Dorothy Cannell - She Shoots to Conquer

“The one we came in?”

“Don’t think so, although this place is such a warren. On the bright side, who should be coming my way from the wooded area with the broken wall but that sad-faced man Boris, so I waited to ask him about the study. And after he told me which room it was, I couldn’t bring myself to rush off, not when he kept standing there like he had a knife stuck in his back. I’m sorry to say,” she tucked the notebook into a chest pocket and her hands into the capacious side ones, “I forgot about Livonia and had a little chat with him.”

“A chat?” My mind boggled.

“A rather confused one about begonias.” Again the smile. “He thought they were people from the land of Begonia. He told me he had mixed with a lot of foreigners when he worked in circuses. I wanted to ask why he had left that world, but I remembered Livonia-too late as it turned out, and now if I don’t want to goof up things some more, I suppose I’d better get outside. Nice getting to know you, Ellie.” Hands removed from the pockets, right arm raised in a sideways salute, she sped away-shoulders forward, short fly-away beige hair matching the jacket.

There went stiff competition for Mrs. Malloy. If ever a woman had energy to spare, it was Judy Nunn. And energy would certainly be a key virtue in bringing the house and grounds back to life. I also had the feeling that Judy was kind, something to which I sensed strongly Lord Belfrey would respond and Mr. Plunket, Mrs. Foot, and Boris would need from whoever was to become mistress of Mucklesfeld.

These thoughts were nudged aside by what she had said about Boris. A circus worker! It went together with Mrs. Foot saying he had enjoyed seeing Whitey swinging from the frying pan handle like a trapeze artist. A politely inquiring woof from Thumper brought me back into focus. He was eyeing the front door hopefully. The word walk floated in a balloon over his head. But of course we couldn’t exit that way. I could picture all too well Georges’s fury if we blundered into what would have been a successful take, if that was the right word. It also wouldn’t be fair to distract the contestants. I wondered if Mrs. Malloy had overcome her case of the jitters and how Livonia was holding up. Would it turn out that Georges LeBois had determined it would add an extra dollop of drama if the six contestants discovered on arrival that they were each a link in a chain of acquaintances, if not actual friends? It would be particularly interesting to learn the identity of the woman coming after Livonia. Meanwhile, I looked down at Thumper.

“Come on, we’ll look for the exit Judy found down that passageway.” It seemed like one of Georges’s tricks to let him think we were off on a casual walk. Perhaps I flattered myself unduly in assuming Thumper would miss me terribly. Perhaps he showed no sign of being desperate to return to the bosom of his family because he was suffering from doggie amnesia. Perhaps he had an intense interest in home decorating and hoped I could teach him a thing or two on the subject. My gaze shifted away from his. Enough of this sentimental slosh! What must be had better be done fast or I’d have to go into mourning for a year and black is not my best color.

This decided, I strode in the impressive Judy Nunn manner for all of six steps, before stopping beside the huge jardinière displaying the dead plant. Next to it was the door that Georges had posted off-limits. The study. I made to move on, but stopped… seized by an impulse that had nothing to do with a desire to snoop or a wish to find a book. Mucklesfeld possessed a library. No, the shameful truth is I had that sudden, unbidden urge to defy authority. My late mother, lovely mercurial creature that she was, once told me with scarcely veiled pride that sometimes when she came up behind a policeman on duty she experienced an almost irresistible impulse to tip his helmet over his face. But in my case it was personal. Georges LeBois needed stamping on good and proper, to use a familiar phrase from Mrs. Malloy. Thinking of how I’d let her down that morning, in part because Georges had delayed me in the kitchen, I reached without a quiver of remorse for the door handle.

The thrill of wickedness faded the moment I stepped into the study. I had been confident of finding it empty. Certainly the last person I expected to see standing, head bent, his back to me, in front of a desk almost the width of the room was Lord Belfrey. He should have been at the top of the drive watching the women who would soon be vying for his hand make their way toward him. Shock switched the drive to a church aisle and his lordship into Henry VIII. So silly! His lordship wasn’t aiming for six wives, just one out of that number. But then neither had Henry, whatever his faults, been greedy enough to want all at once. He’d had to go through a lot to find the happiness a king deserved. The memory jingle learned at school returned to me: Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, outlived . A nervous giggle tickled its way up my throat, but mercifully subsided when Lord Belfrey turned around to face me… us. Thumper was seated to attention, demonstrating that he at least had some manners.

“I’m sorry, your lordship, I should have knocked. But… that’s neither here nor there; I’ve no business coming in.”

His expression was serious, solemn even, until slowly warming into a smile of such subtle masculine-make that virile-charm that it was impossible not to relax a little and smile back.

“Who’s your friend?” He beckoned to Thumper, who went willingly, although at a sedate pace, to be stroked. The image came of Ben’s hand on the dark head and I felt myself blushing, which was so silly. What woman on the better side of eighty wouldn’t experience a small fluttery thrill when looking into the dark eyes under well-shaped black brows? The left eyebrow quirked and the smile deepened as he straightened up after a final pat. “You look guilty. Did you kidnap him, Mrs. Haskell?”

“Ellie, please.”

“But not short for Eleanor.” The smile faded slightly.

Instantly, the rosy cloudlike feeling vanished.

“Giselle.” I was glad when Thumper returned to sit beside me, warm against my leg.

“I remember.” He reached behind him for a pencil. “Your resemblance to her portrait is uncanny.”

“It happens,” I said at my most inane, then quickly. “Mrs. Malloy told me you wanted to speak to me about her becoming one of the contestants. We both thought it very gallant of you… but of course the decision is hers… and yours. And now I’ll get out of here. I was sure you were outside and… again; I should never have come in here. You will be wishing me at the moon when you’ll be anxious to be greeting your arriving… guests.”

“Georges doesn’t want me out on the drive for another half hour. Until then I’m not a contributing factor.” The smile was there-wry, self-deprecating, and unable to conceal… what? Minor misgivings? Or a deep-rooted sorrow? “He wants to get some shots of the women meeting for the first time, sizing each other up, before bringing me on camera. Cold-blooded, wouldn’t you say, Ellie?”

“Well,” looking down at Thumper for moral support, “I suppose that’s the nature of a reality show.”

“Have you ever watched one?” He sounded as though my answer was important to him. But did he really want to know my thoughts for their own sake, or because the opinion he desired was that of Eleanor Belfrey? How well had he known her, if at all? Could any sensible man succumb to a portrait without having seen the original?

“No, but that doesn’t mean that I think there’s anything innately wrong with them. It’s just that I,” blundering on, “prefer fictional entertainment and had parents who,” unable to keep from smiling, “thought reality highly overrated.”