The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster

by Patricia Veryan

  In full cry, Mrs. Stansbury left no doubt as to her opinion of Gervaise Valerian, his ancestors and all his relations. Shrill sobs and wailings followed.

  Desperate, Cranford sprang up and snatched for the bell-pull.

  “Do not dare!” hissed the outraged matron.

  “But—but you are clearly overset, ma’am. Surely, you will need your maid to—”

  “Sit—down!”

  The words were a snarl; almost, she crouched in her chair, the thin hands crooked as though preparatory to attacking him. Obeying, Cranford thought, ‘Dear heaven, what a dragon!’ But he managed to gather his wits and say, “My deepest regrets if I have brought you grief, ma’am. I’ll go and leave you in—”

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” She leaned forward, teeth bared and eyes glaring fury even as she wiped savagely at tears of frustration. “I do not hesitate to say I am appalled to find that a well-bred gentleman, such as you appear to be, would stoop to come here with so—so despicable a betrayal! Appalled, I say! And you may be sure the ton will sympathize with the shock and grief of a mother whose—whose precious child has been abandoned… Cast off like—like an unwanted—” She disappeared into her handkerchief once more, her words muffled.

  The uproar had not gone unnoticed, and Cranford drew a breath of relief as the door was flung open and a young lady hurried in, followed by a maid and a footman. His hope that a rescue party had arrived was short-lived, however. The maid, clearly frightened, hurried to the side of her mistress; the footman paused just inside the door, eyeing Cranford truculently.

  Turning from Mrs. Stansbury’s wilting form, the young lady demanded, “What has this—person—said to so upset you, Mama?”

  Cranford thought numbly, ‘So this must be the shipwrecked spinster,’ and his heart sank. He had stayed at his club in London these past two days, avoiding his friends while struggling to decide whether to accede to his great-uncle’s demands. Having arrived at a most reluctant decision, it had been all he could do to summon the fortitude to act upon it. En route here he had tried hard to be comforted by the knowledge that his self-sacrifice would rescue an unfortunate girl from social ruin, besides ensuring that Muse Manor would not be wrest from his family.

  He’d not been sufficiently noble to be comforted, but he had thought himself prepared. Valerian had described his erstwhile fiancée as being “fat and spotty.” Not an inspiring picture, but preferable in his opinion to the young female who now faced him. She was not at all fat, being actually very slender, and in spite of the fact that she was taller than the height deemed desirable in a female, her extremely elaborate wig, of the latest French style, was very high. She wore a great deal of paint for so youthful a lady (perhaps to conceal the spots), and although her features were not unattractive, both mouth and eyelids drooped disdainfully and her expression was so haughty that he feared she must have inherited her mother’s disposition. All in all, Miss Cordelia Stansbury was a far cry from the shamed and humble girl he had expected to meet. She looked, in fact, more likely to strike him than to be grateful for the rescue he meant to offer. Considerably unnerved, he bowed, and said, “’Twas not my intent to upset—”

  Mrs. Stansbury interrupted rudely, “Was it not, indeed! Then what was your intent, pray? Why are you here, Mr. Cranford?”

  It was a home question. He glanced uneasily at the younger lady. “I had hoped to discuss the matter with you in private, ma’am.”

  Miss Cordelia fluttered her fan and uttered a shrill laugh. “Fie, but you need not coat your words with sugar on my account, sir. I know well enough what people say of me.”

  Her mother cast her an irritated glance, and having dismissed the servants, performed curt introductions.

  Miss Cordelia selected a chaise and sat down; no mean feat considering that her pink velvet skirts were not worn over rounded hoops, English fashion, but were spread instead over the great flattened panniers now in vogue in France.

  “Mr. Cranford is cousin to Gervaise Valerian,” barked her mother. “You had best leave us, my love, for you will not like to hear what he has come to say.”

  “I should very much like to hear what he has to say, if you please, Mama,” argued the girl. “Is it an apology, perhaps, for Mr. Valerian’s failure to call upon me?”

  “More likely an offer of recompense for—what do those sly solicitors call it nowadays?—breach of promise?” Mrs. Stansbury tucked in her chin and added malevolently, “It had best be a large amount! He can certainly afford it!”

  Astonished by such vulgar presumption, Cranford glanced again at the notorious spinster. She sat very still and did not comment, and with the windows behind her it was difficult for him to see her expression. “Scarcely, madam,” he responded drily.

  “Indeed, sir? Indeed?” Mrs. Stansbury’s enraged screech made him wince. “And how will he justify such stark cruelty to a stricken and innocent maiden, I should like to know? I wonder Lord Nugent Cranford allows any kinsman of his to display such a rampant lack of honour and responsibility! Well, all Society will hear of it, I promise you, sir! And your name will be—”

  Cranford stood and lifted one hand. This loud-voiced, hard-eyed woman appalled him but he managed to gather his courage, and in a cold voice that cut off the tirade, he said, “Have done, madam! I am indeed sorry that Miss Stansbury has suffered such a sad—accident. But you know as well as I why Valerian has drawn back. And—No! Pray hear me out. You know also that while the ton may not approve of his action, neither would they condemn it. However—” He had to raise his voice to override her spluttering indignation. “However, my great-uncle is indeed aware of our family responsibility, and I am here today, ma’am, to ask if I might be permitted to—to call upon your daughter. In my own behalf.”

  It was done. The die was cast and his fate sealed. He could feel perspiration starting on his brow and had to restrain the impulse to wipe it away.

  After a breathless pause, Mrs. Stansbury said incredulously, “You? But, but—We don’t even know you! Or,” she added in a rush, “what your prospects may be.”

  “I can furnish you with any information you may wish, ma’am. I am not a rich man, but I have no need to apologize for my name or my home. If I may be permitted to call and take Miss Stansbury for a drive tomorrow, perhaps we can learn more about one another, and—” He stopped, staring.

  The ruined and disgraced young spinster was laughing hilariously.

  “Unkind!” Miss Laura Finchley pulled away from the strong arm that held her close against a muscular chest and turned fiercely on the man she loved. “You use too gentle a term, Florian! I hold it to be nothing less than disgraceful! Cordelia is a living, breathing, lovely human being, yet is being placed on the auction block just as if she were a—a cow or a sheep! Much her mama cares whether she knows or even likes the man she will wed! Her only concern is that he must be rich!”

  At nineteen, Laura Finchley was a quiet damsel whose only claim to beauty was a pale complexion that appeared almost translucent and was the envy of her friends. Slightly below average height, she did not indulge herself at table, but no amount of tugging and lacing could create a satisfactory waistline, and her bosom was too slight to compensate for this defect. The velvet gown she wore on this windy day, although of the latest fashion, did not become her, the pale green giving her a washed-out appearance. Her hair, of an indeterminate brown, was inclined to frizz, her face was more square than the oval she so admired, and she described her looks, ruefully, as “humdrum.” The sweetness of her nature was evidenced by the kindness in her soft brown eyes and gentle voice, but despite her timidity, she had a firm chin and on occasion would exhibit a determination that startled her relatives. On this chill afternoon, when she was believed to be reading in the luxurious parlour of her suite, she was instead deep in her father’s woods, sitting on a fallen tree-trunk improperly close to her most “unsuitable” suitor, Mr. Florian Consett.

  Florian lost no time in replacing his arm. Smiling fondly into
his lady’s flashing eyes, he pointed out that Mrs. Stansbury had tried to arrange a match between her daughter and Gervaise Valerian. “And you say Cordelia loves the gentleman—no?”

  Laura sighed and nestled close against the handsome young man whose jet hair and olive complexion reinforced the opinions of those who held him to be of gypsy birth. “She has loved him all her life,” she said sadly. “But…”

  “But Miss Cordelia is neither beautiful—No, do not fly into the boughs, my loyal little love! Be honest.”

  “Are you being honest? When did you last see her?”

  “I think I have never seen the lady. But I’ve heard that despite the fact she is judged rather plain and has now come home in deep disgrace, she rejected Mr. Cranford when he was so gallant as to offer for—”

  “Ooh!” Laura wrenched away again and declared, “I would think, of all people, you would understand her feelings!”

  Florian’s dark eyes hardened. “Of… all people…? Do you mean that because your sire judges me a—what did he call me the last time?—‘a thieving gypsy bastard’ who has not the right to polish your shoes, much less aspire to your hand—”

  Distressed, she pressed her fingers to his lips and murmured, “Never say such things, my dearest love. You know I do not share my papa’s prejudices. What I meant was that—because we are sadly denied our happiness I think you might sympathize with my poor Cordelia’s predicament. When she laughed at Mr. Cranford’s offer—”

  Florian gave a gasp. “She laughed? Oh, Jupiter! Small wonder my Lieutenant had a face like a thunder-cloud when he came back home! I do not understand, Laura. If her admired Gervaise don’t want her—and mind you, he’s not a quarter the man Mr. Cranford is—one might suppose she’d be grateful to—Whoops! I’ve done it again! You’re gnashing your teeth at me!”

  “You deserve that I should! What is she to be grateful for, pray tell? An offer from a gentleman she knows has not the smallest interest in her, and would wed her purely to save the face of that puffed-up uncle of his?”

  “Great-uncle, love. And Miss Cordelia’s face would thus be saved also, I think. But we have other things to talk of then—”

  “Than my poor friend?” Miss Finchley uttered a lady-like snort. “Who is offered a marriage made in heaven, no less! Small wonder she refused to accept such a loveless bargain.”

  Florian sighed, but lifted her hand and kissed it tenderly, “And what of her fierce mama? How did she view this—bargain?”

  “She boxed poor Cordelia’s ears and said she had thrown away her last chance for a respectable marriage—which was the most she could hope for now she has ruined herself. And that she does not intend to support a spinster daughter for the rest of her days.”

  “The lady would seem to have a hard heart. I collect Miss Cordelia has no choice but to apologize and accept my Lieutenant, which would be in her best interests at all events. Now can we not talk of our own—”

  “You mistake it!” overrode the single-minded Miss Finchley. “Cordelia is proud—too proud to spend her life kissing Mr. Cranford’s boots and whining of her gratitude and—and repentance!”

  “As if he would expect such slavish behaviour,” said Florian indignantly. “Piers Cranford is one of the finest men I know. He may not possess a great fortune, but as his wife Miss Stansbury would be treated with a kindness she’d likely never have been shown by that strutting popinjay Valerian!”

  Laura pulled the hood of her cloak tighter against a gust of cold wind and said slowly, “You may be right, dear. But I think Cordelia will never wed any other, however her mama may plot and scheme.”

  “Gemini! Do you fancy Mrs. Stansbury will try again to—”

  “To entrap another hapless bachelor? Most definitely! Cranford didn’t really suit her, at all events. She says he is a nobody and not to be compared with Gervaise Valerian for looks or fortune.”

  “Which is why every matchmaking mama in the ton is on the catch for him. One might think she would have realized her daughter was, er”—Florian hesitated and finished cautiously—“not likely to catch his eye.”

  “True, I suppose. Gervaise is everything most girls dream of—handsome, charming, wealthy, and heir to a baronetcy. Mrs. Stansbury knew he could have his pick of London’s beauties and that there was no chance for Cordelia unless he were forced into offering. Oh, Florian! If you but knew how mortified she was at that dreadful ball.”

  “What do you suppose she will do now? Life with her mama must be insupportable, I’d think. Has she relations who would take her in?”

  “I rather doubt it. Mrs. Stansbury quarrelled with all of them and they have been completely estranged ever since.”

  “Even so, Miss Cordelia must live somewhere, dearest. Surely her mama would not dare turn her out into the street, and she is too young to set up her own household.”

  “She told me she has—a Plan.” Laura looked solemn. “And—oh, my goodness, I know her—Plans. Faith, but I dread to think of what may happen.”

  Florian kissed her cheek and tightened his arm about her. “Then turn your thoughts instead to what may happen to us, my love.”

  She leaned her head against his shoulder and said sadly, “I dread to think of that as well. If my father should ever find out that I sometimes slip out to meet you!…”

  “He would have my ears, I know. And in truth I cannot blame the gentleman. You deserve a splendid match, rather than to be tied to a young fellow who cannot even claim a legal family name and has no fortune whatsoever!”

  Smiling at him fondly, Laura said, “You will succeed, I know it. You have looks and charm and—”

  “And had it not been for the Cranford twins I would have starved by this time.” He said without enthusiasm, “Perhaps I should take the King’s shilling and enlist in the Army. I might work my way up—”

  “And in the meantime I would never see you!” Seizing him by the collar of his coat, she cried, “And you might be killed! Oh, Florian! I could not bear it if I lost you! Only think, dearest, Lieutenant Piers has already made you his steward—a splendid achievement for so young a man!”

  “And that achievement would render me acceptable in the eyes of your sire? Hah!”

  “But—but I am growing older, Florian! I am nineteen already. We have only to wait until I am of age. Papa cannot forbid me to marry you then.” She tilted up his chin and peered into the eyes that had been turned from her. “Dear one—you will wait? No, look at me! And promise you’ll not go rushing off into the Army.”

  He forced a smile and kissed her and gave her his promise. Soon afterwards, watching her scurry across the park towards her father’s great house, he was all too aware that meeting her against Major Finchley’s wishes was dishonourable conduct. Lieutenant Piers had warned him repeatedly against coming here. Yet what other hope had they for ever seeing each other? Piers Cranford was a fine man, but if he had ever loved deeply, he would understand. Still, the need for all this secrecy brought a troubled frown to his face, and returning to the shrubs where he had tethered his horse, he acknowledged wistfully that he and his beloved had small chance of ever finding their happiness.

  “It’s agin me nature to come frettin’ ye with it, Mr. Cranford.” Oliver Dixon perched on the very edge of his chair in the Muse Manor study, turning his hat in gnarled, agitated hands as he gazed across the littered desk at his young landlord. “If we hadn’t had so much dratted rain, the river likely wouldn’t’ve backed itself up, nor the bridge wouldn’t’ve fell itself down. But as things are, sir, I be powerful glad you’re home again.”

  “Yes.” Cranford smiled and said bracingly that he would ride over to the farm in the morning. “And well see what’s to be done, Oliver.”

  Dixon looked even more distressed. “If ye could possibly come today, sir,” he pleaded. “The fields are gettin’ flooded, and me cows be already hock-deep in water, and the feed’s gettin’ soaked and turnin’ mouldy, and I cannot haul feed in wi’out Hound’s Tooth Bridge!”


  Cranford nodded worriedly. “I wish I could come today, but I’ve two fellows waiting to see me, and there’s no point in my riding out to the farm after dark. Have you been able to discover what caused the river to back up? We’ve come through more severe winters than this with no trouble.”

  “By what I can tell, sir, the side of Hounds Tooth Hill just give way and slid down. Blocked the whole channel and sent the water rushin’ into my fields!”

  “Did it, by Jove! Then until we can clear the river-bed, there’s nothing for it but you must haul your supplies over the east bridge. It’s the long way round, but—” Cranford paused. “What now?”

  The farmer shook his head and said glumly, “Can’t be done, sir. We’d have to cross the Westermans’ property. I rid over, but there’s big signs bin put up, and it’s more’n I dare do to go past ’em and open the gate.”

  “Gate?” Cranford stood and came around the desk to ask frowningly, “What gate?”

  “The gate in the fence round that there great house they call a cottage. Fence went up whilst you was away, it did, and they’ve stuck up a sign saying as trespassers will be shot! Shot! But I ’spect—if you was to go, sir?…”

  Taken aback by this news, Cranford concealed his vexation and said lightly, “Are you trying to be rid of me, you rascal?” He swung the door open, and calmed Mr. Dixon’s protests, assuring him he spoke in jest, that there must be some misunderstanding on the part of the Westermans, and that he would ride over first thing in the morning, inspect the damage and then call at the Westerman cottage.

  His tenant departed, looking somewhat gratified, but Cranford’s reassuring smile faded. Why the deuce would anyone put up so grim a sign in this peaceful countryside? The sooner he came at the root of it, the better. Despite what he had told Dixon, he was of a mind to ride out as soon as he finished here, if the light held. Glancing up, his heart sank. Aunt Jane was talking with the curate, who had joined the two villagers waiting to see him. They all looked anxious. So much for riding out soon. It would be, he thought stifling a sigh, a long afternoon.