Ask Me No Questions

by Patricia Veryan

  "Lady Buttershaw says there was so many wicked things said about the poor Captain, and Sir Brian won't bear with any least sniff o'scandal…" Grace shrugged. "My dear Mrs. A. fought so hard to win the old gentleman over, Mr. Tummet. It'd be cruel hard if she was to lose the commission now."

  "Then you better tell yer lady to take that there sign dahn, mate. 'Fore she sells something! Else there'll be another scandal, quick-like!"

  Frightened by his stern manner, Grace cried, "Why? 'Sides, she already sold some things."

  "Oh, Lor'! She shouldn't oughter 'ave done that, Miss Grace."

  "Why ever not, I should like to know? They was all her own things, what Mr. Allington had give her, and what belonged to her and her papa, rest his soul. Now why must you shake your head and look so glum as any goblin?"

  "Because them things wasn't hers, Miss Grace! Not 'cording to law, they wasn't. And afore you starting snipping orf me poor nose, I'll remind you, marm, as I were once a bailiff, and I knows. Fact is, I'm surprised there ain't been a execution at Lingways."

  "If you means a man sent to guard the house, there—"

  "Not just the 'ouse, marm. All the property's been took over by the Court, so as to pay back the creditors."

  "And very cruel, I calls it! Besides, Mrs. A. knows about it. They've got their money. Or will have, when it's sold."

  He said patiently, "But what that means, Miss Grace, is that everything was confiscated. All what's inside, as well as buildings and grounds. Furniture and all, marm. Not none of it can't be sold by your lady!"

  "Oh!" gasped Grace, clutching his sleeve in her dismay. "Oh, dearie, dearie me! There is a bailiff's'posed to come today. But I thought— Mrs. A. thought 'twas to take care of the place lest thieves break in and— Oh! My Lor'! Is it very bad that she sold some things?"

  He thought, 'Not if you don't mind being transported—or worse!' But his admired lady was pale and trembling, and a gent didn't frighten persons of the female persuasion, so he asked, "Can she buy 'em back?"

  Grace pressed a hand to her lips and shook her head. "She hardly got a quarter of what they was worth. And she's spent what little she did get on paying off the servants and me, and making good on bills and loans. She can have back what she give me, of course. But—"

  Tummet shook his head ponderously. "That won't do no good, mate."

  With a stifled sob Grace again seized his arm. "Mr. Tummet, they—they wouldn't never accuse her of— I mean—they wouldn't put her… in gaol?" Distracted, she moaned, "Oh, crumbs! The poor soul's had so much grief, and been so brave. Whatever are we to do?"

  Enoch Tummet had survived a somewhat checkered career and was nothing if not resourceful. After a moment's frowning introspection he said briskly, "Right y'are, mate. We'll 'ave to cook-a-tart— I mean, look smart. But if you do what E. Tummet says—eggsack, mind!—we might just get yer lady safe outta this bog!"

  "Oh, I will, Mr. Tummet," said Grace, gazing up at him with tearful but grateful eyes. "I'll do exactly what you say!"

  It was five and twenty minutes past two o'clock when Grace hurried up the kitchen steps of Lingways. William, the footman, was seated in one chair, his feet on another, a mug of ale in his hand. Fully expecting a rebuke, he sprang up guiltily, his youthful face scarlet as he stammered apologies.

  "Never mind that," hissed Grace. "Did anyone call whilst I was gone?"

  "A farmer and his wife. They bought the case clock, ma'am. Took it with 'em."

  Grace moaned. "What about the two ladies who was here this morning? Did their servants come for the things they bought?"

  "Not yet, Miss Grace."

  "They better make haste!' she thought. "Where's the missus?"

  "In the master's study. Fell sound asleep in his chair, she done. Master Thorpe and Master Jacob wanted to talk to her, but I sent them out to play, so she could get a bit of a kip, poor lady."

  She told him he'd done just right, and gave him certain instructions that sent him scurrying off, his eyes round with curiosity.

  Grace bustled along the silent hall. The case clock was gone, then. One less. But there was still the marble one on the mantelpiece in the book room, and the little china one in Mrs. A's bedchamber…

  The marble clock struck the half-hour as she opened the book room door, causing her to jump and swing the door shut quickly. She ran to the hearth and stood on tiptoe.

  "What you doin', Miss Grace?"

  With a yelp she whipped around, her heart thundering.

  One of the twins stood watching her, his grey eyes too solemn for a five-year-old.

  "How you frightened me!" panted Grace, a hand to her chest. "You shouldn't creep up on folk that way, Master Jacob!"

  "I din't creep. An' I'm Thorpe. What you doin' to—"

  "It was—it was running down and the time was wrong, so I'm putting it right again."

  "Oh." He walked out with her, and followed her to the stairs.

  At the top she said, "Go and put on your coat and hat, dear. And tell Jacob to get ready."

  "All right." But instead he stayed with her as she hurried to Ruth's bedchamber. Grace paused and looked down at him. Poor mite, he still had that solemn look. She put a hand on his fair curls. "What is it, Master Thorpe?"

  "Aunty Ruth says we're goin' away." The tone of his voice remained the same, but he took her hand in both of his and clung to it tightly while his big eyes searched her face. "Are we all goin'… to the same place?"

  She suffered a pang. "What did your aunty say?"

  "She says we are. But she looks funny with her hair all squashed like that. An' she was too tired to talk, she said."

  "Well, I expect she was. She'll tell you all about it soon, dear. Now run along and do as I told you."

  He relinquished her hand reluctantly, and turned away. As she opened Ruth's door, he said with a gulp, "If they're goin' to send us all different places, Jacob and me—we'll run away. To be pirates!"

  He galloped off then, but she had seen the glint of tears, and her heart was wrung.

  Half an hour later, sitting beside Grace in the rocking coach, and with Jacob and Thorpe craning their necks to watch the afternoon countryside race past, Ruth said, "I cannot believe I slept for such a time. Thank goodness you woke me, Grace, else we'd never have reached Croydon before dark."

  "I thought I'd best, Mrs. A. Being as the other carriage will be waiting for us in Shoeburyness."

  "Yes, indeed. Still, I wish that unpleasant woman had come to collect her things before we left. You did tell William which items are hers?"

  "I told him," said Grace woodenly.

  "He's such a good man. 'Twas kind of him to offer to stay and help Samuel move the rest of our furnishings into the cellar. I don't think the new owners will object, do you? 'Twill only be for a few months. When I finish Sir Brian's fresco I should have sufficient put by that we'll be able to rent a little house, perhaps, and can try to sell some more of our things for—" She broke off with a gasp as the carriage swerved and Samuel Coachman shouted something uncomplimentary.

  A stagecoach thundered past from the opposite direction, having all but forced them into the ditch.

  "Wheee!" hooted Thorpe. "I wish I might go by a Portsmouth Machine!"

  "Not me," said Jacob. "The people were all squashed together, an' that big outside passenger looked jus' like a rank rider. 'Sides, they're called stagecoaches now."

  His more adventurously inclined brother scoffed, "Highwaymen don't ride on stagecoaches, stupid. They rob 'em!"

  "Even so, you should not make such unkind judgments," said Ruth. "People are seldom what they look to be. The gentleman might very well be a—a parson. Or perhaps a dancing master."

  As she had hoped, this sally relieved the shadow of anxiety on two small faces and awoke shrieks of laughter.

  Grace did not join in the merriment. In her view, the outside passenger had looked to be just what she was sure he was: a bailiff. She thought with deep thankfulness, 'In the nick of time! Thank God
, and Mr. Tummet!'

  Very soon, Samuel Coachman set them down outside the stagecoach station on the southern edge of Shoeburyness. Their parting was painful, for the man had been employed by Thomas Allington since his youth. Loathing the deceit she must practice, Ruth refused to allow him to wait with them until the London coach he believed they were to travel on was ready to leave, though her heart was touched when he insisted he must stay to protect his "family."

  "You are so good, so loyal, dear Sam," she said, her voice breaking. "But you must get back to Lingways and help William store my furniture. Besides," she added, seeing tears glittering in Thorpe's blue eyes, "Miss Grace and I have two fine young gentlemen to protect us."

  Jacob's troubled face brightened a little, and Thorpe, at once the more mischievous and tender-hearted of the pair, sniffed, and said in his best "manly" voice that Samuel need not be worried. "Jake an' me would die a awful death 'fore we'd let anyone hurt my Aunty, or Miss Grace," he growled. And in the next instant he had hurled himself into the coachman's ready arms, and was sobbing out how much he would miss him.

  They all watched sadly as the familiar coach rattled around the corner and out of sight. Nobody spoke. Scared and bewildered as this last link with the life they'd known vanished, the boys pressed closer to Ruth. She hugged them and fought tears as she said huskily that they were not to worry; they were going to a very beautiful place in the country. And with an inner prayer that she spoke truth, she promised that everything was going to be all right.

  A quarter hour after Samuel's departure the shabby coach and pair Grace had hired pulled into the kennel, and the coachman scrambled down and began to load their luggage into the boot.

  Puzzled, Jacob said, "But I thought we was to go on the London stagecoach, Aunty?"

  "Mrs. Allington was obliged to change her mind," said Grace. "But this will be much nicer."

  It was a small change perhaps, but the twins were deeply afraid and after an exchanged glance, as if by mutual consent, once again they clung desperately to their aunt's skirts.

  How helpless they were, poor little boys, thought Ruth; their young lives already sadly mauled by Fate, and now quite at the mercy of the decisions she made—or that the authorities forced upon her. She relaxed an earlier edict and said they might ride on the box beside the coachman for the first stage at least, so long as they obeyed him with no arguing. Even this glorious prospect failed to cheer them, and not until they had made sure that she and Grace were indeed inside and the coachman had closed the door did they tussle to be first one on the box.

  The carriage pulled into traffic and turned to the west and Tilbury, where they would be conveyed by ferryboat across the Thames to Gravesend. The clear voices of the twins could be heard upraised in eager questioning, but inside it was quiet, neither woman speaking for a few minutes, both plagued by similar thoughts.

  "Poor wee lads," sighed Grace then. "So fearful, they are. But the farm will cheer them, surely. What is it like, Mrs. A.?"

  Ruth took a deep breath. 'Now!' she thought, and admitted, "There is no farm."

  "But—but—you said—"

  " 'Twas what I thought at the time. Now—the boys come with us."

  " 'Pon my word!" exclaimed Grace, her eyes big with astonishment. "Sir Brian Chandler must be a saint to have agreed to…" Something in Ruth's tight-lipped silence alerting her, she interrupted herself. "He did agree they could come?"

  Ruth turned her head and looked at her squarely.

  With a moan, Grace clapped both hands to her paling cheeks. "You've tricked him in some way, that's what it is! Mercy me! I knew it! Oh, Mrs. A., 'tis tempting Providence to tell falsehoods!"

  Perhaps because of her own feelings of guilt, Ruth was infuriated. "Foolish creature! Why must you at once assume I told falsehoods? I did not speak of the boys at all. And if you look at me as if I was Delilah, or—or Jezebel, I promise you Grace Milford I will box your silly ears!"

  Grace looked cowed, but since her ears had never been boxed in all the years she had served Ruth, her dismay was momentary. "Then, if you didn't speak of them, why did he give you leave to—"

  "He did not," said Ruth through her teeth. "There! So you have it! I mean to smuggle them there, and keep them hid! Well? Say it! Name me a shameless sinner and a wicked woman, and have done!"

  Grace was pale, but armed with the convictions of her strict Methodist upbringing, she said, "You are not a Jezebel, nor yet a Delilah, ma'am. But the gentleman was so kind as to offer you a position 'gainst his own wishes, and in return you have told untruths, and mean to deceive—"

  "Aye, I mean to deceive," Ruth confirmed fiercely. "And I would resort to more lies and deception to keep those two dear orphans by me! Their mama was taken 'ere they knew her; the father they worshipped is gone, leaving a shamed and dishonoured name behind him; and my papa, who adored them and whom they adored, is now lost to them also. I am all they have left. Do you think I'd abandon them now?"

  "There is no need to abandon them. We could take a room like you'd planned, and I would care for—"

  "You would, I know. But…" Ruth crumpled suddenly, and sat huddled against the squabs. "Oh, Grace, I've seen such terror in their eyes. The poor mites dread lest we be separated forever—as well we may be, Lord help us! When I tried to explain that we would have to live apart, but for no more than a few weeks, I could see they did not believe. Can I keep us all together for just a little while longer, perhaps they will be less frightened. Besides, this will save the expense of a room and food." She sank her head into her hands, her voice shaking. "I know 'twas wicked, and—and that I do indeed deceive Sir Brian. But—if the worst happened and the twins should have to be split up— Oh, Lord! They are inseparable! 'Twould break their dear hearts! Truly, I am… at my wits' end!"

  "There, there now." Grace discarded scruples and hugged her mistress fondly. "You meant only for the best, and you may be sure as the Good Lord will forgive, for He ever loved little children. We'll have to try to make the boys understand, though. And how we'll keep 'em safe hid is more than I can see."

  Ruth sniffed, and dried her tears. "You will see when we reach Lac Brillant tomorrow. The cottage is far removed from the main house and surrounded by trees, and there are woods behind. The boys will have to be careful, for there are many gardeners, but they will do anything if it means we can keep together. Faith, but they're more than like to fancy it a fine game." She sighed and said wryly, "I do regret telling fibs, for Sir Brian is such a good, kind gentleman."

  "He is perhaps. But what of his son?"

  "Mr. Chandler is a very different kettle of fish; the type of man who likes a woman to be soft and timid. I expect he has chosen a meek lady for his bride, and after the poor creature is wed, he will demand that she walk several paces behind him. Well, I shall be all humility and meekness myself, and defer to him in all things. Can I just win over Mr. Grimly Gordon, I may be able to tell the truth to his papa, and then we shall go along splendidly."

  Heartened by this prospect, she smiled, and thought 'Resolution!' But in the back of her mind a small mean voice awoke and gibbered, 'For a few short weeks, mayhap. And after Lac Brillant? What then?… What then?'

  Chapter 4

  The following day's approach to sunset was glorious, the sky a blaze of colour and a warm breeze carrying the smell of the sea to mingle with the scents of blossoms. But riding at a leisurely pace through the Lac Brillant woods, Gordon Chandler was too lost in thought to admire the gold, scarlet, and amethyst of the heavens or notice the fragrance of the air. His journey to Canterbury had been disappointing. Gatewell, their man of the law, had heard none of the rumours about a Jacobite amnesty and had said in his gruff way that he did not expect the King to grant an amnesty for a long time to come. "Your brother," he'd added with a stern glance from under his heavy eyebrows, "should count himself fortunate to be alive at all, even if he has to live outside England." Chandler frowned. He'd not relay that news to Papa. Since he had to be in Town
tomorrow, he would see what he could learn there. He must seek out Gideon Rossiter as well, and ask him about the peculiar affair at Larchwoods. There was something dashed havey-cavey going on out there, and he'd have investigated before this save that Nadia had been in such a taking.

  He seldom followed the estate road when riding in from the north, preferring to travel cross-country over Peggoty Hill. From there one was afforded an exquisite view of the house and grounds, all the way down to the blue glitter of the Strait and their little cove with its guardian offshore rocks and the crumbling and no longer used old lighthouse. Today had been no exception. He'd let Carefree have her head after they crested the hill and had ridden with slack rein through the woods. His thoughts turned to Quentin, wondering what he was doing on this sunny afternoon, missing the wild scatter-wit, recalling some of their childhood escapades, and sighing over the final deadly escapade that had robbed him of his brother, and driven Quentin, a hunted fugitive, out of England.

  Carefree's meandering route now brought them out onto the side of the hill just behind the blue guest cottage, and the pretty piebald mare slowed, her ears pricking forward. Chandler looked up. Against all reason a shabby coach stood half on, half off the narrow rear footpath, and a coachman, equally shabby, was staggering towards the open rear door of the cottage with a large portmanteaux on his back.

  Noting that the ill-matched pair was contentedly devouring what had once been a neatly trimmed shrub, and that the coach wheels had dug deep grooves into the velvety lawn, Chandler thought numbly, 'Swinton will turn inside out!'

  Recovering, he attempted an enquiry. "What—the— DEVIL—are—"

  However justified, his question was poorly couched. His roar, shattering the drowsy silence of late afternoon, sent Carefree hurtling straight into the air, drew frenzied neighs from the startled pair, caused the coachman to drop the portmanteaux scattering its contents, and awoke a screech from a plump little female who had apparently been carrying a cup of tea to the coachman. Her reaction was not limited to the screech, for she flung up her arms, at the same time essaying a spirited leap. The cup shot from the saucer and deposited its contents on the back of Chandler's neck as he made an abrupt descent into the flower bed.