Aurora

by Joan Smith

  “His mother keeps him wrapped in cotton wool, in case anything should happen to him,” Marnie explained.

  “Ah yes, her passport to Raiker Hall, but as the boy can no longer provide that, I hope she’ll let him off her apron strings now.”

  “It is not quite clear Charles is dispossessed,” Marnie pointed out, scrutinizing the man closely, as did her sister.

  “Marnie, is it possible you don’t recognize me?” he asked, with a very sincere voice. “Have I changed so much? I recognized you the minute I saw you. Surely I am not so different from what I was. I was sixteen when last we met—already a man nearly.”

  “Kenelm looked quite different from you. Not so tall, the nose different, less aquiline, and of much lighter complex­ion.”

  “Dammit, I’ve been in India for over ten years! You must know me. I counted on you,” he said in exasperation.

  “And Kenelm did not use profane language in front of ladies,” she added primly.

  “Oh yes I did. You were always jawing at me for it,” he answered. She looked swiftly at him when he said this, then looked away, with a quizzical frown on her brow. Rorie couldn’t tell whether the remark had been just right or quite wrong, but she thought it had made some sharp impression on her sister.

  Lord Dougall and his family came into the hallway. “Well, sir, shall we be off?” Dougall asked, very politely, but not using the man’s alleged name or title.

  Lady Alice was gazing at him with undisguised admira­tion, a smile curving her lips. “Do let us go, Lord Raiker,” she said, offering her arm.

  Regarding them both closely, Rorie saw the little flash of triumph pass over the man’s face. What a sly girl Alice was, to be sure! She had most certainly not recognized Kenelm. She was eighteen years old, would have been seven when he left, and could not therefore have been at all close to him. No, she was just allying herself with him to win him over. Kenelm—or whoever he was—took the girl’s elbow with the most charming smile ever bestowed on maiden.

  “Now why is it I didn’t recognize you at once, Sally?” he asked. “Had I seen you coming down the road on your little cream pony you used to ride, I would have done so, I promise you.”

  “Oh, I outgrew him years ago, Lord Raiker. I am all grown up now.”

  “I noticed, ma’am, and a very good job you have done of it, too,” he returned gallantly. He made his bows to the other ladies present.

  “May I do myself the honour of calling on you tomorrow, Marnie?” he asked.

  “Yes, we must meet and talk, certainly. In the afternoon, if that is convenient for you?”

  “Perfect. I’ll call on stepmama in the morning. Good day.”

  The Dougall party left, and before long the other guests took their lead from Dougall and they too departed, to regroup in smaller bunches at various homes and discuss the exciting turn events had taken. There were two camps set up at once—those who believed the newcomer’s claim, and those who did not. The man bore a strong physical resemblance to the Raikers, of course, and he knew a great deal about the family, the neighbours, but wasn’t there just a little something of that ne’er-do-well of a Horace Rutley in him? The man more closely resembled Horace than Kenelm, some said. Horace, for instance, had always had that swarthy skin, whereas Kenelm had been paler.

  Every family and every neighbourhood has its little scandals, and one of the scandals of this pocket of Kent was that old Lord Raiker occasionally went astray. He was a good man by and large, took care of his property and his people and went to church on Sunday, but he had an eye to a pretty girl. Nel Rutley had been a very pretty girl thirty-odd years ago, the daughter of a fisherman in the village, as near to witless as made no difference, but it didn’t affect her looks. The old Lord Raiker had sired a son on her. She had been sent away to some cousin in Hamp­shire, and later made a match there, but the son was sent back to her parents, who had adopted him. Before he was out of short coats it was patently obvious who the boy’s father was. Raiker was writ in every haughty line of his face and the aristocratic set of his head. The boy had been schooled and treated in every way better than a mere fisherman’s son could expect to be. Certainly Lord Raiker had taken care of him, but without publicly acknowledg­ing him as a son. It was not too surprising that a child who was neither fish nor fowl, neither an ordinary commoner like his family and friends nor an accepted nobleman or even gentry, should become confused.

  He fell in with a fast set of bucks at around eighteen years, and got into trouble, serious trouble, over a horse-trading deal in which one of the participants had been shot to death. It had not been clearly established that Horace had fired the fatal shot. There were three men involved. One ended up dead and the other two vanished, Horace and Elmer Carson. It was believed that they had emigrated to America before they were caught and trans­ported. All this happened some six months after Kenelm’s abrupt departure from Raiker Hall, but it was dredged up now and discussed again in full detail.

  The fellow calling himself Kenelm strongly resembled Horace Rutley. Horace had been more a man when he left than Kenelm had been—perhaps that accounted for it. It was hard to see young Kennie in this fellow that swag­gered into town, full of assurance. A lad of sixteen had been less sure of himself, more readily remembered as running through town with a dog at his heels, and likely as not a sugarplum in his hand. It took a certain leap of imagination to picture him all grown up into this fine gent.

  Horace would know as much about the local folks and their problems as Kenelm. Of course he wouldn’t be familiar with all the ins and outs of the family, but he would at least recognize the two baronesses, know what children they had, and might have rehearsed the layout of the house through the courtesy of some of the servant girls. Quite a young lady’s man, Rutley, for all he wasn’t too bright. Or for that matter he might have fallen in with the real Kenelm any time over the past ten years. It was assumed they knew the relationship in which they stood to each other, although they had never been seen in each other’s company Had they chanced to meet in America, or India for that matter, two expatriots, half brothers—what more natural than that they should have become friends? Rutley, the older and generally credited with being the more wicked of the two, might have learned all he could from the younger man with this very scheme of returning in mind.

  To return as Kenelm would be to his advantage even if Bernard had lived out his normal span. Bernard was fond of his little brother, and would not be clutch-fisted with him. Another awful and vastly titillating pros­pect was that Rutley had plain murdered Kenelm when they had heard of Bernard’s death. Had already put one man in his grave, so certainly he wouldn’t stick at murder. With such a plum as the title and estate to attract him, might not Rutley have killed Kenelm, to come home himself and claim it all? It was conceded that in any case, whoever he was, he’d have some job pulling the wool over Lady Raiker’s shrewd eyes.

  Clare sat stunned, mute and furious, as her guests took their leave. She detained Marnie and Rorie when they made a move to leave with the others. “We must get together and decide what is to be done about this impos­tor,” she said. The first thing done was to bring Charles in from the rose garden, the implication being that the villain might abduct and kill him.

  “What do you think should be done, Clare?” Marnie asked.

  “He should be thrown into prison.”

  “We don’t know that he has committed a crime.”

  “Impersonating another for unlawful gain is a crime.”

  “Maybe he is Kenelm. How can you be so sure he isn’t?”

  “He doesn’t resemble him in the least. He’s bigger, darker, wickeder. Kennie was nice, a very sweet boy.”

  “Eleven years have passed—he would no longer be a boy. I’m not convinced the man isn’t Kenelm, though I’m not convinced he is either.”

  “He is as sly as a fox. You saw him making up to Alice McBain, getting the Dougalls to accept him. Ken was nothing to the Dougalls. They scarcely knew him
. You didn’t see him saying a word to Hanley, the only one who might possibly have discovered his trick. I knew him better than anyone, and I say he is not Kenelm. He’ll have to prove it.”

  “I expect so. It cannot be difficult. There are things that no one except the real Kenelm would know. We must put our minds to work and discover what they are, and test him,” Marnie agreed.

  “It must be done at once, before he has time to nose around and find things out.”

  “He is coming to see you tomorrow, he says,” Rorie offered.

  “Coming here! I’ll not let him in. I’ll bar the door.”

  “That would look very odd, Clare, as though you are afraid of him,” Marnie suggested, and looked at her host­ess with suspicion. She realized that beneath the natural anger, frustration and determination, there was some­thing else that might be fear in Clare’s eyes.

  “I’m not afraid of him. He can’t prove a thing. I shall get my solicitor down from London, and we’ll see who’s afraid.”

  “Well, he is coming to see me in the afternoon, and I have agreed to see him,” Marnie told her.

  “He’s using you,” Clare said at once. “He’ll try to win you over, try to weasel things out of you. Just because he’s young and handsome, he thinks he can wind all the girls around his thumb. You owe it to little Charles, Marnie, to refuse to see him.”

  “If he is Kenelm, then I owe something to him too, but I shan’t be swayed by his flashing eyes. I’m not a fool.”

  “You’re a woman, and not less susceptible than any other woman to a handsome young man with a fortune and title I must suppose. He’ll make up to you, that’s certain.”

  “Credit me with some sense, Clare,” Marnie said, becoming angry.

  Rorie sat listening silently, her mind in a turmoil. Later she discussed it with Marnie during the drive home, the major part of the trip devoted to Horace Rutley. She did not allow herself to come to a decision, but in the bottom of her heart of hearts, she hoped her gypsy was indeed Kenelm Derwent, Lord Raiker, and she wished as well that it was herself and not Marnie who could help him prove it, but she would be virtually useless. She had never seen Kenelm or Horace Rutley, knew less about them than anyone else at the party, with the exception of little Charles and Mimi.

  “Who was the nice man that came to see Charles?” Mimi asked. She had been listening to the talk, and making very little sense of it.

  “We don’t know, dear,” her mother told her. “He is a stranger.”

  “I liked him,” Mimi said. “He hugged me.”

  Marnie bit her lip and considered this for possible sig­nificance, but could find nothing in it.

  Malone was curious to see them home so soon. She sat out on the lawn pretending to be reviewing Mimi’s school­work, but in fact she had been drawing pictures in coloured inks in Mimi’s tablet, and was pleased too with the results—much better than Mimi’s. She realized at once that something unusual had occurred to send her girls back so soon.

  “Was it a fizzle then? None of the greats and mighties showed up?” she asked hopefully.

  She was told the incredible story, and the shock of it sent her reeling to her chair, to fan her cheeks with her apron tails. “So the profligate son has returned, just like in the Bible,” she said. “There’ll be no fatted cat killed at Raiker Hall, I warrant.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Rorie told her, biting back a smile. “The fat cat was ready to die of anger.”

  “There will be no rejoicing here either till we discover if he is really Kenelm,” Marnie said firmly.

  “If he ain’t, he’s a bolder man than ever before saw the lights of day,” Malone opined. “But you never need to fear, my dears, for I’ll be by your side when he comes, and no impostor will be gulling us he’s our Bernard’s brother if he ain’t. I know things about him, even if I never met him. His lordship told me plenty about Kennie, as he called him. We’ll just see if the lad knows about the fenugreek,” she said, nodding her head sagely. On this cryptic remark she pushed her charges indoors, where she surprised them all by going to her room without Mimi, to sit silently devising questions to trap the profligate son.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  The ladies of the Dower House were surprised to receive a call from the man who had had himself announced as Lord Raiker in the morning, when they did not expect him till the afternoon. It caught Malone completely off guard. She was out in the back yard setting up traps to catch the gypsies, who had made off during the night with a rooster, and a pretty dull bunch she thought them, to steal that tough old bird, with a dozen tender hens who would have made a tastier meal.

  “Good morning, Marnie, Miss Falkner,” he said, arising and bowing as they entered the saloon, where he had been put to wait.

  Again Rorie was struck by the inconsistency of seeing the gypsy in such elegant attire, at home to a peg in a polite saloon.

  “Good morning, Ken—” Marnie stopped in midspeech, her abrupt halt quite obvious.

  He quirked a brow at her and laughed. “Your sleep has not brought you wise counsel if you have not yet decided I am me. Shall we settle on some uncompromising name for the interim? The alleged Lord Raiker? Or shall we be less formal, and make it the soi-distant Kenelm? Or ‘the party of the first part’ might be more appropriate, as it seems Mama means to drag me into court.”

  “You have been to the Hall?” Marnie asked.

  “Yes and no. I have been as far as the front door, but Wilkins gave me the heave-ho—reluctantly, though. My servants know me. I was refused admittance; and advised to hire myself a solicitor, so I came on over here while I was so close. I hope I don’t inconvenience you? I was to come in the afternoon.”

  “It’s no matter. The sooner the better, I suppose.”

  “The customary phrase when people wish to get an unpleasant ordeal over with, and here I have been looking forward so long to seeing you again.” He smiled and looked at Marnie sadly, as though she were breaking his heart. He managed to make his voice sound nostalgic too.

  “There will be unpleasantness before it’s over,” she allowed, determined to steel herself against his insidious charms.

  He leaned forward in his chair and regarded her with bright, intense eyes. “I’m going to win, Marnie. Align yourself on the side of the angels. Between the two of us, we can convince them I am who I say I am.”

  “I want to make it perfectly clear, Kenelm—oh, whoever you are!”

  “The party of the first part.”

  “I am not trying to discredit you, but neither will I be party to any chicanery on either side.”

  “Has she been trying to strike a deal with you already? Marvelous!” he crowed.

  “Indeed she has not.”

  “She will. She’s bound to, but if you are quite deter­mined to be impartial I shan’t try to cajole you. I am Kenelm Derwent, and it is but a matter of time till I prove it. We never had a great deal to do with each other, Marnie, but I have a good memory, and will undertake to answer any questions you care to put to me on our meet­ings. I met you first at your wedding. I remember it vividly. Ask me anything.”

  “Well . . .” She sat back and racked her brains for any little oddity, but he was too impatient to await her questions.

  “You wore a white lace gown and carried orange blos­soms and lilies of the valley. You looked like an angel, complete with golden halo. I was so jealous of Bernard I nearly wept. We ate lobster patties and drank a great deal of champagne. Bernard let me kiss you once, and when I joined the lineup again, he turned me off. I spent the remainder of the day flirting with the pretty little redhead who was your bridesmaid. Millie something—Kessler, Cotler, something of the sort.”

  “Cutter,” she corrected, but though she was flattered at the tone of his recollections, she realized they were unexceptional—might apply to three spring weddings out of four, and a search of the records would reveal the bridesmaid’s name. “Where did we go for a honeymoon?”
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br />   “You didn’t. You went straight to London.”

  This was true, and she tried for a more difficult question. Suddenly she laughed and asked, “What happened to the brandy chantilly?”

  “Ah—somebody dropped the bowl and it landed in a mess on the floor. Your cat got into it and became roaring drunk.” His eyes sparkled brightly; his whole face was beaming. “Don’t you remember—it was a particularly ugly tomcat—I never could abide cats anyway—and he took on the hound out in the yard. Bernie and I had a bet for a guinea, and he won, like the tomcat.”

  Rorie looked from one to the other. She had, of course, missed the wedding, to her deepest regret. She saw Marnie’s eyes were shining.

  “Oh, are you truly Kenelm?” Marnie asked.

  “Ask me more.” He waved his hands about in excitement. “Ask me anything.”

  It became a game. “What did I wear the second time you called on us?”

  “An extremely elegant gown of white crepe. You had your hair done up on top of your head and looked totally ravishing.”

  “And what did we do after dinner?”

  “Bernard stretched himself out on the sofa and snored—dull dog—while I tried to flirt with you, but you made me play chess instead, and beat me. Later you played for me on the pianoforte. You had resumed your lessons, and played better than the first time. Or maybe it was the new hairdress that made me think so. I remember the lamp­light falling on it.”

  There was a little more of this, and as Rorie sat watching, she realized the man was manipulating her sister as easily as if she were a loaf of dough. Her eyes glowed, and she smiled like a young girl half in love. It occurred to Rorie that he slid in a compliment at every opportunity, implied he had been rapturously in love with his brother’s bride, and it went down very well. She doubted Marnie could remember what gown she had worn on each occasion, and how she had dressed her hair, but it was flattering that he appeared to do so. If Horace Rutley had systemati­cally questioned Kenelm over a period of time, he might have discovered the rest.