by Carola Dunn
“You mean there might be an accident, or even highwaymen?” asked Gerard eagerly.
The coach jolted into movement and Gabrielle missed the response.
They rumbled along the busy streets of the city, over the Thames and through the southern suburbs, past the Elephant and Castle. Dorothea made polite if desultory conversation, but it was plain that her mind was elsewhere. When they reached New Cross and branched south onto the Folkestone road, now really in the country, Gabrielle decided it was time to discover why her companion was in the mopes.
“It is kind of your brother to escort us,” she said, “though I daresay you are sorry to have missed the last few parties of the season.”
“I do not care for parties,” said Dorothea, her lips trembling, “and it is nor in the least kind of Luke to go with us when it is all his doing.”
“His doing?”
"He told Mama we must leave early. She had no notion of doing so, but he made her.”
“How can Mr Everett make Lady Cecilia do anything she does not wish to do? He is her stepson, not her husband!”
“Everyone always does just as he orders. There is something about the way he looks at you. Even Papa gave up living in town because Luke said he must.”
“Lord Everett obeys his son?” gasped Gabrielle. "How can that be? I know just what you mean about the way he looks at you, though it has never given me the least desire to do as he says, but that he should dare command his father is beyond anything!”
“It is all because of gambling. Papa was used to be a great gamester. He lost a vast deal of money and the house was already mortgaged, so he could not pay his debts without selling land. I do not precisely understand it, but there is something called an entail, which means that the heir must approve the sale of any part of the estate.”
“And Luke—Mr Everett refused?”
“I believe so. It was five years ago, and I was still in the schoolroom, so no one told me anything, but Rolf and I put things together for ourselves. Rolf is my older brother, my real brother. Luke would not let Papa sell any land. Papa had to sell his racehorses instead, and Mama sold some jewels. And even so, Luke has to work at that horrid Foreign Office. So Papa retired to Wrotham to make money from the farms and things, to pay off the mortgages. And I must say it is much more comfortable to have them living at home instead of in London all the time, and Papa seems to be perfectly happy. Mama too.”
“So that is why Luke works at the Foreign Office!”
“Yes, to pay my dowry and the boys’ schooling. But there is no need to be sorry for him, for he enjoys it amazingly.”
“No doubt! It provides him with a new group of people to give orders to!”
Dorothea giggled, but sobered immediately. “I ought not to have told you all this, Miss Darcy. It is our skeleton in the cupboard. Rolf thinks Mama has not even told my grandfather—for he is quite rich, and could have helped so that Luke need not work.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” promised Gabrielle. “But you have not yet told me why Luke insisted that you come down into Kent today.”
"Mama would not say,” said Dorothea evasively, flushing. “Look, there is Eltham Palace. You can see the downs from here and we shall soon cross into Kent.”
Gabrielle allowed herself to be diverted into a discussion of why a range of uplands should be known as ‘downs.’ She learned a great deal about the topography of Kent, and Dorothea seemed to be distracted from her megrims. Nonetheless, she remained determined to find out just what had caused them.
The long, gentle ascent of the north side of the downs was pretty enough in the summer sun, especially after the city’s grime. Gabrielle politely expressed her admiration of the grassy slopes dotted with oaks and sheep. Here and there mowers were at work, cutting the longer grass for hay. It reminded her of Switzerland, on a less grand, more cosy scale, and suddenly she was homesick for the lake and the green mountain meadows, the sound of cowbells and their neat little house in Neuchâtel. Until Papa joined them, England would never truly seem like home.
The carriage rocked to a halt.
“We are at the top,” said Dorothea. “We always stop here for a moment.”
“To let the horses take breath?”
“Partly, but mostly just to look. Do pray get out with me, Miss Darcy. It is well worth the effort.”
The coachman was opening the door and letting down the step. Gabrielle followed Dorothea out, and turned to see what she was pointing at. She looked over mile after mile of rolling country: first, steep slopes of short, wiry turf, down to groves of trees in orderly rows; then fields and woods and villages stretching as far as the eye could see. She almost expected the Alps to tower out of the hazy distance.
Mr Everett came to her side.
“This is our land,” he said softly. “Is it not beautiful?”
The pride in his voice told her he had refused to sell this land because he loved it.
“Yes, oh yes!”
He took her elbow and turned to face the northeast. “Do you see a glint of blue? That’s the Thames estuary. Chatham is down there, with the Royal Navy yards, and Rochester. I’ll take you to see the castle one day, if you should care to go.”
“We’ll take a picnic,” suggested Dorothea.
“I should like to see the Navy yards,” added Gerard. “Is it possible to tour them?”
Mr Everett looked at him suddenly with narrowed eyes, then shook his head—apparently at himself, since he then said, “I’ll see what I can do. Will you travel the rest of the way with me, Miss Darcy? There is scarce a mile left to go.”
Gabrielle accepted his help to climb into the tilbury, but did not smile her thanks. As they set off cautiously down the hill, following the other carriages, she looked up at his face., intent on the road ahead.
“You still suspect us, don’t you?” she said. “Of being French spies?”
“No!” His denial came fast and firm.
Too fast, thought Gabrielle, as if he was expecting her challenge. How was she ever to persuade him of her innocence? She scarcely noticed the surroundings as they drove on in silence. Questions flooded into her mind. Did she care that he suspected her? Yes. Why? What did it matter to her that this dictatorial gentleman should think ill of her?
It did matter. It hurt her. She had considered him a friend, the kind of friend one can turn to in times of trouble. At the back of her mind, she realised, she had counted on him to come to the rescue if her father never returned. She had even dared to hope that his regard for her was such that he might marry her, give her and Gerard a home and family, if Papa never came back.
She bowed her head and her eyes filled with tears of anguish and humiliation. Clasping her hands tight in her lap, she blinked hard, praying that he would not turn and look at her, would not say something that demanded a response.
The silence grew between them, an impassable hedge of thorns.
She ventured a quick glance at his face. It was troubled, frowning, his gaze fixed on some inner landscape. Without his guidance, the horses followed the other carriages down the hill and through a gate in a wall of faintly greenish stone.
Beyond a flower garden riotous with roses stood an L-shaped house of age-mellowed red brick. The gravel drive led to a paved court in the angle of the L, but instead of approaching it, they turned into a narrower way to the left.
The track was scarce more than a grassy ride. Mr Everett came to himself with a start as they jounced over the tussocks in the centre. He quickly straightened their course so that the wheels ran smoothly, then turned to smile at Gabrielle.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Darcy! Instead of pointing out to you the beauties of the countryside, I have been lost in a brown study.” He pointed ahead with his whip. “The Dower House is just behind those trees. You will see the chimneys in a moment.”
The track curved round a huge copper beech with benches about its bole. They pulled up behind the other carriages, in front of a square, friendly-looking house of th
e same brick as the main house. The green front door stood open and an elderly couple hurried down the steps to greet them.
“Mr and Mrs Tombaugh,” said Mr Everett. “They used to look after my grandmother, and stayed on as caretakers. They are supposed to have set the place in order for you.”
While Tombaugh helped the coachmen untie trunks and boxes, his wife ushered the party into the house. Though small, it was furnished with an oppressive grandeur that dismayed Gabrielle. The dining room, where a light luncheon had been set out, was wainscotted in dark oak and hung with portraits of Jacobean ancestors, all of whom seemed to be wearing black. The window curtains were of crimson velvet and on the floor, beneath an overlarge ebony table, a Turkey carpet in burgundy and navy added to the gloom.
“Rose and cream!” exclaimed Lady Harrison. “And a much smaller table in some light-coloured wood. Only think, dear Lady Cecilia, how charming this salle à manger could be! The carpet is magnificent. But should you mind removing ces peintures abominables?”
“Not in the least,” said Lady Cecilia, laughing. “They are dreadful, aren’t they? I hope all those stern faces staring down will not destroy your appetite.”
“I fear not,” replied the older lady gloomily. “Nothing has been known to do so. But here in the country I shall walk daily and see if I cannot dispose of some of my embonpoint.”
After luncheon, the Everetts drove back to their home, which was known locally as the Great House, to distinguish it from the Dower House. Madame retired to her chamber for a nap, and Gabrielle and Gerard decided to explore their surroundings.
Chapter 14
The brother and sister strolled down the hill and soon found themselves walking through orchards of apples and pears, with sheep grazing among the trees. Gerard picked a small, pink-cheeked apple and took a bite.
“Ugh!” He spat it out and tossed the remainder into the trees. “It’ll be a few months before those are ready to eat!”
A large crow sitting on a high branch regarded him cynically, so he picked another fruit to hurl at it. It flapped away cawing loudly.
A pair of rabbits sat up and looked at them with twitching noses, then hopped to a new patch of grass a little farther off. Gerard raised an imaginary shotgun to his shoulder and took aim.
“Do you suppose Lord Everett would lend me a gun?” he asked hopefully.
“I daresay. You men are all horridly bloodthirsty.”
“Rabbits are pests,” protested Gerard. “Crows, too. Let’s go up to the Great House now, and ask.”
“Not today. Lady Cecilia is but now arrived home, and they will be too busy by far to receive us. Tomorrow we must pay a courtesy call, and you may ask then, but we must not presume upon their kindness. Just because they have lent us the house it does not mean that they are anxious for our company.”
“Fustian! Why should they have settled us so close at hand if they do not wish to see us? You are making a piece of work of nothing, Gab. I expect Lady Cecilia hopes that you will be a companion for Dorothea.”
“Miss Everett, to you. Truly we must not appear encroaching,” said Gabrielle stubbornly.
The next orchard was of cherries. Ripe, red fruit dangled in irresistible bunches, and they did not long resist. Gabrielle was satisfied with a handful, but Gerard gorged himself until his sister was moved to protest.
“You call crows pests!” she exclaimed. “I am sure their depredations are not half so great as yours!”
Walking on, they crossed a field of vines covered with odd-looking yellowish flowers. In one corner stood several small, circular buildings with curious conical roofs. Near these they passed through a gate in a hazel hedge and found themselves in a lane. It led them into a pretty village built about a crossroads, whose chief features were an ancient-looking church and a tavern called the Everett Arms.
“Let’s look in the church,” proposed Gabrielle, just as her brother said, “I could do with a mug of ale.”
“Meet me in fifteen minutes,” suggested Gabrielle, looking up at the church clock.
Quarter of an hour later, they met at the church gate.
“Those round buildings are oast-houses,” said Gerard. “They dry hops in them, off those vines. They are used for flavouring beer.”
“The church is full of brasses,” said Gabrielle. “Most of them are in memory of Everetts. The family has been here for hundreds of years!” No wonder Mr Everett had refused to let his father sell the land, she thought, especially as it seemed to be exceptionally productive.
They walked back up the lane and through the main gates of the estate. Gabrielle wanted to wander among the roses, whose perfume was wafted to them on the breeze, but she was afraid that she might be seen from the Great House and someone might feel obliged to come out to her.
More and more she felt she had made a mistake in accepting Lady Cecilia’s invitation.
Unwilling to go back into the cheerless house, they sat on a bench under the copper beech. The bronze leaves rustled above them and the shade was pleasant after their long walk. Gerard lolled back against the smooth grey bark.
“This is something like!” he said. “However did you persuade Mr Everett to ask us here? If only his lordship will lend me a gun. I wonder what sort of cattle he has in his stable?”
“You are not to ask Lord Everett to mount you! And I did not persuade Mr Everett to invite us. It was entirely Lady Cecilia’s idea.”
“Doing it much too brown! At all events, I am glad you did, for I had much rather live in the country. Where do you suppose we shall live when Papa comes?”
“Gerard, have you ever thought that maybe Papa will never come? He told us to come to England if he had not returned after six months, and now it has been nearly ten. Anything might have happened.”
Gerard sat up straight and gazed at her in alarm. “No!” he said sharply. “Of course he will come! We cannot sponge on Madame for the rest of our lives!”
“Of course not. We shall have to find work. I could be a governess, perhaps, or companion, and you could be a clerk. Your handwriting is excellent.”
“Thank you for nothing. I had rather be a gamekeeper. Are you quite sure you have no idea as to Papa’s family?”
“None. I suppose we could contact all the Darcys we can find, but it must be a humiliating process, particularly if our grandfather should cast us off as he did Papa.’’
“He must be dead anyway, or Papa would not propose to return to England.”
“True. Gerard, Madame once hinted that she knew more than we do.”
“Why has she not told us then? You must have misunderstood her. You had best ask her directly, though. None of this female beating about the bush! I’m going to see if Mrs Tombaugh will give me something to eat, for I’ve not been so sharp-set since we left France!”
“I wonder when she serves dinner?” mused Gabrielle. “Wait, I’m coming with you.”
The sound of scolding female voices led them to the kitchen.
“Madame Tombeau!” hissed Marie. “A fitting name for one who will drive milady to her grave.”
“I baked ‘em special,” insisted Mrs Tombaugh, who was as plump as Marie was scrawny, “and I can’t see no harm in my lady taking a raspberry tart with her cup of tea.”
Gerard looked round, spotted a tray with a plate of tarts, and sat down at the kitchen table to help himself.
“What is going on?” asked Gabrielle. “No, don’t both speak at once. Marie, you first.”
Since Marie would not dream of criticising her mistress, except to her face, she found it difficult to explain why she had strictly forbidden the provision of pastries at four o’clock in the afternoon. Mrs Tombaugh was under no such restriction. With virtuous verbosity she pointed out that my lady need not eat the tarts if she did not want them; that she was known far and wide for a light hand with pastry but that she wouldn’t take offence; and that it was not the place of a mere abigail to see to the menus.
“If her ladyship does no
t wish to review your menus, bring them to me,” said Gabrielle. “Marie is right, however, in that you must not send up any cakes that her ladyship does not specifically ask for.” She knew all to well that Madame’s good resolutions vanished at the sight of food. “As for the tarts, you need not fear that they will not be appreciated, for I see that my brother has demolished every one!”
“Very light hand with the pastry,” mumbled Gerard, wiping sticky crumbs off his chin.
Both antagonists seemed to think they had won the battle. Mrs Tombaugh beamed, and Marie, casting her a glance of mingled triumph and enmity, picked up the tea-tray and stalked out.
“Pig!” said Gabrielle. “You might have left me one.”
“I was being diplomatic,” explained Gerard unconvincingly. “Look how I helped your argument.”
“There’s more in the oven, miss,” said Mrs Tombaugh. “I’ll have ‘em out in a jiffy, and another pot of tea on the table.”
When Gabrielle, full of raspberry tarts, went upstairs, she found Madame in her dressing room reclining on a gilt and brocade chaise longue.
“You will have a cup of tea, chérie?” she asked. “A barbarous English custom but one to which I have grown used. Marie, fetch a cup for mademoiselle.”
“No, thank you, madame. I have just had tea in the kitchen. I should like to talk to you for a minute, if you please.”
Marie discreetly retired into the bedchamber, and Gabrielle sat down on a stool at the dressing table.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” asked Lady Harrison. “You have the air of worry that I do not like to see on the face of a pretty girl.”
“It’s Papa, madame. He has been gone for ten months, without a word. Do you think he. . . he might be dead?”
“Anything is possible, my poor child, but I do not think it likely. Maurice is un homme très adroit.”
"He is clever, isn’t he? I expect you are right and he will turn up one day, with never an explanation as to where he went or what he’s been doing. But if he does not, Gerard and I will have to seek positions where we can keep ourselves, unless you can help us to contact Papa’s family.”
