by May Burnett
“He is not my husband!” Nell repeated desperately. “He was trying to kidnap me, possibly to sell me into some unspeakable fate! I am an honest woman! I am not going with him!”
The innkeeper exchanged a look of dismay with Robles, confirming her suspicion that it was he who had sold her out. The pudgy guest had dropped the gag to the floor with a disgusted grimace, and was looking around with a puzzled air. The elderly lady seemed the only one willing to stand up to Robles, if she could be brought to believe her story. Nell turned to her. “Please help me, Ma’am, I appeal to you as a woman! You cannot want me to be abducted like this!”
“You speak like a lady,” the old woman said doubtfully. “But a lady would have a maid to confirm her story –,”
“I do have one, but just now I am travelling with my husband.” She showed the harridan the wedding ring on her finger. “A far more handsome and younger husband than this horrible man, who came to steal me away in the middle of the night.”
The lady frowned at the innkeeper. “Surely you know if this young woman arrived with a husband or not?”
The fellow shrugged with pretended indifference. “One man looks much the same as any other.”
“Did you see this husband or not?”
“I could not swear to it.”
“Well, I did,” the maid who had served Nell’s dinner said. “A very comely, tall young man. They dined in the private room, and left a handsome tip.”
“Young and handsome? That must be her lover,” Robles spat with a venomous glance at the maid and Nell.
“Aren’t you Mr. Robles, Lord Colville’s solicitor?” the middle-aged man asked him suddenly. “Why would your wife be in Lincolnshire at all? I thought you lived in London and only came here on the Earl’s business.”
“I am not and have never been his wife,” Nell stated desperately, with as much conviction as she could. “This fellow Robles is lying through his teeth.”
“Why would a solicitor steal away a lady in the middle of the night?” The old lady asked. “And who is this other ruffian who is grasping her arm?”
“That is Jem Belching, who used to work as a groom at Colville Hall,” the maid helpfully explained. “He was fired for brutality to the Earl’s horses, but it seems Mr. Robles gave him another chance.”
“Go back to the kitchen, where you belong,” the landlord ordered her angrily. “Don’t interfere in the affairs of your betters.”
“It seems to me she is the only one willing to speak the truth,” the old lady said tartly. The girl still left, with a pitying look at Nell over her shoulder. The boot boy followed her at a peremptory gesture of his master.
“This chat has been vastly entertaining,” Robles said scornfully, gesturing to Belching to take up his human burden again.
Nell clung to the banister with both hands and looked at the old lady imploringly. “If you allow them to carry me away, my life is in imminent danger.”
“Nonsense,” the innkeeper said uncertainly, with a questioning look at Robles.
At that opportune moment the front door opened to admit Roger Ellsworthy.
“Roger!” Nell cried. “These fellows are trying to abduct me!”
“What!” He rushed to her side, and tore her out of Belching’s grasp. The groom did not resist, clearly judging that the game was up. “How is that possible? What kind of inn is this, where guests are stolen by force from their rooms? How did he even get in?”
The old lady was looking at Roger in reluctant approval. “Are you this young woman’s husband?”
“No,” he said.
“Yes,” Nell said at the same time, but the damage was done. Nell had hoped to keep Thomas’s existence secret from Robles. Where could he be? Fear for him superseded anxiety for her own person, now that Roger was here to back her up. She glanced at Roger’s face. He did not look panicked, indeed had pasted a thoroughly bored expression on his face.
The old woman frowned at her. “So you are a hussy after all!”
“I beg your pardon.” Roger eyed the old woman in supercilious fashion, and spoke in his most aristocratic drawl. “This lady is a particular friend and close family connection. I suggest that you keep your vulgar conjectures to yourself, Ma’am, whoever you may be.”
The old lady’s cheeks turned red with indignation, and she began to puff up like a flustered bird.
Nell had no more attention to waste on her. “I had locked the door, but someone must have given these villains a duplicate key.” She looked accusingly at the innkeeper. “I believe this innkeeper is in league with the villains, and they steal away young women. Who knows how many others may have found a terrible end in this place! We have to inform the nearest magistrate what is going on!”
The paunchy man said diffidently, “Mr. Robles claimed that the young woman – um, lady, was his runaway wife.”
Roger fixed the solicitor threateningly. “You will answer to me for that insult!”
“Just a misunderstanding, it seems,” the innkeeper muttered, retreating a step and then another. “No need to come to fisticuffs.”
“The innkeeper is in league with these kidnappers,” Nell charged, her voice still trembling from shock, “he denied your very existence, and it is my belief that he called these ruffians, whom he is still trying to protect.”
“Is he?” Roger scrutinized the sweating innkeeper. “He looks guilty. Who is the closest magistrate?”
“It used to be Sir Christian Mandrake,” Nell said. “I don’t know if that is still the case.”
The middle-aged man nodded. “He is getting on in years, but still in office. Are you from about here, then?”
Nell ignored his question. He had helped by his recognition of Robles, but would have allowed her to be carried off without raising a finger to defend her.
The solicitor stared from Roger to Nell’s face and back again. “Fine goings-on,” he sneered. “I’ll leave you to your paramour now, but don’t think you can win.” He gestured impatiently to his henchman and left. Belching followed on his heels with a scowl on his rough-hewn face.
“We shall not stay another minute in this inhospitable place.” Roger directed a severe look at the sweating innkeeper. “I don’t know what bribe the man Robles may have offered, but I doubt it was enough for complicity in attempted kidnapping and possible murder. The magistrate can decide if he wants to charge you.”
“You can’t prove anything,” the innkeeper said truculently. “Go then. I don’t want such troublesome guests here.”
Nell hurried upstairs to pack her belongings, Roger at her heels.
“Where is Thomas? What happened?” she asked the moment they were alone.
“He hurt his foot as we were hurrying back. But we have the box, all went reasonably well. Why did you tell these louts I was your absent husband? ”
“I did not want Robles to know of Thomas, and our marriage.” It had seemed so clear and logical just minutes ago. “Now he thinks I am here with a lover, but he does not know your name – does he?”
“He can easily discover it. Unlike Thomas and you I did not travel with an alias. Clearly I need to be more careful in future.”
As she finished packing Thomas arrived at last, wincing a little whenever he put weight on his left foot. Leaving them together, Roger went to his own room, to prepare for the imminent departure.
Nell insisted on undressing, washing and bandaging her husband’s foot. While thus ministering to him, she described what had befallen her in his absence.
He paled as he heard the details. “I should never have left you alone. My blood runs cold when I hear in what danger I had unwittingly placed you. I don’t know that I shall be able to forgive myself for this misjudgement.”
She tied the ends of the makeshift bandage, fashioned from one of his neck cloths. “Well, I forgive you. You could not have known what would happen, and luckily Roger arrived in the nick of time. The old lady kept Robles and that other fellow talking for a few crucial min
utes, but she did not believe me to be respectable, as I was here all alone.”
“My fault, too,” he said guiltily. “We must never again travel without servants to give us consequence. The first item of business when we arrive in London will be to hire you a respectable maid.”
“Very well.”
“This man Belching, did you know him?”
“No. If he worked at the Hall as a groom, as the maid claimed, it must have been after my time.”
“I nearly forgot to give you this.” Thomas set the bag he had carried on the bed, which dipped under the weight. Remnants of damp earth were still clinging to the carved wooden box as she pulled it out. It had no lock, and she opened it with a little tugging. There they were, her mother’s jewels, exactly as she had buried them four years ago. Rubies, diamonds and pearls gleamed in the dim light.
“Thank you, darling.” She hugged and kissed her husband.
“They look pretty enough, but not worth endangering you. And now that Robles knows for certain you are alive, who knows what else he may do.”
“As long as you are there to support me, I don’t care,” Nell declared.
Chapter 24
“It does not look as though the boys will be back in time for lunch. We might as well start,” Mrs. Ellsworthy said to Nell and rang the bell to transmit the order to her butler. That done, they leisurely walked over to the smaller dining room, decorated in muted blues and white.
From the moment of their arrival, Nell had been made warmly welcome in the Ellsworthy town house. They stayed there, rather than in her husband’s small bachelor pad, both for convenience and safety. Thomas and she had been assigned a pleasant, well-furnished suite.
It would take Nell a while to get used to calling her hostess Aunt Charlotte, though Mrs. Ellsworthy’s strong resemblance to Thomas, Amelia and especially Nell’s mother-in-law, Mrs. Seymour, had immediately created a sense of familiarity. Aunt Charlotte shared in the same blond curls and blue eyes, as did her daughter Violet, Roger’s twin. One or more of Nell’s children might look like that one day… After so many years of loneliness it felt strange but pleasant to possess so many relatives.
Mr. Ellsworthy – no, Uncle James, Thomas and Roger had gone out in the late morning, to consult with Sir Henry about the impending lawsuit.
Just ahead of the first course, Violet swept in, waving a paper in the air. “The latest edition of the Society Argus!”
While they were being served, Violet read aloud, “’To the Editor: That a noble family would omit to wear even black armbands for a family member is beyond belief. I cannot condone such un-Christian behaviour. For shame! Lady Mickelfield, Hants.’
Nell wondered what business it was of this woman. As for un-Christian, was there any passage in the Bible requiring black armbands? Given his treatment of her, such signs of mourning on her uncle’s part would be mere hypocrisy.
“According to a note by the editor, they received more than two dozen letters expressing similar sentiments,” Violet added.
“People are great sticklers for proper form these days,” Mrs. Ellsworthy observed. “Far more so than in my youth. I am surprised that Lord Colville would have made such a basic mistake.”
“My theory is that they had successfully forgotten your very existence,” Violet said. “Now your uncle is reminded in a way that he cannot possibly overlook.”
“Amberley’s Tory friends are gleeful that a notable Whig should be caught out in such a solecism,” her mother said. “Are there other interesting letters or articles in the Argus?”
Nell savoured the delicate asparagus soup as Violet read on. The fare at her Liverpool school had been very plain by comparison.
“’To the Editor: I have lived in the vicinity of Colville Hall for the past twenty years, and have not seen any trace of Lady Marian since around 1837, even from a distance. Nor have there been reports of any doctors or other specialists visiting the Hall, as would be the case if she had suddenly turned invalid. Indeed my neighbours and I were under the impression that she was living with her Uncle, the current Lord Colville. Yours, etc., Colonel Ridlington, F.R.S.’”
“Excellent,” Nell said, putting her silver spoon down. “I dimly remember the Colonel, who must be in his eighties. He might be a witness to my identity, but I don’t think he has ever seen me close enough to swear to it.”
“The main thing is to throw doubt upon your uncle’s version.” Violet turned the page. “To the Editor: Sir, as a medical man I have sometimes sent patients to Chatterham for consumption, but I think I speak for the majority of my colleagues that this resort offers no conceivable benefits for sufferers from nervous or mental complaints. It defies belief that Lady M. C. was sent there for anything but her lungs, while there exist far better institutions for nervous cases, such as my own clinic, etc. etc.” This fellow is merely trying to drum up business, but he sounds very positive that Chatterham was not suitable for Lady Marian.”
Nell suppressed a snort – it would be unladylike. “Of course it was not. It is a marginal resort at best, struggling to compete with better-known and better equipped seaside towns and villages.” She smiled. “Yet it has done me great good after all, for Chatterham is where I met Thomas. Humble or not, it must always hold a special place in my affections.”
“You are letting your soup cool,” Mrs. Ellsworthy reminded Violet. “The rest of the readers’ letters can wait until we are done eating, dear.”
Nell had to restrain herself from wolfing down the delicate dishes. What else were complete strangers writing about her? Curiosity and impatience were hardly genteel, but she had long known that in some respects she was not a perfect lady.
Finishing first, she took up the paper where Violet had put it down, and looked over its pages. “’To the Editor: Sir, I believe that the strange incident of the drowning heiress merits a proper investigation by the authorities. Why has Sir Robert Peel, our esteemed Prime Minister, instituted a regular police force when he was Home Secretary, if not for cases such as this? Mr. John Roberson, Durham.’”
“Very good,” Mrs. Ellsworthy said. “This line of thinking will put the authorities on the spot. I am convinced that the only reason they have not yet begun an investigation is the social prominence of your uncle, not to mention his political connections.”
“The Queen still favours the Whigs,” Violet explained to Nell. “Her husband is doing his best to moderate her partisanship, but Lord Colville is sure to find a sympathetic ear at Court.”
“Not necessarily - it depends on the party leadership.” Mrs. Ellsworthy dabbed her mouth with the linen napkin. “If the Whigs drop Colville, which would be the wisest course, her Majesty would hardly defend him; I doubt she has any great personal acquaintanceship with the Earl, or is in any way fond of him.”
“No indeed,” Nell said, “he is not a man to inspire fondness, as I can personally attest.”
Violet sipped delicately from her wineglass and put it down again. “If Queen Victoria is aware of your remote relationship to Prince Albert, Nell, that should work in your favour, - as long as you can prove your identity.”
Could she? Nell pulled out the ancient ring she carried on a gold chain round her neck. “This is my late father’s personal seal. The device, a sea shell, comes from the oldest branch of our family. My de Colville forebears held a seaside castle in Normandy before coming over with the Conqueror. It has been used only for personal and private correspondence since the thirteenth century, when the family adopted the more martial falcon as its official device.”
“Interesting,” Violet said, inspecting the shell engraved on the ring, “but such a ring could be copied from descriptions and old portraits. A sea shell is not a particularly heroic device. I understand why it would have been replaced.”
Nell slipped the ring back under her bodice. “There is a legend connected to the shell – supposedly one of the earliest de Colvilles married a siren that he fished out of the sea.”
“Y
ou are the direct descendant of a siren?” Violet grinned. “No wonder Thomas was so quickly entranced.”
Nell smiled ruefully. “If the siren ever existed, my wicked uncle is also descended from her. I expect it was just a rumour born of some eccentricity, like a predilection for swimming. In those dark ages that would have been shocking enough.” The ring felt heavy against her chest. It would be a relief to be able to take it off the chain at last. “I used this seal to write some letters at the time of my departure, accusing my uncle of coveting my fortune and requesting that the letter be kept on file.”
“If the letters are still there, they would be powerful evidence that you are who you claim,” Mrs. Ellsworthy said. “That shows great forethought, considering how young you were at the time.”
“Everyone says that, but sixteen is beyond childhood, whatever the law may say. Some of my ancestors married girls of twelve or thirteen. I don’t feel any wiser or better able to plan ahead than I was five years ago.”
“Well, now you have Thomas to help you plan,” Mrs. Ellsworthy said mildly.
“I love my cousin, Mother, but don’t tell me he is smarter than Nell,” Violet said. “The way she vanished for years is a feat I doubt he could have equalled at that age.”
“He was much luckier in his family and never had to,” Nell defended her husband. “You cannot know what anyone is capable of when they are desperate.” She looked again at the Argus. “There is a short new article, apart from the readers’ letters. Listen!”
“’It has come to this paper’s attention through an anonymous source in a high government office that young Lady M. C. wrote to the authorities in 1838, shortly after she was left at the mercy of her uncle and closest heir, that she feared for her fortune and life. If this information is correct, why was not an investigation launched at the time? If there was any truth in her call for help, the heiress ought to have been made a ward in Chancery without delay.
Is it possible that Lord C.’s closeness to the Whig government then in power protected him from scrutiny? Surely not. To even raise the possibility would impugn the honour and impartiality of our highest institutions.’”
