario... Douglas arrives home with his lovely American fiancé to find Margery is back – and single thanks to the courts of Chancery, my dear Lady Dedlock. He marries the fiancé anyway and ends up having an affair with Margery only ruining his marriage and making his wife's father very very angry, which could result in his death."

"I almost forgot about the Duke."

The Duke was the patriarch of the Smith family. Neither Billie nor Henry had ever been fond of him – even in their limited acquaintance.

Then again, not many were in all honesty.

"Why do they call him the Duke again?"

"Because he doesn't like the last name Smith – he thinks it's too common. He's got everyone calling him the Duke instead – so much so I don't think anyone really knows his name."

"Sends chill down your spine," Henry said sarcastically, "the pretentiousness of it. Ah, yes, and – before I forget – Douglas will probably murder you before any of this happens."

"What for?"

"Not telling him about Margery sooner. He won't care if you didn't know until she got there – you're dead."

"You're probably right... best case scenario?"

"Really it's the same as the worst, isn't it? Unless he and Margery come to some sudden understanding of each other, stop falling in and out of love, and he calls everything off with a very understanding would-have-been-father-in-law."

"Unlikely."

"Improbable."

"Am I dead either way?"

"Yes, I'd think so. Are you going to send him a warning?"

"Do you think I should?"

"I don't know how you would word it in a telegram, but why not write your death warrant? You won't be in Pearshire to be executed, will you?"

Billie sat beside him on the sofa and leaned her head on his shoulder. "Pearshire is going to be a mess... well, more of one that we originally thought. Dougie has never been good with engagements. And now with Margery returning..."

"I can think of a solution."

"What?"

"Pigsley. Pigsley could easily –"

"Henry!" Billie sat up to face him. "You can't rely on Pigsley for everything. Besides, there's only so much he can do. You'll need to solve it. You're the one that is going back. You want to impress father? Keep war out of Pearshire."

"Is that a joke? Me? Figure out what to do with Margery Millford and your brother? And, at the same time, play nice with your father? Darling, I can't even get ourselves figured out!"

Billie leaned forward and kissed him. "Then I suggest you start as soon as possible."

"What? Go back with Edward tonight?"

"It's best to beat Dougie there. You can settle in and think."

"Drink."

"Think, drink – both the same, aren't they?"

Lord Bramton's face had screwed up as if he had eaten a lemon. He sat on the edge of Penelope's bed and watched her as she worked at her vanity, taking things out of her hair, off of her wrist, out of her ears.

"Well?" he finally said, though saying it was hissed is possibly more accurate.

"Well what?"

"Are you going to stop her?"

"Stop her?"

"Wilhelmina! Are you going to stop our daughter from going away? She can't go away – and you know it! She belongs back in Pearshire!"

"Bramton, she is twenty-five. She can go where she pleases and with whomever she pleases. You just can't decide whether leaving Henry Dermot behind here is a good or a bad thing."

"No, that isn't the issue."

"For the first time. What is it then? You'll miss her? You do realize she was gone for the better part of the last few months and you hardly noticed."

"Because the house was empty!"

"Need I mention what you said to her tonight?"

Bramton was silent.

"You were very hurtful. Not only to her."

"Who else?"

"I believe you said there was a price at which all women could be bought at – you forget, dear, I am also a woman."

"I did not mean you, Penelope."

"Of course you did. Don't lie – it will only make for another thing to apologize for."

"I'm sorry."

"Again, don't lie."

"Then I will apologize to Billie, if you won't have it."

"She'll be gone before you can, if she's as intent on traveling as I believe she is." Penelope decided it was best to change the subject before her own thoughts on the matter clouded the conversation about their daughter and son. "Bramton, she's not just leaving to get away from the family to write. I have a feeling her and Douglas are having a tiff and you know how awful it is when they fight. Add to it that you went and invited that McNaulty's son – we all saw through that, dear. It puts her in a very uncomfortable position beyond your antagonizing."

"No it does not! How much easier could I make it for her? All she has to do is show him some attention and then marry him – it's not asking much!"

"Bramton, she loves Henry and when you will realize that, I do not know, but at least pretend for her sake. You can't imagine how clichéd you come off to be on top of your uncontrolled comments towards the female sex."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, the father who can't stand the love of his daughter's life – really, Bramton, is Henry that bad?"

"Yes."

Penelope turned around in her chair. "You know, it may be Thursday night but that means nothing."

"Thursday night hasn't meant a God damned thing for years now and yet..." he sighed. "All right – the man isn't terrible. Douglas says his villa in Fiesole is nice."

"A villa in Italy is all you can think of? Keep going."

"No."

"Do you need help? Let's see... he's wealthy, he's driven, he has excellent connections. He's well spoken of, generally liked – "

"You don't count. You like everyone Billie likes."

"Because they are intelligent people, Bramton. You wouldn't recognize them. I believe," Penelope turned back to her mirror and watched her husband in the reflection, "you secretly like Henry."

"No!"

"Oh, yes you do. You like fighting with him at the table, don't you? You do it just to get him angry like a schoolboy wooing a little girl. If you didn't like him, you would have told Douglas to keep him away long before – Bramton, what is there truly about Henry that's not to like?"

"He sleeps in my daughter's bed."

"Does he? I thought it was the other way around?"

"Oh, shut up, woman!" cried Bramton, covering his ears. "I didn't need that."

"Well you shouldn't have said it in the first place. That's her business, not yours. Now, what conclusions have we come to? I swear it is like speaking to a child –"

"I like Henry and I must somehow apologize to my daughter."

"That was quick."

"But I can't like him."

"Because you're bent on being a –"

"No. Because there's a bit of a mix up... or... a badly concocted plot that I... oh... what are Douglas and Billie fighting about anyway? What was it?"

Penelope slowly turned round in her chair again. "You're changing the subject... what is it?" she said slowly. "You've done something. What have you done? Why must you always have done something?"

"It's just been for a little while! Since McNaulty last came to visit, you remember?"

"Yes... it was a very quick visit though. Hardly two days. What could you do in two days?"

"He met Billie."

"For about five minutes, yes."

"Well... well, she started to write him... sort of... letters... of sorts... and... love at first sight?"

"Oh my God."

Bramton began to speak hurriedly: "I got one of the maids to write it out so it was in a woman's hand – I'm sorry, Penelope! I thought Henry was a phase – I didn't know she'd still be with him –"

"For just a little while!"

"I'm sorry!"

"So... let me understand this... you've been writing back and forth to McNaulty's son... in love letters?"

Bramton only nodded.

"Whether I break into laughter or slap you is up in the air at the moment and I have a mind to do both." Penelope said this without a waver of sarcasm, laughter, or anger in her voice, it was straight and to the exact point.

Bramton seized his stomach and fell to his side, pulling his legs up to his chest and whimpering. Penelope rolled her eyes and took her comb, chucking it directly at his forehead.

"Ah!" he cried out. "Now my head hurts on top of the ulcer!"

"You had best put this right, Bramton."

"I was hoping Billie would do that as well..."

A silver hairbrush followed the comb and Penelope made good on her word – though it was Thursday and it meant nothing as many Thursdays before meant nothing.

Chapter Five

Margery Spencer had once been considered, by those who knew her, one of the most beautiful and clever women in all of London – some would go as far to say England, though their scope of the world was often hindered by alcohol. But, as is often the case when your husband commits murder and you're suspected of helping him hide his secret, your beauty diminishes at an astonishing rate.

Her pale, rather translucent skin that blushed at the mere hint of any emotion was no longer what caught people's attention. Her cool blue eyes, gentle and feathery, no longer captured anyone's gaze. And her hair – so blonde it was nearly white but for when it curled and you could just make out the gold tint – was hidden under an angled hat she had pinned on before stepping out of what was once her London home and into the waiting cab.

"At least it has stopped raining," Margery commented as the cabbie turned around to see if it really was Mrs. Harold Spencer in his car.

Olive was not listening to her mother – she was watching a photographer hurry away after snapping pictures of her and Margery as they got into the cab.

"Where's Potter?" Olive asked.

"He's gone ahead with Mrs. Graham – don't make that face, darling. He's going to help Lucy and Sarah to tend to our things so that everything is in its place when we get there."

"Why did Potter have to go? Couldn't Lucy and Sarah go on their own? Mrs. Graham didn't need him, too!"

"It's Potter's job, Olive... at least... I believe it's his job. He made no fuss of it when I asked him to do it. I'm sure if it wasn't his job he would have said something. I don't know what a valet does – really Potter is only staying with us because he feels bad for us and, being a good family friend now, wants to help."

"Potter likes me!"

"Oh, of course he does, darling. Potter adores you and we adore Potter. But he can't stay with us. I don't need a valet and neither do you."

"He can be our butler, then."

Margery smiled faintly. "It may be some time before we leave father's. There is already a butler there, I'm afraid and I'm sure Potter will find work before we find a home."

"Before you find a home. I'm going back to St. Wilma's."

Margery said nothing to this, as mothers do when they don't want to tell their child the truth, but also do not want to lie. Margery was already very good at this. She instead looked out the window, trying her best to feel some sort of relief now that they were leaving.

The Spencers took a train from London to the closest station possible to Little Pearshire. The village was so small there was no need for a train to stop there much less cabbies to take people down a single street so Sir Millford had already planned for his personal driver to pick them up at the station and take them the rest of the way to Pearshire.

"I'm glad no one took our picture when we got off the train," said Olive, sinking into the seat of her grandfather's car. She rocked her legs up and down admiring, from time to time, her shiny black buckled shoes and her white socks folded over with frills. She pulled at her cherry red coat, too, for it was new and slightly too big for her small frame.

"Olive, sit still," said Margery. "You're nearly eight-years-old."

Being almost eight-years-old bothered Margery. Her daughter was rather homely with her short dark hair that had been pinned behind her ears and just curled round her earlobes, her strangely shaped features that resembled hardly anyone in her family, and her penchant for her mouth gaping when she wasn't speaking. Margery thought by now these little things would have started to go away – but they hadn't.

Then again, Margery hardly regarded herself as a good mother – which in itself was a normal mother-thought, but she didn't know that. Her own mother had died when she was Olive's age. All she had to go off of for parenting was a pushover of a father and a strict aunt, who thought the best way to raise a child was to keep them at the furthest possible distance.

It had been Aunt Millicent who recommended St. Wilma's – or rather, she had told Margery to send her daughter there. And Margery obeyed.

Margery had little sway when it came to what her Aunt Millicent wanted – but that was another story. Now that her husband was dead, though, Margery began to wonder how much influence her aunt would have for it was always the threat of – well, Margery had her secrets as every woman does.

And Margery had a harassing aunt as every young bachelor always does. She laughed to herself at this thought as she stared out the window, unaware that Olive had returned to her fidgeting.

They were on a solitary road now, leading through land that slipped up and down, up and down, with nothing but wet greens and pale browns around them.

"Are these moors, mummy?" Olive asked.

Margery nodded. "Nothing but this for miles... miles until we arrive in Pearshire."

"What's it like?"

"What's what like?"

"Pearshire?"

Margery thought for a moment. "Well, it's very much like the little town St. Wilma's sits in – only even smaller. Your grandfather owns a very large part of the land and our good friends the Bramtons own the other part. Some of the residents pay rent to live on the land, but others live on the parts that the Bramtons and Millfords – that's my family – sold back to the government.

"There's a creek beyond the Bramton's property – their home sits on a hill – and Millford Lodge – that was my home when I was your age – sits in the shadow of it in the trees. Oaks, I believe, but you'll have to ask your grandfather that. He loves flora... he has a spectacular garden – ask him to show it to you and you'll make his day.

"There's only one main street, really, with a few shops – a grocer's, a chemist's, only what's needed to keep a village going – and there are homes on it too. The vicarage lies just at the top of this street. It's a small building – church included – but it is on this amazingly clean tract of land – oh, when I was a child the vicar use to shout at us every time we played on it. What was his name... my God, I've forgotten. The boys were always trying to play cricket there – they got into loads of trouble most of the time.

"Anyway, we'll know when were then when we can see Bramton Hall from a distance on its hill."

"Can you see it yet?" asked Olive.

Margery was sitting across from her and could see the oncoming nothingness. She shook her head. "It will be a while. An hour at least since the roads are so muddy."

"Will you tell me when you see it?"

Margery nodded, somewhat happy her daughter was speaking to her – not that she expected Olive never to speak to her, but she was beginning to feel like a mother. Or, at least, that is what she thought she was feeling – she didn't quite know what it felt like in the first place so identifying it wasn't very easy.

In any case, when Margery saw Bramton Hall on the hill, she woke Olive, who had fallen into a light sleep, and let her squeeze next to the door, her face against the glass, to see the grand building.

"It's rather flat," said Olive. "The roof is rather flat." She turned back to her mother. "Why doesn't it have gables? Don't old homes have gables?"

"Not all old homes do – where did you hear that?"

Olive shrugged her shoulders. "An older girl at St. Wilma's use to read to us at night – very grim stories sometimes and the houses were always old with large gables and peaks."

"Well, Millford Lodge has a gable or two. I believe Bramton Hall is modeled after the Parthenon in Greece."

"What's Millford Lodge modeled after?"

"I've no idea to be quite honest. It's a mix of architectural styles, really – I believe I made that up, Olive."

Olive's face soured a bit. Margery tried again to describe it.

"Medieval, perhaps? I don't quite know, as I said."

Olive was slightly frustrated by her mother's lack of knowledge regarding her own home – not that the information was relevant to life, but Olive was curious and did not like it when her curiosity was left unsatisfied.

The main road of Little Pearshire began in a nest of trees where Olive could just see a small sign with the village's name carved onto it. She would have asked her mother the age of the sign, but figured she would not know. The trees opened into what Margery had described earlier – a long stretch of shops and homes culminating in a small stone vicarage in the distance.

Olive returned to her seat and Margery took it as her turn to press her face to the window – in an adult way – and watch as the familiar scenery passed. It looked so old now – the buildings actually tired and lifeless. There was a bit of sadness in Margery for a moment.

It was a moment that ended with the car coming to a stop and the driver turning around, opening the small window between the front and the passenger seats, and saying:

"There are people playing cricket in the street, ma'am. I can't go on."

"Excuse me?"

"Cricket, ma'am, in the street."

Margery was confused but it soon hit her. "Wait here, Olive," she said as she opened the door.

Below her feet was a thick bed of mud. The main road wasn't paved. She had forgotten that fact. Groaning, Margery pushed her heels into the grime and stood, balancing herself on the doorframe as she worked through the mud.

"Cricket!" she shouted at the men before her. "In the middle of the street?"

Standing, covered in mud, two men and one adolescent were all staring wide-eyed at Margery as if she was a wraith.

"And..." Margery slowed her voice, "no one says anything?"

"Well, you know how it is, Margery," one of the men finally responded in the same crawling tone. "Reverend Waters won't let us play on his lawn."

By this time Margery had made it to the front of the car, which had come to a perfect stop just before the nearest wicket.

"Now, that's not fair," said the other, "it's his land –"

"Come off it, you idiot," groaned the first. "You just want to be on his good side for when you propose to Posey... or Phyllis... or which ever twin your after, I haven't a clue. I can't tell them apart. Anyway," he turned back to Margery, "we can't play on the Bramton estate. It's in the rules – games have to be on neutral territory."

"Oh... I forgot..." Margery muttered, doing her best to stand straight thought she was a bit wobbly.

"We did ask your sister to play. She said it was too muddy," said the second.

Olive slowly slipped out of the car. She made a disgusted face as the mud oozed around her good shoes but went on until she was at her mother's side.

"Olive, I told you to stay in the car!"

"Oh dear God!" said the first man with a laugh. "Is that your daughter?"

Margery forced a smile. "Yes. Olive – that is Mr. Henry Dermot – do not shake his hand, he's all mud!" Margery held Olive back.

"And over here is Mr. Edward Bramton."

Edward, in the light of the countryside, was perhaps twenty-three or four at most though he looked as though he could have been thirteen. He had slicked back raven hair and a hint of a mustache that looked more like a coffee or tea stain except on closer inspection. He had pulled off his jumper and sullied his once cleanly pressed shirt – hoping it would perhaps make him look a bit manlier but it did fail him indeed.

The last person Margery pointed out to her daughter was a young boy of eleven or twelve. She couldn't think of his name until Henry reminded her after a painful pause.

"He's Eddie's cousin's boy – Watherford."

He was, now thinking about it, the very miniature version of his father – a ginger with a toothpicky figure waiting to grow up. Margery had only seen pictures, but she knew whom it was he resembled. Watherford was the only one that could really look at Margery for more that two seconds now and he did – he stood watching her every move.

"Watherford?" laughed Olive.

"Olive, that's impolite!" Margery quickly scolded.

"We call him Wat," said Edward, trying to stop his own laughter. When his face was stoic again he rounded his last statement off with the fact that Wat's late mother had named him after her grandfather. Wat could do little about that – or so he had been told.

After these exchanges, the dreaded silence descended.

"You do know," Henry said scratching his ear after a second or so, which seemed more like an hour, "it's very awkward right now to say 'hello'. Not because we're covered in mud or anything but... all that's happened with your husband... you know..."

"Psychopathic killer and all," said Edward flatly.

"Yes, thank you, Eddie, for putting that so delicately," Henry murmured before returning to his own explanation. "And the fact we weren't really expecting you. Today – that is. Eddie and I just came in from London last night and well... we had heard you were coming just no one said when."

And there was where the awkwardness lay. Not in her late husband's new title as mass murderer, but really in no one knowing she was arriving that day – Margery was glad to have found it but it had brought up another issue. "Margot said nothing? My father said nothing?"

The men shook their heads.

"Maybe he wanted it to be a surprise," suggested Edward though it was a meek try.

"I'm sure he was going to tell us," said Henry – he always did try to be polite. "I don't think any of the Millford's expected them to drive right into the middle of our game of cricket."

"Well, I am here and I'll be here for sometime so if the awkwardness you're talking about could end –"

"Right, then, Margery, how shall we start over?" asked Henry hurriedly. "Make it less awkward, I mean, of course."

Margery looked between Henry and Edward for a moment and then the answer arrived. "By moving your wickets!" Margery replied swiftly, pulling up the one stuck in front of the car.

Henry grinned widely. "Ah, Margie Millford is back!"

"As much as I can be, yes. Now – will you move the other one before I have my driver role over it?"

"Wat, move the wicket," Henry said, tapping his silent boy on the shoulder.

Margery tossed the other one out of the way and took Olive's hand, pulling her back to the passenger door. "Sit on the seat," she said, "and let your legs hang out so I can take off your shoes."

Olive did as she asked and let Margery unbuckle her shoes and slip them off one at a time.

"Off to Millford Lodge then?" Henry asked. He had come round the car and was now standing near Margery as she removed her daughter's shoes. "You do know your Auntie Millicent hasn't died yet, right?"

"Yes, I was aware of the unfortunate fact. I'm surprised you're here, though, and Douglas isn't."

"Only a matter of time before you asked where he was..."

"Now that you've posed the question – "

"London. As I said, I've only just come back and he decided to stay a bit longer."

"Why?"

Olive moved further into the car as her mother spoke with Henry – the brisk air was making her feet cold.

"Who knows? I didn't ask," Henry lied. "We'd been in America for a bit – since November until last month – I had been invited to the opening of Cole's new –"

"Cole's?"

"Cole Porter."

"Really?" Margery sat where Olive had been and began to take off her own shoes after confining Olive's to a small corner of the car's floor.

"Yes. I was invited to the opening of his newest one: Anything Goes. Douglas came up sometime in February, I think..."

"But you said 'we'd' been there since November?'"

"Billie and I had been. Douglas joined us after."

"Billie? Billie Bramton?"

"The same, yes."

"You realize Lord Bramton will have your head for that. I'm surprised Douglas didn't kill you already."

"Yes, there is always something very dangerous about the only daughter and little sister, isn't there? Still – Lady Bramton likes me enough and that's really the only favor you need at Bramton Hall to be considered a somewhat permanent guest."

"I could never have pictured you with Billie."

"No. Neither could I until the two of us were so drunk one night we realized we couldn't live without each other. But that's how these things happen, I suppose. Very unromantic and not worth the time to tell. Douglas is use to it now. Lord Bramton's in denial. It's almost a perfect world."

"Almost?"

"Writer's block."

"Ah."

"Yes, both of us. I haven't a scrap of good dialogue and Billie's second novel is so far nonexistent. She's stayed in London to work on it – she's thinking of traveling a bit as well. Plus, they want to transfer one of my plays over into New York, so I've that on my mind and I don't know if I'll have it."

"Why not?"

Henry was secretly grateful the topic was a rather mundane one and had drifted away from Douglas. He had done a lot of drinking the previous night – but not so much thinking. Billie would not have been happy to know just how unprepared he was.

"Oh, it's just the bother of contracts and such. It's not really worth it at the end of the day – or at least, I haven't been convinced of it. Cole says it will be a great opportunity, I don't know. Anyway, Douglas wrote Billie last week and said he'll be coming home sometime at the end of the month. Muddy shoes taken care of?"

"It appears so."

"Right, then I'll let you on your way. Apologies for the intrusive cricket game."

Margery swung her legs into the car and Henry, being always the gentleman, shut the door for her, tapping the roof above the driver as he passed.

"Mr. Dermot," Margery explained to Olive, "is a lovely man. He writes plays that show in London."

"Are they good?"

"Oh, yes. Very."

"And he knows Cole Porter?"

"You know Cole Porter?"

Olive nodded. "The headmistress at St. Wilma's use to play a record of his when we played outside sometimes. I like his music very much."

"Well that makes two of us. Oh – look, you can see the road to Bramton Hall just there... now we're on the road to Millford Lodge."

"Who's Douglas?"

"Hm?" Margery was surprised her daughter had caught the name in passing.

"Douglas. You and Mr. Dermot mentioned him several times. And Billie. Who are they?"

"You know the man named Edward? Edward Bramton?"

Olive nodded.

"Douglas is Mr. Bramton's elder brother who was playmates with your Aunt Margot and I as children. Mr. Dermot was his schoolmate and very close friend so he would sometimes spend parts of his holidays here."

"Doesn't Mr. Dermot have a family?"

"I believe he has an elderly uncle who took care of him when he was young – somewhat wealthy but hardly a father figure. Hardly an uncle figure. His parents died a long time ago."

"Oh. That's sad." Olive folded her hands in her lap. "What about Billie?"

"Billie is Mr. Bramton's sister – she's more Edward's age than Douglas', though I can never really remember the numbers."

"Billie and Mr. Dermot aren't married are they?"

"No. And I don't think they will marry, if her father has anything to say about it." Margery knew her daughter wouldn't understand but said it anyway.

"That's very romantic."

"Excuse me?"

"That they love each other and aren't caring what's said about them."

"First off, darling, where did you hear that Mr. Dermot loves Bill-Miss Bramton?" Margery was aware she had to keep her daughter's manners intact.

"He said it."

"He did not."

"He said he couldn't live without her."

"That's not the same thing."

"Yes it is."

"Olive! Where on earth did you get these funny romantic ideas all of a sudden? You're only seven!"

"Seven-and-a-half. And I told you. An older girl would read to us at night. The stories were dark but there was always a man and a woman and they always went through some sort of trouble to be together and they always ended up together."

Margery let out a small laugh. "I believe the countryside has already addled your thoughts. Life is very unromantic – which is something Mr. Dermot did say if you had been listening. Besides you are seven-and-a-half-years-old – you shouldn't make a fuss about the problems of adults much less problems having to do with romance."

"That would make me very cliché."

"Olive, where are you getting all of this? From that older girl?"

"No. I saw 'cliché' in a book. I don't know what it means, but I think I'm it."

Olive had, in fact, diagnosed herself quite correctly – children worrying about or interfering with the romantic interludes of adults have existed long before her and would continue to exist long after her.

But, of course, actually understanding that fact was out of Olive's grasp, so she would remain cliché – whatever it meant.

"I think it's French," she said as the car rolled on.
Chapter Six

Olive stood in her muddied shoes, now buckled back on with the help of her mother, staring up at Millford Lodge before her. Margery had walked ahead a little and had not realized her daughter had stopped until she reached the stairs to the large oak doors, one of which was open, under the portico.

"Olive? Aren't you coming?"

Olive shut her gaping mouth as best she could and ran after her mother, hurrying up the stairs. They walked through the door together and into a great hall where all three stories stood exposed and the ceiling was painted so intricately that Olive could hardly tell what it was a painting of. Doors lay every which way and that – corridors jutted off in every direction. Golds and creams and reds and rich blues and deep greens overtook her senses as her mother took her hand and pulled her along through them.

"Hello?" Margery called out. "I don't know where everyone will be," she admitted. "Father is hardly formal."

"Hello!" Olive shouted.

"Olive!" scolded Margery, jerked her hand slightly.

"You did it first!"

"Margery?"

Mother and daughter turned to the wide staircase behind them and saw a woman slightly younger than Margery rushing down the steps.

"Margot!" Margery cried, running into her sister's arms.

They embraced for some time, leaving Olive standing awkwardly at a distance.

"It's truly unfair," said Margot with tears in her eyes, "that you should have to give up your home because of idle gossip! That is why I do not care for London or cities for that matter –"

"Oh, can we not speak of it? I'm here now – I don't need another person telling me today how strange it is that I'm the wife of a... you know."

"Who else told you?"

"We ran into Eddie and Henry on the way here."

"Oh, yes. Playing cricket with Wat?"

Margery laughed and nodded.

Margot then saw Olive still standing by herself so far away. She let her elder sister go and hurried to her. Olive, at first, stepped back, but Margot was quick and caught her.

"Olive! Olive, darling, how are you? You poor thing! But you're mother won't have us speak of it."

"I don't mind," said Olive bluntly. "Daddy killed some women. I know."

"They – um – they weren't very close," said Margery, thinking it was the right thing to say.

"Children shouldn't be close to their parents, it creates dependency and spreds rumours easily." It was a different voice who spoke and as the sound of it rumbled through the hall, Margery felt her skin crawl and Olive felt her Aunt grip her even tighter.

"Auntie Millicent..." said Margery sourly, turning on her heel to see her elderly aunt coming out of what looked to be the library.

Millicent Millford was a stern woman with tight hair coiled behind her head and eyes that seemed to open only in slits with black little beads behind them. She was short and plump, her arms strictly crossed and her shoes a size too small. She enjoyed the pain of those shoes and you could tell.

And she certainly relished the feelings she stirred in her nieces – though she didn't quite latch on that they were those of hate rather than fear. There was fear, of course, but Millicent was human and no human truly wants to be hated.

But that's giving the character a bit of leeway – she was in every other way, I can assure you, a ruthless old hag.

"Your father coddled both of you and look – Margot's never left and you, Margery, are back at home, aren't you?"

"Auntie Millicent," said Margot, standing with Olive in front of her for protection as one who hold an innocent in a bank heist, "Margery's been through –"

"A lot, yes, I know. Still – she has two feet and she doesn't want to stand on them apparently. You're not alone, of course. The Bramtons were raised quite the same way as the Millfords. Not one of them – the Bramtons, I mean – went away to school until the eldest went to Eton. Ridiculous the amount of attention parents give to their children these days. When I was a child, I saw my mother maybe twice a week –"

"Millicent, stop bothering the girls."

It was a welcome presence. Sir Millford was coming in from the garden with Lord Bramton, who had only just returned to Pearshire that morning at the suggestion of his wife. "Hello Margery," he added, removing his cap.

Margery grinned widely and hurried into her father's arms.

"Is Millicent being a wicked old witch, then?"

"You shouldn't make them think such things," said Millicent.

"Oh, I don't make them think anymore. They think for themselves – what were you saying about dependency before? Oh, Bramton and I heard you."

Millicent flushed.

"I think an old spinster's opinion of raising children truly is sound advice, personally. You must tell me, Millicent, one day how you raised your family," said Bramton.

"Don't be so harsh, Bramton," said Millford. "There's a child present. That's my granddaughter being held hostage by Margot. Hello, Olive."

"Hello, Grandfather."

"Olive, this is Lord Bramton."

"Hello, Olive," said Lord Bramton with a wave.

"If you're going to coo about each other for the next hour," Millicent interrupted, "I shan't witness it. I'll take myself back to the library."

They watched her stalk off back into her domain, shutting the heavy door behind her with a resounding thud.

"You were a bit harsh, too, father," said Margery.

"Was I? You develop a bit of thick skin around the old sourpuss spinster. Now, let me have a look at you... no homicidal tendencies picked up? No thirst for blood?"

"I don't believe so."

"How about the daughter? Olive – don't come too close. Do you have anything sharp on you?"

"Father!"

"I'm joking! Come to your grandfather, my little pint of vermouth, we must get to know each other better!"

Margot pushed Olive towards her grandfather.

"How are you, Lord Bramton?" Margery asked as Olive reacquainted herself with her grandfather through a coin game he had made up – a tuppance would disappear in his hand then reappear behind Olive's ear or in the pocket of her coat and so on.

"Well," Bramton answered, "and yourself?"

"As best that can be expected. The trip was long and we're both a bit tired but I am so happy to be here. How is Lady Bramton?"

"As she always is – dry as the Sahara. Still in London but I imagine when she returns she'll probably throw a dinner now that she knows you're here."

"Yes, I was rather shocked to find that no one knew Olive and I were coming today. Margot?"

"Hm?" Her sister turned from staring lividly at the locked library doors.

"Didn't you tell anyone that Olive and I were coming?"

"I... I didn't think it was necessary... they would have..."

"Millicent told her not to," said Millford, who was now bent at Olive's level having made her laugh at something. "Don't go into it now, Margot. Tell her later. I've something to show you."

"Oh, yes," said Bramton. "His newest pride and joy."

"What is it?" asked Olive.

"Come into the garden. Take my hand," Millford instructed his granddaughter.

Olive took her grandfather's hand and let him lead her out the door from where he came. Margery followed with Lord Bramton and Margot, feeling slightly more content now that she had gotten those initial 'hello's over with.

The garden was, as she had described it to Olive, one of the most spectacular ever seen. Millford had taken good care of it after his wife's death, devoting hours to it when not with his children. The more they grew, the more the garden did – quite a poetic metaphor, really, though it was hardly intentional.

"What's that?" asked Olive, pointing to a small statue hidden between a rosebush and some purple flower.

"It's a garden gnome," said Millford. "There's twelve of them total in the garden – when it gets a tad warmer you'll have to see if you can find all of them. I think I've hidden them well, but I count them every last Friday of the month before I look for weeds. The children – well, they're hardly children anymore – your mother and sister and their friends are very likely to steal them. Of course, don't let her know that I've told you this."

Olive smiled and looked back at the little man with its little red hat and lantern. She bent down to it and touched its nose with her finger before standing once again and running up behind her grandfather, who had continue to lead the group forward.

"Ah – now there it is," said Millford, clapping his hands together in the air above his head happily.

The garden parted into a grassy circle and right in the middle was a white stone pedestal. Atop the pedestal was a large marble green and yellow budgerigar.

And there's hardly another way to introduce it.

Millford walked up to it with a hint of tears in his eyes and placed a hand on its large polished head.

"What do you think?"

"It's... it's a parrot," said Margery.

"It's a budgerigar," her father corrected. "Custom made. You mother loved them. I thought I'd name it after her."

"Oh... oh, father, I don't know..."

"What? You don't think it's appropriate."

"Why not just call it 'The Budgerigar'?" suggested Margery. "I mean, I do remember mother's pet, but it was rather annoying. She even said so... I don't think she'd want a statue of it named in her honor."

"Well, what am I supposed to tell the plaque maker?"

"You're having a plaque made for it?" she exclaimed.

"It's a work of art! You don't like it?"

"No, no – on the contrary. It's... it's wonderful craftsmanship, really."

"I like it, grandfather," Olive piped in.

Margery truly wanted to slap her daughter upside the head at that moment and tell her to knock it off. Olive hardly knew the man and was sticking up for this colossal budgerigar that he wanted to name after Margery's dead mother. She then wondered if her father had lost his mind – but that was a fleeting thought for she figured he already had some time ago if he commissioned such a piece with the intention of naming it Mona.

"There, Millford. Name it for Olive, why don't you?" asked Lord Bramton.

"Oh, just as well call it Millicent! No one understands gardens here, do they? No, no, no!"

With this, Millford stormed back into the house.

"Well, you couldn't mistake the family resemblance between him and Millicent now, can you?"

"You don't really want to come between him and his garden," said Margery with a sigh. "I'll go after him. Margot, where is Olive staying?"

"We've fixed up the old nursery."

"Lovely. Will you take her?"

"Of course." Margot reached for Olive's hand and pulled the child towards the house, though Olive was still standing a bit stunned at her grandfather's outburst. In fact, she felt a little hurt he wouldn't name the budgerigar after her – even if he didn't know her all that well.

"Lord Bramton, if you'll excuse us."

"Right-o. I'll give your regards to Penelope. Expect an invitation to dine at Bramton Hall in the near future."

"Thank you, Lord Bramton. Enjoy your afternoon."

Chapter Seven

Charles Potter had been sure to send a telegram back to Scotland Yard when he arrived at Millford Lodge. The only problem he had was that he had very little money on him and could only afford to send the worlds 'have' and 'arrived' hoping they would be understood.

Millford Lodge was just as the authors he read in his office had described a manor house to be. It was large and sweeping, almost overbearing. A large fountain stood before its portico. Intricately carved stone outlined grand windows. Urns and topiaries decorated the landscape and the garden –

Oh, the garden! He had never seen one so grand before – Charles wished to have a walk through it, but other duties led him to be confined in doors sneaking peaks of it only from the window or back doorway, directing trunks and doing his best to figure out form the staff present where he should be.

After all, Charles knew nothing about being a valet when he worked for the late Mr. Spencer. Thus, he knew nothing about being a visiting valet that actually had no person to be a valet to.

When he did find a moment to slip away, he got himself good and lost in the maze of corridors that made up Millford Lodge. The cream walls and gold girandoles all looked the same the further he walked and out of every window he saw the same thing – just trees after trees – no sign of the garden (sadly) or fountain or anything to tell him which side of the house he was on.

But he did his best to look very un-lost. He had taken the book Margery had offered him (it was, in fact, a very interesting dialogue on gardens in particularly dry areas) and pretended to read as he tried to right his direction.

"Hello?"

Charles jumped at the voice and, knowing how his scream sounded, cuffed a hand over his mouth as he turned to see who was speaking to him.

A woman was standing at the other end of the hallway, looking partially confused and partially frightened.

"Sorry, did I frighten you?"

"Yes," Charles answered in a quick high-pitched voice.

"Oh. Sorry again. Who are you?"

"Potter. Charles Potter. I'm the late Mr. Spencer's valet. Am...am I out of bounds, do you know? Or rather, do you have any idea where I am at all? I've gotten myself a bit lost."

"You're above the kitchen. And I don't believe you are out of bounds, but as your employer is deceased it's a grey area. But I won't, at least, consider you out of bounds."

"Oh... oh good." Charles had no idea what that meant: 'above the kitchen.' What kitchen? Which kitchen? But he was glad for her exemplorary kindness nonetheless. "You know the difference between a small house in London and... and er... this..."

"You really are Mr. Spencer's valet?"

"I believe that's what I've said. Past tense now, of course. I came with Mrs. Spencer to see that she was settled and –"

"Oh yes! Margery did mention something about a Potter in her last letter. I believe she spoke very highly of you too – I suppose that means I should be very thankful towards you."

"I... I'm just doing what I feel is my job, ma'am."

"Margery has no idea what your job is, you know."

Charles wanted to say he didn't either.

"I'm aware, yes. But it's not a problem, ma'am. The Spencers – Mrs. Spencer and her daughter, I mean – are lovely people and I could not see them off without making sure they were comfortable as a deceased husband would have wanted his valet to do." Charles was making it up as he went along. "Well, I mean another husband besides Mr. Spencer... one who didn't go about killing and such. What I mean is, I'm their friend now... well, still paid but... I've lost my thoughts now..."

The woman giggled and moved forward.

"I'm Margot – Margery's sister."

"Ah... ah, yes," stuttered Charles as she came into a better focus.

Margot was rather unlike her sister in looks. She had a fuller figure – hardly plump, but instead well-built like a Rossetti painting. His favorite. She had more of a yellow and brown to her hair and her facial features were larger and more defined. It was the similarity to Margery in her eyes, though, that could not mistake them for anything but sisters. And he preferred her, in looks at that moment, to Margery indeed.

"My God you are beautiful," Charles muttered under a confined breath as he shook her hand.

"What?"

"I... I said 'My God you look just like you sister."

"Really? Most say we have nothing in common."

"Oh... well... well, I'm colorblind."

"Are you?"

"No." Charles, by this time, had no control over what his mouth was spewing or what his mind was thinking.

"What a funny man you are – I can see why my sister keeps you as a friend. Even if she pays you."

"Yes. She pays me very well."

Margot grinned and shook her head. "I assume you can find your way back now that you know where you are?"

Charles nodded dumbly and Margot left him, walking down the opposite corridor and disappearing.

Charles was now very in love, for he was the sort to fall in love quickly. He was not sentimental like Edward Bramton, but clumsy with his feelings – but the clumsiness had never failed him before. The feelings never had much exercise to be clumsy anyhow. When he had a feeling, he set upon it. That was that and he let his emotions just trip along the way set.

Oh, and Charles was still very lost, for he still didn't know where the kitchen really was.

"Father?"

Margery knocked on the door of Millford's study as she opened it, stepping in to see the old man sitting at his desk with his arms crossed.

"Come in," he muttered, though she was already 'in', "come in."

"You gave Olive a bit of a scare."

"Did I?"

"Yes. I think she'll recover though. Do watch your temper around her."

"I will do my best. For you. And for her. Is the budgerigar really that atrocious?"

"No. Of course not. It's a lovely statue."

Millford sipped his glass of Port. "I didn't mean to get angry."

"I know. You have your moments." Margery took a seat in a chair across from her father and sat back comfortably. "It is nice to be home though – your tantrums and all."

Outside the office, Charles was still very lost in the corridors – for that man, it was quite possible, you must believe. Charles was a simple sort – a lovable sort – and, as I said, a clumsily lucky sort. When he heard voices, he rushed to the doorway and froze when he heard Margery's. Scrambling in search of his notepad or at least a scrap paper to write on the back of his book, he began to listen in – detective work at last, he thought.

"London was really that horrible, then?"

"Oh yes. More so than you could imagine. Everyone thought I had something to do with it – even my good friends. It doesn't make sense. Why would I?"

"I have no faith – not even a whit – in humanity, Margery. It's not surprising even if it makes no sense. Humans are horrible creatures by nature – more concerned with protecting their assets than one another. You were a danger to their property – guilty or not."

"Hobbes?"

"Not exactly but close. I don't try to quote masters. I usually get them jumbled."

Margery's lips spread into a small smile. "You do, yes."

"Is the budgerigar really that offensive? You would tell me the truth, wouldn't you?"

"Oh let's no talk about that thing right now. We've already spoken about it enough for one day."

"Yes... yes... what if we talked about Douglas?"

"Douglas? Well, Douglas is apparently still in London according to Henry. I wasn't told when he'd be returning. Or I was and it wasn't soon so I thought nothing of it."

"Really? I wonder what Lord Bramton thinks of that."

"Who can say? Lord Bramton is very one-dimensional but you can never figure out which one he is."

"True. I suppose you'll want to see him, though?"

"Lord Bramton?"

"Douglas."

"Oh... oh, I suppose. But Olive and I may be gone by the summer, if that is when he arrives."

"Where to? You and your Olive, I mean."

"I don't know yet. But we can't live here forever. I don't want to be a bother."

"Margie, you're hardly a bother. You're to stay here as long as you wish – until you're old and grey and Olive is as well if that makes you comfortable. Or is it that you want to leave before Douglas arrives?"

"No, not at all."

"You know, Margie," he paused a moment. "A man's got a right to know when he has a child out there."

"Father... not this again..."

"I'm only saying: don't you think it is about time you told him Olive is his? Soon Millicent will be using that to sway your parenting – rather than the threat of telling Harold Spencer about his bastard."

"You knew about that?"

"No. I merely figured it out through reason. It was either her or Harry telling you to send off that precious girl to school when she should've been near her parents. Well... then again maybe in hindsight it was best she was out of the house – but still, you wouldn't have come up with that on your own. I know my daughter and it was not my daughter who decided that."

"I couldn't have done anything and you couldn't have done anything, either."

"No, I understand."

"But even if I tell Douglas, Aunt Millicent be threatening to tell Lord Bramton next just for a little bit of power."

"Why not just go open with it completely? You've nothing to lose, child. Your husband's been hanged for murder. You've had to flee to the country. What's a bastard child going to do? It may actually help rather than harm. Nothing can be worse than a murderous husband. A liason would make you seem far more intelligent than they're giving you credit for in London."

Margery laughed a bit but shook her head. "No. No, I want to enjoy my time here without having controversy stirred up and eventually exploding. Trust me, it's very unneeded, father."

"Well, enjoy yourself as much as you can with Millicent around."

"Father, you shouldn't be as horrible as you are to her. She may deserve it but... that's the whole fighting fire with fire thing: you're just making it worse."

"Oh, she is a toad no matter what and you know it – even when she's not blackmailing you."

By now, outside the door, Charles had stopped taking notes and was staring at the wall across from him. He had the most priceless shocked face that it cannot be merely described with words.

'Jaw-dropped' hardly comes close.
Chapter Eight

"Already? Margery Millford is there already?"

Henry sat on the floor beside his bed in his room at Bramton Hall, the phone and receiver in his hands. "You would be amazed at the absolute calm I was able to keep when she rolled up into our cricket game. I was like an actor in my own badly written play."

He heard Billie rifling through something other the other end.

"What are you doing?" Henry asked.

"Looking for the telegram mum sent this morning – father's back, isn't he?"

"Yes. I would've liked a bit of warning about that."

"He and mum apparently had a tiff. She's coming back... here it is... ah, yes. She's coming back tomorrow. She says so in her message. But – Henry – how did Margery seem?"

"In good spirits granting the situation."

"Did she ask about Douglas?"

"Merely where he was. Have you heard from him?"

"No. I left a message for him asking why he didn't show up for dinner last night – what was so important at the Smiths' that he –"

"You said nothing about Margery?"

"I got to thinking about it and perhaps we'd be safer not telling him. Yet, I mean."

"So let her roll into one of his cricket games?"

"Preferably not." Billie sat down at Henry's desk to catch her breath. "But not telling him draws less attention to the fact we're worried. If he knows that we're antsy about what could happen, that just may make the situation worse. If we treat him as though we think he wouldn't react, perhaps he won't."

"Mina dear, he will."

"Let us just see how it plays out. Besides – we don't know – oh, hold on a mo', Pigsley's brought in another bloody telegram." Billie motioned for Pigsley to open it then hand it to her.

"From your mother?"

There was a pause on the other end. "No," said Billie, her voice befuddled. "From Dougie... why didn't he just call? It..."

The phone went silent.

"Mina? Mina – are you –"

"Douglas is heading to Pearshire!"

"What?"

"He's leaving tomorrow morning! Christ!" Henry could tell she was thinking now – quickly, too, for he could almost hear the hum of her brain. And Billie was, indeed, up from the chair and pacing "All right, Henry dear, we must play the subject down unless he brings it up. We'll switch plans if we need to."

"Switch plans? There's more than one?"

"For Margery and Douglas? Yes! Always!"

Henry rolled his eyes. It wasn't worth fighting – he'd just follow what Billie said anyway. "You do understand, dearest, that most of these lovely little plans of yours – whatever they are – rely mostly on the hope that Douglas will act as an adult. Past and recent history says that is an impossibility."

"What's best to do in a hopeless situation beyond hope?"

"Hope away. But, beyond Margery, what am I to say to Douglas? About you, that is."

"I don't know. I believe you could tell him the truth – that I'm in London with an intention to travel, but may secretly stay put. The 'secretly' will make it sound more believable and he won't suspect much so make sure you use it or he will be suspicious."

"I'm assuming – knowing how you two communicate – that Douglas does know you're pregnant, right?"

"What?"

"Douglas – he knows..." Henry let her complete the thought.

"No. Why?"

"Oh dear..."

"I hardly think –"

"Oh yes..."

"No, Dougie wouldn't – "

"To a pulp."

"Then best do it sooner than later so your face his healed up by the time you come for a visit. I'm thinking sometime next month. Or perhaps just don't tell him and hope he doesn't ask more questions."

"That gives me a lot of comfort. You know he'll be suspicious no matter what. Hopefully my eyes won't be too black and swollen so I can, at least, see you. Even if you are a sight for sore eyes."

Billie finally sat down again and said, "That was a very poorly done pun, Henry."

Olive thought the room was far too big. The ceiling was too high. The walls too long. The windows easy to fall out of if standing where the draft could reach you. Clutching her the ends of her coat, she leaned closer to see out but jumped back when the floor creaked outside her opened door.

"Potter!" she cried happily. "Potter, I haven't seen you all day! Where have you been?" Olive ran out of her room and hung around Charles' neck.

He wasn't about to admit he had been lost in the house for most of the time. Or that she was actually a bastard child, but luckily not really the daughter of a ruthless killer – being a bastard had its perks in her case.

"Seeing that you and your mother's things were in place, little miss. That's where I was. Where have you been?"

"Mummy showed me the house this afternoon. Auntie Millicent won't let anyone in the library when she's there so that's the only room I haven't seen. She's a real witch, you know."

"I've yet to meet her."

"You don't want to," Olive whispered. "She's very mean to everyone – I feel very bad for my Aunt Margot who has to live here all the time."

"I did meet your Aunt Margot – she's very nice lady."

"Oh she is. But I heard mummy say one time to daddy that she was so desperate for a husband she would jump at any man who said 'hello' to her."

"What? Oh – dear, you shouldn't say that."

"Why not?"

"It's... it's not very nice."

"Will you not read me a bedtime story, then? Or have I been too horrible? I didn't mean to be!"

"What? No –"

"Mummy's already gone to bed – oh, please, Potter! Please! I won't say another terrible word."

Charles thought he really shouldn't as he was being watched by more than just the staff from the home in London, but he gave in anyway and allowed Olive to pick the story she wanted to hear.

She was asleep by the middle of the third page.

"You read to her?"

Charles turned around as he was closing the book and saw Margot standing in the doorway.

"I... I, yes... sometimes Margery was very busy with... well, you know... and no one else would. Mrs. Graham would go home for the day – well, I suppose she could do it now that she's come along... I don't know where she is though and you sister is already gone to bed according to little Miss Spencer, miss. Sorry if it's impertinent or anything... like... that..."

"I think it's sweet."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Jump at me!" Charles suddenly blurted out, remembering what Olive had said about her aunt.

"What?"

"Er – hello!"

"Hello?"

"I'm sorry... I'm very tired from today. Mind's a bit loose, if you know what I mean, miss."

"Oh... oh, yes. I – um – I saw you had a book on gardening earlier. Not in the hall – I spotted you sitting for a moment near the kitchen, I believe. Earlier this evening. I was taking a shortcut. Have you had a chance to see the garden here on the grounds? Father is meticulous about it."

"I haven't beyond a glance unfortunately," he could see she looked disappointed, "I've heard wonderful things, Miss. Truly wonderful."

"It isn't an exaggeration. You should take a moment to see it. I'm sure you have some time to yourself without having a man to be a valet to now."

"True, yes, miss."

There was an awkward pause between them. Margot waited for him to say more but Charles merely tapped the edges of Olive's book and sighed.

"If you'll erm..." Charles set down the book and awkwardly moved around Margot to leave the room. "Goodnight, Miss."

"Goodnight," she replied.

Chapter Nine

"She is charming," said Margot the next morning as she and Margery walked together in the garden watching Olive play skittles with Charles. "And you've got a good friend in that Potter fellow."

"Yes, it is a shame he'll have to go."

"Has he started looking for a position?"

"I don't believe so. Though, he did say he would when we settled he would so I should think soon."

"Olive's little heart will break, won't it?"

"Yes... yes, it probably will. There is, of course, Wat up at Bramton Hall. He could make for a good friend."

"And Wat is an intelligent boy. He likes to come and look at the garden after he's gone to the cemetery."

"The cemetery?"

"Yes. He takes wax paper and coal with him and makes rubbings of some of the old gravestone markers. I don't know what's so entertaining about it, but he must have a massive collection by now. For the most part, though – given his circumstances – Wat seems sane enough and unaffected. Much like your Olive. He apparently doesn't ask about his father much. Or his mother. I mean, he has a lovely story, but... what I mean is he seems like a normal child given the circumstances as I said. Speaking of children and fathers and such –"

"Oh, don't, Margot. Father's already been at me about Douglas."

"Don't you think it's time? I mean, it's been almost eight years and he hasn't known he's had a child all that time!"

"What's another eight then? He faired well so far, why ruin his day?"

"A child shouldn't ruin anyone's day. Besides – wouldn't it be a comfort to people to know Olive really isn't the daughter of a mass killer?"

"If that becomes a problem then yes – yes, I will make her true father known, but, for the present, Mrs. Graham does not mind one bit teaching her lessons – that's the only one who seems to matter."

"So you aren't sending her back to school?"

"I haven't decided. She loves St. Wilma's, but I don't think I could bear to part with her."

"You've been able to bear it for several years now."

"I hadn't a choice in that."

"What do you mean?"

Margery went on to tell Margot about their aunt's blackmailing and the future of said blackmailing. The conversation included many gasps and spats of horror and curses from Margot but she was able to hold her composure when Olive ran up to them announcing she had won the game of skittles.

"Wonderful," said Margot, tapping the child's head a bit to hard.

Olive rubbed it with a confused face as Margery covered it up with an uneasy laugh.

"Mummy?"

"Yes, dear?"

"I want to go for a walk. I want to see Lord Bramton's house."

"We're not invited."

"Oh, go on Margery," said Margot. "Go... spend time with your daughter," she began to well up with tears.

"Aunt Margot? Are you all right?" Olive asked.

"Yes, darling, yes I'm fine..." Margot hugged her sister tight. "Oh... spend all the time you have with her!" she then ran inside shrieking something to the effect of 'witch,' but the exact word cannot be stated as fact.

"Is Aunt Margot really okay, mummy?"

Margot had always been the emotional one – it was believed she held the feeling for the entire family. Thus, a scrapped knee for Sir Millford and a twisted ankle for Margery had always gotten Margot's tears more than anyone else, including the owner of the unfortunate incident.

Though, it would be disrespectful to compare Margot to Edward Bramton. Margot knew when to be emotional. Edward was one to become emotional over anything.

But as our story continues, Charles, who had been gathering up the skittles game, saw all of this unfold and first looked from Margery and Olive then back to Margot. He decided he should follow her for what it was worth. She seemed to be greatly upset and it would be against his conscious not to offer her at least a handkerchief.

"Miss... Miss –"

"Margot," sobbed Margot, believing he had forgotten her name. She wiped her eyes and looked at Charles who stood a little dumbstruck several feet away with her with a pin in his hand. "Where are the rest?"

"What?"

"You've only one pin."

"Oh... oh, yes. Don't want to over-exert myself in the morning. Pin by pin."

Margot pretended to understand then burst into sobs again. "Oh, Potter, is isn't fair!"

"What – what isn't fair?"

"How Auntie Millicent treats my sister – how she treats all of us because she's alone in the world. I use to pity her – I did, but now... now... oh!"

Charles took out his handkerchief and handed it to Margot. She thanked him between her tears and pressed the white linen to her eyes.

Perhaps it was an animal instinct left over from evolution but a second later, Margot could hear her aunt coming. She knew the footsteps too well to be mistaken.

She wanted to make her angry.

She wanted to make her furious.

The old bat deserved it.

"Margot Millford!" cried Millicent when she rounded the corner and to find Margot passionately kissing Charles, pulling his arms around her waist.

Millicent began to bat Charles away from her niece, pulling Margot by the arm away from him and back out into the garden where she continued to beat her with the back of her hand.

With all good intentions, of course. Margot had no bruising the next day as she used to as a child.

Charles stood where Margot had left him – his body frozen in time.

And what was best, she still had his handkerchief!

He didn't know why that made him as happy as it did.

He was also rather horrified at Millicent's reaction as it was.

Meanwhile, sometime after Penelope Bramton had herself arrived home early that morning, Angus McNaulty, who was shouting orders at his valet to walk faster through the people, was arriving at the train station to pick up his ride Pearshire. He was a handsome man with light ginger hair and steely blue eyes. He commanded a presence with his voice – even in a whisper. And not many could do that – though his whisper hardly constituted as one. Though his height could have, indeed, compensated had his voice not been so strong.

"There should be good hunting here," he said to himself. "Good hunting. Move, please!"

Moments after McNaulty stepped foot on the platform, a much smaller younger foot graced with along with wide lifeless eyes and chiseled brown hair – a perfected image that seemed as though it could be drawn for a soap advertisement.

And it cooed.

"Look at this! Little Pearshire!"

She was American.

"Not quite," came a voice from inside the box. "We've still got a drive ahead of us."

The girl sighed and stepped out of the way of her sister, who was now leaving the box as well. She was much older than the soap girl, though she was about her height and her proportion as well. Her looks were less glamorous – more conservative and perhaps a bit too much so. She also seemed to like looking down her nose.

"I hate trains," she said – she was British, unlike her sister.

"You don't hate trains, Henrietta," came a booming voice from a large, rotund man who followed her out of the box. He was wearing a monocle that fell out of the small flaps of fat that held it to his eye. Removing his hat for a moment, he ran a hand through thinning black hair. "You hate traveling," said the Duke.

"I hate traveling and I hate trains, father. That's two things not one. You can travel without getting on a train –"

"Oh, really, Henrietta!" said her younger sister – well, half-sister. They shared a father and that was about it. Henrietta would never call someone named Daisy her full sister. There were other reasons, obviously, as well, but 'Daisy' topped the list.

"Where's the car?" Henrietta asked, looking back to the box.

Getting out now was a dapper looking fellow who had spoken before. He had dark hair hidden under a hat that shaded his eyes, though he still squinted a bit in the sun. His face was handsome though his smile was the best part – a strange kindness came from it, it was almost comforting in its friendliness. And his voice was not at all bad to listen to either.

"Douglas, where is the car?" Henrietta asked again.

"Oh, I'm sure it's just beyond the station. This way... this way..."

Douglas led his party through the crowd and made it to the station's entrance just as McNaulty was driven off towards Pearshire – not that Douglas would have recognized him, but their paths so closely crossing at the station would have been too odd for such a story, I believe.

"The car's there," said Douglas, pointing to one of two sleek black cars waiting outside the stations. "Well... it's one of them..." He hurried ahead and knocked on the window of the first. "Bramton, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"I wonder who's in the other," Douglas muttered, waving the three over to him. "Ah, well. Someone must have a guest."

Olive hadn't realized that Bramton Hall was located on such a steep hill. Out of breath she stopped to lean on a tree, but Margery seemed to be fairing far better. She had climbed the hill so often it was a stroll rather than a hike.

"Too tired to go on?" she asked Olive.

"No... no... you can just see the house almost."

Olive ran tiredly past her mother and further up the hill. Margery followed, not caring much how close they were until she heard the sounds of a car.

"Olive?" she called out. "Olive, come here."

"Mummy! I can see the front!"

Margery went to where Olive stood. They could clearly see the front of Bramton Hall from a distance – it's large columns and winding staircases to the main door. A car had just pulled up and a man – McNaulty, as we know him – got out.

"Who's that?" asked Olive in a whisper.

"I... I don't know," said Margery.

They watched the man boss about his valet until two footmen came to help. The man soon disappeared into the house and the car from the front of the drive. Before long, another car arrived.

"Are they having guests?"

"I don't think so," said Margery. "What I mean is, if they were I'm sure your grandfather would have said something this morning... he always knows..."

"Really, this is ridiculous," said Margery with a slightly laugh.

The laugh, though, was cut off rather harshly, by the man who stepped out of the car.

"Mummy? Mummy, who's that?"

Margery didn't answer her daughter. She watched the man help a young woman then another out of the car – ushering them towards the door and turning back only to make sure a large man that came from the car was following as well.

"Mummy, who are they?"

"I don't know," said Margery, faltering a bit.

"Not one?"

Margery stepped forward and was almost felt ready to shout, but then she saw the young woman with soap advertisement like features embrace Douglas at the top of the stairs with a schoolgirl kiss.

"Mummy?"

"That's Douglas Bramton," Margery said with a smile.

It was one of those smiles someone did when they had a very bad thought about another person that made them so happy they seemed outwardly happy when really they were furious – if that makes sense.

"Which one?"

Margery's eyes turned to slits like those of her Auntie Millicent. "The bastard," she said calmly.

Olive could see something was a bit odd with her mother. She opened her mouth once to ask if something was wrong but instead found herself a better question that avoided the subject of 'emotion.' "Does... does that mean the fat man?"

Margery and her daughter were not the only ones witnessing this parade of posh automobiles – from a hideaway, or a window rather, Wat stood peeking out through a heavy tapestry curtain in his great-uncle's study watching the three cars relieve their passengers.

He knew he shouldn't have been in the room – Lord Bramton would have a fit as he always did when he found the boy hiding in his study – but Wat was bored and it was beginning to look like rain again. It was a justified reason to be snooping.

An ear twitched – Wat's ear.

He could hear someone – or someones plural – coming. Scrambling quickly into an empty cupboard under a bookshelf, he pulled his knees to his chest to fit in and left the door open just a crack to see who was entering.

If it was just a maid, he could leave without a big to do – maybe just a swat on the backside or tugged ear.

But no luck. It was his great-uncle followed by his eldest great-cousin – that is, Lord Bramton and Douglas.

"Good of you to tell us there were two women in your party," said Lord Bramton, walking around his desk and letting his body fall into the leather chair. "You've got your mother in a right fit – she thought it would be a few of your fellows from London. Though, I suppose I could thank you – the nasty looks are off me for more than ten minutes."

"I thought Billie would have said something."

"What do you mean?"

"I did write to her – did she say anything? And by the bye – speaking of my dear sissy – where on earth is she? Henry's sitting in the parlor with mother reading the paper and smoking a pipe and he mentioned something about her traveling?"

"Yes. She isn't very happy with me currently."

"Not unlike mother."

"The parallels are frightening, yes. She left because I'm insufferable. Well – for the most part that's why she's left."

"To travel?"

"Yes. She's kept herself in London – where she goes after I haven't a clue. She talks of writer's block... but... well, what are you going to do?"

This hardly added correctly in Douglas' mind – Billie had never mentioned these plans to him but, rather than alerting his father to the obvious lie he had been led into and before he would have a word with Henry about his sister's true whereabouts, he had to finish his conversation.

As a repeated note – yes, the Bramton siblings excluding the youngest, were exceedingly close, which made lying a hard task to accomplish even at distances. A shaky story was a shaky story and someone would have explaining to do very soon. Douglas assumed that would be Henry.

"But as I said, the house was uneasy before you came and made more so by your presence," said Lord Bramton.

"Thank you, father."

Douglas sat in a seat close to where Wat was hidden. Had Douglas had less on his mind that moment, he would have noticed Wat hiding, but, as luck would have it for the young boy, his old cousin wasn't the wiser to his whereabouts.

"Who are these people again? I wasn't quite paying attention."

"Henrietta and Daisy Smith along with their father the Duke."

"The Duke?"

"It's not a real title. Smith, he claims, is too common for him so he has everyone about calling him the Duke."

"That's rather pretentious. And why did you bring him and his less than lovely daughters?"

Douglas was quiet.

"I don't like that silence – no – there is something. It's the silence of a secret."

"Very poetic, father –"

"Don't fool around – get to the point."

"Daisy." Douglas stood and began to rub his hands together able to focus on only them for his eyes had trouble at even a glance towards his father. "I'm engaged – I mean, we're engaged."

"What? Wait – which one is Daisy?"

"The – er – younger one... looks a bit like a soap... ad..."

Bramton had to think back and remember her face before speaking more. "Engaged?"

"Billie didn't tell you? Ah... I suppose she hasn't judging by your look of... shock? I can't think of a better word."

There was a brief second were Bramton understood what Penelope had meant by Billie's place not being guardian of her brother's business. But this slipped away quickly when Daisy's comment about the tea she was given in the drawing room being 'very British' glided into his head.

"Engaged to that... that..."

"That what?"

Bramton shrugged his shoulders. "She doesn't fit you very well. A little on the dimwitted side."

"You should talk. And, of course, you and mother are like adjoining puzzle pieces. Father, you met her for five minutes, you do realize."

"And I've made my opinion. You know how adept at opinion-making I am."

"Oh I had almost forgotten," Douglas said sarcastically as he sat back down. "I take it you disapprove?"

"No, of course not. She's young. She's pretty. Be my guest and marry her. I want grandchildren. But I don't have to like her."

"But you gave your opinion anyway which leads me to believe you disapprove and aren't – wait, you're not that clever. Never mind."

"Precisely and I'll forgive you for saying that. Now – I suppose it will be she who does all of the nonsense planning."

"Yes. She'd like to have the wedding here."

"Of course she would. And when?"

"Winter."

Bramton was startled. "Winter? And you brought her here now! Boy, it's hardly summer! You mean I have to spend, at the very least, two more seasons with her before you whisk that tart off to your London abode?"

"She... she wanted to get to know our family... that is... I wanted her to get to know the family and she agreed rather readily."

"I'm sure she did. I hope she enjoys Edward because that is the most she will see of the Bramtons. Billie's off in God-knows-where and I fear your mother will decide to go to her sister's for the summer as she's made a habit of it the past few years."

"I'll ask her to stay."

"Good luck with that. If I dislike this girl, she's predetermined to loathe her. If anything, she'll stay to talk you out of it."

With that, Bramton stood and left the room, clapping a hand on his son's shoulder rather hard.

It wasn't an unexpected reaction, Douglas had to admit. What was left now for him to decide was who to speak to first – his mother or Henry.

"I think she's pretty."

Douglas looked to his right and saw Wat sticking his head out of the cupboard.

"At least, from what I could tell up here."

"Do you really?" asked Douglas. "I suppose she has a certain charm but... ah, does it really matter? The engagement's made. I don't need to talk about her beauty anymore."

"Do you think Aunt Penelope will stay?"

"Hm?" Douglas had been lost a moment. "Oh, yes, of course she will. There isn't a question about that. Your great-uncle has never understood his wife. I say, though, Wat, what of Billie running off? That isn't her."

"She didn't really run off," said Wat, though he didn't mean to.

Chapter Ten

What had come to pass that day was this: Wat, being forced as usual to eat alone in the nursery by Bramton's idiotic standards, had left his room when his tutor fell asleep over brandy. Wat went for a smoke outside.

He often stole cigarettes from the various men in the house – none seemed the wiser to it, though he had a feeling Pigsley had caught on, as Henry's were never left out in the open as they had been.

Unable to light the one he had, he threw it in a bush and lay down in the grass near an open window – a window that happened to be in Henry's room.

As a result, Wat heard every word Henry had said on the phone to Billie the previous day. It hadn't come back to his mind until that moment – it being rather unimportant to his life until this moment.

"What do you mean?" asked Douglas.

"Nothing!" Wat rant to leave the room but Douglas caught him by the collar.

With his free hand, Douglas took out his cigarette case and waved it before the boy. "All of them and the case if you tell me what you meant. What did you hear?"

"Mummy! Why are we running!" cried Olive as she followed her mother back to Millford Lodge. "Mummy, I can't keep up!"

Margery was hardly running in her mind – no, she was angrily walking which may have given the appearance of running but actually wasn't. It was just a concentrated step.

A concentrated step that left her daughter behind and soon enough left her daughter lost.

"Margot!" Margery called out as she hurried into Millford Lodge. "Margot!"

Millicent came bounding from the library. "What is this shouting? Does one really need to shout in their own home?"

"Margie? What is it?" Margot asked, appearing from the parlor.

"I need to speak with you – now!"

"Yes... yes, of course."

Margery rushed to her sister and looped her arm around her waist, blatantly pushing her towards the stairs. As they were hurriedly ascending, a pinched sort of woman with spectacles and hollow cheeks appeared before them.

"Mrs. Spencer, I am glad I found you."

"Olive is right behind me, Mrs. Graham."

"Is she?"

Margery turned around and saw that her daughter was not exactly where she thought she was. Millicent let out a very I-told-you-so sigh and crossed her arms.

"I was going to ask the same question but you beat me too it, Mrs. Graham. Well, I suppose I will alert your father as to the child's absence seeing as you must have something of great interest to speak of, if you forgot your own child on a walk."

"I didn't – I didn't purposefully forget her, if that's what you're suggesting!"

"Of course not, dear. I'm merely suggesting that you are a horrible mother who forgot her daughter because of forgetfulness – just not in so many words."

Margery suddenly broke out into sobs so strong she had to sit on the stairs to calm herself.

"Oh! No, I'll go!" said Margot. "Up you get, Margery! We'll find her – don't worry!"

It should not be a surprise that losing her mother hardly bothered Olive. She was more worried about being lost without a proper lunch than her mother forgetting her. She figured it was the normal habit of grownups – when they were angry they just left company.

Olive was company and thus Margery just left.

It did take Olive a while to think that one up, but nonetheless it came to her.

She decided, after standing in the same place for several minutes, that walking back from where she came was better than guessing on how to get back. She could remember the path there as it was uphill and uphill could lead only to one place. If one went downhill, it wasn't decided where you would end up if you didn't know which angle you should be charging at.

By this time, Douglas had decided that it would be his mother he would speak to first. Douglas had determined that she was the lesser of two evils and thus, the quickest to dispose of. He found Penelope alone in her private parlor, rewriting the menu for the week as staff unpacked her luggage from London.

"I see you in the doorway. Come in, darling."

Douglas stepped into the bathy pink room and let his mother finish her writing. He did see, though, an invitation sitting at the edge of her table with the scribbled letter spelling 'Millford Lodge' upon it.

"Yes, Dougie, what do you need?" she finally asked, setting down her pen and looking up at her son.

"To – er – speak with you."

"That sounds terribly formal what's wrong? Did you and Bramton get into a fight? Are you angry Billie's away?"

"No... no – mother, I didn't inconvenience you by bringing the Misses Smiths and their father here, did I?"

"Technically speaking, I suppose not as you did say you were bringing three guests. But technically speaking, once more, I suppose that you did as you told me only the day before. I believe you have entered a grey area concerning their inconvenience status."

"They... they are here for quite an important reason."

"Yes, I gathered that as they are mostly women and you do bring back mostly men to drink and smoke. I'm not as dull as your father – sit down and tell me which of them you've gotten yourself engaged to."

"You know?"

"Well, I know it is one of them. Is it the elder?"

Douglas shook his head.

"The younger?"

"Father said you'd look that way – I can sense the loathing –"

"No – no, I mean... Dougie, I may have only met her for a few minutes before she left to unpack but... but, Dougie, she is as witless as your brother Edward."

"I realize that."

"But you love her?"

"I proposed, yes."

"Two entirely different questions. See now, I do miss your sister terribly at these moments for she would be able to tell me what your mind's up to better than I can tell myself."

"On that topic, mother, I..." Douglas' voice slowly trailed.

"Yes? What?"

"Billie... she..."

"What?"

Somewhat like his sister – saying the truth was not easy, no matter how long you held it in your head. Douglas could not say it – though in his defense, he hadn't been holding the truth for very long. Ten minutes, tops.

"Nothing. I miss her. And that's why I'm asking you to stay for the summer."

"Who told you I was leaving?"

"Father assumed."

"And where would I go?"

"Aunt Petunia's of course."

"Oh, that was hardly settled."

"Father says you've been making a habit of it."

"Yes, well... you may be an adult, Dougie, but don't concern yourself with the lives of your parents unless we are dead and there are debts. Now – you said you proposed but you did not say that you were in love."

"I'm... I'm..." Now as hard as the truth was for Douglas, he found lying to be far more easier and said, with a grin, "Yes. I love her."

"Then that's all I need to hear." Penelope wasn't entirely convinced – in all honesty, she didn't believe her son at all, but figured, in her mind, what he really felt would come to light at some point. Things like that always happened. Or, at least, she hoped they did. Bramton men were stubborn. But she was getting away from herself and Douglas. "When were you planning to marry?"

"The winter. Hopefully on the grounds."

"The winter? Why did you bring them here now? Are they leaving soon then returning?"

"No. I told father that I brought them to... to let them get to know the family... know Pearshire and so much as... as this house will be mine at some point –"

"You sound like your father."

Douglas wanted to say that is where he had gotten the idea but instead countered with: "No I don't!"

"Mm, you and Billie hate it when people tell you that. Well – you can't help who your father is as much as tree can't help being useful in fifty or more ways. You really do love this girl?"

"Billie would tell you so, if she were here – I told her to keep it a secret – my feelings – and that I would tell you all myself." Douglas quite enjoyed lying now – the conversation went far more quickly.

"Men are so odd..."

"What do you mean?"

"When you said you loved Margery Millford you looked quite different... older, perhaps, I do not know. When you say you love Daisy you look... younger. I'm diagnosing this wrong, maybe, but I don't quite know which one to take more seriously."

"Margery Millford? That's... that's an odd name to bring up in conversation randomly."

"Hardly. She's the only girl you ever said you loved before this Miss Smith came along – I'd hardly call that random. Besides, she's come home to Millford Lodge for some time so she's fresh on the mind."

"What? Margery... Margery's in Pearshire?"

"Didn't you know? My God, why doesn't anyone tell anyone anything around here? Is everything a great big secret? She didn't tell you?"

"No – why would she?"

"Beyond the fact she is raising your child, I don't quite know." Penelope said sideways, pushing the menu aside and clearing off her writing desk. "I suppose Daisy doesn't know about little Olive?"

"Of course not. The only people who know about Olive are myself, you, Margery, and the Millfords. But then, the Millfords don't quite know that we know so I doubt they are any sort of threat."

"To what?"

"Daisy can't handle a child – much less a seven-and-a-half bastard one. I'll tell her when the time comes."

Yes, Douglas liked lying very much.

It was oh so very convenient.

Margot had been sitting on Margery's bed watching her sister pace before her – back and forth, back and forth wiping tears from under her eyes until she finally said something to stop her.

"Margery!"

"What? They are looking for Olive, right?"

"Yes! But tell me what's wrong! It's not just Olive – she's just lost in the woods if anything – they will find her – the trees don't go on for miles. Maybe they do, but she's small and can't go too far with those little legs! Something happened – tell me!"

"I saw something – that's what's wrong!"

"What did you see?"

"Douglas is home," Margery said quietly.

Margot's eyes widened. "In-Inconvenient?" she stuttered.

"He... he had this... this girl with him... she... she kissed him..."

"Margie... I'm not quite following..."

"There was a woman and he kissed her! He kissed her!"

"You're point being in this conversation... oh... oh wait... are... are you jealous?"

Margery couldn't say 'no' but then she couldn't say 'yes' either. She bit the nail of her thumb and sat beside her sister.

"Oh... oh poor you... you are jealous, aren't you?"

"We need to find out who that woman is..."

"I'm sure she's just a –"

"She's not just a friend – Douglas doesn't kiss friends. He hates to be kissed much less return one!"

"Did he return it? Is that what you're –"

"Of course he didn't return it!"

Margot couldn't believe this thought crossed her mind but it did: her sister was being rather petty indeed.

"I can't sit still... I'm going to look for Olive myself –"

"No!" Margot took hold of her sister's arm. "Stay here – at the house! They'll find her Margery – trust me!"

"I'm not going to leave the bloody house!" Margery cried, tearing her arm out of Margot's grasp and leaving the room.

She couldn't decide what she was more upset over though she would realize later that it was Olive – Olive very much so.

Chapter Eleven

Henry was strolling through the corridors of Bramton Hall, a hand in his pocket and the other one holding his pipe. He only smoked a pipe when he was working. Or when he was nervous, which usually happened to be at the same time.

He was like a gazelle.

And Douglas – Douglas was the lion. Yes, a very good metaphor Henry thought, pausing his step for a moment. Maybe a it overused but...

"I should –" he was going to say 'write that down' but a fist stopped his speech and he stumbled backwards and onto the ground with a bloodied nose. "Jesus!" he shouted.

"Christ!" came a response.

Henry's blurred vision straightened and Douglas came into view, holding his fist in his now deemed 'good hand' and biting his lip from the pain.

"Am I bleeding?"

"Yes!" Douglas hissed.

Henry stood carefully, balancing himself on the wall. "I think... I think it would be unfair if I hit you as you've already injured yourself hitting me."

"I would thank you, but I'm too angry! It's my sister, Henry!"

"I suppose you have a right to be – how did you find out?" Henry decided to save his breath – Douglas knew something and what exactly he knew was the only question that now remained. But he only needed to take an educated guest.

"Wat told me."

"Little bastard," Henry muttered.

"And does mother know that's what Billie's going to have because of you? Another Bramton bastard?"

"Hey! That's my son... my daughter... my child you're talking about, Douglas, and I may take back that whole 'I'm not going to hit you' jumble.'"

"No one else knows?"

"No," said Henry, wiping the blood from under his nose. "No one. Rather like your little bastard."

"Don't call Olive that!"

"You just as well called my child that, I was returning the favor!"

Their remarks had once again turned to shouts and soon the two men were wrestling on the floor, kicking and hitting over the simple word 'bastard.'

They would have probably continued until they passed out had Penelope not been bothered by her son's stammering over her daughter.

Granted it was only a few words, but it had got her thinking and she didn't like to have to 'think' about her children when it involved too much guessing.

That wasn't really thinking, come to think of it.

"Dear God, what are you two doing? Get up! There will be blood everywhere!"

Penelope pulled Douglas by the waist away from Henry, who lay on his back and continued to lie there once Penelope had propped Douglas up against the wall.

"This house has turned into Bedlam, I could swear it! What on earth was that about?"

Neither said a word.

Penelope then raised a hand to her mouth. She was very good at connecting dots, though she hadn't the full picture yet.

"Billie... Billie. It's about Billie," she said very quickly. "What's wrong? Henry – what did you do to Billie?"

"I didn't do anything!" said Henry.

"Yes you did!" said Douglas. "Mother – Billie's in London."

"Yes, I know," said Penelope. "Thank you for that startling information."

"No – she's staying in London!"

"I don't –"

"She's pregnant!" Douglas finally said, coughing a bit on phlegm.

"Pregnant?" Penelope looked at Henry. "Whose the father? Oh dear God, it's Pigsley!"

"Don't be daft!" said Henry from the floor.

"You said you didn't do anything!"

"I didn't!"

"You had to do something to have gotten her pregnant!" said Penelope. "Why did she go to London, then? I don't understand!"

"Neither do I," said Douglas, looking down at Henry.

"It was her idea! Well... partly. She didn't want Bramton knowing yet! She didn't want anyone knowing until we found a good time –"

"And when would that be?" asked Penelope. "When the child is deciding between Cambridge and Oxford or getting married?"

Henry did his best to shrug but it looked rather like he was going in a fetal position instead.

"Oh!" Penelope began to massage her temples. "I'm going to have to go back to London... I have to see her. Where is she staying, Henry?"

"My flat."

"How did you two think you wouldn't be found out?"

"She's confining herself there."

Penelope let out another cry of despair. "Oh, this entire year is going to be the death of me – first your father creates a mess than you," she looked at Douglas, "get yourself engaged to a bloody tart and then you," she looked at Henry, "get my only daughter pregnant out of marriage... I... I can't deal with this right now... none of it!"

She would have said something to the effect of the Bramton family's fondness for bastard children, but she was unaware of Henry's knowledge concerning Olive's lineage. Instead, the best thing she could think of to do was to leave and that is what she did.

"So you are engaged?" asked Henry.

Douglas helped him up. "Yes. Are you all right?"

"A bit dizzy. Yourself?"

"The same. So when did this happen?"

"I believe it was sometime at the end of January... I was writing and Billie –"

"No! Not that! I mean, when did you find out? Wat spared some details I believe."

"Oh... oh, yesterday afternoon, I think."

"Lovely how Billie springs things on you like that, isn't it?"

"You did the same to her with that telegram paired with that letter telling of your engagement. Is that true?"

"Unfortunately."

"What do you mean: 'unfortunately?'"

"It's rather complicated... made more so by the fact Margery is in Pearshire."

"Oh thank God I am not the one who told you that one!"

"No, mother did."

"Well, still have feelings for her then?"

"I..." Douglas' mouth felt dry. "What an outright question. Henry, it's very complicated. In fact... it is so complicated I believe you may well call it a plot of sorts..."

"I don't follow. And I don't like plots."

Douglas was about to tell him everything – everything in its entirety when Angus McNaulty leaned out of his room, cleared his nose and looked evenly at the two battered men, unable to spit out the mucus he had acquired at the back of his throat.

So he swallowed it with a resounding 'gulp.'

"I thought I heard a fight."

The reader may have forgotten that McNaulty had also arrived at Millford Lodge. Being the rather unsociable creature on the first greetings, he had said quick 'hello's in the drawing room and excused himself to nap from the traveling – a reasonable request that was not denied.

The reader may now be thinking he had heard what was said about his supposed lady-love Billie but Angus McNaulty could nap as well as he could shout – that is, very well. The man had been in such a deep sleep he did not wake until after Penelope had left and Henry was on his feet.

"A fight?" asked Douglas, completely unaware of whom this man was. "No. No. Not at all. We... we both tripped on this carpet here."

"Yes, it's a terrible carpet," said Henry, stamping his foot on the carpet. "It – er – buckles sometimes and throws you in quite a loop. Literally."

McNaulty looked at both men once more, shook his head with a groan, and shut himself back in his room.

"Who the hell was that?" asked Douglas.

"Angus McNaulty. Apparently a suitor for Billie picked out by Bramton himself."

"I believe my mother spoke wise words."

"Mm. She did." It occurred to Henry that Lady Bramton often spoke in such a way. "Which ones do you mean?"

"I can't deal with this right now."

Douglas was now no longer ready to tell Henry everything. Lying, as he had deemed earlier, was the best route. "I'm going to wash up – maybe get a slab of meat for my eye."

"I'm going to drink."

"Oh, that's sounds spiffing..." Douglas went to follow Henry but he was stopped.

"No, sir – you have guests. You need to wash up. I need a whiskey."

"What are you going to do about this Angus fellow?"

Henry thought a moment on how to answer the question. "Well, I'm going to take a page from the women."

"I don't understand."

"I'm going to make McNaulty look as horrible as possible so your father begins to like me thus allowing Billie to return from her exile."

"Oh, spot on. That is petty."

"Yes. But it could work."

"It could. As a hint, I don't think whiskey is a good idea as it is still the morning and hardly lunch."

"All part of the plan," grinned Henry, though it really wasn't.

He just needed a drink.

Olive was quite disappointed in the Bramton's garden – but then, nothing really could match the Millford's garden. She was sure not even a royal garden could come close but then she had never seen a royal garden so she wasn't a very good authority.

"Who are you?"

Olive turned around and saw a boy of eleven or twelve, leaning on the nearest wall, smoking a thin cigarette. She looked at him from the shoes up and decided she wouldn't tell him the truth.

"An orphan."

"A what?"

"I'm bloody Oliver Twist."

"So you're a lousy pickpocket then?"

"I don't pick pockets!"

"You said you were Oliver Twist. Didn't he get caught?"

"I don't know."

"You shouldn't compare yourself to someone you don't know. Anyway, you ain't an orphan because their ain't no orphanage in Pearshire."

Olive kicked a bit of dirt in front of her, scuffing her newly cleaned buckled shoes.

"And you're dressed like a lady."

"Am not!"

"Are too! Who are you?"

Olive opened her mouth to tell another lie but from the kitchen door came a pudgy looking cook with matted hair that had been painfully styled somehow into a wave.

"Young man take that out of your mouth!" she cried, pulling the cigarette from Wat's mouth and stamping it out with her foot. "Now, come inside. Your lunch is ready – oh wait a moment, who's your friend?"

"She won't say," said Wat. "She just walked into the garden like she owned it, I tell you."

"I did not!" cried Olive. "No! I am lost – I was walking with my mummy and... and..." Olive was going to say what had happened in its entirety but, for some reason, some strange knot in her stomach and throat that simultaneously clenched and she said this: "I wandered away. I thought I could still see her when we were walking but I was wrong and now I'm here. She's probably quite worried."

"All right, darling. Who's your mummy? Visiting family in Pearshire?"

Olive nodded. "Margery Spencer – we're staying with my granddaddy at Millford Lodge."

The cook looked as though she didn't believe a word Olive had said but nonetheless asked her if she would like a bite to eat while her whereabouts were sorted out by adults. Olive agreed, though she did not want to eat with Wat.

She found him entirely disagreeable and had the horrid feeling they would be very good friends.

"So your Sir Millford's granddaughter?" Wat asked as toasted cheese was set on the table before them with two large glasses of milk.

"Yes."

"I like Sir Millford. He's funny."

"I guess." Olive took a bite of her sandwich and wiped away the crumbs from her lips with her fingers. It was a very good sandwich, she thought. She would have to wander to the Bramton's more often around lunch. "Is your name really Watherford?"

"Yes."

"That's unfortunate."

Wat swallowed a large gulp of milk and winced for it hurt going down his throat. Olive giggled a little and he told her it was not funny. Olive asked which wasn't funny – his face or his name and Wat could not answer.

Milk soon came spurting out of Olive's nose – giving Wat something to laugh about equally.

Chapter Twelve

"What are you going to say to father? That you're just going to pop off to London again without reason? Before your usual trip to Aunt Petunia's?" Douglas asked as he walked with his mother to the kitchen in order to find a slab of meat for his eye.

"I could ask you what you're going to tell Miss Daisy about your eye."

"What Henry told McNaulty – we tripped on a carpet."

"Ah, so you saw McNaulty, then?"

"That's horrible of father."

"Oh, you don't have to tell me that."

The two stopped before the doorway, out of sight of the children, who they did not realize were sitting there, enjoying their toasted cheese sandwiches.

"What do you think then, truly, of Billie's... situation?"

"One can hardly be angry," said Penelope, crossing her arms. "Grandchildren I can actually have call me 'grandmother' will be a nice change."

"Mother –"

"What am I supposed to say? Your Olive is such a charming little girl –"

"The arrangement worked and is working – as much as I would like her to call me 'father' I wonder if –"

The cook had stepped out of the kitchen. "Oh, sorry ma'am. Hello, Mr. Bramton! How are you, sir?"

"Quite well, yourself?"

"Can't complain, sir, thank you. Can't complain. I was just going to send Hannah for you, Lady Bramton," said the cook, turning her attention to Penelope. "Wat's found himself a playmate who says she's the daughter of a Margery Spencer what's got lost in the woods. I didn't know whether or not to believe her so –"

Penelope looked stunned for a moment, but then walked into the kitchen where the two children sat in whispered conversation. It ceased instantly, though, when Penelope appeared.

"Hello, Aunt Penelope," Wat said uneasily for he could tell when his aunt was unsettled and it was never a very good feeling – Penelope was rarely unsettled and when she was it meant the entire house was. "Olive, this is my Aunt Penelope and that's my cousin Douglas."

"Hello," said Olive with a great smile.

Douglas followed his mother into the kitchen – far more composed and practiced at what he was going to say.

All he had to do was not look at his daughter.

"Douglas, what happened to your eye?" Wat asked.

"Carpet... I tripped over a... a thing in the carpet."

"That doesn't make very much sense," said Olive. "What's in your carpets, Wat?"

Wat shrugged his shoulders and finished his milk. "Aunt Penelope, can Olive stay for dinner?"

"What? Of course but... but I'm sure – if she's lost – her mother will want her home. In fact... Douglas! Douglas, why don't you take her there?"

"What?" Douglas had been very happy staring at the ground until that moment.

"Yes, then you can give your regards as well as mine to Margery – and the invitation to the Millfords for dinner on Friday. There, Wat, you may see Olive at dinner on Friday."

"Fine." Wat wiped his mouth with a napkin and slid off the chair, leaving the room.

"Why don't I have your two-seater brought out? You'll need it for driving about anyway, won't you?"

Douglas went to protest, but his mother had already given her orders and fled the uncomfortable kitchen. Douglas looked at his daughter slowly, lifting only one eye at a time and watched her finish her sandwich.

"Your carpets are quite mean," she said after sipping the last few drops of her milk. "I've never seen mean carpets – bet they've got ugly flowers on them."

Douglas didn't quite know what to say in response but: "Yes. They're an off-yellow."

What is now missing from this moment are the few lines that passed between Wat and Olive while Penelope and Douglas were speaking to each other in the hall near the kitchen. Being children and thus all five senses constantly poised and ready, both had heard each word said by the two adults, who had believed they were alone.

Olive had found out the truth of her parentage in a rather, for lack of a better word, bastard way.

"No –"

"His Olive?"

"What does that mean?"

"My mummy... well that makes sense!"

"What does?"

"Everything – Wat! I'm not really the daughter of a murderer!"

"What?"

"Oh, you don't know do you?"

Wat had shaken his head.

"I will tell you everything but not now – I hear your cook."

"Come to the cemetery tomorrow after lunch – can you do that?"

"Where's the cemetery?"

"Near the vicarage, can you get there?"

Olive nodded, remembering where her mother had pointed out the vicarage only the other morning.

"We can decide what to do," Wat added.

"What do you mean?"

"If Douglas is your father then you can't have him get married to that woman named Daisy –"

"Daisy? Who's Daisy?"

When the adults entered, Wat mouthed the word 'tomorrow' and both knew to put on an act as children are very adept at – nothing had happened, they were enjoying toasted cheese.

Now, while riding in her father's two-seater, Olive from time to time glanced up at him. He wouldn't speak, but she knew why. He did try once or twice to comment on the weather but Olive wasn't very versed in cloud types.

Millford Lodge was a welcomed sight for him, but Olive wanted to stare a bit longer.

She had just realized where she had gotten her hair color and, though she knew next to nothing about Douglas, she was pleased.

Henry sat hunched over on the edge of his bed with the receiving line of his telephone pressed to his ear. On the other end he could hear Billie's silence after learning what had passed between not only Henry and Douglas but Henry, Douglas, and her mother.

"And she's going to come to London?"

"I don't know when."

"Well, better she and Douglas know, I suppose."

"You said –"

"Damn what I said – we aren't exactly playing with a fool-proof plan, are we?"

"No... how is London so far?"

"Dreadful, thank you for asking." Billie looked around the flat. Pigsley was walking about carrying a trunk and then another followed by some hatboxes – where he was putting everything, she had no idea. "Pigsley appears to be unpacking some of our spring things."

"Oh, don't tell me what he's doing – that's like holding candy above a child and snatching it away saying 'nah nah' then eating it yourself."

"Have you been having that difficult a time?"

"If you had been listening, dearest, I was busy giving your brother a bruised eye while he half knocked my teeth out."

"There was a bit of time before that, wasn't there?"

"A completely unproductive time."

"Then is there anything else you'd like to enlighten me with?" Billie began to casually examine her fingernails.

"Well, only that I do believe your brother is up to something – what it is, I do not know – that's usually your job – but when asked about his engagement he used the word 'unfortunately.'"

Billie straightened in her chair. "Don't tell me these things!"

"You asked! You gave me this job!"

"You're going to have to find out what that means, you know."

"I thought it was obvious."

"How so?"

"He loves Margery. He can't love this... this Daisy for lack of a better word."

"Yes, we know that, Henry. From what we established before you left I thought there was an undercurrent of him marrying just because he felt the need."

"We never said that. We never said why he wanted to get married – we only acknowledged that he did and were just naming consequences having Margery here."

"We should, then, discuss why –"

"And that's what I'm getting to – what I think your brother is up to."

"What do you think he is up to?"

"I don't know! Haven't you been listening? The only thing that I do know is that everything about it screams 'wrong' beyond the mere fact the girl is like an annoying kitten learning to mew – I've started living off the conclusion that once he sees his little bastard –"

"Henry!"

"Well that's what he called out child, I have to properly return the favor."

"You think that when he sees Olive he'll call off the engagement?"

Yes, as one expects, Billie knew of Olive's true father as well. The web that this constructs turns out something to this effect: Margot, her aunt, and her father knew but did not know that Douglas himself, his mother, his sister, and his best friend knew. Margery knew only that Douglas knew. And, of course, Penelope knew nothing of Billie and Henry knowing and then the newly added Wat, of whom only Douglas knew.

Add that bit to your own memorandum book. Though, don't worry if you can't happen to find it – a lovely chart will be written up for you later if I am able to remember.

"That or reveal what's going on in his head. Better chances of it happening when he sees the girl than if he just saw Margery, don't you agree?"

"I don't know..." Henry could hear the frustration in Billie's voice. "I really do hate this plotting over the telephone. It seems very wrong and is bound to become awfully confusing. Perhaps you should write it in letters."

"The only thing I am writing, dear, is a play," said Henry. "You'll have to suffer my voice, I fear."

"Point taken. You will do your best to come soon?"

"Oh yes. Ah – there's going to be a dinner here on Friday I've overheard – big-to-do and such. The Millfords and the Reverend Waters with his nieces are due to come."

"Dear me, have fun with that."

"Expect a call."

"I shall. Are you going so soon?"

"I have a Mr. McNaulty to deal with."

"I had almost forgotten. Give him my love."

Charles Potter liked to observe.

He never realized how very much he liked it before, even though he had chosen it for his profession.

He liked to observe Margot in the garden pretending to read. Margot walking inside, giving up. Margot speaking rapidly to the staff.

He didn't care what she said – the point was that she spoke.

Of course, he did come to care about what she said a moment later when he learned it was that Olive had been lost in the woods. He had stood so quickly in delayed surprise that his chair knocked over and the room turned to stare at him.

"It's all right, Potter," said Mrs. Banks, the head of the household staff. "I'm going to send Gary and Lou out – they do the hunting when Sir Millford doesn't so they know the land well enough to find the little Miss. Hardly anything to worry ourselves over. Oh – this came for you after breakfast, by the bye."

She handed him a letter.

"Oh... oh, thank you..." said Charles, putting his chair up right and sitting in it. "Little Miss Spencer will be found, I'm sure," he added uneasily.

"Within the hour, I haven't any doubt. You can't really get lost in Pearshire." She smiled a bit and left the room, followed by most of the staff that had gathered to listen to Margot.

When he was finally alone, Charles opened the envelope and slipped out the letter – its contents were hardly welcome.

Dear Mr. Potter,

it began.

We apologize immensely for the time you have wasted following Mrs. Spencer this past month. We were unaware to your superior's continued interest in the case and your subsequent deployment in it that has landed you in

This bit had been scratched over a few times as if they could not get the name write. Charles could just make out 'Pearshire' or maybe it was 'Yorkshire.'

Transportation is, of course, provided for you back to London and you will be paid for your extra work by way of your superior's salary, which he is no longer receiving as he has been recently fired. We hope to see you back in London by Friday – the car will come for you Thursday.

Regards,

It was signed by an officer at Scotland Yard that Charles didn't know. He wished he did know him, though, so he could thank him then beat him over the head with a skillet at the same time for as much as he knew his job was pointless, if he left now he would be leaving Margot – the woman he had loved now for almost forty-eight hours.

That was the longest he had ever loved one woman before and he feared it would not stop. Well – he didn't fear it not stopping, the fright came from the fact it would most likely stay and he would be rendered helpless on what to do in the love factor of his mind as it had never been active before.

"Potter! Potter!"

He had been walking down the halls – where to he didn't know but he figured it would land him somewhere where he was needed. Life, for him, seemed to work out that way in Pearshire.

It was Margery calling him. He stopped, watching her run towards him down a corridor perpendicular to his own.

"Hello, ma'am. I heard about the little –"

"Yes, yes. There's a party out looking for her – I'm horribly worried." That, Charles could plainly see for the woman's hands were shaking as was her voice. "I had wondered if you had gone with them but it appears you haven't... that's a good thing, I need you."

"Oh?"

"A bit of business. Nothing – oh..." she stopped speaking and saw the letter he was holding. Though Margery could not see what had been written on it, she knew that Charles did not receive letters unless he wrote one first, which brought her to the conclusion of: "You've started looking for new positions?"

Had she not seen this letter, Margery was ready to put Charles to work in the little scheme she had concocted with the help of Margot – in truth, it was mostly Margery who thought of it and Margot listened, telling her she was mad and stark-raving jealous of a girl she didn't know. But it was a plan nonetheless, boiled while emotions were at a high.

A plan, too, that had now been – thankfully – crossed out of her mind with news that Charles may be going somewhere, though he hadn't said a word in reply.

In truth, Charles was wondering how to answer the question. If he said yes and that it was a request for his services, he could leave with no questions ask and disappear like dew on a leaf in the morning of a hot day. If he said what the letter truly was and who he truly was as well, he would have the chance of staying in the Millford family mind for a bit but also would be pegged as a terrible liar that had been at work trying to soil Margery's name further.

With thoughts of Margot hating him tearing at what he believed to be his heart, Charles took the former route.

"Just... just to see what would happen, ma'am."

"And?"

"Seems I'm – er – in some type of demand."

"Really? When do they want you to start?"

"Friday. They are paying for my transportation on Thursday and..." Charles shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't mean to cause any –"

"They took you without any sort of reference?"

"Yes, it appears so."

Margery seemed surprised. "And you did tell them who your former employer was?"

"They were... intrigued."

"That's rather morbid."

Charles had to agree, though he knew he shouldn't. But then these were fictional people he was talking about so he didn't feel so terrible about round-about-ly speaking ill of them.

"I hardly know what to say... it's all so sudden. I mean, I won't stop you, of course – Olive, when they find her, will be quite upset but –"

Margery stopped speaking.

"Ma'am?"

"I heard the door. The front door... we aren't expecting guests..."

"You heard that from here?" Charles was surprised for a moment but then realized she had spent the greater part of her life in the house and must have been able to tell when certain doors were opening and closing.

"Olive!" Margery said under her breath, charging back through the hallway from where she had come.

Charles decided it would be best to follow her. She had been in the middle of a sentence, after all, and he rightly thought she may want to finish it later.

Chapter Thirteen

Together, Margery and Charles came to a stop at the top of the stairs that spilled out into the large entryway. Margery had been the one to stop first and Charles only followed her lead.

"Oh, it is Miss Olive," he said with a grin. "That man must have found her."

"What?" Margery turned around and looked at Charles as if she hadn't seen him all day. "Oh... yes, I suppose."

Margery pressed her dress flat where it had wrinkled and began to walk calmly down the stairs – I say 'calmly' because she was not at all faking it very well.

Receiving them at the door was the butler and Margot had soon appeared. She rushed to them, sweeping Olive in her arms. Douglas laughed a little at this but his face soon when solid when he saw Margery.

"I see you've found my daughter," she said.

Margot slowly put Olive down and backed away, with the child, from the scene.

"Oh – um – hello, Margery. Mother said you had come for a visit. And, no. Actually it was Wat who found the girl lurking in the garden."

"Lurking?"

"Wrong word choice."

"Yes."

"Mother insisted I bring her back and –"

"Insisted?"

"Again... wrong word, I'm sorry, Margery."

Margery's eyes widened as she took a breath in.

"Oh and... here." Douglas took the invitation to dinner form his pocket and handed it to Margery. "Dinner on Friday – mother has it all planned."

"She plans rather quickly. I've only been here a night."

"Yes... yes, I didn't know you were coming."

"Plans changed," Margery muttered as her eyes skimmed the now opened invitation. She quickly looked up after saying this and checked herself. "London was becoming intolerable. You were in New York for quite some time."

"Delayed."

"Are you using the wrong word again?"

Charles had come down the stairs by now and was standing near Margot. They both were watching the two in an interested way – it was like watching twins finish sentences though they were hardly doing anything of the sort.

"Who is that?" he asked Margot in a whisper.

"Douglas Bramton. He came home a bit earlier than expected..."

Charles remembered the name instantly. "Do they always banter like that?"

"Yes. You can tell when it isn't friendly if the sentences are short – which they are."

"Ah."

By now, Douglas knew to change the subject and Margery did as well – who was going to change it was up in the air, though.

"Anyway, there is your daughter, there is your invitation. I'll be on my way." Douglas tipped his head to Margot and looked strangely at Charles for he had no idea who he was. "Goodbye, Olive."

Olive stood on her toes in an excited little-girly way and said goodbye in return.

Margery saw this and screwed up her face a bit, following Douglas resolutely out of the door. Margot opened her mouth to protest, but Margery had already disappeared through it.

"And it begins..." Margot groaned. "Come along, Olive. Let's get you some clean clothes... you look like mud. Oh, Potter?"

Charles looked at attention.

"Do you clean shoes well? Come with me."

It was the best Margot could do to protect Charles obvious curiosity.

Margery had followed Douglas down the stairs without a word. He knew she was behind him, but waited until he was at his two-seater before acknowledging her presence.

"Who told you?" he asked in a hushed voice – they were both careful to keep their conversation audible to only themselves and the two-seater.

"Who told me what?"

"About the engagement to Daisy! It's the only reason you'd be so cross!"

"No, I was supposed to be cross with you either way when I saw you – it just so happens I am very cross with you! And Daisy? Is that her name?"

"Whose name?"

"The girl who kissed you?"

"What?"

"I saw this morning! I saw you on the stairs of Bramton Hall!"

"Were you spying? My God, I thought someone had split the beans to you and you were already on the warpath!"

"Spilt what beans?"

"My God – about Daisy!"

"I don't believe we're on the same page," said Margery with a tired shake of her head. "The page we should be on is in an entirely different book!"

"Margie –"

"The plan was quite simple, Douglas! In fact, it was a simple plan we had in place for months – before Harold was even arrested, for Christ's sake! I leave Harold in the summer, we pretend to be cross as usual all the while I'd go through a quiet divorce, then you propose by the end of the summer after the divorce would have been final, and we – including Olive – would live happily ever after! What on earth went wrong?"

"Besides your husband being a murderer?"

"A mere damper!"

"Thank God you didn't ask him for a divorce before he was found out."

"Yes, we can talk about how that all worked out nicely at the expense of prostitutes later but baring that fact – how on earth – why on earth did you get engaged – even kiss another woman?"

"If you'll give me a moment, I'll explain!"

"How do you explain getting yourself engaged? Who proposed?"

"I did!"

"Then what is there to discuss? God, Douglas, I thought we had both finally grown up and figured everything out!"

"As did I!"

"Obviously one of us has not!"

"I will have to agree, yes one of us has not – you!"

"Me!"

"You aren't listening to a word I'm saying – not only that, you were spying –"

"I was walking with my daughter who wanted to see your bloody house! If I wanted to spy I would have knocked on the door and sat in the parlor! Besides, you weren't even expected! No one told us you were arriving the day after us! Thank you so much for keeping me informed!"

"I need a moment to explain –" He tried one last time.

"Um... er... excuse me?"

"What?" both Douglas and Margery shouted at poor Charles who stood leaning out of the door.

"Oh... sorry, Potter," Margery said with a pained face.

"It's your sister, ma'am. She's asking for you."

Margery moaned under her breath and began to walk back towards the front door.

"Margery!" Douglas called after her.

"I don't want to hear it!" she shouted back, slamming the front door behind her.

Henry slid a glass of whiskey towards Douglas, who hadn't said a word in the past hour and had kept his face down on the table, hidden by his arms. They were alone in the games room – their only company the silent billiard table set for playing. Douglas took the offered glass and looked at it, turning it left and right with his fingers.

"I love Margery."

"Really? That's a shocker," Henry replied in his usual blunt fashion.

"Henry, you can't tell anyone – not Billie –"

"Oh, Billie knows!"

"I mean... you know who I mean." Douglas drank the glass and hid his head in the elbow of his arm. "She's seen Daisy. Margery's seen Daisy."

"Does she know –"

"Yes..." Douglas groaned. "I accidentally told her – I didn't know she didn't know. She was just angry... how was I supposed to know what exactly she as angry at me for if not that?"

"Bad part's over with then, hm? So are you going to go through with it?"

"With what?

"Marrying Daisy?"

"I have to."

"Who says? No one says you have to. In fact, it would make more sense if you didn't and kept in the eternal loop of love and hating Margie Millford."

"Shut up, Henry. You don't understand."

"Life would be a bit easier if I did, I'll admit. You're leaving me completely puzzled as to your predicament."

Once again Douglas was going to tell Henry – he was going to tell him what he and Margery had planned last summer, he was going to tell him why he was in this engagement with Daisy, he was going to tell him why his very life depended on the marriage but, once again, McNaulty interrupted – thankfully without the congealed mucus at the back of his throat.

"The games room?" he asked.

"No. The music room with the odd billiard table added for a dramatic albeit whimsical effect," said Henry.

McNaulty did not see the humor and thus did not laugh. It was generally believed he did not know how to under dry wit. "I'm in search of Lord Bramton. I have plans for his bowling lane that I'd like to go over with him."

"Douglas, where's your father?"

"No idea," Douglas said from the depths of his arm.

"No idea," Henry repeated to McNaulty quite like an answering machine would later in the century.

"Right... right..." said McNaulty. "Then perhaps you could tell me where the Miss Bramton is?"

"The Miss Bramton?" asked Henry, playing dumb.

"Wilhelmina."

"Ah, her. What do you need with her?"

McNaulty – unlike all who inhabited Pearshire – could not lie well. "Business," he said, coughing afterwards.

"Business? Unless you're her publisher," said Henry, "I can't see what business you'd have with her."

"Now, see here, sir, I merely inquire so I could make my formal 'hello' to her seeing as she was not present when I arrived."

"Oh."

"Yes. Oh."

"What do you think of her?" Henry asked lazily, causing Douglas to look up in a state of disbelief.

"I – er – believe she's a very vibrant and – er – plucky girl. I think Mr. Bramton there will agree with me."

Douglas looked as though he had smelled the rotting flesh of a dead rabbit. "Yes," he said with a wobble to his head. "Plucky." He sipped his whiskey.

"Yes..." Henry said, taking a long drag of his cigarette. "She is plucky. Plucks well and all that. Vibrant takes you on a completely different tangent."

Douglas choked on his sip and began to cough violently. Henry hardly flinched.

McNaulty, once again, was in the dark.

"You'll be disappointed, then, to learn she's decided to remain in London. Perhaps travel some. Bit of real business she's taking care of. Oh, and if you want to find Lord Bramton, you might what to try his study."

McNaulty narrowed his eyes a bit and left the games room.

Douglas, when he had finally composed himself and decided not to die of lack of oxygen, poured himself another glass. "Mind not making jokes like that in front of me. Sexual innuendos concerning my sister are off limits."

"They weren't very clever – spur of the moment – but you caught on?"

"Unfortunately."

"That word again."

And Douglas, once again, did not want to talk about his predicament thus hid his face – once again – and let out his breath as far as he could.

Daisy had thrown open the curtains of her sister Henrietta's room and cooed with delight at the change of view.

"You know I stared out of my window for at least an hour today – a whole hour! Could you believe that?" she said, clasping her hands together under her chin with a soft crack. "Henrietta, isn't this place charming?"

"As charming as an old house can be with its dust and mold."

"Oh, you're just a spoil-sport, aren't you? You're never happy with anything – oh, could we change rooms every other night? I can't decide which view I enjoy more..."

Henrietta, who was sitting on her bed, fell onto her back and looked at the ceiling as her sister continued on about the charms of the old house. "I'd give anything for a proper drink," she muttered, though Daisy ignored her as usual.

"This will be my house one day – that's what father said. Oh, I'll throw the most lavish parties –"

"Of course you will."

"And have famous guests –"

"Of course you will."

"It's all too perfect, Henrietta! Can this all be happening?"

Henrietta pushed herself up to find her half-sister looking at her with huge droopy eyes.

"Of course it's real, Daisy. When does daddy not come through for you? This will be your house one day. You will have lavish parties. Famous guests and yet, it will all be too perfect because daddy will have a gun to your new husband's head."

"You don't have to put it so harshly." Daisy turned back to the window.

"I don't live in your dream world."

"Daddy pays as much attention to you as he does me. You just don't ask for much. But you're getting old, Henrietta. And it's it awful here to have your younger sister marry before you? I think I read that in a book somewhere."

Henrietta glowered at her. "I don't quite care, Daisy."

"Don't you? My god, I'd be perfectly embarrassed!" Daisy turned from the window and looked back at her sister. "You should get daddy on your case. You should."

Henrietta fell back on the bed again with a roll of her eyes. Daisy let out another perfect little sigh.

"Can all this really be happening?" she asked again.

"Oh, just pinch yourself," Henrietta said with a slight turn of disgust.

Daisy grinned and did just that, jumping for joy when she felt the pain of it. She did a few twirls and then landed herself next to her sister. Wrapping her arms around Henrietta's neck and setting her chin on her shoulder, Daisy let out a sigh. "I only wish," she said, "you could be as happy. At least try – for me?"

"Is that an order or a request?"

"An order, silly!" Daisy giggled, squeezing the hold on her sister. "You must be happy on my account!"

Henrietta groaned and pushed her sister's arms off of her.

"Where are you going?" Daisy asked.

"To my own room."

"Can I –"

"No." Henrietta shut Daisy's door behind her.

Henrietta stood in the corridor for a moment, leaning against the wall.

Was she really that old?

She was only turning thirty.

Thirty.

Daisy was a mere twenty-two.

Maybe she was old. Maybe... maybe she should have her father do something about it.

Henrietta heard a door close somewhere. She walked a little further down the corridor where she could see the main stairwell. Henry was hurrying up it, cursing to himself as he had lost a bet with Douglas and was forced to get the wine he stashed under his bed for their drinking fest in the games room.

He passed Henrietta with a grumbled 'hello.'

"Hello," was Henrietta's answer. She watched him until he disappeared.

Yes, she should get father on her case, indeed.

Chapter Fourteen

Olive had started to cry.

The news of Charles' imminent departure had sent her into near hysterics that no one could calm. When her grandfather suggested a stroll in the garden she told him to:

"Damn the garden!"

For which she was slapped on the backside by Millicent and sent crying, even harder, to her room.

"I feel very responsible," said Charles to Margot when Margery left the parlor after seeing to her daughter.

"She knew you weren't going to stay forever, Potter. She'll stop crying once she gets tired. Does your new position have children?"

"What? Er... erm... yes. I think they said there were two children in the house."

"That will be nice."

Charles nodded.

"Olive gave you a bit of practice no doubt," Margot added.

They were alone in the room, Charles realized. His breathing began a bit funneled now and his heart began to beat to some soaring Italian aria that escaped name.

"I need to apologize, by the bye."

"For?"

"My actions earlier. I didn't mean to... well you know..."

"What?"

Margot looked surprised – and a little hurt. "I kissed you!"

"Did you?" Charles had been so shocked that after the moment complete reverie he experienced, the kiss had completely eluded him until it was brought up.

He had accidentally repressed it – his mind, having nothing else to repress in his life, decided the shock of the kiss deemed with worthy to be set in a very special metaphorical lock box.

"Yes, I did! You don't remember?"

"I do! I do, yes! I do!" It took only the work of a moment to unlock the box, thankfully.

"Oh, good," said Margot, calming down. "I couldn't believe it was that forgettable."

"No... no, on the contrary."

"What do you mean?" Margot was quick to ask.

"Nothing!"

Margery returned. "She has passed out. Or rather had – she was prostrate on the nursery floor when I found her."

"Well, that's good," said Margot. "We didn't need the crying."

Margery shook her head. "I'm sorry, Potter. She'll cheer up in no time, I'm sure of it."

The 'no time' Margery spoke of did not occur until after dinner when Margery followed one of the maids upstairs with a tray of small portions for Olive. They found her sitting on the edge of her bed, wiping her nose with her sleeves.

"It's not true," said Olive.

"Oh... oh, now darling..." Margery sat beside her daughter, smoothing her hair as she pressed her head to her chest. "I told you he would have to leave sooner or later. Better sooner, anyway – the longer he stayed the more you would get attached. How are you feeling? Up to eating?"

Olive shook her head but Margery still went over her choices on the tray, doing her best to make them sound appetizing.

"I... I need to apologize to you, dear – I shouldn't have left you like I did – I just didn't realize it. I was... I was – heaven knows what the Bramtons think of me now, hm?"

Olive shook her head again. "No. It's all right," she began to pick at a plate of carrots. "I told them I wandered off."

"You lied?"

Olive nodded. "Are you angry?"

Margery couldn't say if she was. Yes, she should've scolded her daughter for the fib but then – her daughter had fibbed for her. It was almost touching.

"If you are, I'm sorry, too," said Olive.

"Then – how about this – we're even," Margery said quickly, kissing Olive's forehead.

"Mummy?"

"Yes?"

"The man who brought me back – Mr. Bramton – you don't seem to like him. Why don't you like him?"

Margery took a breath.

"When two people are very different, Olive," she started, "they either get along or they don't. It's something you'll understand when you're older, but for now –"

"Did you ever get along?"

"When we were children, yes."

"Never after that?"

"Did Mr. Bramton give you a sweet on the way back to pester me?" laughed Margery, though it was hardly convincing.

"No, he didn't say anything, actually. He was very quiet. He did say a few things about the weather but that was it. He thinks it's going to rain on Friday when we go to dinner."

"It always rains in Pearshire," said Margery with a sigh. "Never mind it, though, we won't be going."

"What?"

Margery had already settled it in her mind that she would not be attending the Bramton's dinner that Friday. She would respectfully decline and everyone would understand given her situation.

"No! Mummy, we have to go!"

"We have to go? What for?"

Olive caught herself. She thought quickly. "I... I promised Wat."

"You promised Wat? You mean Lord Bramton's nephew?"

Olive nodded curtly. "Yes. He'll be left alone what with all the grownups gathered downstairs – I promised to go and keep him company."

"Well, we'll see – how is that?"

Olive thought it was better than nothing and nodded once again.

If Henry had thought the atmosphere of the previous night's dinner had been tense, he had no idea what he was stepping into the current evening. The room was fuller, the silence quieter – no one looked at the other except for Daisy, who peered around eagerly at everyone. Douglas' and Henry's injuries caught her eyes first but the explanation of the carpet seemed to do wonders in hushing the subject.

The only person not sitting for dinner was the Duke. He had not made his entrance when the dinner bell rang and, on Henrietta's urging, they moved into the dining room anyway. Daisy did try to stall when she came into the room, but it was in vain.

"Well, this is just lovely!" Daisy said as the first course was brought in. She then looked at McNaulty. "I don't believe we've met."

McNaulty looked up from his dish as if he had been insulted.

"Angus McNaulty," he grumbled.

"Oh... oh, what a charming name," said Daisy. "I'm Daisy. Daisy Smith."

"People usually don't introduce themselves over dinner tables," said Penelope in the pause. "If you had come down before dinner as your sister had, you could have been introduced then."

"Oh... oh, I am sorry. I was very busy, you know, my hair takes me ages – just as my sister – I'm so very particular – oh it is so very difficult to maintain good hair, isn't it? Was it when you were young, Lady Bramton?"

Henry made a hissing sound as Penelope dropped her silverware.

"Bramton," Penelope said, ignoring the girl. "Bramton, I'm going to go to London on Sunday and stay for a week or so."

"What for?"

"My sister has a chill. She's asking for me."

"I thought you said you weren't going –"

"I'm not but it would be rude of me not to see her at least for a few days. Douglas has already said he could spare me – should I ask Henry as well?"

"Be my guest, Lady Bramton," Henry said playing along.

"Thank you, Henry," Penelope returned.

Suddenly, the dining room doors flew open and the Duke bounded in. "Where do I sit?" he asked. "Did you start without me?"

"Of course we did," said Henrietta as if it was not a problem.

"Dinner," Douglas said meekly, "always begins at six... never later. If... if you're not here at six, we start without you."

The Duke seemed to slam his body in a vacant chair next to McNaulty. "That's bloody rubbish! I'm a guest! Wonderful house manners you have!"

"The same could be said of you," said Lord Bramton.

"What was that?" the Duke growled.

"I said that the same could be said of you," repeated Bramton. "You're a guest, yes, and it is common courtesy to respect you hosts!"

Suddenly, a knife flew past Bramton's head. Penelope let out a scream equal to that of the one Edward released and Henry felt backwards in his chair, avoiding the streak of silver that passed.

"For God's sake!" he shouted, heaving himself up and seeing the knife sticking out of the wall behind Bramton. "Oh..." Henry slowly lowered himself beneath the table in fear.

Douglas looked as if this was an everyday occurrence.

McNaulty was impressed.

Bramton sat, white as a ghost, staring at the Duke who had waved his hand for the second course to be brought in.

Henrietta merely looked embarrassed.

Daisy giggled.

"He likes to eat when he's hungry and when we wait for him," she said with a wide grin.

"Father," said Henrietta, her voice clearly annoyed, "may I speak with you after supper?"

"Yes, of course, darling. What about?" the Duke went on eating as if there had been so silverware thrown. "Are you angry, poppet?"

Henrietta said nothing.

"Ah, well, you are, I can tell. I'll fix that, darling, don't you worry. I always do what I can for my daughters."

"If you thought that was frightening," said Henrietta, handing Henry a drink after dinner and sitting beside him, "you should see him at breakfast if the eggs are scrambled."

Henry, first after getting over the shock that Henrietta had plopped herself beside him as she had been missing for some time with her father, downed whatever it was she had put in the glass and pulled a face.

It was sherry.

"Henrietta," she said, "if you forgot my name at all."

"Hadn't really thought about it to be honest."

"Well you ought not to forget it. It's practically the female version of your name, isn't it?" Henrietta sighed and looked over the evening's parlor. Lord Bramton had excused himself after the knife-incident and Penelope made an appearance for only a few minutes in the room before leaving. Edward was sitting, listening to the Duke and Daisy tell stories of New York while Douglas looked on and McNaulty sat alone, his eyes as vulture-like as Henrietta's.

"Douglas' brother Edward seems to be a dim bulb."

"Spot on there – yes."

"Douglas says he thinks he'll be engaged soon as well."

"There is the possibility. There is a set of twins living with their uncle at the vicarage here. If he could tell them apart, I'm sure he'd marry one of them."

Henrietta laughed her own heinous little snort that was quite unattractive and leaned closer to Henry. "You're rather funny."

Henry knew that. And he knew what she was up to. She was as bad at flirting as Billie. He changed the subject. "Douglas – Douglas is really a hit with your family, then?"

"Depends on who you speak to."

"What do you mean?"

"Well to father and Daisy, yes. He's the next best thing since cellophane."

"To you?"

"The poor bugger ought to have run when he had the chance. I'll explain. My father – when my mother was alive – was a hard worker, loyal, a normal man who worked in politics. When my mother died, he began to worry he had been too frugal and, when he married Daisy's mother during a summer he spent in some state off in America and Daisy was born... well, let's say 'frugal' became a word banned. When Daisy's mother died it became more so and soon Daisy had whatever she wanted."

"And you were ignored, I take it?"

"On the contrary. No. Not in the least. I get what I want when I want it but I don't want much and whatever I do want it never takes a fork or knife to get, usually. Anyway, Daisy met Douglas in New York – as you know."

Henry nodded. "Yes – yes, I know this part. I, in fact, had to bend over backwards to ensure you and your family was invited whenever we went out."

"You sound put-off about it."

"It was inconvenient, to be honest. And when it became more and more frequent, Billie and I began to figure our what was up."

"Oh yes... Billie. I had almost forgotten her."

Henry was not in the least surprised.

"Where is she, anyway?" Henrietta asked.

"London... then Ipswich, I believe. Traveling for a bit."

"Quarrel?"

"Hardly." He tried to change the subject. "You never explained why you disapprove of Douglas."

"Oh, I don't disapprove. I think he's a lovely man but poorly used."

"How so?"

"Didn't you hear me? When I said father spoils his children, I very much meant it. Your friend Douglas was like... like deer springing through the woods. Daisy shot it and father was the hound to find it. Do you understand?"

Henry thought it was a very terrible metaphor but garnered the general idea.

"He... he threw a knife at Douglas?"

"Not a real one – no!"

"Then –"

"He held him over the hotel balcony then threatened to kill him then his child if he didn't propose to Daisy within a week." Henrietta spoke as though this was a daily occurrence.

"Wait... wait –"

"Oh, you didn't know Douglas had a little girl? He does, apparently. Father found out about the little bastard – he doesn't know very much more than that but –"

"Does Daisy know?"

"Yes – she's the one who told father. She read a bit of Douglas's mail – she didn't tell him everything, of course, to keep him in check, but gave him just enough to threaten Douglas. I probably shouldn't be telling you any of this but then again, what can you do? I'll just have father take care of you."

"He can't just go off killing people willy-nilly," said Henry with an unnerved laugh as Henrietta stood.

"No... no, he can't but he can have someone very good do the work for him without being caught." She yawned. "Oh... I am tired."

Henry looked down at the hand, which was holding the glass he had been given, and found it was shaking.

"Very tired but you know... I recall hearing a rather interesting conversation earlier today... it sounded very much like your voice and had to do with... oh what was it... someone said 'our child' and it was all very confusing... anyway..." Henrietta pretended to yawn again as she walked towards the door.

Henry looked back up at her from his drink and called after her: "Wait! Yes... it was a row!"

"What was?"

"Billie and I."

"You're not on good terms then?"

Henry shook his head. "Not at all, to be honest. I – er – forfeited my best valet for her. If you hadn't noticed and such."

Henrietta smiled. "I had," she said then announced she would be going to turn in – goodnight.

Charles stood in the garden at Millford Lodge, starting at the strange marble parrot that glimmered a bit in the moonlight. He had packed his things to leave already though Thursday wasn't for another day or so – he thought it would be less painful to do it now than on the day of.

It's drippy to do it on the day of.

"Margery, I believe, hates it." Charles jumped at the voice, turning around to see Sir Millford walking towards him. "I think she hates it mostly because I want to name it after her mother. What do you think of it?"

"Well... well, I... er..."

"Oh, I don't care that you're staff. I want your honest opinion."

"Really?"

Sir Millford nodded, waiting to hear the bad news.

"I like it."

"What?"

"There's little chance in London for me to really see a great work of garden art – and I've been in London my entire life. This parrot –"

"Budgerigar."

"This budgerigar is inspiring, Sir."

"Hmph. I like your opinions – 'Potter,' was it?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Margery says your leaving."

"Yes, Sir. Thursday, Sir."

"Well, had I known you took such interest in the field of topiary genius, I would have hired you myself. But... well, it wasn't meant to be I suppose. Do come in and I'll give you a glass of brandy – can't drink it with you in case Millicent catches me chatting too long with staff. But I'll give you a glass nonetheless. Come along."

Charles wanted very much to die at that moment.

"You what!" cried Billie over the telephone.

"Hush! Not so loud!" Henry was hiding on the side of his bed, furthest from the door.

"They what!"

"Mina, please! God knows who's standing outside the door now!"

"Not only is that entire family a bunch of mindless idiots – they're mindless murderous idiots is what you're telling me?"

"More or less."

"And Henrietta is flirting with you!"

"As much as you call blackmailing flirting!" There was a pause. Henry pressed the receiver closer to his ear. "Mina? Mina, are you crying?"

"I'm not!"

But she very much was. Alone she sat in their bed in London, still in her dressing gown with a cup of hot coco at her bedside. Pigsley came in after hearing the shouts and was now handing her his handkerchief.

"Oh, don't cry – please don't cry!" Henry pleaded.

"I'm very confused, Henry! I can't keep anything straight and you've not been gone a week!"

"Calm down, darling – "

"You need to come to London – now. Right now. Tell father why – tell everyone why and –"

"Mina, what part of 'murder' don't you understand? If I leave for London to be with you and that's made known, you'll be in danger! Henrietta practically said it tonight!"

"But she didn't definitely say it –"

"We can't take the chance – oh, God, that sounded horrible. Like... like a badly written piece of angst."

"Angst?"

"It's German, I believe."

"Yes, I know what you meant."

There was another long silence. Henry had figured out she was pressing the telephone into her pillow when she cried.

"I'm very emotional at present," she said calmly when she came back. "I don't know why. Being alone has made me feel just... just... oh I am positively acting mad. I've turned hysterical. Hysterical, Henry. I am hysterical!"

"No you're not." Henry tried to laugh – at least Billie was trying to be funny. "What if you called Floyd?"

"What?"

"Walter Floyd. My producer."

"Yes, I know who he is. My question was more out of reason."

"He's in London with Anne. At least, they were supposed to arrive yesterday anyway, if my memorandum book is correct."

"It never is, Henry."

"Call them anyway – have both of them over, tell them what's going on and tell them that I want at least one of them to visit you every day to make sure your well and safe and as happy as possible. That you're not clawing the walls. I trust Pigsley, of course, but a second and third set of eyes can't hurt."

He heard Billie sigh loudly. "And what can't I tell them – that's really the question isn't it?"

"Tell them... tell them everything, Mina. I don't think it matters."

"Henry?"

"What?"

"Tell my brother that I am not speaking to him."

"Which one?"

"What do you mean?"

"Edward or Douglas?"

"I forgot about Edward. What is it? What's wrong?"

Henry had let out a small cry. "I have to go!" he whispered sharply. "There's someone outside the door!" He hung up the telephone and slowly looked over his bed to see Douglas slipping into the room.

"What did she tell you?"

"Who?"

"Henrietta! I saw you two chatting away!" Douglas had shut the door and bolted it.

"She... she's only met me a few times and is practically blackmailing me! I think she knows about Billie – or at least had a strong enough suspicion!" Henry said while flailing his arms.

"They got to you too?"

"Yes! I think –"

"Oh, there's never really a think about it. They either have you cornered or they don't. They aren't very sly about it. If she's blackmailing you – she wants you."

Henry groaned and pushed himself up. "Mina isn't speaking to you, by the way."

"You were talking to Billie? Why – I don't even –"

"I can't call her? Oh – but don't worry – she's just fine. She is now in tears because I lied to Henrietta and said we were in a row in case your future father-in-law happens to think he's going to be become mine as well!"

"I've made a right mess," said Douglas.

"No. You didn't make it, to be honest. From what Henrietta said, you were merely a sitting duck who happened to quack at Daisy."

"Yes... quack. Do you remember the night you and Billie met her?"

Henry nodded.

"That was the day I met her. I had passed her while walking down the street. She dropped her bag. I picked it up. She wanted to thank me with a cup of tea because she swore any old burglar could have taken it and..."

"Dear God she's worse than a leech... is there anything worse than a leech that I can compare her to?"

"At the moment my brain isn't tuned to metaphors," snapped Douglas. "It is tuned to thinking of how exactly I'm to get out of this."

"We're to get out of this, you mean." Henry thought for a moment. "Then... wait a mo'...you said you loved Margery earlier... if Daisy –"

Douglas was finally able to speak without interruption. "Margery and I have been having an affair for a few years now."

"Yes, and?"

"I mean, a legitimate affair. Three years."

"Really? Consistent and everything?"

Douglas nodded.

"Impressive."

"I think it was the thought of Olive that brought us together again."

"How positively drippy – as Mina would say."

"Yes... Margie had sent a recent picture with a letter about how her Aunt Millicent was forcing her to put Olive in a boarding school – her Aunt was threatening to tell her husband about the girl. I came to London to talk to her and well... anyway, Margery was going to divorce Harold quietly, but then the whole murder thing came up and put a bit of a spin on everything. I had to stop visiting all together as to keep any rumors out of the press. But, we kept in touch and figured that when everything hushed we'd get married as we had planned to, if she had divorced him."

"And everything would be perfect, hm?"

"Well... no. I mean... with Margie and me it never really is, is it? We'd have a bit of explaining. We were going to pretend we were cross with each other, you see, like usual. Then slowly pretend to come to our senses –"

"Billie knew nothing of this?" Henry said with a sense of shock.

"Surprisingly, no."

"How'd she miss it?"

"Margie and I did start properly around the same time you and Billie became keen on each other. She was probably distracted."

"How do you start an affair properly?"

"I've been choosing the wrong words today..."

"So your meeting with Margery really didn't go well at all, did it?"

"She wouldn't let me explain."

"Douglas, even if she did, do you think she'd believe you? I wouldn't have, if Henrietta hadn't started at me tonight."

"How much did you tell Billie?"

"All that I knew – she's probably just figured out the Margery thing herself now – not the affair –"

"No, she'll probably catch that. She's alone in your flat with your valet and her mind for company. She'll come to the conclusion by midnight, I haven't any doubt."

"What good will it do, though?"

"Absolutely none."
Chapter Fifteen

Olive was quick to eat her breakfast and she slyly ducked away from Mrs. Graham by leaving through the staff door in her bathroom. Outside Millford Lodge, the air was just beginning to part a thick fog before her. The ground was harder than usual, which Olive was grateful for – she could move faster and her shoes attract less dirt.

Wandering down a main road was far easier than wandering through a path of trees – you had a very good sense of right and wrong on a road. It was right to stay on it and it was wrong to go off of it. Olive did have her doubts about direction though for she had been walking for about half of an hour and she had seen nothing but trees, fog, and the road before her.

But then, the small steeple of the church cut through the fog and the closer she strolled, the more she could make out the small cemetery that Wat had spoken of the day before. Excited, she hurried her pace.

"Wat! Wat!" she called out to the boy who was sitting on the ground in front of a large gravestone with a red wagon beside him.

He turned to her and put a finger to his lips.

"What's wrong?" Olive asked as she slipped through the fence and joined Wat at the grave. Inside the wagon she saw several torn sheets of wax paper, a piece of charcoal, a pencil, and what looked to be a folder of some sort.

"Reverend Waters banned anyone who didn't have relatives in the cemetery from it. I shouldn't be here. We have to keep quiet or he'll find us."

"What are you doing?"

"Grave impressions."

Olive looked around and saw there were only about twenty stones to impressions of – surely he had run out some time ago. "Haven't you done them all?"

"Yes. But my dad doesn't know that. He likes whatever I send him."

"Oh."

"And I found out about your dad last night. The murdering one I mean."

"Did you?"

Wat nodded. "Lord Bramton told me. He was shaken up about something and probably would have told me anything, if I asked to get me to go away."

"Well... he isn't my dad anymore, is he? And I wouldn't care if he was anyway. I didn't really know him."

"Didn't you?"

Olive shook her head and sat down on the ground. "I go away to school – or used to. St. Wilma's school for girls. I'm there for most of the year."

"I've never gone away to school. I've always had a stupid tutor."

"I have one of those now."

"Awful aren't they?"

Olive nodded. "Why do you send your dad graves?"

Wat shrugged. "Nothing else to do here, really. There ain't any children in Pearshire."

"Really?"

Wat nodded. "Dad sent me here when I was a baby and he started to go crazy."

"You're dad's crazy?"

"Yeah... that's what everyone says. He dropped me off here before he went to a special hospital." Wat turned to Olive and with all seriousness said: "He sees ghosts."

"What? Really?"

Wat nodded again. "Only one, really. His brother. But it's enough to certify him as a loony, I guess."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

For a while Wat didn't say anything. Olive had forgotten why they had to meet, but, after staring at Wat rubbing the charcoal on the wax paper, she remembered.

"So this Daisy –"

"A right twat but Douglas is engaged to her anyhow. We can't let them get married. You said something about your mother yesterday –"

"I think I may have been wrong."

"What?"

"She went on and on last night about how two people who are very unalike don't get along all the time."

"Yes, but everyone knows that."

"But she said that's what her and Mr. Bramton are like – they don't get along all the time and I don't think they're getting along now. See – she didn't want to go to dinner on Friday – she said it's because she thinks everyone is going to talk about my father... well, her husband, I guess is what I should call him. But I know it's because of Mr. Bramton. She looked very cross with him when he dropped me off yesterday and followed him right out of the house. I don't know my mother very good, but the way she walked suggested she was going to yell."

"Did you hear her yell?"

Olive shook her head. "No. Aunt Margot took me upstairs to change."

"It doesn't matter much, I think. The only thing I'm worried about is Douglas and Daisy. Your mum is only there to help."

"What do you mean?"

"Well obviously they had to be in love at some point, if you were born."

"Mummy could have just asked the stork –"

"No, two people have to be in love for a baby to be born. Henry and Billie are having one and they're in love."

"Henry and Billie are going to have a baby?"

"But you can't tell anyone! That's a great secret too!"

"There are lots here, aren't there? Secrets?"

"Oh yes."

"Why don't you want my father marrying Daisy, then? You never said why."

"I don't like her."

"That's it?"

"Her dad took away my cigarettes and gave me a right beating on my bum for it. Even Lord Bramton doesn't hit that hard. And before that – before you were in the garden – I heard her talking about how she was going to take over Bramton Hall. She's a right loony – a real loony. I like Bramton Hall as it is – she can't go changing it."

"I'm sorry."

Wat shrugged.

"I may have convinced mummy to go to the dinner though. Maybe that will still work."

"Maybe. If it doesn't, though, I've thought of another plan just in case."

Wat went through the details of what he titled 'Plan B' and, in honesty, Olive liked it far more than trying to convince her mother to love Douglas again without any reason. But Wat was in favor of using her mother and that was the way it seemed that his 'Master Plan' was going to work.

"You can go now, you know. You just have to make sure your mum comes to the dinner."

"I don't want to go back yet. Mrs. Graham has French waiting. Can I do what you're doing?"

"If you like."

Olive took the extra piece of charcoal from the wagon and a piece of wax paper. "Tell your dad I made it for him."

Wat wasn't listening anymore.

Olive huffed. "I'm loosing my valet, you know."

"Your what?"

"Mummy's husband's valet's found a new post. He's a very good friend of mine and now he's leaving. I won't have any friends."

"That's sad."

Olive wanted Wat very badly to say that she was his friend but he did not. She huffed again. "Yes, it's very sad. I cried for a while."

"You should get him something – a going away gift."

"Like what?"

Wat shrugged. "Something useful. I don't know."

McNaulty never ate breakfast. The closest he ever came to it was drinking a glass of several raw eggs. He thought the taste was fine, the texture a bit odd, but his stomach was upset by the early feast.

So, instead of joining the family for some toast and jam, he had himself shown into Lord Bramton's study where he decided to wait for him to go over the architecture plans for the new hothouse and the refurbishment of the old.

He was told Bramton would be less than an hour, but, in truth, he wasn't more than ten minutes, entering his study with the newspaper under his arm, toast in his mouth, and tea in his hand.

He spit out the toast seeing McNaulty.

"Sorry, your Lordship, did I frighten you?" McNaulty asked, standing quickly out of respect.

"No – no. My nerves are merely on the mend from last night."

"Ah, yes. The knife."

Bramton shivered. "It was, strangely, the sum of all my problems flying at me in material form."

"I don't –"

"Never mind. Plans for the hothouses?"

"Yes – which would you like to see first?"

"Er – the new hothouse. I'll see what Penelope thinks of it before she runs off to London on Sunday."

"Right." McNaulty unrolled the blueprint onto Bramton's desk. Bramton put his teacup on one edge to hold it down. "Simple rectangular structure," McNaulty explained. "An angled roof to allow for drainage – hinged windows around the perimeter. I wanted to stay very basic."

"Yes, I see."

"Any input, your Lordship?"

Bramton hardly cared about the hothouse so he said the plan was perfect and wanted to see the next to get McNaulty out of his private room.

"It's a bit more complicated given the dimensions of the old hothouse," McNaulty explained, unrolling the second plan on top of the first. "You see I've had to expand –"

"Yes, yes. McNaulty, do whatever you see fit it. I trust you more than myself in this subject."

McNaulty was a bit taken back by Bramton's swiftness – from what he knew of the man, this was hardly his way of business. He said nothing about cost, or time, or labor – nothing a normal person would ask when they were having two structures worked on.

"Did the knife incident startle you that much, your Lordship?"

"What? Oh... yes... yes, it did, actually. I don't like the idea of having my son marrying into that family – don't go repeating that."

"Of course not, your lordship."

"Your father doesn't throw knives – now that's a good man."

McNaulty smiled wide. "Yes."

Bramton realized what he had said and what he had encouraged. His head hurt too much to think about what he had done to his daughter and to the man before him.

"My father," McNaulty went on to say, "wished to come with me – he did."

"I'm sure."

"I was sad to hear your daughter would not be home. Perhaps the construction, though, will carry on until she come back?"

"Perhaps."

"Very good, your Lordship." McNaulty gathered his plans and rolled them into one tube. "I'll leave you to your morning."

Olive felt rather alone walking back from the cemetery. The walk became a little boring, the trees became repetitive. She was glad to see Millford Lodge looming before her and the garden empty to her knowledge. She ran towards it but slipped to a stop when she heard voices.

"Yes, I particularly like the cut of his hedge," came her grandfather's voice. "Very rounded – took ages to learn how to get it just right."

"And you do this yourself, sir?"

"Potter?" Olive mouthed to herself.

"Oh yes. I haven't let a gardener touch this darling in years. Don't plan on having one either."

"To have space for a proper garden..."

"Perhaps your new employer has a country home – do you know?"

"That I do not, actually."

"Well, if he does not then you are most welcome to visit on your holidays if you ever would like a garden to mingle in. I'm sure Margery and Olive wouldn't mind your company, either."

"Thank you, sir."

Olive heard them return inside. She let herself slowly sink into the grass while she caught her breath.

She blinked.

She thought eyes were looking at her for a moment but then she realized it was actually the painted eyes of a small garden gnome, hidden in tulips.

An idea hit Olive.

A very good idea.

"Olive, where on earth have you been?" Margery asked as Olive poked her head out of her room to see if anyone was coming down the corridor.

Olive gasped in surprise.

"I... I –"

"I almost had them out looking for you again! Were you hiding?"

Olive was quick on her feet. "Yes. I was. Mummy – I don't want to practice French so early! Why must it be so early?"

"Early to bed, early to rise –"

"Oh, mummy!"

"Olive, must I punish you for such behavior?" And this was the perfect moment in Margery's mind. She smiled, in fact, as she said it, which made Olive even angrier when she did. "I believe I should. We will not be attending the dinner on Friday – and that is that. I've put the matter to rest."

"But mummy!"

"No 'but's – hurry up and head to the nursery – Mrs. Graham has been waiting long enough."

Margery felt the first thrill of reprimanding her daughter, though she did acknowledge it was far from the right reason.

"I didn't sleep last night," said Henry, lighting another cigarette as he and Douglas hid in the only part of the attic they could squeeze into now.

Surrounded by old portraits and furniture and knickknacks covered in white sheets, they sat together playing cards by the round window that was letting in a bit of sunlight and dust.

"Scared?" asked Douglas. "I haven't been sleeping at all."

"No. Worried. I thought about the knife hitting me. Then I fell asleep and dreamt about it hitting Mina and then I woke up in a panic. I called Mina –"

"How is she?"

"Not crying anymore, thankfully. She was a bit cross I woke her up but then she remembered everything that was happening and told me to get off the phone before I was caught. Would you like to know something horribly depressing?"

"Why not?"

"That McNaulty fellow is probably the happiest – beyond the Smith maniacs – in this house right now."

"That's horrible. But huzzah for him, I guess."

"I know. Smoke?"

"Thanks. I gave my case to Wat so he'd tell me about Billie."

"I was going to tell you."

"Were you?"

"Only part of it for sure – only that she was there. She left it up to me about the whole baby thing. I was still wavering on that. Are you really angry with me?"

"No. I suppose not. It's not a thing to really get angry about – is it?"

"I haven't asked her to marry me."

"Are you going to?"

Henry shrugged.

"Well that's as close to a 'yes' as you've ever come on the subject."

"What about Margie, though? You asked her, didn't you?"

"It was more of a mutual agreement – part of the plan, I guess. I don't think an elaborate proposal would have been right as she was still married at the time. Anyway, can't think of that at the moment – I've got a predicament to get out of first."

"Better hope she stays in Pearshire, then."

"Oh, no. I hope the opposite. It's safer if she goes away."

"True. Well, Olive anyway."

"Yes. Olive." Douglas had stopped shifting his cards. "Did you see her?"

"Who?"

"Olive?"

"Yes. I saw her the day they got here."

"Do you think she looks anything like me? A sentimental question but..."

Henry thought for a moment – mostly on what Douglas wanted to hear balanced with the truth of the matter which landed him in this conclusion: "She's got your hair."

Penelope thanked Margery for the cup of tea she poured and settled back in Millford Lodge's parlor. Millicent was in the room as well and Margot stood near the window looking out – both there to hear the gossip they assumed Penelope brought.

"I only stopped by to get away from the noise," said Penelope with long sip of her hot tea. "Last night was a bit too much for me."

"I still can't believe it," said Margery for Penelope had told them about the Duke's outburst over dinner.

"No. Neither can I. That's why I'm here as well – I'm giving you a warning about Friday. Margery, perhaps you should stay home with Olive. I don't know what this man's temperament is like but I'd hate for you or Olive to be in the fire after such a trying time in London."

Margery tried to hide a strange happiness – she hadn't wanted to go to the dinner to begin with but then it had been a rather dangerous situation that granted her the reprieve. She would have to lighten Olive's punishment – it seemed only fair. At least she thought so. Mothering was still a work in progress for Margery. "Thank you, Lady Bramton. I was going to say it is a bit soon for –"

"Oh, I understand. I planned the dinner before I knew I'd be in Pearshire for so long. I was going to go to my sister's as usual – even a bit early perhaps – but Douglas asked me to stay and well... there is something up with that boy."

"What do you mean?" asked Millicent sharply.

Margot turned from the window and waited for Penelope to reply – snappishly, of course.

"Beyond the lunatic he's going to have for a father-in-law?"

Millicent went quiet at Penelope's tone though her eyes did thin a bit.

"You're going to London on Sunday, though?" Margot asked, keeping a conversation going.

"Yes. Just for a week."

"Business or pleasure?" asked Millicent.

"A bit of both," replied Penelope.

She was also not a fan of the old woman, if one was unable to tell.

Chapter Sixteen

"And that's all happened just in the past few days?" Anne Floyd was sitting comfortably with a cup of tea in one of the armchairs in Henry's London flat. She was not far from Billie's age and made of similar stuff – her hair was a bit lighter and she wore rather thick round glasses, but those were the only real differences.

And she wasn't pregnant, of course.

"Yes and my head is positively spinning. But you can't tell a soul." Billie claimed the sofa and no one would deny her it. She looked absolutely exhausted even if she hadn't left the apartment. Her mind was running marathons and she had been hardly sleeping.

Anne shook her head to say 'of course, not one soul,' but Walter Floyd interrupted.

"I think it's more shocking Henry let you have Piglsey."

"Yes, I can't believe you managed that," Anne said as Walter had a seat on the arm of her chair.

Floyd was very much the opposite of Anne. He was quite tall and imposingly well built with thick graying hair – about twenty-thirty odd years her senior, as well, but their relationship was not very different from that of Henry and Billie.

Except that they were married.

And Floyd was American.

Their story was far more romantic than Henry and Billie's, as well. And a rather needed tangent from the mess of Pearshire – so, I will take it. Floyd, a well known and respected producer in theatre (he was, in fact, Henry's current producer) happened to one day sit in on West End chorus line auditions several years back. Anne had tried out but, despite a rather impressive resume, was cut for missing several obvious steps. It was chance they passed in the lobby: Anne accidentally ran into him, thinking he was part of the door since she wasn't very tall and he was, so her sight never reached his face. Her sight, in fact, never could distinguish a lot for, slowly, she was losing it, which is why she missed several steps in her audition. Floyd, feeling that her collision and subsequent tumble backwards was his fault, treated her to lunch and, during it, Anne explained that losing eyesight ran in the family and that for years she had been able to follow traditional steps by the way they sounded. Her hearing was impeccable – so impeccable, Floyd later discovered, that she had perfect pitch. And, for someone like Floyd who worked in theatre and knew that success depending on even the smallest of things, pitch was something rather important. The relationship was a business one at first – she accompanied him to meetings with his more musical clients – but quickly turned romantic. After a little over two years, they married in New York and travelled back and forth from Broadway to the West End managing cliental.

And there ends our pleasant digression, I am sorry to say.

"It was heat of the moment wit," Billie admitted. "Floyd, you ought to at least have a cup of tea."

"I'm still trying to adjust to the time. But, thanks, Billie."

"He spends most of the boat over sick in the cabin so he really never adjusts right until a few days pass," Anne explained further. "His nights and days mix up on the sickbed."

"Sugar upsets my stomach. I wait a week."

"Usually."

"Usually."

Billie sometimes had a hard time telling who was speaking. Of course, the voices were different – very different – but the way they carried on a conversation with someone else was as if they were a single person.

"You can't be cooped up in this flat, though," Anne said. "We'll think of things to do."

"The issue is that father has friends everywhere. I swear, sometimes they are worse than staff with gossip. Once – and I am not making this up – once, I was walking in Hyde Park alone. No one spoke to me. It was just a stroll. A pleasant, bright day. I received a call from father that very evening scolding me that I ought not to walk alone in town because it's incredibly dangerous and I could have been murdered. His friend, who is an MP, saw me while walking with his family. He thought enough to alert my father to the fact I was simply walking in the park on my own. I can't risk being randomly seen now. Father will know something is up."

"Then why are you in London?" Floyd asked.

"Henry claims it's closer. I suppose it is easier to get to, but I am going to go mad having to look at the same walls for the next few months."

"London was the only option?" Anne asked.

"Heat of the moment bad decision."

"You could still move," said Floyd. "It'd fit with your 'traveling' story, anyway."

"Not for at least a week or two, though. Mummy's found out about the... situation and is coming for a visit. Plus, staying here is how I weaseled Piglsey."

"Your mom'll say the same thing. Leave. I'll bet anything she will," Floyd said while trying to muffle a yawn. "Sorry, Billie. You're not boring. I'm just exhausted."

"You should actually feel quite special," Anne joked, "the big oaf got out of bed just to come see you. He won't get out of bed to check in on half his business. I spent the better part of yesterday doing his job."

"Yes, but you've always had a hand it in ever since we met."

"But I'm not your secretary. You have a secretary."

"Why didn't you have her do it then?"

"We came back a day early and she was still on holiday. Oh, you are completely forgetful when you're in this state. I don't know why I bother."

"Better you made the calls than me, then." He bent over and kissed the top of her head as she pretended not to notice, though Billie saw her smile.

"Why did you come back early?" Billie asked, hoping a subject change might take her mind off the troubles at home but also how she was now missing Henry horribly.

"Chasing Henry," Anne said, though Floyd nudged her. "What? That is what you're doing, Walter, and it's silly hiding it."

"It's a good offer for a transfer," explained Floyd. "I know how Henry doesn't like to think of the complicated part, but it's just something to consider. They're interested in his work in New York. He could make a decent profit."

"As long as he's in the block he's in, I don't think he'll be in the mood to try and make deals."

"No, I wouldn't think so now."

"But we're staying in London," said Anne. "Well – England. At least until the end of summer. There isn't anything in New York that's pressing. Henry's decision doesn't need to be immediate. We rather wanted to escape to the country at some point just for a holiday."

"Avoid Pearshire at all costs," Billie quipped. "I can't even imagine..."

Henrietta had made herself quite comfortable in her window seat – in her dressing gown and book on hand – when she heard a knock at her door.

"Come in," she said – her voice monotone and bored.

Daisy entered, shutting the door a bit dramatically. "Did you really ask daddy for that?"

"For what?" Henrietta asked, flipping a page of her book. "You'll have to be more specific."

"For... for that Scottish man!"

"Henry Dermot is Irish, Daisy. And yes. I did. I have enough information on him to keep him quite in my clutches."

Daisy's face paled. "You're awful."

"Awful?"

"I was supposed to get married first!"

"Henry hasn't proposed."

But still, Daisy broke into tears. "But he will!" she cried. "He will because daddy will make him and you'll be vindictive and make your wedding earlier than mine! Won't you?"

"I don't quite know yet."

"Henrietta!"

Henrietta rolled her eyes. "If I say I won't, will you let me have a quiet morning?"

"Are you still going to go after him then? Even if I marry Douglas first?"

"Why not? I've already set the ball in motion – haven't I?"

Daisy thought for a minute then sat on her sister's bed.

"What sort of information did you find out about Mr. Dermot?"

"Not about him. And it's none of your business. I thought you said if I pushed the wedding back, you'd give me a quiet morning?"

Daisy pouted, but did as her sister had bargained for anyway. Not without shutting the door, once again, dramatically.

Floyd fell onto the sofa the moment he and Anne arrived home. He didn't feel as though he could make it to the bedroom. Anne sighed and lifted his head, putting a pillow under it.

"Do you want crackers, maybe?" she asked, stroking his face. "Settle your stomach?"

"I want sleep."

"But if you keep sleeping you'll mistake day for night and where would that leave you? I'll fetch some crackers. You need to eat something."

"I'm surprised 'crackers' was your first thought. I was sure you'd start talking about Dermot's current situation."

"Mmm," Anne sat on the small area of sofa that wasn't taken up by Floyd's body. She took of her glasses, folded them, and placed them on the coffee table as she didn't need them in her own home. "Yes. I don't quite know what to make of it though. There's nothing either of us can do beyond keeping Billie sane. It's all rather... dramatic. Silly even. I'm not making light of it at all but it seems no one steps back to look at the situation as a whole... then again not everyone knows every detail – even us – so I suppose that isn't an option. And the Duke's family isn't really helping your American compatriots."

"Did we meet them? I feel like we have."

"You did. Yes. A dinner back in New York. Remember? The reservations had to have three seats added the night we were to go out with Billie's brother Douglas. I stayed home ill with a headache."

"I remember the headache."

"You and Henry did get quite drunk. You probably don't remember much. I forget what time you stumbled in, but it was early morning. From what you did say, the Duke certainly doesn't seem like the knife-slinging type, but then again I wouldn't put it past him either. His daughters were... well... different. From what Billie says, they seem to be just as dreadful as their father. Possibly worse."

"Hah!" Floyd adjusted himself on the sofa, knocking Anne off as he did.

"Hey!" Anne stood but Floyd grabbed her arm before he could leave.

"What are we going to do – we need to do something. She said Henry had her call us and – as he is my client – I feel obliged to help. As friends – more so."

"Well..." as Anne thought, Floyd gently pulled her back to him. "A business call."

"A business call?"

"To Henry. Make one. Say you need him to come to town." Anne sat on the space Floyd now made for her. "I think – if Billie needs anything right now – it is Henry. It's gone a bit beyond a secret child and an unfortunate engagement. Plus, the sooner Henry is away from that one daughter the better."

"All right. Sounds like a plan. And it gives her more reason to still be in London, I guess."

"Exactly. I'm going to get your crackers, all right?"

"I don't feel like crackers."

"You're not sleeping. I'll turn the radio on – out of your reach –"

"That's impossible, isn't it?"

"Oh hush – I will keep you awake."

"I'm not going to go to sleep. Just give me a kiss."

Anne smiled and kissed him. There was more than one way to keep him awake – though she'd need crackers as a back up in any case.

When Thursday arrived, it felt as though the whole town had been wound to its very peak and at any moment would burst into a thousand melodies as a thousand music boxes would if wound so tightly and released.

Charles was sad to go – Olive's long embrace made it the worse and his fleeting glimpse of Margot tore at him the whole way to the train station. Standing alone on the platform, he began to think about what he would do when he arrived back in London.

Read a book at his desk, perhaps.

Tend to his garden.

He felt something sink inside.

"Great, thanks, Floyd. Yes – I'll be on the train by Saturday. I know – it's an important document – I'll get there as soon as I can."

"What's that?" Douglas stopped in the doorway of Henry's room – it was wide open and Henry had been talking into the receiver rather loudly.

"Business," Henry said with a wide grin. "Floyd. My producer. Pressing business in London."

"London? You're going back to London?" Douglas hurried into the room and shut the door. "You can't leave me!" he shouted in a whisper. "You can't leave your little... project!"

"Project? Project? What project? If I recall correctly, I never began the project of warming your father to me and – frankly right now – that will be the least of our troubles. So the project has ceased."

"So you're going to run away to London and leave me?"

"That's the gist, yes." Henry never let go of his smile. "You can fester in the mess. I will be leaving Saturday – which gives me enough time to make sure Henrietta is resolved to my leaving and –"

"How long does a document take to sign?"

"Excuse me?"

"You said – loudly and I'm sure that was for good reason – that you had to go to sign something. It doesn't take ages to sign a document. In truth, you could be up and back in the same day."

"You..." Henry tried to think quickly. "You don't know that it's just a document!"

"What else could it be?"

Henry stuttered. "I... um..."

"Because they will ask you. If you're gone for more than a week, they'll ask you what you're doing. You realize that, don't you?"

"And I suppose you won't be helping me? Make some sort of excuse that I get distracted easily in town or I was detained by something else?"

"No." Douglas crossed his arms. "No – because you need to come back here and help me straighten this mess out! In fact, I wouldn't be surprised, come Monday, if I weren't the one to ask why you were taking so long!"

"You wouldn't do that to your sister – think of Billie, Douglas – think of your little sissy!" Henry was trying to play his cards and it seemed this one was in his winning hand.

Douglas stopped the pacing he had taken up and simply said: "A week, then. A week and maybe a half but I can't cover you for more than that. I need Billie speaking to me again. Get her speaking to me and maybe I can get you two weeks. Mother's going isn't she? I can have her stall."

"We're in agreement then?"

Douglas nodded – though it was a very begrudged nod. He did not want to have to deal with the Smith family for two weeks on his own.

In the country.

Where no one could tell you've been murdered with an axe in your sleep until the smell of your decaying body is strong enough to reach the next town.

"You have to call – daily – to make sure they haven't killed me."

"Don't be that dramatic... yet. Anyhow, I am still here until Saturday. Who knows what will happen between now and then."

And Friday seemed to latch onto Thursday like a vampire to its human prey. Bramton Hall began to bustle with the thought of guests and Daisy's cooing seemed to have permanently embedded itself in the walls. After thinking Douglas had been spending far too much time with Henry before his departure, Henrietta had her father do his best to accidentally shoot the playwright when the men went on a hunting party in the morning.

And though he did his best, Henry returned to Bramton Hall alive only with a grazed ear.

Douglas got the hint as well, it seemed, and strolled through the meek garden that morning with Daisy on his arm.

"We'll get a gardener, I believe. Your mother says you do not have one."

"No. Billie cared for it for a while and Sir Millford always found it fun to pick at, but it's not a very important feature –"

"Oh, it certainly is. We must have a garden."

"Of course." Douglas found he had been agreeing an awful lot these days – he rather missed the odd verbal row but Daisy wasn't very adept at it. He was beginning to think Margery's anger the other day was, in a word, refreshing.

"Anyway, your brother is very excited over Miss Waters coming for dinner tonight."

"Yes, but which Miss Waters is the question. Good morning, Mr. McNaulty."

McNaulty bowed in acknowledgement of the two and returned inside from his own stroll with his own thoughts. McNaulty, once he was settled in a place, was able to unwind much easier. He could let his true self show – though his true self was often masked by his rather gruff voice. He often pondered whether that was a pro or a con of his life.

As he passed the dining room, something out of the corner of his eyes caught his attention.

He had extremely good eyes. His eyes, one could say, were as impeccable at seeing as Anne Floyd's ears were at hearing.

Two maids sat inside the room, writing out the placeholders for each guest and setting them according to Lady Bramton's plans.

Picking up one of these placeholders, McNaulty's brow furrowed.

"Something the matter, sir?" asked one of the maids.

McNaulty looked up. "Who wrote this?"

"I did, sir," said the same one with a smile.

The placeholder was suddenly crunched in McNaulty's fist as he bounded out of the room. The poor maid looked very confused and turned to her friend, who only shrugged her shoulders.

To his room he charged, throwing open the door like thunder throws clouds and unlatched the briefcase on the writing desk provided.

"Sir?" his valet had left the bathroom and saw his master's distress.

"Shut the door," McNaulty ordered.

Finally, he found what he was looking for: the love letters from Billie. He pulled one out of the pink ribbon he had tied them up in and smoothed it onto the writing desk in his room. He then did his best to smooth the placeholder as well beside the letter.

The 'Angus's matched.

On the address on the envelope the 'Mr's and the 'McNaulty's matched as well.

"What's wrong, sir?"

McNaulty suddenly let out a powerful shout and the writing desk fell on its side, the fake letters slipping from the twine and over the floor. All at once the Thursday music boxes began to play – louder and louder until McNaulty was holding his ears with a terrible migraine of confusion.

A lot apparently could happen between the time Henry marked while with Douglas and the oncoming Saturday.

"Christ almighty!" Henry shouted as his ear was dressed. "That man shouldn't have been allowed near a shotgun!"

"I said I was sorry," said Bramton. "Who was I to stop him? He threw a bloody knife at me! Besides, he didn't do it on purpose –"

"You don't think he did?"

Bramton knew the Duke had, but he shrugged his shoulders anyway in his usual feigned disgust for Henry.

"I should play sick for this evening."

"You can't."

"And why not?"

"You just told me, Dermot. I won't allow it."

"I don't want to be killed!"

"That's exaggerating the situation a bit, isn't it? Besides – you're leaving tomorrow. Stop complaining. Maybe you can convince my daughter – before she takes off to God knows where – that coming home is the smartest thing she could –"

"Bramton, that man and his daughters are –" Henry stopped speaking as the door to Bramton's study opened and Henrietta hurried in.

"My God, I just heard what happened!" Henrietta wrapped her arms around Henry. He began to look like a corpse – Bramton was at first delighted but then, as if angels had opened the heavens, he found reason nudged somewhere in his mind and began to feel a bit sorry. "Are you all right? Oh, your poor ear!"

Bramton cleared his throat. Henrietta looked at him.

"My father has horrible aim when he has things on his mind. Giving his youngest daughter away is... well..." she made a squeaky noise and turned back to Henry. "I'm going to take care of you for the rest of the day."

"I'm quite all right –"

"I insist!"

For a small girl, Henrietta could heave well and she heaved Henry right from his chair and onto his feet.

"I'll take good care of him, Lord Bramton, you'll see!"

"Perhaps... perhaps, you should let –"

"I said I'd take care of him, Lord Bramton! He's far better off in my hands!"

Olive was staring into space over her multiples when she heard a tap at the window. She hurried to it and saw Wat throwing stones from the garden.

"How'd you know this was my room?" Olive asked.

"Your grandfather told me."

"Oh."

"Can you come down?"

"I'm doing multiples and according to my mother I'm not allowed outside until next Wednesday."

"You've gotten yourself in trouble?"

Olive nodded.

"Can I come up?"

"She didn't say anything about that. Yes – come up!"

Olive had to wait only a few minutes for Wat found his way into the open door of the nursery.

"Close the door after you," Olive instructed, pretending that she had been hard at work when he entered.

"I heard Aunt Penelope tell Lord Bramton you and your mum weren't coming tonight."

"Hush your voice – and no."

"Why not?"

"I got in trouble for missing French."

Wat sighed and fell into the rocking chair nearby. "That's stupid."

"I know. Plan B, then?"

Wat shrugged his shoulders.

"Why not? It's the easier of the two!" Olive complained.

"You don't know Bramton Hall as well as I do –"

"You can teach me!"

"It's a bit rude to my dad, don't you think?"

Olive shook her head. "No. I don't. I think it's actually showing pride in your dad, if you ask me."

"How so?"

Olive went on to give her explanation and Wat listened as attentively as he could. He agreed – in fact, he had become far more energized about his plan than ever before.

"You know we could get in loads of trouble for it?"

"I know," said Olive with a grin. "What else is there to do around here, though, than save your uncle and my father from marrying that tart of a woman."

"Exactly."

They both heard someone coming and both knew that even if Margery hadn't said so – Wat should not be there.

"I'll go – wait, what did you give your butler friend?"

"Potter? The valet?"

Wat nodded.

"One of grandfather's garden gnomes. I hid it in his luggage so it would surprise him when he got to wherever he was going."

McNaulty had given the matter thought.

He had come up with an answer.

It wasn't the answer he wanted but it was the only plausible one.

"The maid who wrote this must have fallen in love with me," he said to his valet in a trance-like state. "She must have thought if she pretended she was Billie Bramton, I'd be more likely to reply... which I was... I've been exchanging sentiments of love to a bloody scullery maid!"

"I don't think she was a scullery maid, sir, if she was not –"

"Don't correct me! I should be furious! But then... how did Bramton know to invite me right when Billie seemed ready to accept a proposal?"

"Coincidence, sir?"

"Damn coincidence!"

"It is the only way to explain it, sir."

"I suppose... but I can't leave now that I've shown him the plans and given him my word on their construction... it will have to be a job... just like any other. Now that I've made a fool out of myself –"

"Sir, I don't think anyone –"

"Oh, they knew! Cheeky bastards in this house – they knew!"

"You must tell me," said Margery, watching as Margot's hair was styled for the evening, "everything that happens."

"Of course. If I come back alive, that is."

"Watch out for flying cutlery. Use Auntie Millicent as a shield."

Margot laughed. "How is Olive?"

"Miserable. I've started to feel terrible for punishing her – especially since she didn't tell anyone I left her in the woods. Not the other way around. I did lighten the punishment somewhat – though she probably hasn't noticed that I haven't had Mrs. Graham constantly sitting in with her." Margery lay on her sister's bed and began to unwrap a toffee she had slipped into her pocket that morning from her father's study.

"Well, she did wander off the other morning. You had every right to be worried after the other day."

"She's very angry about not going tonight. I think she made quick friends with Bramton's nephew."

"When she's finished with her punishment she can play with him – Margie, you can't feel bad about being a mother to your child. Are you sure you won't come?"

"Oh, not in a million years!" Margery sad through a toffee-full mouth.

Penelope had, like Henry, thought of feigning sick. If she hadn't a dozen puzzles to figure out concerning her children, she would have but she felt as though Douglas needed her there.

It was her motherly instinct and Penelope had one of the best motherly instincts in the world.

"Come in," she called out to the knock at her door.

Edward entered, dressed in a clean and pressed suit with his hair combed over nicely.

"Hello, Eddie. I do forget you're here sometimes. Do you need something?"

"I... I think I'm going to propose to Miss Waters tonight, mother."

Penelope turned quickly around in her seat.

"What?"

"Yes. I've decided."

"Which one?"

"Well... whichever one I get alone first and ask. Mother, there's really no telling them apart except for when you call out a name. Should it matter which one I marry?"

"It should matter very much! Eddie, you don't just marry whichever twin is more convenient!"

"Then what should I do?"  
"Wait for the right girl, that's what!"

"But it is one of those twins! Mother, you are impossible – just as father said!"

Edward left the room, slamming the door behind him. Penelope let herself sit still for a moment then realized that she couldn't deal with Edward's matrimonial issues – they were hardly issues compared to the knife-wielder waiting for a nice dinner downstairs.

And the dinner began.

Drinks first and then sitting in awkward silence around the table. Bramton at the head, Penelope across from him. On the right, Sir Millford and Millcent with Henry, Edward, and Douglas. On the left, the Smith family: the Duke between his daughters and the Reverend Waters beside them. The Waters twins sat next to each other – their very movements coordinated to the blink of an eye.

Edward smiled.

Douglas and Henry looked ill.

Margot looked across from her at McNaulty, who sat beside one of the twins, and thought to herself that he looked like a very cross man.

Millicent seemed to think nothing was wrong and the Duke was under the same cloud.

The Smith sisters glanced at their men now and then, adjoining it with a small hand-wave or toothy grin and giggle – the giggles all belonging to Daisy, of course.

Penelope had never looked down for so long in her life.

Bramton never saw his wife look so lost.

Sir Millford began to miss Margery – not that she would have made this table any happier. He also began to miss toffee.

And Reverend Waters sat with his glum little arms crossed and his eyes wandering to each person.

"None of you attend mass," he snapped, knocking the room out of its silence. "You'll all go to hell for it!"

And those were Reverend Waters' last words.

Something choked in his throat. His heart stopped.

He fell over into his fresh soup dish.

Chapter Seventeen

"Dead?" Billie said, her eyes wide with shock as her mother told her of the dinner once she had settled into Henry's flat with her daughter. "Dead, right on the table?"

"Yes. A heart attack, apparently. Henry delayed his visit until this evening as you know so he could help Douglas and your father sort things out with the proper authorities and such – make sure things go faster. He will be here tonight. But the vicarage is now vacant. The boys would be playing cricket on the lawn if it weren't for... well... everything."

"Oh dear..."

"Billie, do you know anything about Douglas's predicament? I know he does not love this girl – it's impossible – but I cannot figure out why he is marrying her."

Billie thanked Pigsley for the tea tray. "I don't know much beyond what you know now. We're not speaking, remember."

"But you do know something?"

"Insofar as the Duke is stark-raving mad, yes."

"Well I knew that."

"As you would say, add that up. Dougie is afraid to leave Daisy because of her father."

"Surely he can't have threatened anything that terrible – "

Billie opened her mouth to say 'Olive' but stopped. She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. I said I didn't know much. How is Henry?"

"I fear Henrietta may be trying to catch his eye."

"Oh, I heard. Let's not speak of it. It gets me very upset. And he'll be here tonight – as you said." Billie pushed herself up and looked for the biscuit tin that Henry kept on a nearby shelf.

"You don't trust Henry?"

"Oh, of course I do! What I meant was that I can't be there to give her a piece of my mind!" Billie let out a frustrated groan as she tried to reach the top shelf of a bookcase. "Henry is at least two feet taller than me, I've come to realize. Pigsley!"

"You're starting to show," said her mother.

"Yes, I noticed once I started wearing clothes that actually fit me. I was surprised no one noticed – I must have hid it quite well." Billie looked down at the small bump in her jumper. She patted it gently with one hand. "No, I suppose not. I am several months gone already. Hello, in there! Yes, we see you now!"

There was a knock at the door.

"That will be the Floyds – Pigsley!"

Pigsley came, apologetically, rushing into the room. He opened the door and a confused de-spectacled Anne stepped in with a large box tied with a bow. Floyd's voice called from the hall:

"Will someone take that from her?"

"Anne, what on earth is that?" Billie asked, turning around on the sofa to get a better look.

"Scones. I made them this morning before Walter's appointment at the Garrick so they're nice and fresh," Anne explained as Pigsley took the box from her.

"And she was a stubborn girl – she wouldn't let me carry them," said Floyd as he walked into the flat, shutting the door after him.

"They weren't heavy, Walter!"

"But you could have killed yourself on the stairs! You couldn't see them!"

"You took the stairs?" asked Billie.

"The lift is currently being fixed. It's stuck on the second floor according the man in your lobby," said Anne as Floyd helped her with her coat. "Is there someone else in the room?" She squinted. "Beyond Pigsley, I mean. I hear breathing and I know that's strange before you say it."

"Oh!" Billie had been distracted by the hurricane of banter that had just come through the door. "Yes – Floyd, Anne, this is my mother – Lady Bramton."

Walter was handing Anne her glasses now, which were in his coat pocket.

"Mum, this is Walter and Anne Floyd. Walter is Henry's producer – well, more than that I suppose. He does all the business parts – Henry just –"

"Writes," Floyd said joked.

"Exactly," Billie nodded.

"It's a pleasure to meet you." Floyd would have extended his hand but he still wasn't sure what the proper protocol was for these sorts of introductions so he let Anne do the talking.

"Oh, I'm sorry I called you a 'someone'!" she said now that she could see somewhat clearer. "It is lovely to finally meet you!"

Penelope returned the sentiments with a bright smile before Billie told the pair to sit somewhere and make themselves comfortable. The phone rang near them and Pigsley swooped in to answer it as usual. After a few 'yes, sir's he hung up and announced:

"Mr. Dermot's train will be arriving in two hours, Miss Bramton."

"Two hours? I thought he wasn't coming until the evening?"

Of course, what Billie didn't know, was that an early train was indeed necessary. Henrietta had already begun to question why Henry had to leave in the first place and even Douglas was getting uneasy.

Especially after the hunting 'accident.'

"It's one thing to ask," Douglas said as he waited at the train station with Henry late that morning, "why you don't just have the paper's sent. It's another to start fiddling with the question 'will you be lonely' – thank God you only got as far as 'no.'"

"She won't follow me to London... will she?"

"No... hopefully. but be on your guard is all I can say. Who knows who the Duke could have watching you. It's like father – he has eyes everywhere. Did you know one of his old MP friends called him one evening just to tell him he had seen Billie walking alone in a park? There are eyes everywhere in London – not just the Duke's."

"Then Mina was right."

"Hm?"

"She didn't want to be in London because she said she couldn't go out. I'd rather her in London though – it's closer, easier to get to, and there's a hospital – that's rather important. I'd be all for her going to the country somewhere but... all right, we didn't plan well. I guess it's not the time to think about that, though."

"How were you supposed to plan? And when has a single plan of anyone's worked so far? Anyway – get on the train and call me when you arrive. You have the entire trip to think of a reason that will delay you over a week."

"Floyd could think of one. Pigsley could too. I don't necessarily –"

"I don't quite care how you do it, but do it – a fortnight is the longest possible, but do try to keep it to a week and a half."

"Fine... fine. Will you be all right?"

"Relatively."

"Relatively?"

"I worked in an hour to go and see Margery. I'm going to try and sort things out. Explain. Get Olive out of Pearshire at least."

"Not a bad idea. In fact, one of your best so far, I'd venture to say. Ah – the train's coming. No time to ask you what that plan is."

"Well, hope that it works. A week and a half," Douglas repeated before his voice was drowned out by the loud whistle of the train and Henry's retort of: "Two weeks!"

It is now perhaps important to note that the Reverend Waters had not planned on dying that evening and as for those around him – it was quite clear that they had not planned on it either.

The women were horrified, the men speechless – the incident had strangely brought order to chaos for an evening.

That is, for all except Edward, who realized that with Reverend Waters at the vicarage, the Waters twins no longer had reason to stay in Pearshire.

He consulted his brother since his mother had already given her opinion and Henry, had luckily, left for London. Edward hoped he would get some advice from Douglas – some solid, brotherly advice.

"You are not asking either of them to marry you," said Douglas, taking a long puff of his cigarette.

Edward sat cramped in the attic hideaway Douglas and Henry had made, slouching under an old side-table, which was the only place he would fit. Douglas and Henry had made a rather crafty nest for themselves – filled with enough liquor and smokes to keep them happy for at least a month, or at best an hour out of the day with certain restrictions.

"It's rubbish. You don't need to put that sort of stress on our mother's mind, either."

"What sort of stress?"

"Oh – I don't know." Douglas got up and tried to open the window over one of the covered tables. "Maternal stress?"

"What makes you think –"

"Precisely."

"Precisely what?

"I think – I wonder if you ever do," muttered Douglas. "You can't tell the girls apart, Eddie. Be a least a little sensible here. If you're going to marry – do something more cliché. Love at first sight or some bullshit like that. Don't say you're going to marry whatever twin you happen to pass by first. We're likely to believe a clichéd move over a obviously stupid one."

"Why does everyone think I'm so stupid?"

"You haven't proved otherwise."

Angry and ready to throw a right tantrum for himself, Edward left the attic and then the house with all intents and purposes to ask one of the Waters twins to marry them before they left Pearshire for another uncle's in London, who had agreed to take them in as wards.

Well, marry one of them he meant, of course.

Whilst on his matrimonial rampage, he tore up some wild flowers for a pathetic little bouquet and ran his fingers through his hair like a comb. When he saw the vicarage ahead, he felt his top lip for the several hairs of his mustache and stormed on.

Outside the vicarage, furniture sat tied with ropes and luggage was gathering at the gate. Daisy and Henrietta had taken it upon themselves to help the two twins through their time of grief – though they had not asked – and offered to wait until their ride came. The girls could not stay in the vicarage a moment longer. It was too painful.

When the four women saw Edward, they stopped whatever they had been talking about and stood to greet him.

"No... no, sit," he said motioning for them to take the seats they had fashioned out of upturned trunks. "Er..." He looked at Daisy, then Henrietta – he hadn't thought of having an audience. "Er... Miss Smith, Miss Daisy – did you happen to know that Douglas and Henry have made themselves a fort in the attic?"

"A fort?" asked Henrietta. "How very childish."

"They didn't want to tell you – it –"

This was all Edward had to say to clear out the Smith sisters. Daisy ran along first – ready to put a stop to this 'fort.' Henrietta on the other hand, couldn't care less, but she followed her sister anyway, in case she happened to get lost.

That happened more often than anyone would admit.

The Waters twins now sat before him, both staring at him with their strange round eyes that were puffy from crying.

"I... I am so sorry for your loss," he said earnestly. "That is why... that is why..." he knelt on the ground between them. "Will you marry me?"

The twins' eyes grew wide.

"Will you marry me?" he asked again.

"Will you marry me, who?" asked Posey or Phyllis.

"Yes, who is it you're asking?" asked Phyllis or Posey.

"Er... well I was hoping one of you would just say yes and I... I... oh, dear..."

"I'm still sorry I missed it as morbid as that sounds," said Margery as she walked with Margot on a path that wound through the Millford estate. "Reverend Waters is actually gone..."

"It was frightening! I mean, I couldn't stand the man but to see him die?" Margot imitated having the chills. "Anyway, you'd think the boys would be happy but they're in... I don't know what to call it. I've never seen them so quiet."

"What do you mean?"

"Henry looked positively miserable – granted, Billie has gone away for a bit and I heard rumors they had a bit of a fight."

"Billie and Henry?"

Margot nodded.

"Billie wouldn't leave because of a fight – she's stubborn like her parents. And I don't believe Henry would let her. Besides, I know for a fact they were getting along just the other day. I spoke to Henry about Billie. They're not having a fight."

"That's what I said, but Henrietta Smith insists there was a fight and that Henry is doing his best to get over it."

"Get over it?"

"Strange, I know. But now he's going to sign some papers in London apparently but what it sounded like – to me at least – was that he was going to attempt to see Billie. If she's still there of course. He probably wouldn't have gone if she weren't. They must be having problems. And Douglas is another case entirely. He hardly said a word to me or father or anyone for that matter – he looked almost ill."

"Ill?"

"And to be honest with you, Margie, that girl he's gotten himself engaged to – I don't think he cares much for her. I know how happy that makes you –"

"Margot!"

"But I believe there is something up at the Bramton house – what it is, I do not know but what I can guess is that it has something to do with those Smiths."

"Smiths?"

"Daisy's family."

Margery looked ahead at the trail before them and let out a breath. "We should get back to the house. I promised Olive I'd look at her drawings before Mrs. Graham comes with her multiples."

Penelope rubbed the sides of her head – an action she had been doing a lot recently. She was hardly unpacked in London and she already had Edward on the telephone with her with a bloodied nose claiming Douglas had tackled him in the garden.

"Why would he tackle you, Eddie?"

"I was going to ask one of the twins to marry me."

"That's why he tackled you?"

Edward paused. "No."

"Then why?"

"I told the Smith sisters about the hideout in the attic."

"What hideout in the attic?"

"Douglas and Henry had a whole stash of booze and fags up there. I think they believe they're better than us, I do – having to –"

"Oh, be quiet, Eddie." Penelope sighed. "I'll have a talk with Douglas as soon as I can."

"You won't do anything? You won't punish him?"

"Eddie, Douglas almost forty. He may be forty for all I know. I hardly think I can send him to his room." Penelope moved towards the door with the receiver but stopped for a moment. "Did you get around to asking one of those girls to marry you?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"They told me I was a pig and inconsiderate to their feelings as I told them it didn't matter which said 'yes' – I would marry either."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"Well, darling, what did you expect? I have enough mind to believe that nose was given to you by one of them."

Chapter Eighteen

Margery had feigned and interest in Olive's caricatures and had escaped the house once again – for the first time truly alone and to herself. She took the same route she had taken with Margot but what her sister had said about Douglas' mood that last week worried some part of her.

She turned towards Bramton Hall.

Perhaps she should have let Douglas tell her –  
"Oh! I'm sorry!" Margery had walked straight into another person without realizing it.

"No – no, my fault entirely – are you all right?" McNaulty took hold of Margery's hand as she steadied herself.

"Yes, yes – the wind just got knocked out of me for a moment. You don't often run into people here."

"I can tell. Angus McNaulty." He was introducing himself.

Margery forced a smile, for she was still a bit shaken. "Margery Spencer. Well, Margery Millford now. I'm reverting back to it."

"Of the Millfords of Millford Lodge?"

"Yes. Sir Millford's my father. Have you heard of us?"

"I'm staying at Bramton Hall. I'm a guest of Lord Bramton's – I'm remodeling his hot house and building another."

"You're what?"

McNaulty repeated himself and Margery shook her head. "That's madness. Why is he doing that?"

"I don't know. I haven't quite figured it out. He's not the botanical type."

"Far from it. No – that's my father."

"Yes, I've heard about his garden."

"From whom?"

McNaulty was about to say 'Billie,' but as it wasn't Billie who had told him, he instead said it was Lord Bramton who did.

"He's envious but won't admit it. Lord Bramton's garden is hardly... hardly –"

"Prepossessing?"

"Just about," laughed Margery.

"I'd love to see it –"

"Would you like to, really, Mr. McNaulty? I'm use to giving the odd tour now and then."

"I could hardly impose on you, Mrs. Spencer."

Margery quite liked how he said her name even if it was gruff and even if he could be potentially murderous. "It's hardly imposing... follow me. Perhaps you can answer a question I have."

"What's that?"

Margery had thought of asking him about Douglas – he was staying at the house – but a voice inside fought against it.

"What were you doing on my father's property?" she asked instead.

"I got myself lost, to be honest. I was walking in the morning and went off the path."

"Oh, never go off the path. Still, it is quite hard to get yourself impossibly lost here in Pearshire – as seen by my very appearance. If you'd like a word of advice, though, if you do find yourself lost, keep walking up hill. It's the surest way to get to Bramton Hall and from there you can go were you please."

"I shall keep that in mind."

"Henry!" Billie cried as the Irishman walked through the door of his flat followed by Pigsley who had fetched him at the station.

Henry caught Billie in his arms and held her tight, kissing her cheeks then the top of her head. "It's hardly been a week," he said with a forced laugh. "Not even, in fact. I'll say it again, Mina dearest, you cannot live without me."

"Your coat, sir?" Pigsley said.

Henry quickly took off his coat and handed it to him, then dug into his pocket and produced a small paper bags. "Left over sweets," he said, pushing them into Billie's hand. "A gift for the baby."

"Left over sweets?" Billie said, peering into the bag. "A rubbish father you'll make!"

"Oh, I left some lovely bits of licorice in there! That's self restraint."

"You hate licorice."

"Ah, but I didn't throw it away!"

Billie smiled. "I'm sure the baby will thank you – as long as it likes licorice, which we'll find out, I suppose. Come with me for a moment – I must show you the stepping stool Pigsley found for me. And you missed all the guests. Mummy went home a bit ago and Floyd and Anne were over as well. They brought scones but I think Pigsley needs to go out for clotted cream."

"Christ – mundane banter! I've missed it." Henry pulled Billie back for a kiss then followed her over to where a small stool sat near the bookcase.

"What did mummy have to say?"

"Mummy is... well I think the baby is the least of her worries."

Henry sat on the stool as Billie began to pop pieces of licorice into her mouth.

"Oh?"

"She said she's quite used to bastard children right about now so another isn't the end of the world."

"Are we talking about Wat?"

Billie shot Henry a look. "No. At least, I don't think she meant Wat. And that is not the subject to bring up with her. She's still angry with Douglas and I for making that terrible story up about his 'father' in the institution seeing ghosts."

"Wouldn't you prefer that sort of father to Lord Bramton? I mean – he's probably better off not knowing he's the product of Lord Bramton's botched affair."

Billie hit Henry upside the head while she passed him to get the tin of biscuits now on the shelf in her reach.

"I have a pile of bloody grave etchings that keeps growing and... it was so awful to do. I hate thinking about it."

"But your mother never put it right."

"No. She's just as devious as us, I suspect. You know – I think Edward believes that ridiculous story, too. It wouldn't shock me. Anyway – Henry, stop! That's what got us in this spot in the first place!"

Henry moved his hand away from her leg and pretended to look shocked. "No! I refuse to believe it! Come now, Mina, I've missed you..."

"It hasn't been even a week," she reminded him.

"But I've gone through so much it feels like a week," Henry whined. "And you were just as anxious for me to come! You can't deny that!"

"I don't deny it. I wanted you here and I'm happy you are." Billie merely bit into a biscuit that she paired with a licorice piece and leaned against the sofa. "But I am not in that sort of mood. Besides, you need to call Floyd. Set up some sort of business meeting before you get yourself distracted."

At that moment, Piglsey entered the room having finished brining up Henry's things.

"Tea, sir?" he asked. "Miss?"

"Oh, yes, please," said Billie, swatting Henry's hand away from her. "And could you get Floyd on the phone? Henry needs to speak with him."

"Wicked girl," Henry said, standing and kissing Billie's cheek.

"Didn't you miss that?"

Following Pigsley to the phone, Henry grinned. Yes, he did. Of course he did.

It was not until that Saturday afternoon that Sir Millford finally was able to count the heads of his garden gnomes. Delayed by the unexpected death, he had forgotten his usual ritual and – now that he had time – felt it only right to correct his oversight.

One... two...

He hadn't realized what a brisk day it was. Then again, he hadn't realized much lately. There were so many –

Three... four... five

\- things happening that it was hard to think of one's self. One's priorities.

Six... seven...

It would probably be a bit hectic the next few days. Yes, a death is enough to shake a village. And the death of a vicar, well –

Eight...

– people could think it was judgment day. It seemed so for the people at that table at least. It's a nusence to have someone's – no, a vicar's – last words be you're all going to –

Nine... ten

hell. Sir Millford sighed.

Eleven.

Eleven... twel –

"What's this?" Millford stopped his inner counter and squatted, peering at the empty space between a rose bush and some other purple flower. "What's this? No! No – no – no!"

Margery made a sort of shivering sound and glanced up at McNaulty.

"Brisk today, isn't it?"

They had been awkwardly silent for some time now as they made their way to Millford Lodge. McNaulty was never one for conversation but Margery was trying her best and – in turn – McNaulty did his part.

"I didn't notice."

"Oh." Margery nodded. "Well – I think you can see the willows father had planted... last summer was it? I don't remember. He wrote to me about it but it's not one of those things that really resonates."

"Willows?"

"I believe he thought they would make for a dramatic... wall? Wall-effect, I think it what he called it. You see he has several lined up – we just walk under them and..."

Margery trailed off for, as they walked under them and entered the sprawling garden, she saw her father shouting to himself.

"Sir Millford looks upset," McNaulty said.

Margery wanted to say 'obviously' but bit her tongue. Instead she motioned for McNaulty to stay where he was and walked a little a head before calling out: 'Father!'

Sir Millford came bounding to them, hands stiff in his pockets. He ignored any chance of McNaulty greeting him properly and began to shout.

"It's gone!"

"What's gone?"

"Twelve! Gnome twelve! Someone's pinched it! Someone's... argh!" Millford spit out a bit of phelm.

Both Margery and McNaulty recoiled.

"Someone's pinched my goddamned gnome!"

"Gnome?"

"A little garden statue," Margery explained in a hushed voice, hoping her father wouldn't hear McNaulty's gardening ignorance. "Father," she started calmly, "are you absolutely positive –"

"Of course I am absolutely positive! Do you think I would carelessly miscount my gnomes? Do you?"

"Father, I think perhaps –"

"No! I will not calm down!"

"Father, who could possibly have –"

"Him!"

Margery at first though her father was pointing to McNaulty. Feeling a bit scandalized, she turned but found that McNaulty was turning, too. Coming from beneath the willows now was Douglas Bramton and, seeing all three sets of eyes were on him, he came to a quick stop.

"Oh... hello," he said uneasily. "Am I –"

"You!" Millford shouted, charging forward. "You and your sister – you little buggery tricksters!"

"Father!" Margery – now finally shouting as well – followed her father as he passed her.

"You finally succeeded didn't you! You finally took one! At the expense of a dead man no less!"

Douglas held up his hands defensively. He sputtered a few syllables before Millford cut him off.

"You're just like your father – deceptive people! All of you Bramtons!"

"Father, you can't just –"

"I'm sorry, Sir Millford, but I've no idea what you're talking about," Douglas said quickly before anyone could cut him off.

"Why are you here? Returning to the scene of the crime, aren't you?"

"What? Why on earth would I –"

"Then why are you here?" Sir Millford demanded to know. "Didn't expect to see me in the garden did you? Or maybe you did? Maybe you wanted to see my reaction! Stealing one of my gnomes!"

"Now that I take offense to," said Douglas, a bit of fighting power now building in him. "If I did steal one of your gnomes – and I will not deny my sister and I have tried in the past – if I did steal one, I certainly wouldn't come back to the 'scene of the crime' as you call it and I think – and perhaps I am giving myself too much credit – but I think if I did want to see your reaction, I would hide myself a little better than just come stumbling from between trees!"

"Oh Lord..." Margery muttered, hiding her flushing face.

"And – furthermore – why on earth would you even suspect I would take advantage of Reverend Waters death to accomplish such a... a childish feat?"

"You said it yourself! You and your sister never were able to take one! You never could accomplish that childish feat! You took the morbid opportunity! You took it!"

"And that makes sense as Billie is no where even near Pearshire."

"It only takes one Bramton to steal the gnome! You probably sent it to wherever that girl is! You're probably having a good laugh about it aren't you?"

"Douglas! Father! That is enough!" Margery said. "We have a guest, father!" She looked to McNaulty. "And he probably now wants to leave as you've proven us all rather mad, haven't you?"

"He took the gome!" her father continued to argue.

"Maybe he did – maybe he didn't. Father, you need to calm down! We'll find the gnome!"

"How do you know? How do you know?" With that, though, Sir Millford stalked off towards the house – no doubt going off to lock himself away in his study where he would, Margery hoped, cool off.

Once they were sure he had gone, McNaulty cleared his throat and went to speak, but Margery spoke right over him.

"Douglas, did you take it?"

"What?"

"Did you take the gnome? If you did, just say so."

"Of course I didn't take the gnome! Why – when even would I have done that?"

"I don't know, Douglas. Why are you here?"

"I..." Douglas looked at McNaulty, who seemed blissfully unaware of the pent up tension between the other two people in that garden. "I came to talk to your sister."

"Margot?"

"I wanted to make sure she was all right. After the other night."

"She's fine." Margery didn't believe him but didn't go further – not with McNaulty beside her. "Is that all?"

"Yes." Douglas sounded tired almost. "Yes, that's all."

"Then I can go back to showing Mr. McNaulty here around my father's garden?" Margery said this with particular relish, knowing it had to bother Douglas on some level.

"Yes," he said a bit strained. "Of course."

"I'll tell Margot you stopped by. And – Douglas – if you did take that gnome, you best return it. You know how father is."

"I didn't take it, Margie. And, unless Billie has powers unknown to us, she didn't either. I just happened to walk in at the wrong time. You know that. Come on, Margie, even you have to admit that Billie and I would have a little more tact." He tried to make light of it.

"Tact?"

Douglas had tripped the landmine.

"Tact? You – Douglas Bramton – tactful?"

They stood, looking at each other for a tense minute. Margery then broke away and turned McNaulty to the tulips. "Goodbye, Douglas," she said before her back was to him.

McNaulty gave him a wave, unsure of what it was he should say in the situation, and then let Margery lead him away.

"I swear," Margery said once they were out of earshot of Douglas, "we're not all mad here. We cannot be all mad here."

Chapter Nineteen

"Any mail, Pigsley?" Billie asked, leaving the bedroom in her dressing gown.

"Yes, Miss – shall I bring it to Mr. Dermot?"

"Oh, no – hardly necessary. I will take it in. Tea, though, would be lovely."

"Of course, Miss. The mail, miss." Pigsley handed Billie the small stack of letters and she shuffled back into the bedroom where Henry sat in bed, glasses perched on his nose, scribbling something on a notepad.

He looked as if he had a miracle happen to him – he was bright and smiling, the battle wounds from his fight and subsequent shooting had all but faded.

"An idea?" Billie asked, climbing back into bed and looking over his shoulder.

"No. It's my memorandum book."

Billie made a sour face.

"But on the topic of writing – I haven't seen your typewriter out."

"You've not even been here a day!"

"A legitimate question still."

Billie groaned and sifted through the mail, opening a letter that had been addressed to her. "You time things terribly – this shall be a letter, I am sure, from the Halls –"

"The sisters?"

"Yes – Celine will no doubt suggest a subject for my next novel. Why must the post come so early? And why does everyone think they need to say 'you should write a novel about that.' It gets –"

"Annoying? So you are going for a number two?"

"What else is there to do trapped in your flat besides worrying about whether or not you've been shot at or if I've come up with enough names for the baby for us to fight over sooner or later? Anyway, something is bound to find its way into my mind when it has a chance."

"I was on a particularly boring train once in Italy."

"And?"

"Just a suggestion."

"A boring train? What do I do with that?"

Henry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes while speaking. "There is a man named Philip – he gets on an ordinary train –"

"But it is an extraordinary and takes him back to ancient Athens where he just happens to be able to read Greek – no, Henry. I'll leave that to you."

"Oh, come now – a magic train isn't tempting?"

"For someone else, I am sure, but –"

"Ah, here's the tea. Thank you, Pigsley." Henry let his valet place the tray on his lap and pour two cups. "It is a strange thing."

"What is?"

"How silent London is compared to the country."

The phone rang.

Henry groaned and let his head fall back onto the pillow. Pigsley answered, holding the receiver out after several short 'yes, sir's.

"Mr. Douglas Bramton," he announced.

"I'm not speaking to him," Billie said, immersing herself – or at least pretending to immerse herself – in reading the Halls' letter.

Henry motioned for the telephone to be brought to him.

"Yes. Hello, Douglas. How are you this fine morning?"

"You sound rather... collected," Douglas said on the other line.

"Yes, well. I've been practicing already. Here, I shall assess my current situation for you in my newfound clarity: I'm currently in London with my... my... I don't know quite what to call her beyond 'Mina.' She's going to have our child, you see, but her family can't know because we're not married and her father hates me so we're waiting for the right time to break it to him. On top of that – this is where it gets great, I mean really great – on top of that, my best friend – who's also Mina's elder brother – is engaged to a crazy woman with a crazy sister and a crazy father who threaten to kill you unless you do what you want and well the crazy sister seems to have taken a fancy to yours truly and..." Henry's voice had become higher with each note and finally reached its peak here, trailing over into a sort of whimper. "I don't want to go back!" He laughed a bit madly.

Billie gave him a strange look and 'continued' with 'the letter.'

"How is Billie now that you've broached the subject?"

"Sitting beside me. Going through the mail. She's still not speaking to you but she's quite well."

"Tell her not speaking to me is obnoxious."

"I would, but I don't want the ramifications. I can't talk long, though, as I do have a meeting to get to with my producer."

"You're lying."

"No. Billie made me set it up. What do you need that you're calling at this ungodly hour?"

"It's ten thirty in the morning!"

"I'll repeat: what do you need that you're calling at this ungodly hour?"

"I wanted to talk to Billie but I suppose you could serve as a go-between. I went to speak to Margery."

"Did she chew you up and spit you out again?"

Billie was intrigued now. She put down the letter and pressed her ear against the back of the receiver to listen in finally.

"I didn't get a chance to speak to her. I saw her but... she was with that McNaulty fellow."

"So?"

"Well at first I only saw them. I thought... I could figure out a way to get her alone but I'll have find another time."

"That time ought to be soon."

"I do know this."

"Just reminding you. Is that all? You were deterred from speaking to her simply because of McNaulty's presence?"

Douglas seemed to ignore him. "Please tell Billie that it is absolutely childish not to speak to me."

"Is not," Billie mouthed, moving away from the telephone and settling back on her pillow. "I'm not getting out of bed today," she announced in almost a whisper. "I feel like being indisposed."

"Tell her," said Douglas, having heard some movement on the other end, "that one of Sir Millford's gnomes went missing. See if she'll talk to me now."

Henry covered the receiver and told Billie this. She had put a pillow over her head, but peaked out hearing the news.

"What? Who managed that?"

"She isn't reaching for the phone but she asks, 'Who managed that'?" Henry tried to mimic her voice at the end.

"Tell her Sir Millford thinks it was us. It's the real reason I didn't have the chance to say anything to Margery – her father was too busy accusing me of theft."

"What did she say? What did you say?"

"'No' obviously!"

"He didn't steal it? Who stole it?" Billie asked – she still would not speak to her brother though. She pushed the receiver away when Henry tried to offer it to her.

"Do you have any idea who actually took it?" Henry asked.

"Stealing a gnome from the Millford garden is a not an easy feat... if Billie and I had a hard time as children then I cannot imagine who actually did."

"They must be particularly diabolical, if the two of you weren't able to do it. Is he very angry?"

"Angry enough to turn into Millicent. I didn't get the full extent of it since I was practically kicked out of the garden by Margery following. I'm sure it isn't the end of it though. You'll be getting a telegram soon – mother's coming back to Pearshire."

"Because of the gnome?"

"Because of what the gnome could cause."

"So, what you're saying is, on top of everything else, there's a missing gnome. Huh."

"'Huh' what?"

"Just a general 'huh.'"

"Now will Billie speak to me?"

There was a pause. Henry then came back on the line. "No."

The fort was vacant.

Since Daisy and Henrietta had discovered that Douglas and Henry had been going up there to drink and smoke, it was now a rather defunct hideaway. The boys wouldn't be back for fear of their lives – though Wat only knew it was out of simple fear.

And so, Wat set up shop.

He had already gathered some things for 'Plan B' and his room was already suspiciously becoming more cluttered than usual.

Now he had a spot. No – they had a spot.

He smiled.

He'd have to tell Olive.

No... he'd have to show her.

Charles made a sort of 'ick' sound as he scrunched his toes in the sand. He backed away from the water a little more. He adjusted his camera.

After returning to London, Charles Potter had sat through apology after apology at the station and had even seen his former employer sacked. Though all thoroughly enjoyable – gardening opportunities included – his mind felt preoccupied.

Of course he had told himself that Margot is – was impossible. He had never felt... Of course he did enjoy little Olive's gift but he missed...

Anyway, Charles was given an extended holiday and, under the recommendation of several fellow detectives, decided to do a bit of traveling.

His first stop was Brighton.

But he became bored easily.

And, being bored, his mind became further preoccupied until he had the idea to take Olive's gift – a silly garden gnome that Sir Millford had told her to give him according to the scribbled note he found with it – and take its picture.

Silly as it sounded, it was productive.

Or at least something to do.

Lining up the gnome so the picture was just picturesque enough, he snapped the camera.

He heard laughter behind them and, looking over his shoulder, saw a small group of teen girls giggling and pointing.

Charles face grew red. He gave them a meager grin before his wispy hair blew into his face and hurriedly packed up the gnome and camera. He slipped his shoes back on and began his short walk back to his hotel.

He hadn't figured out yet what to do with the pictures.

Maybe he would that night.

He did have time to think, after all.

As long as he didn't think about Margot.

No, he must not think about her.

He must not... oh, but he was.

He was very much.

Chapter Twenty

McNaulty had never liked being suspicious and suspicious is what he felt. He couldn't shake the feeling – even while walking with Margery, even after her kind invite to have tea at Millford Lodge later that day to make up for her father's behavior. The words of Sir Millford still stuck in his mind.

The tricksters.

The deceptive Bramtons.

Horrible as it was to think – these comments by Sir Millford brought back that moment. That moment where he saw the handwriting on the placeholder and matched it to the love letters. That moment when he said to his valet that 'They knew!'

He had said it all in a fit of rage, of course.

He didn't really think the Bramtons had anything to do with the whole embarrassment.

Damn coincidence, he had said. So he happened to be contracted to go to the Bramtons' right when he was in the matrimonial state of mind – it was a coincidence.

At that moment.

But now?

Tricksters?

Deceptive?

McNaulty knocked on the door to Lord Bramton's study. Meekly almost, Bramton peeked his head out. Seeing it was only McNaulty, he stiffened and smiled as if there wasn't a knife-slinger and horrible marksman stalking the house.

"Come in, come in," he said. "Is this about the plans?"

"Er – no, your Lordship. I came... may I shut the door?"

"Of course. Yes, shut the door, have a seat. What can I do for you?"

"It's a sensitive matter and I don't want to offend –"

"Oh, I hate when people preface their thoughts with things like that." Bramton sat behind his desk. "But go on. I'm seated now."

"The other day..." McNaulty was struggling to figure out just where to begin. "Last I was here... when I met your daughter, sir."

"Billie – or – um – Wilhelmina – or – um – Miss Bramton."

"Yes, Miss Bramton. After our initial meeting I received a letter." McNaulty, fully prepared for the logistics of this conversation, produced said letter. "It was," he said as Bramton began to read it, "the first of many. I thought – foolishly, I know – that your daughter had developed... feelings for... me and..."

Bramton looked up from the letter stark white.

McNaulty, of course, didn't know the flood that was currently bursting forth in Bramton's mind.

Oh dear.

This is a rub.

What on earth – Penelope should be there to help him – at least she was coming home soon.

No, this was a problem he created himself.

What to do... what to –

"I figured out for myself they were not written by your daughter. No need to confirm for the other day I found this." He showed Bramton the placeholder. "It matches."

"So... so it does," Bramton stumbled along. "It does..."

"And – here is where I hope I do not offend – but... did you know of this? I ask only because my arrival here seemed to correspond with a letter that had... well, it had marriage on the mind, your Lordship."

McNaulty was very careful not to mention Millford's comments on the family. That he would only bring out if he thought the situation called for it. As it was, he couldn't read Bramton so he kept as silent as Bramton himself.

"I... I do not know what to say," Lord Bramton said when he finally did speak. "This... this is certainly a delicate situation... a delicate subject indeed. And I feel... I feel horrible for what you have been put through by this girl," his voice began to sound more resolute, "This is a terrible affront to your character. Who writes these placeholders? I'll call for the housekeeper."

Bramton felt as though he was on a roll. He rang for the housekeeper and up she scurried, standing rather matronly in the doorway of the study in less than two moments of a puffed pipe.

"Your Lordship," the ghastly looking woman muttered.

"Mrs. O'Conner, who usually writes these placeholders?" Bramton held the placeholder up.

Mrs. O'Conner stepped into the room to have a better look. She leaned her pointed nose forward then moved back.

"Bessie wrote that one, your Lordship."

"Right. Right – send the girl up, will you?"

"Is there a problem, your Lordship?"

"There is," Bramton said. "There is but I will handle it. Send her up."

"Yes, your Lordship."

Mrs. O'Conner did some sort of a curtsey and left.

Several moments later, Mrs. O'Conner returned with the little maid McNaulty had seen with the placeholder. She did an awkward curtsey – not unlike the housekeeper's, which led McNaulty to wonder if hey had all been trained at once – and stood looking almost expectantly at Bramton.

"Is this your handwriting?" he asked, showing Bessie the letter.

The little maid Bessie was about to respond, but Bramton cut her off with: "Thank you, Mrs. O'Conner, I will deal with it from here."

The housekeeper nodded and left. McNaulty looked between the empty door and Bramon, wondering what was to come next. He couldn't quite tell if the maid was answering affirmatively or, rather, negatively. It was impossible to say since Bramton had cut her off.

"Now, dear, is this your handwriting?"

Finally, he let the girl answer – though her voice sounded particularly confused.

"Y-yes," she said.

"Right!" Bramton boomed. "Right – McNaulty, if you'll excuse us, I'll take care of this."

"Your lordship, I –"

Bramton was quick to cut him off as well. "Don't worry, it will be taken care of before you can say 'boo' and this whole little... mess will be cleared up."

"Yes, I was just going – "

"Yes, off you go!"

McNaulty, though he was a bit confused now himself, gave Bramton a curt nod and the little maid a glare. He then left the office, shutting the door upon Bramton's request.

Bramton waited until McNaulty's footsteps could no longer be heard and said, in a quick voice:

"You're not in trouble, dear, don't worry, but just do what I say – all right, dear?"

Of course, doing exactly what Bramton said wasn't easy. Bramton had no thought out plan and ended up just having poor Bessie wait, locked in his office, as he ran – at the fullest speed he could manage for a man his age – to Millford Lodge. Huffing and puffing until he could see his breath in the air, Bramton felt ready to topple over as he rounded the willow trees into Millford's garden.

"Millford!" he shouted. "Millford – I need you!"

"Need me?" A window looking out over the garden opened and Millford looked out. "Bramton? You need me?"

"As... as winner of the strip, I call a Pearshire Leader Conference!"

Millford's face screwed up annoyed and he pulled his window shut. Bramton took this as a 'come right on up' – just not as pleasant.

As winner of the strip, it was Bramton's right to call, what he and Millford had named, a 'Peashire Leader Conference.' Needless to say, they were leaders of nothing beyond their own egos and family accounts, but it did give them the odd excuse for the wife or sister to get away in sticky situations.

Often they had a smoke together in Millford's garden.

Or sought some sort of refuge in one or the other's study.

It never occurred to either of them that this was the first time that a 'Conference' was called for a tangible reason.

Bramton didn't bother knocking when he reached Millford's study. He slipped in and found the owner sitting behind his desk, his hands folded before him.

"You need me?" he repeated, though this time his voice was a tad more controlled.

Bramton eyed him strangely. "Yes... I'm in a bit of a rut. A sticky rut, at that. You'll probably – hah – laugh at the whole thing –"

"I'm sure I will."

Bramton was again puzzled. But he could not know that Millford was now expecting him to confess to stealing his garden gnome – or at least confess to knowing one of his children had.

"Well, you see, you know how I am about my Billie and that playwright. I thought – a while back – when I met that McNaulty chap – you know, the Scottish lad – that he might be a good match. I'm not good at these things, you know that and well... all right, so I had one of the maids start writing love letters to him signing them with Billie's name – I know, I know – it was foolish! Penelope's already given me the go around about it! But I... I didn't think she and Dermot would last... or rather I did and I didn't..." Bramton bit his fist. "Long story short, Millford, McNaulty was on my trail and I had to fire the poor little maid who wrote out those letters. It's not her fault, of course, and I was wondering, if you could employ her? Millicent is always complaining you're short on staff... Millford, you haven't said a word... this is certainly unlike you."

Millford looked at his friend.

Bramton also could not know Millford's temper was flaring for, still after all these years, he could not tell when his best chum was angry.

"Of course, Lord Bramton," Millford muttered. "I'll take the girl."

"You will?"

Millford began to shout: "To get her away from you! You and your... your deceitful family!"

"Millford! What's this about?"

"You know damn well what this is about!" Millford rose from his chair. "My garden gnome!"

"Your – wait – what?"

"My garden gnome!"

A soft knock hit the partly opened door of the study. Neither of the men said come in but Margery came in anyway.

Along with McNaulty, who had arrived only moments before for the tea Margery had promised him.

Bramton quickly turned on a smile. "Ho! McNaulty! What do you know? I was just telling Millford about –"

"Yes," McNaulty said, slipping his eyes to the ground. "Yes, your Lordship, I know what you were telling Sir Millford. Both Miss Millford here and I had the pleasure of hearing."

Margery, who truly wanted no part of this, stayed near the door and turned the doorknob back and forth to distract herself.

"Oh... oh, I see," said Bramton. "What do you think you heard, then?"

"I know that I heard some sort of plan, your Lordship, that involved deceiving me as well as your daughter. Do you make me out for a total fool, your Lordship?"

"No – I –"

"I will not stand for this treatment, you Lordship! And I imagine that your daughter would feel the same way!"

Millford chortled. "As if she would! She's just as awful as he is! You saw her brother this morning – you saw the trouble with my gnome!"

McNaulty had hoped the gnome would not be brought up but now that it had he did his best to dismiss it with a 'well, yes' but Millford continued to speak.

"It would be foolish indeed, Mr. McNaulty, for you to remain any longer at the Bramton's. As I am now hosting one of their little maids, I would not mind hosting you for as long a time as you see fit."

"Well I don't think he'll be staying much longer, Millford. He's obviously figured out that the hothouses were a ruse."

"Actually, Sir Millford, I will take you up on that offer. As much of a ruse as those hothouses may be, I am a business man first and foremost and I intend to finish what I was paid to do. But I will ask," McNaulty turned back to Bramton, "your Lordship, that while I am working at your house none of your family speaks to me."

Bramton was struck silent.

"I'll have my man bring my things," McNaulty said when it was clear no answer was going to come, "Miss Millford?"

McNaulty walked past Margery out of the study. Margery went to follow him but looked between the two older men. She didn't know quite what she ought to convey to them in her look but, when she left, she supposed it was a mixture of annoyance and anger – though she wasn't sure that was all.

But she had a guest.

A rather upset guest.

This, Margery imagined, would be an awkward tea.

Pearshire. Stop. Margot. Stop. Millford. Stop. Those were not words. Stop. Just the address. Stop. Nevermind. Stop. In Brighton. Stop. Not very exciting. Stop.

Margot had read this telegram aloud to herself several times over. When she had received it that morning, she thought it might have been a joke.

But they knew no one in Brighton.

And no one in the house was in a very joking mood.

"Olive?" Margot looked up for the sofa she was sitting on to see the little girl racing past the drawing room. "Where are you going?"

"To play in the garden."

"I thought –"

"Mummy said I could."

Margot wasn't about to argue this. She knew Margery had a guest and she knew Margery probably waved her daughter off – she had said something about being more lenient on the girl's punishment – so she jerked her head in a nod and Olive ran off.

If Margery realized her daughter had run off – Margot would simply say that she was led to believe she had allowed it.

Margot had a telegram to decipher, after all.

Olive ran fast – into the trees before anyone who knew she was restricted to the house could stop her. She slowed down the closer she got to Bramton Hall, then hid in the place that Wat had told her in a note he managed to bribe one of the Millford scullery maids to deliver.

Under the third window to the right near the garden – that's what it had said.

At least, she hoped she was hiding in the place Wat had told her. She didn't know the house as well as he did.

"Psst!"

Olive looked to her right.

"Psst!"

Wat was hanging out what Olive remembered to be the kitchen door – the only door she had ever used to enter the house.

"Come on!" Wat whispered, waving her to him.

Olive got up off the ground – she had sat down to catch her breath – and hurried to Wat, slipping through the heavy door before he let it slam shut.

"I've got something to show you," Wat said as they hurried through the kithen. "It's this great space. My cousin Douglas – your father – and his friend Henry –"

"I've met him!"

"They were using it as a fort, but they've been chased out. Only good those Smiths have done – giving us a place to plan. I've been storing things up there since."

"Storing what?"

"The things we talked about! You are dull! Sh!"

Wat's shushing couldn't have come at a better time for Olive hadn't been looking where they were going and, before she knew it, they were scampering past what looked like a garden room where her father and Daisy were standing.

Douglas had thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye – a small thing, running. It must have been Wat. His mind had been wandering for the past twenty minutes, so reflecting on what he just saw out of the corner of his eye was rather stimulating compared to whatever Daisy was now prattling on about.

Something about flowers.

"What the hell did you do?" Bramton's voice echoed in the hall first and then filled the garden room.

"Really, Lord Millford, is there a reason to shout?" Daisy asked, covering her ears. "Douglas, what did you do? Tell your father to stop shouting!"

"I –"

"He knows exactly what he did! The garden gnome, Douglas! Millford's garden gnome!"

"Oh Christ..." Douglas groaned covering his face and turning away. "I didn't steal it!"

"How did you know that was what I was going to ask?"

"Because Millford accused me of taking it earlier!"

"What were you doing at Millford Lodge?" asked Daisy.

Douglas turned back around. "I... I was –"

"Exactly! Do you have any idea the trouble that's put me in?" Lord Bramton went on.

"But I didn't take it!"

"Douglas," Daisy took his arm, "what's this about?"

Douglas shook her off and was about to say 'nothing' when the Duke made his presence known by clearing his throat.

"Something going on?" he asked, stepping further into the room.

Bramton went silent as if his lips had been pinched shut at the very sound of the Duke.

Daisy reassumed her position on Douglas' arm – a position that Douglas now did not shake off.

"Well?" the Duke looked from Douglas to Bramton, waiting for an answer. "I'll assume it isn't very important. Douglas, may I have a word with you?"

"Of – of course. About?"

"Never mind what it's about."

"Oh, tell me what it's about, daddy!" Daisy pleaded.

The Duke smiled. "It concerns his friend Henry Dermot. I was speaking to Henrietta this morning and had a thought. If you'll walk with me..." The Duke motioned to the opened doorway from which he came.

Douglas glanced to his father who knew his son had no choice but to go with the knife-slinging ear-shooting man.

Chapter Twenty-One

Henry was flipping through the contract Floyd had brought him not long after Penelope had come over to say goodbye. He had been doing some thinking when he was not bothering Billie: if he signed the American contract, it would mean he'd have to go to New York. And, if they went to New York, he'd have a reason to be away from Pearshire indefinitely.

"Yes," said Billie, leaning on the desk near him, "but that shan't stop them from following."

"I could just pretend I've died."

"Your plays would probably be more successful," Floyd joked. Billie gave him a look but Floyd only laughed more. "I'm kidding, but it's true. Anne – it's true, isn't it?"

Anne was busy sorting through papers in Floyd's briefcase muttering: 'always so messy' and 'I just organized this yesterday' and 'of course it's not here.'

"Did you say something?" she asked.

"Just agree with me, honey."

"Oh – all right. 'Yes' to whatever he said, then. Walter, dear, I cannot find the second half that Mr. Logan gave you in New York."

"What's that mean?" asked Henry.

"That your producer is highly unorganized no matter how much I blindly try to fix it," said Anne, checking one last time through the pile of papers.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Yes – you know what you probably did, Walter? You probably put the papers in without attaching them to each other. Then they got mixed in with your other papers and the other half is probably half way around the world."

"Or you just can't see them." Floyd went over and began to search himself, playfully scooting her out of the way.

"That's not my fault, first off. You're the one who put my glasses in the back pocket of your trousers and sat down. Again. Second – I know how I sorted these papers and there was never a second sheet – I'm sure of it now. You must have lost it."

"Does this mean Henry can't sign the contract?" Billie asked, a note of worry in her voice.

"For now," said Floyd, giving up. "It's just paperwork though. If I tell Logan in New York you're interested, he can get things going faster. We'll just wait for the other half to come and then... you go." He said those final two words with a bit of a flourish.

"But Billie had a point," said Anne. "There's no saying they won't follow. I'm sure it wouldn't be immediate, but, if they are as persistent as you say, it may be just a month or so. How did Henrietta pick you anyway? Was it just the name? Henry – Henrietta?"

Henry shrugged. "No idea. I don't think there's much logic behind it, to be honest."

"Oh, yes there is," said Billie. "She probably sees her younger sister getting married and wants to be in the sun as well. Edward would be too daft of a choice so she chose you. Easy."

"Yes, darling, but you've had room to think."

"Not much room..." Billie muttered.

"Are you sure the threats are real, though?" Anne's hand rested on Floyd's back when he moved away from the sofa. Since Floyd had sat on her glasses that morning in the cab after a morning stroll in Hyde Park, there was no time to retrieve the spares, which were back at their flat. Anne now had to revert to old practices of moving around since Henry's was still not a terribly familiar place and Henry and Billie always had the penchant for changing it around.

"Anne has a point," said Floyd. "If he did make a threat against Douglas' daughter –"

"Billie, you told them that much?"

"They knew about Olive! We told them the minute we learned of Margery's husband. Besides, you told me to tell them everything."

"As I was saying, if he did make a threat – how does your brother even know he'll go through with it?" asked Floyd.

"Is it just the information?" asked Anne. "Is it that damaging?"

Billie looked to Henry for an answer. "I just assumed," he said. "He must have seen or heard something to make him nervous enough."

"Wait... so you're telling me we could possibly be blowing this completely out of proportion?"

Henry realized then what she had just said.

And it made sense.

"Yes... my God... you're right," he muttered.

Billie slapped her hand to her forehead. "All right... all right, let's assume that that's true. That you and Dougie are making a mountain out of a bloody molehill. We'll just tell father. We'll tell him why I'm here. Why I'm... traveling. We'll get it over with."

Henry was about to agree when the telephone rang.

He picked it up, not waiting for Pigsley, and said a cheerful 'hello.' This was greeted with a familiar, less cordial voice saying:

"They're coming."

"Coming? Wait – who? Douglas, is that you?"

Billie stopped leaning on the desk and stood straighter. She went to say she was not about to speak to him but Henry held up his hand to stop her before she could.

"Henrietta. And the Duke. Both of them. They're leaving for London. They're coming to surprise you."

"Wait – when?"

"Today. They left hardly an hour ago."

"What?"

"Get Billie out of there!" Douglas snapped.

Henry – now thinking in the sense that both Billie and the Floyds made him see – took a breath and said: "This is all very dramatic, isn't it? I mean, what proof is there to say that they will do something terrible? Douglas, I'm getting the awful feeling we're overreacting."

"Overreacting? What do you think the Duke meant by threatening my daughter?"

"But did he give you any proof?"

Douglas was silent.

"He didn't," Henry assumed.

"He did."

"What was it?"

"I can't say."

"Then I'm going to assume that you're saying that to get me to continue to overreact with you. Anyway, there's been a change of plans." Henry did his best to sound authoritative. "Mina and I will be stopping in Pearshire for a weekend. We're going to tell Lord Bramton of the situation. Then we'll be going back to America."

"Henry –"

"I'll be glad to tell Henrietta and the Duke that myself when the arrive. Goodbye Douglas. Bye bye!" Henry hung up the phone.

"What was that about?" Billie asked.

"According to your brother, we're going to be visited by Henrietta. And the Duke himself, in fact."

The room was quite.

"What?" Henry asked, looking from face to face. "I thought we all agreed we've just been overreacting."

"That could be true," Anne said carefully. "But there is that wild chance that... well, that is he telling the truth."

"Maybe Billie should come with us for the evening," Floyd continued. "You can tell them whatever you want then without putting Billie in the middle, if this man – uh – does throw knives."

"I'm apt to agree," said Billie. "Overreacting or not, I'd rather not be here if they are coming."

"Oh – now we're not overreacting? Which is it?" Henry crossed the room.

"At least see what happens when they come," said Floyd. "Anyway, if you said you and Billie were arguing, would it make sense she that she was here?"

"I'd be at my mother's," Billie said quickly. "He's right. I wouldn't come here. You'd come to me. You know that. But instead of actually going to mum's now since she's left anyway, I'll just go with Anne and Floyd. Let it – I don't know – blow over."

Henry ran a hand through his hair. "Yes. Fine. Fine. Go. But Floyd – you stay here."

"What for?"

"You're more imposing than me," said Henry with a shrug. He mimed out Floyd's broader shoulders but failed miserably at it.

Anne and Billie laughed as Floyd did his best not to while agreeing to stay: "If you think I'm... imposing enough. I guess I could stay."

Anne was giggling the most – so much so, Floyd shooed her out of the room with Billie to pack for overnight.

"Overnight?" Henry protested. "Why overnight?"

"My God, Henry, don't take everything so literally!" Billie shouted from their room. "It's just a precaution!"

"Oh – now we're taking precautions as well?" Henry threw up his hands and flopped on the sofa.

"Ah, don't worry," said Floyd, crossing his arms. "I'll be imposing enough to scare them off – if you think you need me to."

Henrietta glanced up from the newspaper she was reading on the train. Her father, the Duke, sat across from her, looking out the window and occasionally checking his watch.

For most of the ride towards London she had been thinking. At first, she wondered if it was doubt. Doubt about her father. Doubt about Henry.

Now it had turned to herself. She didn't love Henry – she didn't feel anything for him. Anything. And that frightened her some. She started thinking about other people... her father, her sister...

Could she, Henrietta, actually love?

Did she have that bone in her body to make her... emotional?

Whenever those questions popped into her head, Henrietta turned the page of her newspaper and found a new article to read.

After all, when did she ever pay attention to emotion?

"We're not running late," she said to her father, flicking the paper in her hands so it stood straighter. "You're making me nervous – opening and closing that fob watch. You're probably not even looking at the time. Read the papers. It will give you something to do."

"I get motion sickness on trains some of the time."

Henrietta rolled her eyes. "This was your idea."

"I'm doing what I can to do what you asked of me, dear. And I don't trust that Dermot fellow."

"I put enough fear in him. I don't think we ought to be this concerned."

"You believe he's signing papers?"

Henrietta let out a sigh. "I don't know what he's doing but I don't think we should care right now. He's coming back in a week or so."

"A lot can happen in a week or so."

"Like what?"

"He could marry that Bramton daughter before you."

"Not if he values her life and that of his unborn child."

"So you threatened him?"

Henrietta raised her paper so her father could not see her face.

"Not directly. I mean – I never said those exact words."

The Duke groaned. "Precision, Henrietta! Precision! Thank God we are going to London. You may correctly deliver your threat. And with proper evidence."

"Proper evidence?"

"More than an overheard telephone call."

"A correct and proper threat."

"It only takes a phone call, darling. I treat both of my daughters equally."

Henrietta grinned and folded the paper. "Thank you, daddy."

Sometimes her doubt was very easily put out.

"Hello, Mrs. Books," Anne said as she entered the flat with two of Billie's packed bags – she had insisted on carrying them due to Billie's condition. "We'll be having a guest for a little while. A Miss Bramton."

"I'll set another place at the table," said the housekeeper with a nod.

"Thank you," said Anne as Billie walked through the door. "Walter will be home... God knows when, but we'll wait to have dinner when he returns unless you're hungry now, Billie? No? Then I suppose, in the meantime, tea would be lovely."

"Yes, ma'am. I'll put the bags in the guest room and put the kettle on." Mrs. Brooks took the bags from Anne with a grin.

"Thank you," Anne said again, returning Mrs. Brooks smile. Anne then led Billie further into their sitting room and motioned to one of the two sofas that flanked a screened-off fireplace.

"Henry will probably forgo calling and come straight over with Walter when he's finished," Anne said, sitting on the farthest sofa.

"You do think, then, that this whole thing has been exaggerated?"

"It's seems a bit... I don't know... silly to be real, don't you agree? Walter and I were just saying so the other day."

"Yes. I mean, stepping back from it, it certainly does." Billie made herself comfortable on the sofa closest to the door. "I suppose, when you're in the middle of it, you get caught up and lose track."

Losing track seemed the perfect way to describe Henry's state of mind back at in own residence. He had started to pace and babble off ideas such as running away immediately to Ipswich, which Floyd, who lounged comfortably on the sofa, had to calmly talk him out of even though no one knew anyone there and they would all, potentially be perfectly safe!

But he had to try to be –

"Pigsley!" Henry suddenly shouted, forgetting his valet was still in the flat.

Pigsley came out of the kitchen with a perplexed looked. "Yes, sir?"

"You're not supposed to be here!"

"Excuse me, sir?"

"I told Henrietta I forfeited you to Billie in our 'fight' – you can't be here! They're meticulous about details and they know I lost you to Billie somehow."

"Where would you like me to go, sir?"

"Er..." Henry looked around the room.

"Why doesn't he just stay in the kitchen, Dermot? I don't think they'll search your apartment," Floyd offered.

"You don't know that! I know!" He pointed towards the bedroom. "Under the bed! Hide under the bed until they leave!"

"Sir?"

"Come on, Dermot – that's ridiculous!"

"What if there's a chance your Anne and my Mina were right, though? What if we're not blowing it out of proportion?" There was a knock on the door. "Pigsley!" Henry's voice was a wheezing whisper. "Under the bed!"

Under the unfortunate orders of his employer, Pigsley nodded and took his leave into the bedroom before Floyd could object again.

Hesitantly, Henry walked to the door, bracing himself at each step.

Yes, they were blowing this out of proportion.

Yes, this would be over in a matter of mere seconds.

Yes, Henry believed that Floyd could probably take the Duke out in a single hit if necessary. He was imposing, after all. That's what he was there for.

Henry turned the knob, put on a smile, and flung open the door.

"Hello!"

Before him stood a rather irritated looking Henrietta and a smiling Duke, who held a yellow folder against his chest and tapped his fingers against it.

"What a lovely surprise!" Henry sounded half-way hysterical. "Come in!"

"We were hoping you'd be home and not – oh, I see you already have a visitor," said the Duke, just noticing Floyd, who was now standing and adjusting his suit coat.

"Yes!" Henry ushered his new guests in then hopped over to Floyd, taking him by the arm. "This is my producer! Walter Floyd! He's American! Wait! You've met him! Haven't you?"

"Briefly," said Floyd, extending his hand. "In New York."

"Ah, yes," said the Duke, though he truly didn't remember. "I remember."

Henrietta remained near the door, waiting for her father to finish the formalities. "Signing those papers?" she asked, rocking on her heels.

"Yes!" Henry grabbed Floyd's briefcase and pulled out a few random papers. "It's a complicated process! He's been here explaining it most of the day!"

"But you've finished?" This time, it was the Duke that asked.

"Um – no – actually," Henry swallowed hard. His voice slowed down. "Like I said: it's a very... complicated... process."

"Signing a paper?"

"I think what he means is the logistics on the paper itself," said Floyd, snatching the once orderly papers from Henry.

"How complicated can they be?" asked Henrietta.

"Complicated enough. There's information on wages, rights, production casting – there's a lot to go over before he signs." Floyd gave a little shrug and tried to put the papers back from where Henry had pulled them. Anne would kill him later for that.

"And that will take all week, I'm assuming?" the Duke sounded sarcastic though Henry didn't notice.

"A bit more than a week, I think," Henry said, his grin fading slowly. "Isn't that what I said?"

"Oh, you're not that dull, dear," said Henrietta. She finally walked further into the room and to Henry. "It shouldn't take you a week to understand a page."

"It's – um – actually two pages," Henry muttered as Henrietta patted his cheek gently.

"I think you could understand those pages a little faster," said the Duke, his fingers resuming their 'tap-tap' on the file he held. He was also carefully positioning himself between Floyd and Henry. "Pearshire misses you."

"I doubt that," Henry said.

"I miss you," said Henrietta a bit sternly.

"That – um – that's nice but –"

The Duke handed Henry the file. Henry opened it then shut it quickly. "Ah," he said. "I see. I must be missed, hm? I'll – um – pack a bag then?"

Floyd was confused. "Dermot?"

"I'll get back to you on the papers. Can't be that difficult, right?" Henry smiled faintly and disappeared into his bedroom.

"You have a wife, Mr. Floyd?" the Duke asked before Floyd could follow Henry.

"What do you mean?"

"He just left! That's what I mean!" said Floyd, sitting on the sofa beside Anne, who was – for lack of a better word – glaring at him for letting Henry leave without further explanation. "Pigsley said he'd explain once we got here – and when the doors and windows were locked."

"Those were my instructions, sir," said Pigsley, standing beside the sofa where Billie was sitting on the edge of her seat. "I wasn't to say a word until we arrived safely here."

"Safely? What does that mean?" Billie cried. "Is Henry safe?"

"He was shown a picture, Miss Bramton."

"A picture? Of what?"

"Of you."

"Of me?"

"Yes. Standing in the doorway of his flat."

"That's impossible," said Billie. "I've never had my photograph taken in the doorway."

"He said it was recent and, in his words, showed what the rest of us know?"

"Which is what?" asked Floyd.

"That I'm pregnant," answered Billie, looking at her belly. It was more than obvious now. She sunk into thought.

"He said it looked as though you were answering the door – not that you were –"

"Oh my God..."

"What?" Anne sat even straighter, leaning towards Billie.

"A day or two ago... there was a knock at the door. Pigsley was doing errands so I... I answered it. No one was there. I looked up and down the corridor – but it couldn't have been more than a few seconds – was I being followed? Could that be when the picture was taken?"

"So this wasn't being blown out of proportion?" Floyd asked Pigsley, who seemed to have the answers now.

"It seems not, Mr. Floyd. Mr. Dermot was only able to convey the description of the photograph and the need to protect Miss Bramton. I was also told it may be in our best interests to take Miss Bramton away from London."

"Well, that isn't a question," said Floyd, getting up from the sofa and walking to the telephone. "I'll make the arrangements myself. Did Dermot say where he wanted Billie to go?"

"He wasn't specific, sir."

"Henry has a villa. In Italy. I could go there. Anyway, it isn't up to him, is it?"

"True. But, if he owns it, I'm sure they'll have someone watching it," said Anne. She stood and walked over to Floyd. "Walter, what if we went to Bath? All of us. That's what you wanted originally, isn't it, Billie? It would fit with our own plans to go on holiday, wouldn't it?"

"Anne has a point. We'll leave immediately – or at least as soon as possible."

"Oh why not... I did want to go to Bath in the beginning..." Billie groaned. She looked up at Pigsley and waved him closer. "Henry has no other sort of plan?"

"Not that I know of, Miss Bramton, I'm sorry. I told you all that he said."

"Then he's bound to do something incredibly stupid."

Chapter Twenty-Two

"Who is he?"

Margot jumped. She hadn't realized Millicent was standing beside her, watching as McNaulty oversaw his valet and the other house staff carried his luggage through the front door.

"Who is he?" Millicent asked again, this time pinching Margot's arm.

"Ow!" Margot said, rubbing the red mark Millicent left. "He's Mr. Angus McNaulty. He's doing renovations at Lord Bramton's."

"Then why is he here?"

"He and Lord Bramton had a personal disagreement. Father invited him here for the rest of his stay."

"And who is that?"

"Who is who?"

"That little maid." With her wrinkled finger, she pointed at Bessie, who was carrying one of McNaulty's hatboxes. "Is that this McNaulty's thing or –"

"No. Father hired her just today."

"Where did she come from? Why wasn't I informed?"

"Another personal disagreement with Lord Bramton," said Margot. She heard Millicent sigh loudly.

"It seems to me," the dreary old bad groaned, "we are on the verge of another Millford-Bramton war."

Margot turned to ask her aunt if she had really meant that, but Millicent was already walking away. Margot pursed her lips and walked forwards towards McNaulty with folded arms.

"I hope everything is going smoothly, Mr. McNaulty."

"It is, thank you, Miss Millford. And I sincerely thank your father for your hospitality."

"You'd do better to thank the location of Millford Lodge."

"Your – em – sister? Is she –"

"Overseeing her daughter's tutoring. Olive – her daughter –"

"Yes, I know."

"Olive is falling a bit behind. She was missing all afternoon yesterday and came back muddy, but I suppose that's the country. Children like to explore. But I assume she'll be down sometime soon. Until then, you're in my care, it seems."

"Your father –"

"Resigned to his study." Margot then remembered and called out, "Bessie! Bessie, Sir Millford would like his tea as soon as you're finished with Mr. McNaulty's things."

Bessie, who had just returned from stashing away the hatbox, did a quick dip and turned away when she saw McNaulty, still embarrassed from the task she had carried out for Lord Bramton.

"Ah! Mr. McNaulty!" Margery's voice echoed in the entrance hall. She was coming down the stairs with Olive in hand, who indeed wore a very sour face from having studied two hours of French.

McNaulty's face brightened and both Margot and Olive saw it.

"Angus, please," he said.

"Oh yes," said Margery. "We ought to do away with formalities – your project is expected to take some time, after all. We should be more familial."

"Familial?" Olive asked, looking up at her mother.

"Family-like," said Margot.

"Oh." Olive looked in between McNaulty and her mother. "Oh," she said again, her voice with a hint of doom and gloom in it. She probably understood more than her mother what was implied by 'family-like' and 'familial' before they did.

Olive was, after all, a bright girl and she had her aunt, Wilhelmina Bramton, to thank for that trait. That, of course, she didn't know, but there's the fact anyway.

"Mummy, I've finished with the lessons you wanted me to do – can I please go out and play? You did promise!"

"Yes, I promised and you promised to be back before tea."

"I will! I will! I promise!"

McNaulty laughed a little. Children did amuse him from time to time, though one could imagine his laugh was more for Margery's sake for the way she looked at him as he did so spoke to her already high opinion of him.

"All right, all right, then. Go."

"Merci! Merci!" Olive shouted as she rushed out the door past the staff still carrying McNaulty's luggage.

As they watched the girl run off, Margery shook her head. "She'll be gone for a while." She turned to Margot and McNaulty and smiled. "Why don't we find a room for Angus where he can set up his plans for Lord Bramton's hothouses? Preferably away from father's study."

"Yes. Far away," Margot echoed.

Olive grumbled. It was very difficult to sneak inside Bramton Hall, much less get up to her and Wat's attic spot without being seen. Wiping the dust off her coat, she settled in her spot under a covered table that had been kept clear of the folded linens, kitchen appliances, and other bits and bobs Wat had been gathering.

Wat arrived shortly after she had settled into the spot. As usual, she hid herself under the table with its cover before he whispered her name.

"I think one of the maids saw me," Olive whispered as Wat put the makeshift lock – a few pences stuck in the crease of the door – then stepped over the larger pots and pans that were nearby.

"No," said Wat. "I would've heard it. They gossip like sin – that's what Henry likes to say."

"What happened to you cheek?"

Wat reached up and felt the scratch that Olive was talking about. He winced when his fingers touched it, but pretended it didn't hurt.

"That Daisy," said Wat. "I was hiding out in the garden and she thought I was listening to her talk to her dad – I weren't. She smacked me good, though. That's her ring that scratched me."

"She is wicked! That must hurt!"

"It doesn't hurt!"

"Does mean she isn't wicked!"

"She's evil and wicked," Wat said quietly in agreement.

"Have you told my father about it?" Olive rather liked saying 'my father' – even if he was acting like a fool.

"No. No use in it. He seems scared of her father."

"The Duke?"

Wat nodded.

"Well... he is very fat."

"He likes to throw things. You know he shot Henry Dermot, too."

"Mummy said that was an accident."

"You believed that?"

Olive shook her head as Wat searched one of the nearby pots for a scrunched pack of cigarettes left by either his cousin or Henry.

"Open the window," Wat said. "If they smell the smoke, they'll know where I am."

While struggling to push the small window open above the table she sat under, Olive said, "I think we may have another problem, though."

"What kind?"

"That Scottish fellow."

"Him and Lord Bramton had a row."

"Yes. And my mummy invited him to stay with us. I think he may like mummy. She had him for tea, too."

"Does she like him back?"

"I don't know," answered Olive, falling back into her seat on the floor. "I can't tell."

"Well... that just means we have to act faster. Get those Smiths away as soon as we can."

"But what if mummy does fall in love with that man?"

"The Smiths will still be gone, won't they? That's all that matters to me."

Olive threw a wooden spoon at him. Wat shouted in pain when it collided with his head.

"What's that for? What'd I do?"

"I want my mummy and daddy together!"

"We can't do much about that. Let's just get the Smiths away. Then we'll... I don't know... figure out something. Make them fall in love."

"Do you think we can, Wat?"

Wat shrugged. "But we have to think about Plan B."

Olive still looked disgruntled. She crossed her arms and refused to smile.

"I've drawn you a map of the different meeting places... here." Wat took an incredibly crumpled sheet of drawing paper from his pocket and put it in front of Olive. She only glanced at it with her eyes. "They're numbered in order of each night. A haunting, after all, has to be gradual. That's what dad says anyway in his letters. When he started seeing his brother is was only a few times. Now it's all the time. What we've got to do is make it seem like here and there is haunted before everywhere is haunted."

"What's that mean?" Olive wasn't really listening and now was confused.

"That means you just do what I say, all right? Tonight we meet at the place marked with a one."

"Fine." Olive picked up the map, refolding it and putting it into her pocket. "I'll stay out late and get myself punished. I can sneak out after my dinner's brought."

"Do you get served earlier than the adults?"

"Mostly. Are we –"

"Dinner. Yes. Can't say it didn't help that Reverend Waters keeled over dead."

"Do you think they'll think it's him?"

Wat shrugged again in his usual way. "Dunno. Doesn't matter doesn't?"

Olive sighed in her usual way. "I suppose not." And she sounded very like her mother.

"You know," said Margot as she fiddled with one of Margery's silver brushes on her vanity. "That McNaulty fellow is rather handsome. And polite. Doesn't have a very soft voice but otherwise –"

"Margot!" Margery took the brush from her sister's hand and put it down. "Stop. Your fidgeting always makes me nervous. Sit and we need to figure out the menu."

"If he wasn't so smitten with you –"

"Margot!"

"But he is smitten!" Sometimes Margot sounded like a child when she spoke. "And he is from a good family – at least what I've heard from father. He seems –"

"Do you prefer red or white sauce on –"

"What if this is what you need?" Margot interrupted. "With all this... Douglas mess happening – what if this Mr. McNaulty is some sort of sign. He seems... stable enough. He seems as though he'd be good with children – of course, he'd need more time with Olive to see for sure. But... Margery, it could be something stable."

Margery's face reddened. Whether with anger or embarressment, she couldn't quite tell herself. "No," she said, trying to control the color of her face. "The only thing Angus McNaulty is to me is a man who hasn't murdered someone."

"It is a start, Margie."

"A start. But absolutely nothing more."

"You're not still in love with Douglas are you? You can't be... can you?"

"White or red sauce, Margot?"

Margot plopped herself in the seat at the vanity – she wasn't going to get anymore out of her sister.

"Red," Margot answered. "And I really think you're just jealous."

"Margot! That's the end of it!"

"If you don't want him –"

"Then have him! We're never going to get this menu finished." Margery checked her watch. "I need to make sure Olive's come back. Think about what sort of a meal you'd like for tomorrow night. One you think Angus will enjoy."

Douglas was almost too tired to tie his bowtie for dinner that evening. He took a swig of his hipflask once more and pushed it into his pocket for safe keeping as he sat on his bed, looking in every way downtrodden.

"What's wrong, Douglas?"

Douglas turned to his door and saw Wat, who had, unbeknownst to Douglas, been looking for extra twine in the house.

"Nothing... nothing. I say, Wat, are you friends with that girl here the other day? Olive?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Does she talk about her mother?"

Wat shrugged. "Sometimes. Said there's this Scottish bloke who likes her. Fancies he's in love with her probably."

"Really?"

Wat nodded.

And Douglas thought. As much as he didn't want to think it – this may be a good thing. If Margery married McNaulty then...

But it could be Harold Spencer all over again... it wouldn't. No. Lightning doesn't strike twice like that.

And it would get Olive – and Margery – away from the Duke. He would have to worry less about them. And McNaulty looked strong enough to fight off the Duke or an assassin, if it came down to it.

Maybe.

That of course meant letting Margie go – letting her think that he really did pursue Daisy, that she was free to marry whoever she wanted.

Douglas went for his hipflask again.

Right. If he was going to do this, he wouldn't be able to her again. No... it would be too painful. He took a long swig.

But it seemed that this was very likely what he was going to have to do.

"Douglas!" he heard Daisy call out.

After a final sip, Douglas hid his hipflask, tied his bowtie, and left his room.

Henry felt as though the sweat was beading visibly on his forehead. His eyes were locked on Douglas, who sat beside Daisy in rather the same state – though he was far more used to it... that horrible tense feeling that whispered: if you don't show me attention, I'll call daddy's assassin.

He jumped out of his skin when Henrietta's hand rested upon his. Fighting the urge to pull it pack, Henry gritted his teeth and smiled.

"Henry? Aren't you going to ask me – "

Before Henrietta could get her full sentence out – Henry felt as though his life passed before his eyes – every moment of the stage, every moment with Billie, everything he held dear at the end of a kitchen knife.

"To marry you?" He asked in a half-shriek.

"Oh – Henry!" Henrietta cried. "Not at all what I was about to say but are you indeed asking?"

Douglas was shaking his head as quickly and as curtly as he could. But he knew Henry was trapped.

"We're all awful quiet," Penelope said as she walked into the drawing room followed by Bramton.

Douglas forced a smile and said: "Welcome back, mother."

"Thank you, dear. We were just surverying what Mr. McNaulty left of the hothouses so far..." She then saw the look of horror on her son's and Henry's faces.

"Oh! Lady Bramton!" Henrietta cried. "Henry has just asked me to marry him!"

Penelope stopped. Bramton felt around for a seat.

"To marry you?"

"Indeed he did," the Duke said with a belly laugh. "Indeed he just did."

Somewhere a telephone rang at that exact moment – as if on perfect cue. Henry would have been proud had this been one of his plays.

"It is Miss Bramton, requesting her mother," the butler said, offering the receiver to Penelope, who was still standing. Bramton had found a seat near the window and was staring out at the abyss hoping something would look back.

Henry felt frozen – the sweat on his forehead: icicles. He didn't need to look, nor do you need to imagine, that everyone in that room was watching Penelope answer the telephone with different and deathly feelings of curiosity.

"Hello, dear?"

"Hello, mother," said Billie. "When I hang up the telephone, do tell everyone that I've gone to Brighton. How was your trip back? I hope it was all right – and how is Henry now that you know he's back as well – wait, don't answer. You can't. I didn't want you to worry, so I had to call. Is everyone in the room? Where you can see them?"

"Yes, dear," Penelope spoke carefully, doing her best to sound natural.

"Good. I can speak freely?"

"Of course, dear."

"The Floyds and I are in Bath. I will send my address to the vicarage since no one is there at present. You'll need to fetch it and hide it, of course. Is Henry all right?"

"Oh, everyone's fine, dear."

"Mother, that doesn't sound convincing – why don't you sound convincing?"

"I do think it's because we're all just in awe sitting here. Henry has only moments ago proposed to Henrietta."

"What..." though Billie's voice was barely audible.

"Seems we'll be having a double wedding this winter – if that's when they intent to wed. It's just happened so I hardly know. You need to go, darling? All right. I'll give everyone your greetings." Penelope hung up the telephone and took a breath.

Of course, on the other end, it was quite difficult for Billie to take a breath. While, in the back of her mind, she knew that Henry was doing what he had to do and there had to be a way out of it, the thought that another girl got to hear those four words – (1) will (2) you (3) marry (4) me – before her made Billie livid.

"Billie? Did you get in touch with your mother?" Anne asked, walking through the open door of Billie's room. "Billie? Are you all right?"

Chapter Twenty-Three

"Olive! Where on earth were you?" Margaret half-shouted as her daughter skipped into the library where she had been waiting for over an hour.

"I –"

"Do you know how worried I was –"

"I didn't –"

"In your room! In your room this instant! You'll have to go to bed without supper – you cannot keep disappearing like this!"

"Without supper!" Olive cried. That she had not expected. She at best wanted to eat! But Margery took her by the arm and pulled her towards her room. She ordered the maid to ready her for bed and Olive, reluctantly, changed into her nightdress.

"But I'm hungry!" she said as the maid bent to turn off the bedside lamp.

"That's up to your mother, Miss Olive."

Olive crossed her arms and found herself suddenly in the dark. If Potter were here, she thought, he would have at least snuck her a snack. Then again – with her plans to sneak out – a secret snack wouldn't exactly be helpful. He would probably find her gone.

Waiting until she heard silence in the hall, Olive slipped out of bed and – in the dark – pulled the shoes and coat she had hidden under her bed. They were old but Margery had packed them anyway. Olive had found them in the bottom of a trunk and had stowed them under her bed.

Pulling on the too-small shoes and the rather oversized coat, Olive tiptoed to the door and unlocked it quietly.

Sneaking out of Millford Lodge was easy when everyone was at dinner. With the lack of proper staff, there was no one to see her slip out through the garden and direct herself in the dark to Bramton Hall by bits of twine she had Wat had tied on trees that afternoon.

It was no surprise to find that dinner at Bramton Hall was a mostly silent affair. With both Douglas and Henry looking feverish, the conversation was left mostly to the young girls. Penelope had taken dinner on her own claiming fatigue from her journey and Edward was still too distraught over his marriage proposal's rejections, he still lay in bed taking only water and bread. Bramton sat silently at the head of the table, contemplating – of all things – Henry.

Strangely, something in him wanted to tell the brute to marry his daughter, that he really did like the old chap, and wouldn't mind him as a son-in-law. Of course, the voice of reason in his head kept telling him he was merely thinking such things because he was afraid of flying silverware.

But he had admitted to liking Henry – for all the faults that came with loving Bramton's daughter.

It was only now though – at the threat of some odd and unexplainable death – he finally had found a bond with him.

"I didn't say that," said Henrietta. She and Daisy were talking about a second winter wedding – Henerietta and Henry's. "I said I would let you marry first. I never said I couldn't marry in the same season."

"But why must you take winter?"

"I like the season."

"Yes, it's cold – just like you! Daddy! Make her – did anyone hear that?"

Bramton was surprised that Daisy suddenly took the time to address the rest of the table.

"Hear what?" asked the Duke.

There it went again. The sound of a strange clanking.

"The servents moving about," Bramton mumbled.

"But... it's coming from above," said Daisy. The table looked up at the dark sky that provided no light in the ceiling windows.

The clangs came again – louder now – louder and louder until the butler stepped forward into the room, curious himself.

"My Lord, for the life of me, I do not know what that noise is," the butler said earnestly, examining the window above the dining room himself.

"Send someone to the roof."

"Oh no!" Daisy cried. "What if... what if it's a murderer? Or... worse!"

"Worse?" Henry asked, his own voice trembling.

"A ghost!" Daisy replied, clutching her cloth napkin to her lips.

"Don't be silly!" said the Duke.

But at that moment, the clanging became louder and suddenly – a crash. One of the window panes had broken and through it felt not only shards of glass, but a soup bowl.

Daisy screamed: "The Reverend!" Then she clutched Douglas to her.

Everyone scattered fast, but it felt as if everything was happening quite slowly – Henry went under the table, Bramton put a plate over his head and did the same. The Duke pulled Henrietta off to the side, under one of the doorways and shouted for Douglas and Daisy to do the same.

When the room was quiet, when the glass had settled, Bramton slowly made his way to the dish. Picking it up, he looked up at the night sky.

Nothing.

"Send someone to the roof!" he shouted at the butler, who was already doing just that as he was asked to before.

"Oh! We are being haunted! We're being haunted!" cried Daisy. "Why!"

"Be quiet!" groaned Henrietta, smoothing out her dress for it had wrinkled after being pulled so harshly to the side by her father.

"Don't jump to conclusions," Bramton muttered. "There's a reason for everything, I'm sure."

Henry wanted to reply "No there isn't," but the life still felt sucked out of him. And he didn't want to kick a man when he was down – and Bramton certainly was down.

Whatever was happening to the house, now only added to his stress and, for the first time he could recall, Henry felt sorry for old Bramton. He was losing his old fight.

Bramton sat behind his desk, waiting for word on the rooftop caper. Restless, he picked up the telephone.

"Millford?" he said into the receiver.

"Bramton." Millford's voice was drawn out, suspicious.

"Listen... we ought to patch things up. Things are going mad here. Absolutely nutty."

"More than usual?"

"Henry's engaged himself to my son's fiancé's sister."

"What about Billie?"

"Yes – my thoughts exactly. Could we lay this business of the gnomes aside for a moment – my children didn't steal them, you know that – there are strange things happening at the Hall here."

"Beyond the engagement?"

"A window pane in the dining room shattered. A soup bowl fell through with the bits of glass. Daisy Smith – well, now most of the house – is convinced the place is now haunted... I do need a friend, Millford. Penelope thinks it's all ridiculous so I don't think she'll be offering a shoulder to cry on. I don't think she'll be seen out of her rooms."

Sitting back in his chair, Millford understood his friend.

"What can I do?"

"I do not know. With the half of the brains of the family in Brighton –"

"Billie's gone to Brighton?"

"Traveling. Yes. To get away from me."

"I'm not surprised."

"Yes, well. With her gone and Penelope looking as though she could leave any day – again – I am at a loss. What do you recommend Millford? Has my family gone mad?"

"What is it they say? We're all mad here?"  
"Mm. Yes. An old adage proving true. I say, though, Millford, this is a pickle. And I do feel awful about the McNaulty situation."

"We'll consider it water under the bridge – but if I find out one of your children took that gnome –"

"I tell you, Millford, they didn't!"

"Still. If I find that they did, I will have to declare war."

"War? Ontop of everything else?"

"It's what's proper. It's the rule, isn't it?"

"As there's no proof you could possibly find, I will agree."

"Come to tea tomorrow," said Millford. "I'll have my Margie take on this problem. Her brain isn't as sharp as your daughter's but it will have to do."

The men agreed, the time was set, and Bramton felt only a slight ease that he would have some sort of friendly comfort the next day.

But, dear reader it would not be so as you could have probably guessed. I certainly would not challenge your intelligence.

The moment after Millford had hung up the receiver, a letter came to him. With no return address or indication of who sent it, he hurried and opened it out of curiosity. The only thing inside the envelope was a picture.

Of a garden gnome.

On a beach.

In block letters under the photograph, someone had written:

BRIGHTON

It did not take more than a moment for Millford to piece what he thought was true together.

Billie had found a way to the gnome for she and it were now in Brighton. And she was taunting him. Just like a child. A Bramton child.

Millford sighed loudly for this meant only one thing:

Little Pearshire was officially at war.

"Bessie!" Millford suddenly shouted, his voice echoing through the halls of Millford Lodge.

Anne knew Billie's mood had not improved. After all, Billie was growing larger by the day, more irritated by the day, and far too bored by the day to answer a simple question properly. She sat alone on veranda, a book open on her lap but turned over. Billie was now staring silently out at the water, a letter from her mother in her hand.

"Tea?" Anne asked, setting a cup for her on the small table near by. "Aren't you chilly out here?"

"No..."

"Are you all right? Walter is a breath away from calling a physician," Anne joked, sitting on one of the other chairs under the shade.

"No... I'm thinking."

"Thinking?"

Billie, for the first time in some time, grinned. "I've written to mother. How's your acting?"

"Acting?" Anne leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. "I never was an actress."

"But you had to convey something on stage. That's acting, isn't it?"

"I suppose. If you want to stretch the definition, that is."

"And I'm sure you still have friends who act and such."

"Of course. Quite a few. Walter's business wouldn't be half as promising without my connections. Why do you ask?"

Billie grinned wider. "I have a plan."

Chapter Twenty-Four

Four Months Later

"You like the country. You've said it before."

It was the first bit of conversation he had tried in a few hours. She only looked away in reply.

"Listen, I know you don't like this. I don't like this. We've had this conversation from the start. But –"

He was cut off by the bundle in her arms starting to cry.

"Well, Molly smells like something rotten. I'll stop on the side of the road if you'll change her."

The little automobile slowed to a stop on the side of a long stretch of country road.

He was the first to get out, looking about him at the hills of green and brown before going to the trunk and opening a carpet bag where the clean nappies had been folded neatly.

"Rather chilly out here, isn't it?" he asked as she laid out a blanket on her seat to change their little daughter Molly. "I suspect it's because it's so empty – the wind will come more easily over the moors," he continued in a distance voice. "That and we are farther north," he remarked, trying a little more brightly.

He handed her the nappy and happened to glance at the front tire. "Oh no..."

She looked up, attentive.

"No!" He gripped his hair angrily. "I think we have a bloody puncture!" He hurried to kneel down next to the tire to inspect the damage. There was no other word for it – the tire was punctured and they had probably been riding with it for some time as some of it had started to wear away.

He hurried back to the trunk and began to dig through their belongings in vain. "We must have been driving on it for at least an hour. And it isn't going last past... well, now, I suspect. Damn it!"

He kicked the car.

"I'll have to start walking."

She looked concerned.

"You won't be taken. Nothing will be. And by what anyway? A cow? What have we got that's worth anything besides Molly?"

She said nothing. The baby continued to cry. She began to playfully bounce the now cleaned Molly at her side.

"She's probably hungry and we're out of milk," he said, running a hand down his face, his fingers over his mustache.

He glanced at her for Molly had stopped crying and saw that his wife seemed to be staring at something – or, at the very least, something had caught her attention.

"What is it?" he asked.

She pointed.

He looked.

He stood and saw what she was looking at – a lovely black car was rolling towards them at a leisurely pace. "Well... I'll be damned," he said, walking up behind her.

She turned around and forced a smile before he went into the middle of the road and waved the car down. It slowed and came to a stop several feet in front of him.

"Sorry to bother you," he called out, though he didn't know to whom he was actually speaking. "We seem to have a puncture!"

The backdoor of the car opened and a large man with thick graying hair and an imposing stature stepped out with a lovely smile and very blue eyes.

"Second-hand deal... not very good," he added.

"Where are you going?" asked the man with blue eyes.

"Er – Little Pearshire, I believe's the town name. I'm the – um – new vicar."

"Really?"

He nodded. "Yes... er – George Thornton... oh, and this –" he waved her over. "This is my lovely wife Elinor and our little one Molly."

"Walter Floyd, a pleasure. So, how old is the little one?"

"Molly's about six months," George replied.

Elinor nodded in agreement.

"That's fantastic. Oh, I'm told that I have to ask any visitor to Pearshire if they enjoy cricket."

"Cricket?" asked George.

"Yes," said the Floyd. "The vicarage apparently sits on a lawn – perfect, I am told. Hardly a bump. Your predecessor, as I am also told, didn't let anyone at all play cricket on it – called the police down for the next town once to break up a game. I had to bail my client out once by wire."

"Oh... oh, I see. Well, I don't have a problem at all with cricket, if that's what you're after. I quite enjoy it, actually. Haven't had a chance to play in a while. Elinor likes the game as well, don't you, Elinor?"

Elinor nodded.

"Do you live in Little Pearshire?" George asked.

"No – I don't know the place that great to be honest. I've friends there and, as it happens, I'm just heading there now and I'd be happy to give you a lift."

"That would be wonderful," said George. "Thanks very much!"

"Not at all – let me have the driver get your things from the trunk."

"I can manage them," said George.

"No, no. That's what the man's there for." Floyd went on to knock on the hood of the driver's side and ask if he would be so kind as to move the Thortons' belongings into the trunk of the car. "After you," Floyd ushered the Thorntons into the backseat then followed them, shutting the door behind him.

They were a bit of a sight, Floyd thought. They sat very close together in the center of the seat across from him – or at least, Elinor sat close to George. George was a tall man compared to his wife, a very well built man, with a kind smile and combed brown hair. His age did show beside his wife, but then she looked as though she had been through enough for a lifetime just like her husband. The curls in her mousey hair were limp and pinned back a little messily under an out-of-fashion hat. The only thing fashionable on either of them was the cream silk scarf Elinor wore tied around her neck.

"You'll – um – have to forgive my wife. She's the quiet sort," said George.

"Oh... I didn't even notice."

George was quick, for he did notice Floyd's sudden awkwardness, and switched to a different subject.

"So, what's Pearshire like?" he asked. "To the best of your knowledge, I mean. You're more familiar with it than us."

"Oh, it's – er – it's small, I'm told."

"We figured that when we couldn't find it on the map."

"Yes. I don't believe there's a mapmaker who's ever included it, according to my own wife Anne. There's only one street. Leads straight up to your vicarage, I think, then turns to go up to Bramton Hall and down to Millford Lodge. God knows if either are still standing – my client says... oh never mind..." Floyd began to laugh to himself. "I don't believe half of what Dermot says even, if I know it's probably the truth."

The car left the Thorntons off in front of the vicarage – their belongings neatly stacked near the door so George would have little trouble bringing them in.

"Thank you for the ride," said George, shaking Floyd's hand once again.

Elinor, who had somehow gotten Molly to sleep and stood swaying to keep her so, nodded in agreement again.

"I will – er – tell the Bramtons you've arrived. And they're sure to tell the Millfords... assuming both are still alive, I would expect a few visits."

"We – um – will, thank you."

Floyd got back into the car. He shut the door and the car soon took off towards the wooded path that led to Millford Lodge and Bramton Hall.

"I knew it," George went into his pocket and produced the key that had been sent to him, "I knew it would be too good to be true – to some extent. We're going to have crazies barking up our door without a moment to settle." He unlocked that door.

They stepped inside the old vicarage and looked around. Some of the furniture had been left for them – some they had sent ahead that they owned. George climbed up two of the stairs of the main staircase and looked around from there while Elinor took a few steps into their parlor. He then plodded up the rest of them when Elinor disappeared into the parlor.

"Nursery is set up," George called out. "At least the money was put out for that!"

Elinor soon ascended the stairs herself and walked into the half-unpacked nursery. She looked around and set a tired Molly into the crib that held many children before her and showed it.

"She'll be sleeping until she wakes up and realizes she's still hungry," said George, touching his daughter's cheek gently. "We should see what to do about milk soon."

Elinor nodded and left the nursery, leaving the door open a crack. "Hey," he said, following her. "Come here, you..." George tenderly took hold of Elinor and backed her into his arms.

He kissed the side of her head.

"We'll go back to London before you can blink – you'll see. But for now... our own country home," George said, setting his chin on Elinor's shoulder. "I've always said we should have just gone to the country to begin with. Speaking of, you could take off your coat, you know."

Finally, Elinor smiled. She turned her head and kissed him.

"And I promise," he said, putting his forehead to hers. "You know what I promised. And I keep my promises, don't I? Best I can."

Elinor nodded and left his arms to take off her coat.

But George kept hold of her hand and pulled her back towards him, leading her through another door that he had already assessed as being their bedroom.

Have started thinking that Ipswich is overrated. Stop. People I believe just like saying Ipswich. Stop.

Margot folded the telegram quickly and slipped it into her vanity drawer were a whole slew of telegrams from the same stranger sat, amassed over the past few months. They had started to come almost every day now and Margot was becoming very adept at hiding her embarrassment – she was able to intercept the telegram before it ever reached the breakfast room.

"Are you coming downstairs?"

Margot looked to her doorway and saw Margery waiting. "Breakfast?" Margery clarified.

"Oh. Yes. Right down."

"You're very quiet this morning, Margot," said Margery as the sisters walked to the breakfast room together.

"Am I? I'm just in thought."

"About?"

About the mysterious telegrams I keep getting, Margot thought. But I can't ask why or try to find out who they are from – the whole town would know! "Nothing," she answered. "Well, the garden mostly. I feel as though father's almost deserted it due to the gnome."

"Yes... and it's only been made worse."

"Another picture?"

Margery nodded and the girls stepped into the breakfast room where Millford sat with McNaulty, pouring over the collection of pictures that had been coming once every two weeks or so – the missing gnome in some strange part of the world or England.

"You see this one? You see? Bloody girl is taunting us!"

"Father," said Margery as she and her sister took their seats at the table. "Why don't you put those away for now and let's have breakfast, all right?"

Millford huffed, but obeyed his daughter, gathering up the photographs and putting them to the side.

"Where's Aunt Millicent?" Margot asked.

"She's taking breakfast in her rooms."

Millicent had been taking breakfast in her rooms for some time now. With the arrival of McNaulty, she had felt out of place or, rather, put-out. When she wanted her quiet in the library, she found him intruding. In the garden, intruding. She didn't like him and cared not to acknowledge him until he left.

It was a very common practice of Millicent's, so the girls thought nothing of it.

"And how is Olive this morning?" Millford asked, ringing the bell for breakfast to be brought in.

"Quickly trying to finish her sums before Mrs. Graham appears for lessons. I fear we may need to call the physician." Margery had been feeling very much the 'parent' lately. She thought she had it down well now. Of course, it was to the annoyance of everyone around her.

"Whatever for?" asked McNaulty, the worry in his voice very genuine.

"She has such bags under her eyes – I don't believe she is sleeping well. She's constantly yawning and nodding off when she isn't doing schoolwork. I have tried a good cup of tea before bed. Warm milk. No sugar. I'm wondering if something cannot be prescribed to help."

"A good thought," said McNaulty. "I was about to suggest the warm milk. My late mother – rest her soul – always had us drink a glass before bed."

"Margot?"

Margot jumped at her father's voice. Her mind had slipped back into thinking about the telegram.

"Yes?"

"I seem to have gotten word from the enemy that a guest has arrive at their residence."

Margot knew this meant Penelope had written to Sir Millford, telling him that an expected guest had arrived – unlike most in Little Pearshire, Penelope was not one to give into the war.

No, Penelope was the one who ran Pearshire when the men declared war. She dealt with the tenants, the businesses – anything that took place on both Bramton and Millford's land while the two men avoided each other like the plague and likewise made sure their children and guests did the same. Penelope, though, was above it all and most thought that was all that was keeping her in Pearshire for never had she taken dinner in her rooms for such a long time straight.

"And not only that for it is of no consequence to us – that news of guests and all – not only that, it seems the vicarage has been taken up by a small family by the name of Thornton. Will you write a dinner invitation and walk it there yourself after breakfast?"

"Why can't –"

"Because you know the enemy will send a footman! No, no! I will not be like them! Cordial! Friendly! That is what we Millfords are!"

"Yes, father."

"Straight after breakfast then."

"Yes, father."

"I must say," said Margery, who was smiling as McNaulty passed her the butter, "that it was rather quick the way they filled the vicarage. You could easily assume that the church had forgotten Little Pearshire. I don't believe anyone would be surprised."

"Yes, well. The enemy believe they're haunted, don't forget. Wants the house exercised! Can you believe it? That's probably what put the rush on things. Such rubbish people, those Bramtons... such rubbish!"

"Father," Margery said, calmly pouring him another cup of tea. "Let's not raise our voice at the table, hm? Margot, eat as quickly as you can so the invitation can go out."

Peacekeeper. That's what Margery felt like. With her sister distant, unwilling to talk about something that was obviously bothering her. With her exhausted daughter, nodding off during the day. With her absent aunt. With the missing gnome. With the missing Douglas, resigned to his fate with Daisy it appeared. Her only real company had become McNaulty.

She had not seen Douglas since the original gnome incident. He made no more attempts to 'explain' himself or deny that he took the gnome. On his end, it was silence.

And Margery had begun to stop complaining about it – the silence from Douglas and McNaulty's attention. He was kind, after all – a gentleman. She felt very bad for what Lord Bramton had put him through for it was clear McNaulty was very much the sentimental sort – not to the point of Edward Bramton, but enough to be a good man. Margery began to feel that it was her duty to be his friend – her pleasure as well.

"Four months..." Henry muttered as Floyd poured him a glass of brandy from his own flask. Henry was prostrate on his bed, a pillow over his head. "Four months and I only get an hour alone with you for business. And she's probably got her ear pressed to the door."

"I doubt that," said Floyd, loitering now near the window with his own glass. "They went into town to the market, remember? We saw them go."

"You can't always believe what you see anymore. The house is haunted."

"The house isn't haunted. I haven't seen anything yet."

"How's Mina?"

"On bed-rest."

"No letter? Anything for me?"

"She's still angry with you. But she is trying to help so you'll have to take what you can get – that means no evidence of contact. I would reckon, though, her belly's grown about ten times since you've seen her."

"Anne's keeping her company?"

"For now."

"For now? What does that mean?"

"I told you that Billie is trying to help. She devised a plan with Anne. That's what took so long for me to get here."

"Oh, not another!" Henry pushed the pillow harder to his ears. "I don't want to hear it. I hate that word... plan. I won't hear it."

"You might want to."

"Why? Is it good?" Henry looked from under his pillow.

"Not without its snags."

"What does that mean? No... no, I don't want to hear it." Henry threw the pillow off the bed. He sat up and began to smack his lips from the brandy. "Never mind," he said. "What is it?"

"What's what?"

"Tell me the plan before I say no again." Henry held out his glass for a refill.

Chapter Twenty-Five

"Wait wait," Henry said. "I'm drunk. You're going to have to repeat... everything you just said."

Floyd rolled his eyes and sat on the windowsill. "Anne called in a favor from one of her friends down on the West End. He's going to come up here – with Anne – pretending to be the new vicar."

"But you said –"

"The new vicar is actually here. I know. That's the snag. But we can work around it. So – with the... whatever you call it... haunting going on at this house, Anne's pal is going to pretend that he can tell the ghost is unhappy with the marriage and scare them right off."

"And that's going to work?"

"If not, a fake vicar marries you to Henrietta and on your wedding night you leave and, with Billie, flee to... I don't know where yet – I think Billie thinks the first plan will work."

"But the new vicar? I mean, the real new one?"

"Like I said – the only snag. But the girls work well together. They'll think of something. What?"

Henry held out his glass. "More brandy."

"This – er – haunting. What do you make of it, then?" Floyd asked.

Henry shrugged. "It's not happening to me, that's all I know. The girls here noises in the evening mostly. Some other windows have been broken. Sometimes – and I could have been drunk – but sometimes you can hear the noises echoing. Sometimes loud moans and groans – the usual. But it's all rubbish."

"You think?"

"Don't believe in ghosts. Why – do you?"

Floyd shook his head. "It'll be interesting to know what's making it all happen though."

"To be quite honest," said Henry. "I don't care. Henrietta gets scared enough to actually be kind to her sister, so I've had more than just a mere moment to breath." Henry held up his glass to the ceiling. "Thank you, ghost-ie."

Margot felt as though she was huffing and puffing by the time she made it down to the vicarage. She had written the invitation so quickly under her father's eyes and had left the house itself so quickly, she felt the need to walk quickly, too, on top of everything. She hated when her father – well, when the town rather – was in this sort of mood.

Margot waited, having knocked on the door. It was George who answered.

"Hello," said Margot with a smile. "I'm Margot Millford. My father, Sir Millford, wanted to invite you and your family to dine with us this coming Tuesday." Margot smiled wider as she handed George the invitation.

"Oh... oh, thank you," said George. "Won't you – um – come in? My wife's just put on a kettle and you look rather worn out. I'm George Thornton by the way – it's a pleasure."

"Thank you, Reverend Thornton. Perhaps I will have a cup."

Margot stepped into the vicarage and looked around at the old, danky little place. It looked a lot less old, she thought. And a lot less danky. New inhabitants seemed to make all the difference.

"Elinor? Elinor, are you free?"

Elinor appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.

"Miss Millford –"

"Margot, please."

"Right, Margot, this is my lovely wife, Elinor. I'm sure she'd tell you to call her Elinor, if she could. Our daughter, Molly, is upstairs sound asleep so I'm sorry you won't be able to meet her." George turned to his wife. "A cup of tea for Margot too, love, would you?"

Elinor nodded, gave Margot a smile, then hurried back to the kitchen.

"Quiet type," said George. "This way. We've – um – just put together our sitting room. It's a bit dusty – a few boxes here and there – you said you were a Millford didn't you? Man I met – a – um – Walter Floyd – he was friends with the Bramtons. News travels fast, I'm assuming?"

"Assuming correctly. Have the Bramtons not sent an invitation?"

"No – you must have beat them to it."

"Father will be pleased. The Bramtons are having their own set of problems, aren't they? The so-called haunting and all. We were all surprised to hear they sent someone so quickly to replace Reverend Waters. Four months must be some sort of new record. Are you a specialist?"

"A specialist?"

"In hauntings. I personally don't believe that my family believes there's really a haunting but if there is one – I may believe it. And I'd be happy to know you dealt with them. Not that Millford Lodge is haunted. It isn't but –"

"Yes," said George. "I'm the best they could find, I think. On – um – short notice, as you said."

Elinor appeared with the tea tray and set it on the table between the two dusty sofas in the sitting room. She then took a seat beside George, who began to fix both of their teas.

"That is rather sweet," said Margot. "You know how your wife takes her tea."

"We take turns," said George. "If she fixed the kettle, I'll do the cups. Vice versa. Did you hear Margot earlier, love? We've been invited for a dinner."

"And don't worry about your little one," said Margot. "Bring her for we've a lovely nurse who looks after my sister Margery's daughter."

"Ah, yes, Olive, right?" George said.

Margot looked up from her tea. "Olive? How did you know her name was Olive?"

George was only confounded for a moment before answering, "Mr. Floyd, I believe, made – um – mention of your family. Said there was a little girl by the name of Olive. I've only been a father for a few months – strange things you start to take notice of."

Margot nodded, but began to feel a little uneasy. "That's a lovely neck scarf, Elinor," she said, nodding to the cream scarf Elinor wore.

Elinor smiled in thanks, then sipped the tea that George handed to her.

Edward stared at the ceiling. An ugly dull gold filigree ceiling cut up into little squares with flowers in the middle.

"Are you going to continue to lay on the floor of my office?" Lord Bramton's voice floated over his desk.

"It is the only place I can properly mourn," said Edward. "Reverend Waters is haunting this house because I was foolish enough to propose to his nieces. Everyone is paying for my stupidity."

Bramton looked over the desk at his son, who was lying on his back on the wooden floor.

"I hardly think this haunting's caused by your stupidity, Edward. I think everyone was quite aware of how dim you are and a ghost really wouldn't take the time to trouble itself over one of your blunders. But... mourn if you must."

Edward let out a moan as his father walked past him. "I'm making the family suffer!"

"Edward, I honestly think your stupidity, at the moment, hardly matches that of your brothers. Or of the bloody Millfords..."

Edward's head rolled back to looking at the ceiling as his father left the room.

Bramton, with a newspaper folded under his arm, walked down the hallway, his eyes on the ground as he found himself doing now often. It was bad enough to have a son in mourning in your own study, but to feel as though your house has been taken over by a madmen and his daughters?

"Penelope?"

Penelope turned from her desk in her rooms. "I'm writing up the menu and taking care of Mr. Roberts' book store sales."

Bramton stumbled in and shut the door. "I'm getting to the point where I can't take it."

"Take what, Bramton? The Duke? Your missing daughter? The war between you and Millford? You have to let me know which of it you're complaining about this time."

"You've secluded yourself up here. What happened, Penelope? It isn't just the war, is it?"

"One only has patience for so much idiocy in the world, Bramton. Let me finish writing the menu."

Bramton ran a hand through his hair and looked around the room. There were trunks out.

"You're leaving?"

"For a few weeks."

"Weeks? You can't! You have to... to fix this!"

"I've written an invitation for the new vicar and his wife to dine with you all on Monday. Make sure it is delivered with my apologies."

"When are you leaving?"

"Early in the morning tomorrow."

"Is it me? Is it just me?"

Penelope sat for a moment. "No. It's never just you, Bramton. Stop being so self-important. There's always something going on... always something going wrong."

"But you've never fled before, Penelope! You've always –"

"Think of it another way." Penelope stood and walked to her husband. She pressed the invitation in his hand. "You're right. I don't flee. But did you ever consider I may be leaving for a reason that will give this house a chance to fix itself? You really have lost that fight in you, haven't you, dear?"

"Have I?"

"Yes. I wish you could gain it back."

"Then are you... plotting, Penelope?"

Penelope took her hand from the invitation. "I'm afraid of ghosts," she said – her voice unconvincing. "I'll return when the house has been properly cleaned of it all."

Bramton smiled a little. His wife rarely let him on to her own plans.

"Do I... do I just have this invitation delivered?"

"For now. Walter Floyd will instruct you on the rest and whatever may come."

Taking his wife's hand back in his, he felt a little of that 'fight' coming back.

At least he hoped.

George held up the letter to the light. "Another invitation to dine," he said. Elinor was seated on the sofa across from him, busy with mending one of George's coats. "From the Bramtons. I imagine I'll have to... assess the place when we go. Ghosts... load of rubbish."

Elinor glanced up.

"I don't think it is haunted but we'll see. Sometimes the country does play tricks on people's minds when it's isolating enough. Stop giving me that look – it feels like you're yelling at me. You probably are, aren't you?"

George got up and kissed the top of her head. "I'm going for one of my walks." He picked up a case that sat near the fireplace. "I'll be back before you put Molly down to sleep. Will you respond to the invitation for us both?"

Elinor nodded and set aside George's coat. But she eyed him until he left.

"There has been only one other instance of Peashire at war since I've been alive," said Margery as she walked with McNaulty in the garden that evening. "And it was even sillier than a garden gnome gone missing... I can hardly remember even what the cause was."

"And it went on for long?"

"Two years... I remember Margot and I would have to sneak out and meet Douglas by the creek at the end of Pearshire just to play together. It was wretched. Lady Bramton is the only one able to look past it all – she runs Pearshire while the men fight." Margery still laughed. "You should consider yourself lucky. No one usually crosses the battlelines but her and you're free to come and go now, too."

"I am getting paid," McNaulty reminded Margery.

"True enough. I must say though... I'm surprised Douglas hasn't tried to contact me."

"Why would he?" The question sounded harsher than McNaulty meant it.

"For old time's sake... I don't know. Plus, it's the general consensus that it was Billie who took the gnome or that he took the gnome and gave it to Billie – he's not groveling for forgiveness anymore. He hasn't in months."

"What if he didn't take the gnome? Or his sister?"

"That leaves the question of who did. But – it doesn't matter. Neither side will hear different. I just hope Olive isn't lonely, not able to see Wat and all."

"Perhaps she sneaks out just like you used to."

Margery shook her head. "No. She hardly knows Pearshire that well. She's all day at her lessons anymore. I would almost wish she could meet Wat somewhere, but... well, one shouldn't dwell on unhappy things, hm?"

"No. They shouldn't." McNaulty's eyes had been watching Margery's hand dangling at her side for some time now. The blood rose to his face when he reached out and took it in his hand. It was just as soft as he imagined it would be – though colder than he expected.

"Will you stop whining?" Wat groaned as he tied another pot on a large piece of twine.

"But it is all my fault." Olive lay on the roof of Bramton Hall while Wat prepared for what he called 'the next attack' – there was always a 'next attack' nowadays, but it was harder for Olive to get to Bramton Hall with the fued.

No one at all could see her.

Not even a maid, who she used to be able to explain her appearance away to once or twice.

"If I hadn't given that gnome to Potter, it wouldn't take me so long to get here."

"I said shut up about it! Nothing we can do now. Anyway, why don't you just tell your granddad it were you?"

"He'd hate me!"

"Probably," Wat agreed.

Olive sat up and crossed her arms. "Are you finished yet?"

"Almost."

"Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Olive put her finger to her lips and walked to the edge of the roof. Lying on her stomach, she let her head hang over. After a moment, she waved to Wat. Together, they lay on their stomachs, listening to the Duke through an open window below.

"Well, things will be sorted out soon," came his deep, booming voice. "Why? Because – the haunting will be over, won't it? With the new vicar here, things will be sorted won't they?"

Olive looked at Wat, who looked right back at her.

"I don't know!" The Duke shouted. "Some sort of prayer or something like that! It's an old house – the girls think they hear things – a prayer! I don't know! That's not my job is it? All I know is, I want this haunting over with and the new vicar better be up to that task!"

A phone slammed.

Wat and Olive quickly picked themselves up and moved away from the ledge.

"That's very not good," said Wat.

"No. It's not. At all." Olive turned to Wat. "What do we do?"

"Be extra extra careful. That's what."

Margery slowly pulled her hand away from McNaulty.

"I'm –" he started.

"No," Margery said with a small laugh. "No, don't apologize. I... I didn't –" Margery stopped – they had both heard it.

Someone walking.

"Hello?" McNaulty called out.

"Hello?" came a reply. And, then, from beyond one of the boarder willows came George with his case. "I'm sorry – I think I've gotten myself lost. I'm – um – the new vicar. George Thornton."

"Oh yes!" said Margery, holding out her hand. "You met my sister this morning I believe. Margot. I'm Margery. And this is Mr. Angus McNaulty. It's very much a pleasure."

"Yes, likewise. I'm terribly sorry to be so intrusive – I told my little wife I was going to go for a walk and I got myself nice and lost."

"It's not a problem," said Margery, who was rather thankful for his sudden appearance. "If you want to follow Angus and I, we were just about to walk inside. You could leave through the front door and it takes you on practically a straight line right back to the vicarage."

"That would be wonderful, thanks so much."

"As I said, it's not a problem. This way."

While they walked, Margery could not sum up the courage to look up at McNaulty.

She might have burst into laughter if she did.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Douglas sat with his pen frozen over the piece of paper he planned to write his confession on the next morning. Or it could have been his death certificate. Really, the words were interchangeable by now but he at least owed it to Margery, he thought. She had to wonder why he hadn't spoken to her in so long... didn't she?

Anyway, if he didn't tell her, Billie would and then Margery would wonder why...

Douglas looked at the blank paper.

He should have just told her from the beginning. The whole truth. The blackmailing. The obvious price on Olive's head thanks to the Duke.

"Your life," said Edward, "is a bloody terrible story."

Douglas looked over Bramton's desk and saw Edward still laying in mourning on the floor.

"Excuse me?"

"But so is mine. So it all of ours. Because of me."

"Because of you?"

"I caused the haunting. Didn't you know that?"

"What?"

"Because I proposed to his nieces. He's haunting us because I was stupid enough to do that."

"You look more stupid laying on the floor like that than proposing at the same time to twins... hold up... maybe not but your life, Edward, is not a bloody terrible story. Mine – for certain – is. It has a bit of an unbelieveability factor, too, added."

"What?"

"Never mind."

Douglas sat back down at the desk.

My dear Margery

No. She'd never get past those words.

Dear Margery

Absolutely not.

Margery

No.

Margery, do not put this letter down until you have read it please, I beg of you, for the sake of our daughter.

Closer, he thought.

Edward moaned.

"Are you serious, Eddie?"

"I'm feeling the pain for the family. Mourning my part in it."

"You're a twat, you know that? The dimmest twat I've ever known."

"You're related to me though!"

"I have no idea how." Douglas put away the pen, folded the paper and left the study.

As he did, he saw a trail of footmen and maids carrying luggage out of his mother's rooms.

"Mother?" He hurried round into her private sitting room. "Mother, where are you going?"

"To London. For a spell," she answered, pointing the direction for another trunk.

"London? But... you can't leave!"

"I must."

Douglas shut the door and ran to his mother. "Please don't! Dear god, don't leave me here!"

"Douglas, what on earth is the matter with you?"

"I... I haven't been truthful. At all. To... anyone. Daisy –"

"Is blackmailing you."

"Yes. And –"

"Olive is in danger."

"How –"

"Your sister and your best friend's producer and his wife have already let me in on the entire mess."

"Are you going to Billie? Is she really in London?"

Penelope patted her son's cheek. "As I told your father, I wouldn't leave my house if I thought it was falling down. I knew you didn't love that girl. And you shouldn't have lied to me all these weeks. I don't know how we've survived these past months walking on our tiptoes with some rumor of a ridiculous haunting but... we have. Now it's time for it to stop."

Kissing Douglas on the forehead she opened the door and walked out of the room. Douglas followed her all the way down to the car waiting.

"Mother, please!"

"You have Henry. And now you have Mr. Floyd as well to keep you alive. Mr. Floyd is rather imposing after all, isn't he?"

Douglas groaned as his mother climbed into the car.

"Your father knows I am leaving. You'd be sure to repeat my apologies to our new vicar that I am unable to dine with him and his family."

"Of... of course, mother."

"Don't do anything stupid, darling." She said as the door shut.

"What else could I do?" he asked.

"Just stay put," was the last thing his mother said through the open window of her car.

Feeling beaten and a guard down, Douglas trudged back into the Hall wondering if Daisy had woken up yet. As he walked, a piece of paper caught his eye – it was his mother's writing, he could tell that from a distance but what...

He picked it up.

The address was for a hotel in Bath.

"Douglas, darling dear, is that you?" came Daisy's voice.

"Uh – Yes!" he called back, shoving the piece of paper into his breast pocket.

Breakfast at the Millford's was an oddly tense one – but perhaps not as odd as Millford himself thought. He couldn't make sense of it. Margot was busying herself with the paper to a rather intense degree and Margery could not lift her eyes from the plate – a smile kept dancing on her lips. McNaulty's face had been flushed since he said 'good morning' – and that was all he had said to the room.

"We aren't at war with each other," said Millford with the biggest belly laugh he could muster. But it died down when no one joined him by Margery. "Well, I'm glad you appreciate my humor, darling."

"Margery," said Angus, startling the table with the sudden boom of his voice. "Would you be kind enough to show me the rose bushes again before I take my leave to Bramton Hall today?"

"Yes, of course. We weren't able to get a very good look at them last night," Margery went on to explain to her father. "You were already in your study but the new vicar – Reverend Thornton – was taking a walk and got himself lost. I showed him out the front door."

"Does he seem like a friendly chap? I only heard a little from Margot yesterday."

Margot didn't even budge at the mention of her name.

"Yes, he does. Didn't you think, Angus?"

"Yes. Very. He seems intelligent."

"What makes you say so?" asked Millford.

"Yes," said Margery. "I would never have thought to describe him that way."

"He talked fast," said McNaulty. "Fast and faltered a few times. Choosing his words. Careful man. My father likes fast talkers and people who choose their words. A combination of the two must be... well, intelligent."

It made little to no sense but Margery still smiled and nodded in agreement. Millford, on the other hand, was not as kind and asked McNaulty to continue to explain himself.

"Margot?" Margery asked once she knew her father and Angus were occupied. "Are you very sure nothing is bothering you at all?"

"No. Why would you suspect?"

"You've been reading the same page of the paper for the whole of breakfast."

Margot folded the paper and looked at her sister. "Can I tell you later? After your walk with McNaulty?"

Margery nodded just in time for her father to ask, "What are you two girls talking about?"

In some ways, Margery wished breakfast would not end – but she did want to see what was wrong with her sister. It was McNaulty she dreaded. Why she felt the urge to laugh around him now – she couldn't tell.

"I... I want to apologize for last night," McNaulty said, breaking the silence as they walked to the rose bushes. "I became too forward and... it is just, these past few months have been bliss to me, Margery. You and your family have shown me such kindness... even if I didn't have the Bramtons to compare you to, you would still shine as mighty as you do now –"

"Angus –"

"Let me finsh, please."

Margery nodded.

"I will not be so forward again. But know... know that I have a great affection for you. Whether you return it or not is of no consequence for it shall not die in me whether you say yes or no to it."

"Angus, are you asking me to –"

"No. Not yet, at least. But I urge you... if you feel the same or... have any feelings –"

"I'm... I'm sorry, Agnus. You're rather overwhelming me right now... I... I will take your feelings into great consideration, do trust me on that. But for now, let us remain friends. Good friends."

Angus nodded.

"Yes... yes, of course. But..." He reached forward and kissed her hand. "I will think of you as I work today."

Margery nodded her head as Angus turned from her. She took the hand he kissed and covered her mouth with want to laugh again.

"What is so funny?" Margot asked as Margery lay on her bed, her face beat red from laughter.

"You would never believe this..."

"I may. What is it?"

"I think Angus McNaulty is in love with me! He took my hand in the garden last night and this morning... this morning he confessed he admires me! He has..." she tried to catch her breath, "such an admiration... he's going to think of me as he works!"

"What... what's funny about that?"

"I have not a clue!"

"Margery, it's very awful of you to laugh at him! You're going to end up hurting his feelings! What if he proposed to you?"

"He practically did!"

"Margery!"

"What? He's a lovely man and I gave him no... no thought of how I felt but I cannot for the life of me figure out why I keep laughing!"

"Are you going to cry if you don't?"

"What?"

"Sometimes I laugh when I want to cry," said Margot.

"Well, a good cry wouldn't really be strange, would it? The man I love is going to be married to a soap ad sometime this year and I..." Margery was quiet.

"See," Margot said with a sigh – they were, after all, supposed to be talking about her, not Margery.

"Do you remember what you said when Angus first came to stay? About him maybe being better for Olive? What if you were right?"

"Margery –"

"No – listen. Consider it. I don't find him repulsive and maybe I don't love him but I wouldn't positively say no to marrying him. If Douglas can go off and do that, why can't I?"

"Go off and get married? You sound like Douglas left you for Daisy."

Margery was quiet again. "What were you going to show me?"

"What?"

"You were going to tell me what's been bothering you these past few weeks."

"Oh... right." Margot went into her drawer and pulled out the pile of telegrams from – well, all over the world, really. She put them in front of Margery, who read a few of them.

"Who are they from?"

"Doesn't say. I get them almost every day now?"

"Whoever's sending them really has nothing interesting do say, do they?"

"No – but it is a little strange."

"Or not at all," said Margery. "It could be the wrong address."

"In Pearshire? How do you put the wrong address in Pearshire?"

"I don't know!" Margery answer – her voice frustrated. "I wouldn't give them another thought."

"Where are you going?" Margot asked – Margery was on her way out of the room.

"The garden," she said. "To think."

Margot let out loud 'huff' in reply and shuffled her telegrams back together. As she did, though, something caught her eye. The telegram before last – the one about Ipswich...

She took it out and looked at it again.

Ipswich...

That had been written on the picture of the gnome...

"Oh dear..." Margot whispered to herself.

So Egypt was a little different than Ipswich.

Charles Potter had taken it upon himself to go from England to some other foreign part of the world back and forth – just to keep things interesting. And so he could check on his garden regularly.

After having somehow managed to get the owner of a camel to agree to let him take a picture of the gnome riding it, Charles sat on the stairs of the hotel in which he was staying and decided something.

Even if he didn't know – and couldn't know – Margot was slowly piecing things together – just without him as a link – he began to think and decide.

He had to go back to Pearshire.

What had he to lose?

Well, beyond the only love of his life that he had only known for about a week.

"If Romeo and Juliet could do it," he said to himself. "So could we. Without killing each other or ourselves hopefully... not that Shakespeare ever intended it to be solely a love story, I suppose... more of a commentary but –"

"Sir, are you speaking to me?" one of the other hotel guests asked.

"What? Oh. No. Sorry!" Charles winced through a smile as the bothered guest past.

Yes, he thought. He would go back to Little Pearshire.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Ralph Pettigrew was a handsome, talented actor and little else could be said about him for, beyond his looks and his talents, there was not much more too him. He was a very uninteresting person, though whatever Anne saw in him as a friend had made him the perfect candidate in Billie's newest scheme.

"Are you sure your husband said to go to Bramton Hall first? Isn't that strange? Shouldn't we go to the vicarage first?"

"Well, yes," said Anne as Ralph went over a rather large pothole that knocked the hat off of her head. "That would be the sensible thing, but we were beaten to the punch, don't forget. The new vicar is already there so somehow we must iron out this little wrinkle."

"And going to Bramton –"

"Oh, don't ask questions, Ralph. Do let me handle this, all right?"

"I'm following your lead."

The car went on for a little while longer under Anne began to talk again. "I'm not saying that was a bad question. It's a very good question. We just have to trust that Walter knows what we're doing."

"Right." But Ralph thought about it for a moment and it didn't make sense to him. Still, he trusted Anne and drove along.

When they arrived at Bramton Hall, Floyd had been waiting at the gate, smoking a cigar. Anne hit Ralph on the arm to stop the car and jumped out of her seat.

"Walter Floyd, you put that stink out this instant!"

Floyd laughed and put out the cigar under his foot. "Will you quiet down? Someone will hear you. Sit!"

Anne fell back into her seat and crossed her arms annoyed. "How long have you been waiting? Don't they find it odd?"

"They hardly notice me around here – hi, Ralph, how are you doing?"

"Fine, Mr. Floyd. And yourself?"

"Best as can be."

"No!" said Anne went Floyd walked around to give her a kiss. "You stink of cigars! Who gave you that? Did Henry?"

"That's my welcome?"

"For the moment!"

"How is Billie?"

"Waiting patiently for her mother to arrive. Pigsley is providing her with good company I assume, though. Now, why did you stop us here and not let us get up to the house?"

"So I can give you the details here and wander in during your welcome there. We can't look associated with each other, you know that. And give me your glasses."

"What for?"

"Because they're expensive and that madman will notice."

"You said he doesn't notice much."

"Henry said he did. And he might notice an extra vicar showing up, besides."

Reluctantly, Anne handed over her thick-lensed glasses. "You will be dead, if you sit on that pair. Now, what are our instructions?"

"Kiss first."

"Kiss after."

"First."

"You still smell."

Floyd was sick of arguing with his wife so he grabbed her by the back of the head and pressed their lips together. Anne made a face and pushed him away, pretending to wipe her lips as Floyd went on with the plan.

"You came into Pearshire not by the main road – by the next town over. You came over the creek, all right? That gives you the excuse of not going up the main road and seeing the obvious vicarage. Ask for directions. Tell them you're reinforcements here to deal with the hauntings."

"Reinforcements? Is that the best you could come up with?" Anne asked.

"What else can we say? They accidentally sent two reverends to care for Little Pearshire? They're shocked the first one turned up so soon!"

"Soon is four months to them? We should have waited longer?"

"Apparently. But, just go with it, all right?"

"And when this fails?"

"Start thinking of something else." Floyd leaned forward and kissed Anne again – this time she didn't push him away, but she did call him an 'oaf' under her breath. He grinned "Drive on, Ralph," he said, tapping the back of the car.

"But Walter!" Anne cried out.

"I will see you soon!"

Anne again fell back into her seat and squinted to see Ralph. "Well?" she asked him.

"Well, what?"

"What do you think of this? Isn't it ridiculous? It's it... nonsensical? We're going to get caught!"

"We might not."

Anne groaned and leaned her head back. "Disaster... it all reeks of disaster." Lifting her head back up she added, "And bloody cigars."

"And... you're also the new vicar?" Bramton asked curiously. He sat alone on the sofa. The Duke stood nearby, eating a roostbeef sandwich on a plate he had been carrying around since breakfast. Henry sat behind the Duke, watching Anne and shaking his head, knowing this was going to fail.

"No," said Ralph. "No, I've been sent to help with the haunting. Reinforcement."

"Do they think it's that bad?" asked Bramton. "The haunting?"

"Nonsense," said the Duke, almost sitting on Henry, who jumped up to let him have the seat. "I don't believe it."

"Well, if they think it really is a problem..." Bramton said sheepishly. "Have you been to the vicarage yet?"

"No, Beth and I came over the creek and someone working in the fields pointed us to Bramton Hall for directions."

"I see... I see. Well, at least Penelope has everything still running somehow – even when she isn't here."

"I could take them to the vicarage," said Henry in a low voice, for Floyd had just walked in.

"Oh, Mr. Floyd. Good of you to join us," said Bramton, ignoring Henry. "Seems the vicarage is about to be a little crowded. This is – em – the Reverend Alfred Lake and his wife Beth. Revenend – Mrs. Lake, this is Mr. Dermot's producer Mr. Walter Floyd."

"Pleasure to meet you," said Ralph extending his hand. "And so it my wife." He did his best not to wince when Floyd squeezed his hand tight – Ralph was not going to take too many liberties with Anne on his arm.

"What were you saying, Dermot?" Bramton asked. "About taking them down the vicarage?"

"I can do that," said Floyd. "I was just there the other day taking the Thorntons."

"I'll go with him," said Henry. "I feel like a bit of fresh air."

"Fresh air?" The Duke laughed. "The country is all around you! You have fresh air anywhere. Besides –"

"I think it may be a good idea," said Bramton, though his voice shook as he said so. "Henry hasn't really been out of Bramton Hall – he's been good helping keep your daughter out of harm's way what with... with the ghost and all. Best he can. We could allow a little slack on his lead, hm?"

The Duke was not happy with this idea, but nodded as he bit into his roastbeef sandwhich. In front of so many strangers, he wasn't always willing to bring out his true colors so quickly.

"Where are you going?" Henrietta ask, coming down the stairs as she saw Henry heading for the front door.

"To – em – the vicarage... dear."

"The vicarage?"

"Apparently," said the Duke, who decided to accompany them to the car outfront, "reinforcements concerning the ghost were called for."

"Why does Henry have to go?"

"Fresh air," said the Duke.

"Well, then I'd like to go for the ride!" Henrietta hurried forward.

"No!" Henry shouted – though he really didn't mean to shout. "No... no, darling, I won't be gone long. And Floyd, here, is going to occupy the other remaining space in the car. I'll... be... back before you know it."

Henrietta looked very put-off indeed.

Henry turned back to his group. "Are we – um – ready?"

"I'd hardly worry about him going to a vicarage," said Daisy. "I mean, all the women he's with are married, aren't they?"

"Still."

"Now you understand why I'm so possessive!" Daisy lay down on her bed and watched as Henrietta checked around the room – it was normal procedure now with the haunting. And, though Henrietta didn't want to believe it, she couldn't deny what she heard at night in her room and through the house.

But at least Daisy wasn't cooing over her view anymore.

"Maybe," said Henrietta. "Winter can't be soon enough."

"Maybe it doesn't have to be winter..."

"What do you mean?"

Daisy smiled. "I'll tell you a secret, if you'd like. You see, daddy doesn't want us in this house any longer. Of course, he needs to solve that problem, doesn't he?"

"I'm not following."

Daisy patted the bed near her. "Come here and I'll explain. It's quite exciting actually."

Floyd handed Henry his flask of brandy once they were clear of Bramton Hall.

"Oh, dear," said Anne, who had switched seats with her husband and sat beside Henry now. "Are you doing all right?"

"What a stupid question!" Henry snapped. "You know. I think I hate women." But with that comment, he lay down in the backseat and put his head on Anne's lap. Anne looked at Floyd, who only shrugged and motioned to keep giving him the brandy.

"You can't really hate women," said Anne. "Honestly, you do love Billie."

"Of course I love Billie. And you're not so bad. Could the world exist with just the two of you?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Sad thing is, there isn't anyone to blame in this situation is there? I mean, beyond the Duke and his madcap family. But they're mad. That's practically an excuse. Douglas couldn't help it. I couldn't help it. We're all just sorry..." he took a long swig of brandy, "lumps. Are you sure Mina still loves me?"

"I certainly wouldn't have let Ralph drive this car, if she didn't," said Floyd. "Or let you put your head in my wife's lap."

"Please," said Henry with a sigh. "I'm a child of the world."

"Yes you are, Mr. Skimpole. Now, sit yourself up." Anne pushed Henry into a seated position. "I can see the church steeple from here."

"This is going to go very... very poorly," Henry moaned.

"It most likely is," said Anne. "But we'll solider on."

"How?"

"Have you thought of something?" asked Floyd.

"No," Anne confessed. "I'm just going to wait for the heat of the moment. Improvisation. Right, Ralph?"

"Is that what we decided?"

Floyd rolled his eyes and hit Ralph over the head with his hand.

After Anne had given her glasses back to Floyd and after Henry had been leaned on the door to sit upright, Floyd pulled Ralph over to the side and muttered, "If this works and they give you a room, you even think of touching Anne and I will –"

"I get it!" Ralph said quickly. "Understood, Mr. Floyd, understood!"

"Walter, don't scare Ralph. Please. Are we ready?" Anne looped her arm in Ralph's and walked up to the vicarage with Floyd. Henry, meanwhile, had slid back into his position of lying on the seat, groaning during the intervals when he was not sipping brandy.

Anne knocked on the door – almost instantly making a baby in the near distance start to cry. After several minutes of stumbling around inside, the door opened and George appeared, a little disarrayed and holding his daughter Molly. Floyd pushed his way between Ralph and Anne, holding out his hand.

"Reverend Thornton, good to see you!"

"Mr. Floyd, am I correct? Yes, I am. I'm sorry about the wait – Elinor was in the middle of making lunch so I had to run up to fetch Molly when she started crying leaving no one to get the door."

"You weren't long at all," said Floyd. "It seems though there is a bit of a problem or mixup... or maybe part of the plan, but this lovely couple here – the – um... Lakes – the Lakes appeared early today at Bramton Hall saying they have been sent to help with the haunting at Bramton Hall. I didn't know if it was –"

"They were sent?" George asked.

"Yes," said Anne. "It was very last minute. Not that anyone doubted you, of course. But they wanted Alfred here to pitch in, it seems. It is an awful large house."

It seemed that Ralph was holding his breath when his name was mentioned. Anne was trembling, but only Floyd could tell. They waited for George to reply.

"Well, if it was last minute, I'm sure the news will get here somehow. Or perhaps you are the news itself. Come in, come in."

At first no one moved.

It had worked?

"Did I say something wrong?" asked George, patting Molly gently on the back.

"No," said Anne. "We're just quite tired from the drive. Not all here, in a way."

"I'm not surprised. It is a tiring drive. Elinor? Elinor dear – we'll need to have two more place sets out!"

"How the hell did that work?" Henry asked as he and Floyd walked back to Bramton Hall at a rather fast pace.

"I don't know but I'm not going to ask any questions."

"But how the hell –"

"Can we just call it luck and give it a rest? Do you have your cigarettes on you? Anne will kill me, but this whole thing has got my own damn nerves on edge." The two stopped and exchanged cigarettes and lights.

"Did anyone tell you that you're a possessive bastard by the way?" Henry asked as they continued on walking. "How did they even convince you to let Anne play wife to someone else?"

"I'm not possessive."

"Bloody well are."

"Maybe at the moment. I think you have to be here. Look how you got taken – just like that." Floyd snapped his fingers.

"I don't think it happens to females."

"Can't be too careful. Especially when she's practically doing this blind."

"Her sight getting that bad?"

"No – no changes recently – I was using it as more of a metaphor."

"Oh... right... yes."

It was Olive's turn to tie the pots onto the twine. This time, she and Wat were back in the attic, preparing for another evening's 'attack.' Wat had gone to fetch a snack and he hadn't been gone long when he returned, out of breath and without food.

"Hey! I'm hungry!" Olive complained. "Where's the snack you promised!"

"More important things!" Wat spat out.

"More important than me starving? Like what?"

"Like another bloody reverend here to clean the house of ghosts, that's what!"

Olive was quiet.

"He just arrived. A Reverend Lake. A Reverend Lake and a Reverend Thornton. That's what we're up against."

"Tonight?"

"Yes, tonight! Tonight is the dinner for the Thorntons and I've just heard that Henrietta telling Daisy that the Lakes would obviously be invited in case anything supernatural occurred."

"Oh Wat... maybe we have taken this too far!"

"We can't turn back now!"

"They're going to find out it's us! Maybe we could fool one man but two? It's lucky if it's only one!" Olive began to cry.

"Don't! They'll hear you!" Wat said, clasping his hand over Olive's mouth. "Stop it!"

"I'm upset!" Olive said, pushing him away. "We can't do it tonight! We just can't!"

"We have to! And it has to be a big one!"

"Why though?"

"Because they're expecting it!"

"But if nothing happens maybe they'll leave!"

"And the Smiths will still be here!" Wat sat beside Olive. "We're in a right rut, that's what."

"Why did you rhyme at a time like this?"

"You just did, too."

Olive leaned forward and rested her head on the floor. "Bugger all... are we really going through with it?"

Wat nodded. "No choice."

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Perhaps it had been a rotten thing to do – sneaking into her father's study and stealing the pictures of the gnomes. But Margot had a hunch – a hunch that was growing into a hypothesis that was slowly growing into fact.

Laid out on her bed was each picture of the gnome that Millford had been sent and, under each photograph, was the corresponding telegram Margot had received. It was clear not only by the dates of the photographs and the dates of the telegrams that,whoever had sent one, had sent the other.

"Right," she said aloud to herself. "How to tell father..."

"How to tell father what?"

Margot jumped and hid her project behind her back. Millicent stood in the doorway of her room, glowering as she always did.

"Nothing," said Margot. "Nothing at all."

Millicent's lips thinned. Nonetheless, though, she said, "You have a visitor."

"A visitor?"

"Yes, a visitor, you stupid girl. I had him shown into the drawing room. I told him you wouldn't keep him waiting."

"Who is it?"

"How on earth should I know? He didn't give me his name, did he?"

Margot sighed and was sure to leave the room with her aunt. She didn't want Millicent seeing what she had been doing. Knowing her, she would somehow blame the gnome disappearance on Margot before Margot herself had a chance to tell her father what she had found out.

Hoping her aunt would stay clear of her room, Margot walked into the drawing room distracted – until she saw who it was that had come to call.

"Mr. Potter?"

Charles stood – hat held nervously in his hand – with his back to Margot at first. When heard her voice, he turned and for a moment merely stared at her.

He needed a haircut – that was his only lucid thought.

"Did... did you mean for my sister?" Margot asked. "I'm sure she'd be happy –"

"No. I meant to call on you. I'm very sure I said Margot, didn't I?"

"Millicent did say that the visitor was for me."

"That – that sorts it then. Yes, I'm your visitor."

"My visitor? Why would you visit me, Mr. Potter?"

"Charles. Please. Call me Charles."

"Charles," Margot called him.

"What I'm about to say is entirely ridiculous you realize."

"Is it?"

"And probably offensive in some way."

"How?"

"But I didn't travel thousands of miles to come to the conclusion that I –"

"Margot?"

Both Margot and Charles jumped at Millicent's voice.

"What?" Millicent asked looking between them. "Is Millford Lodge haunted as well? The look on your faces. Anyway, child, have you seen your niece?"

"My –"

"Olive. Have you seen Olive? Your sister is no where to be found and Mrs. Graham has been searching for the child for this past hour."

"Last I knew she was with Mrs. Graham doing her lessons."

"Obviously she is not. Will your guest spare you so you may look for her?"

"Charles knows just as well how to find her."

"Charles?"

"Charles Potter, Aunt Millicent. He's Margery's late husband's valet."

"Why did he come to visit you?" Millicent was always rather hauty when she spoke.

"I don't know, Aunt Millicent, but if Olive is, again, missing I suppose it will have to wait. Charles?"

Charles nodded in quick agreement. "Yes. And – and I'll do my best to help."

Though, in his head he did curse a few times.

Elinor smiled.

Anne smiled.

Ralph smiled.

George looked between the three and poured each one another cup of tea. "Seems we're out of milk."

Molly began to cry.

Elinor stood and hurried to her daughter.

George leaned back in his seat.

Ralph leaned back in his seat.

And Anne leaned back in her seat.

Penelope was tired from traveling. Having taken a detour to London – just to cover her tracks and put any of the Duke's followers off her scent, so to say – she was sick of trains and cars and cabs that did not know where they were going.

"Oh, mummy, it must have been terrible!" Billie said as Penelope sat beside her daughter, who now resembled a minuature hill the way she laid upon her bed. "Then again... laying here all day is getting to me. Pigsley brings me everything. I can hardly do a thing myself beyond go to the loo."

"I told you before you were a small thing. It's not a wonder you're now a small mountain in bed."

"Thanks for that. Did you see him before you left?"

"Who?"

"Henry. I know I've been horrible. I can't bear to talk to him, though. Besides, it isn't safe. The doctor agrees due to stress – not in my state. Poor Floyd's done that work for me, but I'd rather hear it from you since you've been around him all this time."

Penelope sighed and squeezed her daughter's hand. "You love him very much, don't you?"

"I wouldn't be laying in this bed, if I didn't. I'm mental for it. I know."

"You're not. And whatever your father has said, you shouldn't believe."

"And why not?"

"He does like Henry. He just doesn't like the idea that Henry's won his little girl's heart."

"Mummy, that is so drippy! Can we not? I may be bored, but sentimentality does not cure boredom – it only makes it worse."

"There is truth in that."

"Anne keeps a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of brandy under the coffee table in the sitting room if you need a drink. Pigsley could bring it."

Penelope shook her head. "Nothing for me. I won't lie and say I don't need it, but I feel it would just do another bad number for my head. And I have to keep you up to date with everything. I found a telegram from Mr. Floyd waiting for me in London. It seems – even with the snag of the real vicar showing up – somehow Anne and that actor were able to talk their way into the vicarage."

"Honestly?"

"Yes, I know. We're all surprised, I think. And they're going to the dinner tonight."

Billie laid her head back against the pillow. "Right. So... Anne's friend Ralph fed them the lie that they were sent as backup? And they believed it?"

"It appears so."

"Mother, that is fishy. I don't like the smell of it."

"What are you thinking?"

"I hardly know what I'm thinking. Only that the new vicar must be very dense not to at the very least question Ralph and Anne more on their story. Don't you find that strange yourself?"

"Well, yes. But I'm counting our blessings first."

"Yes. Go on and count them. I suppose we shall see what happens tonight at the dinner."

"You believe something will happen?"

"Oh, yes," said Billie. "Everything is working too well. Something always happens when things are going right to make them go very very wrong."

Margery had been sitting by the budgerigar in the garden for some time. She wasn't in deep thought or even in deep reading. No – Margery was in deep sleep for the previous night she had been too antsy to rest.

Everything had started to nag at her more than ever – and McNaulty was to blame. If he hadn't shown up, she could have carried on being angry with Douglas without the strange tangent of a possible stable marriage hanging over her. She could be furious with her own botched plan without thinking of the perfectly acceptable one McNaulty offered her.

But then – this is what always happened with Douglas.

But then again – when she gave up on Douglas, she married a mass murderer.

But still – Douglas had not come by in months.

All of these 'buts' just made her wonder about the question that had kept her awake:

Which really was worse?

"Margery?"

Oh, she knew that brogue. Her eyes fluttering open, Margery saw McNaulty standing before her.

"You fell asleep?" he asked.

"Nodded off," said Margery, accepting his help as she got back on her feet. "I was reading and... well, no harm done. Am I being called for?"

"No. I was just passing through. My work at the Bramtons' ended early. They are having a dinner tonight."  
"Oh? Yes, well. Father ought to be aware of that. He's been at his telescope ever since this business happened – less in the evening now, but in the morning he's there. He's probably seen the servants going in and out with the food. I imagine it's for the new vicar?"

"The new vicar plus three."

"His wife and who else?"

"His wife and another reverend – the Reverend Lake. And his wife as well. It seems Little Pearshire has been sent two men to deal with the haunting up at the Hall."

"Two? Are they taking this all very seriously?"

"It appears so. And I wouldn't laugh it off. My own father is superstious – I can't breathe a word of this to him or he'd have me home faster than... I've never been good at metaphors. Will you take my arm? I'll take you back inside."

"Thanks... that's very kind."

"And if you'll amuse me. Just for another few moments."

"Oh dear, Angus, every time you speak of amusing me or letting you speak freely we get on the subject of marriage and I fear –"

"Why not?"

"Why not what?"

"Marry me. Run away together. With Olive, too, of course."

Margery laughed – but only a little, she restrained herself. "You aren't serious, Angus. I mean, perhaps you are but... this is –"

Margery was cut off by Angus pulling her to him and kissing her passionately. A little too passionately for her feet lifted off the ground and she had to wiggle them before he realized that he was hurting her.

"I'm... I'm so very sorry," Angus panted. "I... it just comes over me when I think about getting married and..."

"No..." Margery tried to catch her breath and began to pull him towards the open doors of Millford Lodge. "Please don't apologize. Will you calm yourself if I say that I will think about it?"

"Will you honestly think about it?"

"Oh... why not?"

McNaulty seemed about to say something else, but Millicent, of course, appeared out of the shadowy darkness that had become the main hall in the afternoon.

"Your daughter is missing," she said to Margery. "Again."

"Olive?"

"You have more than one?"

"She can't be!"

"You sister and that Potter fellow –"

"Potter? Charles Potter?"

"Yes. He came to visit your sister."

"Margot? Why?"

"Does it matter? Olive is missing again and you're standing her with that Scot doing nothing about it. Again!"

"Has father sent a search out?"

"As of yet no as we imagine we'll find her soon."

"We'll go looking," said McNaulty. "Right now, while it's light. We'll return when the sun sets and if she isn't found by then –"

"I'm staying," said Margery.

"Staying?" asked Millicent.

"If Olive's gone missing, she finds her way back here, doesn't she? If we're going to send a search out – which will likely happen – someone will need to welcome her home."

"Her own mother –"

"As welcoming arms. Mr. McNaulty you are free to go and look for my daughter, but, if by now my motherly instincts have kicked in, she will return here on her own accord – probably driven by... well. She'll return."

Margery turned into the house before she could be protested against again. She was sure. At least, she thought she was sure. She had been doing so well at predicting her daughter lately, she had to be sure of it.

Millicent looked up at McNaulty and snapped, "What are you waiting for, then?"

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Ralph looked nervous.

Very nervous.

"Anne, if I –"

"You won't do anything wrong," she said, straightening his collar before they left the vicarage with the Thorntons. "If there is some sort of... I don't know... supernatural activity – just claim it's because of the oncoming marriages. The ghost doesn't like it. All is settled. Is your collar straight? I can't tell."

"Yes."

"Good. Now. You go down to Reverend Thornton. I will be with Elinor and little Molly until I see you at Bramton Hall."

"What do I do about conversation? Ecumenical matters and such? What if I come off sounding like an idiot or –"

"Then just say that you have differing opinions or something. I'm not sure, Ralph. And you already are an idiot, sorry to say. At least your companion speaks. It's like the blind leading the blind with me and Elinor. Or the blind leading the mute. Something like that."

"I think I have worse to worry about with Mr. Floyd. He looks like he wants to beat me most of the time."

"That's just because I'm taking care of you and not him. The oaf is put-off. Let him be for a while. He's picked up smoking again and I have to punish him for the scent somehow. Now, come along."

"Is there something on your mind?" Daisy asked as she stroked the back of Douglas' hair. "You're far more silent than usual."

"You can't be more silent than silent," said Douglas.

"What?"

"Sorry, dear, I didn't hear you."

"Oh... oh, I said is there something bothering you."

Douglas shook his head. "No. Not a thing." He glanced across the room at Henry, who was very likely drunk and finding it difficult to pretend otherwise. His eyes kept slipping from Henrietta's probably riveting conversation with the Duke and to the ground where his feet were tapping.

"You know," Bramton said to Floyd as he made a move on the chessboard – Bramton had found himself rather fond of Floyd, mostly due to the fact the man looked as though he could shield him easily from a flying knife and suffer no harm himself. "You know, the evening is very fine. I'm sorry not to have my wife here. You're married aren't you?"

Floyd nodded. "Yes. Happily."

"Pity she couldn't come with you. Why was that now?"

"Sick mother."

"Oh... yes. Quite."

The drawing room door opened and a footman stepped in announcing that the Thorntons and the Lakes had arrived. And so they had: the 'Lakes' came in first. Ralph slipped his arm away from Anne the moment he saw Floyd, but Anne grabbed him again smiling. George and Elinor followed – Elinor now freed from her daughter by one of the housemaids set to watch the crying little thing for the evening.

"It is an honor," said Bramton, standing quickly and shaking each man's hand. "And a privledge," he kissed each of the ladies hands. "If you haven't been introduced..." He went on to do the usual host duties and added to the end that, "My youngest son Edward is currently taken ill. He'll be dining on his own this evening."

The dinner bell rang. Bramton forced a smile. "Right on time, then... let's move on, I suppose, to the dining room."

"And hope nothing happens," Henrietta added as she took Henry's arm.

"Wat, wat!" Olive whispered, looking down over the fixed glass ceiling of the dining room. "They're coming!"

"Already?"

"Didn't you hear the dinner bell?"

"No! Grab that end of the rope then – hurry!"

Bramton naturally gave his usual chair at the head of the table seat to the Duke and sat in Penelope's usual chair at the other end. He was happy, though, to be flanked by the Reverend Thornton, who seemed a sturdy fellow, and Floyd in the event something did happen.

Supernatural or not.

Floyd was as happy as he could be – as they weren't seen as married, Anne was seated beside him and Ralph across the table between Thornton and Henry. The daughters sat on either side of their father and Douglas was thankfully separated from Daisy by the silent Elinor and seated beside Anne, who he couldn't have been more pleased to see.

"I suppose this is Billie's doing?" he whispered quickly to her as everyone arranged themselves.

"You shouldn't give her all the credit." Anne moved Floyd's hand from her knee as she spoke. A smile flickered on Douglas' face for the first time.

"What was that?" asked Henry quickly.

"What?"

"Did you smile?"

Everyone looked at Douglas in surprise. He hadn't smiled in months. "I... I just... well, it won't happen again."

Daisy sighed. "Are you very unhappy Douglas? Is it the wait? It's the wait, isn't it?"

"No, Daisy. Not at all. It's not –"

"Anyway, as I was starting to say, Reverend Thornton," Daisy went on now that Douglas had cleared her mind. "The ghost seems to only target myself and Henrietta."

"That's not true," said Henrietta. "If it is a ghost, I've heard it around the house. And more so in your room than mine."

"But still," said Daisy. She looked longingly at George. "I'm worried it's after me and my sister."

"Whatever for?" asked George.

"Our –"

But Daisy was silenced by a familiar noise.

"Oh hell!" Daisy cried.

"What is it?" asked Anne, automatically gripping Floyd's hand then letting go after realizing what she had done.

Bramton merely covered his head with his hands as the noise grew louder. Slowly, he sunk off his chair and took shelter under the table.

"The glass will not break again!" The Duke shouted over the thundering din. He stood up in his place and banged his fist on the table.

"Glass?" asked George, who had dashed out of his seat to his wife. "What do you mean?"

"The entity," explained Henrietta, who was already hiding under the table as well, "broke the glass ceiling last time it was in here."

"Which was when?" asked Ralph.

"The first time!" cried Daisy, attaching herself to Douglas. "Oh! Those unearthly sounds!"

"That's not –" Anne began, but stopped herself. Only Floyd noticed.

"Where you talking about marriage the first time it happened?" George asked, helping his wife under the table for the glass had started reverberating.

"Oh, were we, Douglas?" Daisy asked in a sob.

"I don't remember!"

"Obviously it's a sign!" Ralph said.

"Yes," agreed George. "A sign!"

"A sign the marriages shouldn't happen!" shouted Ralph.

"A sign the marriage should be hurried!" shouted George at the same time.

The two men looked at each other. They repeated themselves – their tones a bit more rough until finally Henry shouted:

"It's going to break again!"

"Under the table!" ordered the Duke.

It wasn't a pane that broke in this instance, but several larger panes that Wat had rigged to break at the same time.

The sound was deafening – and the screams from the woman and the shouts from the men only added to it. But when the glass had settled once again and the screaming and shouting stopped, an eerie silence took over the room.

That is, until a voice – the Duke's voice – said:

"We'll take no chances."

Without knowing it, everyone in the room and the two on the roof held their breath as they came out from under the table.

"The weddings will be held tomorrow!"

Tomorrow.

Douglas could feel his chest tightening as he held a folded piece of paper in his hand. He pulled off his bowtie and knew – whatever it was Billie had planned failed. Miserably.

There was only one way out.

Or two, rather.

And he'd have to disobey his mother.

"Hello?" His voice echoed in the empty hall. "Hello?"

"Why are you shouting?"

Douglas looked up at the main staircase in Millford Lodge to find Margery, wrapped in a shawl, walking down them.

"You look sick, even in this light," she said. "What's happened?"

"Why isn't anyone here?"

"Olive's gone for a walk, I think. And everyone's worried she's missing."

"You're not?"

"No. Motherly instincts. At least, I hope."

"Really?"

"More to the point: why are you here? I haven't seen you in months."

"I'm... I'm leaving Pearshire. Tonight. Immediately. Now."

"What? Why?"

"I tried to tell you before. I couldn't because... because I was stupid and... well, now it's even more of a mess than before."

"So you're running?"

"If I run, Daisy will come after me first."

"Come after you? First? What are you? Some sort of... target?" laughed Margery. "Oh, and if you did steal that gnome –"

"Margie, for once. Listen."

"I listen. You just have nothing interesting to say sometimes. Plus, I'm still very angry with you so why I'm even –"

"Daisy's father the Duke has threatened to kill our child if I don't marry Daisy. Yes, he gave me proof. Yes, he knows Olive is your daughter. Yes, he's dangerous."

"That sounds like the very poor plot of a very bad murder mystery novel."

"I never claimed it was a good plot," said Douglas. "I'm just telling you what I've been hiding."

"Our daughter's safety? If you are telling the truth – are you mad?"

"I've always been bloody mad, Margie! I thought the safest thing to do was go along with it but now... if I run they'll go after me, won't they?"

"Or they'll go after Olive to get you to come back."

"Then is there anyway you could leave too?"

"With you? That's just putting –"

"No – separately?"

Margery thought for a moment. She sat on the stairs. "You know. That McNaulty proposed to be this afternoon. He wanted to run away with me. Elope."

"Good."

"What?"

"Wat said that McNaulty had taken a liking to you. That's why I stayed away. I thought... if there was a hope he could take you and Olive away to be safe –"

"You're just going to let me run off with another man?"

"It's not easy, Margie!"

"Sounds as if it is!"

"Do you know how hard these past months have been? Knowing he's been here... wooing you?"

"Why didn't you stop it?"

"Because! I want you alive! I want you safe! As... as happy as possible! Will you do it?"

"Douglas!"

"For Olive! To keep her safe! McNaulty's about the size of Floyd, isn't he?"

"Floyd?"

"Henry's producer. He's here as is his wife – they had a scheme – it doesn't matter anymore. I think – correct me if I'm wrong – what does matter is you getting Olive away from Pearshire."

"Where are you going to go?"

Douglas shrugged.

"So you want me to marry McNaulty? You wanted me to marry Harry Spencer, too, when I found out I was going to have Olive, and you see how that turned out."

"But McNaulty can be trusted. At least, my father approved of him."

"Your father isn't very insightful."

"True enough, but –"

"For Olive?"

Douglas nodded. "Yes. Again. For Olive. Perhaps we'll get it right this time."

"You know, Dougas, I do love you."

"Yes. I know. And I love you. Our own plan – the original plan – wouldn't have worked though, would it have?"

"Which part?"

"Every part. Well – perhaps not the last."

"Us getting married?"

"Yes. I say that because we're both about to make what I assume is a mature decision. I can never tell anymore."

"No. I think it is." Margery stood and walked down the rest of the stairs and stood in front of Douglas. "For the first time at least."

"This is... very sentimental."

"We can't seem to avoid that, unfortunately."

And finally they kissed.

And it was a very good kiss.

Anne sat still as Ralph picked the glass out of her hair in the sitting room where the reverends had been ushered into while Bramton had clean up started and the Duke worked on calming his daughters. They had been told to leave at their will and it was clear the Thorntons were more than ready to go for Molly was again crying. And everyone was anxious to leave the hall as well.

To add, though, Henry, to his own surprise, was allowed to stay with his producer for the sake of investment so he stood along with Floyd as well in that room – for once, not hindered by Henrietta, who was under her father's good protection.

"It wasn't a ghost," Anne whispered.

Floyd raised an eyebrow as Anne continued. "Pots and pans. That was the noise. The roof, obviously. Will you go seeing as we're leaving for the vicarage?"

Floyd nodded curtly. "Henry?"

Henry was startled and turned round twice and the sound of his name. "What? What?"

"Come with me for a moment."

Floyd left the room, pushing Henry before him. "Where are we going?" Henry asked.

"How do you get to the roof?"

"Why?"

"Because Anne reckons we're not dealing with a ghost at all."

"I never thought so."

"But you never wondered what it was?"

"To be honest... I didn't quite care. Scared off Henrietta enough that I did manage some peace and quiet – albeit short. Do you have anymore of that brandy – ow!"

"Pay attention! The roof!"

"Shh!" Olive said, holding a finger to her lips. "Someone... someone's coming!"

"What?"

"Hide!"

Olive grabbed Wat by the coat sleeve and pulled him to the other side of the glass roof of the dining room just as Floyd and Henry appeared.

"What's all this?" Henry asked, kicking aside the pots and pans Wat usually had the time to clean up before anyone came to investigate.

"Your ghost," said Floyd. "Look at all of it... rigged. Anne was right."

"But... everyone was at dinner," said Henry, stumbling over a piece of the twine.

"Apparently not everyone..." Floyd bent down and picked up a smoking cigarette.

Olive hit Wat hard.

"These aren't yours," Floyd said, holding it out to Henry.

"No," said Henry. He took it and inhaled. "Douglas'."

"But Douglas was at dinner. Who else smokes those?"

Henry shrugged then it came to him.

"Wat..."

"What?"

"Wat!"

"Wat? Who's Wat?"

"Billie's bastard brother!"

"Billie has a bastard brother?"

"Very long story – botched affair of Bramton's – we have to find Douglas... now."

Floyd motioned for Henry to show him the way.

When the coast was clear, Wat stepped out first. He turned back to Olive. "Bastard brother?"

"Means that you were born out of marriage."

"I know what it means!"

"Wat –"

"Bramton's my father? But..."

"Oh... oh Wat... don't..."

Wat wiped his eyes. "What have we done all this for?"

"What do you mean?"

"The weddings are tomorrow! We've been caught – or at least I've been and I'll give you up in a second!"

"What! No! You wouldn't!"

"Bloody well would!"

"Then what are we going to do?"

"I don't want to be here anymore... not here... not in Pearshire. I'm running away."

"Running away?"

"Yeah. And you better come. Because once they find out it's me – it's you they're going to ask first when I'm gone."

"But... mummy... and my own father!"

"We're both bastards, Olive! We won't really be missed, will we?"

"That's a cliché!"

"What's a cliché?"

Olive shook her head. "Nothing. You have an incredibly short vernacular, though. When do we leave?"

"Now."

"No packing?"

"No time." And Wat was already heading for the stairs.

"How will we eat? We have no money!"

"I've got five pounds in my pocket! We'll be fine!"

Olive felt that, sometimes, all she did around Wat was groan loud. Very loud.

Margery, tears clinging to her eyes, heard someone come into the house. She had been sitting on the stairs for some time now but stood quickly, hiding her emotion, when McNaulty appeared.

"Yes," she said quickly.

"Yes?"

"Yes, let's run away." She ran to him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"We can't," said McNaulty, gently prying her away.

"But you... you were so –"

"No, it isn't me. It's Olive. They haven't found her. Has she come back?"

Margery shook her head. In an instant, everything Douglas said to her that evening came flooding into her mind.

"Then where is she?" she asked in a panicked voice.

"We don't know, that's what I've been trying to say. But I've come to have your father start a proper search. Margot and Mr. Potter –"

"Potter really is here?"

"Balding chap? Yes. They're still out there. Margery? Margery what is it?"

Margery's eyes had begun to flutter – flutter and her eyeballs rolled until McNaulty found himself catching her as she fainted.

This little girl was making eloping very difficult, he thought as he lifted Margery in his arms.

Chapter Thirty

"You're to find him, father!" Daisy cried as she tugged at her father's sleeve. He was trying to make a phonecall, but Daisy wanted the attention on her. "Daddy! Find him and kill him for all I care! He's going to ruin the wedding!"

"There won't bloody be a wedding if there's no groom!" the Duke answered, brushing his daughter off as he dialed a number.

"Then find him!" screeched Daisy.

"What do you think I'm after? Hello? Yes. Good I caught you. He's fled. No! I don't bloody well know when or where! How should – just do it! All right? No – not that – the other! We will get him to come back! That will make him come back!"

There was a pause.

"Yes you bloody will do it or there will be consequences!" The Duke slammed the receiver down and took his youngest daughter into his big, bear-like arms. "Don't worry, my little flower. Everything will be sorted. You'll see how easy it is when we call in for help. Now – I must see Lord Bramton."

Henry took a breath. He had been just outside the room, just innocently passing for once in his life when he heard the conversation.

Panic rushed through him.

There wasn't a clear thought in his head.

Well no. There was.

"Douglas? Douglas!" Henry barged into Douglas' room but found it empty. He would have checked another room, but he saw that the dressing room door was open and, missing from it, was Douglas' traveling coat as well as Douglas' favorite hat.

Douglas had fled.

"Henry?"

Henry jumped and found Floyd in the doorway.

"What are you doing?" Floyd asked.

"Douglas... he's gone."

"Gone?"

"His coat and hat – gone. He's fled."

"Are you sure?"

"Damned sure."

"Shit."

"Yes – shit." Henry ran a hand through his hair. "I can't stay! Floyd – we need to go!"

"Go? Where?"

"The vicarage – we'll just go to Billie and – just..." Henry couldn't finish his thought. Before his head could catch up with his feet, he was running. Running like mad towards the door, out of the house and as far away from Bramton Hall as he could get with Floyd frantically following him.

Though, Bramton Hall would not let either of them go very far.

Henrietta lagged not too far behind still in her evening gown and shoes.

"Let us in!" Henry called out, banging on the vicarage door. "For God's sake! Let me –"

The door opened to a surprised rather flustered Elinor, just beyond her George was standing with the receiver of their telephone pressed to his chest.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Dermot? Oh – hello, Mr. Floyd. Is everything all right?" George asked.

"Is... are the Lakes here?"

"The Reverend Lake is upstairs in his room. His wife, I believe is in the garden."

Henry heard his name being called in a shrill voice behind him.

"Never mind! I am not here! Floyd hurry!"

Henry ran into the house, beckoning Floyd after him, and slammed the door behind them both. They ran straight through to the back door, almost knocking over George when Henrietta let herself in.

"Where is he?" she asked, out of breath and standing in a stature that made her look very much like a gremlin.

"Who?" asked George.

"Henry! He came in here! I saw! With that producer of his!" She then saw the wide open backdoor. "Aha! He won't get away!"

Henrietta almost knocked over George herself as she flew by him.

For a moment, George and Elinor could only stare at each other.

"How the bullocks did Molly sleep through that?" George asked, his eyes raised to the ceiling.

Henry and Floyd, by this time, had rounded the bend where the old garden was. It had never really been cared for before, but he knew his way round it just as if he was a child again. There, in the middle, was Anne, clearly trying to put pieces together in her head. She looked up confused when Henry and Floyd were close to her.

"Distraction!" Henry shouted.

"What?" Anne asked.

But Walter understood the direction. When he reached he, Floyd grabbed his wife off the ground as romantically as he could being so out of breath, then he kissed her passionately just as Henrietta rounded the same corner.

She stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of the adulterous reverend's wife.

Finally, Henry thought as he threw himself behind a bush to hide, a plan that had worked without a hitch.

Margery felt something cold and something wet press against her forehead. In the next second, everything came back to her. She tried to sit up, but she was pressed back down onto her bed by Millicent's very strong arms.

"You'll fall over again if you do that."

"Olive... Olive is –"

"Still missing. Yes. They've got the lot out for her, haven't they? I did tell you it wasn't a walk. Why you wanted to stay –"

Margery sat up and forced her way off the bed though Millicent fought her.

"And where are you going? I've been caring for you since your father went with the party –"

"Father's out looking?"

"It's gotten dark – I would imagine there is a little bit of worry, wouldn't you?" Her voice was that sickly sort of sweet that Margery did not need to hear.

Ignoring her aunt, Margery hurried out of her room, grabbing her coat that lay on a chair near her bedroom door.

"Where are you going?" Millicent shrieked, chasing her down the hall as she ran for the nearest door.

"To the Bramtons'!"

"But we are at war!"

"Oh... horse shit on the stupid war! When did you ever care for that anyway? You just dislike the Bramtons! I am going! Olive is missing and we need all the help we can get!"

"Now you're worried about the girl?"

Margery fought tears as she ran out into the garden. So she didn't have this mothering thing down yet – she was still trying! But she had failed this time and could not fight that sinking feeling. So, Margery made her way towards the incline of the hill that would lead her to Bramton Hall.

And she was near to passing out again when she arrived.

"Lord Bramton?" she called out.

"Margery? I haven't seen you in months..." Bramton was coming down the staircase towards her. He was a very different man, Margery realized. His demeanor was quiet, his movements skiddish. He seemed to look everywhere first before letting his eyes rest on Margery. "Are you all right? You probably haven't heard the news – we're not really haunted! Seems a – a game the children were playing. Or at least one of them. Dear me, you do look pale."

"Olive... Olive is missing."

"That just adds to the list, doesn't it?"

"What?"

"First Douglas. Then Henry. Now the cook can't find Wat. Slowly, I am being left to be driven mad and yet all I can do is hope that –"

"Hope that what?" asked a booming voice behind Margery.

She saw that Bramton was not looking at her anymore, but instead at the Duke, who was walking up behind her.

"Am I to believe that this is the Margery Millford? Lord, I have heard you mentioned many times but I never thought I'd have the actual honor of seeing you in the flesh." His hand was heavy on Margery's shoulder. "And don't worry, Bramton," he said, "Douglas will come back soon. I'm sure of it."

"Yes," added another voice – Henrietta's. She was still wearing the evening dress she had run to and from the vicarage in. Her hair was in disarray and her evening gown was torn – her face was once of pure anger. "Father has his man on the job."

"Man on the –"

"Oh, and daddy dear," Henrietta said over Margery. "You may want to see what you can do about that producer of Henry's. I caught him kissing the Reverend Lake's wife. I know how you feel about adultery."

"Floyd?" Bramton asked in surprised.

Margery was confused – and overwhelmed.

"Margery?"

She had never felt so thankful to hear McNaulty's voice before.

"Are you all right? You ought to be resting!"

"Yes but I... I had to see what I could do. What are... are you doing here?"

"I came for more help. That's what you've come to ask for, isn't it? Well, they're out looking for Wat, too – the search party's doubled! You've nothing to worry about! Lord Bramton," there was still a sneer in his voice when McNaulty addressed him, "if you'll allow me to take Margery home."

The Duke released Margery from his grip on her shoulder and McNaulty led her to the already open doorway – into the fresh air of the night, his hold on her lighter and far gentler than the Duke's.

"I'm fine," Margery said. "Is that man the Duke?"

"Yes – what about him?"

Margery shook her head. "Nothing... nothing."

But it wasn't nothing.

And Margery knew what she was about to say next would either be the right choice or the wrong one – for there's never really an in between.

"Angus? Angus, I can't marry you."

"Of course not," said McNaulty. "We have to find Olive first –"

"No. I mean. I can't marry you. Ever. I don't... I don't love you in that way. You're a very good friend and a compassionate person – you are – despite you very gruff voice for it is gruff, but I'm sure you've been told that."

McNaulty said nothing.

"I'm... I'm in love with Douglas Bramton. And I have been... probably since we were both born. It's just one of those things, I think. Destined to be and not to be at the same time. But for your sake. And Olive's sake – "

"He's her father, isn't he?"

"Yes," Margery confessed. "Of course, he is."

"Then add your sake to this as well."

"You aren't cross?"

"I'm hurt. But not cross." He kissed her forehead. "I have a problem of falling in love to easily."

"Yes," Margery said, patting his chest. "You do. Be careful with that."

"I'll do my best." And he smiled. "I am going back inside to help... I don't know... deploy the troups out into the woods and town. Where are you going to be?"

"Looking where I think she might be... then... figuring out what to do with the rest of our lives, I suppose."

"Then you be careful as well."

McNaulty kissed her forehead for a final time and turned back into Bramton Hall.

Margery was starting over.

And first: how to be a better mother or, rather, just a mother.

"Adults are perfectly mad."

"Angry?"

"No. Insane." Wat threw a rock into the creek to see how deep it was so he and Olive could cross. "Come on."

"Are you sure we'll be able to survive out here?"

"It's far better than in that place. They're all daft and dodgy and personally right now I hate them all."

"Wat!" Olive struggled to cross the creek. "That's very mean!"

"But it's very true! They lied about my father! They brought that soapy family into that house! I hate them all."

Olive fell at Wat's feet as she jumped from the rock in the middle of the creek to the ground on the other side. Pushing herself up, she gave Wat a very angry look and walked on.

"You don't know where you're going!" he said, following her.

"Thought you said it didn't matter. 'Slong as we're away."

"You look like you know where you're going!"

"I do," said Olive, turning round to him. "To the road. We'll stay hidden as long as we can but we need something to follow or we will die."

"How?"

"I don't know!" Olive went on walking. "A cow could eat us."

"A cow? They eat grass!"

"And how do you know that for sure? Can't trust what adults say, can you? According you you, they're all loonies!"

"But that's fact! Why are you siding with them?"

"Because I didn't want to run in the first place!" Olive cried. "This is just going to make a big scene – bigger than the one we would have made had we just confessed to haunting Bramton Hall!"

"It won't make a scene at all, if they don't find us! Did you think of that?"

"They will find us and you know it!"

"How do you reckon?"

"Because they always do! It's a cliché!" Olive tried to calm herself. "But if we're going to keep walking there's no use in bickering about it. Let's keep getting lost while we wait to be found."

"Huh?"

Olive gave Wat another looked and crossed her arms. She was not going to be able to put up with this boy for much longer, she thought.

Henry waited a good while for the path to the vicarage to clear before popping his head up over the bush. No one.

He took a breath.

"Henry?"

Henry almost jumped out of his skin. Floyd and Anne were behind him, Anne now with her glasses in place and a warmer coat wrapped around her.

"Christ! Of all places to sneak up on people..." He fell back onto the ground.

"We're going to Millford Lodge," said Anne. "To warn Margery."

"Warn her?"

"It was made very clear to the Thorntons that Douglas had run off – not to mention you. That either means the Duke's man will go after Douglas or after Olive to get Douglas back. Margery should be warned," said Anne.

"If she hasn't been already," added Floyd.

"We had to hurry out of the vicarage ourselves. Poor Ralph had to put on a show after Walter kissed me. Had to kick me out and everything. It actually went well despite having... well, none of my things but my glasses, a coat Walter found in the trunk, and the dress I wore tonight."

"Are you really running too?" asked Floyd.

"Do I have any other choice?"

"I suppose not," said Anne. "You'll want to go to Billie, won't you? I don't have the address on me. It's of course in with my things in the vicarage and you know Floyd is rubbish for keeping papers."

"So I have to go back in? What if I get trapped?"

"Ralph will help you. Tell him it's in my little blue bag, all right? Just think of a lie for the Thorntons – it should be easy enough."

Henry nodded.

"And get yourself in a car – take mine – then on a train as fast as you can," Floyd said before following Anne into the darkness towards Millford Lodge.

Henry took a few steady breaths before pushing himself back up and stumbling towards the vicarage. He knocked once. Then again – but no one replied.

In fact, the door simply opened on this third knock as if he had been propped open, or not properly shut.

"Hello?" Henry called out – though his voice was, indeed, a little meek. "Hello – oh!"

Henry's hands went up instantly when he reached the sitting room.

Before him stood Elinor.

Elinor, holding a pistol that was now pressed against his chest.

They stared at each other very quite a long moment.

"I'm going to take a wild guess," Henry said, his hands still up, "you're working for the Duke?"

Chapter Thirty-One

Billie was beginning to wonder what her feet looked like. Up or down, she couldn't see them. Nor could she bend at a comfortable angle to do so.

"Pigsley?" she asked for her mother was still freshening herself up after a light meal, "Do my feet look like my feet used to? Or have they changed at all?"

"Miss?"

Billie wiggled her feet on the bed. "I can't see them. It worries me. You don't have to answer – what time is it, by the way? I'm beginning to get awfully tired – though I really haven't been able to sleep a wink these past few nights."

"It is late, miss."

"Yes, I thought so. Or early even, depending on how you look at it. Is that someone at the door?" Billie asked.

Then Pigsley heard it. It wasn't much of a knock – more like a body colliding with a door. Pigsley left the room to investigate and Penelope came out of the bathroom.

"What is that noise?"

"I haven't a clue."

Mother and daughter sat together, craning their necks to see the front door as Pigsley opened it.

At first, they saw no one but Pigsley.

Then, planning to throw himself against the door again, Douglas fell inside – never realizing the door had already been opened.

But then again, he was drunk.

Very drunk.

"Oh! You absolute idiot!" cried Billie, getting out of bed and making her way to Douglas. "What on earth – how on earth –"

"Miss?" Pigsley said, gently putting his hand on her shoulder. "He's passed out."

Billie looked aggravated but Penelope stepped forward and pulled her son up by his collar. She slapped him on one side of the face, but he just gurgled a reply. She slapped him on the other and still – nothing.

"Yes," said Penelope. "He's passed out – good and drunk. Pigsley, will you help me lift him to his sister's bed, please?"

Margot hit the side of her torch, hoping the dull light would come back on.

"It's all right," said Charles. "Mine's working just fine."

It was, but Margot could just see herself falling over some twig or branch if she didn't have some sort of light pointed at her feet.

"I don't like the dark," said Margot.

"You can hear the others searching though – can't you?"

Yes, she could. Their voices were echoing through the woods – shouting things Margot couldn't quite make out to each other.

"What were you going to say?"

"What?" Charles was engrossed in sweeping the area in front of them with the torch.

"What were you going to say earlier? You came to see me and –"

"Oh... oh, yes. That."

"Yes, that."

"It was nothing."

"It must have been something if you travelled all that way to see me."

"Did... did you not get the telegrams?"

"You sent those?"

"And the pictures of the gnome," said Charles. "Did you not get –"

"No! No – we indeed received both and I was so puzzled over the telegrams –"

"They didn't arrive together?"

Margot shook her head. "Were they supposed to?"

Charles sighed. "That was the plan. Since I was given the gnome –"

"Wait..." Margery stopped walking. "Wait, wait, wait, given the gnome? You had the gnome? Who gave it to you?"

"Sir Millford... didn't he? I found it on my luggage the morning I left. Olive wrote a note to me saying that she... wait... she took the gnome without him knowing didn't she?"

Margot bit her lip. "I'm afraid so... in fact, my father thought the Bramtons had stolen it and the village has been at war since!"

"War?"

"Don't ask."

Charles groaned. "And here I thought the photographs would be an enjoyment... oh dear... I've made a mess. A whole village war of a mess!"

"Oh – but it isn't your fault! Nor is it Olive's, before you think it – she didn't know any better! Please, don't be so hard on yourself!"

"I must seem extremely foolish."

"Yes, but in a very innocent way. Why did you send the telegrams only to me, though, if you meant to entertain the family?"

"It... it wasn't obvious?"

"Was it supposed to be?"

Charles shook his head. "I suppose not. No... no, not at all. Can I speak... freely?"

"I suppose. We are quite alone. As alone as we can be with a search party around us."

"Okay then. I was never a valet. Until Mr. Spencer hired me. Before that – I was a detective. And, well, during, too. I was assigned the Spencer case as no one really knew my face or my name and I was to keep watch on Mr. Spencer as well as your sister. Believe me, I pleaded your sister's case multiple times – thankfully, the head of the case was taken as a total nutter once Spencer was hanged and I was taken off the case and out of Pearshire."

"Does... does Margery know any of this?"

"I didn't have a chance to tell her about it. I would have but I didn't want to hurt her or Olive – I do care for them, you see. And..."

"And what?"

Charles stopped and pointed the torch at Margot. She winced and he apologized quickly.

"I never had the chance to say that I've been in love with you since the moment I met you. Yes, it is very silly. And, yes, unfortunately I am serious. You needn't return the feeling. Just know it's there. And I'll forever..." He got on his knees. "I'll forever worship the ground on which you walk. Even on this very sharp twig – I may be bleeding. But it doesn't matter!"

Margot stared at the strange man for a moment. She then began to laugh.

Charles' face reddened.

"No," Margot said, noticing in the torchlight. "Please. I don't mean to laugh. I don't mean it against you at all! I'm... I'm touched." Margot pulled him back to his feet. "Really – very touched."

"Are you going to let me down easy now? Tell me to go off back to London once this is all done?"

Margot shook her head.

"I'm in quite a lot of pain, may I get up?"

Margery nodded.

"Charles, I believe I'm going to kiss you."

"Really? I am bleeding, you –"

No, blood didn't bother her a bit. Margot and Charles' kiss was simple and ended and started two things.

It ended Margot's life as a spinster.

And it started Charles' life that had a bit more company to it – a very welcome ball and chain if he could say so thank-you-very-much.

Bramton sat near the fire in the sitting room as the Duke stood, puffing away on a pipe.

"I honestly can't tell you where he went," said Bramton with a shrug. "But I don't think it's necessary to react this way... calling people and such."

The Duke shot him a glowering sort of look. "We'll do it my way. He will marry my daughter."

The door of the sitting room opened.

"Finally," the Duke grumbled as Reverend George Thornton entered.

"Ah – Reverend Thornton – did you come back hearing the news about the haunting? All a big mistake you see," said Bramton, who hadn't heard the Duke. "Come to find out –"

"They have a search party out for the little girl," the Duke interrupted. "You get yourself out there and you find that girl before them! You're already behind!"

"I'm not going to harm her," George said.

It was then Bramton saw the gun tucked into George's belt. "What's going on?" he asked quickly. "And what girl?"

"That Margery Millford's daughter," said the Duke. "That little girl should have enough sway on Douglas to bring him back."

"I'm not going to harm her," George repeated. "Not like you said. I bring her back alive."

"Well, that wasn't what I said, was it? If he knows the girl is alive and safe – who's going to return for that? And what are you being paid for? Answer me that?"

"You... you are going to kill –"

"Be quiet!" the Duke snapped. He turned back to George. "You go into the woods. You'll find that girl before the rest of them do or God help you and your family."

"My family is working for you so unless you have another –"

"Just find her!" the Duke shouted. He then looked frazzled. "And if you don't, I will." The Duke took out his own revolver and checked it for bullets. "I'll start at the Millford's... why not? And what are you waiting for?"

"You were in on all of this, Reverend Thornton?" Bramton asked.

"He's no reverend!" the Duke said. He then walked towards where George stood and gave him a shove. "Get yourself moving, you bloody coward!"

Bramton found himself rather struck with fear at the revelation. He sat for a moment, wondering if it was at all safe to stir. And then he left the room – he knew where to go.

Billie sat on the edge of her bed – as best she could – and pressed a cool cloth against Douglas's head. He was beginning to speak clearer now – though it was also clear he was still in the middle of some sort of drunken breakdown.

"How is your head?" Penelope asked, bringing another basin of water into the room with Pigsley's help.

"Spinning..." Douglas groaned. "Billie... you look like a balloon... am I imagining that?"

"Unfortunately not." Billie adjusted her seat. She was beginning to feel a slight pang in her stomach from nerves – not to mention how uncomfortable it was to sit on the edge of the bed like that.

"What's wrong?" asked Penelope.

"I'm drunk, that's what's wrong," said Douglas.

"No – I meant your sister."

"The baby," Billie said with a sigh, "just kicking." She took Douglas's hand and put it against her stomach. "Feel that? It's like there's some sort of tango in there."

Douglas shook her head and let his hand drop. Billie sighed and kissed his head, doing her best to stand up and fetch a new cloth.

"Billie, sit down," said her mother.

Another pain had shot through Billie – she stopped moving when she stood and took hold of the edge of the nightstand.

"Wilhelmina?" Penelope dropped the cloth she was preparing for her son and rushed to her daughter's side. "Pigsley!"

"I'm fine!" Billie said. "I just have to catch my breath."

"Is everything all right, ma'am?" Pigsley asked, reaching the doorway.

"Yes," Billie said breathlessly. "Yes, I'm fine!"

"Is something wrong, Billie?" Douglas asked.

"No! The baby's merely kicking! And... and..." Billie took hold of her mother's hand, then her arm. Her knuckles turned white from gripping so tightly.

"Wilhelmina..." her mother said soothingly, taking hold of her daughter.

Billie let out a painful cry that caused even Pigsley to become startled and Douglas, as best he could, get out of the bed.

"I'm fine!" Billie kept demanding. "I'm perfectly fine!"

"Pigsley!" shouted Penelope. "Call the doctor! Now!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Douglas help me get her to the bed!"

Douglas was uneasy on his feet, but did his best to help his mother lift his sister onto her bed.

"Douglas!" Billie shouted taking hold of Douglas' bowtie, "I swear to God, I will kill you if you've put me into labor!"

"L-Labor?" Douglas looked at his sister and slowly sunk to the ground as Billie let out another pained cry, letting go of his loosened bowtie before he choked.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Anne walked into the library of Millford Lodge and glanced around. It was empty and quiet – just like the rest of the house. She had tried calling for Margery – and she heard Floyd calling too – but there had been no answers. She was getting quite impatient waiting for her husband not to mention nervous wandering from room to room in an unfamiliar house even with her glasses. There was something rather unsettling about it.

Footsteps.

Finally.

"Hello?" Anne turned around towards the door and saw the Duke passing. Seeing Anne, he stormed into the library and shouted: "Where is he, you whore?"

Anne took a step back and tilted her head to the side. "I'm sorry, what did you say to me? I didn't quite hear you."

But the Duke had no chance to reply. A fist collided with his cheek and he was knocked to the floor.

"That's what I thought," said Anne with a grin. She looked up at Floyd, whose fist was still clenched and chest still heaving. "Thank you, darling."

"Of course," he straightened and rolled his shoulders as Anne walked to the Duke's head.

"Now," Anne bent down slightly, "call me that again," she placed one of her heels on his open hand that had meagerly braced his fall, "and I won't need my lovely and imposing husband to knock you down again." Anne pressed her heel hard onto his hand until he let out a cry. "And I don't have to ask for an apology, do I?"

"No!" the Duke cried out. "No! I'm sorry! My hand!"

"Anne dear," Floyd said. "Look at this."

Anne took her heel from the Duke's hand and walked over to her husband. He was holding out a small business card.

"It fell from his pocket," Floyd explained. "That's the number for the vicarage written on the back, isn't it?"

"It is." This was a new voice. George's voice. He entered the library, holding his gun at the Floyds.

"Are you kidding me?" asked Floyd, about to raise his hands.

"Oh, I knew something wasn't right..." groaned Anne.

The Duke stirred and tried to get up but George was quick – he turned his gun on the Duke.

"I don't think so, Mr. Smith. Relax, Mr. and Mrs. Floyd, I have this under control. Thank you, though, for getting him to the ground." With a free hand, George took a badge from his pocket. "Scotland Yard, Mr. Smith. And I believe you are under arrest. I have my wife getting what's his face –"

"Ralph," Anne piped in.

"Right – Ralph – back at the rectory calling the next town over where there's quite a few people who'd like a word with you."

Daisy wandered alone down one of the corridors of Bramton Hall, a glum look permanently settled on her face. She was crying alone – or at least trying to cry alone. She knew she ought to be crying – it was only fitting. So, she squeezed her eyes and forced the tears to hurry out. Of course, she still could tell what she was upset over: the impending cancellation of her wedding or that her father had yet to do anything to really correct that as it was.

She heard a moan.

It was coming from Bramton's study. The door was open so she let herself in. Edward was still on the floor, groaning and moaning. He turned his head when she entered.

"Oh, it's you," she said. "I don't like you."

"No one does really. That's all right."

"Is this where you've been all this time?"

"What do you mean?"

"We all thought you were ill."

"Huh. Yes. Well. I've made the house ill, haven't I? I brought the wrath of Reverend Waters onto this place and... oh..." he groaned again. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"Have you no idea what's happened?"

"Something's happened?"

"The house isn't haunted! It was your stupid cousin and his friend playing tricks on us all! But they're missing so they can't be punished – yet, of course. And your awful brother," Daisy by this time had taken a seat beside Edward's head, "has run off. Probably with that Dermot man. Oh... I hate them all!"

"I apologize for my brother. I know he thinks highly of you."

"Oh, shut up," said Daisy. "I'm not as stupid as you are. He doesn't think anything of me – that's it. He was a handsome man I saw in a city. And I am a pretty girl. Do you understand, Mr. Bramton? I've always gotten what I want and... and I've never had to work so hard in my life for something! I am pretty – he is handsome – by law, it should just work!"

"Fair argument," said Edward.

Daisy looked at him, startled. "You agree?"

"Shouldn't I? Is that a bad thing?"

Daisy shrugged her shoulders. "No one's every really agreed with me beyond father and Henrietta – when she's told to, of course. I think... I think I'm very beautiful – do you agree with that, too? Or more so?"

"Either, yes. You do look a bit like a soap ad, but I don't think that's something that's a negative thing. Soap ad girls are pretty."

"But I'm beautiful."

"Then you're an exceptionally beautiful soap ad."

"I also think I'm very intelligent. I'm quite funny. I'm practically perfect."

"If you want to think, yes – all right," said Edward passively.

"And I think," Daisy continued, "that you are a very ugly human being with a strange mustache so your agreeing as little merit!"

Edward sat up. "You can see my mustache?"

"It looks like foam."

George Thornton – or, rather Detective Archie Parker – had been smart enough to bring two sets of handcuffs with him and now the Duke was trapped in a chair in the Millford library, fighting his restraints and cursing so loudly, Millicent came rushing in to see what on earth was happening.

She accepted the truth rather instantly and secured a good seat near the doorway to watch the proceedings.

"Scotland Yard put me on his case with my wife Beatrice," said Archie, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. "We've worked as informants in the ring of assassins this man usually hires from."

"So he has killed before?" Anne asked. She was sitting on a nearby chair while Floyd paced as he listened.

"He hasn't. He's had other's do it for him. But, this time, Bea and I made sure I was given his instructions and Scotland Yard will be more than happy to take him in now, I'm quite positive."

"Can't convict me of anything! Anything!" the Duke snarled.

"That will be for the courts to decide. Oh – Bea – there you are, darling."

Beatrice was hurrying into the room. She had run out in only her jumper, so George quickly put his own coat around her while he asked, "Are they coming?"

Elinor – now known by her real name of Beatrice Parker – nodded with a grin and handed over the revolver Archie had given to her since her own was home in London and jammed.

"We're all finished, Bea love. Didn't I tell you?"

"All finished?" asked Floyd. "You're just going to go and let Scotland Yard take care of this?"

"Not at all," said Archie. "No. We had been retired until the Smith case came up again. They'll have no choice but to let us back into it now that I've brought him in."

"Why did they bring you out of retirement?"

"If you don't mind my saying, Mrs. Floyd, it's because we're terribly good at our jobs." Archie now had Beatrice held to him – it had been the happiest she looked in some time. "We retired before the family even started – when the job started taking on too many occupational hazards."

"Such as?"

Archie reached up to Beatrice's scarf and pulled it down just enough for the room to see a terrible scar that stretched across her throat. "They were more lenient letting her retire first to a desk job with that, but not so much me. Even when the baby came."

"Silly girl – what are you doing back at this house?" Millicent asked out of seemingly nowhere.

Everyone in the room turned to see that Margot and Charles, who had a piece of fabric wrapped around his leg, had indeed returned to the house. Seeing Archie with a gun, Margot shrieked and Charles quickly took out his own revolver and badge.

"Calm down – calm down!" said Archie, flashing his own once again. Beatrice did the same.

"Wait you..." Charles was clearly confused.

"You're a reverend!" Margot said.

"A fake one," said Archie. "I'm an informant working on the Smith case with the missus and... don't I know you?" Archie slimmed his eyes at Charles. "Yes – you were on the Spencer case, weren't you? They treated you rotten, didn't they – didn't they fire the head of the case?"

Charles nodded, awkwardly putting his badge away. "Yes. Sent me on a holiday though. Good amount of money."

"Why are you back then? They didn't reopen it, did they?"

"Um... no. No they didn't. I came back... well –"

"What does it matter?" asked Millicent snappishly. "Have you found Olive or not?"

"No," said Charles. "Margot and I were just about to fetch a car to start driving along the roads. Then we were all the noise in here and –"

"Well get on it!" Millicent said – if she had a cane, she would have hit the floor with it.

"Wait!" said Archie. "Wait – Miss Millford – Margot, I mean – could you manage that on your own? You see, I've Scotland Yard coming up here from the next town over. Bea and I are liable to be bogged with praise and I don't think I'd be able to see my retirement at the very least again. If Potter stuck around – we could pass on some of that glory to him – it'd let me and Bea here retire with our daughter and Charles would get a very good pay raise and a likely promotion."

For all that wasn't said, Archie and Beatrice were very keen observers – as he said, they were good at their jobs. It had only taken Archie a few moments to understand what had occurred between Charles and Margot.

"You know, Margot," said Charles turning to her, "that's not a very bad idea."

"Then I'll get the car." After glancing around the room, Margot kissed Charles and hurried away.

Archie smiled rather successfully – then quickly went back to holding the gun to the Duke to keep him still and quiet.

Henrietta felt a headache coming on. She knew the games room would be empty – it was always empty now, not to mention the fact that the house was mostly empty, too. Opening the door, though, she was startled to see a figure by the window.

"Mr. McNaulty, is it?"

He turned. "Miss Smith. Yes, yes it is."

"I thought you were out looking for that little Millford girl – and I had it on good authority you were eloping with the mother. Don't ask how – I'm just very observant."

"Yes, I was... we were. At least, those were the plans. They don't need me working out there to find little Olive once everyone had their own job to do – everything is covered – and... Margery broke off the engagement."

"What for?"

"She says I'm a wonderful compassionate man – but she doesn't love me, can't love me. Do you know, this is the second time in a single year that I have been let down like this? First Billie and now –"

"Billie?"

"It wasn't really her. It was some scullery maid pretending to be. Bramton set it up but I figured it out. That's why I moved down to the Millfords' where... I give my heart away too easily, I think."

Henrietta shut the door. "You poor man. But at least you have a heart," she said. "I don't believe anyone knows you're in the house right now."

"I didn't think they would. I knew they'd forget. I couldn't very well bring myself to move much after... after everything that's happened with Billie and Margery."

"You should. Leave I mean. I hate this place. I had Henry run out on me just a few hours ago. He slipped right through my fingers. That never happens. Daddy never lets that happen."

"You loved him?"

"Not at all. I don't think I know how, to be honest. I know how to be possessive very well but love? I don't think I have it in me," Henrietta admitted. "I'm getting old. I want to settle down. And seeing your younger sister marry before you... you probably don't understand."

"No – no. I do. I completely understand. As much as I can, at least."

"Really?"

McNaulty nodded. "I can try."

Henrietta threw her head back. "Well, it will be solved, I'm sure, by the morning. Father can be convincing."

"It's hardly worth chasing the man, if he won't come. And you don't want him. You... you shouldn't do that."

"Why not? I picked him. I'll settle with my choice. I've no real qualms about it."

"But there are other options out there. You don't have to settle... yet, of course." McNaulty never realized that the more he spoke, the closer her began to stand to her.

"Really?" She asked, for now he was only a breath away. "Prove that."

In the end, it was perhaps a good thing the games room had been long abandoned, though the billiard table quite objected to its newfound usage.

Henry's hands hit the door flat. He pounded and pounded until Pigsley opened the door. He flew in with a wave, running straight to the bedroom where he could hear Billie crying in pain.

"Mina!" he said, bursting into the bedroom.

"Henry!" she said breathlessly, letting go of her mother's hand and reaching for him. "Oh! Henry!" she began to cry as she pulled him to her, even in pain. "I love you! I love you so very much – you aren't mad at me? For not speaking to you?"

"Mina – you're giving birth to my child – I hardly think –" Henry stopped. He heard a baby cry. A baby already lying in the crib Pigsley had set up. "Why are you still giving birth?"

"It's twins!" Billie cried, her head falling back on the pillow in pain.

And Henry fainted.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The room was quiet. Until the phone rang.

"Hello? Yes. Yes. One moment."

Pigsley handed the receiver to Penelope, who was sitting on the sofa in the sitting room.

"It's Lord Bramton," said Pigsley.

Penelope took the phone without a question. "How did you get this number?"

"I called our spot in London. You weren't there. But then, Millford's sister reluctantly came by to tell me where Douglas and Henry were most likely heading. And that – eh – we have nothing to worry about. The boys have nothing to worry about in the end. Can you imagine?"

"What do you mean?"

"The – eh – bobbies are here. Scotland Yard." Bramton began to laugh. "Arrested the Duke! And... and that vicar we thought was the new vicar? He was – hah – he was an informant! Bloody detective himself – hah – can you believe it all?"

Penelope paused. "It's certainly not how I imagine things would turn out." She smiled wide. "But I'm glad to hear the news again anyway."

"You knew?"

"Henry knew. When he arrived Douglas had already left. He had gotten a call from the vicarage from the man that was working with Anne and Floyd."

"Anne and Floyd? Who's Anne?"

"The other reverend's wife... though not. That was Floyd's wife. The other man – Ralph Pettigrew – was an actor. He rang to tell Douglas all would be fine, to return and everything, but I ended up having speak to him to tell him..." her voice trailed off.

"Tell him what?"

"That as soon as he saw Henry to tell him to come. Billie had gone into labor."

"Labor?" Bramton slowly sat down in Penelope's chair – he was in her private sitting room, and had been running his fingers over the different items on his wife's desk. "She... she –"

"Was pregnant. She and Henry have twins now."

"Twins?"

"It was why Billie didn't come back in the first place. She was afraid of what you would think. Or rather... she didn't want to upset you because she does love you. But you were making her chose, you know. Between Henry and yourself. And that was impossible with a child – or two, rather – on the way."

"Is she..."

"Well? Yes. Very. As are both of the children. Henry is here and, while he did faint when he heard the word 'twins,' he's awake now and with our daughter."

"I'm a grandfather..."

"For the second and third time, yes."

Bramton let out a small laugh. "The first one is still missing."

"Missing?"

"Both my bastard son and my bastard granddaughter are... missing. There's been searches out for Olive for... oh, several hours now. We only realized an hour or two ago that Wat was gone along with her. We needn't be worried though – no murderers out there targeting the girl anymore... I don't know about Wat though."

"They've been missing for hours? Is no one worried just to be worried?"

"To be very honest, my dear Penelope, I have been through so much shock this evening... this week... these months. I can hardly feel anything but a terrible numbness. All I know is that it is being taken care of at best. Do you think this numbness is my fight coming back?"

"Oh Bramton..."

"When do you return?"

"When Billie's strength returns."

"Henry can't take care of that?"

"You trust him?"

"I've always liked him, you know that. But stay – stay with Billie and... and give her my love. I will apologize when I see her in person."

"Oh Bramton, maybe we ought to have a psychopathic murdering family visit yearly. It seems to knock some sense into you. I've never heard you be so romantic over the telephone before."

"Yes, well... don't get used to it. Once the numbness is gone – no... you know, I'm really going to be passive from now on. Honestly passive. Let the children do what they like – if Billie wants Henry, let her have Henry. If Douglas wants a soap ad – "

"He doesn't want a soap ad. He wants Margery."

"A Millford? He already has a daughter with her – he can't marry her! That's just against the laws of Pearshire!"

Penelope laughed. "You can joke now?"

"Only partially. I wasn't joking."

"I didn't think so. But that's how it is. We'll have to live with that."

"We live with a lot of things, I think, Penelope."

"But we are happy. For the most part."

"Yes. For the most part. We'll be happy once the Smiths are gone."

"For the most part."

"Yes. For the most part. I do love you, Penelope. Your affairs and mine and all."

"And I've always loved you, Bramton. I think it may be time tell Wat the truth."

"Do you?"

"Mm. Yes."

"Well, once we find him. I'll tell him. What's that noise in the background?"

"The babies are crying again. I'll need to go. Henry's a little overwhelmed, still. Call when the children are found."

"Yes, yes. All right."

Penelope hung up first.

Bramton stayed, holding the receiver to his ear for a moment, though. He started to laugh – and he continued to laugh until his eyes watered and he took out his handkerchief to wipe them.

He had never been happier – or he had and just couldn't remember. He was rather old, after all.

Henrietta squinted in the sunlight. Sitting up, she looked at herself and was startled a bit to find she had not dreamt it. She was still in her evening gown and still in McNaulty's arms. And he was still asleep beside her, snoring like a great grizzly bear.

She flicked his cheek, but he didn't move.

Shrugging her shoulders, Henrietta laid back down and let McNaulty pull her to her almost like a doll.

For the first time in quite a few years, she began to think – or feel, rather. Staring into the face of the large man holding her body to his, she felt... compassionate.

Instead of flicking his cheek again, she put her hand gently on it.

He had a point last night.

No, she didn't have to settle.

And she wasn't old – he said that last night, too, while...

But he was a ginger...

Haircolor. That's all she was worrying about at the moment now? She could get over him being a ginger. She could even get over Henry leaving. The wedding cancelled.

She realized, though, she probably would not be able to get over McNaulty waking up and leaving her.

"I won't call in father, though," she said to herself. "You're too nice..." She kissed his forehead and pulled his arms tighter around her. "Plus... what do I have to keep you on... no... if you stay, it will be on your own accord."

"Good."

Henrietta jumped almost falling off the billiard table, had McNaulty not had a firm grip on her.

"I won't be leaving."

"But you were... you were in love with Margery last night! Do your emotions and affections really transfer that quickly?"

"Do people like you really change that quickly, too? Not threatening to kill me if I felt nothing or didn't respond to you? You would, wouldn't you?"

Henrietta sighed. "Probably. Yes."

"Then we ought to marry while I'm in love with you."

"Are you serious? You'd marry me?"

"Yes. And I'd probably stay in love with you. If you want to try to love me back."

"You are a ginger."

"I'm sorry for that."

Henrietta propped her head up on her arm. "All right then. I'll marry you. No promises on loving you – but I will try, I suppose. Who knows, it could be fun."

Bramton Hall, Charles and Archie decided, would be the better place to have Scotland Yard arrive. The children – when they were found – where instructed to be brought back to Millford Lodge and to be greeted with so many officers would probably only scare them off again.

Not only that, but Bramton's wine cellar was superior to Millford's and gave Charles and Archie a proper place to lock the Duke while they waited for the authorities to arrive.

"You know," said Bramton, walking to the wine cellar where Archie and Charles sat outside. "I can't find my son."

"Douglas?" asked Archie. "He's been gone since last night."

"No... no the other one."

"There's another?"

"Oh yes," said Charles. "Edward, isn't it?"

"That one, yes. He's gone missing."

"He's not out looking for the children?" asked Archie.

"Last I knew he was still groaning on my study's floor. I can't imagine where's he's gone too. He's prone to these... attacks of emotion. They last for quite some time and... oh, bugger it all – I think the police have arrived." They all could hear some commotion upstairs. Bramton went to investigate.

"Finally," Archie muttered. "Poor Mr. Pettigrew is probably having a very poor time with Molly." Beatrice was standing only a bit away, helping Archie put together his notes in the file they were to hand over. Archie had Charles copy a few pages to mimic effort – though he planned to throw much of the credit his way still.

Beatrice nodded when Archie said this then signed something with her hands.

"What's that?"

"Sign language," Archie said, surprised Charles couldn't recognize it. "She said that Molly's been fussy since we left London because her teeth are breaking through."

"Wait – Margot said that Beatrice never spoke – or signed like you said. Why is she talking now?"

"She was giving me the silent treatment since I took the case. In her own way – and it's effective. Now she won't – no, I won't, Bea. I'm not complaining."

Beatrice kissed the side of his head and fixed his hair before Bramton appeared with the officers behind him.

Also with him were Edward as well as Daisy, who was gripping Edward's arm and crying.

"Well, I found my other son," said Bramton with a sigh. "Seems he was with Daisy Smith in the same town over. Getting married." Bramton turned to the police and pointed at the wine cellar door. "He's in there. And I want him fined for any wine that's been drunk in his internment."

As some of the lesser officers went forward to arrest the Duke, the officer in charge of the case stepped over to Archie, who held out the file.

"Detective Parker. Mrs. Parker."

"I believe this counts as our retirement as well."

"What I heard the chief say –"

"Was that it did." Archie stood. "Anyway, you may want to rethink that very thought. You see that man over there?" Archie motioned to Charles, who came over awkwardly. "He did most of the work – you'll see his notes here. I need help. Yes – the great Parkers needed help."

"You're lying."

"Maybe I am and maybe I'm not, but Bea and I would love to go on the record and say that we owe most of this case to Charles Potter."

The officer looked over at Charles. "You're the Spencer man, aren't you?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"You were supposed to be on holiday."

"He came back when suspicions were aroused thanks to his fiancé, Margot Millford, sister of Margery Spencer, who's now gone back to the name of Millford. You can check the story with her."

The officer's eyes narrowed. He tucked the file under his arm. "You just want retirement."

Archie smiled. "Can't really accuse me of that. I'll come in and out of it as I please as well as Bea – not as the department pleases. Now – we have a family we need to take care of. Our daughter's teeth have started to breath through and she's done nothing but cry. Beatrice –" Archie turned to Beatrice, who was giving the head officer a very nasty look indeed.

It only made Archie smile wider.

"We'll be leaving."

The Duke was now being led up the stairs – Daisy was chasing after him and Edward was chasing after Daisy.

"Good job, Potter," Archie said, patting Charles on the arm before leaving with Bea at his side.

The head officer turned to Charles, who rocked on his feet as his face grew bright red. "Um... did all I could," said Charles, just as Archie had instructed him.

The night's train ride had given him ample time to sober. He wondered if Henry made it in time. He hoped he did. He wondered if Margery was already gone. He hoped she was.

Then again, he hoped she wasn't.

If everything had been solved, if the Duke was arrested, if the target was finally taken off of Olive... Margery could be his.

Or could have been.

Had he made the same mistake again?

Douglas leaned on the side of the car he had taken himself when he first left – it was still here, at the train station waiting for him when he returned. Now he was alone – driving down that green and brown and green road that was starting to become outlined in trees and the sort of things that reminded him Pearshire was close.

But that red coat – that wasn't part of the scenery.

Pulling over, Douglas jumped out of the car and walked into the shallow ditch at the side of the road. There, huddled together for warmth, were Olive and Wat, sound asleep.

"What the hell are you two doing out here?" he asked, waking them both up.

Clearly, they were startled and trying to remember exactly where they were.

"Sorry, sorry," Douglas said, realizing he probably sounded a bit harsh. "I just didn't expect to find you –"

"Where were you going?" asked Wat.

Douglas was startled this time. "Going? I was going back to Pearshire."

"Going back? You left? And they didn't kill you?"

"You... you didn't hear?"

"Hear what?" Wat was doing the talking, Douglas noticed.

"The Duke's been arrested... the Smiths should be leaving – you didn't like them, am I right?"

"We ran off before we heard that bit..." said Wat, plunking himself back down on the grass because he had stood – getting ready to run. "Suppose you already know it were us who made all those noises and broke the windows."

"Was it? Maybe I did... no... didn't. Did I? I don't think it matters much, to be honest, Wat. But you ran off? And Olive... you've been missing for longer."

"What do you mean?" asked his daughter.

"Your mother has been looking for you since yesterday afternoon."

"Oh you idiot!" said Wat. "You left too early to come up to the Hall! They're probably closer!"

"That doesn't matter much," said Douglas. "Both of you, in the car. Now."

It started out as a very silent ride. Olive sat between Douglas and Wat, who sat with his arms crossed and his turned to the window.

Taking a breath, Olive looked at Douglas and said: "I know you're my father. And while I do think you're quite stupid, I'm glad you're not a murderer."

Douglas looked at his daughter, then almost hit it a deer. The children shouted and Douglas found himself apologizing again.

"All right. You – um – don't have to call me father or anything like that... but... I'm glad you know. And do know that I love you. And have loved you since you were born."

"That's very nice," said Olive. "Because I didn't know that." She reached out and patted his hand on the steering wheel. "I imagine now I will love you, too. Even though you are very stupid. Are the Smiths really leaving? You aren't marrying that soap ad?"

"No. No, not at all. I'm – once again – a bachelor... but wait... if you're still missing – your mother hasn't run off with McNaulty, then, has she? She wouldn't leave without you!"

"No. And she wouldn't leave with him."

"I may have told her to – but only with you."

"Whatever for?"

"He did propose."

Olive elbowed Wat. "Told you!" Wat pushed her away and went back to sulking. "Are you going to marry her instead?"

"What? I –"

"Can we talk about me for a minute?" Wat asked. "We're almost to Pearshire and I've waited my turn."

"What did you want to talk about, Wat?" Douglas asked, his voice a bit strained.

"How I'm your bastard brother, that's what."

"Oh... ah, I see... well... touchy subject that."

Douglas was very releaved to see the sign for Pearshire approaching.

"Well?"

"Well..." Henry touched Billie's cheek and smiled. "Bravo you."

"You keep saying that."

"And I still mean it."

"I feel as though I am going to stay in this bed for the rest of my life."

Henry laughed and kissed her. "I suppose it could be very well justified. You did give birth to two rather large humans."

"Yes, but we still have to agree on names."

Henry groaned. "We do. But I was thinking."

"A frightening thought," murmured Billie.

"Not about the names. Not yet. No – you'll want to hear this. Why did you want to get married?"

"I... I was pregnant and delusional."

"Those are the only reasons?"

"Of course not. I mean, if I had just said I loved you, I knew you would follow it up with the fact you're not going anywhere."

"I'm not."

"Yes, I know. I suppose... I suppose part of me did want to even if it's an appalling thought – marriage, I mean – like you said."

"So marry me, anyway."

"What?"

"Will you marry me, Wilhelmina Bramton?"

"You're kidding."

"No. I'm quite serious. Here's the logic, are you ready?"

"I have no choice."

"I thought about it while you were sleeping. We didn't want to marry because of convention, correct? But defying convention is rather an artistic cliché in itself. Thus, following convention, in this instance, may not be conventional after all."

"Somewhere in that was a paradox."

"Yes, I believe so. But, my dear, my darling, you haven't answered me."

Billie reached up and pulled his face to hers. "I suppose. You're not going anywhere anyway now that you're a father of two. Why not make it legal and such?"

They kissed the usual Billie and Henry kiss – the one without worry, nerves, or plots and plans. Just their usual, very much in love, kiss.

"You'll handle the wedding then," he said.

"No!" said Billie. "No wedding – nothing. Once I'm able to stand, we'll just go to the closest registrar's and perhaps have an extra cake with our tea. All right?"

"Can't think of a better wedding."

"Perfect end to a comedy, as Aristotle would probably say," said Billie. "And let's hope I start moving soon for I don't want the idea of a double wedding floating around in Dougie's head once he hears for obviously he is going to marry Margery – that's why the phone is ringing."

"It isn't."

But then it did. Henry looked at Billie. "You two are freaks of nature. But back to normal."

"Oh, hell, Henry. What is normal? Certainly none of us!"

Chapter Thirty-Four

And it happened as I imagine you believed it would from the start – but there's not harm in knowing the end when you get the actual end. It's, what, the journey?

The mad, ridiculous, journey – unbelievable, improbable, and everything a proper story should be when the aim is for any sort of smile.

Margery and Douglas exchanged proper wedding vows in the last bit of autumn that held on before the winter. It was a particularly warm day, so they held the ceremony outside in Millford Lodge's garden, right before the budgerigar where a new plaque had just been installed.

For Mona

"So he went through with it and named it for your mother?" Douglas asked, holding a glass of champage in one hand and used his other arm to hold Margery to him.

"It seems so... but you can't argue with it. We will remember mother when we look at it. She always hated that bird."

Douglas laughed and kissed his bride. Oh, that was strange to think... bride.

"Oh sorry," Douglas said as he stepped out of the way for Charles to pass.

"Are you sure there's nothing I can do?" Charles asked as he followed Millford to one of the cheese platters. "I still feel horrible about the whole gnome stealing thing."

"Potter, my dear fellow, it wasn't your fault. I am prone to overreacting. Look at my sister."

"Come, Charles, he's forgiven you!" said Margot, pulling at his arm.

"Listen to your wife, Potter. And take her to London as soon as you can. She's been here in Little Pearshire for far too long."

"Father!"

"You'll enjoy London now!" Millford said, truly happy. "And with your husband's promotion, you'll enjoy London and all the shops in it."

"Now... now, the shops –" Charles started.

"What sort of shops?" asked Margot.

"Oh, jewelry and clothing and – well, Potter will, of course, tell you all about it. Won't you, Potter?"

"Yes... yes, father-in-law."

Millford patted him on the shoulder and reached for the wind near Lord Bramton and Penelope.

"You know," said the reverend – the real reverend who had come down to perform the ceremony – to Lord Bramton and Penelope, who held her husband's arm. "When I spoke to my superiors about Little Pearshire, they said they hadn't really intended to send a replacement vicar. They assumed the next town was close enough."

"So the vicarage is empty?"

"I'm supposed to give the news to the landowner... but I hear it's divided between yourself and Sir Millford. I know nothing about owning land but... yes, it's there for the taking."

"How very spectacular," said Bramton.

"Yes," said Penelope. "The boys will finally be able to use that yard."

"No we won't," said Douglas, who had overheard. "If it's owned by both families – we're playing on non-neutral land!"

Margery rolled her eyes – but she was still smiling.

"Then why not just sell the vicarage?" said Sir Millford with a shrug. "I would sell my half." He walked over and joined the conversation more fully. "If you'll sell yours."

"Yes, but to who?"

"To the Parkers," said Penelope, nodding to the two detectives, now paying close attention to their finally quiet baby.

"Mr. Parker? Mrs. Parker?" Bramton called out as Millford shuffled away for some reason.

Archie looked up and walked over followed by Beatrice. Both looked very well put together now. It was clear, living as reverend and wife was far below their actual means. Beatrice was dressed quite lovely, her hair looking not as limp as it once had. And Archie's suit was pressed and close to perfect – thanks to his valet, who had enjoyed the time off.

"What would you say to buying the vicarage?" asked Bramton. "Millford and I seem to have just acquired it. I know how attached to the city you both are but..."

"We have spoken of moving to the country. Or, at the very least, owning a country home."

Beatrice agreed.

"But the vicarage?"

As best she could with Molly in her arms, Beatrice signed: "We could do it over."

"Renovate?" Archie mulled the idea over in his head and took Molly so Beatrice could speak more freely. "You'd be up for it?"

Beatrice nodded. "It would be a good project in our retirement."

"You have to agree," said Millford. He came over holding the infamous garden gnome.

"Oh, father... really?" Margery said, hiding her face against Douglas' shoulder.

"Your housewarming gift – and your contract."

Beatrice took the garden gnome with an awkward 'ta' from Archie.

"We'll draw up the paperwork later," said Bramton.

"You know," said Anne as she watched the gnomes being exchanged. "Why have we never tried the country, Walter?"

"Because my business is in the city. And you'd die in the country."

"Die? That's dramatic." Anne took off her glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. Walter quickly grabbed them and held her over his head.

"There are a million things you'd fall over."

"Very funny – give them back!" Walter slipped Anne's glasses back onto her face – gently, of course. "You did get Ralph that part he wanted, didn't you?"

"I said I would."

"Which could mean different things, darling."

"I did, calm yourself. Opening night is in two weeks."

"You're right," said Anne. "The country would never work. I want free champagne for more than just weddings. And mixed drinks."

"There's my lovely girl!"

As they kissed, Henry made a face. He made another one when Billie handed him one of the twins after having held them both as he enjoyed a drink.

"Careful!" she said – she had become rather overprotective when Henry held the children. He was clumsy to begin with – and with two babies, Billie was practically horrified at the thought of him having them a moment alone. "Pigsley!"

And so Pigsley was every more present.

"Which one am I holding?"

"Peter. I have Rosalind."

"Right."

"Why are you making that face?"

"Look at them..." he said, nodding to the Floyds. "So bloody romantic."

"So are we."

"Are we?"

"Probably more than them, dearest."

"You know your father's being awfully nice to me since we came back from Bath."

"That was only a fortnight ago," said Billie. "Give him some time. All will be back to normal I'm sure."

"That's the response I was really looking for, Mina."

"Well..."

"Billie!" Douglas called, waving his sister over.

Billie turned to Henry. "Hold Rosalind. And Peter. Can you manage?"

"Mina!"  
"For a moment – Pigsley!"

Billie handed the other child off to Henry and hurried to her brother, who took her aside.

"You won't believe this!"

"Believe what?"

It felt almost natural the way the two slipped back into speaking to each other when all was said and done.

"I've heard Millicent's been writing letters to the Duke in prison."

"Are you kidding me?"

"No – and do not tell Henry I told you that – Margery told me in secrecy but you have to swear –"

"Mina! One of them is crying!" Henry shouted.

"Go – go!" said Douglas, letting her hurry back to her husband and children.

"What were you telling her?" Margery asked when Douglas turned around.

"Just how... wonderful she looks. Her and Henry. With the twins."

"You told her about Millicent."

"Yes."

Margery swatted his chest but then pulled him into a kiss.

"Now," said Douglas when he was reluctantly released, "what do we do about a honeymoon – we never really talked about it."

"Is that a hint you want to do something lavish like your brother? Travel with a soap ad to the most romantic locales? The Effile Tower! Lavender fields! Oh!" Margery mocked.

"Oh, shut it," said Douglas. "It was just an idea."

"What is that McNaulty doing now?" Henry asked now that Billie had stopped both of the children from crying – though Henry would say he did help. He did do the nappies, after all.

"He still won't take an apology from me. He keeps saying it wasn't my fault but I still feel terrible. Anyway, he and Henrietta bought a plot of land. He let her design the house and I believe they start the build in spring."

"I wouldn't knock his building skills," said Henry. "I rather like the bowling lane."

"You would. Enjoy it while it lasts though. Father will find some reason to hate you."

"You don't know that!"

"Henry, I am your wife. There are things you just have to accept. I know things." Billie stood on her toes and kissed him. "I am also the mother of your children so now I know even more things."

"Right – such as?"

"You're going to honestly take that transfer in America."

"What?"

"Our children are going to be well travelled – and proud of their father while their mother tries to finish her second novel. But you'll tell Floyd after the wedding – and after he has a proper holiday with Anne."

"Will I now?"

"Yes."

Henry looked down at Peter in his arms. "Yes..." he said. "I suppose I will. God, it is rubbish loving you all. Even you Pigsley." Henry kissed Pigsley on the cheek, causing Billie to break into a fit of laughter. "Ha! I do have some control in this relationship!" Henry mocked. "Look at your crazy mother, Peter. Look at her laugh!"

"Don't you dare listen to your father for a moment, Rosalind," Billie said, doing her best to recover. "He's silly, yes. But we love him anyway. Oh! Careful, Wat!"

Wat apologized as he brushed past Billie, chasing Olive shouting: "I'm your bastard uncle! Your uncle, Olive!"

"Mummy! Daddy! Potter! Uncle Charles!" Charles caught the girl in his arms. "Tell him to stop! Now!"

"What's he doing? Haunting again?"

Olive stuck her tongue out at Wat, for she was protected now.

"I've got her," said Douglas as Charles passed the girl to her father. "Wat chasing you again?"

Olive turned around and saw Wat. "Yes, he is!"

Wat stuck his tongue right back out at her and ran off, colliding with Lord Bramton.

"Oh... sorry," the boy mumbled.

"That's... that's all right... son."

Wat shifted awkwardly on his feet.

"We'll – er – make this work. We will," said Bramton.

Wat nodded. "I think you're a git, still."

"That's deserved. Can't say it isn't."

He patted the boy on his head.

"Where are you going?" Wat asked, seeing that Bramton was clearly leaving the garden.

"Bit of a walk. Won't be gone long. Skittles later, yes?"

Wat rolled his eyes and saw that Olive was no longer under her father's protection. He laughed and ran after her.

"Oh – the piano, Douglas! Yes! Henry's brought new music!" Millford heard Margery say as he also walked from the garden. "I've been waiting to hear it for ages!"

The dull echo of some musical – probably a Cole Porter piece, Dermot was chummy with him, wasn't he? – floated in the air, growing fainter and fainter as Millford walked, soon taking over Bramton.

"We'll have to be quick," said Millford. "Before my Margie notices."

"It is important, though."

"Of course it is. I never said it wasn't."

They walked on in the quiet for some time before they came to the strip.

"On your side, Bramton."

Bramton obeyed, but asked: "When is that Bessie due?"

"Pardon?"

"The maid that's having your child."

"Oh. She gave birth last night. I didn't mention?"

"No – you bloody well didn't!"

"I didn't want to overshadow Margie's day. Yes, Bessie gave birth."

"And?"

Millford smiled. "A boy."

"You're going to marry her then?"

Millford shrugged. "Boy's already a Millford. Does marriage have to happen? She's already living as my wife."

"True enough. To each his own. Well, congratulations."

"Thanks very much."

"The Millford line won't die yet, hm?"

"Not as long as I'm alive it would seem. But – what shall we do to decide the owner this week?"

"You've got me. I feel fresh out of ideas. No chance to really rest after all the madness these past few months."

"True."

Millford suggested an idea. Bramton rejected.

Bramton suggested and then Millford rejected.

They did agree to sit and think though.

But, for some time, with growing smiles, the only thing said between them was:

"This has all been very very ridiculous hasn't it?"
