She turned to protest, and indeed, already had her mouth open to do so, when Max spoke, taking the wind completely out of her sails. He stood at his ease, looking as much the man of fashion as he had appeared on previous occasions.
The last time she had seen him, as she had looked down at him from the gig, she had felt a strange frisson run all the way down her spine, and sensed that perhaps there might be more to him than could be seen on the surface. Now, she was conscious of something similar happening.
She looked at his hand, once again ungloved, gripping his cane not tightly, rather testing its balance; as though it could take on the function of a sword at any moment should its owner so desire. She moved her gaze to his face. There was something in the look in his eyes that said he was not to be trifled with.
Clearly Planter felt the same way. His rather sycophantic step was halted immediately. Constance could see the tension in his broad back, and hear it in his voice, as he said, ‘Of course, of course.’ He turned to help the ladies finish their transaction, shooing away the assistant whom he had beckoned over just moments before. ‘Fetch a chair for the gentleman, you idiot,’ he muttered, before painting a false smile on his rounded features, and turning back to Miss Fellowes and Miss Church. ‘Now, ladies, have you made a decision?’ he asked them, for all the world as if it had been they who had caused the delay by their feminine vacillations.
‘Certainly I have,’ said Miss Fellowes coolly. ‘We have been to your shop before, Mr Planter, and have always considered ourselves valued customers. We have not been treated as such today. I find that the experience has so unsettled me that I must give my purchase further thought. Good day to you.’
Constance was used to being the more forthright of the two of them, and was surprised as well as amused to witness her aunt turning on her heel and stalking towards the door, leaving Mr Planter opening and closing his mouth like a landed trout on a river-bank. ‘Good day, Mr Planter,’ she murmured. ‘I must attend my aunt, who is understandably very upset.’
The dandy brute, she noticed, was sitting on a chair and watching the proceedings, much amused. He rose to his feet as they passed, and bowed slightly, his hand on his heart.
‘We are indebted to you for your courtesy, Your Grace,’ said Miss Fellowes. ‘Are we not, Constance?’
Feeling a little like a sulky schoolgirl and wanting to shout, ‘I don’t want to say thank you,’ Constance bobbed the smallest possible curtsy. ‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Not at all,’ Max replied, bowing again. ‘It gives me the opportunity to repay your kindness to me on the road.’ To her great astonishment, he moved as if to open the door with his own hands. Before he could do so, another man, who had been standing in the shadows, stepped forward.
‘Allow me, Your Grace,’ he said. ‘Ladies.’
Constance looked up and saw a dignified African in squirrel brown, with a face almost as dark as coal. At that moment, she was too astonished to do other than nod her thanks as he opened the door and walk out of the shop. Once in the street, however, she turned to her aunt, with an expression upon her face that was half horror, half disgust. ‘A slave,’ she breathed. ‘He keeps a slave!’ As she half turned to go back into the shop, her aunt caught hold of her arm.
‘You don’t know that,’ Miss Fellowes said placidly. ‘The man might easily be a freed slave who is working in the duke’s household. You know that there are many such.’
‘That is just quibbling,’ Constance responded. ‘That so-called duke probably has huge plantations to his name, all built on the backs of people’s misery. What right does he have to stalk around as though he owned the place, whilst that other, equally a man in God’s eyes, has to do his bidding, probably spurred on by a whipping or two?’
‘I still say that you are being unfair,’ Miss Fellowes replied, as they strolled around the market square, making their way back to the inn the long way round. ‘What do you know about the man? Next to nothing; and you must agree that he was all that was courteous just now.’
‘His conduct was no more than I would have expected from any gentleman,’ Constance replied, sounding very unimpressed. ‘Anyway, because of his appearance in the shop, we were obliged to walk away without making our purchase, and you know that we really wanted that material to take to Mrs Pargeter so that she could make us new gowns.’
Miss Fellowes chuckled. ‘I doubt very much whether we shall have to do without the material,’ she said. ‘Unless I mistake my man, a parcel will be delivered to the Black Boys free of charge with Mr Planter’s compliments, and his apologies for having caused us any distress.’
Miss Church stopped in her tracks and stared at the other lady. ‘My dear aunt, you are positively Machiavellian,’ she declared.
‘Oh, I do hope so,’ her aunt replied.
Chapter Nine
The ladies were just walking into the inn when they heard themselves addressed. Turning, they saw a stocky, well-looking man of medium height, with a tanned complexion. He was dressed in serviceable brown coat and breeches and wore his own light-brown hair tied back in a neat queue.
‘Mr Snelson,’ said Miss Fellowes delightedly, recognizing the bailiff from Beacon Tower. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’
‘And for me also, ma’am,’ Snelson replied, bowing. ‘Good day, ladies.’ His admiring gaze fixed on Constance’s face betrayed the nature of his interest.
‘Mr Snelson,’ Constance acknowledged politely.
‘We are on our way back to Cromer and will be setting off in the morning,’ said Miss Fellowes. ‘Might we count on the pleasure of your company at dinner?’
Snelson refused with regret. ‘I am going to Cambridge to pay an overdue visit to relatives, and am expected at a friend’s house tonight, so must not delay,’ he explained.
Miss Fellowes smiled benevolently. The young man was of good if impoverished family, and lived in a snug house provided by the Beacon Tower Estate. He was a little older than Constance, just a few months short of his thirtieth birthday, and had been showing an interest in her ever since her arrival in the area two years before. Miss Fellowes was fond of her niece and often thought how agreeable it would be to have her living nearby.
Had they been sitting at table, Miss Church would have been at pains to kick her aunt underneath it. She knew of Miss Fellowes’s hopes, and part of her recognized that it would be a convenient match. Snelson had already proposed just before their visit to Chelmsford and she had refused him. He had chosen to believe that she needed more time to make up her mind, and had promised to ask her again on her return. She hoped that he would not do so. His departure provided another delay, for which she was thankful. She found the young man rather self-important for one of his years and position. Nevertheless, despite her own misgivings, she feared that he might eventually wear her down. She loved her uncle and aunt, but there was no reason why they should house her for ever. Marriage to Snelson would be a solution of sorts.
In the meantime, Miss Fellowes was making regretful noises at Snelson’s refusal. ‘You must dine with us when you return, Mr Snelson, must he not, Connie?’
Constance was trying to think of something to say that would be courteous whilst at the same time not encouraging, when the dandy-brute duke and his attendant approached the inn having finished their own perambulation. Suddenly, it became necessary to demonstrate to this posturing bully that she was sought after. Instead of saying something neutral about her uncle being pleased to have another man to talk to, therefore, she smiled a more welcoming smile than Snelson had received from her in a twelvemonth and said, ‘Yes indeed. We shall be delighted to entertain you.’
Snelson smiled back, then bowed and took his leave. The duke and his servant were about to enter the inn, and Constance threw the aristocrat a challenging glance before entering just in front of him.
If Miss Church had hoped to give His Grace of Haslingfield any further food for thought, she was to be sorely disappointed, for the
y did not meet again that evening. The duke dined in a private parlour ‘attended by his slave, no doubt’, Constance speculated scornfully, whilst the two ladies were served in the dining room, where a family with two older children, two clergymen, and an elderly woman and her middle-aged son were also having their meal.
Before they had gone down to take their places at the table reserved for them, an inn servant had come to the door of their chamber with a parcel, saying that it had been delivered ‘with Mr Planter’s compliments’. The note enclosed with the parcel had contained much the same protestations that Miss Fellowes had predicted. It was not that Mr Planter had thought the gentleman to be more worthy of his attention. It was simply that the man was a stranger, unaccustomed to the ways of the town. (‘Fustian!’ Miss Church had exclaimed scornfully.) What was more, the gentleman had had an ‘exotic’ servant with him, which had led Mr Planter to believe that perhaps he might be foreign, and therefore unfamiliar with how shops in Britain conducted their business. (‘Foreign places do not have shops, then,’ Miss Church interjected in the same tone.) He had feared to entrust such a foreigner to one of his assistants, as they might not know how to cope if he had spoken to them in another language. (‘And Planter would presumably have understood every word,’ added Miss Church.) He begged them to accept this fabric as a token of his esteem and to assure them of his continued desire to serve such valued customers.
‘Loathsome man,’ Miss Church had declared, having put the letter down. ‘And as for that slave-owning dandy-brute bully-boy…!’
‘Take care,’ Miss Fellowes had said mildly as she examined the contents of the package. ‘Give the gentleman any more epithets, and you will find it quite impossible to remember them.’
‘I can remember those,’ Miss Church had murmured darkly.
‘I’m sure, dear,’ her aunt had answered in the same calm tone. ‘Do come and look at these silks. I think that they are the more expensive of the ones that we examined.’
‘We’ll have to walk out of Planter’s shop in dudgeon again, if that is the result,’ Miss Church had said with a laugh, dismissing the duke from her mind.
They did not meet either him or any of his entourage on the following day, and for a most unwelcome reason. Constance woke up with an intense headache, quite unable even to travel, let alone drive. Miss Fellowes, a practical woman, resigned herself to the fact that she might not get to her sketching group, for experience told her that Constance would be very unwise to attempt the journey that day. She dressed with the minimum of fuss in order to leave her niece alone as soon as possible and made sure that the curtains were tightly shut and some water was available on the bedside table.
Having ensured her niece’s comfort with every measure that was in her power, she went down to breakfast in the dining room. Knowing that Constance would expect a report on the duke’s activities when she was well enough, she kept her eyes and ears open, and soon learned that His Grace had broken his own fast in his room, and was at that moment climbing into his carriage, preparatory for departure.
‘Thank goodness for that,’ Miss Fellowes murmured to herself, as she prepared to pour a second cup from the teapot in front of her. She had no desire to witness Constance ringing another peal over him. She suspected, however, that Constance might be a little disappointed to be denied this opportunity.
Miss Fellowes filled the day, first by visiting a number of shops, including that of Mr Planter, where she was treated with gratifying obsequiousness, and one which catered to the needs of artists like herself. She spent a happy hour browsing through brushes, paper and pigment before sharing a light nuncheon with the vicar’s wife.
On returning to the Black Boys in the middle of the afternoon, she found Constance sitting up in bed, and looking very much better. ‘Your colour has come back,’ the older lady observed, as she rang the bell to order some tea and toast, the first thing which her niece usually fancied after a headache. ‘You were as white as your fichu this morning.’
‘I do feel better, I must say,’ Miss Church replied. ‘I shall get up after my tea.’ She was guiltily aware that she might have been partly responsible for her own discomfort. She had berated herself half the night for having given Mr Snelson the kind of encouragement that would get his hopes up to no purpose.
She knew why, of course: she had wanted to display to the dandy-brute duke the fact that she was sought after. Why had his opinion mattered to her in any way? In her mind’s eye, she pictured them standing side by side. There was not a great deal of difference in height and build between the bailiff and the duke. Yet there was a stolidity about the bailiff’s figure and bearing which had been thrown into sharp relief by the athleticism of the nobleman whom she so despised. ‘Foolishness! Sheer foolishness!’ she had muttered under her breath, punching her pillow and turning it over. Finally, in the early hours of the morning, she had managed to drop off, and had slept very heavily, hence the headache.
Her aunt half expected her to make some enquiry about the duke’s activities. Thanks to the poor night that her niece had had, partly on his account, such an enquiry was not forthcoming, and the subject of the objectionable aristocrat did not arise.
The objectionable aristocrat in question made better time on the last part of the journey than might have been expected, and arrived at the most remote of Alistair’s estates shortly before midday. Set near the summit of Beacon Hill, Beacon Tower was a medieval manor house, originally comprising a great hall, with a great chamber above, a few ancillary rooms, and a substantial kitchen. It had been enlarged in Elizabethan times, in order to add a book room, two drawing rooms and a dining room downstairs. Above these new rooms were a long gallery, which also served as a library and music room, and some further bedchambers. The tower after which the establishment was named had originally been separate from the house. The Elizabethan occupant had had some cloisters built to connect the two buildings, so that it was possible to walk from one to the other undercover.
The property had been built by one Sir Gervase Markyate, whose descendant had been granted the Barony of Runton by Queen Elizabeth, in grateful thanks for the part that he had played in helping to discover the Babbington plot. It had been with the money that had come with this honour that he had made the improvements to his family home.
The family name of Markyate had died out some years before. The Barony had continued, although it was now a minor holding possessed by the Most Noble the Duke of Haslingfield, Earl of Bury St Edmunds and Upchurch, Viscount Clifton, and Baron Runton.
Max had had no idea what to expect when he arrived in Norfolk. Other than the fact that this was a small property, not visited by the previous duke or possibly the one before that, he had been told virtually nothing about it. As he stepped down from his carriage, he looked up at the ancient building, its stone weathered by the Norfolk climate, and had a sudden and most unaccountable sensation of coming home. Alistair’s a lucky man, he thought to himself; and he’s never even seen it.
He turned to the coachman. ‘Dickinson, have the men unload the luggage, then take the carriage and horses to the stables. Come and find me immediately you have done so, and tell me what state of affairs you find there. We’ll need to make sure the accommodation is prepared for the other carriage and horses before they arrive tomorrow’.
‘Ay, Your Grace,’ Dickinson replied, knuckling his forehead. The other men glanced briefly at Max with new respect. Without being aware of it, he had spoken his orders in something approaching the clear, commanding style that he generally used aboard ship when men jumped to it.
‘Well, well,’ he said to Barnes and Okoro. ‘Let us go in and throw our weight about. So no one has received my letter, have they? I am outraged!’
While he was still speaking, Barnes approached the great oak door and lifted the knocker. It took some time for anyone to come, but just as Barnes was about to knock again, the door opened, and a diminutive girl, who could not have been much more than eight or nine, stood on
the doorstep. Her eyes grew very round, as she looked first at Barnes, then at Max in all his ducal glory, and finally at Abdas.
‘Co ter heck!’ she breathed, before running back inside, leaving the door half open.
Max looked from one man to the other, an expression of amusement on his face. ‘Was that the bailiff or the caretaker, do you think?’ he asked, pushing the door open with one hand and walking through. They found themselves standing on stone flags in a large oak-panelled room, with a huge stone fireplace at one end. Between them and the fireplace was an oak table, with proportions suited to the room.
They waited briefly in silence, until the sound of running footsteps warned them of someone’s approach. Moments later, a bandy-legged man of indeterminate age entered, hastily buttoning his coat and looking much surprised. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, we wasn’t expecting no one,’ he said. ‘Can I help you in some way?’ His manners, although courteous enough, were not those of an indoor servant. Clearly he had no idea of the exalted nature of his visitor. ‘Was you after d’rections?’ His face split into a grin. ‘Not but what you’d be proper lost an’ no mistake if you was axing d’rections from here. A’nt nowhere to go – ’cept into the sea.’ So saying, he chuckled rustily.
Barnes opened his mouth to speak, but Max silenced him with a gesture. ‘You may help by fetching the bailiff, if you please,’ he said pleasantly. ‘He was certainly apprised of my visit.’
The man looked nonplussed. ‘I don’t rightly know as I can do that, seeing as he ain’t here,’ he replied.
Max could feel Barnes beginning to fume just behind his left shoulder. Slightly to his right, he could see Abdas out of the corner of his eye. The man was standing in the dignified, calm, self-contained way that was so much a part of him. Max smiled slightly. The irony of the fact that it was when things started to go slightly wrong that he felt more at ease did not escape him.
Imperfect Pretence Page 9
