A Bachelor Establishment

by Isabella Barclay

  Lady Elliott was by no means immune to that brief flash of elusive Ryde charm – so fleeting and so beguiling. What its effect might be on her wholly inexperienced friend was not a subject on which she wished to dwell. Lady Elliott was far from fearing Lord Ryde’s impulses might get the better of him, but the sort of women he consorted with would all be familiar with the rules of the game. She felt it was very probable that even Ryde himself would be wholly unaware of his possible effect on Elinor’s fragile, brittle heart.

  She was a sensible woman, however, and what must be, must be. She followed the doctor downstairs to find Lord Ryde, far from scheming to lure Elinor into his nets of seduction, was dressed for riding and plainly only awaiting her departure before disappearing off on his own business.

  His slightly bored enquiries were such as to convince Lady Elliott that he too was awaiting Mrs Bascombe’s removal with barely controlled impatience. Perversely, she was conscious of a feeling of annoyance. She would have liked to discuss the circumstances of the shooting and followed his lordship down the steps to her carriage, resolving to instruct her husband to call at Ryde House immediately on his return from Rushford, wither he had repaired two days previously, on business.

  Inwardly laughing, his lordship bade a punctilious farewell to a ruffled Lady Elliott and made haste across country to the scene of the previous day’s incident.

  Dismounting, he found Mr Martin already present, on his hands and knees, subjecting portions of the hedgerow to minute scrutiny.

  ‘Anything, Charles?’ he enquired.

  Mr Martin rose to his feet and dusted himself down.

  ‘Nothing that I can see, sir. There is evidence that someone stood just here for some considerable time, judging by the imprints in the soft ground. And here are one or two broken twigs that look quite fresh – but who stood here, and exactly when, and whether it was anything to do with Mrs Bascombe’s shooting, I’m afraid I cannot say.’

  ‘How the deuce did the fellow get away, then? There are no footprints anywhere that I can see.’

  ‘Well, sir, if it was me, I would have made my way down the hedge, rather than across the field. There must be any number of small hiding places therein. So long as he kept his nerve and stayed quiet … and we, of course, were far too busy tending to Mrs Bascombe and fetching help.’

  ‘Very neat,’ agreed his lordship. ‘Not the actions of a guilty poacher or frightened boys.’

  ‘I fear not, my lord.’

  ‘Well, well. A mystery. And probably, we shall never know.’

  ‘You do not mean to prolong your stay at Ryde house, my lord?’

  ‘To what purpose?’

  ‘Well, aren’t you the tiniest bit curious, sir? That such a thing could happen – here, of all places?’

  ‘Charles, tell me seriously, do you mean to spend more days here than you have to, eating bad food, drinking indifferent wine, and sleeping in devilishly draughty discomfort?’

  ‘We’ve had worse, sir.’

  ‘Yes, but we didn’t have to call it home.’

  ‘Even so, sir, we always planned to stay at least for a fortnight. It surely couldn’t hurt to extend a few days?’

  His lordship belatedly remembered Mr Martin’s face as he beheld Miss Fairburn. He and Charles had been roaming erratically for as long he could remember. The length of their stays had ranged from nearly a year in Rome, to just under ten minutes in a sinister hostelry near Athens which had been presided over by a particularly villainous-looking proprietor, who had cast covetous eyes on their horses and a nastily calculating glance on their owners. He remembered they had left with all speed and spent that night wrapped in their cloaks under a rocky overhang some five miles up the road. And still been more comfortable than any time in his own ancestral pile, he reminded himself.

  He shifted his weight and stared around. High, overgrown hedges surrounded rank pasture. The ground was still soft from the recent rain. Choked ditches meant bad drainage. And not just in this field. He had acres and acres of equally disheartened land. Tumbledown agricultural buildings, poor stock, outmoded farming methods. The world had moved on and left Ryde House behind. If it had been in his lordship’s power, he would have razed it all to the ground years ago.

  Chapter Five

  Both gentlemen rode home lost in their own individual thoughts.

  Those of Mr Martin were easy to divine. Those of Lord Ryde, less so. He had not missed that note of reluctance in Mr Martin’s voice when he spoke of resuming their travels, although travels seemed too dignified a word for the erratic wanderings of the last twenty years or so.

  Suppose Charles did refuse to accompany him when he departed Ryde House. As he could perfectly well do. Secretary he might call himself, but his position was far closer and more complex than that. They had met at university. Charles was several years his junior, the third son of an impecunious rector already financially exhausted through educating his two elder sons and providing dowries for his daughters. Opposites attract and an unlikely friendship developed after Mr Martin’s timely intervention when a young Jack Ryde had once again bitten off more than he could chew in a narrow alleyway at the back of an establishment famed for the plucking of inexperienced young undergraduates.

  Both young gentlemen had given excellent accounts of themselves and an enduring friendship had been born. Mr Martin was naturally Jack Ryde’s choice as second on the occasion of that infamous meeting with Sir Matthew Reeth. It was his timely actions that had subsequently saved his friend’s life. Exiled abroad by his father, Mr Ryde had no hesitation extending an invitation to an equally unhesitating Mr Martin. Mr Martin’s father, seeing his third son provided for, raised no objections at all. Mr Ryde chose to dignify the position with the title ‘secretary’ and thus make his friend a small remuneration – some part of which he guessed, made its way back to the rectory in Gloucestershire.

  The arrangement had worked very well and the two now not so young men had been drifting erratically around the continent, finding adventure, fortune, and disaster in equal measure, avoiding the various armies of the period and thoroughly enjoying their wildly fluctuating circumstances.

  It now occurred to Lord Ryde, quite suddenly, that when he did finally shake off the dust with which Ryde House was so plentifully provided, that Mr Martin might not wish to accompany him. It was not his first attraction, of course, there had been that very pretty girl in Brussels; his lordship suspected though, that this might be his last. He had no doubt that should he specifically request him to do so, Mr Martin would follow him, but would he make that request? Should he? For the first time, he had to consider a future without his best friend. It would be cruel to drag Charles away from England if his heart was plainly elsewhere. He had a sudden, unwelcome vision of two ageing, homeless, rootless men, drifting aimlessly until accident or poor health caught up with them as it surely would do one day, unable to support themselves, eking out a pathetic existence in some shabby room somewhere until one died, leaving the other desolate and alone.

  Perhaps Charles was right to think about settling down, and if that was truly what he wanted, Lord Ryde would do everything in his power to help him achieve his wish.

  And what of himself? Would he continue his travels alone? The prospect held no appeal. He had a suspicion that what were enjoyable adventures when shared with a good friend would be in no way as enjoyable without him, but was the alternative any better? To settle at Ryde House with its cold, dark memories? To hear the name of Bascombe every day? To preside over decay and ruin?

  Whatever decision he made would be irrevocable. If he stripped the estate and set off again there would be no returning. Why would he ever want to? This was no happy home of his childhood. This was a constant reminder of his father’s dislike. His disappointment in his only child. His preference for Georgie Bascombe. Who had murdered the father and impoverished the son. And if he did return to his wanderings – with or without Charles – where would he go? Where had they not yet b
een? What sights had they not yet viewed?

  He roused himself from his reverie with some relief, to find himself approaching his own front door.

  Mrs Bascombe woke not very long after Lady Elliott had departed, dragging herself free from the clinging tendrils of black memories. For a fleeting moment, she had imagined herself back in … Fear, for so long her only friend, had returned to haunt her dreams. She lay very quietly and pieced together as much as she could remember of the previous day’s happenings.

  She found herself in an uncomfortable bed in a strange room. The pillows appeared to be made of bricks and the linen smelled musty. Correctly concluding she was not yet back at Westfield, her eyes wandered vaguely until she saw something she could recognise and said weakly, ‘Tilly?’

  Her maid, who had been awkwardly sweeping the hearth came swiftly to her side, crying, ‘Oh, my dear. My dear Miss Elinor, you’re awake at last.’

  ‘I am indeed,’ agreed Mrs Bascombe. ‘And very thirsty. May I have some water, please?’

  ‘Better than that,’ said Tiller. ‘Eliza has made lemonade.’

  ‘Eliza? Our Eliza? Am I at Westfield, then? I don’t understand?’

  ‘Now, Miss Elinor, don’t you fret yourself. You’re at Ryde House, if you remember. We’re all here to look after you. Miss Fairburn is here. She’s out taking the air at present. And Margaret’s here. Eliza and Janet too. Never you mind about anything, my dear. Now, let me help you sit up.’

  Mrs Bascombe lay back on her lumpy pillows and took stock of her surroundings. Cheerless it might have been, but some efforts had been made to render the room more habitable.

  The curtains were looped back from the windows and one casement had been forced open to let in a little air. A small fire burned cheerfully in the hearth. The battered and mismatched furniture consisted of a bed, minus its hangings, two chairs placed either side of the fireplace, a small table at the side of the bed, and a chest of drawers pushed against a wall.

  In the centre of the room, however, stood a number of boxes. Mrs Bascombe, sipping her lemonade, watched as her maid unpacked the items she had hastily thrown together on Miss Fairburn’s instructions. Mrs Bascombe took a small comfort from this familiar routine and Tiller could conceal her overwhelming joy and relief in bustling activity.

  The dreadful old pillows were replaced with Mrs Bascombe’s own, lace-edged and soft. The sheets could wait, but the faded quilt was removed, folded carefully, and stored away. Mrs Bascombe’s own very pretty cream and blue quilt was gently spread across the bed instead. Her brushes and mirrors were placed on the chest of drawers and her dressing gown hung carefully beside the bed.

  Miss Tiller itched to change Mrs Bascombe’s current nightshirt – one of his lordship’s, and very kindly meant, no doubt, but most inappropriate. And large. Very, very large. Even with the sleeves rolled back, they hung over Mrs Bascombe’s small hands.

  At the very bottom of the last box lay some half a dozen lavender bags, made by Miss Elinor herself. She tucked one inside the pillows, two into the drawers and hung the rest around the room. A familiar and reassuring smell permeated the room.

  Mrs Bascombe, sipping her lemonade, watched all this with a twinkle in her eye and requested the whereabouts of Lord Ryde. Miss Tiller thankfully professed herself unable to say and was at that moment undone by the sound of horses’ hooves under her window and his lordship shouting for Owen, his groom.

  Mrs Bascombe handed back her glass and requested a word with his lordship at his earliest convenience.

  ‘Now that, Mrs Bascombe, if you don’t mind me saying so, is just what you ought not to be doing. I’m not saying his lordship’s behaviour hasn’t been everything it should, because it has, and no one will deny he had no choice but to bring you here, and he done his duty like a Christian, but to be encouraging him to come to your room and you still in your bed is not what I hold with, and you shouldn’t neither.’

  Mrs Bascombe let her run down and then quietly repeated her request. Recognising the tone, Tiller withdrew, muttering, to pass on the message.

  Some twenty minutes later, his lordship was received by Mrs Bascombe, still in her bed, admittedly, but modestly swathed in a pretty paisley shawl and with her hair dressed in a simple knot. Mrs Bascombe had complied with the shawl and the hair, but, as usual, drawn the line a wearing a cap. Admitting his lordship to Mrs Bascombe’s room, Tiller withdrew to the window seat and picked up her whitework in such a way as to convey the impression it could easily be discarded, should she feel the necessity to leap to her mistress’s defence.

  A chair had been placed at a prim distance from the bed, and with one wary eye on the Gorgon in the window seat, his lordship seated himself and enquired of Mrs Bascombe how she did.

  ‘Very well, thank you.’

  Silence.

  ‘Did you summon me for a reason?’

  ‘Oh, dear. Did I seem to summon you? That was not my intention.’

  His lordship, carefully not glancing at Tiller in any way, admitted to a poor choice of words.

  Mrs Bascombe, too, could conciliate. ‘Selfishly, sir, I have dragged you from your business to give myself the pleasure of expressing my gratitude. I have no need to ask what happened – I remember all of it,’ she continued, without any particular emphasis. ‘And so, Lord Ryde, not to keep you any longer, please allow me to say thank you.’

  ‘You are entirely welcome, ma’am.’

  Silence.

  Experiencing again the curiosity that had so frequently led to periods of excitement and activity in his and Mr Martin’s lives, his lordship ventured to enquire if she had any ideas about the identity of her attacker.

  ‘None,’ she said, frankly. ‘Absolutely none. It must surely have been an accident and the perpetrator too afraid to come forward.’

  Again, his lordship’s mind went back to that moment – the bird, erupting from the hedgerow – the shrill cry of alarm – Rufus leaping sideways, to bring Mrs Bascombe between himself and the hedge … Inwardly, he shrugged. It was a poacher. It had to be. How could it be anything other? And frankly, did he care? A few days and she would be gone. And all the rest of that Monstrous Regiment with her. And in another week, so would he. With or without Charles, he would be gone. He could hire another secretary.

  But not another friend, whispered a treacherous voice from somewhere deep inside.

  ‘What is it?’

  He refocused to find Mrs Bascombe staring at him in consternation.

  ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘Is something wrong, my lord? For a moment, you looked …’

  ‘No,’ he said, with something of an effort. Of course nothing is wrong. I believe we were discussing your assailant.’

  Mrs Bascombe regarded him carefully for a moment and then said, casually, ‘Well, whoever it was, and for whatever reason it happened, it’s finished now. And even if it’s not, even if some blood-crazed lunatic does stalk the neighbourhood only awaiting another opportunity to murder me where I stand, when I return to Westfield, he will undoubtedly follow me there and you’ll be safe, my lord. So there is no reason to feel any alarm. If you like, I can leave some of my people here, if it will make you and Mr Martin feel more secure.’

  Lord Ryde was temporarily lost for words.

  Mrs Bascombe smiled encouragingly. ‘Fear not, my lord. We won’t let anyone hurt you.’

  Lord Ryde recovered the power of speech.

  ‘Allow me to inform you, madam, that I accepted your thanks under false pretences. You owe your life solely to the efforts of Mr Martin, your groom, and a passing farmer. Left to myself, I would have stepped over you and ridden home with all speed.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ she said approvingly. ‘How much more agreeable it is to abuse a poor, sick widow than give way to the blue devils.’

  ‘I can assure you, madam, that had I the slightest inkling of the identity of the man who shot you, I would be shaking him warmly by the hand.’

 
‘As opposed to shaking me warmly by the throat, I suppose,’

  ‘Shooting is too good for you, Mrs Bascombe. Should I ever experience the entirely understandable urge to murder you myself, believe me, ma’am, your ending will be both painful and slow.’

  She shifted uncomfortably in her bed.

  ‘Well, you have made a good start with the painful part.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘We put you here because this room was nearest. I’m sure we could – probably – find you somewhere more comfortable.’

  ‘No, no. I should not have said that. I am so sorry. Whatever my stupid tongue says, I know I owe you my life and if I seemed ungrateful or ungracious, I am truly sorry for that, as well. To have me here must be enormously inconvenient and you have not uttered one word of complaint.’

  His lordship, who had actually uttered a great many words of complaint, could not help smiling.

  ‘There,’ she said in small triumph. ‘Much better.’

  ‘Mrs Bascombe, you are the most manipulative, infuriating …’ he paused, searching for words.

  ‘My lord,’ she said softly, ‘I would so much rather see you infuriated than sad.’

  At this moment, however, benevolent Providence decreed Margaret’s arrival with a tea-tray. His lordship would have made good his escape, but found himself pressed into service, moving tables and passing the invalid her tea.

  Elinor, still thirsty, needed no urging to drink her tea, although, with a twinkle in her eye, she declined the proffered plate of macaroons.

  ‘You should eat,’ said Lord Ryde, disposing of his tea and macaroons by simply putting them on the floor. ‘Shall I have some broth sent up?’