by Mira Stables
The Swynden Necklace
Mira Stables
© Mira Stables 1974
Mira Stables has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1974 by Hale, London.
This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
For SIMON
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter One
“It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen!” Honor looked up at her mother, cheeks flushed to wild rose, eyes shining in rapturous excitement. She held the necklace in both hands, lifting it lovingly to her breast and displaying it against the sombre hue of the mourning that they were still wearing for Papa. Some people would have put off their blacks by now since more than a year had elapsed since Papa had died. Why, it was almost a year since they had come to live with Aunt Thomasine! But Mama had said that there was still a good deal of wear in the black bombasine and since they must economise wherever they could if they were to educate Percy as befitted his birth, the cost of a new gown could not be considered. Honor had assented meekly. Mama, of course, had no desire to put off her weeds. Her whole life had been bound up in Papa. It almost seemed as though her will for living had been buried in his grave. All the practical side of life, all the decisions, were left to Aunt Thomasine. She was Cousin Thomasine really, though Honor and the twins called her aunt because she was even older than Mama. On only one point did Mama show firm and decided. Percy must go to his father’s old school and then on to Oxford as Papa had done. Everything else must yield to that prime necessity.
Already Mama was viewing the diamond necklace from the point of view of one who had suddenly seen the solution of all her difficulties. “Very pretty indeed, my love,” she agreed. “And very costly, too. Why I daresay we could sell it for as much as five thousand pounds.”
But her daughter was far away, rapt in a dream where she was wearing the necklace and a gown of—yes! Dark blue velvet would set off the glowing circlet to perfection. Momentarily she was deaf to the hint of danger that threatened her new possession. She put it carefully back into the satin lined case of faded morocco and picked up once more the letter that had accompanied her godmother’s bequest. “It seems sad that I cannot even remember Aunt Honoria,” she said thoughtfully. “Why should she leave me such a valuable jewel? Just because she was my godmother? What will Aunt Thomasine think? Will she not feel that her sister should rather have left the necklace to her?”
But any anxiety that might have been felt on that head was at once dispelled by the arrival of Aunt Thomasine herself, slightly ruffled in temper but only because she had been summoned away from the stillroom where she had been engaged in the confection of her famous coltsfoot wine, and who was to say that now it might not turn cloudy, left to Bessy’s clumsy ministrations?
“Now what’s all the pother about?” she enquired brusquely. “Not a word of sense could I get out of this caper-witted brat save that her sister was come into a fortune and was off to Bath to queen it among the fashionables.”
Mrs. Fenton shook her head reprovingly at her younger daughter who had followed Aunt Thomasine into the room, but the child looked quite unrepentant, exclaiming, “But it’s true, Aunt. Show her the letter, Honor. It did say you was to go to Bath, didn’t it?”
Mrs. Fenton sighed and shook her head. “There was certainly some mention of such a scheme. Quite ineligible, of course.”
Miss Helmore had by this time possessed herself of the letter and read it for herself. “I don’t see why you should say so, Cousin. Indeed I should have thought that you would like the scheme very well. It is more than time that Honor made some push to find herself a husband. You’ll have her dwindling into a soured old spinster like me if you don’t take care. I think it very well done in my sister to have taken such thought for the girl. It would have been better, of course, if she had seen to her come-out five years ago, but I daresay she knew well enough that your worthy spouse would never have let her meddle.”
Mrs. Fenton cleared her throat rather loudly, a hint that these blunt disclosures were unsuited for young ears. Miss Helmore was quite unperturbed. “And a great pity that the rift between you and Honoria was allowed to widen,” she continued. “Your husband may have been a saint—well—we all know he was,” she conceded, to soothe the hurt of her criticism, “but that didn’t give him the right to set himself up as a judge of my sister. What’s more he was quite mistaken in his judgements. Honoria married Miles Swynden because she was head over ears in love with him, even if he was old enough to have been her father. Considerations of rank and wealth never entered her head. She’d have married him if he’d been a nameless pauper, so besotted as she was.”
For once Mrs. Fenton made no attempt to defend her husband. She had dutifully accepted his dictum that her close friendship with Cousin Honoria, for whom she had named their first-born daughter, should be allowed to sink into limbo. But even her submissive mind had not been able to keep from wondering how much of his disapproval was rooted in jealousy. On his modest stipend he could not possibly afford to buy her such clothes and jewels as Lord Melborne lavished on Honoria, yet neither could he endure to see her look shabby and poverty-pinched beside her wealthy cousin. Naturally he did not choose to admit to such a weakness. He said instead that Honoria seemed wholly given over to worldly concerns now that she had married a Marquess. He regretted that they had asked her to stand as sponsor for their infant daughter. It was too late for that to be mended but they must see to it that she had no opportunity to influence the mite to follow her own example. Visits were to be discouraged, invitations declined.
Honoria was all too easily rebuffed. Warm hearted and impulsive, accustomed only to tender affection from her family and friends, it had never occurred to her that anyone could possibly misjudge the motives that had led her to marry the Marquess of Melborne. To find that not only her cousins but also her new stepson bitterly disapproved of the match was a sore hurt, though his attitude at least she could in part understand. He had been deeply attached to his mother and it was natural that he should not care to see his father set another in her place, even though it was his own insistence on following a military career that had put the thought of re-marriage into the Marquess’s head. The boy was his sole heir. If he must join the army then it would be only prudent to ensure the succession by providing him with a brother or two. With the fixed intention of looking about him for a suitable partner in this laudable enterprise the Marquess had gone to Bath where one could rely upon meeting the cream of society under the most civilised and pleasant conditions. And there he had met and fallen helplessly in love with little Honoria Helmore, a chit young enough to be his daughter. He rejected all the well-meant advice of his friends who urged him to seek a more staid bride in his own exalted circle. Honoria could bring him neither wealth nor consequence, was too young to know her own mind. What matter? The Marquess knew his. And there was also a propitious omen of which he did not tell his friends, not caring to invite their jesting over his superstition. He was, he reckoned, a plain man, taking little heed of planetary influences, signs and portents. But he did believe in the legend of the Swynden necklace. It could not be just chance, he told himself,
that at this very moment, after years of useless negotiation, it should come again into his keeping. It had seemed to him a clear indication that his marriage with his little love would be blessed by good fortune and several sturdy sons.
For the necklace was the ‘Luck’ of the Swyndens. Brought back to England by a Swynden of Tudor times who had assuaged the family restlessness by fitting out a snug little vessel and harassing the subjects of Spain wherever he had the good fortune to find them unescorted on the high seas, it had gradually become associated, through a series of coincidences, with the promise of continuity of the direct line of Swyndens. It had been their talisman for close on two hundred years. And then it had been lost in play. Gambled away by Miles Swynden’s father in a fit of drunken recklessness. To be sure he had spared no pains to recover the treasure once he had sobered. He had offered fabulous sums for its redemption, but his opponent was also a man of vast wealth, to whom the rare beauty of the necklace and its curious history were of more value than money. The offers were consistently rejected. Miles could only be thankful that the fellow had passed on his gambling proclivities to his son. Young Fitz-Sammons proceeded to dissipate his inherited wealth at a rate that soon made him more amenable to Miles’s regularly repeated offers to buy back the necklace. That it should have come into his hands again just at this juncture seemed to him proof positive that the Gods of Chance smiled on his plans. He married his Honoria and bestowed the Swynden necklace upon her as a bride gift.
So far at least he was justified. The marriage was a very happy one, bringing great content to both partners, save that their union was not blessed with the much desired sons. It was a disappointment, but they did net allow it to spoil their lives and certainly Honoria’s behaviour as a leader of fashionable society lent some substance to the Reverend John Fenton’s accusation of worldliness. He was not to know how she grieved in private over their childlessness; how she wished that she might be permitted to lavish her warm affection on the godchild whom she had not seen since infancy; how she strove to establish good relations with her stepson on his occasional furloughs, winning from him at last a considerable degree of respect and even affection as he learned to value her gentle disposition at its true worth.
Then the Marquess of Melborne died—and Honoria retired from society, not just for the conventional period of mourning as was to be expected, but to lead the life of a recluse until her own early death. Not even her sister Thomasine was permitted to intrude upon her seclusion, though the two maintained a regular correspondence. Today’s package and letter had come as a stunning shock to the younger Honoria who had never before received any kind of communication from her godmother. But the shock was a delightful one, unmarred by any touch of personal grief for the loss of one known and loved, and Aunt Thomasine’s matter-of-fact acceptance of the bequest and the suggestion that had come with it set the seal on her delight. For if Aunt Thomasine approved, things were likely to happen. One could not expect Mama to take an interest in the plan. Honor was well accustomed to the knowledge that since Papa’s death only Percy really mattered to Mama. She and Tamsin were of little account, though, to be fair, Mama was indulgent enough and her lack of interest in their comings and goings gave them a good deal of freedom which Honor, for one, fully appreciated.
Aunt Thomasine was re-reading her sister’s letter more slowly, emitting thoughtful little grunts as she digested its implications. “The house in Beaufort Square. Um! Not so smart as it was used to be, but I daresay it will serve well enough. Within comfortable distance of the new Assembly Rooms, too. And the sum of five hundred pounds to buy your fal-lals. Well—we shall have to contrive a little. Pampered and cossetted as she has been since her marriage she has forgot that you will need to hire servants. And Bath is no longer the centre of high fashion that it was in her day. Nevertheless it is a good scheme and a kindly thought. You may be grateful to your godmother, my girl. She has taken more thought for your future than ever—”
She broke off in some confusion. That was going too far, even for one who was notorious for plain speaking, however true it might be. “You will need everything of the first stare, and a pretty penny that is going to cost, first and last. Five hundred pounds sounds a vast sum to you, I see by your looks, but it will scarce suffice.”
“No, indeed,” agreed Mrs. Fenton, able at last to voice her objections to the entire plan. “And it would be both foolish and selfish in Honor to squander it so. The necklace itself may be sold and with five hundred pounds and the proceeds of the sale she will be quite a comfortable little heiress and able to provide for her poor brother’s schooling as well.”
Aunt Thomasine eyed her cousin shrewdly but not unkindly. “And so indeed she might. I have no doubt that she would do just as you advise. But surely you, who so loved Honoria when you were girls together, will pay some regard to her dying wish?”
Mrs. Fenton coloured faintly. “Oh, well, as to that—perhaps she grew a little peculiar in her last illness. People often do, I believe. And she had lived so retired for a long time. I’m sure if she could know how I am situated she would feel for me and would consent to the change of plan.”
“If you are suggesting that my sister was deranged when she wrote this letter, you may save your breath,” said Miss Thomasine brusquely. “She and I have maintained a regular correspondence ever since her marriage and I’ll go bail for it that she was as sane as I am. What is more she had frequently mentioned this business to me and I know that her heart was set on giving Honor the same kind of opportunity that she herself had enjoyed. If you recall, she first met her husband at an Assembly Ball in Simpson’s Rooms. It is true that Bath is no longer the select resort that she remembered with such affection, but Honor may well meet an eligible parti there. She will certainly not do so here, and at three and twenty it is high time someone took a little thought for her future.”
The stinging rebuke silenced Mrs. Fenton whose eyes filled with easy tears. Her cousin turned away, giving her time to recover her countenance, since to soothe or sympathise would only re-open the argument.
“What I do find very surprising, since my sister did not see fit to disclose to me her intentions on that head,” she went on, addressing Honor, “is her decision to give you the Swynden necklace. I was aware that her stepson resented his father’s second marriage, but he must have behaved very badly indeed for Honoria to leave the necklace outside the family. May I look at it, my dear? It is many years since I last set eyes on it. Honoria wore it on her wedding day.”
Honor opened the case and lifted the beautiful thing from its silken bed. With the exception of the central gem which formed a pendant from the circlet, the stones were not particularly large. But they were of the finest water, flashing darts of blue and gold and scarlet as they caught the light. For so ancient a piece the setting was unusually light and delicate, its intricacies subdued to give full play to the perfection of the diamonds. Even Miss Thomasine gazed at it in silent admiration, while small Tamsin sank her voice to an awed whisper as she asked if she might touch it.
“Ought I not to accept it, Aunt?” asked Honor doubtfully. “I mean—if it is a family heirloom—perhaps it ought to be restored to the new Marquess.” But her fingers touched the necklace lovingly and she sighed her relief when her aunt assured her that there was no call for her to do anything so foolish and ungrateful. “You can rely upon it that my sister knew very well what she was about. You may perfectly properly keep her gift. As for how we are to contrive a season in Bath for you, I have already given some thought to the matter, being as, I explained, in my sister’s confidence. If your mother is agreeable I will undertake to bear the domestic charges of your stay in Beaufort Square. I had set aside a small portion that was to have come to you at my death. You may just as well have it now. If it helps you to a suitable marriage it will have been well spent.”
Honor exclaimed at her aunt’s generosity and hugged and thanked her with warm affection, but Mrs. Fenton, while saying all that
was proper, pointed out that a chaperone would be indispensable for the project. “And I hope that no one will suggest that I should undertake that responsibility, for neither my health nor my sense of what is due to my husband’s memory would permit me to go to balls and concerts and I don’t know what entertainments when I am only in the second year of my mourning.”
She delivered this ultimatum with an air of mild triumph as one who has undoubtedly spiked the enemy’s guns. Aunt Thomasine smiled at her with a touch of gentle malice. “Of course not, my dear. No one would expect it of you. But you will go on very comfortably here with Bessy to help you and perhaps you might like to invite some friend to bear your company while I take charge of Honor. I quite look forward to it. Even as a chaperone a season in Bath offers much to please and to entertain. Just think of the Concerts! And I hear there is a new actress at the Theatre Royal, a Mrs. Siddons who is most highly spoken of. I daresay we shall make pleasant acquaintances with whom we can get up a play-going party. A gentleman escort is such a comfort on these occasions. A pity that your brother is not older, my dear.”
That was too much for Honor’s sobriety. Percy was a likeable urchin, unable, like most healthy twelve year olds, to get through a day without tearing or muddying his clothes. The notion of him squiring her to parties was so comical as to reduce her to helpless giggles. Aunt Thomasine, lingering only to make sure that she had completely quelled her cousin’s protest, marched off to resume her domestic duties, with a passing reminder to Honor to see that she locked up the necklace in a safe place and a suggestion that she should occupy herself with making a list of such garments as would be required for her forthcoming debut.
Chapter Two
It was scarcely to be expected that after one brief skirmish which had ended in defeat Mrs. Fenton would wholly abandon the hope of providing so simply for her cherished son. During her married life she had found that methods of gentle persistence allied to a delicate constitution and frequent appeals to conjugal or filial devotion served her far better than tears and tantrums though she was not above using the former weapon in a restrained and ladylike way. Without Aunt Thomasine’s sturdy support and skilful handling of the situation, Honor would have been lost. It was Aunt Thomasine who pointed out that, if the season in Bath failed of its primary object, Honor would still be able to sell the necklace and provide for her little brother’s schooling. True, the five hundred pounds would be gone, but the girl would have clothes enough to last for years of simple country living. If necessary she could, eventually, sell the house in Beaufort Square. These thoughts certainly gave Mrs. Fenton a degree of comfort. But it was the suggestion, casually dropped, that Percy could well wait another year before he was subjected to the rigours of school life, that of late he had rather outgrown his strength and would take no harm from a few more months of his mother’s careful cossetting, that really clinched the argument.
