The day was cooler than yesterday and Mrs Bascombe wore a high-necked gown and her favourite Paisley shawl. They walked a little way and then, at his lordship’s suggestion, seated themselves, out of the wind.
‘How are you this morning?’
‘Very well, thank you, my lord.’
‘I thought we had agreed you would use my name.’
‘Only when we are alone.’
He looked round in amusement.
‘Elinor, we are alone.’
‘Very well … John.’
Extraordinary, she thought, considering her shamelessness of last night that she should feel so shy using his name.
‘What did the doctor say?’
‘That everything is healing just as it should and not to do anything foolish.’
‘Really? How long has he known you?’
She smiled and cast around for a safe topic of conversation.
‘So what are your plans, my lord? You will be so pleased to see the back of us, I think. Do you intend to visit London, at all?
‘My plans are – uncertain – at this moment.’
‘Are the rents not coming in as quickly as you would like?’
‘Nothing is going as I would like.’
She waited for more but he remained silent and she was forced to ask, ‘In what way?’
‘The money is not coming in. Two of my tenants have disappeared. For good, I suspect. My house is full of memories. And women. I have been shot at – twice. I have been forced to leap for my life and my heart was stolen while I wasn’t looking.’
‘Two of your tenants absconded?’ said Mrs Bascombe, ignoring the rest of this speech and her suddenly accelerated heart rate. ‘That is very bad news. Did they take much?’
‘Everything that wasn’t nailed down, I believe. But that is not the point.’
‘No, you can always find new tenants. May I recommend …?’
‘No, Elinor, you may not!’
Silence fell.
‘Are you going to brood?’
‘What?’
‘Are you going to brood? I believe that is the accepted form of behaviour for the badly dressed, melancholy hero who broods on dark disappointments, previous crimes, and nameless passions as he stalks his desolate acres. I’ve never seen anyone brood before. Do you mind if I watch?’
‘Is that how you see me?’
‘Indeed. You fit the bill exactly. You’re melancholy – well, a little sulky, actually, but close enough, and you yourself have admitted to any number of nameless passions. Why, only last night, you said …’
‘Yes, never mind that now,’ he said quickly. ‘I do not brood. I am not sulky, although given the provocation, it’s a miracle that I am not. And I certainly do not stalk my desolate acres.’
‘Yes, you do. The first time we met you were contemplating a ditch. I believe this to be quite common behaviour for heroes. And I note you have not denied the badly-dressed charge. Like it or not, my lord, with your behaviour, your surroundings, your appearance – you are every young maiden’s idea of the romantic hero.’
‘Mrs Bascombe, I no longer find myself amazed that you have been shot. My astonishment is now that you have only been shot once!’
She went into peals of laughter and after a while, so did he. She watched him lean back against the wall, still smiling. It struck her that even though there might be more women and fewer tenants in his life than he would have liked, he looked far more relaxed and less unhappy than he had a week ago. Some of the harsher lines around his mouth had smoothed away and the laughter lines around his eyes were more pronounced.
‘That’s better,’ she said, approvingly. ‘Nothing is ever as bad as you think. Your agent will find you new tenants easily enough. The rents will come in. I shall be gone soon and my entourage with me. Ryde House will sink back into dust and decay and the only trace of our passing will be the ghostly echo of our voices in the halls. It will be as if none of this ever happened.’
Apparently carelessly, she played with the fringe of her shawl and no one would have guessed her heart was beating so fast as to make her feel sick.
The long silence made her look up. He was staring down at his feet.
‘Have you thought any more about America, sir?’
‘No.’
This uncompromising reply left her slightly at a loss and in the silence, he turned to her.
‘What are your plans, Mrs Bascombe?’
‘Well, when I leave here for Westfield …’
‘No, not that. I mean, if you could choose your future, what would you choose?’
She was, as always, a little bewildered, since throughout her life she had had very little experience of being allowed to choose for herself.
Discarding her first reply as completely inappropriate, she said, ‘Well, Laura and I have always thought we would like to spend a few weeks in Bath.’
‘Bath?’
‘There is no need to sound quite so thunderstruck. It is, I believe, a very pleasant place.’
‘I daresay, but as a life’s ambition, just a little – well – small.’
She never knew whence came that sudden spurt of anger.
‘I expect is seems that way to you, my lord. You, who can go where and whenever you please. I, on the other hand, am forced to cut my cloth to suit my purse. Mine has been a small life, but my expectations, while they are correspondingly small, mean a great deal to me. Good morning.’
It would have been an excellent exit line had she actually been allowed to exit. He prevented her leaving by simply grasping a fold of her dress and pulling her back down again.
She subsided into resentful silence.
‘I did not mean to offend you,’ he said, mildly.
‘Then I congratulate you on your performance. You have achieved maximum effect with minimum effort.’
‘What a shrew you are,’ he remarked amiably.
‘I freely admit that I have sometimes provoked you, my lord. Deliberately, too. But I never thought you so mean-spirited as to hold me in contempt simply because, unlike you, my sex and circumstances prevent me achieving your giddy heights.’
He jerked back as if she had slapped him.
‘What?’
She swept on.
‘Look at you – born with every advantage the world can offer. Birth, breeding, fortune – and what do you do with it? Squander it all away on momentary gratification and sulk when there’s nothing left. And did it make you happy?’
‘Is this any of your business, madam?’
‘Let us just say that it made you what you are today. There – I think that answers your question in a way that even you will understand.’
Lord Ryde, who had meant to avail himself of the opportunity to ask a very different question, could only thank Providence for its merciful intervention. All the old dislike for the place, rooted in years of resentment and a sense of betrayal came flooding back. He shuddered inwardly to think what a narrow escape he had had. That a few days of comfort, good cooking, and a pleasant companion could so undermine his resolve to be gone was unnerving. He had no hesitation in laying blame at the correct door and took refuge in frigid courtesy.
‘Indeed, ma’am. I thank you for your opinion – refreshingly vigorously expressed – if unasked for. Perhaps …’
But at that moment, the gate clicked open and Porlock was before them, bearing a calling card upon a silver salver.
‘I beg your pardon, my lord, madam. A visitor has called.’
‘A visitor?’ echoed Lord Ryde in astonishment. ‘For whom?’
‘I believe, my lord, it is Mrs Bascombe whom they wish to see, but they asked for you as well.’
Mrs Bascombe looked at his lordship who shrugged. ‘Don’t look at me. Almost everyone I know in England is already here.’
Porlock proffered the tray and Mrs Bascombe picked up the card and read aloud, ‘Major Lionel Pirie. The name means nothing to me.’
‘Nor I. Is he alone?’
‘No, my lord, he is accompanied by a lady. Possibly his sister, from some remark I overheard.’
Mrs Bascombe’s eyes danced.
‘A young lady – accompanied by her brother? I think we can guess what this is about.’
Porlock coughed, thus signifying disapproval at this levity.
‘Oh no, madam. A most respectable couple. Very pleasant, if I may say so. I should perhaps mention, my lord, madam, they are in mourning.’
‘A mystery,’ remarked Lord Ryde getting to his feet. ‘Are you well enough to receive visitors, Mrs Bascombe, or shall I see them on your behalf?’
Mrs Bascombe did not dignify this with a response.
Entering the drawing room just ahead of Lord Ryde, she saw two people standing near the fire, warming their hands and apparently examining the late Lord Ryde’s portrait hanging over the mantel.
She saw a couple, both probably in their early thirties, dressed, as Porlock had reported, in mourning. The gentleman, sporting magnificent whiskers, had the unmistakeable air of a military man. He advanced now and bowing to Mrs Bascombe, enquired, ‘Mrs Bascombe? My name is Pirie and this is my sister … er … Catherine.’
His voice was quiet and he seemed slightly ill at ease.
Still slightly bewildered, Mrs Bascombe murmured a greeting. ‘Good morning, sir, Miss Pirie.’
He hesitated and cast a glance at his sister. ‘No, not Miss Pirie, ma’am. My sister is – was – married.’
Some instinct made Lord Ryde stroll forward and introduce himself, taking care to station himself close to Mrs Bascombe.
‘How do you do, my lord. We are both extremely sorry to call on you uninvited. I hope we are not inconveniencing you. We considered writing ahead to Mrs Bascombe, but this is a very personal and private matter and we decided it would be easier for all concerned if we called in person.’
Mrs Bascombe still looked baffled. Almost certain he knew what was to follow, Lord Ryde took the opportunity to invite his guests to be seated.
They did so and a short silence fell. Finally, the Major took a deep breath, turned slightly to face Elinor, and said, ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am, but when I mentioned my sister … That is … No, this will not do. There is no other way to say this. Ma’am, please allow me to introduce my sister – Mrs George Bascombe.’
Long moments passed. Lord Ryde, with some concern, awaited the moment Mrs Bascombe would take in the full implications of this visit.
She seemed bewildered. ‘You – you are George’s wife?’
‘Yes,’ said the lady, speaking for the first time. Her voice was soft and low. She seemed on the verge of tears and those tears were not for herself. ‘We were married nearly four years ago. In India. Calcutta.’
She paused.
Elinor had gone dreadfully pale.
‘You are not married now?’
Lord Ryde guessed she could not bring herself actually to ask if George was dead.
Major Pirie said gently, ‘You see now that this was not news to be conveyed by a cold letter, or through your man of business. My sister tells me George spoke often of you, ma’am. He held you in considerable affection. We are anxious not to cause you undue distress. Mrs Bascombe, I am very sorry to inform you that Mr George Bascombe is dead.’
Mrs Bascombe had the strangest sensation that the ground had opened beneath her feet and plunged her into a pit of icy cold water. Sound receded. She could see mouths opening and closing as the others talked on.
George. Gone forever. She had always known this day would come. She had had years to prepare for it and now it was here at last and the news caught her a blow over the heart that stopped all the breath in her body.
The other Mrs Bascombe talked on. And on. George in Calcutta. George at work. Handsome George. Popular George. But all she saw was George sprawled on the floor. Ned standing over him, his face flushed with drink and rage. Grabbing George by the scruff of his neck and pitching him contemptuously out of the door. George, white-faced with shame and fury, struggling helplessly. To be pitched, headlong from his own home into the night. George who would have plunged straight back in again – overwhelmed and undersized but with a heart as big as a lion. George who was so loth to leave her and only when the gun went off and she screamed at him to run – to run and never come back – had he fled into the night. Having done what he could. Only then had he left her. And now he was dead. George was dead. Her champion. George was dead.
Mrs Bascombe’s face was frozen and white. She made no move or sound. Even Lord Ryde himself hardly knew how he felt. Shock, certainly. Some distress on Elinor’s behalf as well. Disappointment at being denied the satisfaction of revenge. Now he would never know what happened that night. Never know how he did it. What he did with the money. He would never have justice for his father now.
Reasonably certain that none of this showed in his face, he stood up and rang for Porlock, who entered with refreshments.
Mrs George Bascombe gratefully accepted a cup of tea. The gentlemen took a glass of wine. After one look at his mistress, Porlock poured a very little brandy into a glass and handed it to her with a gentle murmur.
Major Pirie was speaking.
‘I – we – are so sorry to bring you such sad news, Mrs Bascombe. We thought it right to see you as quickly as possible and have posted directly here with all haste.’
Lord Ryde suspected they had also taken this opportunity to inspect their newly acquired property, Westfield. But then, they would hardly be human if they had not succumbed to a little curiosity.
Major Pirie carried on.
‘You must not think, ma’am, that this will make any difference to your current circumstances. Please allow me to speak freely. My sister and I are very well aware of the condition of the estate left by your late husband, and of the enormous task you undertook to set it on its feet again. That there is anything worth inheriting is due entirely to your efforts, ma’am. We are very grateful.’
‘Inheriting?’ Lord Ryde looked up sharply.
Mrs George Bascombe set down her cup and turned eagerly to Elinor.
‘I have a son. George’s boy. He’s nearly three now and such a bonny boy. I do hope you will love him, ma’am. He is so like his father. Every day …’ she broke off and groped for her handkerchief.
Porlock murmured again and obediently, Elinor took a sip of her brandy.
It was Lord Ryde, who, after a glance at Elinor, asked. ‘Are you able to tell us how Mr Bascombe died?’
Since Mrs George Bascombe seemed unable to answer this question, again, Major Pirie took up the tale.
‘The tragedy is, ma’am, that George was actually on his way home back to England. Little Georgie’s birth made him very aware of his roots. He felt very strongly that his son should know his home – and you too, ma’am. He sold everything he owned and booked passage for himself and his family on the Athena, calling in at Cape Town.’
‘You did not travel with them,’ asked Lord Ryde.
‘I was in Cape Town with my regiment, the 72nd,’ replied the Major. ‘I was to meet the boat and spend a few days there with my new family.’
He drew a deep breath.
‘When the ship docked at Cape Town, I was waiting on the quay. I had not seen my sister for some years – and her husband and son not at all. You may imagine my anticipation. However, when the ship docked, Mr Bascombe was dead. He had succumbed to some shipboard malady. It was all over very quickly. He died, apparently, with Cape Town actually on the horizon. My sister was distraught, as you can imagine. The captain, a very decent man, assisted with the formalities and George was buried in the European cemetery there. Quite a pleasant spot, ma’am, if that offers you any consolation.
‘I could hardly leave my sister to continue the voyage alone and there was nothing for her to return to Calcutta for, and so, with my commanding officer’s permission, I have escorted them to England.’
‘And where is Master Bascombe at this moment?’
M
rs George Bascombe smiled. ‘With my family in London, being thoroughly spoiled by aunts, uncles, cousins, servants, and anyone else he can induce to give him what he wants.’
‘He sounds very like his father,’ commented Lord Ryde and thought Mrs Bascombe must indeed be in a bad way that she did not immediately rise up in wrath and smite him with the tea pot.
Neither the Major nor Mrs George Bascombe appeared to be aware of the true nature of this remark and happily took it at face value.
‘He is,’ said Mrs George Bascombe, fondly. ‘He is the most loveable little man. Everyone who meets him falls under his spell. I would have loved you to have met him, Mrs Bascombe, but after such a long voyage, it seemed best for him to rest a while. And since we plan to return to London with all speed, reluctantly, I left him behind.’
‘You do not plan a long stay here, then?’ asked Lord Ryde.
‘No,’ replied the Major. ‘My sister is anxious to return to her son. I am planning to sell out, with everything that entails and there are relatives to visit – hundreds of them, apparently – to show off little Georgie and a million other things to do before we can even think of moving to Westfield.
‘Which brings me to what I was saying, earlier, Mrs Bascombe. My sister and I hope very much that you will not regard our arrival as any sort of reason to quit the place. Firstly, it is your home and we hope very much that it will continue to be so. We do not expect to return for about a twelvemonth and we would be so grateful if you could remain at Westfield until then and long beyond as well. I’m a military man, ma’am, always have been, and land management is a mystery to me. My greatest fear is that you will abandon us to our ignorance. Obviously, you may take an instant dislike to us and not wish to stay on, in which case, you may rely on us to make everything as easy for you as may be. It shall all be exactly as you choose, ma’am. We are all aware that without you, there would be no Westfield. Whether you go or stay shall be your choice, but we both hope you will stay. And we are confident that once you clap eyes on little Georgie you will want to do so.
A Bachelor Establishment Page 13
