Chapter 9 – A Sticky Wicket
I spent many hours of the days that followed shut in my study, glass in hand, watching the flames dance in the grate, and planning my next moves. Nothing had come of the confrontation; less than nothing really, as I still did not know her name or the first thing about her. In the end, I could find no alternative but to acquiesce to her demands. I called off my hounds, generously compensated them and sent them on their way. All but one, for yielding and surrendering are two very different things and only a fool would surrender when yielding will suffice. With new vigor, I arranged a meeting with my prize hunter, Mr. Bly, in a private room at the one London club so shrouded in silence that one could practically commit murder without fear of discovery. In fact, the members were so loyal and tightlipped as to the activities of their fellows that one could literally strangle a man on the billiards table and no one would say a word, but that was, as I had assured my fellow members, a rather singular occurrence. I carefully instructed Mr. Bly as to the circumstances of his continued employment and, after securing a satisfactory account of his plans, set him back onto her trail.
I was not surprised when weeks passed with no report, as this undertaking would need to progress far more cautiously than the last. The showing of Edmund's work was a brilliant success. I could not bring myself to cancel it, even after Edmund's passing, and I was well rewarded with the sale of every piece exhibited, even that hideous final painting. I had kept a few pieces I found particularly inspired, most sans Thalia, aside from one enchanting work with her as an angelic Selene watching her beloved slumber – a beloved that, for once, bore no resemblance to Edmund. Endymion's brown locks, falling in tousled disarray over a pale forehead, framing heavily lashed lids that I suspected concealed rich brown eyes instead of the sparkling blue of Edmund's later heroes. Lying peaceful in his field, he bore more than a passing resemblance to me, as had so many others before that regrettable commission. It humored me to see her gazing devotedly down at him, and at me, each day from her place near my bed.
I had, however, little time for daydreaming, as the Season had at last begun. The invitations poured in – to concerts, suppers and balls. Most I declined, but each year there were a few outstanding events that required my presence. All of society was anxiously anticipating the annual fête in Kew Gardens. The Duke and Duchess of Denver (1) presented a more elaborate spectacle each year, the gardens made private for the day and filled with every manner of fashionable entertainment, culminating in a late afternoon tea unrivaled for the rest of the season. Those uninvited would be excluded from the best events all season, and more than one family, teetering on the cusp of true society, waited hopefully for their invitation to arrive. That year was not disappointing – it was certainly an event to remember.
The long ride out of London was tiresome as always, but the first sight of the festivities, of the carriages lined up outside the Victoria Gate, their occupants streaming into the gardens in little groups, revived me. I entered and found the gardens a flurry of activity – all manner of lawn games taking place, musicians tucked out of sight providing soft music, and everywhere the dance of society and influence going on in deadly earnest. Servants, dressed in the showy livery of the Marseilles court, circulated among the usual clusters of society men, deep in their discussions of the latest happenings of Parliament and trying to avoid the society mothers prowling about, with maiden daughters in tow. Each new arrival was scrutinized surreptitiously by the dozens of doting mothers; if male, to assess his standing and prospects; if female, to take the measure of the competition. This aspect of the Season never failed to bore me; for, every season, at least a few mothers were convinced, despite my whispered infamy and best efforts to prove the whispers true, that I was a most promising match for their graceless, homely country-bred darlings; or, even worse, their titled, vapid and alarmingly equine offspring. I made it a habit to become immediately and deeply engrossed in conversation, with whoever happened to be handy, at the first sign of a determined mêre settling her attention on me. The first hour had gone quite well when suddenly the strolling crowds parted just as I ended a conversation, leaving me exposed to the most celebrated matchmaker and detested busybody of them all, the Young Lady Brandon (2).
She swooped down upon me before I could find means of escape, escorting me with a strength surprising for her age, towards a group of ladies watching croquet. I noted the perfectly arranged ensembles; the young ladies with parasols, gloves and hats all coordinated to their frocks, and the older, a mix of chaperones and mothers, in equally fashionable if less showy garb. At least the women of the aristocracy knew disinterest when they saw it, I thought with a tiny measure of relief. They laughed at some private joke, probably a bit of gossip about one of those playing croquet, as we approached. One rich laugh stood out from the rest, falling suddenly silent as we joined the group. Lady Brandon began the introductions but I heard none of her prattling. I had looked towards the source of that resonant mirth and met a familiar face wearing a quite unfamiliar expression of surprise. She recovered quickly, and I turned back to Lady Brandon's introductions with a rare focus, lavishing my charm upon each pair in turn, as Lady Brandon provided a litany of the most trivial facts about each girl's lineage and family history. Having finally exhausted her supply of minutiae, we came to stand before the woman I had furtively watched all along.
"Mr. Gray. May I present Mrs. Harker, a dear friend of the Godalmings."
Mrs. Harker – Mrs.? I am sure that despite my best efforts my eyebrow arched ever so slightly as I bent to kiss the offered hand.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Harker." Catching her eye as I straightened, I watched with some amusement as she fought to hide a tiny smile. Since the introductions had so conveniently ended with her, I stayed at her side as the others resumed watching croquet. We played our indifference well, ignoring each other but not in an obvious manner. Polite conversation is never a mentally taxing exercise for one of any intelligence and, as my own attention wandered, I noticed her watching another game intently, though she never failed to contribute a witty or astute remark to the chatter around us. The game she was watching, a few courts over, was proving more dramatic by the minute. A young gentleman was losing, quite intentionally, to one of the young women playing. He was careful not to disturb her ball and, when he did, always took the extra shot. She, in turn, was regarding his smiles and encouragements coolly, but not coolly enough, for he continued his little flirtations. The drama reached its height as she, with a well placed shot, knocked into his ball. He smiled warmly at her, no doubt asking for mercy. She smiled just as warmly as she walked over, placing one dainty foot on her ball, and knocked his ball out of the game and into the next. The look on his face as he watched it roll out of bounds was only made more amusing by the smug smile his beloved gave as she watched him scramble after it. I caught Mrs. Harker's eye, noting the glint of amusement. Seeing my amused smirk, she actually gave me a tiny smile. The mother standing on her right must have seen it as well and made a little tutting sound. "Poor boy – that was certainly an obvious rebuff." Her sympathy was short-lived as the game the rest were watching ended, freeing the court, and the ladies, her daughter included, moved onto the lawn.
"Mrs. Harker – will you join us in a game?" one of the young women offered.
"No, thank you. All this sun has made me a bit weary. I think I'll find a seat in the shade, until the tea begins. Mr. Gray, do you mind?" she turned to me expectantly.
"It would be my pleasure. Shall we?" I offered her my arm and we started back towards Palm House, the jewel of Kew and the perfect backdrop for the tea tents.
We strolled in silence, her arm in mine. As we moved away from the croquet courts and up the Broad Walk, I ventured an opening remark.
"So we have met properly—just as you predicted."
"Indeed." Her tone was carefully nonchalant, her eyes fixed on the path ahead.
She was so proper, maintaining the perfect distance between us, carrying herself like a duchess – I had to tease her.
"You are quite the lady today. Well, except for your wicked glee at that poor boy being publicly snubbed." I kept my tone light, hoping for an equal response, but her voice was icily flat.
"He was a fool to make so open a move."
Silence over took us again until I could no longer resist trying again and asking the obvious question.
"Mrs. Harker is it? Intriguing. How does Mr. Harker fit into all this?"
She looked at me out of the corner of her eye and smiled innocently. "He doesn't."
I was beginning to learn one would be wise to worry when favored with that innocent smile of hers, but as I had already asked the question, I pressed on. "He doesn't? And how is that?"
"He's dead—quite dead." she answered mildly.
Well. It was an answer, but not one that fostered further inquiry. We turned towards Palm House, the quietness disturbed only by the crunch of our steps. This was going nowhere. With a sigh, I tried one last time. "A wise man once called silence an ornament for women. Are you deliberately adorning yourself thus or are you simply vexed with me?"
At last she turned toward me, giving me a genuine smile. "A much wiser man said 'A witty saying proves nothing'." (3)
Her warm tone eased the sting of yet another triumph at my expense. "Touché, Mrs. Harker."
"In answer to your query, I am rather vexed with you, although I must thank you, Mr. Gray, for honoring at least part of our agreement. That was masterfully done back there."
Pleased to hear the teasing note with which she scolded me, I continued in the same vein. "Vexed, really? And what do you mean, part of our agreement?"
We had drawn near to the tents set up for the tea. People had begun settling themselves at the tables and before she could answer Lady Godalming turned and saw us approaching. Her face tightened into a frown and she turned to say something to Lord Godalming. Turning to look, he too frowned and, excusing himself from the conversation, started towards us. She slipped her arm away from mine and offered her hand in farewell.
"Thank you for escorting me. I should go." She looked towards the approaching figure as I again kissed her hand. Her hand clasped mine a bit longer than proper and I could feel her press something into my palm.
As she turned to go, she glanced one last time towards me, looking directly into my eyes, and said in a soft, sober voice, "And Mr. Gray—I think you know exactly what I meant."
Lord Godalming called out to her as she neared him. "Mina, there you are. Come, join us."
He drew her arm through his protectively, glancing back towards me. He threw me a final glare as he steered her towards his table. As she rejoined them, I opened my fist and confirmed, sadly, that I had known exactly what she had meant. I had ignored her warning and lost yet again. There in my palm lay the pocket watch I had given Mr. Bly as reward for his excellent previous work; I could always depend on him for both results and discretion. The face of the watch had been smashed and, turning it over, a dark stain filled the furrows of the engraving across the back, casting the words into stark relief. Well done, good and faithful servant (4).
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In reference to the title, when else was I going to get to use an obscure bit of croquet slang?
(1) Given the time period this would have to be the 15th Duke of Denver, Mortimer Gerald Bredon Wimsey and his wife, Honoria Lucasta Delagardie Wimsey, who appear here on loan from Dorothy Sayers.
(2) Here referred to as the 'Young' Lady Brandon to distinguish her from her mother, the previously most detested busybody of them all prior to her retirement from a long and successful hobby of making young women happy and young men miserable or matchmaking, as it is more commonly known. The elder Lady Brandon owes her fame, but none of her infamy, to Oscar Wilde.
(3) The wise man was Sophocles; the wiser man, Voltaire.
(4) A slight rewording of Matthew 25:21.