The Foundling

by Georgette Heyer

  ‘Does Liversedge know you have come to me?’ he demanded. She shook her head. ‘But how could you contrive to escape unseen? and how did you reach Baldock? You cannot have walked all the way, surely?’

  ‘Oh, no! I only walked to the pike-road, and a kind gentleman took me up in his carriage,’ Belinda explained. ‘And he said he would be very glad to take me to his house, only that perhaps his wife would not like it. I daresay she is a disagreeable lady, like that one downstairs. Ladies are nearly always so, are they not? I like gentlemen better.’

  The Duke did not find this difficult to believe. He refrained from comment, however, merely repeating: ‘How did you contrive to escape from that place?’

  ‘Well, Uncle Swithin’s head hurt him, so he went to lie down upon his bed, and everyone else was gone into the tap-room. Besides, Mr Mimms would not care if he saw me go, because he doesn’t hold with females.’

  ‘I see. But what made you run away? Did Liversedge blame you for what happened at the inn this afternoon? Was he perhaps angry with you?’

  ‘Oh, yes! He said he wished he had not saddled himself with me, for I am too stupid to be the least use to him, and he says he will send me back to Mrs Pilling!’ replied Belinda, large tears gathering in her eyes.

  ‘Pray do not cry!’ begged the Duke. ‘Who is Mrs Pilling?’

  ‘She is a very cross lady, not at all kind to me, and she will very likely put me in prison,’ said Belinda, the tears welling over.

  The Duke, who had had previous experience of the ease with which Belinda wept, watched in a fascinated way the large drops rolling down her cheeks without in the smallest degree impairing her beauty, and could not find it in his heart to blame Matthew for having succumbed to so much pathetic loveliness. After a moment, he said: ‘I wish you will not cry! No one will put you in prison, I assure you!’

  Belinda obediently stopped crying, but said in a doleful voice: ‘Yes, she will, sir, for I have broken my indentures.’

  Light began to break in upon the Duke. ‘Were you apprenticed to Mrs Pilling?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, and I was learning to trim the hats very well, but then Mr Liversedge said that if I went away with him I should live like a lady, and have a purple dress, and a ring to put on my finger. So I went with him, but Mrs Dovercourt was cross, and I did not like it in Oxford above half, and now I think I would like not to live with Mr Liversedge any more. But I daren’t go back to Bath, because besides putting me in prison Mrs Pilling would very likely beat me as well.’

  ‘Does she do so?’ demanded the Duke, quite shocked at the thought that anyone could so maltreat the lovely Belinda.

  ‘Yes, because I am very stupid,’ explained Belinda, without rancour. ‘And Mr Liversedge boxed my ears, too, though I said just what he told me I must. I am very unhappy!’

  ‘No, no, don’t be unhappy!’ said the Duke, terrified lest she should dissolve once more into tears. ‘No one shall beat you, or box your ears, I promise! You must tell me where your home is, and I will –’

  ‘I haven’t got a home,’ said Belinda.

  ‘Oh!’ said the Duke, somewhat dashed. ‘But you have relatives, have you not, Miss – What is your name?’

  ‘Belinda,’ she answered, with a look of surprise.

  ‘Yes, I know, but your other name? Your surname?’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t any other name!’ she told him. ‘I’m a foundling.’

  ‘A foundling!’ he ejaculated. ‘Then – you do not even know who your mother and father were?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ she said. ‘If you please, sir, may I have another apple?’

  He handed her the basket. ‘Of course. But, my poor child, have you no relatives to whom you can turn for help?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ she said again, shaking her head so that her golden curls were set quivering and bobbing. ‘Foundlings don’t, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t know. That is, I had never thought – It is very dreadful!’

  She agreed to this, but more with the air of one willing to please than with any particular chagrin.

  ‘What in heaven’s name am I to do with you?’ said the Duke, looking harassed.

  Belinda said hopefully: ‘You did say that you wished you might give me a purple silk dress,’ she suggested.

  He could not help laughing. ‘No, no, that is not what I meant!’

  She sighed, and the corners of her mouth drooped tragically. ‘No one ever gives me a purple silk dress,’ she mourned, a sob in her voice.

  The Duke had never had occasion to bestow much thought on female attire, but now that he came to consider the matter dispassionately he was bound to own that there was much to be said in extenuation of all those who had refused to let Belinda have her heart’s desire. The combination of those bright gold curls and a dress of purple silk would be shocking enough, he imagined, to stun all beholders. He made haste to divert her thoughts. ‘Belinda, have you no friend to whom you might go?’

  She appeared to bend her mind seriously to this question, and after staring with wrinkled brow at the Duke for a moment or two, suddenly dazzled him with one of her brilliant smiles, and said: ‘Oh, yes, I have a friend that was used to work at a mantua-maker’s, only she was married, and went away from Bath. I should like of all things to visit her, for I daresay she has a baby now, and I am excessively fond of babies!’

  ‘Where does she live?’ asked the Duke.

  Belinda sighed. ‘She went to a place called Hitchin, but I don’t know where it is, and I only recall it because it sounds like kitchen, and I think that is very droll, don’t you, sir?’

  ‘Hitchin!’ he exclaimed, his harassed air lightening a little. ‘But Hitchin lies only a few miles from here! I daresay no more than six or seven, perhaps not as much! If you think you would like to visit this friend, I will take you there to-morrow! Do you know her direction?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ said Belinda unconcernedly.

  Again the Duke was dashed. ‘Well, do you know her name?’ he asked.

  Belinda laughed merrily at this. ‘Why, of course I know her name! It is Maggie Street!’

  ‘Then depend upon it we shall soon find her!’ he said, much relieved.

  At this moment, Mrs Appleby entered the parlour, and announced that as Miss’s bedchamber was now ready for her she would escort Miss to it.

  ‘Yes, please do so!’ said the Duke. ‘And perhaps you would be so good as to bring up a glass of milk to her, for I fear she is rather hungry.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ replied Mrs Appleby stiffly. ‘Come with me, miss, if you please!’

  She picked up the bandboxes, and swept them and Belinda inexorably out of the room, leaving the Duke feeling extremely exhausted, but not a little thankful that he was not to be saddled with Belinda for the rest of his life, as at one moment he had feared that he might be.

  Twelve

  Upon the following morning, the Duke thought it wisest to visit Tom before that young gentleman had emerged from his room, to warn him that he had acquired a sister over-night. Tom was inclined to take this in bad part, giving it as his opinion that girls spoiled everything. When he learned that Belinda’s presence had made it necessary for the Duke to change his plans, his face fell perceptibly, and it was only an assurance that he should eventually be taken to London that enabled him to meet his new sister without overt hostility. He evinced little curiosity, which was a relief to the Duke, and, not having reached an impressionable stage in his career, was quite unmoved by the loveliness that presently burst upon him. He ate his breakfast in unusual silence, occasionally shooting a darkling look at Belinda, and lost no time in effacing himself when he had finished. The Duke sent him off to discover where he could hire a post-chaise-and-pair to carry the whole party to Hitchin that morning, for not only was he extremely anxious to hand Belinda over to her friend as soon as p
ossible, but Belinda herself was troubled by fears that Mr Liversedge might pursue and recapture her. It was in vain that the Duke explained to her that since Mr Liversedge was neither her uncle nor her guardian he had no hold over her, and would scarcely dare to coerce her: she appeared to listen to his words, but it was apparent that they conveyed little to her intelligence.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘when you were in Oxford with Mrs – Mrs – I don’t recall the name, but the lady who was thought to be your aunt –’

  ‘Oh, she was not my aunt!’ Belinda said. ‘I did not like having to live with her at all, for she was so bothersome, and very often cross with me.’

  ‘But who was she?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Mr Liversedge was very friendly with her, and he said I should stay with her and do just what she told me.’

  He could not help smiling. ‘And was that to make my – to make Mr Ware fall in love with you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied innocently. ‘I did not mind that, for we went pleasuring together, you know, and he was excessively kind to me, and he said he would marry me, too, and then I should have been a grand lady, and had my carriage, and a silk dress besides.’

  ‘Did you wish very much to marry him?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Belinda replied placidly. ‘I didn’t care, if only I might have all the things Uncle Swithin said I should. He said it would be more comfortable for me if Mr Ware gave me a great deal of money, and I think it would have been, because he was so jealous, you know, that there was no bearing it. Why, when I only went out to get a pound of black pudding from the pork-butcher, and a gentleman carried the basket for me, there was such an uproar! And he read poetry to me, too.’

  ‘That was certainly very bad!’ the Duke said gravely. ‘But tell me what happened after Mr Ware – when you were no longer expecting to marry him! Did you run away from that lady?’

  ‘Oh, no, she would not keep me any longer, because she quarrelled dreadfully with Uncle Swithin, and she said he was a Jeremy Diddler.’

  ‘What in the world is that?’ he enquired, amused.

  ‘I don’t know, but I think Uncle Swithin wouldn’t pay her any money, and she said he had promised it to her for taking care of me. She was as cross as a cat! And Uncle Swithin told her how we should all of us have money from Mr Ware, but there was an execution in the house, you know, and she would not stay there any more. It is very fidgeting to have an execution in your house, for they take away the furniture, and there is no knowing how to go on. So Uncle Swithin fetched me away in an old tub of a carriage, which was so horrid! I was stuffed to death! And we had to go in the middle of the night, and that was uncomfortable too.’

  ‘He took you to that inn? Is it possible that he meant to keep you there?’

  ‘Well, he could not help doing so,’ explained Belinda. ‘Poor Uncle Swithin! he has so very little money left, and Mr Mimms is his brother, so you see he does not have to pay him to stay there. And of course we was expecting Mr Ware to send us a great sum of money, and then we might have been comfortable again. But Uncle Swithin says all is ruined, and it was my fault for not calling to Mr Mimms to stop you when you went away. But he never told me I should do so!’

  ‘Don’t you think,’ he suggested gently, ‘that you will like just as well to go to your friend as to have a great sum of money?’

  Belinda reflected, and shook her head. ‘No, for if I had the money I could also go to visit Maggie Street,’ she said simply.

  This was so unanswerable that the Duke abandoned the subject, together with a half-formed resolve to point out to Belinda the reprehensible nature of Mr Liversedge’s attempts to extort money from undergraduates. Something told him that Belinda’s intelligence was not of the order that readily appreciated ethical considerations.

  In a short time, Tom returned to the inn, his mission accomplished. If Mr Rufford would step down to the George, he said, to confirm the arrangement he had made on his behalf, a chaise could be hired, and would be sent round to the White Horse as soon as it was needed.

  The Duke was not very anxious to visit the George, where he had several times stopped on his way to his estates in Yorkshire, to change his horses, but he did not think that he had ever alighted there, and could only hope that he would not be recognised. He desired his protégés to pack their few belongings, and sallied forth, requesting Mrs Appleby, whom he met at the foot of the stairs, to prepare his reckoning. Mrs Appleby allowed him to see by her manner that he had sadly disappointed her; and the waiter, hovering in the background, plainly regarded him in the light of a hardened libertine.

  In the event, no one whom he interviewed at the George showed the smallest sign of recognising him. He thought the luck was miraculously with him, until it occurred to him, on his way back to the White Horse, that, had he wished to do it, he might have found it difficult to convince the landlord and the servants at the George that an unattended gentleman, staying at the White Horse and in need of a hired chaise, could possibly be his Grace the Duke of Sale. He reflected then that it was to be hoped he would have no occasion to prove his identity, since he had taken care to leave his visiting cards at Sale House, and had handed over to Gideon his seal ring.

  When he reached the White Horse again, he found that although Belinda had packed her bandboxes, Tom was by no means ready to depart, having, in fact, made no attempt to stow away the articles of apparel procured for him into the carpet-bag which was all the Duke had been able to find in Baldock for the carriage of his effects. Tom had expended some part of the guinea the Duke had given him on the acquisition of a fascinating new toy, called, not without reason, Diabolo. He had already succeeded in breaking a water-bottle, and a cherished vase of unsurpassed hideousness which Mrs Appleby stated had belonged to her husband’s grandfather and was quite irreplaceable. The Duke was greeted on his arrival with a strongly worded complaint from Mrs Appleby, and a simple request from Belinda to buy her a Diabolo too. However, Tom, who found that he did not excel in manipulating the toy, said loftily that it was a stupid thing, and very handsomely made Belinda a present of it. But the Duke was obliged to do his packing for him, and by the time he had left Tom to strap up the carpet-bag, and had dealt with his own effects, and settled his reckoning with Mrs Appleby, the hired chaise was at the door. He saw his charges into it, directed the post-boy to take them to the Sun Inn at Hitchin, and turned to take his leave of Mrs Appleby.

  ‘Mark my words, Mr Rufford, sir,’ she said bodingly, ‘you will live to regret it, for if ever I saw a light-skirt, which I never thought to soil my lips with such a word, I see one this day!’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Gilly, and sprang up into the chaise.

  ‘This,’ declared Belinda buoyantly, ‘is beyond anything great, sir! To be jauntering about in a private chaise like a real lady, as fine as a star! If Mrs Pilling were to see me now she would not credit her eyes, I daresay! Oh, if only Mr Liversedge does not find me, and take me back again!’

  ‘Mr Liversedge,’ said Gilly, ‘has a great deal of effrontery, but hardly enough, I dare swear, for that! Let us put him out of our minds!’ He saw that she was still looking vaguely scared, and smiled. ‘There is nothing more he can do, Belinda, after all! Ten to one, he is by this time turning his mind into other channels.’

  But little though he knew it, he had wronged Mr Liversedge. That gentleman had found himself so very far from well on the previous evening that he had been quite unable to bend his powerful mind to any more difficult problem than how he could most expeditiously cure the shocking headache that nearly blinded him. He had gone to lie down upon his bed, and had responded to a suggestion that he would be the better for a bite of supper only by a hollow groan. Mr Mimms, regarding him with a scornful eye, offered him consolation in the form of a reminder that he had warned him that no good could come of flying at game too high for him.

  ‘You leave them swell bleat
ers be, Sam!’ he adjured the prostrate sufferer. ‘Then maybe you won’t have no broken head another time!’

  Mr Liversedge opened a bloodshot eye. ‘Swithin!’ he found strength to utter.

  ‘Sam you was christened, and much good it done you to go a-giving yourself a silly flash name like Swithin!’ said Mr Mimms severely. ‘Well, if you don’t want no peck and booze there’ll be more for them as does, that’s one thing!’

  On this cheering thought, he departed, leaving his afflicted brother to spread a cold compress over his head and to take another pull at the brandy-bottle.

  It was some hours later before Mr Liversedge felt able to rise from his couch, and to totter downstairs to the kitchen. He still wore the Duke’s handkerchief knotted round his head, and he had by no means recovered his complexion, but the pangs of hunger had begun to attack him. He pushed open the kitchen-door, and found that his brother was entertaining a guest, a thin, wiry gentleman, who wore a riding-suit of sober-coloured cloth, and a pair of well-fitting boots that seemed to have seen much service. He had a pair of bright gray eyes, which lifted quickly and warily as the door opened. He was in the act of consuming a prodigious portion of cold beef, but he held his knife suspended for an instant, until he saw who it was that had entered, when he relaxed, and waved the laden knife at Mr Liversedge, saying cheerfully: ‘Hallo, Sam, old gager!’

  Mr Mimms, who was seated on the opposite side of the table, engaged in inspecting a collection of watches, purses, fobs, and rings, cast an appraising look at Mr Liversedge, and said: ‘That flash mort of yours has loped off.’

  Mr Liversedge drew up a spare chair, and lowered himself into it. ‘Where to?’ he demanded.

  ‘I dunno, nor I don’t care. How you ever come to think there was any good to be got out of such a bird-witted wench downright queers me! Good riddance to her, that’s what I say!’

  ‘Bird-witted she may be,’ replied Mr Liversedge fair-mindedly, ‘but where, I ask you to tell me, Joe, could you find a more lovely piece?’