CHAPTER VII

by Wilkie Collins

As I sat there, lost in my thoughts and desperately needing some time alone to gather myself, my daughter Penelope interrupted me—just like her late mother used to do when I was trying to navigate the stairs. She immediately demanded to know everything that had happened during my meeting with Mr. Franklin. Given the circumstances, I knew I had to put a stop to Penelope’s curiosity right away.

I told her that Mr. Franklin and I had discussed foreign politics until we were too tired to continue, and then we both dozed off in the sun. If you ever find yourself in a similar situation with your wife or daughter, try that kind of answer when they press you with an awkward question. Trust in the natural sweetness of women to smooth things over at the next opportunity.

The afternoon passed, and soon my wife and Miss Rachel returned.

It’s no surprise that they were shocked to learn that Mr. Franklin Blake had come and gone on horseback. They wasted no time in asking pointed questions, and my earlier excuse about “foreign politics” and “falling asleep in the sun” wouldn’t work a second time with them. Running out of ideas, I explained that Mr. Franklin’s arrival on the early train was simply one of his whims. When they asked if his sudden departure on horseback was another one of his quirks, I replied, “Yes, it was,” and cleverly sidestepped the issue.

Having navigated my way through the ladies’ inquiries, I returned to my room only to find more challenges awaiting me. Penelope came in, her natural sweetness shining through as she came to kiss and make up, but her curiosity was still very much alive. This time, she wanted to know what was wrong with our second housemaid, Rosanna Spearman.

It turned out that after leaving Mr. Franklin and me at the Shivering Sand, Rosanna had returned to the house in a very strange state. According to Penelope, she had changed colors like a chameleon. She had been inexplicably cheerful one moment and then inexplicably sad the next. In one breath, she bombarded Penelope with questions about Mr. Franklin Blake, and in the next, she scolded her for thinking that a stranger could possibly interest her. She had been surprised, smiling, and even scribbling Mr. Franklin’s name inside her workbox. Then she had been upset, crying as she looked at her deformed shoulder in the mirror. Had she and Mr. Franklin known each other before today? Absolutely not! Had they heard anything about each other? Impossible! I could attest to Mr. Franklin’s genuine surprise when he saw how the girl stared at him. Penelope could vouch for Rosanna’s curiosity when she peppered her with questions about Mr. Franklin. Our conversation was tedious until Penelope suddenly blurted out what I thought was the most outrageous idea I had ever heard.

“Father!” she said, quite seriously, “there’s only one explanation for this. Rosanna has fallen in love with Mr. Franklin Blake at first sight!”

You’ve heard of beautiful young women falling in love at first sight, and you might find that perfectly reasonable. But a housemaid from a reformatory, with a plain face and a deformed shoulder, falling for a gentleman visiting her mistress’s house? That’s a level of absurdity you won’t find in any storybook! I laughed until tears streamed down my face. Penelope didn’t take my laughter well. “I never knew you could be so cruel, father,” she said softly before leaving the room.

Her words hit me like a splash of cold water. I felt angry with myself for feeling unsettled by what she had said, but that was how it was. Let’s change the subject, shall we? I regret drifting into that topic, and you’ll understand why as we continue.

Evening came, and the dinner bell rang before Mr. Franklin returned from Frizinghall. I took his hot water to his room myself, expecting that after such a long delay, something significant must have happened. To my great disappointment—and probably yours as well—nothing had occurred. He hadn’t encountered the Indians, either on his way there or back. He had simply deposited the Moonstone in the bank, referring to it only as a valuable item, and he had the receipt safely tucked in his pocket. I went downstairs, feeling that this was a rather anticlimactic conclusion after all the excitement surrounding the Diamond earlier in the day.

As for how Mr. Franklin’s meeting with his aunt and cousin went, I can’t tell you.

I would have given anything to have served at the table that day. But in my position within the household, waiting at dinner—except during special family occasions—would have lowered my status in the eyes of the other servants. My lady already thought I was prone to that sort of thing without me seeking out opportunities to embarrass myself.

That evening, I received news from Penelope and the footman. Penelope mentioned that she had never seen Miss Rachel so particular about her hair, nor had she ever looked so bright and lovely as when she went down to meet Mr. Franklin in the drawing room. The footman reported that maintaining a respectful demeanor in front of his superiors while serving Mr. Franklin at dinner was one of the toughest challenges he had ever faced in his training.

Later, we could hear them singing and playing duets—Mr. Franklin’s voice was high, Miss Rachel’s even higher, while my lady accompanied them on the piano, guiding them through the music in a way that was both delightful and enchanting, drifting through the open windows onto the terrace at night. Eventually, I went to find Mr. Franklin in the smoking room, bringing him soda water and brandy, only to discover that Miss Rachel had completely captured his attention. “She’s the most charming girl I’ve seen since I returned to England!” was all I could get him to say when I tried to steer the conversation toward more serious matters.

Around midnight, I made my rounds to lock up the house, accompanied by my second-in-command, Samuel the footman, as usual. Once all the doors were secured, except for the side door leading to the terrace, I sent Samuel to bed and stepped outside for a breath of fresh air before turning in myself.

The night was still and warm, the moon full and bright in the sky. It was so quiet outside that I could faintly hear the gentle crash of the sea as the waves rolled onto the sandbank near the mouth of our little bay. The terrace side of the house was shrouded in darkness, but the moonlight illuminated the gravel path that ran alongside it. After glancing up at the sky, I noticed a shadow moving in the moonlight, cast from behind the corner of the house.

Being old and crafty, I held my tongue, but unfortunately, my age also made me heavy-footed, and the gravel betrayed my presence. Before I could sneak around the corner as I intended, I heard lighter footsteps—more than one pair—hurrying away. By the time I reached the corner, the intruders had slipped into the shrubbery on the far side of the path, disappearing among the thick trees and bushes. From there, they could easily escape over our fence and into the road. If I had been forty years younger, I might have had a chance to catch them before they got away. Instead, I decided to enlist a younger pair of legs.

Without disturbing anyone, Samuel and I grabbed a couple of guns and patrolled the house and shrubbery. After ensuring that no one was lurking around our grounds, we turned back. As we passed the spot where I had seen the shadow, I noticed, for the first time, a small shiny object lying on the clean gravel, illuminated by the moonlight.

Picking it up, I discovered it was a small bottle filled with a thick, sweet-smelling liquid as dark as ink. I didn’t mention it to Samuel. Remembering what Penelope had told me about the jugglers and the way they poured a pool of ink into the palm of the boy’s hand, I immediately suspected that I had interrupted the three Indians who were lurking around the house, intent on discovering the whereabouts of the Diamond that night.