The Intrepid Miss Haydon

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “You’ll look after Lydia while I’m gone?” asked John as the brothers exchanged a warm handclasp. “Corinna will stay with her for a while, but it will relieve my mind to know that you’re keeping an eye on things.”

  “You may safely rely on that, old fellow. I’ll be looking in frequently.” Then, on an unaccustomed serious note: “God keep you, John, till we meet again.”

  Meanwhile Lydia was giving some parting instructions to Corinna, mainly concerned with domestic affairs.

  “Mrs Bolton is an excellent housekeeper, and you may depend upon her to keep matters running smoothly in my absence. She’ll spare no effort to make you feel at home.” She hugged Corinna to her. “Oh, my dear, I can’t tell you what a prodigious comfort it will be to me to find you here on my return, instead of being obliged to come back to an empty house!”

  She smiled tremulously; then allowed John, who looked very distinguished in his naval uniform, to assist her into the waiting post chaise. The postilion cracked his whip, and, with a crunching of gravel, the vehicle disappeared down the drive.

  Soon afterwards, Sir Richard took his leave. Corinna saw him go with mixed feelings. One moment she wanted him there; the next an unaccountable shyness took hold of her that made his presence almost a strain. Sensitive to her every mood, he observed her attitude without being able to account for it to his satisfaction. He pondered over this on the short ride home, where such thoughts were immediately banished for the time by a lengthy consultation with his land agent.

  As soon as the others had gone, Laurence, already impatient to be doing something, asked Madeleine when she would like to go to Brighton.

  “Not that you’re to be thinking we wish to be rid of you,” he concluded, with a disarming grin. “Stay as long as you like, and welcome.”

  “I would like to go as soon as possible,” replied Madeleine.

  “Why, it’s not much above an hour’s journey away,” Laurence advised. “We could jaunt over there this very afternoon — it’s famous weather for a spin along the coast! Since there are three of us we will have to take the carriage, I suppose, but I shan’t take John’s coachman. I’ll tool it myself.”

  “A rare treat for us,” Corinna remarked drily to Madeleine. “Don’t be surprised if the wretch puts us in a ditch.”

  “Oh, I am sure he is much too skilled a driver for that. But yes, I think perhaps I will go there this afternoon, for it is much simpler to explain oneself face to face than in a letter.”

  After partaking of a light nuncheon, they set off along the road leading to the coast, a pleasant stretch which lay between gentle downland slopes and woodland. It was a fine summer afternoon, and when they reached the Cuckmere Valley, the winding river glinted attractively in the sunlight.

  “Who could believe now,” said Corinna, “that our circumstances should have been so different when last we were here? Only recollect how wretched we were — exhausted, cold, hungry — yet now it all seems like a bad dream!”

  Madeleine assented, but her dark eyes were troubled.

  “What is it, my dear?” Corinna asked gently. “Are you perhaps anxious as to your welcome when you reach your aunt’s house? Pray tell me.”

  “Yes, it is partly that,” the other said slowly. “My dear uncle seemed so certain that she would be overjoyed to see me, and I never doubted it until now. Yet how can one be sure? I don’t at all remember her, and she will find me greatly changed from the child she once knew. It is possible that she may not desire to provide a home for me.”

  Corinna placed a reassuring hand over Madeleine’s own.

  “Come!” she said in a rallying tone. “You mustn’t lose heart now, when you have ventured so much to come here. All will be well — and even should the worst occur, you have other friends who will not desert you, I promise.”

  At this, Madeleine’s long-pent-up feelings overcame her, and she buried her face on Corinna’s shoulder, shaken by sobs.

  “I think — I think — my heart is broken!” she stammered incoherently. “I left him — I wanted oh, so desperately to stay! He will never know — that I love him truly — deeply — forever—”

  The words dissolved in her grief.

  For a time, she gave way to it, while Corinna soothed and comforted. Then she sat upright again, resolutely wiping away the tears from her ravaged face.

  “You will think me but a poor weak creature — and, indeed, I am ashamed,” she said contritely. “It was your kindness. I don’t know how it is, but” — her voice shook — “kindness is in some way more liable to overcome my feelings than if one is harsh to me.”

  “My dear child! If you must know, I think you one of the most courageous females I’ve ever met. But you’d be less than human, you know, if your admirable self-control did not occasionally break down. I do realise how difficult was the choice which you felt it your duty to make — I wish I could find anything to say to console you,” she concluded in a helpless tone, “but a wiser head than mine would be at a loss.”

  They fell silent for several minutes, while both stared abstractedly from the windows of the coach. Presently Madeleine roused herself, however, declaring resolutely that she was quite recovered.

  “And we will speak no more of sad things, chère Corinna, but you will tell me what manner of town is this Brighton where we are going?”

  “Brighton? Oh, it’s a prodigiously fashionable place, for the Prince of Wales comes down from London every summer, and most of the London ton follow him. There are balls held at the Castle Inn, which has a magnificent assembly room. It is too early yet in the season, Madeleine,” she continued, “but later on, you may like to indulge in sea bathing.”

  “You mean one immerses oneself in the sea?” asked Madeleine, evidently shocked. “Is not that most unwise? Besides, for a female, it would be immodest!”

  Corinna chuckled. “Oh, it’s all most proper, I assure you! Boxes are provided on the beach for disrobing — the gentlemen’s on the west side and the ladies’ on the east, well separated. Then the boxes are drawn into the sea by horses, and some prodigiously muscular persons known as dippers open the doors and assist the occupants into the water.”

  Madeleine shuddered. “Bah! I think it would be very cold, and not at all pleasant!”

  “Then perhaps you’d prefer a donkey ride?” asked Corinna mischievously. “It’s a favourite sport for some of the females, and famous fun to watch, for they frequently tumble off — oh, not to hurt themselves, you know, for it’s only on the sand, and not far to fall from a donkey’s back.”

  Madeleine laughed. “You wouldn’t have much sport with me, for I can ride — a horse or a donkey, it makes no difference.”

  They chattered away in this lighter vein until their carriage swung under the archway of the Old Ship, one of Brighton’s leading hostelries situated on the seafront. Ostlers came hurrying to the horses’ heads, and Laurence jumped down from the box to give his orders.

  “Well, here we are,” he announced, pulling open the carriage door. “Right as a trivet, and no complaints, I trust?”

  Having been reassured on this point, he suggested that his passengers might like to take a glass of lemonade in the coffee room while he refreshed himself with a tankard of ale. While they were being served, he made inquiries of the waiters as to the whereabouts of the house they were seeking, and discovered that it was situated in one of the lanes not more than five minutes’ walk away.

  Presently they took their way there, and soon located the house, a small half-timbered building with latticed windows. In answer to Laurence’s knock, the door was opened by a sharp-featured female of middle years with an unwelcoming aspect. She did not invite her visitors to enter, but quickly gave them to understand that not only did Madame de Fougeray not reside there, but that she knew nothing of the whereabouts of such a person. Pressed to say how long she had been living there, she gave the period as five years or so; stating at the same time that it was none of her visitors’ business, and
she had something better to do with her time than stand at the door answering impertinent questions.

  “Well, I’m dashed!” exclaimed Laurence indignantly, as the door closed in his face. “What a virago! You’re sure we have the number of the house right, Madeleine?”

  She produced the letter again, and they all studied it; the heading was quite clear.

  “It’s dated nine years ago,” remarked Corinna dubiously. “It’s quite likely that in so long a time your aunt may have removed elsewhere. But how are we to discover where? If only Richard were with us, I feel he might know what to do.”

  “We don’t need Richard,” declared Laurence roundly. “Tell you what, some of the neighbours must know something. I’ll inquire this side, and do you two try your luck on the other.”

  He knocked vigorously on the door of the adjoining house. Meanwhile, the two girls approached their objective rather more timidly, having been put off by the previous reception. Their cautious knock this time brought a more rewarding response, however; for they were greeted by a comfortable-looking matron with white hair under a lace cap, who smilingly bade them enter.

  “You’ll mean the French lady who used to live next door before the Prestons came,” she asked with a slight grimace as she named her neighbours. “Ay, I mind her well, pour soul, turned out of her own country by them murdering heathens, and neither kith nor kin in England! And the lad, too — a little gentleman if ever I met one! Though later on, when he took to working for the fisher folk, he became more like the other lads, which was only natural, you’ll allow, ma’am.”

  Madeleine, who had been looking downcast, here shared a triumphant glance with Corinna.

  “Do you by any chance know where they went when they removed from here?” asked Corinna.

  “Now there I can’t help you, ma’am. But maybe some of the fishermen might know something, seeing as the lad earned a trifle working for them.”

  “Can you tell me the names of these men, or where they may be found?”

  The woman shook her head. “Nay, I know nothing of the fisher folk, save that at this time o’day you’ll likely find some of them down on the beach at their nets.”

  There seemed nothing further to be learned; so, having thanked their informant graciously, they took their leave.

  Laurence had received no answer to his knock on the other door, and now awaited them hopefully.

  “I see you gained admittance — any luck?”

  “I’m afraid we didn’t discover much to the purpose.”

  Corinna then repeated the gist of her conversation with the kindly occupant of the house.

  He pursed his lips. “Mm. Not much to go on, is it? Still, we’ll leave no possibility unexplored. Tell you what, I’ll escort you two back to the inn and you can await me there while I pursue inquiries on the beach.”

  Presently he left them in the Old Ship while he crossed the road to go down to the beach. He soon espied a little farther along a number of boats drawn up on the shingle and some men nearby busy with nets. He approached quickly, his boots crunching on the pebbles, but no one favoured him with so much as a glance when he halted.

  He accosted the nearest, a surly-looking individual dressed like the others in a dark jersey, stained breeches, and high sea boots.

  “A word with you, if you please, my good fellow.”

  The man looked up, eyed him contemptuously, spat, then continued with mending one of the nets.

  Suppressing an instinctive urge to teach the fellow better manners, Laurence moved away to another of the men. Here he encountered the same lack of interest, though shown with less incivility. He jingled some coins together in his pocket, and was given a hard stare from very blue eyes set in a weather-beaten face.

  He stated his business as briefly as possible. The man heard him out, as did another who was working close by, and had paused to listen. Both shook their heads.

  At first, he believed that the ignorance expressed by them was genuine enough; but as he went from one to another of the group, always receiving the same kind of evasive replies to his questions, he began to gain the impression that they were deliberately withholding information. He turned his back on them in disgust.

  He was about to give up and stalk back to the inn, when he noticed a solitary fisherman standing at some distance from the others who had obviously been watching. He strode purposefully towards him.

  The man began to retreat, but Laurence caught up with him, laying a detaining hand on his shoulder. The fellow turned with a snarl.

  “Take yer ’ands off me, young buck!”

  He raised a threatening arm.

  “Shouldn’t if I were you,” warned Laurence, opening his fist to disclose a guinea. “No need, anyway. All I want of you is to know the whereabouts of some friends of mine, and I’m willing to pay for the information.”

  The man dropped his arm, his eyes glinting at sight of the gold.

  “What friends?” he demanded.

  “They’re French, name of Fougeray, and there was a boy who used to work with you fishermen. They left the town about five years since, but no one seems to know where they went. This is yours” — he thrust forward the guinea — “if you can help me to find them.”

  The man’s eyes shifted momentarily to Laurence’s face, before returning to the guinea.

  “There was a lad,” he admitted grudgingly. “Worked for some o’ us until he took up wi’ more risky business.”

  “What d’you mean by risky business?”

  “Smugglin’ an’ the like. Not ’ere — nobody ’ere don’t meddle in suchlike,” he added hastily. “Law-abidin’ folk, we be.”

  He held out his hand expectantly, but Laurence shook his head.

  “You’ll need to tell me more than that,” he said firmly. “Where do these smugglers operate?”

  A scared look came over the weather-beaten face.

  “Don’t do to meddle wi’ they,” he said almost in a whisper. “Cut out yer liver an’ lights, that lot would, as soon as look at yer. I’m tellin’ naught else — keep the blunt, so long’s ye let me be.”

  He began to turn away, but Laurence detained him with a hand on his arm.

  “Answer one question only — just nod your head, if you’re scared to say more. Do these gentry operate down the coast towards Eastbourne?”

  The man hesitated, then gave a quick nod. Laurence passed over the guinea, which was quickly palmed.

  On his way back to the Old Ship, he meditated over what he had learned. It seemed likely that Madeleine’s cousin had been working for the very same smugglers who had recently brought himself and the others across the Channel. There would scarcely be two gangs operating in the same area.

  If that were so, then it was possible that the de Fougerays had moved somewhere nearer to the centre of operations, and might even be in the neighbourhood of Eastbourne. The devil of it was that he could scarcely tell Madeleine what he suspected. It would not be pleasant news for the poor girl that her cousin was — or had been — in league with a gang of smugglers!

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  When Laurence told Madeleine that he could obtain no more certain information than that her aunt and cousin had most likely removed to the vicinity of Eastbourne, she was deeply disappointed.

  “No matter for that,” he said encouragingly, seeing her crestfallen look. “It’s only five miles from here, y’ know, and I expect a few inquiries there will soon find them.”

  She thanked him for his trouble, but remained acutely conscious of being obliged to rely on his elder sister’s hospitality for a longer period than she had envisaged. Her independent nature chafed at this, and she determined to set about obtaining a lodging elsewhere. She lost no time, therefore, in questioning one of the housemaids about the possibility of finding accommodation in the nearby village.

  “There is a large house in the village, I think,” she said to the girl, recollecting something which had been said by Lydia Beresford on the day of thei
r arrival. “It belongs to a gentleman who has recently been engaging servants. I wonder, do you know the name of the lady who manages the household?”

  “Oh, yes, miss,” answered the girl, pleased at being able to oblige. “’Tis Mr Grenville’s house, called Eastdean Place, an’ the gennelman’s never been nigh it for I dunnamany years, but now ’e’s doin’ it up good an’ proper, spendin’ a mort o’ money on it. The lady in charge there is called Mrs Benton — a regular Tartar, so our Sukey says.”

  Madeleine asked how far it was to the village and where Eastdean Place was situated. She was given directions, and told she could easily walk there. She said nothing of her intentions to Corinna and the others. She arose early the next morning before they were astir, partook of a light breakfast, then set out on her solitary walk.

  She went through and beyond the village of Eastdean until she reached the track which she had been told led eventually to Birling Gap. After a short distance, she turned into a narrow lane and soon came upon the house she sought, approached by a neglected drive full of weeds.

  Eastdean Place was a large, flint-built house with a pillared portico surrounding the front entrance and bay windows on either side. It was being redecorated, she saw, for some scaffolding had been erected and workmen were busy.

  She hesitated for a few moments, doubtful if she should approach the front door on her particular errand. Presently she walked round the house until she came to a side entrance, and here she knocked.

  The door was opened by a footman in shirt sleeves and a green cloth waistcoat. He had evidently been polishing silver, for he held a vase and a rag in one hand. He stared at her, dumbfounded.

  “I wish to see Mrs Benton, please,” she said firmly.

  Evidently he was uncertain of the status of this visitor, for he hesitated.

  “Madam b’aint receivin’, miss,” he said, in broad Sussex tones.

  “I am come on business,” said Madeleine, with more assurance than she felt. “If your mistress is at home, pray have the goodness to conduct me to her at once.”