by Jane Ashford
The footman disappeared. Thomas went to the door and opened it slightly. Michael Shea pushed forward at once. “Sir Richard?” he said. “I must see Sir Richard right away.” He came through the door and spotted him. “Sir Richard! Fenton has Bess. He’s taken her.”
Sir Richard Beckwith stumbled over nothing and slid to the polished floor of his own front hall.
It was a little while before the three men reconvened in the library, the brandy replaced by a pot of strong coffee made by Michael Shea. Thomas had tried to convince him to leave, but he refused so vehemently that Tom gave up and concentrated on restoring Richard to some semblance of himself. Shea watched this process with ill-concealed impatience and at the earliest possible moment, returned to his purpose. “Lord Fenton has her,” he repeated. “We must do something. Get her away. Tonight. You know what sort of man he is.”
“How do you know this?” asked Thomas, since Richard seemed to be still gathering his wits.
“I got it from Wearingham. I thought he might know something, because Bess had been to see him about her money. He told Fenton where she was.” Shea pounded on the desk in frustration. “He said Fenton pressed him hard, the coward. Fenton’s taken her, I tell you. She didn’t go on her own.” He leaned forward, his eyes blazing. “Do you hear me, Sir Richard? Bess was kidnapped!”
“I hear.” Though not completely back to normal, Beckwith was much better.
“What are you going to do about it, then?”
Richard tried to make his mind function. “Lord Fenton asked for the address…”
“Not asked. Forced it out of Wearingham. And on the very morning Bess disappeared.”
“Ah.” Sir Richard’s head was beginning to ache, and what he really wanted was for both of them to leave him alone. His loss of Julia filled his thoughts.
“If Fenton actually has taken the girl,” said Thomas slowly. “We should do something. I’ve heard things about him that I don’t like.”
“Not half what I’ve heard,” said Shea. “You don’t move in the right circles. He’s an ugly customer. He wouldn’t be above getting rid of a girl when he was through with her.”
“Killing her?”
The Irishman nodded.
Thomas looked grave.
“What are you suggesting, precisely?” asked Richard. “That we go to Lord Fenton’s house and storm it? I won’t allow Thomas to participate in any such thing.” When it appeared that both of the other men would protest, he added. “Do have any idea where Bess might be?”
“I’ll find out,” replied Michael Shea. “I know people who could tell me, or at least send me to those who can. I’ll see them first thing in the morning.”
“Come back when you have,” declared Sir Richard, pushing himself up from the table to indicate that the interview was over.
Shea departed. Thomas lingered in the library, hoping that his brother might now be ready to confide in him, but Sir Richard merely ordered him off to bed in gruff tones that offered no opening. With several looks back over his shoulder, Thomas obeyed. And Sir Richard Beckwith was again left alone with his thoughts.
Ten
When Sir Richard called at the Deveres’ early the next morning, he was received by Lady Devere, and her expression did not promise good news. “Julia is still not herself,” she told him. “Perhaps in another day or two.”
“If I could just see her,” he urged.
“No. I don’t think she could bear it. She has begged me not to force her to meet you, and I have agreed for the present.” Lady Devere did not add that both she and her husband were quite frightened by the mania that seemed to have seized their placid daughter. Wholly unused to emotional storms, they reacted by tiptoeing about the house and agreeing to whatever Julia demanded, in the hope that this fit would pass and their familiar daughter return. Another man, experienced in such upheavals, might have advised them that this approach was unwise. But Sir Richard was not that man.
“I explained to Sir George,” he offered.
“Yes.” Julia’s mother turned her head away, embarrassed. “I told her, but Julia doesn’t seem to listen just now. I think we must give her more time.”
“If I could only speak to her—”
“No!” Lady Devere’s nervous green eyes met his. “We can’t… I’m afraid she might do something rash. She keeps insisting on leaving London. She has packed her things. We have told her it is impossible, but…” Lady Devere swallowed frightened tears. “I…I fear she might run away.” To her, this seemed an incredible, shameful possibility. Three weeks ago, she would have laughed in the face of anyone who suggested such a thing about her Julia. But since then, the world had turned topsy-turvy.
The threat silenced Sir Richard, even though he felt as if some demon were turning a hot knife in his chest. “I’ll call again tomorrow, then,” he choked out between clenched jaws.
“Yes,” replied Lady Devere eagerly, happy to be rid of him. “Perhaps she will be better then.”
Sir Richard made his way home without any awareness of his surroundings. He didn’t even hear the respectful greeting of the footman who opened the door for him, and he moved into the library like a sleepwalker, seating himself at the desk and putting his forehead in his hands. It was here that his mother found him some time later. Thomas had spoken to her, and her earlier worries had redoubled.
“Richard,” she said, shutting the library door behind her. “Richard.”
There was no response. Lady Beckwith went over to her son and put a hand on his shoulder. “Richard.”
He started violently and jerked away, then sat back, breathing hard.
“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s all right.”
Lady Beckwith examined his face, as she had become accustomed to doing whenever they were together now. He looked ravaged. “Tell me what has happened,” she demanded. “It is Julia, isn’t it? She has heard the stories.”
Sir Richard groaned aloud. “She has broken it off, Mama. The engagement is at an end. And she will not see me to talk of it.”
His mother moved as if she would go to the Deveres at once. “Someone must explain to her that—”
“I have tried. I told Sir George. But Julia won’t listen; she won’t believe me.” A spark of anger illuminated his misery. “I suppose I was mistaken in her.”
“You were no such thing!” His mother’s worry and irritation at the situation spilled over onto him. “Oh, what a muddle. I should have done something long ago, but you were so against it I put it off. And now you see!”
“What could you do?” he replied, grasping at straws.
“I can talk to Julia, and her mother. I can tell them everything.”
“She won’t see anyone.”
“She will see me. I will convince her mother that she must.” Lady Beckwith turned toward the door. “I shall leave at once.”
Hope rose in Richard. “If you can put it right…”
“I shall!”
Lady Beckwith did not have much difficulty with Julia’s parents. They were at their wits’ end and welcomed any aid. But when she sat down in the drawing room with Julia and her mother, the atmosphere cooled distinctly.
Julia was not, as she had half expected, tearful and full of reproaches. She was like a maiden carved of ice. She sat in an armchair, as ordered, her hands folded in her lap, but she did not seem really present in the room. She listened to Lady Beckwith’s story with no sign of emotion, and thanked her when she was finished for trying to be of help. “But it is no use,” she concluded. “I have made up my mind. I am sorry.” She had seen the girl in Sir Richard’s embrace. She had incontrovertible proof that his interest in her was not purely charitable. That he had convinced them all that it was, and that he dared to push them to argue this lie, just made it worse. She had been a fool, she decided.
She had completely misjudged him. He was like those London beaus she despised, like Lord Fenton even. The knowledge nearly crushed her.
For she had not ceased to love him. And there was a traitorous part of her that continually urged reconciliation. When Julia knew Richard was in the house talking with her parents, it pushed her to go to him and reinstate their engagement. It did not care what he had done; it wanted him.
What Julia thought of as her better self was at perpetual war with this other, and the conflict was exhausting her. She no longer had the energy to cry, and she was certainly beyond logical argument. It felt as if she was being torn apart, with no hope of succor, and her one longing now was to run away. Her parents had said she could not go home, but Lady Beckwith’s visit decided her. She must. She would take her maid and a manservant with her, Julia thought, as well as the second coachman and post boys. Her parents could not think her unprotected among so many. As Julia bade a mystified and angry Lady Beckwith good-bye, she determined to leave London the following morning.
Sir Richard was pacing impatiently when his mother arrived home, but he saw at once that her mission had been unsuccessful.
“She would not be convinced,” said Lady Beckwith with a puzzled frown. “It was as if she knew something that made her impervious to argument. What could it be, Richard?”
He shook his head and sank into the desk chair once again.
“She simply does not trust or love me.” The anger he had once felt at this idea was dead. Only the wound remained, and the bleak vista of his future without Julia.
“Oh, Richard.” His mother was cut to the heart by his tone.
“I shan’t give up just yet,” he continued in the same flat voice. “But I have little hope that she will come around. There is, as you say, some barrier between us now. I cannot break it.”
“I’ll call again, speak to her again,” exclaimed Lady Beckwith.
“No. You have done what you could. I’ll visit again tomorrow and make another attempt.” He rose. “And now, I shall go riding.”
“Richard, if only—”
He cut her off with a bitter laugh and strode out.
But when he made his way to the Devere house the next morning, a shocking sight confronted him. A post-chaise was pulled up before the door, and a pile of luggage was being tied at the back in preparation for immediate departure. Sir Richard, who had walked the short distance to work off some of his nervous energy, strode swiftly to the open front door. He collided with a middle-aged woman carrying a dressing case, but managed to retain his balance and steady her as well. When he straightened, he found himself face to face with Julia, who was rigged out in traveling clothes. Had he been ten minutes later, Sir Richard thought, he would have missed her. “I must speak to you!” he said.
“There is nothing to say. My chaise is waiting.” Julia’s voice cracked.
“And it will wait a little longer.” He pulled her through an open door into the front parlor and shut it behind them. “I will speak to you!”
Julia turned her back on him and walked over to the empty fireplace. “Apparently, I cannot prevent you without a vulgar scene.”
Now that he was actually with Julia, Sir Richard wanted most to sweep her into his arms and kiss her until she admitted that this whole ridiculous series of events was a mistake. The impulse was so strong that controlling it held him rigid. Thus, when he spoke, the words were much more formal than he meant to be. “I have tried to explain things to you,” he said. “Through others since you refused to see me. You stubbornly deny the truth of—”
“Truth! You dare to talk to me of truth?”
Sir Richard frowned. “Since I have told you nothing else, I do not see—”
“Stop it! I cannot bear it that you lie to me. I loved you! I thought you everything I could admire in a man. And then to find that you had deceived me so cruelly.” Her voice broke again, on tears.
Beckwith stepped forward, hands outstretched. “But I have not—”
“I saw you!” cried Julia. “I saw you myself. It is no use denying it. Now let me go!” And pushing past him, she ran out the door, across the hall, and outside. Her maid had already gotten into the chaise, and the post boys were mounted. Julia clambered up and slammed the carriage door. “Go!” she cried. The driver obediently signaled the team, and the chaise began to move off as Sir Richard appeared in the doorway.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Julia!”
But the chaise picked up speed and moved on. He sprang down the steps and would have run after it, had he not suddenly noticed the gathering spectators. The Devere servants were peering from the hall; passersby had stopped and were gazing at him with amusement; an upstairs window opened and Lady Devere stared down with red-rimmed eyes. Beckwith cursed himself silently for leaving his horse at home, and strode rapidly off the way he had come. If Julia was going home, he thought, he would follow her there and discover exactly what she thought she had seen.
Eleven
When Sir Richard reached home, calling for his horse to be saddled as he entered the hall, he found Michael Shea and Thomas awaiting him. “Come in here,” said Thomas, pulling him into the library. “Shea has found her!”
“Found who?” he answered impatiently.
The others stared at him. “Bess,” said Thomas. “Bess Malone. Is something wrong, Richard?”
“Yes, it is. And I haven’t time for Bess just now. I must go out of town for a few—”
“You can’t abandon her!” exclaimed Shea, his hazel eyes burning.
“You seem entirely capable of her rescue,” Sir Richard retorted. “I leave it in your hands.”
“I’m capable enough. But there’s at least two ruffians in that cottage. I’ll need help.”
“I’ll come,” declared Thomas.
“No you won’t!” Sir Richard was desperately impatient to get away, but he saw that he would have to deal with this matter first. “Find some of your own friends and go after her, Shea. Surely you can gather some men. I’ll give you money to pay them if you like.”
“The gardener’s nephew can rescue the slum girl, is that it?” replied Shea bitterly. “Leave it to the servants?”
“That is not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it now? Well, I can’t do it.”
“And why not?”
“I don’t want anyone else knowing what’s happened to Bess, particularly not my own friends.”
“I can see no reason why—”
“I don’t suppose you can! But I intend to marry her.”
Both the Beckwiths were struck dumb by the unexpectedness of his revelation.
“I imagine you have no objection?” added Shea defensively.
“No. I…simply had no idea,” responded Sir Richard.
“Well, it’s only a notion as yet. She doesn’t know. I never got the chance to speak. But I will, if she’ll have me. I’ll take her off to France or Italy, I reckon. I’ve lived there off and on. I have my eye on a fine little gaming club in Paris. Just the thing for us. I’m like Bess, you know—don’t care to live on anyone’s wage.”
Through his surprise, Sir Richard was realizing that this might be just the sort of thing Bess would like.
“So I don’t want her story to get out. If I have to look for help, I’ll be explaining over and over. It’d be talked of. You already know, and you won’t gossip for your own reasons.”
He would have to postpone following Julia, maddening as that felt. “All right,” he said, “we will help you.”
* * *
Little more than an hour later, they set out on horseback, following the instructions Michael Shea had squeezed from a Tothill Fields ruffian. Sir Richard was thankful to find that their way lay in the same direction as Julia’s home, as he planned to go on there, after they had accomplished their mission.
They rode swift
ly and in silence, all three thinking of what lay ahead. The journey was not long, and soon after midday they were approaching the area of the cottage. When it finally came in sight, they halted under a grove of trees to confer.
“You’re certain this is the place?” said Thomas with a slightly nervous laugh. “I should hate to burst in on a rustic couple at their midday bread and cheese rather than a nest of villains.”
“It is just as described to me,” replied Michael Shea. His face had lost its ruddiness, and he looked set and pale.
“Let us watch for a short while and see,” said Sir Richard.
They sat quietly on their horses gazing at the cottage through a screen of branches. A thin plume of smoke rose from the chimney, and the scene was deceptively peaceful. They saw no one.
Then, abruptly, Michael Shea muttered, “There’s no garden!”
Thomas, startled, jerked his reins and made his mount sidle.
“It’s no farmer lives there without a garden,” he added. “And a few flowers at the doorstep. This is the place, all right.”
As if to confirm his theory, the back door of the cottage opened, and a rough-looking man came out to lean on the fence and smoke a pipe.
“This is it!” exclaimed Shea in a hoarse whisper, and spurred his horse suddenly forward. The Beckwiths were only an instant behind him.
Shea rode furiously across the short space of rough ground beyond the grove and took the fence easily. The man standing there did not realize until too late that he was under attack. He merely gaped at the three riders up to the point when Shea bent over and grasped his collar, hauling him up against the side of his mount and reducing the man to choking helplessness.
Sir Richard, meanwhile, had leapt down and run for the cottage door. It was not locked, and he burst into the kitchen holding the pistol he had taken from his pocket. The man sitting at the table inside didn’t have time to move. He sat frozen, his hands about a steaming mug, his eyes fastened on the pistol. Sir Richard waited thus while Shea hustled his gasping captive inside.
“The girl is here?” said Beckwith then. It was only half a question.
