The Major and the Country Miss

by Dorothy Elbury

  The rear doors of the ballroom had been flung open and several groups of people were standing about on the terrace, taking advantage of the balmy evening air. Faint strains of music could be heard issuing forth from within the room and, at her sudden realisation that the musicians were playing a waltz, Georgianne’s eyes moistened and a little lump lodged in her throat. Every fibre of her body cried out in protest at having to let Maitland go without even bidding him a final farewell. Dancing with him had filled her with the most incredible feelings of delight, but then, as the sharp realisation that this enchanting memory would be all she had to sustain her in the long, dreary days ahead suddenly hit her, she let out a soft sigh of regret. Slumping wearily down into the window-seat, she pressed her brow against the windowpane and, closing her eyes, allowed her mind to drift back to that indescribable moment when she had found herself, once again, wrapped in Will Maitland’s arms. At least no one can take this away from me, she thought, as the sound of the lilting music drew her once again into her own private world of make-believe.

  Having been obliged to hang about cooling his heels on the fringes of the crowd pressing around the happy couple, Maitland’s indignation at Catford’s perfidy was increasing by the minute and, by the time that the viscount was finally free of well-wishers and able to be approached, his impatience had reached boiling point.

  ‘What in God’s name are you up to?’ he demanded, his face like thunder as he confronted his ex-comrade.

  Catford looked startled. ‘Steady on, old chap!’ he cried. ‘No need to lose your rag! Would have liked to tell you but, as the dear old pater said, Alice’s parents wanted to keep it all “hush-hush” until after her birthday!’

  Maitland couldn’t believe his ears. ‘You’re telling me that this was all arranged some time ago?’ he demanded.

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s always been on the cards, really,’ replied Catford, with a self-conscious grin. ‘The parents got their heads together when she was little more than a babe-in-arms and, all things considered, I have to admit that she’s turned into a pretty good sort of girl, really!’

  ‘Pretty good sort of girl!’ repeated Maitland, horrified. ‘Do I take it that you’re not in love with her, then?’

  Catford stared at his friend in disbelief. ‘You know damned well that fellows in my position seldom have the luxury of marrying for love,’ he replied, somewhat stiffly. ‘Our lives tend to be governed by rather more practical issues—such as increasing land and assets and maintaining bloodlines. Besides which, a good many of my peers are still of the opinion that what they like to think of as “the ruling class” would go to the dogs if people like me were allowed to let our hearts rule our heads!’ He gave a little half-laugh, before adding, with a slight shrug, ‘No doubt that’s why so many of them have mistresses.’

  Casting his eyes across to where his intended bride was standing, excitedly showing off her ring to a cluster of admiring female friends, his expression softened. ‘Although, to tell the truth,’ he added quietly, ‘I’ve always been rather fond of Alice and I’m sure we will rub along famously.’

  ‘Rub along!’ Maitland was incensed. ‘But what about Geor—Miss Venables?’ he demanded.

  ‘Georgie? Not sure I get your drift, Will!’

  For a moment, Catford looked perplexed, but then, as it suddenly came to him that there had been no sign of Georgianne amongst the crowds of well-wishers, a worried look came over his face. ‘Damnation!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’d almost forgotten about Georgie! After all she’s been through, this won’t have gone down very well!’

  He scanned the room, searching for a sight of his cousin then, with a muttered oath, he turned back to Maitland. ‘Did you happen to see where she went, old chap?’ he enquired anxiously.

  ‘Miss Venables left some time ago,’ came Maitland’s terse reply. ‘And not looking at all the thing, if you want my opinion!’

  Clapping his hand to his forehead, Catford let out a low moan. ‘Oh, lor!’ he said. ‘The poor darling must be thinking that I’m about to desert her!’

  Dumbfounded, Maitland stared at his friend in astonishment. ‘You surely aren’t intending to keep up your—liaison—with Miss Venables after you’re married, do you?’

  ‘Well, naturally I—’ Catford’s voice ground to a halt and his eyes widened in consternation. ‘Liaison!’ he repeated. ‘Dammit, man! You can’t possibly mean what I think you mean!’

  At the sight of the patently horrified expression on his friend’s face, Maitland began to wonder if he might not have got hold of quite the wrong end of the stick, insofar as his supposition about some sort of clandestine relationship between Georgianne and her cousin was concerned.

  ‘No such thing, old chap,’ he put in hurriedly. ‘I wasn’t intending to accuse you of anything—I was simply concerned about how Miss Venables would go on without your support.’

  His face clearing, Catford gave his friend a piercing stare. ‘You really care about her, don’t you?’ he asked quietly.

  At Maitland’s reluctant nod, the viscount’s lips twitched briefly and he went on, ‘I was beginning to think so—hope so, as a matter of fact, and, unless I’m very much mistaken, I would say that Georgie feels pretty much the same way about you!’

  Maitland’s eyes widened and he could feel his heart setting up a most irregular beat. ‘What makes you think that?’ he asked, in a studied monotone.

  ‘Oh, only that she’s been displaying much the same symptoms as you have yourself,’ laughed Catford, clapping him on the back. ‘Picking at her food and secret yearning glances and all that sort of thing! Thing is, old chap, what do you intend to do about it?’

  ‘Well—if you really think I stand a chance—I’ll declare myself straight away, of course!’ returned Maitland, his expression brightening.

  ‘Yes, well, there’s the rub,’ said the viscount, a deep frown furrowing his brow. ‘Knowing Georgie as I do, I very much fear that she will feel obliged to turn you down.’

  ‘Feel obliged?’ Maitland stared at his friend in some confusion. ‘Why should she feel—?’ He stopped and a slight flush crept across his cheeks. ‘Oh, I see! I’m not in the right league, is that it?’

  ‘Rubbish, Will!’ Catford retorted, with a swift shake of his head. ‘That’s far from the truth, as well you know. It’s just that…’ He hesitated, eyeing Maitland searchingly for several moments before going on, ‘’Taint really my place to tell you this, old man, but I can’t see that anyone else is going to put you in the picture, so here goes! The thing is—that’s to say, the reason Georgie goes out of her way to keep all the fellows at bay is because she’s got it into her head, after that bounder in London backtracked on his offer, that no decent chap will want her!’

  ‘Why on earth would she think that?’ demanded Maitland hotly. ‘She’s quite the most adorable creature that I’ve ever met and I doubt that I’m the only man who finds her so!’

  Distractedly chewing at his lower lip, Catford was silent for a moment or two. Then, seeming to have finally made up his mind, he took a deep breath and blurted out, ‘The fact of the matter is that the fellow withdrew his offer because he discovered that Georgie’s parents were never married and now she’s of the opinion that every other chap she meets is bound to react exactly as he did!’

  Although he could not help but be shaken at the viscount’s somewhat startling revelation, Maitland was also somewhat curious. ‘Am I to take it that she has never put that supposition to the test since this fellow reneged on his offer?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Never!’ returned Catford, with a hurried shake of his head. ‘She’s always made damned sure that she’s never been in a position to do so!’

  He eyed his friend keenly. ‘Should I be regretting having shared this information with you, Will?’

  Maitland gave him a pensive smile and shook his head. ‘Hardly, Cat,’ he answered firmly. ‘Whilst I can’t deny that it’s come as something of a shock, I promise you that it doesn’t have t
he slightest effect upon my feelings for your cousin. After all, the poor sweet can scarcely be held responsible for her parents’ misdemeanours. In any event, surely no man worth his salt would give a tinker’s cuss about that sort of thing—not if he really loved the girl. In my opinion, your cousin is well shot of the rotten coward who treated her in such an abominable fashion.’ A sudden grin lit up his features. ‘As to that, hopefully the miserable fellow’s loss will prove to be my gain!’

  ‘If I know Georgie, she won’t give in without a fight, Will, old chap,’ the viscount felt bound to warn his friend. ‘Are you sure that you’re up to the challenge?’

  ‘Just give me the chance!’ nodded Maitland, his eyes aglow with anticipation. ‘You may expect me on your doorstep first thing—oh, devil take it!’ Having just remembered the plans he had already made with Fenton, he screwed up his face in dismay. ‘It will have to be a little later, I’m afraid. There’s another rather pressing matter that I have to attend to first.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Shortly after ten the following morning, the two cousins made for the narrow lane behind Highsmith House where, they had been assured by Stephanie, they would find the woman for whom they had been searching. Having spent most of the night with his mind in a complete turmoil as to how he might best approach Georgianne, Maitland was only too keen to get the present interview over and done with as quickly as possible, in order that he might devote the whole of his attention to a subject that was a good deal closer to his heart than the mere discovery of Billingham’s long-lost heir!

  The men had no difficulty in locating the cottage, for its owner could plainly be seen in the tiny front garden, down on her knees painstakingly clearing the weeds from her flourishing herb garden. Small, plump and neatly dressed in a faded black garb, her head covered with a large black kerchief, the old woman did not look up at the carriage’s approach. It was the lifting of the latch on the garden gate that caught her attention and, despite her age and obvious infirmity, she rose almost gracefully to her feet as the two men approached.

  ‘Your pardon, ma’am,’ said Maitland, removing his hat, ‘We apologise for interrupting your work. You are Marthe Matthilde, I take it—or should I call you Mother Mattie?’

  The old woman’s face, deeply lined and weathered, creased into a smile as she carefully wiped her hands on her black apron.

  ‘Marthe Matthilde, messieurs—one-time Sister of the Order of St Clare,’ she replied. Although heavily accented, it was clear that her use of the English language was excellent. ‘It is the children who ’ave named me Mother Mattie—it is simpler for them.’

  ‘We are hoping that you may be able to help us, ma’am.’ He spoke carefully, having noticed that she bent her head towards him, indicating that she was probably hard of hearing. ‘We are anxious to trace the whereabouts of a young relative of ours and have been told that you may have information.’

  ‘But certainement, messieurs, if I can assist.’

  The old woman beckoned the two men to follow her into the cottage, which Fenton did with scarcely disguised reluctance, looking about him with distaste, although the little kitchen into which they were ushered was spick and span and the air was sweet with the aromas of mint and lavender, bunches of which were hanging in abundance from the rafters.

  ‘Please to take a seat, messieurs.’

  Indicating the cushioned settle that stood against the wall, she herself sat down on the rocking chair beside the glowing stove and moved the kettle further on to its hotplate. Then, turning her head towards her visitors, she enquired as to how she might be of assistance.

  ‘I shall ’ave to ask you to speak up a little, mes amis,’ she said cheerily, her face wrinkling into a smile. ‘I fear my ’earing is not as it used to be.’

  Having elected to sit himself at Marthe Matthilde’s table, Maitland pulled out his chair and moved it forwards, in order that the old woman might hear him more clearly. Then, after having introduced his cousin and himself, he went on to elucidate, as quickly and as briefly as possible, the reason for their visit.

  Leaning forwards and focussing her attention upon his lips, Marthe Matthilde followed his succinct explanation with a deep and concentrated interest, her only movement being, every so often, a slow and thoughtful nod.

  When he had finished, she leaned back in her chair and studied him closely.

  ‘You say that your uncle ’as charged you to find this lost relative?’ she asked, her rheumy black eyes fixed on Maitland’s face. ‘’Tis a pity that the man did not show such concern when le pauvre enfant came into this world!’

  ‘My sentiments exactly, ma’am!’ returned Maitland, with a smile. ‘Nevertheless, I did make him a deathbed promise that I would do my utmost to find the youth and—if possible—restore him to the family.’

  A little smile twitched at the corners of the old woman’s lips then, swivelling her eyes across to where Fenton was distastefully inspecting his boots for any damage that the walk up the cinder path might have caused them. ‘And you, Monsieur Fenton?’ she enquired. ‘You also ’ave made such a promise?’

  Fenton shifted uncomfortably on his cushioned seat. ‘Well, naturally, I’m just as keen to find the lad as Mr Maitland,’ he said hurriedly. ‘After all, there’s a great deal at stake here—’ He stopped, one look at his cousin’s expression having told him that this was not, perhaps, the wisest remark to have made. ‘I mean—er, that is to say—we’re all keen to do the right thing by our young relative!’

  But Marthe Matthilde was nodding. ‘Ah, oui!’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘I begin to understand. There is, perhaps, a large sum of money involved in this undertaking of yours?’

  ‘Oh, don’t you fret!’ exclaimed Fenton, leaning forwards eagerly. ‘We’re more than willing to pay you, if that’s—’

  ‘Oh, do hold your tongue, Jerry!’ cut in Maitland, shooting his cousin a scathing glance. Then, turning once more to face the old woman, he said, ‘Please excuse my relative’s lack of manners, ma’am. But, as it happens and, as you have just remarked, there is a great deal of money involved—the bulk of which, let me hasten to assure you, is to go to our cousin Melandra’s child.’

  ‘Who is, naturellement,’ Marthe Matthilde could not forbear from pointing out, ‘no longer a child.’

  She sat quietly for some minutes, digesting all that Maitland had told her but then, with a firm shake of the head, she prised herself up from her chair, saying, ‘No, messieurs, I am truly sorry, but I cannot think that, after all these years, it would be at all wise for any of us to interfere in this—’ ow you say—young person’s life. Milady ’ighsmith ’as always gone to a great deal of trouble to protect the identities of her infant charges. I cannot think that she would be ’appy to see all her good work come to naught.’

  ‘But, do you not perhaps think that this—young person, as you seem keen to refer to him,’ put in Maitland gently, as he also got to his feet, ‘is, at past twenty-one years of age, entitled to decide for himself whether or not to turn down the opportunity to win himself such a large fortune?’

  The old woman frowned, her heart and her conscience clearly at loggerheads with one another. Then, ‘Very well, monsieur,’ she said, at last. ‘It shall be as you desire but, I ’ave to warn you—on your own ’eads be it!’

  Picking up her stick, she limped off towards the door, bidding them follow her but then, pausing on the threshold, she turned and faced them both. ‘There is, however, one small matter on which I must put you right, messieurs,’ she said, as the beginnings of an inscrutable smile started to form on her wrinkled cheeks. ‘I fear you ’ave been badly misinformed about the gender of the infant to whom your unfortunate cousin gave birth—it was, in fact, a female child!’

  ‘A girl!’

  ‘Good Lord!’

  Both Maitland and Fenton were stopped dead in their tracks, each of them staring at the other in dismayed confusion.

  ‘And, to think that we’ve spent the last two weeks e
nquiring after a blasted “Étienne”!’ exploded Fenton.

  He scurried after Marthe Matthilde, who by this time had crossed the lane where, taking out a large key from the pocket of her apron, she proceeded to unlock the wrought-iron gate that led into the rear parkland of Highsmith House.

  ‘So, are you going to tell us this female’s name or not?’ he demanded angrily.

  ‘Patience, monsieur,’ she urged him, with a little frown of admonishment. ‘If you would care to follow me, I promise you that all will be revealed!’

  She led them through a coppice into a small clearing where, surrounded by a number of headstones and other memorial tablets, stood a tiny chapel, not much bigger than the little kitchen they had just left. Then, picking her way through the proliferation of weeds and tall grasses that had been allowed to flourish among the gravestones, she lowered herself down to the ground at the foot of a small black marble tablet and, with a corner of her apron, proceeded to rub away the years of accumulated grime.

  As soon as the carved out letters gradually began to reveal themselves, she sat back on her heels with a deep sigh. ‘Now you shall see for yourselves, messieurs,’ She nodded, pointing to the names on the headstone, which read:

  Here lie the earthly remains of

  Étienne-Georges St Cristophe

  9th Conte D’Arblaise

  aged 30 years

  and his eloved wife