A Bachelor Establishment

by Isabella Barclay

  He looked up to find Lady Elliott watching him closely, and just for one moment, saw a hint of steel.

  I know what you are about, said that look.

  Lord Ryde experienced a spurt of anger that quite surprised him. That he could be suspected of harbouring intentions towards a woman, injured, a guest under his roof, after everything he had done to ensure her reputation remained intact was, he considered, more than insulting. He remembered again that he had not wanted to come to Ryde House, did not want to remain at Ryde House, could not wait to get away from Ryde House. And his small-minded neighbours.

  He opened his mouth to utter a set-down that would send Lady Elliott out of the house as fast as she could move and probably Mrs Bascombe along with her and then caught Mr Martin staring at him, anxiously. He bit back what he had been going to say, telling himself that given his reputation, Lady Elliott’s concerns were natural, remembered Charles’ interest in Miss Fairburn, and that most importantly, he could not disappoint Mrs Bascombe.

  He refilled Lady Elliott’s glass himself, saying quietly, ‘I understand your concerns, ma’am, but you may be easy. Perhaps sometimes we both forget it – but I am a Ryde.’

  She had the grace to look a little ashamed and said in a low voice, ‘I apologise, my lord, but you may have misunderstood me a little. She is so inexperienced and leads such a sheltered life … I do not accuse you, you understand, but it is very possible she might … misinterpret …’

  ‘You need say no more,’ he interrupted. ‘But indeed, I think you worry unnecessarily. Both Mrs Bascombe and I seem to be incapable of holding any sort of conversation for longer than a few minutes without flying into a rage and abusing each other most soundly.’

  At this point, Mrs Bascombe turned to Lady Elliot with some query and the conversation became general.

  They lingered for some time at the table and consequently, the afternoon was quite far advanced when they made their way back to the drawing room. Lady Elliott, seeing the time, began to think of making her goodbyes, for no matter how grown up her children might be – Oliver was twenty-one, Clara nineteen, how time flies – she was a little nervous about leaving them to their own devices with Sir William not yet back from Rushford. The arrival of Margaret with the tea-tray, however, distracted her from these noble intentions and she sat back down again.

  Mr Martin and Miss Fairburn seated themselves together with scarcely a break in their conversation. His lordship noticed sourly that the censorious Lady Elliott appeared to have no issues with this at all. He must obviously come to terms with the fact that his secretary was more socially desirable than he himself.

  Lady Elliott made herself comfortable and Lord Ryde hit on the happy idea of drawing Mrs Bascombe to the front windows and showing her the view across the grass to the tree-lined lake beyond.

  Mrs Bascombe agreed that yes, it was very pretty and by standing on tip-toe and craning her neck she was just able to make out the little bench, installed by his mother, said Lord Ryde, because that particular spot had been a favourite of hers.

  She was about to set down her cup and saucer when Mr Martin approached to relieve her of it. She was enquiring how long the walk around the lake would take when she heard a loud bang from outside, but quite close by. His lordship threw his arms around her and bore her to the floor as the window to her right shattered, showering her with broken glass and something embedded itself in the fortunately empty china cabinet on the far wall.

  Mr Martin shouted a warning to Miss Fairburn, seized an astounded Lady Elliott, and pulled her to the floor, where she lay, too astonished to make any move and still clutching an unbroken honey cake.

  Lord Ryde could not help reflecting that Charles’s stock must surely now be as low as his own. Whatever his past sins, he had never actually manhandled a middle-aged lady to the ground. Actually, yes, he had. And this very day, too. He looked down at Mrs Bascombe, lying surprised but calm beneath him.

  He said softly, ‘Elinor, are you hurt at all?’

  ‘No. You caught me very neatly.’

  ‘Practice.’ He raised his voice. ‘Is everyone all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Fairburn.

  Lady Elliott remained silent.

  ‘Lady Elliott,’ said Mr Martin anxiously, ‘Did I hurt you? Are you injured?’

  Lady Elliott slowly became aware she was holding a honey cake and gently set it down on the carpet beside her.

  ‘No,’ she said, faintly. ‘No, I am uninjured, thank you for asking. I really must enquire, however, just out of sheer curiosity, you understand, why Mr Martin suddenly took it into his head to hurl me to the floor.’

  ‘Later,’ said Lord Ryde, brusquely. ‘Charles, come with me. Ladies, remain where you are, please. There may be further shots.’

  ‘Take care,’ whispered Mrs Bascombe, carefully brushing glass from his shoulder.

  ‘I will.’

  He touched her face with one finger, pulled himself to his feet, and then he and Mr Martin were gone. They could hear male voices shouting instructions. Somewhere, someone, Mrs Munch probably, was having un-General like hysterics. The front door grated open and then the voices dwindled into the distance.

  Margaret appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Mrs Bascombe? Oh, my God, ma’am, what has happened?’

  ‘Don’t come in, Margaret. He may still be out there. Stay clear of the windows. And there is glass everywhere.’

  ‘One moment, madam.’ She walked gingerly around the edge of the room, picking her way through the broken glass and carefully drew the curtains.

  ‘There, madam. Let me help you up.’

  ‘No. See to Lady Elliott first, and then Miss Fairburn, if you please. If no one minds, I’ll just lie quietly for a while.’

  Miss Fairburn’s voice came from across the room.

  ‘Elinor, my dear. Are you hurt?’

  ‘No. Please do not be alarmed. I just have a tiny cut from the glass and my shoulder pains me where I fell on it. Please do not blame Lord Ryde. He could not help hurting me a little.’

  ‘Of course not,’ agreed Miss Fairburn. ‘I’m sure he threw you to the ground as gently as he could. Stay where you are – I’ll come to you.’

  ‘No, Laura, pray do not. There is so much glass. Wait until the gentlemen return. Can anyone see what is happening?’

  Margaret was peering through a chink in the curtains.

  ‘I can see Lord Ryde, ma’am. And Mr Martin. They’re in the trees by the lake. Mr Roberts is running around the back path. Mr Munch – oh, ma’am, he should not be running at his age. He has a cudgel. Mr Owen is coming along the path from the other direction. There is a lot of running and shouting but I don’t think they have found anything.’

  ‘Margaret, you must come away from the window at once,’ said Miss Fairburn with authority. ‘The assailant may still be concealed nearby. The gentlemen will be returning soon and Mrs Bascombe will require attention. Please go to the kitchen, do whatever is necessary to Mrs Munch, and return here with Tiller and bandages. Hurry, now. And keep everyone away from the windows.’

  Margaret crunched away and Elinor, whose shoulder was throbbing most unpleasantly, closed her eyes and let the next ten minutes or so just wash over her.

  She opened her eyes to find herself stretched on the sofa, with Miss Fairburn bending over her, and Lady Elliott clutching a bottle of smelling salts.

  ‘Oh. Ugh. No,’ she said, gently pushing her hand away.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Surprisingly comfortable, all things considered.’

  ‘Please remain still, the doctor is coming.’

  ‘But why?’ she demanded, struggling to sit up. ‘I was not hit. Was I?’

  ‘No, but …’

  ‘Oh, my Good, was someone else shot? Lord Ryde – is he hurt? Tell me at once.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Miss Fairburn, straight-faced. ‘No one has incurred any injury at all. Apart from you, that is, my dear. You have started to blee
d again and your hand is cut. Nothing to worry about, his lordship says, and the doctor will be here directly.’

  ‘Did they find anyone? Did they catch him?’

  ‘Elinor, please remain still. Here is Lord Ryde who will tell you himself. I must go now to Lady Elliott who is a little shaken.’

  ‘Help me to sit up, first.’

  She struggled to sit up and Miss Fairburn propped several cushions behind her.

  Lady Elliott, also reclining on a matching sofa, was making occasional use of her own smelling salts.

  All three ladies besieged Lord Ryde with questions.

  ‘What did you see? Did you find him? What happened?’

  Ignoring all this, he crossed straight to Elinor and dropped to one knee.

  ‘Mrs Bascombe, how are you? Would you like me to help you back to your room?’

  The thought of being banished to her room while exciting events took place without her was enough to bring the colour back to her cheeks with a rush.

  ‘Certainly not, my lord. What do you take me for?’

  ‘I take you for an invalid, ma’am, who has just sustained yet another injury. Do you know you are bleeding?

  ‘It is just my hand, sir. Nothing to concern yourself over.’

  ‘You must let me be the judge of that, ma’am.’

  Mrs Bascombe, finding this not unpleasant, obediently lay back whilst his lordship examined what even he had to agree was a very minor wound and then carefully bound it up with his handkerchief.

  Across the room, Miss Fairburn and Lady Elliott exchanged looks of astonishment.

  When he had adjusted the bandage to his satisfaction, he rose and looked around him.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lady Elliott, acidly. ‘We are both uninjured too, my lord.’

  He seated himself alongside her.

  ‘I am happy to hear it, ma’am. That such a thing should happen here is astonishing. I can only apologise.’

  ‘Why? You did not order the attack. Did you?’

  ‘Of course not. There are much easier and more reliable methods of ridding oneself of unwanted guests, ma’am. Not that I would ever dream of considering you such.’ In a lower voice, he continued. ‘You look very pale, Lady Elliott. Can I fetch Tiller? Or Margaret?’

  Her lip trembled suddenly, but she managed a wobbly smile.

  He put his hand briefly over her cold one. ‘Shall I send for your carriage? Roberts and Owen can escort you home, though I doubt whether you will need them. Or I can send for Sir William. Just say the word.’

  She sat up.

  ‘Certainly not, my lord. If Elinor remains, as I know she will, then so shall I.’

  ‘Bravo, ma’am,’ said Miss Fairburn.

  ‘In that case, Lady Elliott, may I offer you some wine?’

  ‘You certainly may, my lord. And with all speed, too.’

  ‘Shall we repair to the library? I think the ladies will be more comfortable there.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elinor dryly. ‘Not so many windows.’

  Repairing to the library, they found the curtains drawn and candles lit.

  ‘How delightfully sinister,’ said Mrs Bascombe.

  ‘It certainly lends a certain ambience to the room,’ agreed Lord Ryde.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Lady Elliot, seating herself gratefully and accepting a glass of wine from Mr Martin. ‘Who knows, by tomorrow, we may be under attack from all sorts of armed desperadoes and be forced to live under siege.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Fairburn, enthusiastically. ‘We can hurl boiling oil on our attackers from the bedroom windows.’

  ‘We should arm ourselves,’ said Elinor with decision. ‘Where is your gunroom, my lord?’

  ‘I cannot remember,’ said Lord Ryde, quickly.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Miss Fairburn. ‘This is an old house. There will be pikes and halberds – and swords, too, I expect.’

  ‘And armour. Do you have any armour? And …’

  ‘No armour,’ said his lordship with finality. ‘No swords. No pikes. And above all – no guns.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘It’s very dull here, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Bascombe.

  Chapter Seven

  An hour later, some semblance of normality had been restored and Lady Elliott, now completely recovered after a reckless second glass of wine, had announced her intention, with Lord Ryde’s permission, of course, of remaining at Ryde House that night and perhaps tomorrow, too. ‘To support dear Elinor in this difficult time.’

  Lord Ryde, visibly disturbed at the thought of yet another female polluting his bachelor establishment, nevertheless said everything that was proper and Roberts was despatched with an explanatory note and a request for her eldest daughter, Clara, to pack her overnight things.

  Miss Clara had not, perhaps quite understood what was required of her, for several hours later, when the party was once again assembled in the library awaiting the announcement of dinner, a suitably dismal Munch made it known, in accents of doom, that another procession was approaching the house.

  ‘Wonderful!’ said Elinor. ‘The enemy has mounted a cavalry attack. Munch! Bring caltrops and tripwire!’

  Munch replied that he had brought wine, in a tone clearly indicating that this was all they would get, and that caltrops and tripwire, whatever they may be, would not be forthcoming.

  Closer inspection, however, revealed the oncoming charge to consist of Lady Elliott’s second carriage, containing Lady Elliott’s luggage and Lady Elliott’s maid.

  ‘Another one,’ muttered Lord Ryde to Mr Martin. ‘At this rate, Charles, you and I will be sleeping on the roof.’

  This conveyance was followed by the Westfield gig, containing Porlock in all his awful splendour, together with such items Mrs Stokesley had deemed essential for Mrs Bascombe’s continued well-being and comfort. The whole was headed by Sir William Elliott, on his Roman-nosed hack, in no good mood at having returned from Rushford and finding the wife of his bosom not only absent, but intending to remain so.

  Dismounting, he tossed the reins to Munch, and with not so much as a glance at the chaos reigning behind him, requested a word with Lord Ryde immediately.

  Lord Ryde, recognising the signs of a sorely tried man, took him at once to the drawing room where he could observe the scene of the crime for himself, plied him with wine and wisely did not attempt to interrupt his visitor until he had unburdened himself. It was apparent that it was the involvement of Lady Elliott that concerned him most. He was not mollified by Lord Ryde’s cordial invitation to remove his wife whenever it suited him.

  ‘It don’t suit me at all,’ said Sir William, staring at him severely. ‘There’s something devilishly wrong here, my lord, and so, if you have no objections, instead of removing Lady Elliott,’ (his lordship guessed she would refuse to go anyway, and this was Sir William’s method of avoiding a distressing scene, in which he would have to exert an authority he was not sure he possessed), ‘I propose to join you here.’

  ‘You are very welcome, sir. I have made no complaint, but actually we are drowning in a sea of females here.’

  Sir William gave a bark of laughter and threw him a shrewd look.

  ‘Well, if that’s the way you want to phrase things …’

  ‘It is. For the time being, anyway.’

  ‘Hm. Well, a man don’t get to our age without knowing his own business best, but there’s something very wrong here, my lord. These attacks on Mrs Bascombe …’

  ‘Quite. I should warn you, however, that the ladies, far from succumbing to any feelings of alarm are, at this moment, planning to barricade the house, arm themselves to the teeth, and repel all boarders. There has been talk of boiling oil.’

  Sir William regarded him speechlessly for a moment, set his glass down with a snap and announced his intention of having a word with his wife immediately.

  Lord Ryde, following him into the hall, became immediately aware that Domestic Strife had again fallen upon Ryde House. Munch and
Porlock, those two ageing gladiators, stood chest to chest at the centre of a respectfully wide circle. It was obvious that Words Had Been Spoken. He was conscious of a craven urge to return to the relative safety of the drawing-room.

  Porlock was enunciating.

  ‘I have been summoned, Mr Munch, by Sir William Elliott himself, who has desired my presence to facilitate the daily running of the house.’

  ‘Thought it wouldn’t hurt to have another man inside,’ muttered Sir William. ‘No objection, I hope.’

  ‘None at all.’

  Munch drew himself up.

  ‘That’s as may be, Mr Porlock, but this is my house, and his lordship has always expressed himself as perfectly satisfied with my work.’

  His lordship had absolutely no recollection of anything of the kind. Before he could intervene, however, Mrs Bascombe stepped forward.

  Laying her hand on Munch’s forearm, she requested a quiet word with him. They took themselves to a quiet corner.

  Glancing over her shoulder, and speaking in a whisper, she said, ‘The thing is, Munch, we ladies are naturally most upset by recent events, as I’m sure you can imagine.’

  Munch nodded.

  ‘We talked it over amongst ourselves and we agreed that although we all felt perfectly safe under your care, this latest happening was just a little too close to home.’

  Munch nodded.

  ‘Well, Lady Elliott made the very excellent point that it wasn’t fair to expect you to do everything – you know, run the house, supervise the servants, maintain our security …’

  Munch nodded.

  ‘So we had the idea of requesting Porlock, who, as we are both aware, Munch, is probably just kicking his heels at Westfield, while you are so overworked here …’

  Munch nodded enthusiastic assent.

  ‘So we thought to bring Porlock here to handle the day to day running of the household, whilst you, with your much greater knowledge of the house and its surroundings are now free to patrol and inspect and lock up and guard us and keep us all safe and secure. Oh, Munch, please say you will. We are relying so much upon you.’

  His lordship, hidden in the shadows, listened to this shameless speech with huge appreciation.