Don Gutteridge - Desperate Acts

“I am not surprised.”

“Thank you for that, but my role was reallymore of a prompter than a director or leading man. You see, whenthe Shuttleworths arrived in the summer, Sir Peregrine came to ourbank to do business.”

“Yes, I do remember seeing him there.”

“In the course of our conversation hementioned that he was setting out to complete the construction ofOakwood Manor, and he invited me for dinner that evening. I almostnever go out, as you know – I don’t like to leave Bernice alone toomuch – but her sister was staying with us for a few weeks, so Isaid yes. After the meal, he toured me about the half-finished wingand outlined the changes he was contemplating for the main section.I made a few comments here and there, and suddenly Sir Peregrinedecided that I had an eye for architectural design. He insisted Ireturn and continue our discussion of his plans. Well, the upshotwas that I must have gone out there nine or ten times over thecourse of a month.”

“So you met Lady Madeleine and herfamily?”

“Yes. Mrs. Wade and all six of her children,though the baronet rationed their appearances.”

“During which time the subject of Shakespearearose?”

“Indeed it did. Both the baronet and his ladyare mad about plays and play-acting. As he hinted tonight, hisballroom was designed to be converted into an amateur playhouse atan instant’s notice. So, naturally, I told him about the on-again,off-again Shakespeare Club here in town.”

“And the rest is history.”

“Something like that.”

“Have you been out to Oakwood Manor since, tosee the finished product?”

At that moment the cab struck a rock in theroad, the horse lurched, and the vehicle came close to tippingover. When the ride had smoothed out (relatively), Fullarton said,“Bernice took a bad turn in September and I – ”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know – ”

“She’s much better now, Brodie. Muchbetter.”

The cab pulled up in front of the gatesbefore Harlem Place. The two men, so much like father and son, saidtheir goodnights – reluctantly.

Brodie was let in by Petrie, who had beenRichard Dougherty’s valet and butler, but was now an all-purposeman-servant who lived in, along with his sister, Mrs. Crockett, thecook and self-appointed “nanny” to young Celia. Stan Petrie and theWidow Crockett arranged for occasional help to come in and do thechores that needed doing about the house and garden. Petrie,however, insisted on looking after the newly purchased horses andanything remotely connected with them.

“You needn’t have taken a taxicab, Mr.Langford. The mare would’ve given you a good gallop down FrontStreet on a such a beautiful evening.”

Brodie smiled, still feeling awkward in hisrelations with his servants, even though he and Celia had beenraised amongst them in New York City. Being master of a householdat nineteen (well, almost twenty) was something that would takegetting used to, especially by one who had been brought up torevere the egalitarian ideals of the United States of America.

Celia was still up, reading a book in herstudy. Brodie poked his head in the doorway and said, “Time forbed, don’t you think?”

“I just wanted to finish this section. MissTyson is giving me a tutorial on French irregular verbs tomorrow.”Celia, as pale and blond as her brother, tried not to yawn as shesmiled up at Brodie, whose indulgence she felt guilty takingadvantage of, but did anyway.

Brodie was justifiably proud of Celia’sintellectual accomplishments and her rapid progress at Miss Tyson’sAcademy for Young Ladies under the active tutelage of itsheadmistress. While he had not yet broached the notion to her,Brodie had already visualized Celia operating her own academy someday soon, and indeed he had purchased this large house with itsseveral wings and a spacious park-lot with a view to that end.

“However, I think I’ll get up early and do itin the morning,” Celia said, setting the French grammar aside.

“A wise decision.”

“By the way, Mrs. Crockett gave me thisletter.” She drew an envelope out of the folds of her frock. “It’saddressed to you.”

“Who delivered it?” Brodie said,surprised.

“Mrs. Crockett found it slipped under theback door to the kitchen. She thought she saw a youngsterhightailing it around the barn.”

One of the many street-urchins paid to runerrands, Brodie thought. But why the secrecy? “I’d better have alook, then,” he said evenly.

He took the envelope from Celia. His name wasprinted in block capitals on the outside. It wasn’t sealed. Hepulled out the single sheet of ordinary writing-paper and read thecontents, printed also in crude upper-case.

LANGFORD:

I KNOW ALL ABOUT MISS RAMSAY’S DIRTY

SECRET – AND THE WORLD WILL KNOW TOO UNLESS

YOU BRING 5 1-POUND NOTES WRAPPED IN BUTCHERSPAPER

amp; LEAVE IT IN THE TRASH CAN NEAR THE BACK DOORTO

THE SAILORS ARMS – NEXT WENSDAY EVENING AT 9-30.BE

THERE OR ELSE.

“What’s wrong?” Celia said, getting up.

Brodie knew better than to try to keep thenote away from his sister. They had shared so much, happy andtragic, over the short span of their lives. He let her take itwhile he strove to compose himself.

“This is from an extortionist,” she said.

“It is. But there’s nothing to worry about,”he said not too convincingly. “Diana has no guilty secret she needsto hide from the world.”

“But it says – ”

“It’s some opportunist taking a wild stab atme where he thinks I’m most vulnerable. Remember, sis, that you andI are wealthy residents of this town, and natural targets for allsorts of schemes to get at our money. You wouldn’t believe theharebrained financial offers and business proposals that have beenpressed upon me since Uncle died last spring. And, I suspect, thatif Horace Fullarton were not known to be my employer and protector,I would have received much worse.”

“I didn’t know, Brodie. You should have toldme.”

The gentle rebuke hurt, but not nearly asmuch as the truth. His beloved – his all-but-betrothed – did have aterrible secret, one she had confided to him and thereby sealed thebond between them forever, even though she had confessed to himthinking that her revelation would destroy their relationship. Twoyears ago she had become pregnant with a child fathered by a youngFrench-speaking Montrealer who had pledged his troth, but shortlyafterwards found himself embroiled in the rebellion. At the Battleof St. Eustache he had been killed while defending the local churchfrom English firebrands. Diana’s brother, with whom she lived,arranged for her to go off to a cousin’s farm near Chambly,purportedly as governess to a nearby wealthy family. The baby girlwas born there in April of 1838, and after nursing it for twomonths, Diana left it in the care of her cousins and returned toher brother’s house. Her brother’s plan was to have the infantbrought to him as a foundling a month or so later, and adopted. Heand his wife had one child of their own, a ten-year-old son, butlonged for a daughter. Soon after the baby arrived and theelaborate deception was played out, Robert Baldwin’s request for agoverness came by letter, and the decision was made to send Dianato Toronto – for the best.

“But we will bring the baby into our family as soon as we’re married,” Brodie had said gallantly.

Astonished that any young man would evenconsider her a suitable bride in the circumstances, Diana wasdriven to weeping, something she had determined not to do. ButBrodie himself had been the ward of a man who had been the victimof sustained scandalmongering, here and in New York, and, ofcourse, he was very much in love. “Oh, Brodie, you are such a dear,dear man. But we can’t.”