by May Burnett
“I thank you for your good wishes, Miss Conway.” He looked at her broodingly. “I take it you are out, Miss Conway? Will you have a season in London?”
“I cannot say. From Lady Minerva’s descriptions it all sounds rather boring, especially if I have to mind my tongue the whole time. And if I am to be mocked for owning a number of breweries.” She said the last defiantly.
“Oho, breweries? How many?”
“Sixteen so far, but they want to build another in Carlisle next year.”
“I gather your business acumen is not an accident of nature?”
She raised her chin, meeting his quizzical gaze frankly. “My maternal grandfather came from a humble background, and built these breweries through hard work and brilliant business sense. If I have inherited even a small measure of the latter, I will not hide or blush for it.”
“I see.” Rook noticed the maid staring at Miss Conway. So he was not the only person who found her most unusual.
“Tell me more about your own business, since we have already dissected mine,” he invited, and closed his eyes again as she willingly talked of hops and malt, salaries, transport, and varying demand in different localities.
What a strange house this was. Who knew how many more oddities he might discover by the time of next week’s ball?
Chapter 18
“I was impressed how quickly you and your maid were ready to leave,” Mr. Beecham told Lady Minerva, as they were tooling along the road in the open barouche. A wide-brimmed hat protected her face from the dangerous rays of the sun. “Somehow I had the impression that ladies needed hours to pack before any departure.”
“We did not need to pack anything, since I still have some of my wardrobe in Amberley House,” Minerva said. “But I am ready to accept your apology on behalf of all ladies.”
“You have it – thank you,” he said in a humble tone. “By the way, it is most unlikely that you will meet with Mr. and Mrs. Peter Conway or any of their acquaintances while up in town so briefly, but just in case, I beg you not to mention Miss Conway’s presence at your brother’s estate to anybody.”
“Certainly,” Minerva agreed, and her maid, seated opposite them, also promised to be discreet. “Don’t you fear that she may be found through your own trips down to Sussex? Somebody could follow you there.”
“I have worked for your brother James for five years,” Beecham protested. “There is nothing suspicious in my visits to such a long-standing client. I used to go down to Sussex in previous years, too.”
“Does he have such frequent need of a solicitor, then? Does he change his will every month?”
Beecham chuckled. “Not at all, and you know that I cannot talk about a client’s affairs with others, even his own sister. You can ask him himself.”
“James once told me he had some interests in business, together with that friend in the city of whom mother disapproves so strongly,” Minerva recalled. “I did not pay much attention. I suppose that is what occasions your visits?”
He just shook his head, smiling. “Discretion is highly important for a solicitor, just as much as for a medical man, my lady. Let us talk instead of the Marquis de Ville-Deuxtours, I did not entirely gather the ins and outs of the story. Just why are we going to his apartments as soon as we arrive in town?”
Minerva repeated, in detail, everything they knew or had guessed from the time of the messenger’s arrival. “It is a long shot, I daresay,” she concluded, “but in such a case, no stone must remain unturned, do you not agree? And since the Marquis and James are in France, it falls on us to search for the child here in England.”
“Is that the child Lady Verena was talking about, the one that was going to come across the channel?” the maid asked, wide-eyed. “Poor little mite!”
Minerva nodded. “If our theory is correct, the woman may so easily get lost – imagine arriving in a strange country with a small sickly child of just over one year’s age, where you cannot speak the language, and quite possibly, do not have enough money. It does not bear thinking of.”
“Your feelings do your credit, Lady Minerva,” Beecham said, casting an admiring glance at her profile. “We must hope that the child and her father will soon be happily reunited. I am entirely at your service in this matter; not only because the Marquis has also been a client in some small matters, but because the situation of that poor woman cannot leave any Christian unmoved.”
“You are concerned for the wet-nurse?” Minerva said, surprised. “I am thinking mostly of the child, I confess.”
“At that young age, it cannot yet experience the full horrors and fears of which Mme Fourrier, the nurse, must be all too sensible.”
“Indeed,” the maid said. “The responsibility must be terrible. At that age children need fresh diapers every day. Has she enough clean ones? Is there space to change a baby on a boat? It will have been hard enough in a coach.”
“I admit,” Minerva said faintly, “I had not thought of those details.”
“Do you know if the child is weaned yet?” The maid went on, increasingly interested in the problems facing the French wet-nurse. “It could make a huge difference. If she is weaned, she will require proper nourishment suitable to a small child, and clean water. Will it be available at every stop? The danger of falling ill from the wrong kind of food will be much higher.”
“She never should have set out,” Minerva said vehemently. “Whatever can this woman have been thinking of, to take the child away from a presumably well-organised nursery!”
Nobody spoke again for several minutes.
“Will you be gracing the autumn season’s events, Lady Minerva?” Beecham asked presently. “I often saw your name in the society columns, long before I had the felicity of being presented to you by your brother.”
“I hardly know. It all depends on my brother Amberley’s schedule, and the last we heard, he and his wife were detained on a small Greek island by a self-important Turkish official. George’s letter described the experience as almost droll, but naturally we are worried.”
“When you say detained, what exactly do you mean, my lady? Not in prison, I should hope?”
“No, no, nothing of the kind. They are staying in a very picturesque villa, equipped with all the conveniences that you can expect in that part of the world, and with a wonderful view over the blue Aegean. Unfortunately that Turk got it into his head that George as a British citizen might be a spy, and refused to let my brother’s yacht depart again. “
“When Amberley was travelling openly, with his wife? Ridiculous. Why has this outrage not been reported in the London papers?”
“The Foreign Office advised us to keep it quiet, and they are working through our Embassy in Constantinople to solve this misunderstanding. We were told that any fuss might be unhealthy for George and Marianne, because in a wartime situation, unfortunate mistakes could happen. Since there are British volunteers among the Greeks fighting for their country’s liberation, the Turks are not too happy with us.”
“And why,” Beecham delicately enquired, “did your brother Amberley travel to this war zone in the first place?”
“He was relying on outdated information, that the smaller islands were safe, and the conflict still confined to the mainland. And in fact there is no war going on where they made land, the Greeks on the island are friendly and hospitable; but he reckoned without the mistrust of the Turkish headman.”
“When you next write to your brother, convey my best wishes for a speedy resolution,” Beecham said. “I have met him some years ago, and feel the greatest esteem for the earl and his countess.”
“For all I know, they are free already, and on their way back. I am hoping to find a letter with that happy news at Amberley House, since I omitted to arrange for my mail to be forwarded to Sussex in my hasty departure from London. One more thing I must deal with today.” She drew a thin pencil and the lists Charlotte had given her from her pocket, and made a note.
“A very long list, that, from the l
ooks of it,” Beecham commented. “How soon will you be able to accomplish everything?”
“If I had to do it all myself, I would never finish. But the staff of Amberley House is at leisure, with the whole family gone without properly shutting up, and I expect them to do most of the actual work. A lady knows how to delegate.” Her maid grinned at hearing this.
“To come back to your question about my social engagements,” Minerva continued, tucking the pencil and lists back into the pocket of her redingote, “unless I should marry before then, I need a chaperon if I am to attend balls and similar engagements. Charlotte could do it, but she will be busy with her children, and dislikes late nights, inevitable in town. Nor does she have the enormous consequence my sister-in-law Marianne commands as one of the premier hostesses.”
“Lady Amberley is the daughter of the Marquis of Pell, isn’t she?”
“Yes, though her father died two years ago, so the current Marquis is her brother Anthony. Marianne actually enjoys fashionable events, unlike Charlotte.”
“What about yourself?”
Minerva considered. “I like them well enough, but when I am in the country, I do not miss them greatly. If necessary I could live very happily outside of fashionable society, but since I was born an Ellsworthy, such a contingency is unlikely to arise.”
“You will not always be an Ellsworthy,” Beecham said softly.
She met his brown eyes for a short moment and glanced away. ”No, it is only a question of time till I marry. But I will not be rushed into any decision.”
“What exactly are your requirements?”
Minerva glanced at the maid, who was listening with unconcealed interest. “I am still considering them. But let us not talk of such inconsequential matters. Since time is of greatest essence, do you recommend that we first repair to Amberley House, or drive straight to Alphonse’s place?”
“The latter,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “The extra distance is not great, but with the city streets so crowded, it could cost us upwards of an hour.”
“I concur. Though I have known Alphonse since I was a young child, I have never seen his lodgings,” Minerva observed.
“I should hope not, Milady!” the maid interjected, scandalized.
“By all accounts these days his life is blamelessly respectable,” Minerva said. “In his younger days it was not always so.”
“Nothing worse than other young men of his age and class,” Beecham protested. “Neither your brother nor the Marquis has ever been notorious, as so many other sprigs of the nobility of their generation have become. And your eldest brother, Lord Amberley, has always set a good example to his fellow peers.”
“You make him sound pompous and boring, which George is not, most fortunately. I think he just never felt particularly tempted by wilder excesses.”
“Even so, that would be to his credit, considering the manifold temptations facing a rich young earl in a city like London.”
“Many more than face the ladies of the family,” Minerva said a little sourly. “Our young men are admired if they refrain from excesses, while their sisters must take care to avoid even the slightest appearance of impropriety.”
“If you put it like that, it certainly sounds unfair; but bear in mind that the most zealous guardians of this inequitable system are other women.”
“Touché. Even I have not been slow in condemning unbecoming behaviour in other ladies. Perhaps I should be more tolerant,” Minerva said, fiddling with her gloves.
“I beg you will not change on the basis of anything I said, Lady Minerva. Any more perfection would be gilding the lily.”
Was he flirting with her? Well, they still had at least three more hours of driving before them, the sun was out, and – she peeped from under the brim of the big hat – he was, after all, a fine figure of a man.
Minerva smiled.
Chapter 19
Alphonse handed his card to M. de Montalban’s servant, and was politely requested to wait in an elegant salon, upholstered in gold-coloured fabric with a vaguely Chinese pattern. The high velvet curtains, oriental carpets and custom-made furniture in the newest style were additional evidence that his late wife’s uncle lived in the first style of luxury.
The Comte did not let him kick his heels above ten minutes. “Mon cher neveu! I did not expect you to bother to call, at a time like this!” he exclaimed, and made to kiss Alphonse on the cheek. Alphonse recoiled instinctively, and put his hand out instead. The Comte was only in his late thirties, a mere decade older than himself. He found himself resenting his easy assumption of seniority.
“Ah yes, I forgot you grew up in England, among those barbarians.” The hand shaking his was firm. “Please come with me, and would you like some refreshment? But before all, do tell me if you have recovered your little daughter, la pauvre petite. Such a tragedy, to have her abducted by her own nurse!”
Alphonse stared at the man. Try as he might, he could not detect the slightest trace of guilt, or even guile. M. de Montalban oozed sincerity and concern. Yet could anything be taken at face value in a man who spent so much of his time seeking favours at the Bourbon court?
“I come for that very reason, since you were a witness of what happened.” Alphonse let some of his genuine anguish and fear show in his expression. “I understand that you were actually in the nursery on the morning they were first missed. Can you tell me exactly what happened? Why were you there?”
“Ah.” His host steepled his fingers, and briefly looked aside, at the huge portrait of a fat baroque gentleman in a flowing wig, sitting in full armour on an understandably nervous horse; it was rearing, the white of its eyes showing.
“Have you forgotten that little Monique is my relative, all that remains of our beloved Louise-Henriette? You only knew my niece for that one year of your short marriage, but for her own family it was a very different thing. I first saw her when she was a baby even smaller than your Monique. She was adorable.”
“You have always taken a special interest in infants, Monsieur?” Alphonse did not bother to keep the scepticism out of his voice.
“Only those of my own family, naturellement. I wanted to see if Monique resembled her poor mother, to find any trace of my niece, of our family features, in the child.”
“And did you find it?”
“Not much, I confess, she seems to be taking after your family, apart from the lighter colouring and smallish size. Our women tend to be a head shorter than the men, and as you can see, I am only of average size.” He shook his head sadly. “Maybe the chin and nose have something of her mother, but it is too early to tell.”
“On the morning when their absence was discovered, the assistant nurse, Manon, gave you a note that you promised to deliver to my mother. She never received it. Why would that be? What was in it?”
The Comte shook his head in confusion. “I have no idea what you are talking about. There was no note.” His eyes met Alphonses’s, open and unblinking.
“I regret to hear that.”
“You sound as though you did not believe me, mon cher. Surely you would not take the word of an ignorant maid over mine?”
“The fact that little Monique’s fortune would come to you if anything happened to her does give me pause, I confess.”
“Ah. Some cognac?”
“No, thank you.”
The Comte poured a glass for himself, and took a sip. “Well,” he said after a minute of awkward silence, “ten million francs would not come amiss, I do not deny it; keeping up appearances at court is a very expensive business, and my estates have not yet turned as profitable as before the revolution.” He swirled the liquid in his glass. “Between ourselves, the thought of all that money was in my thoughts while staying in your Château. I tried to fathom if the little girl was really as sickly, and likely to die, as your mother told me more than once.”
“You admit it?”
“Only that I watched her, to try and guess at her health. Nothing mo
re than that, I assure you. For what it’s worth, though she’s small like all the girls in our family, I did not see any particular reason why Monique should not grow to adulthood and in due course, enjoyment of her inheritance. That oily quack of your mother’s is only interested in lining his pocket, and exaggerates the smallest sniffle into a life-threatening malady.”
Alphonse did not know what to think. “But – how would you know?”
“I have five children of my own, and pay attention to details. Never mind that – you need to find her, don’t let me keep you further from such a vital task.”
Alphonse ignored the hint and did not budge. “Have you remembered that note from the wet-nurse, by any chance?”
There was an infinitesimal hesitation, but when he spoke, the Comte’s voice was firm. “Sorry – there was no note. I find your insinuations insulting, and only pardonable when I consider the strain under which you labour, having mislaid your only child.”
“I’ll go in a moment, but first let me tell you this,” Alphonse said, in a hard voice. “Neither you or anyone else from your household is henceforth welcome in Ville-Deuxtours, or any of my other homes. You will not approach my daughter again. Until she is an adult, keep your distance. The wet-nurse fled because she thought you were a threat to my child, and whether she was right or not, I hold you fully responsible for any harm that may befall her until she is recovered. “
“You are being absurd.”
“I don’t think a luminary of the very Catholic and conservative court can afford to be embroiled in a nasty scandal, Monsieur. If my child does not survive this I will sue you, not to keep the money, but to make the story public. You might win eventually, but you would still be ruined.” Without waiting for a servant to show him out, Alphonse turned on his heels and strode towards the exit, eager to reach fresh air.
How could he have left his helpless child alone in a place with such creatures as this Comte de Montalban? What had his mother been thinking, to invite him at all? The more he considered the question of the vanished note, the more his conviction grew that there had been genuine danger to the little girl, though it would never be proved. A paid employee had shown more care for Monique’s safety than her own father or grandmother.
