by Joan Smith
After a longish interval, Marnie sat back with flushed cheeks and declared, “I must say, you have convinced me you are Kenelm, and I shall call you so from now on.”
The man relaxed with a satisfied expression, then remembered Rorie in the corner and turned to her. “And are you convinced, Miss Falkner?”
“I never knew you before—before I met you in the forest. I am in no position to judge.”
“Surely you can rely on your sister’s judgement.”
She hesitated a moment, for the fact was, she didn’t rely on it at all. Marnie’s judgement had been impaired by the charm of the man. “I suppose so,” she said reluctantly.
“Oh what a hard woman you are to convince!” he declared in chagrin. “Did I not meet you at the wedding? Odd I don’t remember it.”
“Your excellent memory might tell you why I wasn’t at the wedding.”
He looked at her, frowning. “No, I don’t recall. Is it that you were too young?”
“She had the measles, but I doubt you would have heard about it,” Marnie said, and had again garnered his attention. “Now, how will you proceed, Ken? With Clare, I mean.”
Rorie felt a little twinge of anger, or jealousy, to see how easily Marnie diverted his interest to herself. But she had some suspicion that the interest was spurious, the admiration too assumed to win Marnie’s important support. No small point, that Bernard’s widow accept his credentials. A few compliments on her “ravishing” appearance, his jealousy of Bernard, and the thing was done. He’d won Alice McBain even more easily. She began to feel that if the man was an impostor, there wasn’t a woman in the county who would stand up and say so except Clare.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Malone, who stood in the doorway, arms akimbo, her red hair blowing around her ears, staring hard at the visitor. “Is this the fellow that says he’s Bernard’s brother?” she demanded, subjecting him to penetrating appraisal.
“Yes, that’s what he says,” Rorie told her.
At the edge in her voice, Kenelm glanced up at her quickly. He was undismayed at the servant’s impertinence, but unhappy that the young lady was not convinced.
“Ken, this is Malone. Don’t be afraid of her in the least. Her bark is much worse than her bite. She is Mimi’s nursemaid. And mine too, I’m afraid,” Marnie explained.
Malone strode in with a swagger, planted herself foursquare before him and announced, “We’ll soon see who you are. What did they give you when you had the hives at the age of eight, and what happened?”
He blinked his surprise at the question, or the apparition, and thought a moment. “They gave me some ground-up seeds of some sort. I became violently sick—was on my back for two days. I reacted peculiarly to the treatment.”
“What seeds?” Malone persisted.
“Greek something I think it was,” he said, frowning to try to remember.
Malone waited, but he could not come closer than that. “It was something-Greek,” she prodded at last.
“Fenugreek! That’s what it was—fenugreek!” he declared. “How the devil did you know that, Mrs. Malone?”
“I know plenty,” she warned, narrowing her eyes at him, and having a hard time to resist the “Mrs.” and the handsome face. “Now, let’s see if you know what you should if you’re really Bernard’s brother, and not an ulterior ego.”
A little twinkle in the man’s eyes was his only overt sign of appreciation of this barbarous Latin phrase. “What kind of apples did you and Bernard used to steal and hide in the schoolroom?” Malone demanded next.
“Pippins,” he answered instantly. “And I don’t even like them. We used to keep them in the cupboard and throw them out the window at the chickens.
Malone nodded in approval. “Now for number three,” she threatened.
“Anything! Ask me anything,” the man said, completely confident.
Rorie scrutinized him closely trying to come to a decision. Surely he knew a great lot of detail, but his confidence seemed almost greater than a reliance on fallible memory would warrant. Almost as though he had studied up very well for an important exam, and knew all the answers. The fenugreek—there was nothing in that. Lots of people used it for hives—but then it was unusual to have a violent reaction to it. The pippins—he could easily know they were the most common apple in the Raiker orchard—but the extra detail about throwing them at the chickens seemed unrehearsed. But then, did Malone actually know to what use they were put? If he wasn’t really Kenelm, he was a dangerously clever impersonator.
“Who is Cranky Jangler?” Malone asked, and stood with her shoulders back to glare at him.
Kenelm shook his head and laughed. “Mrs. Malone, how the devil did you discover Cranky Jangler? I can’t believe Bernard would remember him after so many years. Lord, I had forgotten all about him myself.”
“Who is he?” Malone repeated.
The man threw up his hands, and for an instant Rorie thought he was beaten. She was aware of a sharp feeling of disappointment, but soon he was talking on. “He isn’t anyone, I hope. You might call him myself, or my conscience or my—er, ulterior ego, if I may borrow your phrase. He was a figment of my imagination, a little dark fellow I used to imagine followed me around when I was four or five. Sometimes he urged me to behave, and sometimes he suggested the greatest mischief, as on the day he talked me into letting loose the foxes Papa had locked up for the hunt.”
“You’ll do,” Malone decreed, and reached out to shake his hand. “You might have found out somehow about the fenugreek and the pippins, but I can’t believe you’d know about a mere pigment of the imagination unless you was really Kenelm.”
“Now I think I have convinced everyone here except Miss Falkner,” Kenelm said, turning to Aurora. “No questions to put to me, ma’am?”
“How did you come to be travelling with the gypsies?” she asked.
“I only travelled a mile with them. I was uncertain how to proceed when I arrived home. I happened to see the gypsy caravan wending its way toward this area. I knew they made a regular stop in the family forest. It served my purposes well to be close but unknown for a few days to discover what was going forth. I told them I was a scholar from India studying their customs. It is believed now, you know, that they came originally from India, and not Egypt, as the name would indicate. I recognized some Indian idioms in their speech, and their folklore, though they have no written literature, is largely Indo-European. So I joined them.”
“Why did you feel it necessary to scout the area, as you might say?” Marnie asked. “Why not just go right to the Hall?”
“I had some little doubts what my stepmama might be up to. A precaution merely,” he answered blandly.
“I don’t mean to pry, Ken,” Marnie went on, “but that sounds a somewhat inadequate reason.”
“I left under a little cloud, as you may have heard. I was curious to discover whether it had dissipated, as I hoped, or grown into something more serious. Besides, my hair was too long and I hadn’t the proper wardrobe. I was curious about the gypsies, too. Anyway, I did it.”
This sounded like humbug to Aurora. It sounded like spying. Meeting servants in the woods and asking prying questions, making his grand dramatic entrance at Clare’s party—really, that was extremely malicious, and she gave a hint that she thought so.
“It was not at all nice,” he agreed readily. “Spite, in fact. It was you, Miss Falkner, who gave me the idea to dash to London and discover how things stood legally when you told me Clare had taken control of the estate. But she has got a nisi decree only, so there is no problem there. By the time I returned, the party was only a day away, and it seemed so opportune a time to make my return, at a coming-out party for myself, that I couldn’t resist it. My whole time, you see, was not spent spying out things I already knew very well, which is no doubt what I shall be accused of. It was ill-considered of me to have done it. I realize that now, now that it’s too late.”
&nbs
p; “What is the next step in staking your claim?” Marnie asked, satisfied with his explanation.
“I’ve filed in London. Lord Wiggins is the one who handed down the nisi decree, and he will be trying the case. The next step is up to her. There will be some sort of investigation. I will be required to present witnesses who recognize me, perhaps be posed questions in front of a judge—much the sort of thing we have been through here today, but more formally, and with a variety of questioners, I imagine. Some family members, some old schoolmates or masters. There is no way she can prove I am not me. It is all nonsense, her making such a to-do about it, and unwise of her. If I know Clare, she will be requiring some augmentation of her widow’s income. She always spent like a nabob, and her jointure cannot be so very large.”
Rorie heard this with suspicion. Was there a veiled hint here that he would be generous to those who supported his claim?
“You’re lucky you got back before she spent up your capital.” Malone warned him. “A drunken sailor is what the woman spends like.”
“But there is enough to go around,” Kenelm said with a sardonic smile, “even for two baronesses and a baron. We will do something about fixing this place up for you, Marnie,” he promised. And if this was not a bribe, it came close enough to it to thrill one of the ladies, and heighten the suspicions of the other to a new pitch.
“It does seem rather dingy after Raiker Hall,” Marnie said at once. She was never one to let a reward slip through her fingers. Much as she loved her sister, Rorie acknowledged this self-interest openly. Her support of this man would be stronger with some hope of material reward. Carrot and stick—he was using both very effectively. Charming flirtation and rewards on the one hand, an implied threat of withholding his protection if she did not fall into line. But Marnie was falling into line nicely. No problem there.
“I heard some mention at Dougall’s last night that Rutley has disappeared,” Kenelm said. He was called Kenelm by the others, and for lack of any other name, Rorie called him so mentally.
“That happened ages ago,” Marnie told him.
“He was never heard of since?”
“Not to my knowledge. The Rutleys may have heard of him, may know where he is.”
“I should go and call on them,” he said.
“Why would you do that?” Marnie asked, and her sister too listened to hear his reason.
“Father always took an interest in him, but more important, there have been insinuations made that I am my half brother, and if I could produce him, or at least discover where he is—America was mentioned—then that possibility could be disposed of. That is the only stumbling block I can see. Who else could I be? And it won’t have slipped Mama’s notice either.”
“Why do you call Clare that?” Marnie asked.
“Because she dislikes it so much,” he answered, smiling wickedly. “She is my stepmother, too. As wicked as the worst one ever invented to scare children.” He arose and took a look around at the room, as though seeing a friend again after a long absence. “I see the clock still doesn’t work,” he commented, looking at a head-and-shoulders clock on the mantel piece. “The place hasn’t changed much—just got older. I must be going now. We’ll meet again soon. I look forward to having a nice long talk with you, Marnie, catching up on old times. And to becoming better acquainted with you, Miss Falkner,” he added, nodding in her direction. “It isn’t every day I have the pleasure of meeting such a pretty family connection. I feel quite cheated to have been deprived of your friendship all these years. We must make up for lost time.”
Malone sidled forward to hear a few words on coming to know her better too. “Delighted to have met you, Mrs. Malaprop,” he said, with an irrepressible smile.
“Well now if that ain’t a caution!” she squealed. “That’s exactly what your Bernard used to call me, Marnie. Where did you get that name from? It’s downright eerie is what it is. Malaprop! I haven’t heard that name since dear Bernard stuck his spoon in the wall.”
“There was a strange link between my brother and myself,” he said. “We liked the same names, and people.” There was just a barely noticeable peep in Marnie’s direction at that point. A slight reminder that they both favoured the elder Miss Falkner?
Marnie read that into it at least, and blushed happily. He left, and Malone took up a position, standing between the two seated ladies to deliver her opinion of him. “The man’s a rascal and a rogue. Got an eye in his head that belongs in a panther. But it seems he’s Kenelm right enough.”
“He has convinced me,” Marnie agreed.
“It’s an impalpable story enough, but he knew about the fenugreek and the pippins and Cranky Jangler, and the telepathetic link makes it certain,” Malone said. “Malaprop.”
“I was just thinking—the gypsy told me a tall, dark man was coming into my life, and she was right,” Marnie said.
“She told you he was in trouble too, and that you should help him,” Rorie reminded her.
“So she did. They’re up to anything, those gypsies.”
“They have some occluded powers, in league with the devil likely as not,” Malone told them, and left.
Marnie too went off to speak to Cook, but Rorie sat behind, dissatisfied. She thought the gypsy’s occult powers might rather be explained by Kenelm’s having put the gypsy hag up to reading that particular fortune, to request the lady’s help in this romantic, roundabout way. The phrase “golden lady” had been used by her, and Kenelm too had mentioned Marnie’s golden halo more than once in the showering of his compliments. She had begun the day hoping he was Kenelm. All the evidence presented indicated that he was, yet she felt a nagging doubt. He was too pat with his answers, too liberal with his compliments, too hasty to hint a reward. And if he could now persuade the Rutleys—who might quite possibly he his own grandparents, surely not difficult to persuade—to say their son was in America, to produce maybe a letter from him, his way was clear.
She did not absolutely accuse him of being an impostor, but she did not close her mind to the possibility. Clare descended on them shortly after lunch to cast a few more doubts, though they fell on no fertile ground as far as Marnie and Malone were concerned.
“He has been living with that pack of gypsies for a week,” she announced, her fine blue eyes flashing. “Making up to every servant wench in the district. No wonder he knew all about us. Why did he not come to the door as soon as he arrived, if he had nothing to hide? I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”
“Do you think he might be Horace Rutley?” Rorie asked, to a pair of scowls from the others present.
“I wouldn’t be in the least surprised, and I shall go to see them this very day. Not that it would do any good. Oh dear—how came we not to think of it? They could have been helping him all the while. Giving him any information he didn’t already have. It is very odd the way Horace disappeared without a trace.”
“Odd the way Kenelm disappeared, too, with no reason as far as anyone knows except yourself,” Marnie said.
“The reason, my dear Marnie, is too awful to be admitted. Even to you I am ashamed to tell the truth.”
“Has it to do with the missing emerald necklace?”
“Oh, if only that were all! But it is worse than that. Much worse. Half the reason I am convinced it is not Kenelm is that Ken would never have the nerve to show his face at Raiker Hall again after what he did. It was too low, too disgusting, too utterly shameful. You must know his father would not have turned him off for any paltry reason. It was serious in the extreme.”
“You said yesterday he was a sweet boy,” Marnie reminded her.
“He used to be. I prefer to remember him that way. One tries to think only good of the dead.”
“Nobody said he was dead,” Rorie said.
“Well, gone—dead to us. Lord Raiker considered him as dead. It grieves me to have to speak of him.”
“We must speak of him, all the same,” Marnie continue
d. “He says he wrote to his father from India. Was any letter received?”
Clare considered this a moment. “No, there was no letter to my knowledge. No, there could not have been a letter. It is impossible. My husband was unwell from the night Ken left—no need to go into the cause. I took his mail up to him myself. There was no letter from India. No word from Ken at all.”
“The letter could have gone astray. I believe he is telling the truth. He has convinced me he is Kenelm,” Marnie told her, with a defiant tilt to her chin.
“He has buttered you up with flattery and offered you money, probably.”
“He did nothing of the sort!” Marnie retaliated at once. But of course he had, ever so subtly, Rorie remembered.
“Do you not mean to stand my friend, then?” Clare demanded.
“I mean to discover the truth. Indeed, I believe I have done so,” Marnie replied.
“I never took you for such a gullible fool!” Clare flashed out angrily. “You think to marry him and get yourself installed back at Raiker Hall. That’s what it is, and you won’t do it. You don’t fool me. You mistake your man if you think Horace Rutley will ever marry you, my girl. It is Dougall’s chit he has in his eye, thirty thousand pounds, and an unexceptionable connection in every way. Besides, you are just a little long in the tooth to appeal to him, I think.”
“I see no point in continuing this discussion,” Marnie said, colouring up angrily at this slur on her youth and beauty.
“What do you think?” Clare asked, turning to Rorie .
“I think whoever the man is, he is very sly.”
“I pity your sister hadn’t a little of our wits. He comes to Raiker Hall tomorrow at ten to meet with my solicitor. His solicitor and mine will discuss the matter; I shan’t say a word to him. I was going to ask you to attend, but there is no point in it now.”
“I will be there,” Marnie said.
