“I am indeed sorry to hear that she is unwell.”
“Unfortunately, she takes after my sister-in-law, who was always sickly from the time she was an infant. Delia died when Marigold was only a few weeks old, and my brother followed her to the grave less than a year later. Being in charge of a child who has such delicate health has been a great responsibility, but I have had the loyal support of my staff, who have been unstinting in their efforts to provide my niece with the most judicious care.”
He looked up at the stone edifice behind him, through whose portals chattering, laughing girls were streaming out to climb into the waiting carriages and coaches, and his face darkened.
“Perhaps when you bring her back in the autumn, you can plan to stay with us a few days,” Colthurst suggested.
Turning back to his friend, Terence continued to frown. “As to that, I am not entirely convinced it was a good idea to allow her to come here. But this was her mother’s school, and it seemed only fitting that Marigold be allowed to attend for at least one term.”
“I am sure no harm will have come to her here,” Colthurst assured him. “Our nearest neighbor, Alicia, Viscountess Dunmire, sends her daughter here, and both of them have nothing but praise for Mrs. Wychombe’s entire staff.”
They talked for a few minutes more, catching up on the events of the last several years, and then Terence excused himself. Entering the school, he sought out the aforementioned Mrs. Wychombe, who gave him a very glowing report of his niece’s academic progress.
“To be sure, Miss Marigold is still quite pale and not at all as robust as we might wish, but at least she has come through the term without catching any infectious disease—not that my young ladies are prone to such things,” Mrs. Wychombe hastened to assure him.
He was not at all reassured. His greatest fear had always been that Marigold would be carried off by some childish complaint, such as measles or chicken pox. He pulled his watch out and rather pointedly looked down at it.
Taking his hint, Mrs. Wychombe rang for one of the maids. When the girl appeared, the headmistress instructed her to fetch down Miss Kinderley. Then Mrs. Wychombe offered Terence a cup of tea, which he declined.
The clock on the mantel ticked away while the conversation languished and died, for the maid took an extraordinary amount of time before she reappeared looking quite flustered.
“Oh, ma’am, Miss Kinderley is not in her room, and her trunk is not there neither. I asked Peabody, and he says he don’t remember carrying it out so it should be there but it ain’t, and I checked out front, too, thinking one of the other young ladies might have taken it by mistake, but they is all up and gone, ma’am, and there is only the one coach left, and when I asked the coachman, he said it was Mr. Kinderley’s coach, ma’am, and I do believe Miss Kinderley has run off is what it looks like to me, ma’am.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Wychombe said flatly. “You are talking absolute rubbish.”
For the first time since he had entered the room, Terence was in complete agreement with the headmistress. His niece run away? The very idea was ludicrous—totally preposterous.
“Her trunk may have been mislaid, but I am sure that if we check the schoolrooms and parlors thoroughly, we shall find Miss Kinderley curled up somewhere with a book, totally oblivious to everything going on around her,” Mrs. Wychombe said sensibly.
* * * *
“You see how pointless it was to worry?” Sybil asked as soon as the coach had left Bath behind. “You were afraid we could not succeed, and yet we walked right past your uncle while he was engaged in conversation with His Grace, and neither of them paid us the slightest attention. Not that it would have mattered if your uncle had stared right at us since that cloak is most concealing.”
“His Grace?” Marigold asked, trying to hide her melancholy. There was no way to pretend she had not heard her uncle say she would not be coming back for the fall term at Mrs. Wychombe’s.
“The Duke of Colthurst. They live quite close to Dunmire Abbey, and he and his wife have the most engaging pair of twins. We shall have to ride over and see them quite soon.” She stared at Marigold. “And why are you looking as if you have just eaten a pickle? Don’t you like babies?”
“I cannot rightly say,” Marigold replied honestly. “I have never been around babies, or indeed had anything to do with children younger than I am.”
“Never been around babies? But that is—that is unbelievable!”
“Believe it,” Marigold said rather crossly. “In case it has slipped your mind, I am an only child, and since I am not allowed to play with any of the children in the village, and since I have no cousins, I think it is quite easy to understand.”
“I admit, you have told me that before, but somehow I did not fully comprehend until just now what it signified. So you have truly never held a baby?”
A single tear slid down Marigold’s cheek, and she surreptitiously wiped it away with the back of her hand. “No, I have never held a baby or played tag or ridden on a pony or gone wading in a brook or touched a toad or—or done much of anything at all.” A second tear followed the first, and then a third and a fourth in quick succession.
“Well, you need not cry about it now. After all, that is precisely why you are coming home with me—so that you can do all the things you have never been allowed to do.”
“That is not why I am crying,” Marigold said with a sniffle. “I am crying because—” She retrieved a handkerchief from her reticule and blew her nose. “Because my uncle said he is not going to send me back to school next term. Did you not hear him?”
“I heard him say something about not being sure you would be coming back, but—”
“But nothing. He does not need to be sure. If it might rain, we stay home from church. If there might be measles in the neighborhood, our household is entirely quarantined. If it might not be a good idea for me to continue at Mrs. Wychombe’s, then I suspect that a governess has already been arranged for.”
“Well then,” Sybil said with a grin, “you must look on the bright side. You told me the worst that could happen if we got caught is that your uncle would keep you home next term. Since he is apparently planning to do that anyway, we might as well enjoy ourselves.”
Marigold thought it over and had to agree. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain, so she would stop worrying and enjoy a truly grand holiday.
* * * *
Never had Terence felt such a rage. He was closer to physical violence than he had ever been before, and the object of his ire was a woman! A totally incompetent, ineffectual female, who had the gall to pass herself off as a qualified headmistress of a reputable seminary for young ladies!
Mrs. Wychombe had had the entire school checked, and Marigold was nowhere to be found, with or without a book in her hand. Nor had the missing trunk turned up.
“I am sure,” Mrs. Wychombe now said, casting him a look of utter despair, “that Miss Medleycote will be able to tell us something. She is in charge of the younger girls and is a most competent, reliable, efficient ...” She withered under his gaze.
Terence did not bother to issue threats. Mrs. Wychombe was not such a fool that she did not realize the future of her school was in dire jeopardy.
Before she could offer up any more excuses, the door was thrust open, and a tall, sensibly-dressed young woman hurried into the room. Spotting Terence, she checked her headlong dash and at a more decorous pace moved to stand shoulder to shoulder beside her employer.
“We have asked you to come in—” Mrs. Wychombe began, but Terence interrupted her.
“Mrs. Wychombe seems to have mislaid my niece, Marigold Kinderley,” he snapped out, “and if one of you does not produce her for me immediately, I shall not hesitate to tell everyone of the lax conditions prevalent here.”
Looking not the least bit intimidated, the younger teacher said, “That is, of course, your privilege, but why you would wish to have your niece’s name bandied about in a vulgar man
ner, I am sure I cannot fathom.”
There was dead silence while Terence considered how delighted the high sticklers in Bath would be to spread scurrilous gossip about his niece. They would not worry unduly about destroying the reputation of an innocent young girl or blighting her future forever.
“You are quite right,” he said finally, anxiety driving all anger out of him. “Assigning blame is futile at this point. The only thing that matters now is recovering my niece before she comes to any harm.”
“Despite your low opinion of my school, I have never before ‘mislaid’ a pupil. Please believe me when I say that all of us here share your concern for Miss Kinderley’s well-being,” Mrs. Wychombe pointed out. “We shall certainly make discreet inquiries and do all in our power to find her, short of causing a scandal, of course.”
Terence thought for a minute, then asked in quite a reasonable tone of voice, “Can you provide me with a list of my niece’s special friends? Perhaps one of them may know something about this matter.”
Miss Medleycote got a strange look on her face, and with a shock, Terence realized it was pity. “Your niece has only the one friend,” she said quietly, “and that is Lady Sybil, the daughter of the dowager Viscountess of Dunmire. Fortunately, they live quite close to Bath, so it will not take long for a message to be sent there.”
The name rang a bell, and additional questioning elicited the answer that yes, Dunmire Abbey was but two miles distant from Colthurst Hall.
“There is no need for a messenger,” Terence stated. “It will be quicker for me to go there in person and inquire after my niece.”
* * * *
“Are you feeling at all queasy?” Sybil asked, concern in her voice.
“Queasy?”
“Do not look so baffled. You yourself once told me that your uncle’s coachman always drives at a most moderate speed so that the jouncing about will not make you ill.”
Marigold considered her stomach, which seemed perfectly calm, and her head, which was not in the least bit aching. Looking out the window, she saw the landscape rushing by at a remarkable speed. Surely they were going at least ten miles per hour!
“Well,” Sybil asked impatiently, “do I need to tell the coachman to slow down? He will stop at once if we ask him, since he is not at all fond of having people be sick in his carriage.”
Marigold began to smile. “Uncle Terence has always told me that I am prone to motion sickness, but it would appear that after scientific experimentation—for we can consider this an experiment, can we not?”
Sybil nodded her agreement.
“It would appear that in this case Uncle Terence is dead wrong,” Marigold concluded.
Sybil gave a crow of delight and to Marigold’s astonishment, promptly crawled up on the forward seat, slid open a little wooden panel, and told the coachman to “spring ’em.”
Marigold heard the crack of the man’s whip, and the coach surged forward at an even more dizzying speed.
“How do you feel now?” Sybil asked, settling herself back on her seat. “Are you beginning to feel at all ill yet?”
“I am feeling quite exhilarated,” Marigold replied. “Do you suppose we can go any faster?”
Sybil shook her head. “But if you wish to be even more daring—” She rummaged around in her bandbox and produced two French pastries which were crusted over with sugar and finely chopped almonds, and which were only slightly squashed. Handing one to Marigold, Sybil crammed a good half of her own into her mouth.
With great trepidation, Marigold took a much smaller bite, but even so, some of the red raspberry filling oozed out and tried to run down her chin. She managed to catch it with her finger and then closed her eyes in rapture as the most glorious flavors blended and mingled in her mouth.
“I think,” she said after she finally swallowed, “that I have surely died and gone to heaven.” Without further hesitation, she took a second, much larger bite.
* * * *
Unable to think what else to do, Terence sought out his only friend in Bath and found the duke in the lending library in Milsom Street, perusing the latest offerings from the Minerva Press.
“Colthurst, the most dreadful thing,” Terence began, his voice unsteady with emotion. Then he broke off, realizing to his added dismay that several pairs of ears in the vicinity were now straining to hear what he was going to say, even while their owners strove to look as though gossip were the last thing on their minds.
With a glance around and a knowing smile, Colthurst laid down the slender volume he had been considering, took Terence by the arm, and led him out of the shop. Walking back down the street in the direction of Mrs. Wychombe’s school, the duke waited only until they were out of earshot of any passersby, before inquiring, “Is it your niece? You know my invitation to come for a visit was not a mere formality. If she is not well enough to travel, I insist you must stay with us until she is fully recovered.”
“She is lost,” Terence blurted out.
“Lost?”
“Lost, misplaced, kidnapped—I do not know what has happened to her. It is the most astonishing thing—she has simply vanished along with her trunk. Mrs. Wychombe has had the gall to suggest that Marigold might have run away, but that is too absurd an idea to take seriously.”
Colthurst thought for a moment. “How old did you say your niece is?”
“Fourteen, but what has that to do with the case?”
“Neither fourteen-year-old girls nor fourteen-year-old boys are noted for their common sense, and although I do not think any of Mrs. Wychombe’s pupils have ever tried it before, I believe we average about one runaway school girl in Bath per year. But there is no cause to panic since, in all but a few cases, the girls have been successfully retrieved before they were thoroughly compromised.”
“Compromised? But I tell you this is all patently ridiculous. What with the regulations Mrs. Wychombe imposes—or rather, that she claims are in force—plus the strict requirements I have laid down for Marigold’s care, I cannot believe that my niece has had an opportunity to meet any males of whatever age since I left her here at the beginning of the term.”
Ignoring his objections, Colthurst asked bluntly, “Is she an heiress?”
As much as he wanted to deny what his friend was implying, Terence could not. While not rich enough to stagger the imagination, when she reached the age of one-and-twenty his niece did stand to inherit enough to make her a tempting target for a fortune hunter.
“It is amazing how some men can sniff out money,” Colthurst said, “and once they have found a tempting target, they are incredibly ingenious about arranging a casual meeting. In general, charm is their stock in trade, and convincing a young girl that she is in love with them is a relatively easy matter. And the more innocent and inexperienced the child is, the easier they can persuade her.”
“I cannot believe that Marigold could be so taken in,” Terence said, but his protest sounded hollow even to his own ears.
“The only other alternative is that she has run away to avoid going home. You mentioned rules you have imposed. Have there perhaps been too many restrictions?”
Terence stiffened at the implication that he was a harsh guardian. “All of the rules have been for her own good, and she has never even hinted that she felt them oppressive. I love my niece dearly, and I am sure she returns that affection in full measure.”
“Then we must discover who may have persuaded her to elope.”
Elope. The word Terence had been avoiding was now said. Ran away had sounded so much less damaging—less permanent. “What do you suggest?”
“Young girls generally confide in someone. In her letters did she mention any particular friends?”
For some reason Terence did not want to reveal his niece’s lack of popularity. “Her best friend is apparently the daughter of your neighbor.”
“Lady Sybil? But that is indeed fortunate. She is quite a sensible girl, and I shall be most happy to accompany you to Dunmi
re Abbey and introduce you to the family.”
Such was his relief that at last there was something he could do, that Terence made only a token protest. “But the books for your wife?”
“There is no need to delay on that account. Tomorrow I can send her dresser, Miss Hepden, into town to make a selection. She is better versed than I am on which authors my wife is fond of, and she shall undoubtedly do a better job than I would have done.”
* * * *
“Clara, my dear, I am so pleased that you could come for this visit,” Lady Dunmire said with a welcoming smile.
Marigold did not respond until she felt a sharp pinch on her arm. Then she remembered that she was supposed to be Clara. “Thank you.” There was another nudge. “I am so glad to be here.” Without waiting for another prompting, she added, “Sybil has told me so much about all of you, Lady Dunmire.”
“You must consider yourself one of the family while you are here,” Sybil’s mother said. “And now, if you are anything like my daughter, I imagine you are feeling quite peckish. Tea will not be served for another three hours, however—”
“Thank you, Mama,” Sybil said, grabbing Marigold’s hand and dragging her out of the room. “You must remember that you are supposed to be Clara,” she hissed as they hurried along the corridor. “You almost betrayed us both in there.”
“I am sorry. I shall try to do better.”
At the end of the hallway, Sybil opened a door and they descended a short flight of stairs. Marigold was astonished to find herself in the servants’ hall. And even more amazed when no one protested.
On the contrary, the housekeeper hugged Sybil, the butler pulled out chairs for them to be seated, and the cook immediately began filling the table with platters and bowls and tureens from which came the most tantalizing aromas. Apparently the servants were used to Sybil’s appetite.
In all that abundance, there was not a single item of food that Marigold was normally allowed to eat. But after her experience with the French pastry, she had no hesitation about sampling each and every dish. She did not realize how much she was eating until the cook smilingly reminded her to save a little room for tea, which would be in two and a half hours, and would feature cherry tarts.
Summer Escapade Page 2
