Don Gutteridge - The Widow's Demise

“But I’ll not be able to get anotherjob.”

“You don’t deserve one.”

“I’ll – I’ll go to the master,” he splutteredas anger overwhelmed his fear.

“He’ll not overrule me in any matterconcerning the servants. You’re wasting your breath.”

“Please, madam. It was a small mistake.”

“Not as I see it. Now quit whining about itand do as I ask you. You’ll get the rest of your wages for theweek.”

With that she turned and walked out, feelingexhilarated.

Perkins began to stack the kindling, thendropped the last sticks beside the growing pile. Very slowly heleft the room.

***

Horace Macy approached the back door of Rosewood. Hedidn’t mind using the rear entrance as it made his assignationswith Delores all the more romantic, like something out of SirWalter Scott. There was, however, a sense of urgency in his step.His chemist’s shop was on its last legs. He needed an infusion ofcash, and quickly. But the widow was proving a hard nut to crack.There were times when he thought she saw him merely as a playingpartner for the French card game of piquet, and nothing more.Certainly she had an inordinate passion for the game, and hefigured that he had convinced her that he shared that passion. Butwhat else? Every attempt to bring the conversation around tomarriage was summarily or coyly rebuffed. Perhaps he would have toapproach the father, but Humphrey Cardiff was a formidablegentleman. He would want to know the details of his wealth, ofwhich there were few that would impress a man of Cardiff’s standingin the community. No, he must get the lady’s consent first, and useher as an ally against the father’s protestations. Well, he wouldpress her again this afternoon. And she would surely succumb.Unless, of course, there were serious rivals. She had danced withLionel Trueman last night, and with Cecil Denfield, although he wasmarried. He’d have to keep an eye on Trueman. Perhaps he didn’tplay piquet.

Macy approached the door and gave threediscreet raps. Seconds later the door was opened by DeloresCardiff-Jones.

“Ah, right on time,” she said. “Father’s inhis study. We’ll go to my sewing-room as usual.”

Macy followed her through the kitchen anddown a hallway to her sitting-room. The card-table and cards wereready for immediate use.

“We won’t be disturbed,” Delores said. “Themaid will bring us coffee in half an hour.”

“Let’s get started, then, shall we?” Macysaid, putting his coat and hat on a nearby chair.

They settled on opposite sides of the tableand prepared for an afternoon of piquet. So fiercely did Deloresconcentrate on the game that there was little opportunity for smalltalk. The challenge for Macy was to lose the game to Deloreswithout her discovering any deception. She liked to win. It was notuntil the maid brought the coffee that Macy could direct theconversation towards more productive ends.

“That was a fine ball last night,” Macysaid.

“I thought it went very well, thank you.”

“I enjoyed dancing with you, as always.”

“I was kept very busy, that’s for sure.”

“You and I were meant to dance together.”

“You dance very nicely, Horace.”

“I meant we go together as a couple. We’recompatible.”

“You’re the best piquet player I’ve come upagainst.”

Macy sighed. “I think you know what I’mdriving at.”

“How would I know what you’re thinking,”Delores said lightly.

“You know I wish to marry you.”

“I do know that, and I think it’s charming ofyou to think that way.”

“But I’m serious. We have a lot in common. Welike to enjoy ourselves. We are passionate about cards. I have beena widower for a year and a half, and have a large house that needspeople to inhabit it.”

Since his wife’s death Macy had lived in fiverooms at the front of the house with his mother and a singleservant. The rest of the house he had closed up, and neglected. Butat least he owned it, although he might have to sell it to save hisbusiness. Unless . . .

“But I have been a widow for only sixmonths,” Delores said. “It’s far too soon for me to think ofremarrying.”

“But when you do, you would consider me?”

Delores finished her coffee. “Of course Iwould. When the time is ripe. Now let’s get back to ourpiquet.”

***

Horace Macy stepped out of the back door onto thestoop. At Delores’s behest he would go through the bushes and outthrough the lane that ran behind Rosewood. It was all very cloakand dagger, and he felt a charge of excitement run though him.Surely Delores would not put herself through so much trouble if shewere not – deep down – serious about his intentions. Just then,someone popped out from the bushes.

It was Lionel Trueman. His face was purplewith rage, as if he had spent some time stoking his anger.

“I thought it was you who went in that doortwo hours ago,” he seethed.

“What business is it of yours?” Macy said,coming up to the taller man.

“The widow is mine,” Trueman said. “And Idon’t appreciate people who meddle in my affairs.”

“The widow belongs to herself,” Macy said.“But she does invite me here almost every afternoon. I’d hardlycall that meddling.”

“You are a fool if you think you can horn inmy territory.”

“I don’t consider it your territory.”

“The lady was with me all morning.”

“I spent the afternoon in her sewing-room !” Macy was becoming extremely upset at thisupstart customs official.

“You are only after her money. Everybodyknows your shop is failing.”

“Are you accusing me of being dishonourablein my intentions?” Macy blustered, getting red in the facehimself.

“I am.”

“Those are fighting words.”

“I meant them to be.” Trueman leaned forwardand hovered over Macy, glaring at him.

“You want to settle this matter once and forall?” Macy said.

“If you’re suggesting a duel, I say bring iton. We’ll find out whose intentions are honourable.”

“Pistols at twenty paces,” Macy snapped.

“On the cricket grounds at seven o’clock,”Trueman said.

Having said their peace, both men continuedto glower silently at one another. If they regretted their haste,they were not prepared to show it. Just above them, at hersewing-room window, the Widow Delores watched the proceedings.There was a smile on her face.

***

That evening the air was cool and refreshing. Aharvest moon shone brightly. Deep shadows played across the lawnbehind Rosewood. Into one of these stepped a dark figure. It movedstealthily across to the back stoop. There it paused momentarily,and then reached a gloved hand up and gently tapped on the door. Itinstantly opened to reveal a woman swathed in a crimson robe. Shestretched out a hand and pulled the figure inside. The mooncontinued to shine.

Horace Macy was just thinking about preparing forbed when the knock came at his front door. He tucked in his shirt,hauled up his braces and went to answer it. There on his porchstood Constance Brown, his one-time fiancée. (They had been goodfriends even before the death of Macy’s wife.) She was short,slightly plump woman in her mid-thirties, with a mop of frizzled,ginger hair and blue eyes, and tonight she looked somewhatdishevelled.

“Well, aren’t you gonna ask me in?” she said,staring him down.

Macy recovered his aplomb enough to reply,“Of course. You are always welcome here.

She stepped inside, and Macy moved back toaccommodate her.

“It’s just that you startled me, Constance. Iwasn’t expecting anybody this time of night.”

“I’m sorry for the lateness of the hour, butthere are some things I just have to get off my chest.”