‘I wonder whether we ought to go and see if we can be of any assistance?’ Melinda said diffidently.
‘Do you speak Swedish then, my dear?’ Mr Fellowes asked with a twinkle.
‘Well, no, although I do speak French,’ she said doubtfully. ‘Actually I was wondering about the poor mother and the baby and whether she might like some help.’
‘The vicar has been informed about what occurred,’ Mr Fellowes responded. ‘He might know whether any help has been sent to her already. You don’t want to overwhelm the poor woman.’
‘We could go to the vicarage and see if any help is needed,’ Constance suggested.
‘Find out if they have enough blankets,’ said Miss Fellowes. ‘We can easily spare some if necessary.’
‘Amazing how the day can be so bright and sunny, almost as though the storm had never been,’ Melinda commented as they left the house, having fetched their bonnets.
As Constance nodded in agreement, a group of three men from the village came into view, knuckling their brows as they saw the two young ladies. ‘Just going to ask for more blankets from Miss Fellowes, miss,’ said one of them.
‘We were going to ask the vicar if he wanted any,’ said Constance. ‘Are the poor folk dreadfully cold and distressed?’
‘Hard to tell, miss, seeing they’re foreigners,’ the man replied lugubriously. ‘Glad to be alive, though.’
‘Unlike the poor souls who perished in the storm,’ said Melinda.
‘Have they … have they found…?’ said Constance tentatively.
‘Two of them were washed up this morning,’ the man answered. ‘No sign of the black, though.’
Suddenly, Melinda lost all her colour. Her hand went to her throat. ‘He was … lost at sea?’ she ventured in a thread of a voice.
‘Aye, miss. No sign of his corpse as yet.’
‘Abdas!’ she murmured; then, without another word, she gathered up her skirts and ran in the direction of the village.
‘Melinda, wait!’ Constance cried. She turned back to the man who had been speaking. ‘A black man was lost, you say. Was this the duke’s secretary – Mr Okoro?’
‘Him what was in church, miss?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Constance answered hastily, looking to where Melinda was running away from them, her petticoats a flurry of white, Gussy galloping at her heels.
‘Why no, miss, he came back safe and sound; one of the bravest men I’ve ever seen, what’s more.’
‘Thank you,’ said Constance, beginning to run in pursuit of Melinda. Although Mr Fellowes had told them that Abdas was safe, Melinda’s heart was now obviously ruling her head. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your errand,’ she called back to them. The men glanced at one another, not a little mystified, then carried on towards the Fellowes’s cottage.
Melinda had been a country girl all her life, and having had a brother to compete with, was fleeter of foot than her friend. All she could think of was to run to where Abdas had last been seen. If his body had not been washed up, then perhaps he had not been lost after all. Perhaps he had managed to swim to shore further along the coast. Perhaps he had been injured and was even now struggling to make his way back.
As she ran, the different times when she had encountered him kept going through her mind: the strength in his arms as he had carried her into the cottage when she had first met him; the teasing expression in his warm brown eyes as they shared a joke; his keen interest as the lighthouse was examined and discussed; his courage at the rescue of Tommy Spencer; his anguish as he described the loss of his family and his tribe. Surely heaven would not permit him to have been saved from the waves only to allow him to perish so close to the shore?
She ran all the way to the church in a state of blind panic. Once there, it occurred to her that she had no idea where to look, or what to do next. Remembering that the vicar had been judged to have some involvement with those who had been shipwrecked, she cut through the churchyard in order to make her way to the vicarage. She paused briefly to look up at the roof of the church. There at that window, she had watched Abdas make his way to the boy; there, in the church tower, she had helped him to prepare the rope, their hands had touched, and clung together briefly, and they had exchanged more than one glance. Was this to be the most precious memory that she would ever have?
Choking back a sob, she dashed her hand across her eyes, picked up her skirts again and circumnavigated the church, only to run headlong into a man coming the other way. ‘Miss Grayleigh! What is this? You are distressed! Can I help you?’ he said, catching hold of her elbows in order to prevent her from jarring herself against his solid bulk.
She looked up in astonishment. There before her stood Abdas Okoro, quite unharmed, looking down at her in some concern. ‘Abdas,’ she exclaimed, tears starting to her eyes. ‘I thought you had perished! They told me—’
Gently, he gathered her into his arms. ‘Ssh, be still now,’ he said in soothing tones. ‘There is no need to cry. You see, I am quite well.’
It was no good. The tears, held back in her headlong flight, had to come, although now they were tears of relief. All the time he held her close, crooning to her, whilst Gussy flopped down on the grass and lay there panting.
At last, her tears subsiding, Melinda caught hold of his lapels and looked up at him, her heart in her eyes. ‘If anything had happened to you,’ she said tremulously, ‘I don’t know what I would have done.’
‘The waves would never have claimed me, for I would fight against far greater odds to return to you, my heart,’ he responded. He drew her closer and lowered his head until their lips met.
Constance, running to catch up with her friend, paused just inside the lychgate. She watched as Abdas pulled Melinda into a closer embrace, and her arms slid around his neck. Smiling, she turned away, and walked on alone to the vicarage, going by the road so as not to disturb the lovers.
Mrs Mawsby welcomed her, apologizing for the vicar’s absence, and she was very happy to share all that she knew about the previous night’s rescue over a cup of tea. Like Mr Fellowes, she was full of praise for the two gentlemen from Beacon Tower. ‘His Grace’s gallantry has proved any early unfavourable reports of him to be nothing but malice.’ Constance sipped her tea, whilst Mrs Mawsby told the story in her own words. Although it gave her a secret pleasure to hear how gallant the duke had been, she could not help feeling embarrassed at the thought that the ‘malicious reports’ had chiefly come from her!
After the tea had been drunk, she walked slowly back to The Brambles, thinking about Abdas and Melinda. How would Mr and Mrs Grayleigh view the match? Would they disapprove of a marriage with a man of another race? Constance suspected that they would be more concerned about Abdas’s prospects. Would the duke make it possible for him to marry – perhaps find him a post where there would be accommodation for a wife as well? The duke that she had first met – the dandy brute – would never have done such a thing. What of the man that she had come to know since then? She had wondered how she might feel had the duke perished beneath the waves. Now, with Melinda’s experience fresh in her mind – her look of anguish, her headlong flight – she realized that the death of the duke would have been just as intolerable to her. Imperceptibly, he had come to matter to her more than she knew.
When had it happened? She could not tell. At the beginning, she had stigmatized him as a dandy brute, albeit one who, much to her annoyance had made her heart beat faster. She had told herself that his arrival in the neighbourhood was calamitous and had encouraged others to shun him. He had soon revealed finer qualities. His behaviour towards Abdas, Mrs Dobbs and others had shown him to be a man who treated others with consideration; whilst his rescue of Tommy and of the shipwrecked mariners had shown him to be quick-thinking, resourceful and courageous. Far from hating and despising him, like Melinda she had tumbled into love.
What of her future prospects? Did she have any more chance of happiness than Abdas and Melinda? She doubted that she
even had as much. At least it was plain that they were besotted with one another. She had no idea how the duke felt about her. Even if he was drawn to her, how could a duke possibly make a match with an ordinary girl of no fortune whose aunt and uncle lived in a cottage? She would do much better to put him out of her mind.
Abdas and Melinda appeared half an hour later, looking very happy, Melinda holding tightly to his arm. He bade them a formal farewell, lifting Melinda’s hand to his lips, before heading back towards Beacon Tower.
‘He has asked me to marry him,’ Melinda told Constance, her expression softening as she remembered the kisses and vows of love that they had shared. ‘He has gone to fetch the gig from Beacon Tower, then he will drive me home so that he can ask Papa for my hand.’
‘Oh, Melinda, I’m so happy for you,’ said Constance, embracing her friend. ‘Will your father be amenable, do you think?’
‘I believe so,’ her friend answered. On the way back from the church, Abdas had told her in strict confidence that he was only acting as the duke’s secretary temporarily as a personal favour to his friend Mr Persault. In fact, he had a snug property of his own, and a merchant ship which earned him good money, as well as some useful investments. He would be very well able to provide a wife with the elegancies of life as well as its comforts. Mr Grayleigh need have no fear for his daughter’s welfare.
‘I suppose this means that your stay is at an end,’ said Constance regretfully.
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ Melinda replied.
‘No, you aren’t,’ said Constance, smiling.
‘I’m not sorry that Abdas has declared himself; I’m sorry to be leaving you,’ Melinda clarified. ‘Will you please give your uncle and aunt my apologies that I had to leave without thanking them personally for my stay?’ Constance had arrived home to discover that her uncle and aunt had both gone out in the gig, surrounded by blankets.
‘Yes, of course. They will be sorry to have missed you. I’ll not tell them about Mr Okoro. Your parents should be the first to know.’
Melinda nodded. ‘I shall come again soon. I know that Mama will want to talk everything over with me. She will certainly want to go to Aylsham, if not Norwich, for my bride clothes. I will ask her if you can come too, for you must be my bridesmaid, dear Connie, as we have always planned.’
‘That will be lovely,’ said Constance warmly.
By the time they had packed Melinda’s things, Abdas had returned, and soon Constance was waving them off. She was glad that her aunt and uncle had both gone out. She would not have wanted them to see that she was very close to tears.
‘Pull yourself together, my girl,’ she said out loud in stern tones, rubbing vigorously at her tears with her handkerchief. ‘Anyone would think that they were leaving for some distant estate of the duke’s already.’ Of course they were not; nevertheless a voice inside her head whispered, Melinda is your best friend. How will you do without her?
She was about to go inside when a voice called out, ‘Miss Church! How pleased I am to have found you at home!’ It was Colin Snelson.
‘Mr Snelson! Good day,’ she replied, smiling more because she was glad of the diversion than from the pleasure of his company. ‘Have you just arrived back? You have missed the excitement of the storm last night. Has anyone told you about it?’
‘I have heard something of the drama,’ he answered seriously. ‘Miss Church, there is a matter that I need to discuss with you in private.’
‘You sound very solemn,’ she responded. ‘Would you like to walk in the garden?’
He frowned. ‘I would prefer to go into the house,’ he answered.
Constance frowned as well. She considered herself to be beyond the age of needing a chaperon. What was more, she knew that her aunt’s approval of the young bailiff would guarantee that Miss Fellowes would consider a private interview inside to be perfectly permissible. She thought guiltily of the smiles that she had bestowed upon him in Aylsham. He could not know that her actions had been motivated by a desire to make the duke notice her. Fearing that allowing him to be with her alone in the house would give him altogether too much encouragement she said, ‘My aunt and uncle are both from home, so you will have to make do with the garden.’
They walked around to the back of the cottage where they sat down on a bench beneath a large apple tree. Constance hoped devoutly that he was not going to propose. Now that she had acknowledged to herself where her affections lay, the notion of even thinking about his proposal seemed absurd. He sat with his hands clasped between his knees, and she waited for him to speak. ‘You may remember that when we met at Aylsham, I was on my way to Cambridge.’
Constance nodded. ‘Yes, I do remember.’
‘Having set everything in order here, I went to visit some relations near Cambridge. They had summoned me to attend to a family matter. You must not think that I left my post without permission, Miss Church,’ he added earnestly. ‘Perhaps you did not realize that the terms of my employment permit me to take a holiday if all my duties are discharged. In ordinary circumstances, of course, I would have asked my employer, had he been to hand.’
‘Oh! I see,’ she responded. Guiltily, she realized that she had given very little thought to where he had gone, or why.
‘Before I returned, I thought that I would take the opportunity of visiting the Duke of Haslingfield’s principal estate.’
‘You knew that he had inherited, then?’
‘Yes, I knew, but had no expectation of ever seeing him.’
‘Is the Cambridgeshire estate very extensive?’
‘What? Yes, it is a large estate; that isn’t what I wanted to say.’ He paused then looked directly at her. ‘As soon as I arrived at Beacon Tower, I sought the duke out in order to introduce myself to him and explain my absence. Miss Church, I do not know who that man might be, but of one thing I am quite certain: he is not the duke.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘Not the duke? Don’t be absurd,’ said Constance. ‘I witnessed his behaviour on the journey. You have never seen such an arrogant performance. The way he treated his servants was an absolute disgrace!’ She had said the words before, originally with conviction, later with a twinge of unease; never before, as now, with a feeling of downright disloyalty.
‘That may be so; but he is not the duke. Of that I am quite certain.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Constance asked him, conscious of a sinking sensation.
‘Whilst I was Haslingfield, I had the opportunity of looking round. It’s enormous, Miss Church – Beacon Tower is nothing to it. It’s more like a palace than a house – and as for the grounds!’
‘You can tell me all about it on another occasion,’ said Constance, containing her impatience with some difficulty. ‘What of the duke?’
‘Ah yes. Whilst I was there, I had the chance of looking at a number of portraits of the family.’
‘If you are going to tell me that he is unlike other family members, then I must tell you that that means nothing,’ said Constance. ‘My parents were both dark, but look at me!’
‘If it were only that, then I would agree with you,’ said Snelson heavily. ‘However, I was shown a portrait of the young man who was to become the duke. He is tall and slim, with fair hair and a somewhat pale complexion – quite unlike that swarthy fellow up at Beacon Tower.’
‘Surely there must be some mistake. Heirs can die and more distant men come into an inheritance. In fact, the duke himself has said that the position is unfamiliar to him.’
‘I’ll wager it is,’ said Snelson in a cynical tone. ‘He looks more like a damned pirate to me.’
Constance turned pale. Had she not herself called the man a buccaneer? Now, at last, Snelson’s words hit home. ‘Then if he is not the duke, who is he? And where is the real duke?’
‘I have a very real fear that this man may have made away with him,’ said Snelson after a long pause.
Constance gasped. ‘No!’ she exclaimed. ‘I won’t believe
it.’ When her companion looked dubious, not to say surprised, she went on, ‘You have not been here in recent days. He joined in a rescue at sea and many men were saved. He, together with his secretary, brought a lad down from the church roof. He is not a murderer, I am convinced of it.’
‘Well then, perhaps he has simply secured the real duke for a time until he can achieve his own ends.’
‘And what might those be?’
There was another silence. ‘What if he were to be in league with the French, in order to facilitate an invasion?’
‘Here? In Norfolk?’
‘There is a good harbour at Wells. Or what about Weybourne, just along the coast? It is deep enough there to bring big ships in, and what better place? Especially if there is an ally close by in a big house to take them in.’
Constance opened her mouth to protest, then closed it, recalling her uncle’s words. She remembered, too, how at first the duke had made out that he had little interest in the sea, then betrayed his knowledge and seamanship. She thought of how he had produced a telescope and had been so adept in its use, easily finding and identifying a small boat. What if Cromer lighthouse were to be used by someone as a signal for an invasion fleet, as well as a safety marker for British sailors? How delighted the duke had been to discover that the pattern thrown by the light was so distinctive! Would he pass this on to enemies of England? She did not want to believe that he was a traitor; unfortunately, too many things indicated that he was not what he seemed. What was she to believe?
‘What do you intend to do?’ she asked eventually.
Snelson’s face took on a resolute expression. ‘I will go to Aylsham and speak to the magistrate. He is a family acquaintance and has some volunteers at his disposal. I shall put my case before him and urge him to bring some men to arrest this fellow.’
‘Oh pray,’ exclaimed Constance, much disturbed by this disclosure. ‘Surely such a drastic measure is not necessary!’
‘What do you suggest instead?’
‘Well … could we not just go and ask him?’
He looked at her pityingly. ‘Do you have the smallest hope that he would tell you the truth? Besides, if he really is a traitor, the last thing that we should do is put him on his guard.’
Imperfect Pretence Page 17
