The Major and the Country Miss

by Dorothy Elbury

  Maitland also rose to his feet, facing his cousin squarely. The two were of equal height, but Maitland had the weight, his shoulders and limbs needing no tailor’s assistance to fill out his coats and trousers and his clear grey eyes were unspoiled by the reckless dissipation that marred the older man’s.

  ‘I shall do you the service of ignoring that remark, Jerry,’ he said carefully. ‘I gave Uncle Roger my promise and I intend to do my best to find out what became of Melandra’s child. If you wish to join me you will, of course, be welcome—but I advise you to keep such opinions to yourself, otherwise I may well forget that you are my kinsman!’

  Jeremy Fenton’s handsome face flushed slightly as, with a self-conscious laugh, he lowered his eyes.

  ‘No offence, Will,’ he stammered. ‘Of course I shall accompany you—I bow to your military efficiency—I should hardly know where to begin! When are we to set off on this quest, may I ask? I shall require several days to settle certain—matters—and my man Pringle will need time to see to my wardrobe…’

  Maitland burst out laughing and gave his cousin a friendly clap on the shoulder.

  ‘I don’t intend to drag about the countryside with carriage-loads of your finery, Jerry!’ he chuckled. ‘We can’t leave until after the funeral, of course, but then I mean to take off first thing and ride for Dunchurch—it can’t be more than sixty miles away. If you want to accompany me, you’ll need to keep your baggage to a minimum!’

  ‘You surely don’t expect me to travel all that way on horseback!’

  The Honourable Jeremy was visibly horrified at the idea. Out of necessity he had learned to be a fairly competent rider, in as much as the daily canter in Hyde Park was concerned—for one had to be seen, of course—but the prospect of being in the saddle for several hours at a time appealed to him not in the slightest degree. His expensive riding coats and breeches were cut more for display than practicality and he shuddered to imagine what damage would be done to his new top-boots if he were to subject them to the rigours of country-lane mudbaths. Also, he had to have his man to help him into his jackets and see to his linen! He was no fool, however, and quickly realised that if there were to be any hope at all of maintaining his chosen way of life, he was going to have to make some sort of push to get hold of his share of old Billingham’s money as soon as possible. Recurring visions of the likely alternative helped him to make up his mind.

  ‘I’m not the cavalryman you are, coz,’ he said, in explanation for his outburst. ‘I’ll have to follow you up in my chaise—I’ll get Pringle to scrabble a few things together and we shan’t be much behind you, you’ll see. Will you order the rooms?’

  ‘Good man!’ Maitland gladly gave his hand to this arrangement then, turning to the man of law who had been sitting silently listening to this interchange, he asked, ‘Is there nothing else which might be of use to us, Mr Hornsey? There must be hundreds of villages in that area—each with its own church and graveyard, I shouldn’t wonder. No clues to that, I suppose?’

  ‘You are welcome to copies of the papers,’ Hornsey offered. ‘I was most careful to take down everything in Mr Billingham’s exact words but, of course, the event occurred a great many years ago and his memory was failing. I believe I have furnished you with all the relevant information…’ His eyes scanned the sheets in front of him. ‘He did leave a considerable sum of money for the young lady’s funeral but he said that when the nun questioned him—’

  ‘Nun! Are you sure?’

  Maitland pulled the paper towards him and ran his eyes quickly down the close, spidery handwriting, finally giving an exclamation of triumph when he found the information for which he was seeking.

  ‘Yes! Uncle Roger quite definitely said “nun”!’ He spun round eagerly to face his puzzled family. ‘Do you see what this means? It must have been a convent, or a priory—Roman, in any event—that will surely be easier to trace!’

  ‘The young man Étienne,’ said his mother, in growing realisation, ‘he would have been a Roman Catholic.’ She turned to Lady Fenton. ‘What was his name, Eleanor? I’ve been racking my brains trying to recall it.’

  The older woman’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Dela”—no—” du” something—or “Des” something…..?’

  ‘Doubly!’ cried Fenton, in sudden excitement. ‘His name was “Doubly”. You remember, Will—we used to call him “Bubbly Doubly”—after we saw him sobbing away behind the church, that time?’

  ‘You may have called him that,’ said Maitland shortly, still intent upon scrutinising the lawyer’s scribbled testimony. ‘I remember him only as monsieur. Doubly doesn’t sound very French to me—more likely to have been “D’Arblay” or “de Blaise”.

  ‘Yes, I remember now!’ cried Mrs Maitland, clapping her hands. ‘D’Arblay! Étienne D’Arblay—I’m sure that was it! Oh, Eleanor! Do you think he could have been there, too—with Melandra?’

  There was a heavy silence for a few moments as the two ladies stared at one another, each of them considering the implications of this possibility.

  ‘Doesn’t look like it.’ Maitland shook his head and indicated some more information he had managed to decipher. ‘Apparently, the nun told Uncle Roger that Melandra had extracted a promise from them that her child would be given its dead father’s name, but when they asked him—Uncle Roger, that is—what he wanted them to do, he informed them that he had no further interest in the matter and that they must place the child in a foundling home—he gave them money with which to give Melandra a decent burial, then he left.’

  ‘And he never breathed a word to any one of us—not even Jane,’ said Marion Maitland, in wonder. ‘He must have known she would have wanted to keep Melandra’s child!’

  ‘No wonder he was so distressed at the end! To have carried this burden all these years!’ Billingham’s sister turned her eyes, now wet with tears, towards her son. ‘You must find the boy, Jeremy—Roger was right—a dreadful wrong has been committed! The money is no longer important!’

  Fenton raised his eyebrows. ‘I regret to say that the money is very important, Mama,’ he said witheringly. ‘Most of my creditors have held out for so long only because they have been under the assumption that Maitland and I would soon be sharing Uncle Roger’s estate between us—and I’m afraid that I have done little to discourage their belief. This recent development has dropped me right in the suds. I don’t have a year to wait for my full share—I shall likely be in Marshalsea by the end of the month if I can’t lay my hands on some serious blunt so, quite frankly, the sooner we can find this boy—or prove him dead—the quicker I shall be able to climb out of the basket!’

  Maitland looked sharply at his cousin, his well-formed features full of concern.

  ‘Perhaps you would allow me to help you out, Jerry,’ he offered almost diffidently. ‘I dare say I could manage to cover some of your most pressing debts—you can’t owe so much, surely?’

  ‘Enough to make a very large hole in any fourth part I might receive, old man,’ said Fenton, smiling faintly as Maitland issued a soundless whistle. ‘With the best will in the world, I doubt you could even buy up my vowels—but I’m obliged for the offer. I shall just have to put my faith in your ability to hunt down our quarry—to which end you seem to be progressing pretty well!’

  ‘Good of you to say so, coz,’ laughed Maitland, clapping him affectionately on the back. ‘Although I don’t care much for your terminology—the lad we’re seeking is our young cousin, remember, not a wily old fox!’

  ‘Well, let’s hope he’ll appreciate the sacrifices we’re making for him,’ returned Fenton drily and, turning to Hornsey, he asked, ‘No chance of an advance, I suppose?’

  The lawyer pursed his lips. ‘I can probably arrange something of that nature by next week, sir,’ he said. ‘Your expenses will be met, of course, but I would first like to be assured that some progress has been made.’

  ‘Perfectly in order.’ Maitland smiled in agreement, then he frowned as he caug
ht the muted oath that escaped Fenton’s lips. ‘Come now, Jerry—Uncle Roger told you that you’d have to earn your share. That’s only fair, surely? Certainly, the fresh air won’t do you any harm and a few days in the country will keep you out of those gaming hells you seem to spend your life in. I would have said that a repairing lease might be just what you need at the moment!’

  Jeremy Fenton eyed the younger man truculently for a moment or two then, with a slight lift of his shoulders, he reached out to grasp his cousin’s outstretched hand and shook it firmly. ‘I’d almost forgotten what a good-natured fellow you are, Will,’ he said, with an awkward grin. ‘I swear I’m looking forward to spending some time with you again, after all these years!’

  Chapter Two

  Four days later, having agreed that he would meet up with his cousin at the Dun Cow at Dunchurch, Will Maitland headed north from his home in Buckinghamshire and made for Dunstable, from where the newly metalled Watling Street would take him into Northamptonshire and eventually on to join up with the Coventry turnpike. He had sent his bags on ahead of him and had every intention of making quite a leisurely journey of it, since he reckoned that it would take him something in the region of six hours to accomplish the distance, including a couple of halts for refreshment and to water Pegasus, his chestnut stallion.

  The summer day was fine and fair, with sufficient breeze to make a steady canter enjoyable and, to begin with, having set out at such an early hour, he had the road much to himself, skirting past the occasional rosy-cheeked milkmaid as she dreamily followed her charges from their field to the milking-shed, and exchanging smiling greetings with the farmers’ wives he encountered driving their laden gigs to the local marketplaces.

  The morning wore on and the volume of oncoming traffic increased and, having more than once been forced to hug the hedge as a lumbering stagecoach bore down upon him, he judged the moment suitable to make his first stop, choosing a pretty little wayside inn just outside the village of Stony Stratford. After instructing an ostler to rub down and water his horse, he chose to partake of his own refreshment seated on the wooden bench that the landlord had thoughtfully provided beneath the shade of a nearby leafy chestnut tree.

  His hunger satisfied, he leaned back in comfortable tranquillity against the tree’s great trunk and closed his eyes and, whether it was the lulling sound of the insects droning above his head or the effect of ‘mine host’s’ strong home-brewed, coupled with his early rising, he would never know, but in just a few moments his head nodded on to his chest and he was sound asleep.

  A tentative tap on his shoulder startled him out of his pleasant doze.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’

  The sound of the landlord’s voice dragged Maitland from his slumbers and it did not take him long to realise that the sun was no longer directly overhead, which irritating circumstance meant that he would have to press on very quickly if he wanted to make up the time he had lost. Cursing under his breath, he called for Pegasus to be saddled, hurriedly paid his shot and, mounting in one swift movement, he wheeled the horse out of the yard and urged him into a fast gallop towards Tow-cester.

  Two hours later, by mid-afternoon, he had reached the Daventry turnpike where he ascertained from the toll-keeper that a further eight miles would see him at the Dunchurch pike.

  ‘An’ ye’d do well to stop the night there, sir,’ warned the keeper, pocketing Maitland’s two pence and handing him his ticket. ‘’Taint wise to be crossing Dunsmoor Heath at sundown—been a fair few travellers robbed there lately.’

  Maitland thanked the man for his solicitude, assuring him that Dunchurch would, in fact, be the end of his journey and, with a cheery goodbye, set off once more at a spanking pace.

  Hardly a mile or so up the road, however, Pegasus suddenly faltered in his stride and, gradually slowing down, he began to limp on his left foreleg. Maitland, after five years in a cavalry regiment, had no trouble recognising the ominous signs and he immediately reined in, dismounted and led his horse on to the grass verge where he carefully examined the hoof and found, as he had expected, a small sharp flintstone lodged under his shoe. Since he always carried with him the necessary implements for dealing with such an emergency, it did not take him long to extract the offending object, but, knowing that the horse would still be in considerable discomfort for some little while, he looked about him for inspiration and, spotting a small stream not far off, he led the still limping animal over to the bank and into its soothing shallows. He patted his neck with sympathetic encouragement as the thirsty animal eagerly gulped the refreshing water, then, taking out his pocket-handkerchief, he soaked it in the fast-flowing stream and wiped his own perspiring face before lowering himself to sit on the grass verge while his mount gratefully cooled his sore foot.

  There was still a considerable amount of traffic making its way in both directions along the road. Several carters went by, touching the brims of their felt hats in greeting as they passed, and a pedlar’s wagon, hung all about with pots and pans, brushes and broom-handles and the like, brought a instant smile to Maitland’s face as it rattled and clanked its way onwards. This was followed, shortly afterwards, by a well-sprung, open-topped landaulet, drawn by a pair of beautifully matched greys.

  Having seen that the owner of the carriage was frantically signalling to his coachman to check his horses, Maitland leapt to his feet. Almost before the vehicle came to a standstill, its owner was out of his seat and hurrying back down the road, a slight limp impairing his otherwise swift progress.

  ‘Will Maitland!’ he cried, in obvious astonishment. ‘By all that’s holy! What in the name of goodness are you doing here?’

  Grinning widely, Maitland strode quickly to meet him, both hands outstretched to grasp the other man’s.

  ‘Eddie Catford!’ he said. ‘My dear fellow! I had quite forgotten that your place is hereabouts. How are you, old chum? How’s the leg?’

  The Honourable Viscount Edwin Catford beamed back at his ex-army comrade.

  ‘Not worth a mention, dear friend,’ he replied, with studied nonchalance. ‘But why are you lolling about at the side of the road? Lost your way, old chap?’

  ‘Very amusing,’ chuckled Maitland, giving the viscount a light-hearted punch in the arm. ‘Actually, I’m heading for Dunchurch, but poor old Pegs picked up a flint a while back, obliging us to rein in for a few minutes.’

  ‘Oh, bad luck!’ Catford was instant sympathy. ‘Can we take you up?’

  He gestured towards his carriage and Maitland, turning, saw that the vehicle held other occupants.

  ‘That would be useful,’ he confessed, ‘but I see that you have ladies with you—I must not detain you.’

  ‘Nonsense! They’ll be delighted to meet you,’ avowed Catford, steering his friend to the side of the landau. ‘Ladies, this roadside vagrant is none other than an old comrade from my regiment—one William Maitland, Esquire. Will, allow me to present my cousin, Miss Georgianne Venables, and our neighbour’s granddaughter, Miss Stephanie Highsmith.’

  His two young passengers had been consumed with curiosity as to the identity of the stranger but, upon hearing Maitland’s name, the viscount’s cousin’s face lit up with a welcoming smile.

  ‘Major William Maitland!’ she exclaimed. ‘But surely you are the hero himself?’

  ‘The very same,’ replied Catford, grinning hugely at his friend’s discomposure. ‘Dragged me from the Jaws of Death without a thought for his own safety…’

  ‘Cut line, Eddie,’ begged Maitland, laughing. ‘That’s old history now—your servant, ladies.’

  Turning, he made his bow to the occupants of the carriage, both of whom regarded him with unconcealed interest, for the tales of Earl Gresham’s son’s exploits in the Peninsula had long held the locals spellbound, and there would have been few who would not have heard of Will Maitland’s daring intervention in what might well have been their young hero’s final action.

  Having had his horse shot from under hi
m on the field at Waterloo, the viscount had found himself pinned beneath the dying animal, unable to extricate his shattered leg. Notwithstanding the fact that their company had, by this time, been in hasty retreat, Maitland had wheeled back and leapt from his mount to heave his comrade out of the mud and up on to his own horse’s back. Miraculously avoiding both shot and cannon, he had managed to re-mount and head the animal in a frantic gallop back to their lines, for which courageous action he had been promoted and mentioned in dispatches.

  ‘Aunt Letty will be overjoyed to finally meet you face to face,’ said Georgianne. ‘She was so full of your bravery when she brought Edwin back from the military hospital at Chatham.’

  Maitland smiled. ‘Her ladyship has been kind enough to write to me on several occasions during the past year,’ he replied. ‘I look forward to calling on her.’

  ‘Which I hope you will do, as soon as may be,’ interrupted Catford. ‘But, for the moment, where are you bound? Tie Pegasus to the rear of the carriage and we will take you up as far as we can—give him a much-needed rest from your tiresome weight, at any rate,’ he added, with a grin.

  Maitland, returning the grin, acquainted Catford with his destination. On learning that the viscount was travelling to within two miles of Dunchurch, he gratefully availed himself of his offer and, having secured his mount’s halter to the rear of the landau, climbed into the vacant seat beside his friend.

  ‘You are bound for Gresham Hall, ladies?’ he enquired with interest, as soon as the coachman had whipped up the horses. ‘May I ask if you live hereabouts?’

  Although he had addressed his questions to both of Catford’s female passengers, it was the young lady seated directly opposite him who had captured the better part of his attention.

  Whilst Maitland was willing to concede that the viscount’s cousin, with her light brown hair drawn neatly back under a simple chip-straw and her placid grey eyes set in pleasant features, was far from unattractive, her looks paled almost into insignificance when compared with the breathtaking loveliness of Miss Highsmith.