about.”
Cecily resisted the urge to say something biting. Phoebe and Madeline had been at each other’s throats for as long as she could remember, and she had never understood why. She doubted very much if either of her friends knew why. It was a silly feud that went on and on without any signs of being resolved, and there were times when Cecily grew quite tired of having to resolve their arguments and keep the peace.
Phoebe took a miniature sausage roll from the plate, studied it for a moment, then popped it in her mouth. “I suppose she will have a good excuse not to attend my pantomime. She will be missing an excellent performance this year.”
Cecily rather doubted that. Phoebe’s presentations were known more for their mishaps than for any glowing tributes. Her cast of dancers had much to do with that. Not only were they miserably inept, their contempt for their director was made obvious both on and off the stage.
Phoebe usually lost control of the proceedings, and much to the delighted expectations of the audience, the result was, at times, utter chaos.
“As a matter of fact,” Cecily murmured, “Madeline will be at the pantomime. She and Dr. Prestwick will be bringing little Angelina with them. I think they would both be quite disappointed to miss your performance.”
“Oh!” Phoebe lifted her hands to straighten her hat. Having recovered from her surprise, she added, “Well, it is the highlight of the season, after all. I shall look forward to seeing the baby.”
She went on prattling, but Cecily wasn’t listening. She was envisioning a single shoe lying in the coal shed. Mrs. Tidwell’s words ran through her mind, shutting out all else.
The big Irishman. He was sweet on my Ellie. Must have flown into a rage or something.
First thing in the morning, she promised herself, she would pay Mr. Docker a visit. All she could hope was that the maid’s disappearance was not connected in some way to Charlie’s death. For if so, things did not bode well for Ellie Tidwell.
CHAPTER 8
The following morning brought a heavy shower, and Pansy lifted her skirts as she stepped across the puddles in the courtyard. She’d been sent with a message for Samuel, and she intended to make every moment count. It wasn’t often she had an excuse to see him alone in the stables. She wasn’t about to squander the opportunity.
She’d taken a moment or two to pull strands of hair out from under her cap. Mrs. Chubb would have a fit if she saw that, but it was worth the risk to look modern and daring like the models in Mrs. Chubb’s magazines that her daughter sent her all the time.
Humming to herself, Pansy skipped across the last big puddle and smoothed down her skirt and apron. She pinched her cheeks to give them color, then spit on her finger and smoothed it across her eyebrows.
Secure in the knowledge that she looked the best she could, she marched into the stables. The smell took her breath away for a moment, and she tried not to breathe in too deeply as she scanned the stalls for a sight of Samuel.
She heard his voice before she saw him. By the soft tones he used she could tell he was talking to one of the horses. Creeping forward, she noticed three motorcars in the stalls opposite the horses.
Samuel had told her about them the first night they’d arrived. The first one, a sleek silver machine, belonged to Lord and Lady Millshire. Then the dark blue one in the next stall, that was Sir Walter Hayesbury’s. The third one, a small dark green motorcar, belonged to the crackpot in room nine, Mr. Mortimer.
“You have to learn to drive it first,” Samuel said from a few yards away.
She jumped, and swung around. “What?”
“The motorcar. If you’re thinking of stealing it, you have to know how to drive it.”
She tossed her head, wafting strands of hair across her face. Snatching them out of her eyes, she muttered, “I wasn’t thinking of stealing one. I never stole nothing in my entire life.”
Samuel
Cecily resisted the urge to say something biting. Phoebe and Madeline had been at each other’s throats for as long as she could remember, and she had never understood why. She doubted very much if either of her friends knew why. It was a silly feud that went on and on without any signs of being resolved, and there were times when Cecily grew quite tired of having to resolve their arguments and keep the peace.
Phoebe took a miniature sausage roll from the plate, studied it for a moment, then popped it in her mouth. “I suppose she will have a good excuse not to attend my pantomime. She will be missing an excellent performance this year.”
Cecily rather doubted that. Phoebe’s presentations were known more for their mishaps than for any glowing tributes. Her cast of dancers had much to do with that. Not only were they miserably inept, their contempt for their director was made obvious both on and off the stage.
Phoebe usually lost control of the proceedings, and much to the delighted expectations of the audience, the result was, at times, utter chaos.
“As a matter of fact,” Cecily murmured, “Madeline will be at the pantomime. She and Dr. Prestwick will be bringing little Angelina with them. I think they would both be quite disappointed to miss your performance.”
“Oh!” Phoebe lifted her hands to straighten her hat. Having recovered from her surprise, she added, “Well, it is the highlight of the season, after all. I shall look forward to seeing the baby.”
She went on prattling, but Cecily wasn’t listening. She was envisioning a single shoe lying in the coal shed. Mrs. Tidwell’s words ran through her mind, shutting out all else.
The big Irishman. He was sweet on my Ellie. Must have flown into a rage or something.
First thing in the morning, she promised herself, she would pay Mr. Docker a visit. All she could hope was that the maid’s disappearance was not connected in some way to Charlie’s death. For if so, things did not bode well for Ellie Tidwell.
CHAPTER 8
The following morning brought a heavy shower, and Pansy lifted her skirts as she stepped across the puddles in the courtyard. She’d been sent with a message for Samuel, and she intended to make every moment count. It wasn’t often she had an excuse to see him alone in the stables. She wasn’t about to squander the opportunity.
She’d taken a moment or two to pull strands of hair out from under her cap. Mrs. Chubb would have a fit if she saw that, but it was worth the risk to look modern and daring like the models in Mrs. Chubb’s magazines that her daughter sent her all the time.
Humming to herself, Pansy skipped across the last big puddle and smoothed down her skirt and apron. She pinched her cheeks to give them color, then spit on her finger and smoothed it across her eyebrows.
Secure in the knowledge that she looked the best she could, she marched into the stables. The smell took her breath away for a moment, and she tried not to breathe in too deeply as she scanned the stalls for a sight of Samuel.
She heard his voice before she saw him. By the soft tones he used she could tell he was talking to one of the horses. Creeping forward, she noticed three motorcars in the stalls opposite the horses.
Samuel had told her about them the first night they’d arrived. The first one, a sleek silver machine, belonged to Lord and Lady Millshire. Then the dark blue one in the next stall, that was Sir Walter Hayesbury’s. The third one, a small dark green motorcar, belonged to the crackpot in room nine, Mr. Mortimer.
“You have to learn to drive it first,” Samuel said from a few yards away.
She jumped, and swung around. “What?”
“The motorcar. If you’re thinking of stealing it, you have to know how to drive it.”
She tossed her head, wafting strands of hair across her face. Snatching them out of her eyes, she muttered, “I wasn’t thinking of stealing one. I never stole nothing in my entire life.”
Samuel
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