The Devil And Drusilla

‘But we are such a long way from either Tresham Magna or Tresham Minor,’ Drusilla said, frowning. ‘And why should they come here? It might be more sensible of them to lark in the grounds of Tresham Hall.’

‘Harder to break into them,’ suggested Mrs Rollins practically.

Drusilla had to let that be the last word, but for some reason the little incident had disturbed her—and why it should was mysterious. She told herself not to be troubled by such mental cobwebs, brought on, no doubt, by a poor night’s sleep. She went downstairs where she found an anxious Miss Faulkner about to set off for morning service at Tresham Magna, Lyford Village possessing no church of its own.

‘You look pale, my dear,’ she told Drusilla agitatedly, ‘It must be all the excitement yesterday. Lord Devenish may be a great man, but he is scarcely a restful person.’

Drusilla thought that Lord Devenish’s sharp tongue must be catching for she found herself saying, ‘One imagines that great men are rarely restful, Cordelia, but in any case I find his manner refreshing. We practise a deal of hypocrisy, you know.’

Consequently she said nothing of what she had seen the night before to Miss Faulkner for she did not wish to disturb her further.

She might have saved herself the trouble; when Miss Faulkner arrived back in the middle of the morning instead of at the end, her face was pale and she was trembling violently.

‘Whatever can be the matter?’ exclaimed Drusilla. ‘What brings you back so early?’ She poured out a glass of wine and handed it to her companion, ‘Here, drink this, it may help you to compose yourself.’

‘Nothing can do that,’ gasped Miss Faulkner, ‘nothing,’ shivering as she drank the wine down in one unladylike gulp. ‘I shudder to tell you, but I must. Of all dreadful things when Mr Williams arrived at the church this morning he found—oh, I cannot tell you, it is too dreadful.’

‘My dear,’ said Drusilla gently, ‘I fear that you must.’

‘Yes, I must, mustn’t I? Oh, my love, of all things he found a dead sheep on the altar and the bishop must reconsecrate the church—Lord Devenish had been sent for, and I regret what I said of him earlier this morning. He was so kind. We are to use the chapel at Tresham Hall, he says, to save us having to go all the way to the church at Tresham Minor. So very gracious of him!’

Drusilla sat down, plainly shocked. ‘Who could have done anything half so dreadful—and why?’

‘No one knows. It seems that Farmer Ramsey had an argument with Parson Williams over the tithes—which he lost. But one cannot imagine such a jovial fellow as he is doing such a thing in revenge.’

‘No, indeed,’ said Drusilla faintly, thinking of the jolly red-faced man who had often given her sweet milk to drink, fresh from the cow, when she had been a little girl.

And so she told Devenish when he visited them that afternoon to reinforce his invitation to use his chapel.

‘I thought that I ought to come to inform you that we shall make every effort to identify and punish the miscreants,’ he told them.

Giles said eagerly, ‘Vobster, our head groom, believes that it may have been Luddite sympathizers at work. Even down here, he says, there are those who talk and plan sedition.’

Devenish had surprised himself—and Rob Stammers—by finding that he needed to reassure the two ladies and young Giles that the authorities were not taking this matter lightly. He had ridden over to Lyford House as soon as he decently could, to be received with tea and muffins.

He said soberly, ‘Oh, everyone has a different explanation, from Farmer Ramsey’s annoyance over his tithes to a prank by unnamed villagers.’

‘And which do you favour, sir?’ asked Giles who had, much to Devenish’s secret amusement, adopted him as a kind of honourary uncle of whom advice might be asked.

‘I?’ said Devenish coolly, accepting a cup of tea from Miss Faulkner, ‘Why, I favour none of them until some kind of evidence emerges which might support any of the explanations offered. So far all we have is hot air and supposition.’

He looked across at Drusilla who was staring thoughtfully into space, ‘You seem a little engrossed, Mrs Faulkner. Forgive me for questioning you, but is that because you have something of matter to import relating to what we are discussing?’

He was reading her mind again. Drusilla lifted her head and gave him a splendid view of a pair of candid grey eyes.

‘I suppose,’ she said slowly, ‘that what I am about to say may be of the order of hot air and supposition. On any other day I might have dismissed what I saw late last night as mere innocent playfulness, but after this morning’s events—who can tell?’

Devenish leaned forward. ‘You intrigue me, madam. What exactly did you see last night?’

Without embroidery, Drusilla told him, as soberly as she could, of the two strangers in Lyford’s grounds on the previous evening. She added, equally soberly, ‘When I questioned her this morning, my housekeeper was firmly of the opinion that I had not seen two of my servants who had broken the staff rules by leaving their beds after lights out.’

Miss Faulkner exclaimed faintly, ‘Oh, I wonder that you could have slept after that. I am sure that I couldn’t have done.’

‘Ah, but Mrs Faulkner is made of sterner stuff, are you not, Mrs Faulkner?’

Was there the usual faint tinge of mockery in his comment? Drusilla did not know. Perhaps not, because after he had leisurely demolished a muffin and the clock had ticked on in the silent room, Devenish said, ‘Would I be considered to be grossly intrusive if I asked to be allowed to visit your room so that you might show me exactly what you saw—and where?’

‘Or what I thought I saw,’ said Drusilla challengingly. ‘For I believe that you may be of the opinion that I might be indulging in hot air and supposition.’

‘Oh, you don’t think that, surely, sir?’ exclaimed Giles. ‘Why, Dru is the most sensible women I know—indeed, I would dare swear she is the only sensible woman I know.’

Devenish’s beautiful mouth twitched. Miss Faulkner said aggrievedly, ‘You want manners, Master Giles, and, as I have often said, if you are not to go to university, then a strict tutor ought to be employed to teach you the discipline you would otherwise have learned there.’

‘You interest me, Miss Faulkner,’ remarked Devenish. ‘I would be happy to learn to which university you refer. None of those with which I am acquainted had much to do with teaching their undergraduates any form of discipline—quite the contrary.’

Giles threw him a grateful glance. Miss Faulkner, who was not sure whether she had been complimented or insulted, gave a hesitant, worried smile. Seeing her discomfort, Drusilla surveyed Devenish with a measuring, judgmental eye, and said coolly, ‘Well, one thing is plain, m’lord, after that remark Giles would do well not to come to you to learn good manners—or perhaps Earls are exempt from them.’

‘Oh, my dear,’ gasped Miss Faulkner, ‘I am sure that Lord Devenish did not mean anything wrong by what he said.’

‘Oh, I am sure that he did,’ retorted Drusilla. ‘Did you not, m’lord?’

Her own daring in thus reproaching him for mocking poor Cordelia struck Drusilla when it was far too late to retract anything which she had said. She waited for the cutting riposte which was sure to follow.

It didn’t. Instead Devenish rose from his chair, walked over to where she sat and lifted her hand to kiss it.

‘You are right to rebuke me,’ he said, his voice gentle. ‘I have grown too accustomed to using my tongue to cut down those around me and who often feel unable to reply because of their lower rank. I must cease the habit.’

He turned to the astonished Miss Faulkner who stared at him, her mouth agape. ‘Pray forgive me,’ he asked, bowing to her, ‘for I spoke ungallantly to you—and not for the first time. I promise not to do it again.’

‘Oh, it was nothing, nothing at all, m’lord.’

‘Ah, but it was. It was most wrong of me. And now, ladies, you will lead me to the room from which Mrs Faulkner saw—what she saw.’

The smile he gave then was his dazzling one. Drusilla, who was already overset because of the sensation which his kissing her hand had created, found that she was quivering with excitement. She told herself that this was partly relief because he had not taken offence at her rebuke, but she knew that she was lying.

Well behaved or ill behaved, he was having the most profound effect on her. Worse, however much she told herself to ignore it, she was unable to do so. All the way up to her room she lectured herself—in vain.

She watched him look around it. It was a lady’s bedroom in splendid order and furnished in the most perfect taste. Devenish walked to the window, bidding her to stand beside him—Miss Faulkner was acting as their chaperon and hovered nervously behind them as Drusilla told her tale.

‘And after they had crossed the lawn they went that way,’ she ended, pointing to the steps down which the man and the woman had disappeared.

‘Which leads towards—where? Remind me, we have turned so many times since I entered Lyford that I have lost my bearings.’

‘Well, nowhere, really. I suppose that the nearest habitation in that direction is Marsham Abbey, Mr Harrington’s place. There is a footpath across the fields which leads to it—but it is rarely used these days. It also runs in the opposite direction, but since Swain’s Hall was pulled down it goes nowhere, because the path to the highway beyond it has disappeared through lack of use.’

‘I see.’ After that Devenish fell silent. Drusilla had been right when she had said that what she had seen had been unremarkable, and would have been unremarked—save to her housekeeper—had it not been for the sheep on the altar.

‘Does Harrington graze sheep on the Abbey’s fields?’