Lord Augustus (Sons of the Marquess Book 3)

by Mary Kingswood

  With some difficulty, for Ned was tugging at his arm, Gus introduced Willerton-Forbes and Merton. “A matter of business,” he said. “It should not take long. If I stay here with Ned…?”

  She understood, and ushered the two men through to the parlour, while Gus settled on the floor with Ned and the soldiers. They were not left alone for long, or perhaps he was so absorbed in the game that he took no notice of the time passing, for suddenly there they all were. He tried to read their faces, but could tell nothing from them. Merton was always a closed book, and Willerton-Forbes had on his lawyer’s serious expression. And Amaryllis? She was perhaps a little pink-cheeked, but as composed as ever.

  “Now, Ned, I fear that I must leave you to finish the battle yourself,” Gus said gently.

  “No! Stay!”

  “I wish I could, for my troops are in a most commanding position. Unfortunately, there is a matter of business that must be attended to.”

  “Then come back afterwards.”

  “That is for your mama to decide.”

  “Mama! Please, please, please!”

  Gus held his breath, waiting, watching her.

  She looked him full in the face, and said calmly, “Of course. I should be happy to see Lord Augustus whenever he wishes to visit.”

  He exhaled, and knew he was grinning inanely, but he could not help himself. “Thank you! With luck, I may be able to come back this afternoon, or if not, then tomorrow. But Ned, do not be sneaking your cavalry round behind my infantry, you know. I shall remember how everything is laid out.”

  Then there were the farewells to be made, and to his delight she held out her hand to him, her ungloved hand, and he had the delicious pleasure of lifting it to his lips. Oh, the warmth of her fingers in his! And she had forgiven him his impertinence in asking about her husband, surely she had. As they walked back across the park to the stables under grey skies heavy with autumn rain, wet leaves swishing beneath their feet, Gus was as light-hearted as a bird trilling the arrival of spring.

  “Are you not even going to ask?” Merton said, in amused tones. “But you are too happy to descend to the plane of mere mortals like us, I daresay.”

  “Of course I am happy!” Gus cried. “Yesterday she told me I should never see her again, and today she has relented. How could I not be happy? But tell, me did she reveal anything of import?”

  “Not a single thing that we did not already know,” Willerton-Forbes said. “She was very polite, but very, very resolute. So we must go to Drifford and see what we may learn there.”

  “And what did you think of her?” Gus said.

  Merton smiled. “She is in every way a lady.”

  And upon reflection, Gus could find no fault with this assessment.

  Gus and Willerton-Forbes drove to Drifford in the curricle, for the lawyer did not ride, while Merton rode behind them. As the bays were fresh, they covered the distance in no time. The curricle rattled through the newer part of the town, with its fine rows of houses and shops, and into the main square, where the statue of Mrs Ballard in her hooped dress gazed over her people. There were no inns in sight, but there was a small hotel at one corner of the square, where the stables, after inspection, proved adequate to Gus’s requirements. Leaving Carson and several ostlers, wide-eyed at the sight of the immaculate pair of bays, to tend the horses, they ordered coffee while they planned their approach.

  “Well, this is fun,” Gus said, still exhilarated by his meeting with Amaryllis. “I do like an adventure. How shall we begin?”

  “Fun?” the lawyer said. “May I enquire, my lord, as to whether you always drive like that?”

  “Oh, no,” Gus said blandly. “I normally let them have their heads, but you were looking a bit green, so I held them in check.”

  “Held them in check,” the lawyer said faintly. “I see. Perhaps on the way back I shall find a local farmer to drive me at a more sedate pace.”

  “You did very well,” Gus said kindly. “You only screamed once, I believe, when we overtook the mail coach.”

  “Which was at full speed with four horses,” the lawyer said acidly. “And a post chaise approaching from the opposite direction.”

  Gus grinned. “Nothing at all to worry about, for there was plenty of room. Now, how shall we approach this?”

  The lawyer took a steadying breath. “Very well. We do not wish to explain our real reason for enquiring about Miss Amaryllis Cordwainer,” he said, “so we shall say only that there is a legacy which has been left to her — which was true enough — and we wish to find her, and the last address we have for her is Old Drifford House. We need to find out where the house is, but we shall not need to call there, since we know she has left.”

  “No, we should do everything as if our story is real,” Merton said, his voice quiet but authoritative enough to compel the lawyer’s attention. “We shall enquire as to the whereabouts of the house, and then we must visit it, to enquire if the lady still lives there, or if they know where she may be found. But you must let Mr Willerton-Forbes do the talking, Lord Augustus. It would be very difficult to explain your interest in the matter, so let us agree that you are just a stranger who very kindly offered Mr Willerton-Forbes a lift. An idle aristocrat filling in a few hours between engagements.”

  “Oh, certainly,” Gus said, grinning. “I can play the idle aristocrat to perfection. It is a role I have been playing for four and twenty years, after all. I overheard you enquiring about hiring a post-chaise, Willerton-Forbes, and, being at a loose end, offered to drive you to your destination. How kind of me!”

  The first part of this proceeding, to find Old Drifford House, was very easy. Merton summoned the hotel manager, who pointed across the square.

  “That there stone cottage is Old Drifford House, sir. Used to be just Drifford House, at first, until Mrs Ballard had the new house built. See that grand new place on the hill across there? That’s where Mrs Ballard lives now.”

  “We are trying to find a Miss Cordwainer who lived at Old Drifford House, but she does not appear to be there now,” Willerton-Forbes said.

  “Oh, no, she left there a while back, now,” the manager said. “Lovely lady, very quiet and shy. She was betrothed to Mr James, until he died, but then she disappeared after that. Grief-stricken, I expect.”

  Gus was taken aback to hear of a betrothal, for he had never suspected such a thing. But then Amaryllis had told him so little of her past that there might be twenty betrothals for all he knew. And he had died… poor Amaryllis. She had ill fortune with her men, to lose two of them when she was still so young.

  “Quite,” the lawyer said. “Who is Mr James?”

  “Why, Mr James Ballard,” the man said, seemingly shocked that anyone would not know such a thing. “Such a fine young man. Thrown from his horse, he was. Great tragedy. There were hopes that Mr Richard would marry Miss Cordwainer instead, but nothing came of that, and he married Miss Ellis from Newcastle in the end, and they have a babe expected any day now. Mrs Ballard is very pleased about that, as you can imagine. It is Mr and Mrs Richard who live in Old Drifford House now. Mrs Ballard gave it to them as a wedding present. It should have been Mr James’s, but there you are. Such a tragedy. Mrs Ballard was so grieved, it was terrible to see. Never got over it, not in the least. Never goes out now without a veil to hide her face.”

  Mrs Ballard, everywhere one turned there was Mrs Ballard. Gus supposed that in a small town like Drifford, entirely owned by one man, his wife must be a person of some importance. Amaryllis had told him that Mrs Ballard managed the town, her husband being often away, so no wonder the locals were very conscious of her. She must be a towering presence, dominating their lives just as her statue dominated the square.

  The three men walked across the square to Old Drifford House, Gus strutting and waving his cane about, in his role as idle aristocrat, the others more sedately, their sombre black coats a contrast to his burgundy superfine. The house was a good one, pleasingly solid, and large without bei
ng imposing, an elegant counterpoint to the rather ostentatious mansion next door, which to Gus’s eye was dreadfully vulgar.

  There was a knocker and a bell, but Gus rapped on the door with the head of his cane. A footman answered and bore their three cards away to some inner fastness. Gus had expected a ‘not at home’, but they were admitted, relieved of hats and gloves and Gus’s cane, and shown into a very pleasing drawing room, fitted out with exquisite taste, although slightly old-fashioned. Gus knew at once that it bore Amaryllis’s hand, for who else would have chosen such daintily feminine colours and furnishings? Certainly not the two ladies who turned to watch them enter. The one lying on a chaise longue was as stout as an ox, her confinement imminent, wearing the sort of violent colours that matrons are allowed to wear but had much better not. The other woman was above fifty, although still handsome, apart from a scar covering most of one cheek. She wore mourning black, and her gown was expensive, but to Gus’s London-honed eye, not in the first style of fashion. He did not need to see the hat with its veil pushed back to guess that he was looking at Mrs Ballard, although she was not much like her statue, her face fuller and her figure more voluptuous.

  She held the three cards in her hand, which was curious since the other lady was presumably Mrs Richard Ballard, and therefore the lady of the house. But it was the older Mrs Ballard who said, “Lord Augustus Marford? I am not familiar with the peerage, pray enlighten me as to your connections.” Her voice was deep, almost like a man’s but there was a chill to it that made Gus shiver. Not a pleasant woman, and he understood why Amaryllis had not liked her.

  “My brother is the ninth Marquess of Carrbridge, ma’am,” Gus said, wondering why she did not introduce herself formally. It was almost as if she expected everyone to know who she was. He was fairly sure he did, but he would have liked it confirmed.

  “And he lives where?”

  “At Drummoor in the West Riding.”

  “Drummoor. Interesting. And what is your business with us, Lord Augustus Marford?”

  “None at all, ma’am. It is Mr Willerton-Forbes who has business here. I am just his accidental driver for the day. May I have the pleasure of knowing whom I am addressing?”

  “Mrs Charles Ballard,” she said, her lips compressing as if in annoyance. She did not introduce the younger woman. “Well, Willerton-Forbes?”

  “Thank you, madam. I am trying to trace a young lady by the name of Cordwainer who once lived in this house. She—”

  “Amaryllis Cordwainer?”

  “The same, madam. She—”

  “You are too late. She is not here. Indeed, it is some years since she left Drifford, and no one has seen any sign of her since. What is your interest in her?”

  “There is a bequest in her name, madam. It would—”

  “Who from?”

  “I regret I am not at liberty to divulge that information. Do you have any idea where she might have gone to? Did she have relatives? Perhaps she married?”

  Mrs Ballard jumped to her feet. She was quite short, although her style of dress and the hair piled high on her head seemed designed to make her look taller.

  “She never married,” she said, quivering from head to toe. “I can state with some authority that she never married, for she was betrothed to my son, and would certainly have married him had he not been taken from us too young.” Her voice shook with emotion. “Far too young. Sometimes life is very cruel, gentlemen.” She took several deep breaths to compose herself. “We all deal with grief in our own way, do we not? For myself, I rebound stronger than before, and more determined than ever to succeed.”

  Her eyes flashed as she spoke, and Gus could well believe in her determination. She was a formidable woman indeed.

  She went on, “Others grieve by hiding away to lick their wounds, and so it was with Amaryllis. She was weak and foolish, and could not cope with James’s death and so she ran away. I looked everywhere for her, as you may imagine. What else could I do for my poor boy but to offer solace to the woman he would have shared his life with? I searched high and low for her, but she escaped me.” As she went on, her voice hardened suddenly, “So you will not find Amaryllis Cordwainer in Drifford, Mr Willerton-Forbes, but if you should find her elsewhere, I beg that you will tell me of it, for when she left here, she took something of mine with her, something I value more than diamonds or rubies, and I would have it back.”

  21: Drifford Church

  For a moment, the room was frozen, each of them caught immobile in the spider’s web of surprise. Even Mrs Richard Ballard sat, open mouthed, staring at her mother-in-law. Gus had no idea what to make of it. Merton had warned him to be prepared for any outcome, but nothing had prepared him for this deep-seated grief and anger… yes, Mrs Ballard was angry about her son’s death, angry at Amaryllis and he could not understand why.

  “Would you see him? And her, too?” Mrs Ballard said, her voice shifting abruptly to a softer tone. “They are immortalised in the church, and although I thought it an odd whim at the time, now I am glad of it, for every Sunday I may sit and gaze once more at my son’s face and that is a vast comfort to a poor grieving mother in her declining years. Will you come?”

  She addressed the room at large, but it was at Gus that she looked as she spoke.

  “Certainly,” he said, aware of a quiver of excitement. He could not guess quite what Mrs Ballard meant when she said that Amaryllis was immortalised in the church, but if he could look on her face there, it would please him greatly.

  “You will forgive me, I trust, if I continue my enquiries elsewhere?” Willerton-Forbes said. “I have very little time and—”

  “As you please,” Mrs Ballard said, with a lift of one shoulder, but her lip curled in disdain. Perhaps she was not used to people who turned her down. She pulled her veil down over her face, took up her cane and left the room without another word.

  Gus turned to Mrs Richard, who had said nothing throughout the exchange, and looked now on the verge of tears.

  “Good day to you, Mrs Ballard,” he said gently, with a formal bow. “Pardon our intrusion. We will leave you in peace now.”

  “Oh, it is of no consequence. I am always happy to see new faces in the town.” She had a high voice like a young girl’s, although she must have been twenty five or more. Then, more strongly, with an intense glance at the retreating back of her mother-in-law, “Always.”

  “You are very kind,” Gus said, wondering a little at the strange little family tableau.

  He made his way out of the house after Mrs Ballard, and into the square. Willerton-Forbes made his bow, and set off to make enquiries of the various shops surrounding the square and spilling along the main road. Gus followed Mrs Ballard across the square, with Merton silent in his wake. As they progressed, the entire square came to a halt, every wagon was pulled up, every walker stood still. Each one of them turned towards Mrs Ballard, then dipped into a deep bow or respectful curtsy. Heads bowed, they waited until she had passed by before moving off again. Gus had seen less respect paid to members of the royal family.

  The church was a fine one, its clock tower soaring high above even the tallest buildings around it. Yet the face of the clock was exactly on a level with the upper windows of Drifford House on its hill opposite, and Gus wondered if that was intentional, if Mrs Ballard put herself on the same level as the high point of the church, and everyone else must go lower. To one side of the church were stones to mark the dead, and on the other side, a single large grave, fenced and roofed, with a carved angel above it and flowers placed before it.

  “There lies my poor son,” Mrs Ballard said, pausing for a moment. “My firstborn. Ah, it’s so hard to lose a child.”

  Gus and Merton maintained a sympathetic silence, for what was there to say? No words could comfort such grief. Only time and prayer and the steadfast support of those who loved her could bring solace and ease the pain.

  With a sigh, she moved on towards the church doors, which stood wide open. A woman
scrubbing the steps scrambled to her feet, whisked her bucket aside and dropped into a deep curtsy as they passed by. Mrs Ballard nodded to her, but moved into the vestibule without speaking. It was cool inside the church, their steps echoing on the tiled floor. Unlike the over-ornamented house on the hill opposite, with its decorated porticoes, ornamental arches and domed roofs, the church was starkly plain, its rows of stone pillars and soaring roof devoid of embellishment. Some of the windows were plain glass, but several had been replaced with stained glass images of biblical scenes and to one of these Mrs Ballard led them.

  “There,” she said. “That is James, and Amaryllis beside him, just as in life.”

  The window depicted the story of the loaves and fishes, and the benign figure of Jesus was handing out food to a crowd of eager followers, their faces upturned with adoration. And there, as lovely in glass as in life, was Amaryllis.

  “Ohhh,” Gus breathed, moving closer. Behind him, Merton coughed, and he remembered he was not supposed to know her, and drew back a little, but Mrs Ballard was looking at him oddly. “Which is your son?” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “And… and Miss Cordwainer?”

  “This is Amaryllis, and this is James, my eldest son.” A handsome man, rather bulky, one hand resting proprietorially on Amaryllis’s shoulder. “So like me in ways, and unlike the younger boys, he never went away to school. Here are Richard and Harold, my younger sons, such grand gentlemen they are now, quite above their humble origins. But James never forgot his mother. My girls — Agnes, Emily, Joan, Sarah.” She sighed. “I daresay they will marry eventually. Lucia White, the doctor’s daughter. Such an unpromising baby, but she married quite well, considering her history, a wool merchant, a very rich man. Janet and Lizzie, the daughters of one of my managers. They are in the Girls’ Academy now, and doing very well there. Thomas Leafield, the hotel manager’s son.” She rattled on, naming them all, knowing every detail about them, their histories and what had become of them. Except for Amaryllis.