The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster

by Patricia Veryan

  Cranford said with a grin, “And are beyond price, ma’am. Flowers always brighten a table and these are arranged so charmingly.”

  “I might have guessed that you harbour a passion for weeds,” mused Valerian.

  “I grieve that my efforts do not please you,” said Mary tartly.

  “For my part, I find your efforts delightful,” said Cranford. “You used fern here, I see, and admittedly the blue blossom is of silk, but the golden bloom is—”

  “A dandelion,” chortled Valerian.

  Mary said, “Well, ’tis winter-time. One has to use what is available. Besides, I think dandelions are very pretty.”

  “And were created by the same Hand which gave us roses and lily of the valley,” the duke pointed out. “I commend your taste, Miss Mary, and thank you for adding beauty to our table—in more ways than one.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better,” exclaimed Valerian, raising his glass to the duke.

  “Very true,” agreed Cranford.

  Mrs. Lucretia remarked with an amused gesture that they all were very droll, and in so doing overset her wineglass. Claret splashed in all directions. Valerian leaped to his feet and jumped back, dabbing at his waistcoat; Marbury moved his chair aside and rang for the footman; Cranford used his napkin to divert the flow from Mary, and Mrs. Lucretia squealed with mirth and declared she was quite soaked and she dared not guess what her maid would say.

  “She will likely say that you are—very droll, ma’am,” said Valerian wickedly.

  The lady was much too good-natured to take offence at this sarcasm, and laughed till she cried.

  While the footman and a maid hurriedly replaced the covers, another maid led Mrs. Lucretia away to see what could be done to remove the claret from her gown. “Before it sets in proper-like, ma’am.”

  Marbury said smilingly, “Well, my little supper party has been more entertaining than I could have hoped. Now tell me, Cranford, what’s all this about your trying to find a cat?”

  “Would that be the mog you kicked in the stable, coz?” enquired the dandy.

  Mary looked shocked, and Cranford said, “You really must try to keep your facts straight, Valerian. Major Finchley was hastening to get his horse clear of the fire and the cat got in his way.”

  “So he kicked the poor little kitty, of course.” Mary’s lip curled. “Typical! Was it hurt, Lieutenant? Is that why you’re trying to find it?”

  “It was certainly very frightened. I’ve had my groom searching about, but I suppose, like all injured creatures, the kitten has found somewhere to hide itself.”

  He had not intended his remark to be double entendre, and was surprised to find Valerian watching him with a narrowed glare.

  Mary said, “How very kind you are. Pray let me know if you are able to find it.”

  He promised to do as she asked, and seeing the genuine anxiety in her really quite lovely eyes, was touched and promised himself to try for a private word with her after supper.

  His hopes were soon dashed, however. Mrs. Lucretia returned as the third course was being set out and said with a meaningful nod that a gentleman waited to see him and had just been shown to his room.

  Florian must have ridden like the wind, he thought, and murmuring an apology, left them.

  He soon found that his optimistic interpretation of Mrs. Lucretia’s nod was unfounded, for the gentleman who occupied the armchair in his bedchamber was several decades Florian’s senior. Closing the door, Cranford noted that General Lord Nugent was flushed, and his face like a thunder-cloud. Hoping for the best, he said, “Good evening, sir. I’d thought perhaps you and Herbert had left. I didn’t see you at the finish.”

  “Young Turner’s gone off.” With those barked-out words it became clear that brandy had played a large part in the General’s evening. “Good thing. Though I didn’t give him leave—to er, to Heave. Prob’ly in a bottle somewhere if he was’s embarrassed as I was. That was a damned disgraceful exhibition you made of yourself, Left’nant, I don’t scr-scruple t’tellya.”

  Cranford’s heart sank. It had been a long day, and suddenly he ached with tiredness, but he said quietly, “Do you refer to the race, sir?”

  “What the devil else would I refer to? It was—was dashed humiliating, I c’n tell you, to hear my friends laugh when you rid in bareback like some blasted performing cl-clown!”

  Piers’ jaw tightened. “The saddle girth broke, Uncle, and—”

  “Then where in hell were your grooms? If you’d taught the lazy louts to take proper care of your equipment—”

  “Your pardon, sir. Sudbury is a good man, but the girth was cut nigh through, probably at some time after he’d tightened the straps.”

  “Was the clod blind, then? If you’d used your wits you’d have had men watching the mare every m-minute. You certainly knew more than one rogue wished you ill.”

  “As you say, sir. I trust you did not lose a large sum.”

  The General grunted and shifted in his chair. “Did. But I didn’t bet on you, at all events.” Glowering, he added, “Nor did I expect to—to watch you make a curst cake of yourself!”

  “My apologies.” Piers clenched his hands and reminded himself of the times this man had helped his family, but his voice was clipped when he asked, “If that is all you came to say I should be going back to—”

  “Do not dare use that tone to me!” The General stood, rocking slightly, but his eyes flashing wrath. “You came begging my aid once again, and tried to wriggle out of what I asked of you in return. Oh, I know that you counted on this stupid race to rescue you! Instead of which—”

  Standing also, Piers said, “Instead of which I disgraced you—and the family, is that it, sir? Would you perhaps have preferred that I let Viscount Glendenning suffocate, as he surely would have done had I not stopped to—”

  “In which case,” roared the General, his flush deepening alarmingly, “Br-Britain would have rid herself of a rascally traitor who fought under the banner of that Scottish upstart!”

  Piers said sharply, “Not so loud, sir, I beg! Those charges have never been proven ’gainst Tio—”

  “And if they were,” said Lord Nugent, lowering his voice and glancing uneasily to the door. “If they were—’twould be another disgrace to our name, would it not? I know curst well that you all protected that fire-eater when he came within a whisker of being hauled off to the Tower. You’d be damned lucky not to lose your heads—the whole reckless lot of you! Much we owe to the Glendennings!”

  Piers said doggedly, “The viscount has been our friend since we were in short coats. A sorry turn I’d have dealt him had I ridden past and left him to die.”

  “Well, a sorry turn he has dealt you, for you might very well have won the race in despite everything.”

  Meeting those accusing eyes, Piers said slowly, “Perhaps. But do you know, Uncle, I think your words are harsher than your heart. Had you been in my place you’d likely have done the same.”

  Mollified, the General sat down again and growled, “Do not think to turn me up sweet with your clever diplomacy. I’m alive on that suit! But—that’s neither here nor there. Have you no brandy to offer me?”

  Smothering a grin, Piers crossed to the sideboard and poured two glasses.

  The General accepted the drink and stared down at it for a moment, saying nothing.

  The old fellow was trying to compose himself. Something of import was coming. Piers waited.

  “At all events, you are reprieved, m’boy.” The tone now was benevolent and a faint smile was levelled at him. “It seems that Gervaise has—has seen the error of his ways and is willing to live up to his bargain and wed the Stansbury chit.”

  The glass sagged in Piers’ hand. He gasped, “He told you as much?”

  “Not personally. But his man chances to be related to my fellow and—”

  “Servant-hall gossip…”

  “Never look down your nose at it. Tis reliable as—er, as the Archbishop of Ca
nterbury! Now why do you frown? Have you heard something unsavoury about the Archbishop?”

  “I merely wonder what causes you to trust the likes of Gervaise Valerian.”

  “Trust that dandified rake-shame? Do you take me for a flat? Tis said nobody knows a man like his valet. That I do trust. Gad, but you’re a hard man to fathom. I thought you’d be delighted.” The reddened eyes scanned him suspiciously. “Ain’t taken a fancy to the gel yourself, have you?”

  It was a home question. Like a flash of light it dawned on Piers that he had indeed “taken a fancy” to Cordelia Mary Westerman Stansbury. All of ’em! He felt his face growing hot, and he said firmly, “Valerian doesn’t deserve her.”

  “Not deserve a brazen hussy who cavorted about with cannibals for nigh to a year, and shows not a whit of shame for her wanton behaviour?”

  “Mary is neither brazen nor a hussy, and has nothing to be ashamed of! If anyone should feel shame, it is Valerian!”

  Staring at him, the General said, “Only listen to the heated defence! And in what cause? You may disabuse your mind of any hope if you’ve now changed your mind about offering for the gel. She won’t have you.”

  “But you said only a few days ago that—”

  “Perhaps I did. But that was before Valerian threw his hat in the ring, so to speak. Now hear me, young man. You are to back off at once! On no account think of courting the chit yourself. It will be much better for us if Valerian keeps his word and weds her. And of one thing you may be sure: That harpy mother of hers will stop at nothing to get her greedy claws on his fortune. On that count alone you’d be properly bowled out! You’re a good-looking young fellow, I grant you, but he takes the prize for looks, and fortune. And all London knows Miss Stansbury has adored the rascal since she was in the nursery. He has but to crook his little finger and shell run to him. Never doubt it!”

  Lying in bed that night, sleep eluding him, Cranford knew at last that he had more than “taken a fancy” to Miss Mary. Tool!’ he thought, seething with frustration. ‘I’ve loved her for weeks and never had the sense to know it!’

  It was some time before he began to doze off, comforted by the determination that, fool or not, and whatever his great-uncle threatened, he would fight to win the girl he loved and do all he might to prevent her falling, dazzled, into the arms of… so worthless an individual as… Gervaise Valerian…

  He slept the sleep of near exhaustion, and waking could not at first think what had disturbed him. He lay blinking into the darkness and decided drowsily that a rising wind was rattling the shutters.

  The rattling persisted and grew louder. He tried to ignore it until it was augmented by a soft squealing sound that he at length realized was a voice; a woman’s voice calling his name.

  “Piers!… Lieutenant Cranford! Oh, do wake up! Please, please wake up!”

  Mary! With a gasp he was fully awake, throwing back the blankets and snatching up his dressing-gown. It was pitch-dark, there was not so much as a glow from the fire on his hearth. It must be the middle of the night. She wouldn’t come to his room at such an hour unless she was sleep-walking or there was some dire emergency. “Coming!” he called, and not stopping to put on his slippers, crossed swiftly to open the door, barely noticing the icy floor-boards under his bare feet.

  Light flooded in from the candle Mary held high. She was clad in her night-rail, with a pretty beribboned cap tied under her chin, and a panicked look on her pale face. “Let me in!” she demanded, pushing past him.

  “Whatever’s wrong?” he asked anxiously. “It’s not—”

  “Ifs the shocking spinster,” she said in a half-whisper. “And I know this is past forgiveness, so do pray close the door before the remnants of my reputation are in shreds.”

  “They will truly be in shreds if I do so,” he said, hesitating. “You’d best tell me so I can—”

  “It is—Florian!”

  He closed the door.

  “Something’s happened to him?”

  “Laura’s abigail brought me a letter. Here.” She thrust a rumpled paper at him. “Try if you can read it. She must have been in a dreadful state.”

  He lit his bedside candle from hers and unfolded the note. “She certainly must,” he muttered, striving to decipher the blotched and ill-formed words. “Something about Helen and… her—love—is it? Who is Helen?”

  “Not ‘Helen’—Heaven! Standing beside him, Mary held her candle closer, and translated, “’For the love of Heaven, find lieutenant Piers Cranford and send him home! The most ghastly thing has chanced, Mary, and my father is raging and I dread lest he whips the people into—may God forbid!—into taking the law into their own hands. Our head groom, Sidney Grover—you know how he has always hated Florian—has been found beaten to death! Murdered! And my dearest love stands accused! He is innocent! I know it! But he was here and knocked Grover down this morning and Papa says he is a gypsy and has bad blood and—oh, Mary! Feeling is running very high. Please, please get word to Mr. Cranford before something dreadful happens! If I lose Florian I shall die of grief! The Lieutenant is our only hope! For pity’s sake, help us. Your desolate friend, Laura.”

  Folding the letter mechanically, Cranford thought, ‘Lord above! It would have be Grover!’

  A small hand tugged at his arm; a sweet and anxious and beloved face peered up at him. “Will you go?”

  “Of course. And you must go, Miss Mary. Quickly.” Opening the door, he looked up and down the passage. Aside from the bluster of the wind, all was quiet, and only one room showed a glow of light under the door. “Hurry,” he whispered.

  “Yes, but—you will let me know—”

  Light flooded out as the other door swung open.

  “Nobody will ask—” Stepping out, dressed for travel and pulling on his gauntlets, Gervaise Valerian’s words were cut off abruptly. Halting as if briefly stunned, he then sauntered forward, his spurs jingling softly.

  “Well, well, well,” he sneered. “And what have I interrupted? A—um—tryst, perchance?”

  Cranford said curtly, “Good night, ma’am,” and hissed, “Go, dammit! Go!”

  Mary hesitated. “Gervaise—’tis not what you think—”

  He spread his hands, and purred, “But why should I think evil merely because I chance upon a chit leaving a fellow’s bedchamber—in the wee hours of the morning?”

  Mary stared at him, then, with a helpless little shrug, hurried away.

  Watching her, Valerian chuckled and murmured, “Truly, coz, you are a dark horse! I’d not have thought you had it in you to add the appellation ‘strumpet’ to the Stansbury’s lurid repu——”

  Cranford sprang forward and decked him.

  14

  Despite drifting clouds of fog, Cranford left word for Sudbury to return home as soon as the weather cleared, and rode out himself as the first hint of dawn glowed dimly in the veiled sky. The fog so altered the landscape that it was difficult to find his way. Twice, he took a wrong turn, and had all he could do to get back onto the Farnborough road. Fuming at these setbacks, he persisted stubbornly, but at length the vapours became so thick that he was forced to rein Tassels to a walk. Hours dragged past maddeningly before he came upon a small hedge tavern set back from the road and so wreathed in vapours as to be almost invisible. The air was penetratingly damp and chill, he was hungry and felt half frozen, and Tassels was shivering. He gave up and turned into the tavern yard. A solitary ostler ran out to him and as usual, Tassels was exclaimed over and made much of. Cranford left her in the hands of her admirer and went into the tavern.

  It was a quaint little place, the beamed ceilings so low that they were but a few inches above his head. Copper bowls, kettles and plates set on shallow racks about the walls glowed in the light of the fire that crackled on the deep hearth. Several branches of candles sent out their soft radiance and the delectable aroma of freshly baked bread filled the air. There were only a few customers, most being obviously local people who were acquainted with
one another. The host came forward to greet the new arrival. Shown to a settle in the ingle-nook, Cranford warmed his cold hands and ordered a tankard of homebrewed ale and the roast pork that was “almost ready.”

  The host, a round-faced, jolly little man, advised him to bespeak one of their two bedchambers. “This here fog has settled in, I can tell you, sir,” he said cheerily. “Lived in this county man and boy for one and fifty year, I has, and I knows these here fogs, I do. Slide up the river from the sea, they does. Why, I’ve seen ’em set in so thick that folks has to wait days, sir, days, ’fore they can drive on.” Cranford nodded but did not hire a room nor encourage more conversation, and after a shrewd glance at the stern young face, the host went off and advised his rosy-cheeked spouse that “the young gent in the ingle-nook has got Old Nick riding on his shoulders.” He returned with the ale and set it before his troubled guest with a smile but without comment.

  The ale was excellent and the fire warm. Cranford stretched out his legs gratefully and hoped that the host’s meteorological predictions were not infallible. His heart sank when he drew out his timepiece and found that it was already past one o’clock. It was no use fretting against the fog, he had no choice but to wait, but the instant the beastly stuff thinned to the point that he could see his way, he would ride out and try to make up for lost time. He prayed that the fog was sufficiently widespread to keep his own people close to their hearths until he reached the village.

  A plump serving maid came to announce with a shy and dimpling smile that dinner was ready and was set out on a table, “if y’worship would be so good as to come now, ’fore it gets cold.”

  Cranford followed her to a table set with a checkered cloth, a branch of candles, and a plate of fragrant roast pork with side dishes of roast potatoes, green beans, a loaf of still-warm bread, and a board of cheeses. He said it was a feast fit for a king, and found he had not exaggerated. While he ate, however, his thoughts inevitably turned to Florian. It was hard to believe that the gentle villagers would resort to violence, but he had witnessed the contagion of mass hysteria in the past, and knew the havoc a few cunning rabble-rousers could wreak. Constable Bragg would do his best to preserve law and order, he could count on that phlegmatic individual, and Bill Franck, also; the blacksmith liked Florian and would help. And if Oliver Dixon heard of the likelihood of mob violence, there was no doubt but that he’d leave the farm and go to the village, probably taking his sons and a couple of his men with him.