“Very well, he is... liable... to that sort of thing.”
“You are being so coy.”
“I do not want to be unkind to an old man who has lost his son.”
“But you meant something by that. Warm feelings? Do you mean he has a temper?”
“He certainly has that. Yes,” she added with a gesture that was clearly meant to be dismissive.
There was something about her manner that unsettled him. It was not like her to talk for so long in riddles.
“What do you actually mean?” he said, after a moment. “This is not just about him having a bad temper, is it? There is something else.”
She was silent for a moment, then said, “He is an old flirt. But you knew that. So there we have it.”
“I don’t think we do. Did something happen between you?”
“Not of any consequence.”
“What happened?” he said.
“Is it so important?”
“Yes.”
“I would rather forget it. As I said, it was nothing of any consequence.”
“Then why do you wish to forget it?” he said. “Something has happened that has hurt you, otherwise you would not be hiding this from me. Has he hurt you in some way? Has he offended you?”
“It was trivial. I don’t want to make anything of it.”
“But something happened? What did he do?”
“Please, I really would rather not. You will be –” She broke off and got up from the sofa, walking across the room. “It’s not necessary for you to know. Surely we are allowed to use our discretion in such matters? I’m sure there are a great many painful things that you have decided not to vex me with.”
“Dear Lord, what happened?” Giles said, getting up. “Did he – what did he do? What happened?”
“It was nothing, really, nothing at all!” she said. “Please, I do not want to talk about it.”
He turned her gently to face him.
“I think you should. For your own sake.”
“And be told that –” She broke off and stepped away. “That one was a fool for allowing it to happen?” she said. “Even you, the most kind and sensible of men, will draw that conclusion. Of course you will. It is the conclusion I have drawn myself and why I don’t think there is anything to be gained by talking about it. I made a foolish mistake and I have learnt my lesson. Please, can that be an end of it?”
“You are judging yourself too harshly,” he said. “If I have correctly understood what you are implying, then it is his fault, not yours.”
“He’s a silly old man, yes, an old goat, yes!” she burst out, “but he knows no better! I should have known better! I should not have gone with him and I should not have talked to him as I did. It is like the spark that lights a patch of dry stubble, surely? If I had not talked as I did, if I had not attempted to amuse him to keep him happy about that ridiculous low rent on the house then he would not have considered that I was willing to pay for my reduced rent in kind!”
“What?”
“He took me to mean that I was offering myself as rent!” She choked out her words. “And attempted to collect the first instalment.”
Now she began to cry, throwing herself into a chair, twisting away from him and refusing to straighten when he attempted to take her into his arms. Instead, she seemed to flinch at his touch. Bending over her, he said, as gently as he could, “What did he do?”
He sank to the floor beside her and listened to her crying. In his mind a hundred phantom versions of her ordeal played out, and he was shaking with anger. Then suddenly she turned and flung herself into his arms, sobbing furiously against him, clinging to him, so that they sat in a miserable tangle on the floor.
At length she stopped crying and managed to say, “You will not do anything foolish, will you? It was all my fault. There is no need to –”
“I should like very much to do something foolish and violent,” he said, “to tell the truth.”
“I know, but you must not. Please?”
“I will not,” he said, kissing her on the forehead. “I promise.” She sighed at that and pressed herself a little more tightly against him. “But I shall do something, and he will be punished for it, you may be sure of it.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
Giles passed a wretched night, thinking all the time of Emma in her distress. It had been difficult to leave her to bear her burden of suffering alone. She might have told him she could manage, and knowing her strength, he was sure that she could, yet he longed for some clever magic to make her forget all she had suffered. But she would have pointed out that to be relieved in such a fashion was not good for her character.
He found her first thing the next morning, standing on the great portico watching the mists rolling from the distant parklands, as the last of the summer slipped into the start of autumn. It was a beautiful sight.
“Did you manage to sleep?” he asked, having greeted her with a kiss.
“Better than I have done lately,” she said. “You look as if you did not.”
“Not a great deal, no,” Giles said. “But that does not matter.”
She sighed. “Oh, I should not have –”
“No,” he said, pressing his finger to her lips. “No, it is better told, you know that.” She nodded.
“And I have been thinking,” he went on, “about Sir Morten. About what can be done. I need to go into Northminster. I had an idea, last night – and I need to speak to Mark Hurrell. So I must desert you, I’m afraid. Will you be all right?”
“I’m not such a frail vessel, Major Vernon,” she said, adjusting his cravat to her satisfaction. “And I have plenty to do here. Maria has many useful enterprises in hand. I shall submit myself to her management.”
“She is very sensible for her age.”
“No wonder Mr Hurrell admires her,” Emma said. “And he would admire her even more, to see how she is carrying herself through all this wretched business.”
“I think she may be rewarded for it,” Giles said. “I think we may have the key to it all to hand.”
“Oh, I hope so. I cannot help but like him extremely,” said Emma.
“Careful, you will make me jealous,” said Giles.
At this moment a young woman, mounted on a vast, well-muscled grey horse, came galloping up to the house. It was Mrs Carswell. Behind her, his own mount struggling to keep pace, was Fenton, one of the more senior grooms at Holbroke.
“I never saw a young woman so reckless on a horse,” said Emma. “Surely she should not be riding such a large animal? Is that one of Lord Rothborough’s hunters?”
“At least she has Fenton with her,” said Giles, going down to catch the horse’s bridle. “Good morning, ma’am!” Giles said.
“Oh, good morning, Major Vernon,” said Mrs Carswell, dismounting with perfect ease. “Do you like my new horse?”
“Your horse, Mrs Carswell?” said Emma, coming down the steps. “Goodness!”
“I bought him in Scotland,” she said. “He is perfectly noble, is he not?”
“Yes, but rather lively, I should say!” said Giles, struggling a little with the defiant horse.
“Here, sir,” said Fenton. “Let me take him.”
“Thank you,” said Giles, glad to be relieved. Even Fenton seemed to be tested by the animal as he led him towards the stables.
“Mind you cool him down properly, Fenton!” said Mrs Carswell. “Be very particular!”
“Yes, yes, ma’am, of course!” said Fenton.
“He is as sweet as a child if handled properly,” Mrs Carswell said.
“I’m sure,” said Emma, “but such animals can be a little risky, perhaps?”
“He doesn’t frighten me,” Mrs Carswell said.
At this moment Mr Carswell came out onto the portico in his dressing gown and slippers.
“What are you doing –?” he began, his voice still hoarse. “I thought you said when we got him that you were going to put him to stud?”<
br />
He staggered towards one of the stone benches and sat down.
“Oh, he’s perfectly safe!” she said. “I know what I am doing.”
“Do you?” Carswell said. “Do you want to break your neck?”
“Would you care if I did?” she said.
“Nell –” Carswell said, gesturing towards Giles and Emma. “Please!”
“Would you?” When Carswell did not answer at once, she said, “That says it all, doesn’t it?”
She scooped up her habit skirt, threw it over her arm and marched into the house. Carswell rose and was about to stagger after her, but instead Emma took his arm and guided him back to the bench.
“Catch your breath, Mr Carswell,” she said.
He nodded and sat there tugging at his collar, his face crimson.
“What –” he began, pressing his hands to his face.
“Hush now,” she said. “Yes?” He nodded dutifully. “We cannot have a relapse.”
“I should not care!” Carswell burst out. “It could not be worse...” He gazed up at Giles with wide eyes and gestured behind him, towards where Mrs Carswell had departed. “It would be better if I were dead and buried! What use am I? Why should Bennett have died and not I? That is what I cannot answer. He had a better mind and certainly a better character. He did not –” He broke off, screwing up his face.
Now Emma had her arm about his shoulders.
“Hush, hush,” she said. “The fever is still playing tricks on you. You must rest, and it will all seem clearer. You should not have got up last night, I dare say.”
“No, perhaps not,” said Giles. “Let us get you back to your bed, Carswell.”
Having helped Emma to settle Carswell again, Giles set off to find Mark Hurrell at the schoolmaster’s house, trying to dismiss his uncharitable thoughts about Mrs Carswell. But it was hard not to conclude that she was still very much a foolish child who had a great deal to learn. She was certainly going to be a test of character for Carswell. Giles could only hope his friend would find the necessary reserves of fortitude to make a success of the marriage.
Mark Hurrell’s quarters at the schoolmaster’s house consisted of a snug bed-sitting room which he had turned into a scholarly cell. Giles found him sitting at his writing table, surrounded by papers and books.
“Miss Wytton mentioned you were writing about the Celtic saints,” Giles said.
“Yes. I have been at that for some time,” Hurrell said. “It was Arthur who suggested I do so. He always loved those tales, though to him they were not tales but as true as anything in the Gospels. That was the difficulty for me. The more I worked on those curious old saints, the less they seemed true to me, but more akin to fairy tales.”
“In which there is a different kind of truth,” Giles said. “So I have heard it said.”
“And that is why I have gone on with them. And I have got fond of Patrick and Ninian and all the others.”
“I would have thought your last experience would discourage you from literary pursuits,” Giles said.
“I never learn my lesson, Major Vernon,” said Mr Hurrell. “That is my misfortune. But there was something you said last night which made me think – about a first novel often being an ill-disguised memoir? That is certainly true in my case. I wrote that book because I had to – it was a compulsion – and I would have been better burning it before it ever got to the printer. But I learnt a great deal from the doing of it and I hope I might write a better novel yet, more in wisdom than in anger. If the fates permit, that is – or whoever may be in charge of my existence.” He finished with a gesture towards Giles.
“If you mean me,” said Giles, “you should know that I have no authority at this present moment in any enquiries concerned with your brother’s death. You have nothing to fear from me, Mr Hurrell. I am just worrying at loose threads, as I always do. You might say that I never learn my lesson either. So it is in that spirit I ask you if you would go to Rooke Court with me today. There are things there about which I would like to satisfy my own curiosity, and I need your assistance.”
“In what way? I cannot help you with access to the property. You know how things are between my father and myself –”
“No, there is no need for that. I can come and go there as I wish. I am supposed to become your father’s tenant in the near future.”
“Supposed?” said Mark Hurrell, getting up and putting on his coat.
“We have not yet signed the lease,” Giles said. “So you will come?”
“This is to do with my mother’s death?”
“Yes.”
“I was thinking of it all night.”
“So was I,” said Giles, “amongst other things. Shall we go?”
Arriving in Northminster, they stopped first at Hopkins’ office where Mr Hopkins was glad to give them the keys to the property, and then they went to the Minster Precincts.
The old house stood looking as charming as ever, the heavy veil of creeper enfolding it like a modest woman with her shawl.
“It’s curious to be here again,” Hurrell said, looking up, “after all that has happened. And you are proposing to live here?”
“That was our plan,” said Giles. “But my circumstances have changed a little since then.”
“But you are still to marry Mrs Maitland?” said Hurrell.
“Yes, that is fixed,” said Giles, “thankfully.” He took the key from his pocket and unlocked the front door.
“Let us go up to the drawing room,” he said, and they went upstairs to the room with the echo. “This is the room you were describing?”
“Yes, this was where she spent her time.”
“You said she was lying on a couch. Where was it?”
“Here, I think,” said Mark Hurrell, indicating an area to the side of the room.
“Was there a carpet on the floor?”
“No. The room was scarcely furnished. That was what was so shocking.”
“So the chaise was sitting on bare boards?”
“Yes.”
“Something occurred to me last night,” Giles said, getting down on his hands and knees and feeling for a loose board. “I remembered that a neighbour of my parents had repairs done and the boards in one room were entirely taken up. And lo and behold, they found some scandalous love letters under the boards. The previous lady of the house had been anxious to conceal them from her husband and so pushed them into the gap between the boards.” He took a small iron crowbar from his coat pocket. “And I wondered if your mother might have done something similar.” Finding a loose board, he cranked it up to reveal the rubble beneath. “If she were lying above here,” he said, “on her couch. Then –”
Now Hurrell was beside him tugging at the boards to the left and right.
“Dear Lord, yes! Why not?” he said. “After all, she did once catch me pushing playing cards through the holes between the boards in the nursery. Major Vernon, you are quite the wizard! Lady Maria said you were. Oh, what is that down there?”
Giles reached in and brought out a tightly folded paper. He brushed the dust from it, and saw it was addressed in faint letters to ‘Mark Hurrell.’
He found himself staring at it for a moment, astonished that his own instincts – no, his fancy – should have guided him so surely.
“Addressed to you, Mr Hurrell,” he said, holding it out to Hurrell.
Hurrell took it and stared down at it, his hand trembling.
“Yes,” he said, and handed it back to Giles. “I cannot believe it can be so, but – you had better open it, though.”
Giles went to the window and carefully unfolded it, feeling from the weight that something was enclosed within. His instinct was correct – there was a twist of paper and a lock of hair tied in a scrap of ribbon.
The letter itself was written in one of the most tortured hands Giles had ever seen, the ink thinly applied as if the writer was afraid both of making a mark and of wasting ink. It made it almost impossible to decipher.
He managed to read a few words and then handed it to Hurrell.
“Do you recognise the hand?” he said.
Hurrell nodded.
“That is my mother’s hand,” he said, after a pause. “Although you would hardly know it. It is very deformed, but her hands were all twisted up that last time I saw her, and the date – yes, it is the day before I last saw her: April 17th 1829. I saw her last on the 18th. How much it must have hurt her to write this – oh, Lord...”
Giles gave him a few moments to read it through.
“And what does she say?” he asked.
“She says –” Hurrell said, his voice indistinct with emotion. “Excuse me.” With some effort, he read from the letter.
My dearest child, if you are reading this I will have gone to my grave and God willing, I will have found my place in that realm of Heavenly love where no one can be hurt or harmed. Pray always that it may be so, my sweet boy, and tell your brother and sisters that I will be watching you all should God in His infinite mercy grant me forgiveness for my sins and let me be with Him in that sweet place.
Now, there is something else you must do for me. I know you, Mark, are the boldest and bravest of all my children and the one who is a fearless speaker of uncomfortable truths. You have suffered for your honesty and this is why I give you this awful task. You father believes that I have dishonoured him, but this is not true. You will not let them defame me. You will defend my name, and you will tell the world my fate – that I have been brought low by a man who cannot believe in my innocence, by a man who has taken such steps to punish me that he will have to reckon with the fires of Hell for it.
He has been poisoning me. He told me so himself, knowing that I have only a day or so to live and no way of communicating with the world beyond this prison he has made me. He told me I was vermin and that I was to be extinguished. That poison is the cause of my illness. I have the proof now – I managed to steal a little from his coat (it is enclosed in a scrap of paper) and I beg you to take this letter to someone in authority whom you can trust, perhaps Mary’s godfather in London, and God willing it will not be too late for justice to be done.
I am too tired now. I can write no more.
The Echo at Rooke Court Page 29
