Ginny (11 page)

“Do you know,” she said, seemingly unaware of Lord Gerald’s bad temper, “that Mr. Frayne only had gas laid on just before he died? He should have kept to lamps and candles, which would have been much more romantic, or on the other hand had electricity installed. Gas is so… well,
between
things.”

“I have gas,” said Lord Gerald stiffly.

“Oh, I know, I’ve seen the smelly things,” said Ginny vaguely. “Gas chandeliers, I mean. Always hissing and popping and downright dangerous, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t,” said Gerald rudely.

“No more you did,” said Ginny with unruffled calm. “Ah, here we are. Nepp’s Field, did you say? There we are. You
do
own a foot or two on the far side but
not
the little knoll where the rotunda is being built. I shall now have to send down to the village to get the men back.”

“I am sorry,” said Lord Gerald, reluctantly turning the ancient map this way and that. “But do consider. That is good grazing land and I am certainly sure that my family used it for sheep grazing.”

“Really,” said Ginny politely. “Believe me, there has been nothing with four legs near it since the day I arrived. Oh, why must you always try to save face. Come and see my rotunda. Look! The rain’s stopped and the sun is beginning to shine.”

Lord Gerald obscurely felt that there was something very
low class
about building new things on an old estate, but he knew he had behaved badly. He should have checked his own maps first.

“Very well, then,” he said with a reluctant grin. “But don’t expect me to like it!”

Ginny went upstairs to take off her pinafore and put on a smart morning dress of pale-blue taffeta. It had a saucy line of bows running from neck to hem, with creamy lace edging the high collar and the narrow cuffs. She chose a wide-brimmed hat of the same material, ornamented with a whole garden of roses on the crown. White gloves and a white lace parasol completed the ensemble. The maid, Masters, had found another position, not being able to face the other servants after the unveiling of her lowly origins, and Ginny had not yet replaced her.

Lord Gerald watched her descending the staircase with an ironic twitch to his lips. She looked exactly like a doll, he thought. And then she smiled at him, and he was forced to admit to himself that she looked like a very beautiful doll indeed.

“Dear me, Ginny,” he said. “Do you intend to walk across the fields dressed like that?”

“Why not?” was all Ginny would say.

But it turned out that she was wearing a pair of sky-blue button boots, much more serviceable than they appeared, and the skirt of her dress only reached as far as her ankles, so there was no reason for her to have to hold up her skirts or worry about getting her feet wet.

Everything seemed very fresh and green after the rain and little wisps of gray cloud trailed off high in the sky above.

The sun was already hot and drying the grass. A blackbird sang with noisy gusto, rocking himself backward and forward on the slim branch of a larch and sending a shower of raindrops down onto Ginny’s hat, where they twinkled and sparkled among the silk roses like tiny diamonds.

Ginny looked as cool and as fresh as a salad, and Lord Gerald found, to his irritation, that it was he who was unsuitably dressed for the day in an old hacking jacket and jodhpurs and a black polo sweater.

Ginny chattered amiably about the ball she was planning. Even Lady Rochester had accepted an invitation, she said. She wondered why that was, since Lady Rochester had not seemed to enjoy her last visit one bit, and, with effort, Lord Gerald refrained from pointing out that Lady Rochester was probably hell-bent on revenge.

Soon the rotunda appeared on its little knoll in the distance. “Is that someone walking away from it?” asked Ginny, screwing up her eyes. “Can you see who it is?”

“Too far away,” said Gerald. “Probably one of the workmen.”

His companion fell silent and, as the brim of her hat shaded her face, he had no clue as to what she was thinking.

Only the base of the rotunda had so far been built, explained Ginny, finding her voice again as they approached it. When the pillars were erected and a little golden cupola put on top—it would look charming.

They mounted the shallow steps and stood looking across the field.

Lord Gerald reluctantly admitted to himself that the choice of situation was a stroke of genius. From each side of the rotunda, on its little rise, was spread a pleasant idyllic view of trees and meadows. The pastoral scene sparkled in the hot sunshine as the rain-washed grass and trees slowly dried in the sun.

“Everything’s glittering,” said Ginny. “Why, even the—”

She looked down at the side of the rotunda and turned as white as a sheet.

“Run!” she screamed, “
Run!
”

She seized Lord Gerald’s arm and tugged frantically. Her fear was infectious and without pausing for thought, he took her hand and ran with her, some part of his mind registering surprise at Ginny’s agility as she fled across the field and took the stile in one bound, stumbling and nearly falling and then recovering herself and fleeing on.

“This is ridiculous,” gasped Lord Gerald, grabbing hold of her and forcing her to stop. “What the devil—”

The ground beneath them suddenly seemed to heave as a deafening explosion rent the air and a great shock wave threw them on their faces. They lay very still. For a while Lord Gerald could hear nothing but the thumping of his heart. Then a great silence fell and he slowly turned his head to one side and looked at Ginny.

Her frivolous blue hat had tumbled off and lay a yard away in the grass in front of her. She had her arms tightly clasped over the top of her head and was lying very still.

He gingerly sat up and looked back to where they had come from.

The rotunda lay in smoking ruins and a column of black smoke climbed up lazily into the blue sky.

Shouts and cries and the sound of running feet were coming from the direction of Courtney.

Lord Gerald turned Ginny over and looked down at her. Her face was very white but she gave him a trembling smile and said, “It’s like the fifth of November.”

“How did you know what was going to happen?” asked Gerald curiously.

“I saw the fuse,” said Ginny. “I thought it was a raindrop sparkling in the sun. Then I saw it was the lit end of a fuse going into the foundations. I thought that by the time I ran down and round and put it out, we would be blown to smithereens.”

The servants came running up, followed closely by Cyril, Jeffrey, and Tansy. Lord Gerald looked at them all thoughtfully. Then he explained what had happened and sent one of the footmen to fetch the local constable.

“It’s probably them Bolshevists,” said Harvey, much shaken, “or some of them hooligan suffragettes. Women firing on the trains, madam, and now this.”

“Perhaps the police might have some idea,” said Gerald, helping Ginny to her feet. “All the workmen will have to be questioned closely.”

But neither the local policemen nor the inspector nor the gentlemen from Scotland Yard who arrived on the following day could find any solution to the mystery.

No stranger had been spotted near the village or on any of the surrounding roads. As perfect day followed perfect day and no other sinister thing happened, every one began to believe it had been the work of some madman, and life at Courtney settled back into its usual routine. The ball, which had been postponed for fear of other dramatic happenings, was once again planned.

On the day before the ball Ginny had gone out driving with Peter Paster, leaving a sad and lonely Alicia behind. Lord Gerald felt that Ginny was intriguing again and he was so angry with her, that he decided to travel up to town, stay at his club, and buy a motorcar—assuring himself that he had always wanted a motorcar and was not simply buying it to irritate Ginny. He would not attend the ball.

He sat down to write a refusal and then stopped and frowned. Did he really want to miss it? That dratted girl had him going around in circles. Therefore, instead, he wrote a short note saying he was called away to town on business and that he would try his best to return in time for the ball. That would leave both choices open to him.

By the time he had bought himself a smart leaf-green Lanchester with a great shiny horn on the side and handsome brass lamps, he was feeling more in charity with the world in general and Ginny in particular. It was odd, he thought, how fond he was of her when he was not precisely in her company. A pretty fair-haired girl in blue silk was tripping along the other side of Piccadilly.

This is ridiculous
, he thought.
And after all, I did promise poor Alicia a dance. She’ll have no one to dance with, now that Ginny’s taken Peter away from her
.

He decided he would have an early dinner at his club and then catch the seven o’clock train. The car was not to be delivered until the following day and Peter would have to give him some lessons on how to drive the thing anyway.

But his train stopped and started and stopped and started and finally broke down altogether, and there was an endless wait until whatever was up with the stupid, smoking coaly beast was repaired. It was nearly midnight by the time he reached his home and roused his valet to find his evening clothes.

The ballroom was at the back of the house and he decided to walk around and enter by the French windows. He wanted to see if there would be any expression at all in Ginny’s blue eyes when he suddenly appeared. As he approached by way of the garden he heard the festive sounds of cheering and popping champagne corks.

He stood at the entrance to the window.

Ginny was wearing a smoky-violet chiffon dress that seemed moulded to her form. Her eyes were like stars. She was hanging onto Peter’s arm and as Lord Gerald watched, Ginny raised herself on tiptoe and kissed Peter on the cheek.

“What’s going on?” he asked the nearest guest, who happened to be Cyril.

“D-don’t you know?” said Cyril sourly. “Wedding bells all round. Peter’s engaged to be married.”

Gerald looked across at Ginny’s radiant face and shining eyes. There was no sign of Alicia. He turned on his heel and walked from the ballroom.

He walked in the garden for a long time, while the sounds of cheering and popping champagne corks went on. He could have killed Ginny. Blood would out in the long run, he thought savagely. This is what came of encouraging the attentions of a common little slut with a swinging brick for a heart.

The dreamy strains of a Strauss waltz floated out into the night air, that very same waltz he had danced with Ginny.

Lord Gerald de Fremney took himself off home to get well and truly drunk.

He was awakened by his man late the following morning and he rose shakily to find that the treacherous English weather had decided to match his mood. Rain fell with unremitting violence, roaring in the eaves and making great puddles in the velvet of the lawns.

He could not remember ever having had such a hangover—even on Boat Race night. The gloomy light outside hurt his eyes and his mouth felt like a gorilla’s armpit.

By the time he was barbered and dressed, the shooting pains behind his eyes had gone and he was left with a weak feeling of lassitude.

He would ride out and see what damage this infernal rain was doing to his harvest. Probably smashing the corn flat. He pulled on an old waterproof riding coat and a hard hat with a skip and set off on his rounds. By the time he had got to the Jones’s farm at the far boundary of his land, the water was dripping steadily from his hat down inside his coat and then running from the hem of his coat and seeping into his jodhpurs.

“Good heavens, m’lord,” said Mr. Jones. “You’ll catch your death, that’s for sure. Best come in and warm yourself at the fire.”

He pushed open the kitchen door and Gerald caught sight of a roaring wood fire and the shine of polished copper pans.

“Very kind of you, Jones,” he said, dismounting stiffly.

He allowed himself to be helped out of his wet coat after assuring himself that his horse was receiving a good rubdown in the farmer’s stables.

He pulled off his boots and stretched his wet stockinged feet to the cheerful blaze.

“Now, m’lord,” said Farmer Jones, rubbing his hands with pleasure at the sight of such exalted company in his kitchen. “I’ve got the very thing to warm you up. My missus do make the best blackberry brandy between here and Maidstone, that she do, and you shall taste it drectly.”

Lord Gerald refused as gracefully as he could, but Mr. Jones would not take no for an answer. “Best thing for this cold, damp weather, m’lord. Puts the heart back in a man, that it does.”

So the blackberry brandy was duly brought in, winking evilly in its squat bottle. Lord Gerald was poured a handsome glassful. He decided the best way to get it down was to swallow it in one gulp like medicine—which he did.

It was very potent, and for one moment he thought the top of his head was about to blast off and disappear into outer space like one of Mr. H. G. Wells’s rockets to the moon. Then he felt a comforting glow spreading through his veins.

He gave the anxious Mr. Jones a nod of approval. “Excellent stuff! Excellent,” said Lord Gerald. And, “Have some more, m’lud,” said the much gratified farmer.

* * *

Alicia was sitting discussing the ball with Peter Paster and Ginny Bloggs some time later that dismal and wet day, when Harvey came in and announced that Lord Gerald wished to have a word with Miss Benson. Alicia and Ginny looked around in surprise at the butler and Peter said, “Tell him to come in here, Harvey.”

“His lordship is most insistent that he sees Miss Benson privately.”

“I’ll go,” said Alicia, getting hurriedly to her feet. “One of our friends might be ill.”

She went hurriedly from the room. After a few minutes’ silence while Ginny stitched and Peter gazed at the fire, he suddenly said, “Look, Ginny, I don’t like the idea of Alicia being alone with Gerald. He was rather sweet on her, you know.”

Ginny put down her sewing. “If it will make you feel any better,” she said, “I’ll go along and see what’s happening.”