Monty, the flying mouse

 I wrote this little illustrated book with reading age 7-8 which I hope will also interest slow readers of up to about 11 - just putting in two of many illustrations

 

An ordinary, little brown mouse lived in an ordinary, big brown tree, in a very special wood.

 

He did not have a name, because he was an ordinary mouse who did not need a name.

 

One day, he heard music, and came out to see what was going on.

 

There were fairies dancing, because it was a magical wood!

 

The fairies were celebrating. They threw around a lot of fairy dust, and giggled. Fairies often giggle.

 

Some of the fairy dust fell on the mouse, and he felt very strange.

“My name is Monty,” he said to himself. “My back is sore!”

 

 

Suddenly, Monty realised he had grown fairy wings.

“The fairies will be angry,” he thought. “They were careless and their queen will punish them.”

 

“I will fly away,” thought Monty. “How useful my wings are!” He smiled.

 

Monty found that he could do fairy magic, too, and he used it to help people.

 

One day, he came to an old cottage where there was an orange cat, who looked sad.

 

“I am Monty, the fairy mouse. Who are you, and why are you sad?”    asked Monty.

 

“I am Cecil; my human has died and I have nobody to look after me,” said Cecil.

 

“Oh, dear! I don’t know what to do,” said Monty.  

 

“I wish I had wings, like you,” said Cecil.

“Let me see what I can do,” said Monty. “Oh!” his magic made little wings all around Cecil’s neck.

 

“Never mind,” said Cecil. “You tried.”

“I can do better,” said Monty. And this time, Cecil shrank to be a bit bigger than Monty, and grew wings.

“I can fly!” said Cecil.

 

“Do you mind that you are small?” asked Monty.

“No, I like it. We can be friends properly,” purred Cecil.

So they were.                        

 

 

the pirate's hoard 8 cliffie bonus

 

8

 

Luke did not intend to use noisy means to achieve his goal if he might do so otherwise. He got up half an hour after midnight, sneering at the women keeping country hours, and slunk along the gallery to Lucy’s bedroom. He gently turned the handle, and felt the door give. Good! Too stupid to lock the door. He had a dark lantern and made his way to the dressing-table where he thought it likely that the reticule might be found.

It was not there.

That left the commode, he thought, moving over to the curtained bed.

There was no reticule on the commode at the side of the bed. He went round to the other side.

He drew back the curtain, intending to terrorise the governess into talking about where Lucy was; or to break her scrawny neck and terrorise Lucy herself if she was there. By the time he had burned her with a candle, and threatened to put her eyes out, she would talk. And perhaps he might take advantage of the fact that he was going to kill her anyway, so it did not matter if he had his will of her as well, to make her tell him where the key was, and then she would never speak of it to anyone as he would break her neck too, and set a fire as soon as he had his treasure.

But nobody lay in the bed; not the governess, not Lucy. There was nothing but a Holland cover over it.

Luke was nonplussed.

Surely the governess woman had not fled? He searched the room, lighting several candles. There was no luggage here, either. Could she have moved to another room? She surely was not pleasuring the solicitor? No, highly unlikely. She must have moved rooms, knowing that she should fear him. Well, it was unfortunate, but that was how it was.

Luke went back to his room for his gunpowder, and put the barrel at the base of the figurehead. He did not tamp it, not knowing that he should do so; and not knowing how. He put the slow match into the barrel, and stretched it out as far as it would go. It did not go all the way through the door of the gallery, but that did not seem important to Luke. It was very long.

He lit the slow match; and watched the little red spark crawl its way along the line of match.

It did not occur to him to retire through the door at the end of the gallery. 

 

The spark made its way to the barrel, and crept over its edge. Luke gave a savage, ungentlemanly grin.

And then the world detonated.

Luke did not have time to feel triumph.

Luke did not have time to feel anything beyond pain in his ears, and the sensation of flying. He was vaguely aware of Henderson’s voice crying out in horror.

Henderson swore blind to the end of his days that the figurehead, outraged, reached out and picked Luke up and threw him over the balcony.  With all the smoke, anyone might argue that he could not have seen anything; but nobody in Fenwick-cum-Tadreth ever doubted Henderson’s version. Luke had offended the spirit of the old pirate; and paid the price.

Bits of burning barrel went everywhere, and Henderson had the presence of mind to bang on the curious gong used in days of yore as a dinner gong, before going about the business of getting water and wetted blankets to beat out the charring bits of barrel debris before they might set light to any of the ancient oak of the house. The diamond-paned windows on the lower floor had shaken in their frames, but though the lead around them had buckled in places, they remained substantially intact, so at least there was no draught to make small fires burn hotter.

Lucy and Arabella emerged to see what was toward, and joined Henderson in his mission, beating out any bits of burning debris.

“And a hem good job thet du be there du-ant be no tapestries in here,” said Henderson.

His wife joined them. She set up a screech seeing Luke’s body on the floor, and threw up the apron she was wearing incongruously over her nightgown, to cover her face,

“Do-ant yew be such a fewl, Martha,” said Henderson. “That cutty little tyke tried to blow up the Black Snake’s lady, ar, an’ the owd captain put his spirit in her, and she threw him down.”

“Mrs. Henderson, please check if he still lives,” said Lucy. Mrs. Henderson went over to Luke’s body, and trembling she touched his face.

“He... he is dead,” she said. “Oh, Master Luke, why did you do it?”

“Greed,” said Lucy.  “Come, Mrs. Henderson; we have the fires out, I think. You may lay him out, but now, I think, we shall all be in need of a cup of tea. The vicar might be called in the morning.”

“My goodness!” Mr. Death had emerged. “Gunpowder! You were not exaggerating Mr. Fenwick’s lethal designs at all, Miss Bellington!”

“Well, as you have not been man enough to help beat out fires, perhaps you will spend your time tomorrow discovering where Luke obtained gunpowder, in order to report it at the inquest which must surely ensue,” said Lucy, tartly. “Collecting facts of so prosaic a nature where you cannot make up stories of romancing should not be beyond your ability.”

“I... I am sorry that I permitted Mr. Fenwick to poison my mind with tales of you being highly strung and inclined to romance, Miss Fenwick,” said Death.

“Doubtless he is sorrier, right now,” said Lucy.  “Well, I doubt any of us will be going back to sleep, so when we have had a cup of tea, we shall tidy up, have an early breakfast, and it will be your job, Mr. Death, to inform the vicar, the coroner, and anyone else who should be informed. Oh! Henry!”

Henry had burst in.

“I was in the stables, watching over the horses,” he said. “By Jove! What a mess!”

“And yet, I fancy no serious structural damage,” said Lucy. “The figurehead is quite intact.”

“And a blessing the windows did not blow out,” said Henry. “There, my love, you are safe.”

Lucy melted into his arms, and pulled off the ring-beard before he kissed her.

“Dear me, most irregular,” murmured Mr. Death.

“Not a word from you,” said Arabella.

 

Mr. Death’s word was at least enough to convene an inquest the next day, and Henry attended as himself. Lucy and Arabella did not have to go, as the two men, with asides from Henderson, were enough to give a clear picture. Mr. Death produced two gunsmiths from King’s Lynn to make deposition that Mr. Luke Fenwick had attempted to purchase a large amount of gunpowder from them, proving intent and planning to cause structural damage and possibly intent to kill.

“It went fine,” said Henry, to Lucy, kissing her, on their return. “The jury returned a verdict of ‘Death by misadventure whilst engaged in felonious destruction of property.’ Apparently, the whole village was wakened by the detonation, and Henderson’s version was accepted with far more alacrity than the coroner’s dry summation.”

“It makes for a better story,” said Lucy. “I hope Henderson was not in trouble for expressing his tale?”

“No, the coroner looked over the top of his glasses and hinted that the spirit of the old captain of the Black Snake mostly resided in dregs from the late Mr. Lucius Fenwick’s brandy bottles,” said Henry. “Henderson was put out, but the coroner moved swiftly on. I was able to attest that Luke was inclined from childhood to perform often quite crazy feats of what he considered retribution for being thwarted.” He hesitated. “I told how, when you were awarded the surviving pup of a litter, he killed it rather than let you have it.”

Lucy’s eyes filled with tears.

“I was heartbroken, and Uncle Lucius was convinced he had accidentally handled the pup too roughly,” she said.

“He was trying to protect you, hoping you would not realise how nasty Luke was,” said Henry. “I am sorry to bring it up.”

“I need to deal with the horror of it,” said Lucy. “I’m glad he’s dead.”

 

 

 The funeral was next day, at night according to custom. If it was not entirely appropriate for the season, the vicar was sympathetic to wanting the whole business over and done with. Naturally, Lucy and Arabella did not attend, and it was a very quiet service. Mrs. Henderson cried  all evening, and Lucy took over the kitchen and cooked bubble-and-squeak with sausage cakes and plenty of fried eggs, because it was comfort food. Nobody complained.

 

 

They attended the Christmas service as a family, and the vicar read the banns for Henry and Lucy. It was a moment of normalcy, and Lucy relaxed for the first time since arriving at Fenwick Hall. Joyfully she sang out the old carols, and gave thanks to G-d for the chance to be alive to celebrate Christmas, and that Luke had brought his fate upon himself, and that she and Arabella had not needed to bring about his end. They cut evergreens for the vestibule on the way home, to be there until Twelfth Night.

“Next year, for our first married Christmas, we will decorate properly, and hold a house party,” said Lucy, firmly.

“Yes, and it was well done to mention our need for servants in church; with luck we shall have a few girls take up the position,” said Henry. “I will advertise for help for Henderson, and to be trained up to take over.  I thought my own stable staff might move in? I have a coachman, a stablehand, and a boy, who is the coachman’s son.”

“That seems a good idea,” said Lucy. “And after we have attended the service for Holy Innocents on the twenty-eighth, all concerned shall choose a keepsake from the treasure.”

 

True to her word, Lucy invited the Hendersons, Mr. Death, Arabella, and Henry to the library, where she spread the treasure still there all over the table.

“Mercy me!” said Mrs. Henderson.

Henderson surprised her in choosing a ring.

“It makes me look like a man o’ affairs,” he said. “An’ I cin flash it down at the ‘Three Feathers,’ and tell the story.”

Mrs. Henderson picked a cross on a chain, and Mr. Death chose a pair of gold coins to be put onto cuff-links.  Arabella picked some hair pins, and Henry also chose a ring.

“I want to wear one of these necklaces to get married,” said Lucy, “But it belongs with the treasure.”

 

Lucy indeed wore one of the emerald necklaces to be married in, once the banns had been read three times. Four girls from the village had volunteered, and though they waited still for a couple of footmen, Henry’s own coachman and groom moved into the stables.

The figurehead was scorched, but no more, and wore a garland of mistletoe, as she had brought Henry and Lucy together.

“I don’t think Luke ever knew that the treasure was already gone,” said Lucy. “Should I have told him?”

“No; he would probably have strangled you,” said Henry. “Come, my dear wife, the master suite awaits us, and I am glad that you made the mistress chamber into a parlour. And that most of the treasure is back behind its protective sundial. I can sleep easier.”

“A wife cleaves to her husband.... and puts her cold feet on him,” said Lucy.

“Oh, now, my wife, I must see if I can find a way to warm you and your feet up,” said Henry.

If Lucy retained cold feet, it was not for want of effort.

 

 

Henry and Lucy continued to fly the Jolly Roger on the house’s flagmast, and with wise investments of the treasure they converted to cash, they prospered.

Arabella married the vicar in due course, and set up a village school, which was also funded with pirate gold. The Hendersons retired when they had trained up replacements, and everyone except Luke, and a certain crooked sergeant, who was discovered and court-martialled, lived happily ever after.

 

the pirate's hoard 7

 

7

 

Luke was lucky not to overturn himself, so recklessly did he drive out to the old cottage. He frowned to see that no smoke rose from the chimney.  If the stupid wench was too feeble to light a fire, she might have frozen to death. Still, at least he could take the key from her reticule if she had died.

He let himself into the house, and searched assiduously for Lucy, who was not there. He even went into the loft room.

Surely she had not tried to walk home?  No, he would have seen her body where she had collapsed...

He drove back slowly, looking in ditches, to no avail.

Plainly, she had tried to escape and had died and that encroaching governess was hoping to get her hands on some pirate treasure, and was maintaining the fiction that Lucy was alive.

Well, he would see about that. He would denounce her when she came to try to claim that she had stayed the specified time.

He banged back into the house and informed Mrs. Henderson that he would be staying.

“She’s dead; she must be, but they are all hanging together,” he snarled.

Mrs. Henderson gave a little scream.

“Dead! Oh, Master Luke, I can’t bear it! I didn’t think there’d be no killin’ nowise!”

“Hold your tongue, woman!” Luke slapped her, hard. “There’s no killing involved! But Miss Lucy got lost, going out walking, and I think she must have died of cold. Nothing to do with me, do you understand?”

“Oh, Master Luke! I heven’t sin her since yes’dy brekkfas’ time, but Miss Bellington say she du be in her room.”

“She can’t be,” said Luke. “She can’t have walked six miles back yesterday... can she? Well, if she has, she will be too late. To hell with the house, but the treasure is mine.”

“Of course, Master Luke,” quavered Mrs. Henderson.

Luke bit his lip.

“They’re a bit too cheerful for people whose employer is dead,” he mused. “I know what happened! The foolish wench set off to walk back the six miles, and fell by the wayside, and people who had been to market picked her up; doubtless they are hanging on to her until she is fit, and they are paid a finder’s fee; I’d demand as much for any stray wench I put myself out for, and the governess is doubtless bargaining over the amount, and needs the solicitor to arrange to pay it.”

“Why would she fall by the wayside, Master Luke?” asked Mrs. Henderson. “Six mile be-ant so far tu walk.”

“Oh, it might not be for you, but you’re a peasant,” said Luke. “Ladies are feeble.”

Mrs. Henderson was finding her loyalty to her nursling somewhat shaken, but she was shrewd enough not to say anything. He went out again, and she slipped upstairs to scratch on Lucy’s door, and go in.

“Oh, Miss Lucy! You are here and alive, and not being ransomed off by other people,” she said.

“I am alive and well, yes,” said Lucy.

“I do-ant know what tu du,” said Mrs. Henderson, pleating her apron in her hands in agitation. “Master Luke, he wuud have ut that yew be-ant capable o’ walkin’ six moile....” her accent grew thicker in agitation. “He reckon as how yew was taerken up boi some folks wass wantin’ tu be paid tu give yew back.”

“Doubtless what he would do,” said Lucy.

“Ar,” agreed Mrs. Henderson.

“Arabella, find a salve for Mrs. Henderson’s face; my horrid cousin has hit her and you can see every finger mark,” said Lucy.  “I appreciate you telling me.”

“Oh, Miss Lucy, he be-ant roight in the hid!” opined Mrs. Henderson.

Lucy privately thought that this was too charitable a view, and that Luke was nothing but downright nasty; but she held her tongue. A good salve bought more goodwill from the foolish housekeeper, who was beginning, in her own way, to turn aside from support of the young man whom she still saw as the little boy she had adored, ignoring his faults. She mentioned that he had gone out again, but where, she could not say, not knowing.

“I suspect he will try something tonight,” said Lucy, when Mrs. Henderson had withdrawn. “And I fear he might try to burn the house down or something, hoping to kill us all, and get at the treasure, because he’s intemperate like that.”

“What do we do?” asked Arabella.

“We go into the master chamber, and take a burlap sack or two into the library and put some of the treasure in sacks, the fancier pieces of jewellery, and the emeralds, sneak down the secret stair, and put the sacks in Feathers’s stall with some oats on top,” said Lucy. “I know we can’t hide it all, but that should at least give us some. And we shall have truckle beds in the boudoir, and creep down there, so we can escape; Henderson and Mrs. Henderson sleep on the ground floor, as does Henry... dear me, Mr. Death must be apprised of possible danger, and as he is just across from the muniments room, he can go down the chimney stair into the kitchen. The stable block is at least separate from the house, and we can all occupy the quarters intended for grooms if the house is burned. But having buckets and tubs of water cannot hurt.”

“I will apprise Mr. Death of our suspicions, and tell the Hendersons to prepare for fire-raising, whilst you sort out the treasure,” said Arabella.

 

Lucy discovered that she could lower the sacks on a rope slung over one of the sturdy hooks in the closet with the secret stair, and managed thereby to remove quite two thirds of the treasure, especially as Henry saw her struggling with a sack.

“What, making off with the treasure?” he asked.

“Yes, I am, Henry, to hide in plain sight again, in case Luke fires the house,” said Lucy. “I think he might hope the treasure would fall for him to get his hands on, as the rest of us died.”

“Henderson said he’d settled in, and I don’t put it past him,” agreed Henry. “The house is the real treasure, to my mind, but at least with gems and precious metal we could build somewhere to live; and your life is the most precious treasure of all, and I’d rather have you hiding precious things on speculation than risking your life for it in a fire. Why don’t I carry that for you?”

“Put it in with Feathers with some oats or straw on top,” said Lucy. “If I lower sacks down the secret stair, and you carry them, we can get a lot more stowed away.”

Henry approved of this idea, and they worked hard until Henry saw Luke’s curricle turn in at the gates, and ran up the stair to warn Lucy.

He stole a kiss at the same time, and she clung to him.

“Your silly beard tickles,” she complained.

“I will be without it soon,” he said. “Let me take this last sack and leave it in a corner in the shed, and I will take out tools to work on the garden.”

“Thank you,” said Lucy, and went to straighten out the library and its hidden chests.

 

 

Luke had driven into King’s Lynn to try to procure gunpowder.

He found buying any quantity of gunpowder for more than the filling of a few cartridges to be difficult; with rick-burning still occurring, and the fear of Chartists, gunsmiths were suspicious.  Had he had more imagination, and as an obvious gentleman, he might have claimed to want to blow up the stumps of old trees in queachland he wanted to open to cultivation, this being one of the few ways to clear land fettered by roots and old stumps. As it was, he succeeded only in looking suspicious.

Luke managed to procure a few pounds from a crooked supply sergeant in the militia, which would have to do for his needs, packed well in a butter barrel, a half-firkin, and with a length of slow-match.

Luke had once seen an old oak tree brought down with gunpowder, and had been very impressed by how it had fallen without danger to life or limb of those who had been blowing it up. What Luke had not realised was that much of the gunpowder had been inside the rotten hollow bole, and that all of it, inside and out, had been well tamped with sandbags to direct the blast in the direction required by the retired artilleryman who was doing the removal of the tree. Luke knew how to load a pistol or shotgun, and how to fire it, but he could not have answered any questions on why a gun was designed as it was, or how firing happened, and he had no idea what tamping was, or why it was desirable. He had a small barrel of gunpowder, and that made him feel invincible.

After all, the figurehead was no larger than the tree he had seen felled; and undoubtedly the cavity from the sundial opened into it. Therefore, if he could not unlock the door to it, he might go in the back way, as one might say. That he would probably destroy the figurehead of his ancestor’s ship, he cared not.

It would make a noise, of course, but he intended to shoot down anyone who interfered; they were all superfluous to him now. Including Mrs. Henderson.

 

Luke claimed the master suite, and Lucy was glad that she and Arabella had dismantled the traps in order to remove the treasure. He retired to his room to brood, which allowed the two women to manhandle down the feather tick, with its sheets and blankets and pillows to the boudoir, and make up a bed on the floor rather than search for truckle beds. It was dry, and Lucy suggested just pushing everything out of the window, and pulling it in the French door below.

“It’s lazy, but it gives us less chance of being caught by him,” she said.

Arabella frowned.

“I have to say, slovenly as it seems, it would be better,” she said.

“And we’ll take the Jordan as well, though it’s just across the vestibule to the Bramah closet, for we might feel a need to be locked in,” said Lucy. “But I’ll carry that; I don’t think the chinaware would stand to be dropped.”

“Indeed, not!” said Arabella.

As two of the comfortable chairs from the boudoir were in the bedroom, there was plenty of room to set up a bed, with a little moving of furniture out of the way.

“Well, my love, I hope you are wrong about a need to escape in a hurry, but I would rather be prepared and have you mistaken than the other way about,” said Arabella.  “We can have water to drink, and Henderson is filling buckets to place in the Bramah closet, as he says it’s most likely that if anyone should set a fire, it will be in the vestibule, where the stairs will act as a chimney. And if Luke asks, he plans to say that the flush has been giving trouble.”

“How clever of Henderson! I will add a bonus to his wage for that,” said Lucy. “And I must, as promised, gift him from the pirate treasure. I wonder if he would like a tie pin of one of those small gold coins, or if he would prefer an emerald; and he must have some pieces of eight to boast to his friends in the inn, of course. I do not wish to be stingy, but I don’t want him to feel oppressed either.”

“You might ask him to pick something from the chests from what we left, if it is not consumed in fire,” said Arabella. “Put it all together.”

“A good idea,” said Lucy. “Even what is left piled on the library table would be impressive. After I have won it clearly and fairly. And Mr. Death must have a memento, too. And as she has seen sense, Mrs. Henderson. You shall have something to be a conversation piece in jewellery, as well as living here with its benefits.”

“Why, thank you, Lucy; I did not expect that,” said Arabella, flushing.

“Of course you must benefit; you were a part of finding it,” said Lucy. “And it should be something substantial.”

“I confess that the idea of owning something from pirate treasure is wildly exciting,” said Arabella flushing. “I know that is perhaps a foolish level of sentimentality...”

“Even former governesses are permitted to be foolishly sentimental at times,” said Lucy, giving her an affectionate kiss on the cheek.

 

Arabella ate dinner with Mr. Death, as was only polite. Luke demanded to eat in his room, which pleased both Arabella and Mr. Death.

“I can only hope that Miss Fenwick’s belief that Mr. Fenwick will set a fire or similar is merely a result of the agitation of her spirits owing to her unfortunate experience, yesterday,” said Mr. Death. “Indeed, being abducted seems so unlikely...”

“I was pushed and fell over as the fellow bundled her into the coach,” said Arabella, tartly. “Are you going to tell me that I imagined it?”

“Indeed, no, my dear lady, and I had no idea!” said Mr. Death. “I... I supposed she might have gone for a walk and been misdirected and became lost, and....”

“Lucy is not foolish,” said Arabella, with some asperity. “I cannot think how you can imagine that any person could conflate becoming lost with being abducted; why, one would have to be quite feeble-minded to do so, and to assume another person would think that way throws doubt upon your own faculties.”

Mr. Death coloured.

“I apologise,” he said, hastily. “I... I do not know much about young women and girls, only that it is said that they are prone to imagination of romantic situations, and... and....” he tailed off.

“I don’t see anything romantic about being forced by main strength into a carriage, and left in a derelict cottage and told to wait there until collected,” said Arabella. Her tone was tart. “Nor were the crop of chilblains she got walking towards home romantic, nor the sore stiffness of her legs from fighting through ice and mud. Fortunately, the gardener and I came upon her before she had had to walk more than three miles, and she was all but crying in pain. You have a very strange idea of young ladies and girls, and I, as a governess, who has experience with them, can tell you so. You would not like it if I started assuming that you would place in this clause or that to a will, would you? That is your profession, and I thank G-d profoundly that you never married and had children, or I can see you cross-examining any child who has been hurt to see if they imagined it, even if pouring blood from a wound. I pity you, but I would pity any family you had even more.”

“I... I am sorry. Lucius always said I should spend more time with young people,” said Death.

“Any young people in your vicinity are to be congratulated that you did not avail yourself of that advice,” said Arabella. “If there is no fire, we will be profoundly grateful; but I confess, I half wish I had left you to burn in your bed if there is one. I believe I have had enough; I will leave you to the brandy.”

She got up and stalked out.

 

“You look like a hen in a stiff breeze,” said Lucy.

“Oh, that man!” said Arabella. “Thought you might have romanced being abducted. I put him rightabout on that, the silly old fool.”

“Is he accusing me of lying? And why did he not say anything to me?” said Lucy.

“I suspect he is as bad as Luke in thinking your reasoning to be limited,” said Arabella. “Though it was you who found the treasure. I was not pleased.”

“I should think not!” said Lucy. “But come; let us play a hand of lottery tickets, so you do not go to sleep in wrath.”

“A good idea,” said Arabella. “But only one hand, for we did say, did we not, that we should sleep early, and hope to remain awake through the darkest part of the night.”

 

The two women had slept for several hours, when a detonation split the night and awakened them very thoroughly.

 

the pirate's hoard 6 cliffie bonus

 

6

 

“I... I don’t know what to say,” said Lucy, in hushed awe. “One full of silver coins, one of gold coin and items, and one of what I suspect are uncut emeralds, as there are a few that are cut.”

“Shut the lids; it’s making me giddy,” said Arabella. “I found a pair of worn velvet curtains in the linen press which I believe were about to be discarded for being too worn to mend, and made over into cushion covers. There’s enough cord with them as trim, with a pillow put over each of these, and a circular top cut with a ruched frill falling from it, they will look quite different.”

“Yes, you are wise, Arabella,” said Lucy. “No wonder Luke was prepared to be so ruthless, if he suspected this!”

“The difference being, my darling Lucy, that you would not be ruthless to deprive him of it if the tables were turned,” said Henry, dryly. He had taken Lucy’s hand. “I am glad I already asked you to marry me, so you know my feelings are not dependent on all... all this excess of bijouterie.”

“What a good way to put it,” said Lucy. “I know you aren’t marrying me for pirate treasure. It’s all very much too much.  I’m inclined to take enough of it to make the estate good, and put the rest back, and the commonplace book, and leave for another member of the family in the future.”

“Or hard times,” said Henry. “I think that’s a good idea; but not until you have unequivocally won the house.”

“I will stay to my room, though,” said Lucy. “If Arabella will bring meals to me, so Mrs. Henderson can tell Luke she has not seen me; she might even believe Arabella to be covering for me being missing.”

“And I can attest that you are not,” said Henry. “And perhaps I will send Henderson up; he has a shrewd idea which of you will do best by him!”

“I think I will have to eschew my hot bath, however,” said Lucy. “Still, I am less stiff for having moved about, but I believe I will seek the comfort of a feather mattress and a pile of pillows to rest my aching legs whilst sewing.” She grimaced. “It will keep me occupied whilst I play least-in-sight. Arabella, if you will cut out one, I can be sewing whilst you cut out others, and secure pillows over the trunks.”

“Indeed, and then I can come to help you finish up,” said Arabella.

“If you ladies are busy at that, I will fetch and carry meals,” said Henry. “Unlike a good servant, however, I will knock.  I can also carry the slop bucket down to the Bramah closet.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jermyn,” said Arabella.

Henry went one better, and brought up a hot brick for Lucy, tucked under one arm, a pot of tea and some bread-and-butter for both of them on a tray,  and he produced from his pocket a paper poke of chestnuts to roast on the shovel.

“I’ll just pop down for more wood and coal for the fire to make it hot enough for the chestnuts,” he said. “I’m glad there was enough to get it going.”

Lucy lay back on a pile of pillows in bed, and sighed in happiness.

“Henry, you are the best of fiancées,” she said.

Henry laughed.

“Can I beg some chestnuts, then?” he asked.

“Roast them for us, and I think we’ll say yes,” said Lucy. “I know it’s most improper for you to be in my bedroom, but we are going to be married, and the circumstances are extraordinary.”

Henry ran off for fuel, and came back with a big hod of coal, and a sack of logs.

“I think we have enough here to sit out a siege over Christmas,” said Arabella.

“That was rather the idea,” said Henry. He got a nice glowing centre of coals on which to balance the shovel, and used his penknife to cut off the sharp, pointed ends of the chestnuts before setting them on the coal shovel.  “If you put a hole in them, it stops them jumping into the fire from the pressure of water vapour expanding within, or exploding,” he explained.

“So much for the St. Catherine’s eve divination games,” laughed Lucy. “Nothing to do with true love if two nuts named for lovers jump closer, or jump apart, or explode from passion, only steam power.”

“The best way to divine about one’s future true love is to list what things one has in common, and what things one does not like, and if you have three or more of the first and no more than one of the second, then you have friendship at least to work with, which is more durable than sudden infatuation,” said Henry. “I hope that is not too prosaic for you, Lucy.”

“Prosaic is a man who knows where to search for someone abducted, and then procures her a hot brick and chestnuts,” said Lucy. “I like prosaic. And pirate treasure may be romantic, but I look at those pieces of eight, and I see the hiring of men to manage the north wood, and plant new trees to replace old, the mending of the farm buildings of the lower farm and getting in tenants to till the land, and pensioning off the old couple in the home farm, with younger tenants to run it, and letting the old folk have a cottage and a cottage garden for their own needs as well as a pension.”

“I am glad we do still think on the same lines,” said Henry. “You have a passion for this land, as I do.”

“Lucifer was a pirate bold, but he came home to the land,” said Lucy. “He sailed the furrows of ploughed land for his final years.”

“Beautifully put,” said Henry, softly. “I may be prosaic, but I can appreciate a poetic thought.”

 

 

Henry carried up dinner when it was prepared, which was a fricassee of chicken with rice, onion soup, and raised pies.

“Mrs. Henderson said she hoped I and the former governess would not go hungry with so much between us,” he said.  “She knows Lucy was supposed to be kidnapped. Henderson is bringing wine so he can say he has seen you... ah, here he is.” Henderson scratched at the door and came in. His sly fensman’s face broke into a broad smile.

“You ain’t missing, Miss Lucy!” he said.

“No, Henderson, Luke left me and plainly expected me to stay where I was left,” said Lucy.  “But I didn’t, and I was met halfway home by Mr. Jermyn and Miss Bellington looking for me. But I am not going to show myself to Mrs. Henderson, and perhaps you would say nothing – in case Luke tries to kill me.”

“Gawdelpus, miss, I do-ant say as how he mightn’t,” said Henderson. “Poweful unhinged he can be, when things do-an’t go his way.”

“Exactly,” said Lucy. “I expect he will come on the morrow to try to solve the puzzle of the sundial, and he’ll be out of luck as the key is in my reticule, and he thinks I am six miles away, and my reticule with me.”

“He’ll be in a taking when you ain’t,” said Henderson.

“Which is why I am staying in my bed with a cold,” said Lucy.

“And why I am carrying a pistol from Mr. Fenwick’s collection,” said Arabella.

“Arabella! Do you know how to use it?” gasped Lucy.

“Oh, yes,” said Arabella. “I am a governess because my father was a gambler and a duellist, and he made Britain too hot for himself. But he did teach me to culp a wafer at a dozen paces.”

“That makes me feel much better,” said Lucy.

 

 

oOoOo

 

Lucy and Arabella were eating a rather late breakfast, having slept in after a late night sewing,  when the doorbell tolled through the house.  Arabella was dressed, but Lucy wore a dressing-gown over her nightdress, to add verisimilitude to the story of being unwell, in case Luke did force his way into her bedchamber.

“Luke,” said Lucy.

“I had better receive him and act cagey about you being indisposed, and indignant if he wants to see you in your bedroom,” said Arabella.

“At least we finished the chest-dominos,” said Lucy.

“The what?”

“Well, they are masquerading as footstools; and if you can’t think of a clever costume for a masquerade, you wear a domino-cloak,” said Lucy.

“I suppose that makes sense,” said Arabella, standing, and brushing a few toast crumbs from her dress into the fireplace. Both women had been curled up in comfortable chairs which Henry had brought into the bedroom, with an occasional table between them for the chinaware needed to make tea, the urn standing on the hearth, on a trivet, so that there was room to put the teapot under its tap. They had partaken of coddled eggs with thin bread-and-butter in ‘soldiers,’followed by kedgeree, and toast and jam to finish up. Arabella picked up the tray.

“I’ll leave the teapot, but take the rest down,” she said.

She met Henderson on the stairs, and he relieved her of the tray.

“It’s Mr. Luke, Miss Bellington, I put him in the boudoir,” he said.

“Thank you, Henderson,” said Arabella. She tripped into the boudoir, and dropped a neat curtsey to Luke Fenwick.

“Mr. Fenwick, I fear you find Lucy indisposed and in bed with a nasty cold,” she said.

“Indisposed? That’s a good fiction for her not being here to win the inheritance,” said Luke, sneering slightly. “So, you’re her dresser now? A long fall in consequence, Belly.”

“I never answered to that ungentlemanlike soubriquet before, Luke Fenwick, and I will not now,” said Arabella, tartly. “My name is Miss Bellington; and Lucy is most certainly here. You can ask Mrs. Henderson about the meals she has eaten.”

“To be sure, to be sure; but food can be burned, or two portions eaten,” said Luke.

“What a waste of good food,” said Arabella. “I would invite you to see Lucy for yourself, but of course it is most ineligible for you to see her in her bedroom. Meanwhile, you had come visiting for a reason?”

Luke sneered.

“I intend to be on the roof of the porch at midday, to see the fall of shadow,” he said. “And if Lucy is not there, I will know she is not in residence.”

“She is not well enough to go gallivanting about outside up ladders,” said Arabella. “I, however, as her witness, will accompany you.”

He snarled.

“I suppose that damned solicitor will complain if I do not let you,” he said.

“Assuredly; and hark, the doorbell; that will be him now,” said Arabella.

 

Mr. Death joined Arabella and Luke in the boudoir.

“Are we ready for an excursion to see where the key goes?” he said.

“Yes,” said Luke.

Henry, as gardener, had hauled ladders round, and Arabella, not without some trepidation, had followed Luke and Mr. Death up onto the roof.

The day was providing some hazy sunshine, and Arabella had to admit that even so thin an illumination showed the holes for the wards fairly dramatically.

“Ah!” cried Luke. “Give me the key, woman!”

“I don’t have it,” said Arabella, calmly.

“What, is it still in the secret panel?” demanded Luke. “I know it exists, I found it!  I should have kept it!” he hastened down the ladder and ran into the house.

Arabella opened the door onto the gallery.

“Please come with me and ascertain Miss Fenwick’s presence in the house,” she said, leading Mr. Death to Lucy’s room. “A solicitor, like a doctor, is a privileged person.”

Lucy had gone back to bed, and was reading a novel.

“Dear me!” said Mr. Death. “I am sorry to see you laid up on so exciting a day, Miss Fenwick.”

“I was abducted, yesterday, by Luke’s agents and taken to an old cottage, where he expected me to stay,” said Lucy, calmly. “I escaped but at the expense of aching legs and a chill.”

“Good G-d!” said Mr. Death. “Unbelievable!”

“Nevertheless, true,” said Lucy. “I doubt it can be brought to his door in law, though. But such dirty tricks do not surprise me.”

“But my dear girl! He is about to attempt to get the treasure and steal a march on you!” said Death, upset. “Your uncle wanted you to be the one to find it!”

“Who says I haven’t done so already?” said Lucy. “Let Luke play out his hand.”

“I cannot like it,” said Mr. Death.

“I didn’t like it myself,” said Lucy. “But perhaps you will stay in a guest room whilst Luke foists himself upon us?”

“Indeed, yes, I believe I might,” said Mr. Death.

Arabella ushered him out, and into a guest room.

“I will see to lighting a fire, and seeing to a warming pan,” she said.

“Most kind!” Mr. Death was gratified, and followed her downstairs, where Luke seized her by the wrist, and shook her. Arabella screamed.

“Where is it? What have you done with the key?” he demanded.

“Mr.Fenwick! let go of my client’s companion at once!” said Mr. Death. “Do you want to be had up for assault?”

“She’s taken the key! It isn’t where it should be!” yammered Luke.

“Of course it isn’t,” said Arabella. “But you never gave me time to tell you where it is.”

He looked at her, eyes bulging in their sockets, a tic in the veins of his forehead.

“Well, then, where is it?” he hissed.

“It’s in Lucy’s reticule; she does not let it out of her sight,” said Arabella.

“Hell!” said Luke, and ran out of the house.

“Dear me!” said Mr. Death. “Where do you suppose he has gone?”

“To find Lucy in the derelict cottage where he left her, I suppose,” said Arabella. “Perhaps you will come to the library; I have something particular to show you, and then we might bespeak a light nuncheon.”

“Very well,” said Death.

 

Ten minutes later, he was drinking one of Lucius Fenwick’s fine old brandies, to recover from the display of bijouterie disguised as footstools.

Miss Lucy had pulled it off, though she still had to stay the requisite time.