The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster

by Patricia Veryan

  Peregrine laughed. “Acquit us of that, ma’am. Not that we’ve never come to cuffs, my brother being so elderly he must always rule the roost, and—”

  “And my brother being harum-scarum,” interposed Piers with a grin, “and incorrigible and lacking all respect for his seniors. But I think you have broke your beads. May we be of assistance, Miss—er…?”

  “I am Miss Mary Westerman.” She offered a demure little curtsy, and glancing down at the green bead she held, added, “I did not notice it right away, and I fear I must have trod on the poor thing, for as you see it is all mud, but I can have it repaired, so “tis not—” She broke off as a large woman came toiling towards them, waving her arms and panting breathlessly. “Oh, dear! Here is poor Brownie and will be quite out of curl because I am talking with you. Pray excuse me, gentlemen. I must hurry.”

  Their offers to intercede for her were answered by a brief wave as she fled.

  Looking after her, Peregrine said an amused “I think Miss Mary is getting a fine scold from her maid. And what did you think of her, Gaffer? I saw none of the town airs and graces you so dislike, and she’s a pretty little creature, no?”

  “Charming, certainly.” Again, Piers swung into the saddle. “And if you are at your unrelenting matchmaking, for mercy’s sake, give it up. I have but now met the lady. And besides, I’m not in the petticoat line at the moment.”

  “At the moment? You’ve been saying that for years, and only because you spend every waking second worrying about Mitten and me, and the estate. Your time for worries is done, twin. Shut ’em all away. M’sister’s happily wed, and I’ll soon be off your hands, so you’ll have time to concentrate on finding a nice bride. Now, in my opinion, Miss Westerman is—”

  “—Not one to simper and be shyly coy, as damsels are supposed to be,” Piers commented, taking care not to notice his brother’s difficult climb into the saddle. “Certainly the lady is not an arbiter of fashion.”

  Peregrine sighed resignedly. “We are in the country, I’ll remind you, where a lady don’t have to dress as if she’s going to a Town party. Are you become sufficient of an expert in female attire as to criticize her dress?”

  “Gad, no! And I had no business saying such a thing.”

  “Why did you? You ain’t usually so critical.”

  “I hope not! But it struck me that—well, her gown was pink.”

  Throwing a hand to his brow, Peregrine moaned, “Frightful! She should be pilloried!”

  “Bacon brain! Seriously, I never yet met a lady who’d wear a green necklace with a pink gown.”

  “Well, that’s told her tale, poor lass. To the darkest cell in the Tower with her!”

  Piers swiped his tricorne at his aggravating brother. With a whoop, Peregrine was away, and at the gallop the tall bay and the dainty grey filly thundered down the hill once more.

  “Much better.” Miss Jane Guild set a French knot in her embroidery and gave it an approving little nod. “Finding Zoe has made Peregrine very happy and I think she is a darling girl, no matter what your great-uncle says.”

  The withdrawing-room at Muse Manor was a spacious but comfortable chamber, warmed, on this chill evening, by the flames of a fine log fire. Piers rose to move a candelabrum closer to his aunt. After the tragically early deaths of their parents in a shipping disaster some sixteen years ago, Miss Guild had been father and mother to the orphaned twins and their sister Dimity. She was plump now, and her hair, although luxuriant, was greying. Her features reflected good nature, and if she had never been a beautiful woman, they all had known she’d given up her chance for a suitable marriage and chosen instead to care for her dead sister’s family. The children’s terror of being parted was thus banished, and their gratitude had very soon deepened into love.

  “Great-Uncle Nugent hoped each of us would make what he calls ‘gratifying alliances’” said Piers, resting a hand on her shoulder fondly as he returned to his chair. “The old fellow approves of Mitten’s husband, since Tony Farrar has a title and a respectable fortune. But Zoe Grainger has little to recommend her—in his eyes, at least.”

  Miss Guild put down her embroidery and blinked at her tall nephew near-sightedly. “I suppose her dowry is not large, but you’ve always planned that Perry will have a share of the Manor property, no?”

  “If I had my way, he’d have an equal share, but he won’t hear of it. Says the estate must remain intact and that he’ll accept ‘a few acres only,’ the silly numps.”

  “What have you in mind, dear?”

  Piers hesitated briefly, then said with slow deliberation, “My twin has been through several kinds of hell since Prestonpans Hell have his happiness now, by heaven, but he will! I mean to deed him three hundred acres where he can build Zoe the house he’s always dreamt of.”

  “That is so like you, my dear one,” said Miss Guild. “Have you decided which area to give him?”

  “The north-east acreage. He’s always longed to build a house on Quail Hill.”

  Startled, his aunt pushed the spectacles higher on her small nose. “But—that’s on the river parcel! You had to sell that property years ago.”

  “Yes. I mean to buy it back.”

  “But—but I thought you were planning to sell the estate.”

  “Sell Muse Manor? Now why in the name of—Why ever would you think such a thing?”

  “Perhaps because I heard you tell Florian only yesterday that you’ve had many offers and that one was very tempting.”

  “Aye.” Frowning, he said slowly, “And I’d give something to know who made it. The solicitor is blasted secretive about his mystery would-be buyer. Not that it matters. I’ve had lots of offers for Tassels as well, but I’d no more sell her than sell this estate. Even if Perry and Mitten would hear of it—which they would not!”

  Miss Guild blinked over the spectacles, which had slipped down to the end of her nose again and asked if they could afford to buy the river parcel, even if it were put up for sale.

  “Oh, it’s for sale,” Piers said airily. “Old Finchley is hot after it.”

  “Then I do indeed hope we are able to buy it back! I do not like to speak ill of anyone, you know that, but Gresford Finchley is a nasty bully and makes our Florian’s life miserable only because he takes him for a gypsy—which he is not and if he were ’twould make no odds. How shall you go about it, dear? Do you mean to ask Sir Anthony for a loan? I expect he would be only too glad to help.”

  “Perish the thought! Tony is a grand fellow and I couldn’t wish a finer husband for Mitten, but to beg money from a relatively new family member—ugh!”

  Amused by his revulsion, she shook her head and chided him for “foolish pride.”

  He laughed and kissed her, and refrained from divulging that he’d already applied to their banker for a loan. Old Seequist had been agreeable and beyond saying that he’d have to obtain the approval of the directors, had promised to have the papers ready on Friday. It would mean delaying the repairs to the Home Farm this year, but it was much to be preferred over breaking his brother-in-law’s shins. Why, poor Farrar would wonder what kind of family he’d married into!

  “…all of a twitter, and you’ve heard not a word I said!” Miss Guild clicked her tongue and observed that Peregrine had been right. “He was sure you were fretting over something. Am I allowed to know what it is?”

  “It is that my twin borrows trouble where there is none. If my attention wandered just now, ’tis because I am wondering who is ‘all of a twitter,’ as you claim.”

  “Had you been attending me, child, you would have heard me say that this morning I received a letter from your Aunt Clara.”

  “Aha. Cousin Adam up to his tricks again, is he?”

  “If he is, she did not mention it, though that wretched boy has led them a merry dance these past few years. No, my sister-in-law was big with ton news.”

  With a lift of the eyebrows, Piers said, “Never say my Uncle Harvey ventured out of Leicestershire at las
t? I’d not have thought anything could lure him from his precious farm.”

  “A surgeon lured him, poor soul. He will trust no one but the man he’s always gone to in London, so they went but only for two days, and Clara had not time to come down and see us. She was able to take tea with some old friends who gave her all the latest news of the ton. Society is evidently agog because a young lady of Quality, who was lost at sea a year or so ago, has been rescued from some island or other and is back in Town again. You can imagine the scandal!” Miss Guild sighed. “How I feel for the poor child.”

  Piers looked at her curiously. “I’d think you’d be glad for her. I fancy her family must be overjoyed, unless she is ill, perhaps?”

  “Ruined, rather. No, never look so betwattled, Piers. Do but consider: a young spinster, unchaperoned, cast up on an island inhabited only by savages, and living with them for a year and more! Goodness gracious! You can imagine what…” She broke off, her gentle face rather pink.

  “I can,” said Piers with a chuckle. “But I don’t believe you can. Or in fact, should, dear Aunt.”

  Her blush deepening, Miss Guild took up her embroidery hurriedly and resorted to the only appropriate comment. “Men!” she said.

  The large coach shot round the bend, taking up the centre of the lane with the team at a full gallop.

  Piers Cranford, who’d been gazing through the window, lost in thought, was hurled to the side as his own carriage swerved violently to avoid a collision.

  On the box, Florian Consett howled an incensed “Hey! Get out of the way, dimwit!”

  The coachman driving the larger vehicle responded with a flood of fiery profanity as his wheels skidded from the road surface. The coach lurched and almost overturned, the horses snorting and squealing in terror. Enraged, the coachman scrambled from the box, seized the bit of the off-leader and attempted to drag the team back onto level ground. His loud curses and brutal hands further alarmed the animals, and he resorted to his whip, cutting savagely at the panicked bay as the horse reared in pain and fright.

  “Stop that at once!” Florian secured the reins, leaped from the box and ran to seize the coachman’s whip and attempt to wrest it from him.

  Cranford wrenched the door open and jumped down. He recognized the other coach as belonging to his neighbour, Gresford Finchley. He hadn’t seen the face of the coachman, but the man’s bulk and temperament identified Grover, the Major’s head-groom, in which case the fat would be in the fire. Sidney Grover shared his master’s loathing for the youth they referred to as “the thieving gypsy,” and he and Florian had already come to blows. Cranford swore and ran to them; he’d not wanted any more disputes with the cantankerous major, but he had no intention of allowing anyone in his service to be abused. Florian had been of inestimable aid to Peregrine, who valued him highly; he had become a friend as well as an employee and, aware of his background, Piers could understand and sympathize with his present behaviour.

  As a child the boy had been stolen by gypsies. His early years had been nightmarish, but his attempts to run away had resulted in such cruel retaliation that he’d given up hope. A kind-hearted man, much respected in the tribe for his artistic abilities, had “adopted” him, given him his own name, and a love of books. For a while he’d been protected, but as he grew into young manhood, his eager pursuit of knowledge and cultured way of speech had irritated many; his reluctance to steal caused him to be viewed with suspicion; and his dark good looks, while winning the hearts of several girls in the tribe, had earned him the increased enmity of the men. In desperation he had at length succeeded in escaping, but had been close to starving when a chance encounter with Peregrine Cranford had led to his being taken into that young ex-soldier’s service.

  Of late, Peregrine’s involvement in diplomatic affairs, and his approaching marriage, made it necessary for him to spend much time in London. Piers, in need of a man with the potential to take on the duties of steward at Muse Manor, had offered Florian the position. Peregrine had protested with much indignation, but he was aware that Florian was happier in the country than in the great City. When the youth’s loyalty had caused him to refuse the offer he yearned to accept, Peregrine relented and encouraged him to make the move. Since then Piers had been well pleased by the young fellow’s industry and intelligence, and he’d made such progress that he was already assuming some of the duties of steward.

  Even as Cranford ran up, a swipe of Grover’s large fist sent Florian reeling. Cranford ran to steady him and demanded furiously that the big groom control his temper. “Had you not been hogging the entire lane, you’d not now be in this predicament!”

  “And did your pretty gypsy know how to handle the ribbons, Lieutenant, sir, there would be no predicament!”

  Cranford turned to face the owner of that harsh and belligerent voice. “My coachman—who is not a gypsy—knows more about horse-flesh than your clumsy bully will ever learn, Finchley,” he responded coldly. “What a pity you do not instruct your people on the unwisdom of schooling a frightened horse with a whip.”

  Major Finchley was a stout individual of late middle age and choleric disposition. He stamped closer, his intense dislike of Piers Cranford causing the hue of his habitually red face to deepen. “I’ve a whip of my own,” he bellowed. “And I give you fair warning, Cranford: If that gypsy whelp you call a servant dares cast his greasy eyes in my daughter’s direction again, I’ll use it to flay him raw; be damned if I don’t!”

  “Nonsense.” said Cranford contemptuously, and glancing at Grover, snapped, ’Tend to your cattle, fellow—and try if you can make your master proud of your skill. Which I doubt.”

  “Curse your insolence,” snarled Finchley. “Don’t use that tone to me, or—” Incoherent, his clenched fist lifted.

  Grover grinned hopefully and stepped beside his employer.

  Florian, pale and his mouth bloodied, all but sprang closer to Cranford.

  The contrast between the opponents was marked, Cranford and Florian looking slight compared to the bulk of the major and his groom.

  Standing very straight as Grover raised the heavy horsewhip, Cranford drawled, “Threats, Finchley? Rate your marksmanship high, do you? Or does your temper outweigh your instinct for self-preservation?”

  The Major started. Losing some of his colour, he said uneasily, “Think to trick me into a duel, do you? Well, you’ll not succeed, damn your eyes, for I’ll not fight over a filthy gypsy.”

  “Indeed?” Cranford enquired curiously, “What will you fight over, I wonder?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough, curse you!”

  “What a pity that I cannot wait for you to reach a decision. Come, Florian. We mustn’t hang about like this.”

  Finchley sent more insults after them as they walked back to their coach, but both the whip and his volume had been lowered.

  “You called his bluff, sir,” said Florian admiringly as he opened the carriage door.

  “They’re a pair of bullies, and bullies retreat when someone faces up to them. But you’ll do well to heed his warning, my lad, and restrain your admiration for his daughter. Both the Major and the charmless Grover would be happy to do you a mischief.”

  Florian said a meek “Yes, sir,” and climbed back onto the box.

  The bank manager’s office was very quiet now, only the shifting coals of the small fire disturbing the silence. It was a mellow, pleasant sort of room, the panelling and the mahogany furnishings reflecting the dignity of its function and imparting an air of polite affluence but not luxury. Cranford thought inconsequently that it smelt like the lair of a bank manager.

  A gust of wind rattled the casements. He glanced out at the lowering skies of early afternoon. It was raining again.

  He knew that Seequist watched him, and he had a hold on his temper now. Meeting the man’s anxious eyes, he said slowly, “Perhaps you will be so good as to tell me why I must see my great-uncle before you will confirm the loan? I am not under the hatches, I believe?”


  “No, no, Mr. Cranford. Your credit is as good as ever, I promise you.” Mr. Seequist was a stout individual, but his clothes were well-tailored and from the buckles on his shoes to his discreetly unpretentious wig he was neat as a pin. He had cultivated a jovial, almost avuncular manner, but today his laugh was as strained as his smile. He said carefully, “But—since his lordship is Executor of your parents’ estate—”

  “He was until I attained my majority,” said Cranford impatiently. “At which point he became our adviser.” An adviser in absentia, he thought cynically, for General Lord Nugent Cranford had been much too busy with his own affairs to concern himself with problems at Muse Manor.

  “As you say, sir.” Mr. Seequist removed his spotless spectacles and concentrated on cleaning them with his handkerchief. “The thing is, you see—an oversight, no doubt—but since we have never received notice of the termination of the Trust…” He shrugged, put on his spectacles again, and spread his pudgy hands apologetically. “You can—ah, understand our predicament. I feel sure you and your brother will have discussed the enlarging of your estate with his lordship, and it will need only—”

  “You mistake it. I have not discussed the matter with Lord Nugent. Nor do I propose to enlarge our estate.”

  “Er—but I understood you to say—”

  “Yes—well, it will enlarge the estate in a sense, I suppose, though the parcel I’m after was once Muse Manor property. Furthermore, my brother knows nothing of this, and I do not want him approached in the matter.”

  Seaquist’s eyebrows went up.

  Again, Cranford strove to control his irritation. The man was an old friend and was bound to protect the bank, after all; no need to get starched up about it. He said levelly, “Peregrine is soon to be wed. I want him to have the river parcel. It’s been his lifelong dream to build a house of his own on Quail Hill when he married.”

  “Ah.” Seequist beamed. “A happy occasion. I felicitate him. Your wedding gift, eh? What a splendid surprise it will be.”