She went to the wardrobe, and took from it a warm pelisse and red velvet bonnet and a pair of fur lined half boots. She donned these garments hastily, then opened a drawer and found her gloves. She glanced at the clock. It was just turned six.
As she was walking downstairs, she decided to leave the house by the French window in the parlour. She must first, however, ascertain that the officers had departed on their journey. It would never do to give Captain Masterman further reason to suspect her of furtive behaviour. This time, he might feel impelled to take more positive action.
Outside the parlour door, she came upon one of the housemaids: The girl was staring thunderstruck at the pail which still stood there. She started violently at Miss Feniton’s somewhat stealthy approach.
“Lawks, ma’am!”
“I’m sorry if I startled you, Polly. Can you tell me if the gentlemen have already left the house?”
The girl paused to collect her wits before replying.
“ ‘Tis a queer ol’ mornin’, ma’am, an’ no mistake, what wi’ pails gettin’ up an’ walkin’ on their own, an’—”
She broke off, evidently realizing that she had not answered Miss Feniton’s question.
“Yes, ma’am, they went not five minutes agone—did you want to speak wi’ them, ma’am?”
“No, it’s of no consequence,” replied Joanna. “I wonder, Polly, could you possibly procure me a cup of hot chocolate? I am minded to take a stroll before breakfast.”
The girl looked at her doubtfully. Evidently she considered that one more odd event had been added to the morning’s score.
“You’ll pardon me, I’m sure, ma’am, but bain’t ‘ardly the weather,” she said. “Where shall I bring you the chocolate?”
Joanna indicated that the parlour would suit her very well, and Polly departed, wondering what other freaks of fate awaited her during the course of the morning.
Hardly more than ten minutes later, Joanna was making her way through the kitchen gardens to a gate which opened on to the lane running down to the river.
There was a high wind blowing, but she was sheltered from it in the lane by reason of the high banks set on either side. She made her way downhill carefully; the track was rough and stony, and she had no wish to end her adventure with a ricked ankle. At last she reached the end of the lane, and came out to the plot on which stood the buildings. The inn was nearest, and she surveyed it carefully.
It appeared to be deserted, although a wisp of smoke was coming from its chimney. She walked on past it, until she came to the farm. Here, too, was no sign of life. On its other side, were two cottages which she could see at a glance were derelict. Disappointed, she turned her attention once more to the farm.
It was surely strange that there should be no one about? At this hour of day, the countryside was usually full of activity. It had simply never occurred to her that she would not meet some worker, male or female, down here. She was momentarily at a loss. She had no wish to knock at the door of either place and ask questions, and for the life of her she could think of no good excuse for rousing these people. Such an action would cause comment, and give rise to gossip which might reach the ears of the family at the big house. Her questions, when put, must be casual-seeming, certainly not anything in the nature of an interrogation.
At one side of the farm was a slipway giving access to the river beach. If she walked along the strip of shingle at the river’s edge, she should be able to see into the yards at the back of the buildings, and might perchance spy someone working there. A civil good morning ought to pave the way for her questions, carefully put. She could think of nothing better to do, and took her way down to the river.
As she stepped out on to the beach, she again became exposed to the full force of the wind. A sudden unruly gust tugged at her bonnet, blowing it on to the back of her head, and considerably disordering her dark curls. She put up her hands to right it; but a second, more violent gust tore at the fluttering ribbons before she could reach them. In a moment, that expensive creation of an exclusive Exeter milliner went whirling through the air.
Miss Feniton made a grab for it. It eluded her, landing flat on the water, and skimming neatly along on the surface like a child’s toy boat. It was only a few feet from the edge: she looked about her for something with which to recapture it, and saw close at hand the fallen branch of a tree. She seized this with an involuntary exclamation of satisfaction, and at once began to fish for her property, the light of the sportsman in her eye. Several times, she almost had it, but a shift of wind would carry it out of reach again. Becoming more determined as her efforts proved unavailing, she also became less cautious in her movements. A final desperate lunge with the stick succeeded in impaling the bonnet, but brought its owner stumbling forward into the water.
With difficulty, she managed to keep her balance, and so avoid measuring her length in the river; but her half boots, stockings and the lower part of her pelisse and gown were soaked. At first, she disregarded this, grabbing the bonnet with a little cry of triumph, and casting the stick away from her into the river. Then realization of her plight came swiftly, causing her to grimace in dismay. Carrying the sodden, useless bonnet in one hand, while with the other she raised her dripping skirts, she moved back on to the dry shingle, her boots squelching unpleasantly at every step.
She paused irresolutely, and looked about her. She could see into the farmyard, but the place was deserted, save for some scrawny hens scratching disconsolately in the mire. She sat dawn upon the stones, and, drawing off her boots, proceeded to empty the water out of them. While she was donning them again, she paused to consider what her next move should be. She had no desire to return to Teignton Manor in this plight, quite apart from the discomfort of the lengthy walk back in wet stockings and footgear.
Obviously, she must apply at the farmhouse for the means of drying her garments. There was sure to be a woman about the place somewhere, and she now had the perfect excuse for knocking, and demanding to see a female. Her small accident might yet prove the best means to achieve her ends.
Heartened by this thought, she made her way with difficulty up the slipway, and to the door of the farmhouse. She knocked loudly.
There was no reply. After what she considered a reasonable pause, she knocked again. She shivered as she waited, for the wind was whipping her wet garments about her legs, and her head was bare. When she still obtained no reply, she seized the knocker once more and beat out a veritable tattoo upon the door.
At last, she was certain that there was no one there. The house wore an aura of emptiness, difficult to define, but plainly perceptible. She was wasting her time in knocking.
Disappointed and by now chilled through, she turned away, and walked down with slow steps to the gate. It was then that she noticed a tumbledown cottage standing quite isolated in the far corner of a meadow opposite the farm. She looked more closely: at first, she judged it to be derelict, but she soon noticed a trail of thin smoke issuing from its chimney. Evidently it was inhabited. Should she try there for help, or at the inn, which was nearer?
A second’s reflection provided the answer. She recalled what had been said by the two officers of their reception at the inn, and decided that the landlord would scarcely be more welcoming to an unaccompanied female than he had been to the Volunteer forces. It would take a little while to reach the cottage, but surely there she could hope to find a homely body who would make her welcome to a seat by the fire until her clothes were dry?
She at once set out for her objective. Her steps were necessarily slow, owing to the weight of water in her boots and garments, and to add to this, she soon discovered that the meadow was marshy. Her feet sank frequently into deep mud, having to be withdrawn again by considerable effort. She did her best to select the drier patches, but soon gave this up, as it involved making a considerable detour, thus placing the cottage at an ever increasing distance.
With grim determination, she plodded her difficult way alon
g, until she had approached to within thirty or forty yards of the place. She stopped for a moment, then, surveying it critically.
She was obliged to ask herself how anyone could ever live there. Most of the windows were boarded up, through lack of glass: one only, like a small eye in a large head, reflected light from a watery sun. The roof required rethatching, while the walls seemed to sag around a battered door that was a stranger to paint.
There could be no doubt about the smoking chimney, however. Someone did indeed live in the place, for a fire burned; and although she had noticed similar signs of life at both the inn and the farm, surely not all the inhabitants of this particular area could be abroad on business of one kind or another this morning?
She hurried forward. The ground was firmer here, and she was able to cover the remaining distance quickly. Breathing somewhat rapidly, she knocked upon the door in an imperative manner.
There was no immediate reply, but she had a distinct feeling of being overlooked. She glanced sharply at the one unboarded window. Somewhat to her surprise, it was closely curtained in a piece of dimity of noticeable cleanliness. The discovery pleased her, for she fancied that here she detected a woman’s touch.
She moved nearer, trying to peer into the room. Her view was effectively screened by the curtain, but she thought she could make out a shadow which moved behind it. She scarcely paused before knocking again, this time impatiently. By now, she was unable to control her shivering, for her feet and legs were almost numb with cold. It flashed through her mind, even in the midst of such discomfort, that she must look more than a little dishevelled.
At last, the door was partially opened. A man’s voice spoke from behind its shelter.
“Who’s there?”
“Is there by any chance a woman about the place?” asked Miss Feniton, in a voice made faltering by cold and breathlessness. “I have had the misfortune to fall into the river, and am wet through. If I might be permitted to dry myself by your fire for a little—”
The door was opened fully.
Miss Feniton hesitated. She still could not see the man, who remained hidden behind the door, but the view now afforded her of the room showed that it certainly held no other occupant. It was a small, dim apartment, even in the extra light afforded by the open door; but her appraising glance discovered a bright fire blazing on the hearth, and a comfortable looking chair drawn up beside it. This was just what she needed.
“Is your wife within?” she repeated.
“I have told you before this that I have no wife, Miss Feniton,” was the unexpected reply. “But for all that, you need not scruple to enter.”
SEVEN - Captain Jackson’s Story
She drew in her breath sharply in surprise. “You!” she said, and hesitated for a moment.
Then she walked in. He closed the door firmly behind her.
He turned, surveying her in one comprehensive glance. Her black curls were blown in disorder about her face, which was pinched with cold. In one hand she still unthinkingly carried the sodden bonnet, while her muddied skirts and footgear told their own story.
“You are in a pickle!” he said, with a brief smile, and indicated the armchair with a graceful motion of his hand. “You’d best get out of those wet things without delay, if you would avoid a chill.”
“Thank you,” replied Miss Feniton, coldly, “that will not be necessary. A few moments before the fire should suffice to dry out most of the moisture, and enable me to be on my way again.”
“Nonsense!” he said, briskly, moving towards the door in one corner of the fireplace wall. “I’ll lend you a dressing robe.”
He opened the door, and proceeded to clatter up a short flight of obviously uncarpeted stairs. Her fruitless protests followed him, but he paid no heed, returning presently with a dressing gown which he flung over the arm chair.
“There you are! I apologize for the masculinity of the attire, but no female garment is to hand. Now, if I remove myself for a space to the upper room, you may get out of those wet garments, and into this. Pray call me when you are ready.”
“Do you imagine,” asked Miss Feniton, in amazement, “that I shall do any such thing?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Why ever not? Surely you are not—” his voice quivered with amusement for a second—“missish? I had not expected that: it doesn’t seem in character.”
“So you have been reading my character, have you?” Miss Feniton retorted, moving over towards the fire and stretching out her hands to the welcome blaze.
“It is a trick on which my safety often depends,” he answered soberly.
“I see. And may I ask what you made of me?”
He gestured towards the dressing gown. “By all means—when you have divested yourself of that wet clothing.”
“I fear, then, that I must forgo the pleasure of ever knowing,” she answered, dryly. “May I sit down?”
“But of course!” he said, promptly. “Miss Feniton, you must see that this is absurd! Do you positively wish to catch a chill?”
She made no reply. After one brief look at her face, he went quickly to the cupboard in the corner, and took something from one of the shelves. He returned to her side, laying a small pistol on the arm of her chair.
“Do you know how to use this?” he asked.
She nodded, too startled for speech.
“If you should find anything to complain of in my conduct towards you, do not hesitate to do so. And now, if I remove myself upstairs for a space, will you consent to make use of the robe? I will remain aloft if you wish, until you are ready to be on your way again. Otherwise, you may summon me to talk with you; it shall be exactly as you desire.”
He quitted the room without more ado, leaving Miss Feniton looking after him with mixed feelings. Common sense prevailed, however, and, with a shrug, she began to draw off her boots and muddied stockings. She spread these before the fire to dry, and then removed her wet pelisse.
This done, she hesitated. At last, she unfastened the girdle which bound her gown about her waist, and, after a moment’s struggle with the buttons of her sleeves, drew the gown over her head.
She picked up the dressing gown. Owing to the smallness of the closely curtained window, the light in the room was poor; but the leaping flame of the fire caught the glint of a richly tinted brocade. It seemed a strangely luxurious garment for a mere fisherman to possess. She donned it thoughtfully, fastening it securely about her, then turned to spread the hems of her clothing before the fire.
She stood pensively looking down into the flame for a while. At length, she went to the door which gave to the stairs, but her steps were slow. Hesitantly, she opened the door a little.
“You may come down now,” she called, in a low voice.
She returned much more quickly to the fire. Presently, she heard the man’s feet on the staircase. He entered, and came towards her.
She looked up. It was not easy to read his expression, for the light of the room gave her only a hazy impression of his features. His eyes seemed to be considering her, though, for a long time. Truth to tell, he was seeing quite a different young lady from the one who had interviewed him yesterday evening. Her soft black hair was falling about her face, giving it a gentler expression, and in the firelight her lovely eyes looked fuller and deeper. Cold followed by warmth had im parted a glowing tone to her skin, and the deep red dressing gown set off admirably her dark beauty.
“I trust you will know me if we should chance to meet again,” she said, tartly.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, starting from his reverie. “It was impertinent of me to stare you out of countenance—but I find you so changed.”
“It is certainly not very gallant to remind me that I am not looking my best,” she remarked, reproachfully, but with a twinkle in her eye which he could not see.
“On the contrary—I have never seen you looking to better advantage.”
“But then,” she reminded him, “you have seen me only once bef
ore this, after all.”
“True. On that occasion, I was the one to be at a disadvantage. But will you not be seated? What can I offer you? I don’t imagine you would care to partake of a glass of wine, and I have no ratafia here. You should have a warm drink, though—a cup of tea or coffee, perhaps?”
Miss Feniton was about to decline either beverage, but again common sense prevailed. She had indeed felt thoroughly chilled until this very minute, and had no wish to suffer for her adventure by being kept to her bed for a day or two. She therefore accepted the offer of a cup of tea, with calm gratitude; and then sat down, eyeing the pistol as she did so.
There was a kettle standing on the hob; the man reached over, placing it on the fire.
“I must apologize for the limitations of my hospitality,” he said, with a smile. “One fire must do the job of both cooking and heating in this establishment. However, though primitive, I think you will find everything clean—we are even so fortunate as to be in possession of one uncracked cup, I find.”
“Is this your home?” she asked, curiously.
He shook his head. “Merely a pied a terre. I am never in one place for long.”
“I had already noticed that,” she answered, dryly.
“You received my note last night?” he queried, watching her face, which was illuminated and softened by the light of the fire.
She nodded. “Yes, I did; but I lost it again, I fear.”
“Lost it?” His voice was sharp.
“I believe that someone must have removed it from my reticule either yesterday evening or this morning,” she said, looking at him questioningly.
He was silent for a moment or two. The kettle began to sing, and he fetched a battered teapot from the cupboard.
“Who do you suppose it was?” he asked, bending over the fire.
“That depends. It could have been, for instance, yourself.”
He turned a surprised look upon her. “I? Why on earth should you suppose I would do a thing like that?”
She shrugged, and a dark curl fell forward on to her face.
The Guinea Stamp Page 9
