A Bachelor Establishment

by Isabella Barclay

  As he had hoped, this bracing treatment brought a little colour to her cheeks. They settled themselves before the fire and he laid out the pieces.

  ‘Black or white?’

  ‘Black,’ she said, with something of a snap.

  She took the first game easily, suspecting all the time that he was letting her win, and cast a mocking glance at him as they reassembled the board.

  ‘It would seem our questions have been answered.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ he replied. ‘Your move, ma’am.’

  He won the second game – just. He suspected this was mostly because Mrs Bascombe’s method of play was very similar to her style of riding. Her strategy consisted of hurling all her pieces forwards simultaneously and annihilating everything in her path. Backed into a corner, his king fought for his life, surviving only because eventually Mrs Bascombe ran out of pieces and was forced to concede.

  ‘One each, ma’am,’ he remarked. ‘Shall we play the deciding game?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He crossed to the table to pour them both a glass of wine and glanced around the room as she again set up the board.

  Outside, the rain hammered against the windows. The curtains, drawn already, shut out the weather and made the room cosy. At the other end, the three gamesters, alternately winning and losing colossal sums of make-believe money to each other, laughed and argued with the ease of people who enjoyed each other’s company. The room suited candlelight. The colours of the once good Turkish carpet glowed gently in their light. Furniture gleamed. The room smelled of old leather, wood smoke, and polish. It was, his lordship reflected, a very pleasant way to spend an inclement afternoon. He had a sudden vision of many such afternoons, sitting before a comfortable fire, playing chess with a small lady, whose fair hair gleamed in the firelight; who was soft and warm and loving and stung like a bee.

  A shout of mixed laughter and dismay from the cardsharps recalled him to his surroundings. He blinked to find Mrs Bascombe watching him. For a moment, his breath stopped.

  He smiled at her. She smiled back.

  ‘Prepare to meet your doom, my lord.’

  He sighed. The warning was far too late. Far, far too late.

  Chapter Twelve

  As Lord Ryde had hoped, worn out by their day, the ladies retired immediately after dinner, leaving the gentlemen to their port. Porlock, pausing by the door to ensure everything was in order, caught his lordship’s eye, nodded once, and softly withdrew.

  Feeling the need for some solitary contemplation, Elinor dismissed Tiller as soon as she could, closing the door on her protests. Calling goodnight to Miss Fairburn, she wearily prepared for bed and blew out her candle.

  Throughout the house, the lights were extinguished, one by one.

  Silence fell.

  The house slept.

  Elinor, asleep almost as soon as her head touched her pillow, was jolted awake by an unmistakeable pistol shot. And another. Then two more in quick succession. For a second, she was almost paralysed with fear, and then swung her legs out of bed, groping for her dressing gown. Seizing her oil lamp, she turned up the wick with trembling fingers and wrenched open her bedroom door, almost colliding with Miss Fairburn who stood on the threshold.

  Sounds of an altercation could clearly be heard. What seemed an enormous number of male voices shouting, together with the crash of overturning furniture gave the impression of a major engagement being fought.

  ‘Quickly!’ hissed Miss Fairburn.

  ‘Wait,’ whispered Elinor and re-entering her room, armed herself with a useful looking poker.

  ‘Excellent idea,’ said Miss Fairburn, helping herself to a particularly vicious-looking coal shovel.

  They were met on the landing by Lady Elliott – a vision in a voluminous wrapper and a very pretty lace cap, slightly askew. Elinor braced herself for a scolding, but the light of battle was in Lady Elliott’s eye. Catching sight of her two armed companions, she went at once to Elinor’s fireplace. Finding, to her disappointment, that the most obvious implements had already been selected, she had, perforce to make do with the coal-tongs, although no one catching sight of the dangerous jut of her chin could doubt her intent to wield them in the most dangerous way imaginable.

  ‘Enough is enough,’ she hissed. ‘Ladies – forward!’

  The three ladies inched their way down the stairs and across the dim hall. The only light shone from the drawing room, whose open door allowed them to see their way and from which came the sounds of an almighty struggle. His lordship’s voice could be heard, raised in wrathful intent. Mr Martin also was clearly audible, shouting instructions to some unknown party. Astonishingly, Elinor thought she could also hear Porlock’s majestic tones, all in addition to the sound of crashing furniture and breaking ornaments.

  ‘On three,’ instructed Lady Elliott, in much the same tones as Boadicea might have instructed her warriors to wipe St Albans from the face of the earth. Elinor and Laura nodded grimly and took a firm grip on their weapons of choice.

  ‘Three.’

  Implements raised, the three ladies burst into the drawing room. An amazing sight met their eyes and it took some seconds for the chaotic scrum to resolve itself into its various component parts.

  A single unshaded lantern threw a dim glow across a disordered room. Distorted shadows leaped around the walls. It was obvious that a titanic struggle was taking place.

  Lord Ryde and a short, thickset man in a dark coat buttoned to his throat grappled for possession of a wicked-looking pistol, whose silver fittings gleamed in the light. In her initial horror, Elinor at first thought he had no face, until she realised the intruder was wearing a mask. That their struggle was carried out in grim silence only added to the drama.

  Another man lay semi-conscious nearby. A shattered pie-crust table bore witness to his particular encounter, from which it seemed the table had emerged with more success.

  Her butler, Porlock, his attire somewhat more dishevelled than was usual, his face contorted with rage, knelt astride another, smaller man. Under Mrs Bascombe’s astonished gaze, he had a firm grip on his assailant’s ears and was repeatedly banging his head on the floor.

  Across the other side of the room, Mr Martin struggled valiantly with a larger man wielding a brutal-looking cudgel.

  Of Munch, there was no sign.

  A fifth man struggled to escape through a shattered window. Correctly apprehending that their priority lay in preventing this escape, the three ladies flew across the room.

  Mrs Bascombe and Miss Fairburn seized his coat and dragged the potential escapee back into the melee, where he was set upon by Lady Elliott, wielding the fire tongs with no mercy, unleashing a series of poorly-directed but enthusiastic blows upon his person. His screams only added to the confusion.

  Having assured herself that this particular intruder was unlikely to cause any further trouble, Mrs Bascombe turned her attention to Lord Ryde’s assailant. Too keyed up to feel fear, she hovered, poker raised, awaiting her opportunity. When Lord Ryde was sent reeling by a wildly swinging lucky punch, she saw her opportunity, fetching his opponent a telling blow across his kidneys and following up her advantage with three or four well-directed wallops across his shoulders.

  Miss Fairburn, meanwhile was alternately whacking and poking indiscriminately with her weapon of choice, until Mr Martin, who had sustained a few of the more undirected blows himself, laid out his opponent with a neat left and right. He stood panting and nearly spent, but did, however, retain the presence of mind to remove the shovel from his love before she inflicted any permanent damage.

  Lord Ryde’s adversary had dropped to the floor, curling into a ball in self-defence while Mrs Bascombe, with a cheerful disregard for her injured shoulder, laid about her with the poker. His screams and pleas for mercy were terrible to hear, and possibly feeling some sympathy for his fellow man, Lord Ryde gently detached the poker from her grasp.

  Sir William Elliot, entering the room to render a
ssistance and with two stout fellows at his back was astonished to find his wife, attired only in her nightwear and with her cap even more askew than before, belabouring a sinister individual dressed in rough clothes and a face mask.

  ‘Lady Elliott! Madam!’

  Lady Elliott paid him no heed. ‘And take that, you miscreant. And that, you scoundrel. Villain! Reprobate! Criminal! My husband is a Justice of the Peace and he will have you imprisoned. Or transported. Or hanged.’

  Sir William perceived the time had come to save a life.

  ‘Leonora. My dear. He is quite unconscious. You may desist.’

  Trembling with rage, Lady Elliott, drew herself to her full height. Her cap now hung down her back and her hair was in wild disarray.

  ‘Sir William. I am so pleased to see you. I insist you arrest these criminals at once. Enough is enough, I say. I declare we are not safe in our beds.’

  She broke off. Her voice trembled. Her husband wrested the blood-stained fire-tongs from her grasp.

  ‘You are quite safe now, my dear. I give you my word. I shall have them removed forthwith. The wagon is outside. Fletcher – load them up. You may safely leave it all to me, Leonora. My lord, I trust everyone is uninjured.’

  Lord Ryde, who had been subjecting his comrades in arms to a discreet inspection, mopped a trail of blood from his nose and assured Sir William that he and his guests were comparatively unharmed.

  ‘Were you able to apprehend the Piries?’

  Sir William nodded. ‘Oh yes. I knew they wouldn’t be far away. We caught up with them just outside of Whittington. They had no idea we were on to them and were taken completely by surprise.’

  As were the rest of the company. He was regarded with astonishment and awe.

  Mrs Bascombe found her voice first. ‘The Piries? What have they to do with housebreaking?’

  Sir William interposed. ‘By your leave, Lord Ryde. I must oversee the removal of these people to Rushford.’ With a glint of humour, he added, ‘I’ll leave you to your guests who, no doubt, will be agog to hear details of the events in which they have become embroiled.’

  It could only be Lord Ryde’s inner demon which prompted him to say, ‘Indeed, sir, but I think the wisest course of action would be for the ladies to retire for the night. Mr Martin and I must lock up after you. Porlock, secure the shutters over that window, if you would be so good. I think we should all meet at breakfast and then we can regale the ladies with such information as we deem suitable for them to hear.’

  Mrs Bascombe, recognising the glint in Lord Ryde’s eye, said nothing, but for one precarious moment, it was entirely possible that Lady Elliott might resume her activities with the fire tongs.

  She was deflected (probably deliberately) by her husband, who took her hand, kissed it, and recommended she take herself off to her bedchamber and not worry about anything until the morning.

  Lady Elliott, an admirable wife of nearly twenty-five years standing, agreed this was an excellent idea, waited until her husband had left the room, and then planted herself on a dilapidated sofa, declaring she would not move until she knew the whole. Mrs Bascombe and Miss Fairburn ranged themselves on either side of her and contrived, entirely without words, to suggest that nothing short of brute force would shift them.

  Porlock discreetly adjusted his clothing to his satisfaction and informed his lordship that no doubt the entire household had been roused by the commotion and that he would take it upon himself to reassure the staff and send in a tea tray.

  ‘Thank you, Porlock,’ said Mrs Bascombe, warmly.

  Crunching his way across broken china and splintered furniture, he moved majestically to the door.

  Lord Ryde was recalled to his duties as a host. ‘Ladies, I suggest we repair to the library, where, I believe, there is a fire, and we shall certainly be more comfortable.’

  Candles had been lit in the library, and Margaret, as sensible in her choice of nightwear as she was with daywear, was viciously puffing away with the bellows in a manner that led Lord Ryde to reflect that, unbelievably, he did still have something to be thankful for.

  ‘Now,’ said Lady Elliot, seating herself on the sofa with a determined air, ‘the full story, please, Lord Ryde, and never mind sparing our sensibilities. After this evening, I doubt I have any left.’

  Lord Ryde took up a position in front of the fireplace and wondered where on earth to begin.

  ‘Would I be right in assuming, said Mrs Bascombe, carefully, ‘that the appearance of the Piries and the events of this evening are not unconnected?’

  ‘It seems safe to do so. I myself am of the opinion that a large and very professional team of housebreakers have, for reasons which are completely beyond me at the moment, targeted this establishment.’

  His guests remembered their manners and did not stare about them in astonishment at such folly.

  ‘But how,’ demanded Lady Elliot, mother of five children and accustomed to getting to the bottom of things, ‘how did you know that?’

  ‘Really ma’am, I am unsure how to proceed without making my part in these sorry proceedings more important than it actually is.’

  ‘Try,’ said Mrs Bascombe, tartly.

  ‘Well, the disguise of Major Pirie and his sister was, I have to say, perfect. Their manners, demeanour, sentiments, all were exactly as we could have wished and it was not until their departure that I had any idea they were not exactly who they said they were.’

  ‘How?’ demanded Elinor. ‘I saw nothing amiss. What gave them away?’

  ‘Do not tease yourself, Mrs Bascombe. You were not actually present when the Major made his one small slip.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘During a conversation, Major Pirie let slip they had not called in at Westfield.’

  He paused to take a pinch of snuff.

  The room was silent.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Lady Elliot.

  ‘They were not driving a local carriage. In fact, they had come directly from Hereford.’

  Still, his listeners regarded him in bafflement.

  His lordship gave them another clue. ‘They did not call in at the Red Lion.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Mrs Bascombe. ‘Of course!’

  ‘Of course what?’ said Miss Fairburn. ‘Why is that so important? I warn you all now – I shall have strong hysterics if everything is not explained immediately.’

  His lordship drew breath to speak, but Mrs Bascombe got there first.

  ‘If they did not break their journey in the village,’ she said slowly, ‘how did they know I was here at Ryde House? Why did they not call at Westfield first? It’s what anyone would have done. They didn’t and therefore …’

  She seemed unable to continue.

  ‘And therefore,’ said Lord Ryde gently, ‘they must have known of your injury before they arrived in the neighbourhood and the only way they could know that was if they themselves were involved.’

  She paled a little. ‘So I was the target after all? But why?’

  ‘I’m afraid we are no nearer to ascertaining the truth of the matter at the moment, but I am sure Sir William’s people will have some expertise in extracting information from reluctant sources. I suggest we drink our tea and then the ladies return to their chambers and try to sleep. You, especially, Mrs Bascombe, have had a very trying day.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Mrs Bascombe, who had been sitting, lost in thought. ‘Does this mean – what about George? Is he married or not?’

  His lordship gently removed her cup and saucer and set it upon a side table. ‘I’m very much afraid, Mrs Bascombe, that Miss Pirie, or whatever she calls herself, has never been married to Mr Bascombe. There is certainly no child. I suspect that somewhere or other, they heard the story of what happened at Ryde House and somehow thought they could capitalise on the events of all those years ago. If it is of any consolation in this confusing time, you have no reason to quit Westfield, which can continue to remain your home.’

  Mrs Bascombe
was barely aware of his words.

  Lady Elliot, who had been watching her carefully, rose to her feet. ‘Elinor, my love, I think it is time to retire. The gentlemen will need to secure the house and for that they will not need our help. Come.’

  Miss Fairburn and Mrs Bascombe rose obediently. Lord Ryde saw them to the door.

  ‘Please try and sleep, Mrs Bascombe. There will be time and more tomorrow for all this to be properly examined. You will do yourself no good lying awake for what remains of the night. At present, we do not even know the questions, let alone the answers.’

  She smiled and slipped into the hall.

  ‘Miss Fairburn, good night and thank you.’

  As Lady Elliot drew near, however, he took her hand and kissed it. ‘Ma’am, I knew the moment I clapped eyes on you, that you were a force to be reckoned with and tonight’s events have proved me to be correct. May I express the heartfelt plea that, in future, you and I are always on the same side. I am convinced that you pounding that unfortunate fellow into submission with nothing but a set of fire-tongs will live in his nightmares – and possibly those of his associates – for the rest of his life. Lady Elliot, Mrs Bascombe, Miss Fairburn – you were magnificent!’

  Blushing, the three ladies retired to their bedchambers.

  Breakfast was served the next morning at noon. Mrs Bascombe, Miss Fairburn, and Lady Elliot all arrived together. Lord Ryde and Mr Martin rose at their entrance and wished them good morning.

  ‘Barely,’ remarked Lady Elliott with a glance at the clock on the mantel. ‘Really, one feels quite ashamed at the lateness of the hour.’

  ‘Quite,’ murmured Lord Ryde, himself no stranger to reluctant midday rising.

  The day was fine and sunny. Sunshine streamed through the windows as a slightly battered Porlock supervised servings of warm rolls, preserves, a plate of fine ham, and a dish of fruit. Margaret and Janet flew from sideboard to table and back again, and for a while, conversation was at a minimum as each person seated themselves and somewhat to their own surprise made a substantial breakfast.

  Lord Ryde, keeping an unobtrusive eye on a strangely quiet Mrs Bascombe, enquired whether he might pour her another cup of coffee. She nodded her thanks, but it was obvious her thoughts were many miles away. His lordship had no difficulty identifying the busy thoughts running through her head and waited for her to speak. Around the table, as if by an unseen signal, the conversations slowly died away and faces turned towards the head of the table.