A Bachelor Establishment

by Isabella Barclay

  ‘George? Georgie? Are you ill again? Why are you laughing?’

  ‘Because it’s funny, Elinor. It’s so dammed funny. All those wasted years. For everyone. Well, not for me, of course. For me it was the best thing that could ever have happened. But no, it’s not funny, really. It’s a tragedy that should never have happened. And he moved the portrait, which is the funniest thing of all. I shouldn’t be laughing. I’m sorry.’

  He leaned his head back against the door and visibly struggled to regain his composure. Even with his best effort, his voice still trembled as he said, ‘May I see the library, please, Lord Ryde?’

  Lord Ryde, who had been standing very still and very silent, curtly indicated that Mr Bascombe should precede him. Porlock, sensing A Dramatic Moment, threw open the doors with a flourish to disclose nothing more exciting than Margaret, carefully laying out the cups and saucers. Her face gave nothing away, but her heart was beating with excitement – and some exertion too, for as with Porlock and Munch, she, Janet, and Eliza, and even Mrs Munch herself, had been the protagonists in an extended and vigorous discussion over exactly whose duty it was to bring the fresh beverages to the library. Margaret, a sensible and pragmatic girl, had achieved victory by simply picking up the tray and marching out of the kitchen, leaving her lesser opponents in disarray behind her.

  Her task completed, Margaret withdrew discreetly and hopefully to the corner of the room, only to catch Mr Porlock’s eye. The message was clear. Margaret trailed disappointedly from the library.

  Her intervention had served a useful purpose, however. Everyone seated themselves and a period of calm returned.

  ‘So,’ said Lord Ryde. ‘Behold, the library. Almost exactly as you left it.’

  George Bascombe turned slowly. ‘Not quite. You moved the portrait.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘That’s why they attacked the drawing room.’

  ‘Because I moved the portrait?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Are you insane? It has no value. I can’t even remember who painted it.’

  Mr Bascombe could contain himself no longer; his excitement bubbled over and Lord Ryde was suddenly confronted by a younger version of George as he must once have been.

  ‘Not the portrait itself, sir, but what it concealed. And I’m afraid I do owe you an apology, Lord Ryde. A very large apology. Tell me, when Major Pirie and – I suppose I should refer to her as his sister – when they arrived, they were shown into the drawing room?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elinor swiftly. ‘They were.’

  ‘And were they alone for any length of time?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lord Ryde in his turn. ‘They were.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elinor, excited without knowing why. ‘And do you remember, my lord, when we entered, they were examining the portrait of your father?’

  George shook his head. ‘Not the portrait, Elinor. They were trying to see what it concealed.’

  ‘Dear God,’ shrieked Lady Elliott, much to her husband’s consternation. ‘I shall go insane in a moment. For heaven’s sake tell us – what does the portrait conceal?’

  ‘Did,’ said Mr Bascombe. ‘What did the portrait conceal?’

  Sir William prudently removed the fire irons from Lady Elliott’s immediate vicinity.

  George relented. ‘I beg your pardon ma’am, I didn’t mean to tease you.’

  He reached up and with some difficulty removed the dismal landscape now adorning the space where the portrait had previously hung.

  Everyone stared blankly at the blank panelling.

  Mr Bascombe would not have been human if he had not prolonged the moment slightly. ‘The portrait, Lady Elliot, concealed – this.’

  With a flourish, he touched a spot on the mantle and creakily a portion of the panelling slid a few inches and then jerked to a halt.

  Chapter Fourteen

  For long seconds, nothing happened. No one moved. All eyes were riveted to the opening in the panelling.

  Mr Bascombe pulled himself together. Dusting off his dirty fingers, he turned to Lord Ryde.

  ‘Sir, I do owe you an apology. It never occurred to me that you were unaware of the true location of Lord Ryde’s safe. Yes, he kept that big iron monstrosity for the look of the thing. He made sure the servants saw where their wages were kept and so on, but you know what he was like. Everything must be kept close. Only he must know the secret. So he kept his valuables in his second safe. Which no one but he knew existed.’

  ‘Except you.’

  Elinor could not look at Lord Ryde’s face.

  ‘He told you of this secret?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘I did, sir, yes.’

  A long silence fell.

  ‘And you told the Piries?’

  ‘Indirectly, sir, I must have done. At some point in my fever, I must have mentioned the existence of this safe and they travelled here to try their luck. They must have been appalled when they saw the state of the – I mean, of course, that they were probably quite surprised that the estate did not show more signs of prosperity, but since they were here anyway …’ He shrugged. ‘But, of course, you had moved the portrait and they broke into the wrong room.’

  Sir William assisted Mrs Bascombe to a chair. ‘I think we should all sit down again.’

  Porlock, ears dropping off with excitement under his expressionless exterior began, as slowly as he could possibly manage it, to pour the tea.

  Sir William continued. ‘Let us piece together the events of That Night as best we can. Mr George Bascombe arrives at Ryde House and is shown into the library where old Lord Ryde is sitting at his desk. Lord Ryde furnishes him with clothing and a small sum of money for his travels. This he takes from what everyone in the world believes to be the safe in which he keeps his valuables. Mr Bascombe accepts with thanks and then departs. Mr Bascombe, what was Lord Ryde doing when you left?’

  ‘He was finishing his letter, sir. As I looked back from the French windows, he was affixing his seal, and then he turned and placed it in his concealed safe. Then he nodded at me, wished me luck, and I left.’

  ‘How did he look?’

  ‘Ill, sir. Tired, very pale. And his hands were shaking.’

  ‘Did he close this safe?’ Sir William gestured at the partially opened panel.

  ‘He did.’

  ‘I think, my lord, that shortly after Mr Bascombe left, Lord Ryde suffered his stroke. I have heard that on many occasions, he struggled to speak or to make himself understood. Sadly, to no avail. This must have been the information he was endeavouring to convey.’ Sir William looked across the room and drew a very deep breath. ‘Since it appears no one was even aware of its existence, I think, sir, there is a very good chance that whatever was in there that night – is still there now.’

  Mrs Bascombe caught her breath as the implications became clear.

  Lord Ryde stood rooted in the middle of the room, facing the half-open panel. His face gave no clue to his emotions but Elinor could well guess some of the thoughts running through his head.

  Sir William cleared his throat. ‘I understand you may wish to inspect the possible contents in privacy, my lord, but accusations have been made and in the interests of fair play, it might be beneficial to both parties to have an independent witness present. My dear, I am sorry to ask you to vacate the only other habitable room in the building, but I’m sure you can appreciate the delicacy of the situation.’

  Nothing in Lady Elliott’s face revealed her intense disappointment at not being present for the climax to the extraordinary events of the last seven days. Sir William would have to suffer for this infamy in the privacy of his own home.

  ‘Of course, Sir William.’ She rose and shook out her skirt with every appearance of wifely submission. ‘We shall return to the dining room.’

  ‘No!’

  The word might have been forced out of Lord Ryde. He continued grudgingly. ‘No. We have all been involve
d in this – adventure.’ He managed a smile. ‘I would not deprive you of this moment, ma’am. Pray be seated.’ Gathering himself with an effort, he said quietly, ‘Charles, if you would be so good.’

  Elinor, after one look at his face, clasped her hands tightly in her lap and struggled not to cry.

  Mr Martin set his shoulder to the panel and Lord Ryde pulled. With the grating noise of dry wood on dry wood, the panel jerked open further, to reveal a dark interior. Porlock, ever ready to anticipate events, lighted a candelabrum and presented it to Mr Martin.

  With Mr Martin lighting his way, Lord Ryde bent forward into the hole.

  Elinor was sure her heartbeat must be clearly audible to everyone in the room.

  The silence dragged on.

  ‘Well,’ demanded Sir William breathlessly. ‘What can you see, man? Out with it!’

  Lord Ryde turned from the concealed safe and with one swift movement, swept his desk clear. Pens, inkwells, papers, account books – all flew across the room.

  Lady Elliot jumped violently in her seat and Mrs Bascombe, hardly realising what she did, slipped a cold hand into hers. She and Miss Fairburn exchanged glances. Even Mr Bascombe leaned forward in anticipation.

  She heard Lord Ryde murmur something to Mr Martin who gave the candelabrum to Porlock and accepted an object from his lordship. The next moment, he placed a cashbox on the desk. Then another. And then another. That they were heavy could easily be seen by the effort he had to make.

  A number of jewel boxes followed and were carefully placed alongside. Some ancient ledgers were stacked at one end of the desk and a crackling, brittle pile of yellow documents laid on top of them with some care.

  There followed a long silence.

  ‘Is that all of it?’ enquired Sir William.

  ‘Just this,’ came the muffled reply, and Lord Ryde’s head and shoulders somewhat dustily reappeared. He was holding a letter and the seal could clearly be seen.

  Old Lord Ryde’s last letter from which his son could not tear his eyes.

  ‘Well, bless my soul,’ said Sir William breathlessly. ‘It’s been here all along. None of it ever left the building and no one ever knew. Except for you, Mr Bascombe, and you weren’t here.’

  ‘Well, I’m here now,’ said Georgie, somewhat defiantly.

  Lord Ryde lifted his head and re-entered the world.

  ‘You are indeed, Mr Bascombe, and I owe you an apology. An unreserved apology. I shall understand if you choose not to accept it, but whether you do or do not, rest assured I shall do everything in my power to scotch the rumours arising from your hasty departure. I really do not know what to say …’

  ‘No need, no need,’ said Mr Bascombe hastily, and indeed for one perilous moment, it seemed that strong emotion might rear its ugly head, but fortunately, Porlock coughed loudly and requested whether, in view of the occasion, Lord Ryde would permit him to serve wine to his guests.

  Lord Ryde was graciously pleased to do so and his guests spent the next half hour examining the contents of the cash boxes and taking out the jewellery, which was, as Lord Ryde had once mentioned, very ugly indeed.

  ‘But it can all be reset,’ said Lady Elliot with a significant glance at Elinor, which did not go unnoticed by her husband. Elinor, however, was in a world of her own, watching Lord Ryde, who had not touched his wine but was still holding the letter.

  Sir William rose to his feet.

  ‘You look pale, Lady Elliott. Perhaps a turn outside in the sunshine will restore your colour.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ responded the wife of his bosom, before recollecting herself. ‘Yes, actually, I believe I do feel extremely pale, now you come to mention it, my dear. These last twenty-four hours have been most trying. I am persuaded Miss Fairburn would benefit also.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Miss Fairburn, rising to her feet with alacrity. ‘I think a little fresh air will be most beneficial.’

  Mr Martin, torn between his duty to Lord Ryde and his inclination to accompany Miss Fairburn, uncharacteristically dithered.

  ‘Yes, go, Charles,’ said Lord Ryde, still without looking up from the letter. ‘You may as well join the exodus in search of unpolluted ventilation.

  ‘Well, if you are certain I can’t be useful here, sir.’

  ‘Later, perhaps, but not now, Charles, if you don’t mind.’

  The door closed behind them. Their voices could be heard crossing the hall until, eventually, they died away and only Mrs Bascombe and Lord Ryde remained.

  Elinor could not help reflecting that never before could such a large inheritance have been greeted by complete disinterest on one side and complete dismay on the other. Lord Ryde had eyes for nothing but his father’s letter and she herself was coming to terms with the fact that there was now no reason for Lord Ryde to delay his departure for America. She had always known that he would go and now he had the wherewithal to pursue his goal. He could go now. This very moment. Or he could simply drive up to London at the earliest opportunity and resume his notorious ways. Or decamp for the continent and the attractions of its superior gaming houses. There was certainly nothing to keep him at Ryde House any longer.

  On the other hand, there was nothing to keep her at Westfield now, either. George was home at last, bringing his own fortune with him. All her efforts, all her scrimping and saving, all those carefully planned schemes to confound their creditors – all was now as naught because George didn’t need any of it.

  She cast a glance at Lord Ryde, still staring at his unopened letter. She had a sudden vision of him sitting, unmoving, down through the long years, slowly growing as grey and dusty and hopeless as the rest of Ryde House. Something she would not be able to bear to watch.

  She got up to go.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he said, sharply.

  ‘In truth, I hardly know, my lord.’

  ‘John.’

  ‘John, then.’

  Rousing himself, he noted with some amusement, but no surprise, that she paid no attention to the treasure laid out on the desk before him. Golden guineas, rolls of bank notes, fabulous jewels – it might none of it have existed for all the heed she gave.

  ‘Is the letter addressed to you?’

  ‘It is. Addressed to me in my father’s own hand and sealed with his own seal.’

  ‘Will you open it?’

  ‘I’m almost afraid to. These were his last words in this world. Perhaps he felt his stroke coming on. What was so important he had to force himself to write? Suppose, Elinor, just suppose his last words to me are of anger and pain and blame. How shall I bear it?’

  Elinor regarded him carefully for a moment. ‘Then give it to me.’

  ‘What will you do with it?’

  ‘Throw it in the fire, of course. If you do not wish to discover what was so important to him that he preferred to finish his letter rather than ring for assistance then I will destroy it now, my lord and you may take your new-found wealth and depart for America, leaving this house and its memories behind for ever.’

  ‘And you, Elinor. Shall I leave you behind for ever?’

  ‘You will not be granted the opportunity. I shall return to Westfield, pack a bag, and follow you every step of the way. Wherever you go. I have no knowledge of America or its people, but I expect I shall pick it all up very easily.’

  ‘Yes,’ said his lordship bitterly. ‘And a fine fellow I shall look with everyone saying I seduced you –‘

  ‘Well, you did –’

  ‘– and lured you away from the safety of your home. I can just see George Bascombe pursuing me across England and putting a bullet through me on some lonely heath somewhere while you look on and – why are you laughing?’

  ‘Heaven knows. After all, it’s not as if the return of George Bascombe or the sudden acquisition of fabulous wealth is anything to laugh about. I suspect my intellect is disordered. You do very well to abandon me, my lord, before I become totally deranged.’

  ‘Shameless is a more apt descr
iption of you, Mrs Bascombe.’

  ‘Elinor.’

  ‘Elinor, then.’

  He looked down again. ‘What shall I do, Elinor?’

  ‘Open it. It is always better to know, don’t you think?

  With fingers that were not quite steady, he broke open the seal and carefully unfolded the crackling paper. He stared sightlessly for a few minutes and then passed it over.

  ‘Read it to me, Elinor, if you would, please.’

  Taking it from him, she cleared her throat and read slowly.

  My dear John,

  For some time now, it has been in my mind to write to you, and something has occurred tonight which makes it vital I write without delay.

  There has been a series of unfortunate events at Westfield, culminating in young George Bascombe being forced to flee his home with nothing but the clothes on his back. I have done what I can for him and will continue to do so in the future, but his distress and despair have brought home to me, as nothing else could, the folly of my own actions all those years ago. As Ned Bascombe has done to young George, so did I do to you, my own son. I could have stood by you as you recovered from your wound and I did not. I could have recalled you when it became apparent that Lady Reeth did not take her marriage vows quite as seriously as she should, and I did not. I could at any time have extended the hand of fatherly love to you. I did none of those things.

  We were both at fault, John, but mine is the blame. As the possessor of a supposedly older and wiser head, I should long ago have made the first move to bridge the gaping chasm that has arisen between us. I do so now.

  With you in mind, I have recently purchased the manor of Fernleigh, some twenty miles to the north. It is small and run down, but I think with clever management and some hard work it could be made to show a profit in a very short time. I intend to sign it over to you for you to manage yourself and look forward to seeing what sort of job you make of setting it back on its feet again. I shall not interfere – unless asked to do so, of course – and I must admit, I find the thought of you and I, two respectable landowners discussing the finer points of crop rotation and animal husbandry over a glass of wine, curiously amusing.