by May Burnett
“Entirely certain. The truth cannot be any worse than the things I have been imagining.”
Charlotte quickly and baldly told Celia about her own history with Peter Conway, years before meeting and marrying James Ellsworthy. How Peter had tried to blackmail and intimidate her and James, just before their marriage, “which might have happened later, and not in such indecorous haste, without all the vicious gossip Peter and that new spouse of his caused,” she concluded.
Celia listened in silence. When Charlotte was done, she said simply, “Thank you. I am so sorry.”
“None of it is your fault,” Charlotte pointed out practically. “Your mother, and yourself, are just two more victims, out of who knows how many by now.”
Perceiving that Celia was blinking away tears, she added, “I hear a carriage approaching – too early for Minerva’s return, surely? We can talk more later. I’d better see who it is,” and left towards the front of the Hall. Celia, whose only reply was a silent nod, slowly walked in the opposite direction.
Her ears had not deceived Charlotte. Not one, but two travelling coaches were pulling up in front of the Hall.
Before she could approach, the doors of the first and bigger coach burst open and three boys, from eight to four years in age, tumbled out.
“Aunt Charlotte! We are here!” they cried.
“So I see,” she gravely returned, watching her sister-in-law, Lady Jennifer Potts, descend somewhat more slowly from the second coach, followed by her husband. “Welcome, boys. Welcome, Jennifer, Bartholomew. Your rooms are ready and the nursery staff will be here in a moment to pick up the children. Where is little Amy?”
Jennifer came forward to kiss her cheeks, though with no real warmth, and Potts bowed to his hostess. “Hello, Charlotte. You look blooming.”
A nursemaid stiffly climbed from the depths of the larger coach, holding a struggling two-year old. “Here is Miss Amy, Ma’am,” she said. She looked frazzled, and no wonder, Charlotte reflected, if she had had to cope all by herself with these four children.
“Where is James?” Jennifer demanded, looking around her as though she expected him to appear momentarily.
“He had to leave unexpectedly, on urgent business, a few days ago. I do not expect him back until next week at the earliest.”
“But surely he will be here in time for your ball?” Jennifer asked. “A good thing you wrote to us about it, I might not have brought my new lilac ball gown otherwise.”
Avoiding a definitive answer, Charlotte led her guests into the house, where her own twins, Verena, and the three nannies had already congregated. The noise produced by the seven children was so great that Rook stuck his head out of the library, where he had been labouring over a letter to his father, and directed a scowl at the juvenile pandemonium. He was still favouring his left foot, though the swelling had gone down considerably.
“Lord Molyneux?” Potts asked, looking at him in surprise. “We did not know you were staying here, too.”
“Hello, Rook,” Jennifer said, and threw a questioning look at Charlotte. “I might have known … since Minerva is also staying with you.”
Rook disappeared back into the library, leaving Charlotte to explain that his presence was not due to any engagement between Minerva and him, no matter what the Dowager Lady Amberley might have written to Jennifer before departing to that Bavarian spa.
“Where is Minerva? Why is she not here to greet her sister?”
Charlotte’s patience was in danger of fraying. Jennifer had an imperious manner that put her strongly in mind of her mother-in-law, her least favourite family member.
“All will be told,” she merely said, “you must surely be in need of rest and refreshment. There will be a luncheon served at two in the South room. We have two more guests staying here, you will meet them then.”
As soon as she could politely detach herself, she fled towards the sanctuary of the kitchens, to consult with her cook and drink something cool. Her feet were starting to hurt.
James could not come back soon enough. Where was he now, dashing across France on a fast horse, or in a swaying coach? Or on a boat, in danger of sinking in a sudden summer thunderstorm? Nonsense, she told herself. In a few days at most he would be back at her side, where he belonged. With that little missing girl in tow, surely they would find the child alive… how fortunate that her own twins and niece were right here at home with her. Not to know where they might be was one of Charlotte’s worst nightmares. As long as her children were safe, she really ought not to let Jennifer’s censorious questions, or any other insignificant trifles, rile her temper.
Chapter 23
Minerva wished that Charlotte or one of her brothers were at her side. Over her solitary meal, she recalled that Beecham was planning to put an announcement in the papers, and interrupted her already late lunch to pen a quick note to him, with the request to delay this plan until she heard back from the French Embassy. Only when she had handed this missive over for immediate delivery, did she return to her cooling food.
There were fifty-six invitations on her writing desk. Should she begin with answers to the ones already past, or first send excuses for the events still in the future? Not that it really mattered. A well-bred lady had to reply to every single invitation, late or not. It was bad enough that so many had gone unanswered all this time.
Idly she shuffled through the calling cards, of surprising number for not quite two weeks’ absence. The biggest gossips in society had called in droves at Amberley House. An uneasy feeling crept over Minerva, which further intensified when she found a card from Mrs Peter Conway. She had better inform Beecham of this circumstance right away; he would know what, if anything, to do about it.
Contemplating the pile of calling cards, for the first time she wondered if her own and her mother’s precipitate departure in different directions, when everyone had been expecting her engagement to Rook, had led to conjecture and talk. It seemed only too likely, when she considered how she herself would have speculated on such a sequence of events, in the case of some other debutante.
An hour later, as her fingers were beginning to hurt from writing one note after another, a footman came running with the butler’s request to come at her earliest convenience to the yellow salon.
Minerva wiped a drop of ink from her fingers, and lost no time in repairing downstairs. In the salon, an elegant young man stood at the side of a middle-aged woman with a small child in her arms. Only the back of the infant’s head was visible, the rest of its body was swathed in a warm shawl.
“Mme Fourrier?” Minerva asked. The reply came in such quick, voluble French, that her schoolroom knowledge of the language proved quite inadequate. Helplessly, she raised her arms.
“Lady Minerva,” the young man said with a bow, “I am Georges de Mantigny. Please allow me to act as your translator.”
“You have my deepest gratitude, Monsieur. Please tell Mme Fourrier that the Marquis and his friends have been searching for her everywhere. Is the little girl in good health, after that long journey?”
“So I am given to understand,” de Matigny said. “Mme Fourrier, I judge, is the more exhausted of the two.”
“Will you tell her, then, that she is most welcome, and that I will travel to our country house tomorrow with her and the child, where the Marquis wanted her to meet him?”
The young Frenchman spoke rapidly to the nurse, who nodded, her palpable tension visibly abating, and attempted a small curtsy towards Minerva. She was swaying, though, and quickly sat down on a sofa at Minerva’s alarmed gesture. The nurse was younger than she had first thought, not above thirty-five; but utter fatigue and long-lasting worry had taken a severe toll. Minerva gently lifted the child out of the woman’s arms, cradling it against her own body. The nurse would have objected under any other circumstances, Minerva judged, but right now she was clearly at the end of her tether.
Minerva rang the bell, and was not surprised that the butler materialised within secon
ds. “Please have a comfortable room, a meal and a bath prepared for Mme Fourrier in the nursery. Take her to a bed right now, while the bath and food is being prepared. Then send a maid with experience of young children to me, when the nursery is ready.”
Only after M. de Mantigny had translated these orders to the nurse, and she had obtained Minerva’s solemn promise to take good care of little Monique, did the woman reluctantly consent to leave the room with the butler.
“I can see that the little Mademoiselle is in good hands,” the young diplomat said to Minerva, with a look of admiration. “So much beauty and virtue united in one lady, is indeed a rare sight.”
Minerva was not in the mood to flirt, or accept flowery compliments. “Never mind about that, Chevalier. Would you please tell me how you came across Mme Fourrier, and brought her to us?”
“To her great consternation and despair, she was not admitted by the English butler of M. le Marquis de Ville-Deuxtours, her master,” he began.
“Yes, I was aware of that. Most unfortunate, after she came all the way from the Loire valley. Why exactly did she set out, did she tell you?”
“She told me that it was on written orders of the Marquis himself, though it defies belief that he would allow his only child to travel in such a fashion, without proper transportation or escort. But she did show me a letter she had received from him, with his seal.”
“And when did you first meet her?”
“She came to the Embassy yesterday, and asked for help. Although such is hardly our function – we are not a mere consulate, after all – one of our clerks was sufficiently impressed with her persistence to cause me to speak with her. I was not entirely sure what to make of the story, and that the child was who she claimed, but the woman struck me as eminently respectable. So in case her story was true, I settled her for the night in a nearby boarding-house, and made enquiries to find the Marquis himself, at his club and usual haunts. His friendship with your family was mentioned by several of his acquaintances, so I included Amberley House in my search.”
“You did exactly right, Sir, and will have earned the undying gratitude of the Marquis. He is indeed an old family friend, and we have all been most concerned about the little girl’s fate.”
“Please give him my deepest regards, when you next see him, ma’am,” the Chevalier begged, and smoothly took his leave. No doubt he had neglected his ordinary work long enough.
The child in her arms, who had been sleeping, was starting to move and opened her eyes, looking at Minerva in evident alarm. She in turn scrutinized the small creature, not quite a baby any more, though undersized. The children of her own family had all been fat and rosy at this stage of their life, while little Monique was thin, and her skin was pale. The expression on her tiny face was alert and distinctly worried. The child was fully aware that she was in the arms of a total stranger.
“Don’t cry, little one,” Minerva said, moving the child from side to side in a swaying motion, as she had observed Charlotte doing with the twins. “Everything is all right. You will soon be with your father.” Monique allowed herself to be soothed. Minerva hoped that meant she did not have a fractious temper, as so many little children exhibited. Impulsively she dropped a light kiss on the girl’s short, honey-coloured locks.
“Whose child is that, Lady Minerva?” a pleasurably scandalized voice said loudly from the open door. Looking up, Minerva perceived Lady Ernest Frobisher and her eldest daughter Annis, two ladies she would have much preferred not to encounter at this, or indeed any moment. Annis, a fellow debutante, had long been jealous of Minerva’s greater popularity.
Mindful of the child in her arms, she did not rise. “Did anybody announce you? I am afraid I am not officially at home today, merely passing through town on urgent business.”
“Yes, we can see that,” Lady Ernest said in an odiously smug manner.
Minerva stared. “What can you mean?”
“Whose child is that, Lady Minerva?”
“She is the daughter of the Marquis de Ville-Deuxtours, not that that is any of your business, Lady Ernest. I must beg you to leave, as I am much too busy to attend to visitors.”
Monique must have felt the sudden tension in Minerva’s body, for the child started to wail piteously. Minerva held her protectively against her shoulder, and made soothing noises, ignoring the ladies who retreated slowly, casting curious looks back at her. The child calmed down when they were finally gone, but still looked unhappy. Lightly touching the infant’s face with her palm, Minerva was relieved to note that there was no fever.
A few minutes later the butler was back, full of excuses for the unpardonable intrusion. “Those ladies must have slipped in when the French gentleman left, though it certainly should not have happened. I was trying to find a suitable nursemaid among the staff, but we are shorthanded, and most of the girls have no experience. The housekeeper is away seeing to the purchases you ordered, and your own maid went over to Mr. Ellsworthy’s residence with Andrew and the shoe-boy, to oversee the packing there.
“I see, but I really don’t want to see any other callers today,” Minerva said, “except one - please send again to Mr. Beecham, the solicitor, that the child is found and that he need no longer search for her. I would be much obliged if he were to call on me at his earliest convenience.”
“I will see to it at once, my lady.”
Left alone with the infant once again, Minerva decided to take her to the kitchens. At a year’s age, she vaguely remembered, Verena had demanded to try any food she saw. She hoped the kitchen staff could also provide some assistance with the child. Minerva had always liked babies and children, but previously she had only dealt with them while competent nursery staff was watchfully hovering within call.
She still had invitations to respond to, but little desire to continue with that tedious task. Gossiping hostesses and debutantes seemed completely irrelevant, compared to the needs of the tiny girl clinging so tightly to her neck.
Chapter 24
Once again, luncheon at the Hall was served buffet-style in the South Room. Charlotte introduced Celia and Sir Mortimer to Lady Jennifer and her husband. Lady Jennifer immediately noticed that Miss Conway’s dress was country-made, and not a patch on her own expensive creation; and she had never met anyone with that last name. She still was trying to ferret out why these obscure people were her fellow-guests when Rook joined them. He was moving around quite briskly, though the bruises on his body had not yet faded, and the ankle was still sore.
“I want to speak particularly to Minerva,” Lady Jennifer said, looking around with a frown. “It is very important.”
“She went up to London to fetch supplies for the ball.” Rook speared a piece of Parma ham with his fork. “Should be back tomorrow, I understand.”
Lady Jennifer fixed an accusing gaze on Charlotte. “All by herself?”
“Her maid went with her, or course. And they were escorted to town by a very respectable gentleman, Mr.Beecham, in an open carriage.”
“That solicitor James uses?” Mr Potts asked. “Why was he here?”
“Never mind why he was here,” Lady Jennifer said pettishly. “A solicitor is not a gentleman, Charlotte, as you would know if you had been brought up in our circles.”
“A gentleman is distinguished by his character and behaviour, as much as by his birth or profession,” Charlotte returned with spirit. “Mr. Beecham is a good friend, and invited to our ball. I for one intend to dance with him. He has asked me for the Quadrille.”
Lady Jennifer sniffed. “Well, these country balls – one would never get a decent crowd this far from town, by being too discriminating. It is understood that people will be invited to a country ball, who one would not know in town.”
“And would you know them in Bristol, Jenny?” Rook asked affably, causing her to bite her lips in momentary chagrin.
“Be that as it may,” Jennifer returned to the charge, “it is most unfortunate, especially in light of what I was
going to tell Minerva, had she been here. A correspondent from London has informed me that all manner of rumours are flying around town, regarding Minerva’s sudden disappearance, and Rook’s, two days later.”
“How interesting,” Rook said. “Do go on, Jenny. What are people saying, pray?” Celia had not heard his voice this soft. So this was how he sounded like when angry.
“Well, one theory has it that she fled to another lover – Alphonse was mentioned as a possibility – because Mother was forcing her to marry you, Rook.”
“How very flattering. And I suppose I went after them, bent on revenge?”
“Something like that. Your father is apparently in town, and has strongly contradicted this story, but then he would, of course.”
“I see. And are there any more versions?” Rook’s voice still was unnaturally calm.
“Well, there was one theory that you had abducted her, but nobody really believed that.”
“Because it is total nonsense, of course,” Charlotte interjected. “Really, Jennifer, I think it were best if you did not regale us with all that fanciful nonsense. People in society will talk, no matter how blameless the objects of their gossip.”
“So they will, and if it becomes known that you let Minerva travel to town with merely a maid and a solicitor along, they will talk even more furiously. I really wonder at your lack of care for my sister’s good name, Charlotte.”
Charlotte was about to respond, but Rook forestalled her, letting his anger show at last in a forbidding glare at Lady Jennifer. “And do you think repeating all this gossip is having a care for her, Jenny? I take very strong exception to your words, and would like to know who exactly has been maligning Minerva and me in this unconscionable manner.”
She began to fidget with her gloves. “Really, Rook, come down from the boughs! As a concerned older sister, I consider it my duty to warn you, and especially Minerva, that there is danger afoot. Surely I cannot be blamed for that.”
