Murder at Bray Manor: a historical cosy mystery Page 4

  “I suppose we should get ready, too,” Ginger said, suddenly not feeling like going to a dance party.

  “Do you have a dress?” Haley said. “I didn’t pack for dancing. Not that I have anything for such an event anyway. I’ll just spend the night in my room, reading.”

  “You can’t do that. You promised Miss Smith you’d be a wallflower with her!”

  “Right, I did.”

  “I brought an extra dress you can borrow.”

  “I thought you didn’t know about the dance.”

  “I didn’t. I always pack for every possible occasion.”

  Every occasion. Ginger’s eyes were drawn to the motion outside the window and her gaze focused on the far side of the lake where the cemetery lay. She’d packed a black dress.

  Haley followed her gaze and asked gently. “Are you going to visit it today?”

  “No,” she answered. “Maybe tomorrow.” Her heart pounded as she imagined her husband’s gravestone. Actually seeing it would make everything too real.

  Daniel’s death. Her guilt.

  Chapter Six

  The ballroom at Bray Manor was transformed. The crystal chandeliers glimmered, casting a starry array of warm light. Candelabras flickered on the ends of the refreshment table, which provided water and punch. Dancers were sure to work up a thirst. In the corner, for those searching for something stronger, a drinks trolley was parked. Yellow ribbons looped along the walls with a huge banner reading: Remembering our Veterans.

  A six-piece band with its sweet strings and warm horns in three-four time played Dreamy Melody, enticing dancers to waltz around the hardwood floor.

  Ginger and Haley arrived together and stood near the drinks trolley where they each accepted a flute of champagne. Ginger wore her Kate Reily evening dress—a pale green silk satin with a brocaded floral and vine design, a colour Ginger knew brought out the green in her eyes. It was trimmed with a delicate lace at the neckline and cuffs, and the wide satin sash’s metal tassels drew the eye.

  Haley fussed with her borrowed Madeleine Vionnet, a lovely sleeveless, creamy frock, with elaborate pearl beading on the bodice and generous layers of handkerchief-hemmed skirting. Its classic bias cut created soft lines that hung gracefully over Haley’s thin frame.

  They both wore long white gloves that reached their elbows, and Ginger linked their arms together.

  “I feel so odd,” Haley said. “Like I’m pretending to be someone else.”

  Ginger nudged her playfully. “Then pretend to be someone having fun.”

  Ginger observed the room, noting the number of wounded men. Interspersed were the non-military folk there to show their support by dancing and hopefully emptying their pockets. The soldiers here were lucky—or someone would say, unlucky—to have made it home. They sat or stood awkwardly along walls, some staring blankly into the twilight out of the windows. Had her Daniel lived, he would be amongst them.

  Most noticeable were the men in wheelchairs and on crutches. Others were missing arms, wearing eye patches, or even partial facial masks to cover burns and missing facial features. The soldier talking tersely to the Honourable Mrs. Croft—presumably her son, Private Patrick Croft—was one of them.

  Even after five years of peace, the sight of these men and knowing what they’d sacrificed, scorched a hole in Ginger’s stomach.

  “A dance seems like an odd choice of event for these men,” Haley said.

  “Dancing is a delightful gift. Why should they miss out?”

  “You make a good point. So, who asks whom in this situation?”

  The matter was settled when two soldiers approached, one on crutches who asked Haley to dance, and one with a missing left forearm, who stretched out his good right hand to Ginger.

  “You don’t mind?” he said. “I can’t hold your waist, which is a deuced shame, believe me.”

  Ginger laughed. “Not at all.” She gripped the soldier’s shoulder with one gloved hand and held his palm with the other. She caught Haley’s eye as her friend became her dance partner’s crutch, and they swayed awkwardly to the music as they shared an amused grin.

  Ginger’s partner talked nervously, relaying his regiment and his tours of service, and where he had been wounded.

  “Did you know Sir Daniel Gold?” she asked.

  “I did. A fine lad. We were chums as children. He never had airs, you know. Treated us all like his equal. Insisted that we called him Danny, and that stuffy titles were for pretentious old men.” The soldier laughed at the memory, then quieted. “Did you know him?”

  Ginger stared up at the young man, feeling stunned. She’d just assumed he would know who she was, but then why would he? There were no formal introductions at this dance as it wasn’t a society event.

  “He was my late husband,” she said, her words soft.

  The soldier froze. “You’re Lady Gold?”

  “I am.”

  “I—I’m so sorry,” he stuttered. His ruddy face flushed knowing that he was dancing with one above his station. “Had I known . . .”

  “You wouldn’t have asked?”

  “Yes, madam, I mean, no, my lady . . .”

  “Then I’m glad you didn’t know.”

  The music ended and Ginger thanked the soldier for the dance. “Please don’t tell your mates who I am. It would distress me terribly if I never had another offer to dance again tonight.”

  Ginger spotted Felicia at the refreshment table and called out to her. She didn’t respond, and Ginger concluded the music had drowned out her voice. She tapped on her sister-in-law’s shoulder only to be stunned when the woman who turned failed to be Felicia.

  “I’m sorry,” Ginger said. “I thought you were someone else.”

  “How fun,” the young woman said. “Who?”

  “My sister-in-law, Felicia Gold. You have a very similar profile.”

  “Oh, you must be the much-spoken-of Lady Gold!” She held out her hand. “I’m Angela Ashton, a friend of Felicia’s. How do you do?”

  “It’s a pleasure,” Ginger said.

  “Ginger!” Felicia joined them along with another girl, all dressed in straight-cut silk-over-rayon dresses, with thin straps and billowy hemlines. They sported similar hairstyles cut short with shiny finger waves and wore beaded headbands sprouting large feathers.

  “I see you’ve met Miss Ashton. This is Miss Webb,” Felicia said referring to the mousy brunette.

  “We should all ask the wheelchair men to dance!” Miss Ashton said. “Wouldn’t that be a hoot?”

  “But how would that work?” Miss Webb asked. “They’re in chairs.”

  Miss Ashton giggled mischievously. “You sit on their laps, silly!”

  A gloved hand went to Miss Webb’s ruby-red lips. “How frightfully scandalous!” she said with a glimmer in her eye. That said, she was ready to play. “Let’s do it!”

  Felicia laughed and shot Ginger a faux look of apology. Ginger laughed back.

  Ambrosia scuttled to Ginger’s side, her walking stick click, click, clicking on the wooden floor. Her round eyes widened further with disbelief as the daring girls pushed wheelchair-bound soldiers to the middle of the floor and hopped on their laps. The men seemed all too eager to spin them around.

  “My word!” Ambrosia stated. “What on earth has got into those girls’ heads?!”

  “They want all the soldiers to feel included, Grandmother. The dance is for their benefit after all.”

  “But it’s so unbecoming! And look at that saucy Miss Ashton. She’s engaged, you know, to Mr. Croft.”

  Ginger was surprised at this announcement. “Really?”

  “One of those impulsive measures that was so common among the young before the war,” Ambrosia explained. “But when poor Mr. Croft returned home damaged, her enthusiasm wavered greatly.”

  “How sad for Mr. Croft,” Ginger said. “But why not break off the engagement, if that’s the case?”

  “He says it’s a matter of honour, much to the Honourable
Mrs. Croft’s chagrin, I can tell you. Miss Ashton is after a title, plain and simple. Mr. Croft will inherit his grandfather’s barony soon. Mr. Croft’s father, sadly, has passed away, and poor Sir Julius Croft is now on his death bed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Ginger said lowering her gaze. “But, surely after so long, Mr. Croft needn’t go through with it. No one would judge either of them.”

  “Tell that to Miss Ashton. She’s determined to hold him to it. And just look at her giggling and flirting with that soldier like a trollop!” The soft folds of skin on Ambrosia’s face flushed red with indignation. “Mrs. Croft has done her absolute best to keep the nuptials postponed. She’s hoping in time, she’ll change her son’s mind and defy the hold Miss Ashton has on him.”

  Ginger studied Patrick Croft as he watched his fiancée, her bare arms draped around another man’s neck, spinning in circles, her head back in giddy laughter. His mouth was turned down in a firm scowl, and even though he had only one eye, it was narrowed and piercing.

  “Miss Ashton might be doing the Honourable’s work for her,” Ginger said.

  The song ended, and the wheelchaired men, with countenances noticeably cheered, were pushed back to their friends by their dance partners, who were immediately asked to dance again by fellow soldiers.

  Only Felicia refused, her eyes set on the entrance. Ginger followed Felicia’s gaze to the uniformed man who stood, hat in hand and with an air of self-importance. She gasped.

  “Oh, mercy.”

  Chapter Seven

  Felicia pranced across the room and practically threw herself into the man’s arms. He pushed her back with a look of restraint, and she, with a flash of hurt in her eyes, restrained herself. Instead, they shared a demure cheek-to-cheek kiss.

  Felicia’s offence was short-lived and she dragged the soldier over to Ginger and proclaimed proudly, “Ginger, this is Captain Smithwick. Captain, my sister-in-law, Lady Gold.”

  Captain Smithwick stood tall, shoulders back and stared at Ginger with a glint in his eye. “We’ve met,” he said. “Nice to see you again,” he added with a smirk, “Lady Gold.”

  Ginger’s blood iced at the sight of the man—a person she’d hoped she’d never have reason to see again in her life—and now her heart stirred with a renewed swirl of anger and contempt. “Captain Smithwick,” she said coldly.

  Felicia, in her blush of new love, failed to register the animosity.

  “I’m so glad you made it, love,” she said. “I was worried for a while.”

  “I said I’d come, and I’m a man of my word.”

  Ginger scoffed, then politely turned it into a cough, covering her mouth with her gloved hand.

  “Are you all right?” Felicia asked.

  “Oh, yes. Just, I think I need a drink. Excuse me.”

  Ginger immediately found a waiter and helped herself to a glass of champagne. Smithwick’s arrogance! His cold-heartedness! There was no doubt that he knew Ginger would be here. What did he want with her now? And how dare he use Felicia and her tender emotions to get to her!

  A wall of French windows faced the back, and dancers regularly slipped outside to cool off or to smoke cigarettes. Ginger strutted to the nearest one, passing Angela Ashton on her way. Miss Ashton was angled away from her and spoke sharply to her friend Miss Webb.

  “Don’t be such a limp squid, Muriel. Honestly, I don’t know why Felicia invited you. You have no mind of your own.”

  Muriel pouted and stormed out of the hall.

  Ginger frowned. Miss Ashton certainly wasn’t in her best form.

  Outside, the wind was brisk and cool, soothing the heat of anger ignited by Smithwick. Ginger tightened her shawl over her shoulders and breathed deeply. She wouldn’t let that man get to her.

  The lights from the dance lit the patio, but beyond, in this moonless night, was blackness. Only the soft lapping of the waves whispered of Livingston Lake in the distance.

  Ginger had barely got her emotions under control when she sensed someone behind her. She turned to find Mr. Croft.

  “Lady Gold,” he said with a nod. The red tip of his lit cigarette arced through the darkness as his hand moved to his lips and he inhaled.

  “Hello, Mr. Croft,” Ginger said. “Are you having a good time?”

  Mr. Croft dropped the butt of his cigarette and stubbed it out with his toe. “I would be if you’d give me the honour of this dance.”

  Ginger smiled and accepted his outstretched hand. “I’d be delighted.” They entered the hall just as the band began to play Isham Jones’s upbeat Who’s Sorry Now.

  Ginger focused her attention on the soldier’s good eye. Once she got past the horrible scarring on the left side of his face, she found that the uninjured half was quite pleasant. Before the burns, Mr. Croft had been a handsome man. The scarring must’ve continued down the left side including his hand, as he wore a lone glove to cover it.

  Mr. Croft proved to be a good dancer, expertly leading her through the quickstep.

  “Are you enjoying the evening?” Mr. Croft asked politely.

  “Oh, yes. It’s quite fun. I do hope the Croft Convalescent Home will do well.”

  “We are very appreciative of the Gold family for your support.”

  Over the soldier’s shoulder, Ginger saw Miss Smith, the petite volunteer librarian from the knitting circle, dancing with the same one-armed man Ginger had danced with earlier. Miss Smith was a wallflower no more.

  Mr. Croft wasn’t much for talking, but he turned out to be a good dancer, and Ginger found she could lose herself in the movement and simply enjoy the jazz number. She found herself singing along. “Who's sad and blue? Who's crying too? Just like I cried over you. Right to the end . . .”

  “You have a pretty voice,” Mr. Croft said.

  “Oh mercy, I’d forgotten myself!”

  “Don’t be embarrassed. I quite liked it.”

  Ginger tilted her head up and smiled. She couldn’t help but feel annoyed at the shallowness of Miss Angela Ashton. Mr. Croft was a gentleman.

  As they continued to circle the room smoothly Mr. Croft stumbled slightly before quickly recovering. Ginger saw the reason for her partner’s distraction. Captain Smithwick and Miss Ashton were having a row. Not loud enough to break through the sound of the band, but it was quite obvious by the look on their faces.

  Miss Ashton at it again.

  Smithwick grasped the girl by the wrist. Ginger scowled. The captain loved to exert control over those he considered weak.

  “Excuse me,” Mr. Croft said, breaking away from Ginger. He swiftly crossed the dance floor to interfere in the altercation. Ginger worried it might come to blows, but the sight of Mr. Croft, soon-to-be Baron Croft, was enough to prompt Smithwick to loosen his hold. Mr. Croft took Angela’s hand in his and pulled her onto the dance floor, preserving to a measure, her dubious reputation.

  Ginger joined Haley at a table and sat with relief. “Dancing is so hard on one’s feet,” she said.

  “Only if you dance non-stop, my friend.”

  Felicia was now on the dance floor with Smithwick and Ginger glowered.

  Haley followed Ginger’s line of sight her gaze latching onto the waltzing couple. “You don’t like the captain, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Wow. Not even a stab at social niceties to soften the blow. Care to explain?”

  Like all matters of the war, Ginger had vowed silence, and her dealings with Captain Smithwick were no different.

  “I just don’t trust him.”

  “That much is clear.”

  Haley was used to Ginger’s secretiveness when it came to the years before they met, and she let the matter drop.

  The song ended, and Felicia and Smithwick joined them. Ginger forced herself to smile and feign politeness.

  “How long are you in town, Captain?” Ginger asked.

  “I’m stationed in St. Albans,” he said.

  “We met at a dance club there,” Felicia said. “Mis
s Ashton, Miss Webb and I go once in a while to break the awful monotony of Chesterton.”

  “I see.”

  “Ginger,” Felicia said, frowning. “Is something wrong?”

  “Not at all, darling,” Ginger lied. “I’m just knackered. I think I’ll retire early.”

  “Please do honour me with a dance before you go,” Smithwick said. He stared at her in a way that suggested she’d do better to say yes. Ginger didn’t want to further stir Felicia’s suspicions, and besides, she was curious.

  “Of course, Captain.”

  They swirled around the room to God be with our Boys Tonight, which had been a hit during the last year of the war. The emotion that registered on the faces of the soldiers as they remembered those dark times—sadness, remorse, trauma—made the back of Ginger’s throat sting. She pinched her eyelids closed to keep the threatening tears at bay. Dancing with Captain Smithwick reminded her of a similar instance in France when they’d waltzed together to this very song. Ginger worked hard to keep the memories buried away, and she resented Captain Smithwick for blatantly disturbing them.

  “What is it that you want from me?” she finally asked.

  “I want you to come back.”

  “Into service? Whatever for? The war is over.”

  “You seriously can’t be that naive?”

  “Why? Do you think otherwise?”

  “I fear the peace we fought for will elude us.”

  “Oh please, don’t say that.”

  “It’s true, my lady. Stresemann’s government is tenuous at best. The German mark is now ten billion to one pound. Ten billion. I can’t say much at this moment, but I can tell you that Prime Minister Baldwin is very concerned.”

  Ginger knew Smithwick’s words were true. And in another life, the one where Daniel was alive and she was a warrior, she would be eager to step up to fight. In this life, she didn’t think so highly of herself to believe the world would live or die based on whether she agreed to join Smithwick’s team again or not. She had family to take care of now. She was all Ambrosia and Felicia had left.