Dancing on the Wind (The Regency Intrigue Series Book 8)

by M C Beaton

  Dancing on the Wind

  M. C. Beaton/ Marion Chesney

  Copyright

  Dancing on the Wind

  Copyright ©1988 by Marion Chesney

  Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2011 by RosettaBooks, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  First electronic edition published 2011 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.

  ISBN Mobipocket edition: 9780795320774

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  CHAPTER ONE

  The autumn leaves whirled down from the trees in cascades of red and gold. Mossy, rounded gravestones leaned at crazy angles on the smooth-cropped turf of the churchyard like old drunken men hunched against the buffets of the wind. Far above in the steeple tolled the great bell, at times the sound bellowing down into the ears of the mourners, at others sent high in the gale to clamor over the dying countryside. Then with a final noisy peal the bell fell silent, and the funeral service for Meg Jones, wise woman of the village of Upper Batchett, began.

  The mourners from the village had come to pay their last respects. They huddled on one side of the grave, leaving a lone figure with bent head isolated on the other. Polly Jones, who until Meg’s death had believed herself to be the old woman’s niece, brushed a tear away from one brown cheek and glared angrily at the group on the other side of the grave. It was only on Meg’s death they had told her she was a foundling and no relative of the old woman. They had always disapproved of Polly. She was too wild, far too beautiful, too wayward, and too amused and contemptuous of narrow village ways and spiteful village gossip.

  But fear of old Meg’s charms and spells had kept their dislike well hidden. Now, with Meg gone, not one cared what happened to the girl.

  Polly shuddered as the earth fell on the coffin. She had never felt so frightened or alone. Why would no one listen to her? Why would no one explain why Meg had had two cruel bruises on her neck the day she died? Why had old Meg looked up at her with dying eyes and whispered, “My lady, I am sorry”?

  My lady. Polly had thought long and hard about that. Meg had gone to Meresly Manor on the day of her death to see Lady Lydia, wife of the earl of Meresly. The news that the earl had returned to Meresly, which he had not visited in years, had thrown Meg into a fever of excitement. Polly had assumed Meg meant to find employment for her at the manor. But Meg had returned dying, and Meg had said, “My lady,” and Meg had two wicked bruises on her old neck.

  The sound of a procession of carriages making its way along the road outside the churchyard broke into Polly’s thoughts. “That’ll be them from Meresly Manor going back to London,” said one. Polly whirled about and ran to the churchyard wall and climbed up on it, oblivious of the cries of outrage from the villagers.

  Lady Lydia sat up straight as her carriage came to a halt. “What’s to do?” she cried.

  “A funeral,” said her husband laconically. He put his head out of the window and shouted up to his coachman, “Who is dead? Anyone I should know about?”

  The carriage dipped and swayed as the coachman climbed down from the box. After a few moments, his round red face appeared at the carriage window on the earl’s side. “Some old woman of the village,” said the coachman. “A Mrs. Jones.”

  Bertram Pargeter, Lady Lydia’s but recently dismissed lover, riding on her side of the carriage, noticed the sudden flush of relief on Lady Lydia’s face, saw the way her eyes began to sparkle, saw the fear of the last few days begin to leave her face. A quick movement to his left distracted him. He looked sideways. On a level with his face was a gypsy-looking girl, climbing up onto the churchyard wall. Her mass of chestnut hair was wild and tangled and her large violet eyes fringed with heavy lashes looked out of a nut-brown face. Something made him remove his hat and give her a slight bow. Her work-worn hands clutched the stones at the top of the wall tightly and she looked down and past him to where Lady Lydia sat in the carriage. Lady Lydia glanced up and saw the girl. She quickly raised her fan to shield her face and said something. The carriage moved on. Bertram touched his horse’s flanks with his red-heeled boots and cantered along beside it again. After they had gone a little way away, he slowed his mount and twisted in the saddle and looked back. The girl was still there, a solitary figure, her cloak whipping about her on the rising wind. He turned back and looked again into the carriage.

  Lady Lydia was sitting very still. Her long jewelled fingers clasped and unclasped the sticks of her fan. Fear was back in her face.

  Bertram, all his senses sharpened by jealousy and hurt, turned over that strange little scene in his mind. He scented a mystery, and that mystery might give him the means to torture his cruel mistress as much as she had tortured him.

  After the funeral, Polly returned sadly to the little cottage in which she had passed sixteen years of her life with old Meg Jones. There were no funeral baked meats, no sympathizers. Without looking at her, the villagers had filed out of the churchyard and had gone their separate ways.

  The cottage had very little left in it, Polly having sold the furniture and pots and pans to pay for Meg’s funeral. She had just slung the one remaining pot over the fire to make some fennel tea and was easing her feet out of her shoes—she had been wearing shoes for almost the first time in her life, knowing it would be regarded as disrespectful had she turned up at the graveside in bare feet—when there came a great pounding at the door.

  Sure that it must be some villager calling to give comfort—for people could not really be so unfeeling—Polly went to answer it. Two small squat men stood on the doorstep. She recognized the squire’s bailiffs and her face hardened.

  “You’ve got a week to get out,” said one, picking his teeth with a straw. “Tenancy o’ this cottage belonged o’ Meg for life, and seeing as you is no kin to her …”

  Polly slammed the door in their faces. “We’ll be back in a week,” she heard them call. “You’ve only got a week.”

  Tears, thought Polly, could wait. She must plan what to do. She must find work. Why had Meg never sent her out to work in the fields like the other village girls? That was what had caused the village people to dislike her; she had been allowed to run wild and do as she pleased. Why had poor Meg paid for her education at the parish school? Of what good was book-learning to the penniless? Polly remembered one of the servants from Meresly Manor when the earl was in residence bragging in the village that London servants could live like kings.

  “So London it is,” said Polly aloud. And with that decision, a little of the pain eased at her heart. London was surely a glittering city full of palaces and gardens where people ate off gold plate all day long. London would mean escape from the sneers and stares of the villagers. “Foundling,” their eyes accused. “Foundling and bastard, most like.”

  The pot began to boil. She put some dried fennel leaves in a cup and scooped boiling water on top of them with a ladle. She put her bare feet on the hearth and sipped her tea.

  No, thought Polly, I cannot leav
e for London without going up to Meresly Manor. Something happened to Meg that day. Mayhap there is something there to give me a clue.

  The blind eyes and curved smiles of the marble statues which lined the drive to Meresly Manor looked down on the figure of Polly Jones an hour later as she hurried toward the great house, her skirts flying about her in the chill wind.

  In answer to her knock, a caretaker, a gruff London servant, told her curtly he had never heard of Meg Jones and slammed the door in her face.

  Polly stood huddled against the wall of the manor, Meg’s old shawl wrapped tightly about her shoulders. She turned at last and walked off down the drive. But once out on the road, she made her way along the wall of the estate and climbed back into the grounds at a point where she could not be seen from the house.

  By slow and circumspect degrees she crept toward the manor. She made her way round the back and crouched below a terrace until the dark autumn evening set in.

  Shivering, she waited and waited. Then she cautiously crept up to the French windows and tried the handle. To her relief, the windows were not locked, the caretaker being lazy and secure in the knowledge that none of the locals would risk a hanging by breaking in. Polly felt all fear of discovery leave her.

  She cocked her head and listened. The murmur of voices came faintly from somewhere downstairs. Polly felt at her waist for the dark lantern she had tied there. She fumbled with her tinder box, wincing as each noise of the striking flint sounded unnaturally loud in the silence of the drawing room in which she found herself.

  At last, a faint light shone on her surroundings.

  But she realized she did not know what she was looking for. The clue to what had happened to Meg surely lay in London, in the earl’s town house among his family and staff of servants, not here. She had overheard someone in the village saying that the earl was not expected to return to Meresly Manor, and although he had a great mansion and estates in Norfolk as well, Lady Lydia would not live there either, but preferred to spend the year round in Town.

  Polly raised the lantern high. A portrait caught her eye, a long portrait which dominated the room. She gave a superstitious shiver, thinking for a moment she was seeing herself, then looked down at her shabby clothes to reassure herself that the silken-clad creature in the picture was another being entirely. She looked closer. Violet eyes like her own, looking out of a face like her own, stared haughtily down at her. But the lady in the picture had black hair, and her gown was panniered and elaborate, her skin white, and her hands with their long tapering fingers delicate and blue-veined. It was a portrait of Lady Lydia, the lady in the carriage which had passed the churchyard, the lady who had covered her face with her fan.

  Feeling uneasy, Polly turned her back on the picture and once more looked about the room. Her eyes fell on the soft gleam of gold on a small table. She picked up the gold object and looked at it. It was a snuffbox. She hesitated, holding it in her hand.

  Some fear of God had come to her with Meg’s death. Then it struck Polly that surely there was no God, or certainly not any God of love as preached from the pulpit. There were so many precious trifles just lying around while such as she faced starvation. What was so very wrong in taking what would mean so much to her and so little to the earl of Meresly?

  She slipped the snuffbox into a capacious pocket, more like a deep pouch, in her petticoat which had recently served to hold a rabbit she had poached from the squire’s estate. The weight of the gold snuffbox in her pocket gave her a warm feeling, as if the glow from the polished gold had managed magically to spread its radiance through her whole body.

  Her sharp eyes spied a pretty china shepherdess and then a pair of silver candlesticks.

  “Enough!” she told herself after she had stowed them away. She made silently for the window.

  But just as she was about to blow out her lantern, it occurred to her that selling shabby household goods, pots and pans and Meg’s old clothes, in Hackminster, the nearest market town, was one thing; turning up dressed as she was to sell precious objects was another.

  She would need suitable clothes.

  Then she froze.

  A man’s voice called, “Jist making sure them doors is locked,” and she heard the faint voice of a woman answering. The caretaker and his wife.

  Polly blew out her lantern and crouched behind a chair. For the first time it struck her that being found with the stolen objects would send her to the nearest gibbet. She gently drew out everything and placed it under a chair. She waited while she heard the caretaker rattling about, checking the locks and bars. Surely he would come in to lock the drawing-room windows.

  But after a short while, she heard him clattering down the stairs to the servants’ quarters.

  Polly waited for an hour after that.

  Then she lit the lantern again, went quietly out of the drawing room and began to ascend the shallow oaken stairs to the bedrooms above.

  The old stairs creaked and she had to wait and wait, heart pounding, to make sure the caretaker did not come running.

  She wandered about the great bedrooms, looking in wardrobes and closets. There were a few beautiful gowns left by Lady Lydia, but after longingly fingering the material, Polly decided she would attract too much attention with such fine clothes. No one without a carriage and a train of servants wore such clothes. She climbed on up until she reached the attics—and luck was with her. In a large wardrobe on the very top landing were a few maids’ caps and gowns and one warm black wool dress. Polly took the dress and a cap and apron. Bolder now, she searched the servants’ rooms until she found a thick cloak. It was a man’s cloak, but it would serve well. The sight of these servants’ clothes gave Polly courage. London servants must be very well treated to be able to leave any clothes behind in a place to which they might never return.

  She tied up the bundle of clothes with string and inched her way back down the stairs, the sound of her own heartbeats so loud that she feared the drumming might wake the caretaker.

  She nearly stumbled and fell when she reached the drawing room, so great was her haste to escape, but she did not forget to pick up the snuffbox, candlesticks and china figure from under the chair. Then she blew out her lantern and fastened it back at her waist.

  Once out in the cold night glittering with frost, Polly forced herself to go slowly, making her way out of the grounds by the way she had come in.

  The wind had died. Everything was frosty, sparkling and glinting in the moonlight like marquesite.

  The heavy weight of stolen goods bumped against her thigh. Polly felt a tremendous sense of exhilaration which grew and grew as she walked rapidly down the road toward home—that home so soon to be taken from her.

  She leaned over the bridge which spanned the River Mere and looked at the rushing water. “I shall beat them all, Aunt Meg,” she whispered. “You’ll see. I’ll get to London and find out who marked you. Who was it? Lady Lydia? Did you think I was her when you was dying and you called me my lady? Or was it one of them grand London servants?”

  An owl hooted from the trees, sending a shiver of sound over the whitening landscape.

  Polly heaved the bundle of clothes up onto her shoulder and strode out down the road. She began to whistle a jaunty, military air. For she felt as brave and elated as a soldier who had just fought his first battle.

  * * *

  Two of society’s “pretty fellows” met at White’s Club in St. James’s Street, London—that haunt of High Tories, adventurers and hangers-on—to turn their weak brains to a problem.

  The Honorable Jonathan Barks was the owner of the problem. His friend, Mr. Percy Caldicott, was the gentleman who was to solve that problem.

  Both were still exhausted after the brain-straining of the previous day. It had been spent in playing that intellectual game of Inventing the Lie. One started at a coffee house over at, say, the Temple, where one delivered oneself of the lie—in this case that the French had secretly taken over Dover—and then followe
d the lie as it spread from coffee house to coffee house and club to club. They had followed it all over London and watched with glee as it grew in magnitude, only to find to their chagrin that their beautiful lie had been exploded by evening by none other than the marquess of Canonby, who had damned it as rubbish. And what the great marquess damned as rubbish was promptly accepted by the rest of the beau monde as being just that.

  “Pity about Canonby,” drawled Mr. Barks. “Curst spoiler of sport.”

  “What’s yar problem,” yawned Mr. Caldicott, revealing a large mouthful of shattered teeth like the shelled ramparts of a besieged town.

  “Him.”

  “Who?”

  “Canonby.”

  “Oh. Want to get revenge of the fellow for shooting down our lie?”