by Joan Smith
“Yes.”
Officer Roy stood, feet apart, and nodded his head. “Burning up that bit of evidence wouldn’t have done you no good, miss. Nor will the rest of the money. You can’t spend it, not anywhere on this island.”
“I told you I don’t have the damned money! Are you calling me a liar?”
“A liar and a thief, I believe, are the words Mr. Maitland used.”
It was the last straw. I turned and left the room and ran back up to Mama and Esther. A moment later I heard the officer walk out the front door, and from the window I saw him enter Maitland’s carriage. I felt nauseated by the ordeal. I was too upset to talk rationally or even to think. I sunk onto the bed and told them what had happened. It felt as though I were relating a nightmare—that soon I’d wake up and it would be only a bad dream. Mama and Esther drew a coverlet over me, as I was trembling like a leaf, and left. I lay stretched out on the bed to recuperate. I couldn’t have felt more battered if a stagecoach and four horses had run over me.
What evil spirit possessed this house? Since the first moment I had set foot in it there had been nothing but trouble and questions that had no answers. Where was the money? Why had Graham given five hundred pounds to K. Norman, and where was K. Norman? What was my fiancé doing with a miniature of a ravishingly beautiful young woman under his pillow? Esther had attached a knock-kneed badger who was as close to a moonling as made no difference, and Mama a drunken old reprobate. And compared to myself, they had done well. At least their gentlemen didn’t hide their faults. They didn’t pretend to love them then call in the police.
Coming to London had been a very bad idea. I would turn the sale of the house over to a real estate agent and take the family home before we ended up in prison. Tomorrow Eliot was bringing the carriage. I found I no longer wanted it, nor any other memento of dear, unfaithful Graham. Who could she be, that smiling woman? I’d have Eliot take the carriage back to the stable to be sold, and we would bolt back to Bath.
The hard decision had been taken, and what had delayed it for so long? As if I didn’t know! I had countenanced the folly of the family because I was involved in a worse folly myself—the folly of thinking Desmond could possibly love me, when all he was doing was using me. He had arranged the card game "to get a sample of my blunt,” as the officer so genteelly put it. He had told me the bills were unmarked in hopes that I would feel free to use them. He had baited his trap, and though I was innocent, I was caught in it.
Once the decision to return home was made, I began to settle down to more rational thought. Where had the pound banknote come from, the one with the little cut on the side? I had won it at cards, but was it Yootha or Mr. Stone who had given it to me? Mr. Stone, wasn’t it? Yes, Yootha had lost only a shilling. I sat bolt upright, thinking furiously. Then it was Mr. Stone who had the money, obviously! And this very night we were engaged to go to the theater with a drunken thief with whom Mama was fast falling in love.
I jumped up and ran to the saloon to inform her of my discovery. She was still too infatuated to accept it. “You’re a hard judge, Belle,” she said mildly. “If the Mint damaged one lot of bills, they probably damaged hundreds—thousands.”
“But these were new old bills,” I argued, and had to explain my paradoxical statement till she understood it.
“Gracious, that doesn’t mean Mr. Stone stole the money. He might have gotten it anywhere. At the bank, or from a friend. Why, he plays cards with everyone, even the prince himself. My, you don’t think Prinny ...” Her hand flew to her lips. “No, it must be someone else.”
“I’m going to send a note around to Mr. Duke cancelling the engagement tonight.’’
Esther first howled, then burst into noisy tears, and finally fell at my feet, grabbing my skirts and begging, it would take a heart of steel to deny her, and mine was only stone. She was already crestfallen to be leaving London so soon; missing her one and only chance to see a play—well, it was too much.
There were the beautiful new gowns to be considered as well. We were all vain enough to want to wear them. We finally arranged that I would write to Mr. Duke informing him that we did not wish to be of the same party as Mr. Maitland. I doubted Maitland would have the nerve to keep the engagement, but there must be no possibility of it. If Mr. Duke were agreeable to making other arrangements, we would condescend to accompany him, and even that old thief, Stone.
“But you must not quiz him about the money, Belle,” Mama bargained. I agreed, but meant to hazard a few questions all the same.
Hotchkiss delivered the note, and we all sat on tenterhooks awaiting his return. Would Mr. Duke be at home? Would he find a replacement for Mr. Maitland, or at least agree to remove him, who was an older friend than we, after all, from the party? Esther was nearly climbing the walls by the time Hotchkiss got back. Mr. Duke was with him, full of apologies and jumbled explanations. In his shock, he forgot to be quite as terrified of me as formerly and was only ludicrously polite instead.
“A million apologies, Miss Haley! I cannot think what possessed Des, for in the usual way he is the best of good fellows, I promise you. Something must have gotten his dander up, and he never saying a word to me!”
“For that, at least, I am grateful,” I assured him. “It would be the outside of enough if he announced his unfounded suspicions to the world!”
“By Jove, he never would. Close as an oyster, and an excellent fine chap. Only, of course, he always was a bit of a hothead. I don’t know how I shall tell him he cannot come with us tonight, when he was looking forward to it so.”
“He cannot be thinking of coming!” Esther gasped, afraid that she would lose her treat yet.
“No, no, of course not,” Duke said swiftly, then went on to reveal the reverse. “I shall talk him out of it somehow, never fear. I’ll tell him—why, I shall tell him Miss Haley don’t care for his company. That ought to do it,” he said, looking timidly at me.
“That is exactly what I would like you to tell him, Duke,” I said approvingly.
Still, there was much talk and much wine taken before the slow creature finally got pen to paper and wrote the note, for he hesitated to inform his friend in person. He sent his groom off with the message and stayed with us till an answer was received. Actually, two letters were delivered, one to me, and it was thick enough to rouse my curiosity. With a great show of anger I ripped the thing in many pieces and threw it on the fire without opening it while Duke read his letter.
“He might have had some explanation, Belle,” Mama mentioned.
“I am not interested in Mr. Maitland’s explanations, Mama,” I said firmly, counting on Duke to tell him so.
“By Jove,” Duke said, staring at my behavior.
“Will you find me another escort, Duke, or am I to ride bobbin with all you loving couples?” I inquired.
“I don’t think I know anyone who would dare .... That is to say, at the last minute, you know ... Perhaps Uncle Charles could find someone.”
“Try Two Legs Thomson,” I suggested airily and in jest.
**
Later that evening, when we had made our toilettes and admired one another’s gowns and finally greeted the gentlemen in our saloon, it was indeed Two Legs Thomson who held his arm out to me, and it was to Two Legs Thomson’s heavy-handed gallantry that I had to listen all evening.
“It was kind of you to invite me, ma’am,” he began. “You quite turned my head with the honor. ‘Get me Two Legs Thomson,’ you said, quick as blinking, when young Duke asked who you would have.”
I glared at Duke. He jiggled in behind Esther and smiled—or I think that frightened look was supposed to have been a smile, at any rate. Already Two Legs had my hands in his. Before he took the notion that I had fallen in love with him, I had to quench his ardor. “The thing is, I don’t know any gentlemen in London. None at all, other than you,” I explained.
He winked his eyes, ducked his head, and whispered, “You won’t need to know any others. I can handle y
ou all by myself, miss.”
I wrenched my hands free and whisked away to the sofa, which had room only for one. Another mistake. It gave him an excuse to squeeze in uncomfortably close to me. I could smell the spirits on his breath, feel the heat from his bulky body, and I felt imprisoned. All my time was occupied restraining Thomson, which prevented my learning a thing from Stone about where he had gotten that banknote. It was going to be a fitting night to cap a disastrous day.
To escape the sofa and Two Legs, I suggested we depart for the theater a good half hour earlier than necessary, which left us sitting in a nearly empty building, waiting for the audience to join us. My little consolation was that Esther enjoyed it. She made a shameless exhibition of herself, using her fan like an accomplished flirt and using Duke’s opera glasses to spy out handsome gentlemen and well-gowned ladies, every one of whom was brought first to Mama’s attention, then to mine. More than one hedgebird whose only claim to gentility was the jacket on his back undertook to set up a flirtation with Esther, and she managed to indulge them all. She was smiling and nodding around the hall like a regular coquette.
Only the haziest memories of what occurred onstage remain with me. It was a wildly active romantic farce of some sort that kept the audience in peals of laughter. At the intermission some of Esther’s conquests invaded our box, making it impossible for me to get out and stretch my legs, for I didn’t dare to leave Esther untended while Mama and Mr. Stone left for a glass of wine.
What got me through the evening was knowing that in a few hours it would be over and we could escape back to Elm Street. I would lie down and forget this hideous interval. I would put from my mind Two Legs’s winy breath in my face, his foraging hands, which constantly required removal from my waist, my hip, my hands. I would forgethis slanderous comments on the audience and the miserable feeling that I had somehow descended for an evening in hell. The noise and din and lights would fade to blissful dark silence.
During the last act of the play I became aware of a gentleman across the hall who was apparently under the impression that the performance was in our box. He had his glasses trained on us unwaveringly. Another conquest for Esther, I thought, and I was about to turn away when he lowered his glasses and I saw that it was Desmond Maitland.
It took all my self-control to remain seated. My instinct was to jump up, fly across the hall, and beat him, but I did the polite thing and turned away. Not once more that evening did my eyes go a fraction of an inch left of center stage. I even quelled the urge to see who was with him, for he was in a full box, and I was a little curious to examine his companion. She was a young, pretty woman with dark hair and a red gown. White shoulders rose above the gown, and she appeared to be staring every bit as hard as Maitland.
When the play was over the ordeal ought to have been at an end; but no, Mr. Stone had arranged a dinner for us at the Pulteney Hotel. I began talking this down, but Mama got me aside and said, “They will expect to come home with us for a bite to eat if we don’t go, Belle. This is the easier way—we can leave them at the door.”
I girded my courage for another hour of forced gaiety and noise. Half the theaters in town emptied into the hotel after the show. The place was even more crowded and noisy than the Haymarket, but we were soon ensconced in a private parlor. The diversion of having a full plate in front of him gave Two Legs something else to do with his hands besides maul me. I ate a little and drank two glasses of wine, which improved my mood. It allowed me to imagine some humor in the affair: I must have become a little bosky, for in fact our night had more in common with vulgar melodrama than with comedy.
The elder gentlemen drank a deal of wine, Duke rather less. He stated two or three times that what we had seen was what he would call a play. When it was time to go home the two carriages were brought around. I had been unhappy to leave Mama and Mr. Stone alone for the trip to the theater but felt she was an uncertain chaperon for Esther. With Mr. Stone three sheets to the wind, I determined I would not abandon Mama to him. Yet to leave Esther, a young girl, alone with Duke was worse. I solved the dilemma by admitting to Duke that I disliked his uncle’s condition and charging him most severely with getting both Mama and Esther home safely.
“You arranged the party. It is for you to see that no harm comes to the ladies,” I pointed out.
“Daresay I can handle Uncle Charles. He don’t turn rusty when he’s disguised. Two Legs might. This breaking up will leave you alone with Two Legs,” he pointed out.
“There are two carriages, and we cannot all crowd into one. I can handle Two Legs.”
“I daresay you can,” he admitted.
My proud boast was soon put to the test. The sly old gaffer gave his driver some secret direction to drive us not home to Elm Street but to Hyde Park. In the dark of night, and lacking much familiarity with London, I didn’t realize we were going the wrong direction. I was pretty busy finding excuses to move from one banquette to the other to escape Two Legs’s advances. Not till the driver actually pulled into the shadowed drive of the park did I discover his stunt, and by then I had more than an inkling why he had chosen this dark, isolated spot. Even before his arm slid around my waist and pulled me along the seat, I knew what he was up to.
“Behave yourself, Two Legs!” I exclaimed, and pushed him away.
“I like a lively lass,” he said, laughing, and attacked me. His wine-soaked lips groped for mine. It was the most disgusting thing you can imagine, to have a drunken old lecher chasing you around a carriage. He was uninsultable. All my angry chiding was taken for playful encouragement.
“Never you mind, missie. Two Legs you wanted, and Two Legs you shall have. I’ve had my eye on you before. I was a little shy to speak up, but you showed me the way. Aye, it was thoughtful of you to get rid of the others. I couldn’t have done better myself,”
“I shall show you the way out of this carriage if you don’t sit back and behave yourself, sir!” I informed him.
“Nay, we’d both prefer the comfort and privacy of the coach,” he rallied. “I’m too old for performing outdoors.”
There was a new, frightening tone creeping into his voice. His hands, too, grew bolder at every attack. There was no reasoning with him. A rising panic invaded me. I would have to escape—to jump out of the carriage and lose myself in the shadows of the park. When the horses slowed down at a curve I already had my hand on the door handle. I threw it open and rolled out on the ground. Thomson’s carriage drew to a halt a few yards farther on. Two Legs got out, and I struggled to my feet to run. He moved very swiftly for an old man, whereas I was hampered by long skirts and high-heeled slippers.
The park was deserted at half past midnight. The air was cold, and the only illumination was a crescent moon, half concealed by clouds. Trees in the park rose up like black shadows in the still, gray silence. The only sounds were the wind in the trees, the soft thud of our feet hitting earth, and our gasping for air as we pelted along. I thought of abandoning the road, running into the bushes and trees, but I was afraid the footing would be even worse there; besides, I was just a little afraid of becoming thoroughly lost. Thomson wasn’t gaining much on me, but the thudding feet were drawing insensibly closer, and I couldn’t run much longer. Just when it began to seem he might overtake me, I saw a hope of rescue that gave me a last burst of energy.
A pair of carriage lights appeared in the distance, coming toward us. Not a moment too soon; my side was cramped and my breaths were hardly strong enough to fill my lungs. I staggered into the path of the oncoming carriage and waved my arms wildly. The driver saw me and yanked the horses to a halt. The welcome jingle of the harness and his hearty “Whoaa!” were music to my ears. Immediately the door opened and a gentleman got out. With the last of my breath I wobbled toward him as he hastened forward to meet me. When we were about three paces apart, I recognized my savior as Desmond Maitland.
Chapter Eleven
If there was a fate worse than being caught by Two Legs Thomson, it was being
rescued by the abominable creature who stood before me. I tried to revile him, but my breath was gone. I just slumped, panting, and was caught in his arms before I quite hit the ground.
A hundred jumbled thoughts and sounds and sights vied for attention in the next minute. I remember Maitland shaking me and demanding to know what had happened, was I hurt, and such things. His face was a white mask of anger glowing in the moonlight. When he had determined I still had some life in me, I was passed from his arms to the driver’s.
Maitland took off after Two Legs and knocked him down with one smashing blow to the jaw. I don’t know which sound was uglier—that of his fist hitting flesh or that of the accompanying curse—but both struck me as eminently suitable. Maitland returned and bundled me into the carriage. His angry mask had petrified into something resembling rock.
There were no warm bricks this time, but my feet burned from flying along the stony path. Maitland threw the fur rug over me, and I just as quickly shucked it off. My deep breaths reverberated in the small closed space. They were the only sound till Maitland drew a bottle of wine from the side pocket, uncorked it, and handed it to me without a glass.
Then I realized my throat was parched, and I lifted the bottle to drink directly from it. My arms were trembling, and my gasping for breath caused a gulping, unladylike sound. I drank deeply, then handed the bottle back to Mr. Maitland. Should I thank him, I wondered, or should I follow my heart and leave without a word?
While I pondered this decision his voice cut like a knife into the dark silence. “I hope you’re satisfied!”
I had been anticipating various reactions from him—an apology, sympathy—but certainly not this cold, vehement anger. Coming on top of a long, extremely vexing night, it was enough to annihilate common sense. “No, I’m far from satisfied! I’d as lief have been caught by Thomson as rescued by you!” On this brave speech I reached for the door handle.
His hand shot out and grabbed mine in a painful grip. I didn’t hesitate to use my nails to discourage him. When he pulled back in surprise I opened the door and jumped out. I wasn’t sure whether I had jumped from the frying pan into the fire or the reverse, but the park looked even darker than before, and I stood a moment before striking off down the road, away from Thomson. Though I would never in a million years have admitted it, I was half relieved when the door opened and he came after me. I hastened my steps along till he was required to run to catch me. He didn’t try to stop me or say anything but just walked along a step behind me, like a prince consort. I heard the carriage turn around and come lumbering after us.
