by Beth Andrews
‘She must have known the rumors that were circulating about Monsieur d’Almain in the village,’ Lydia mused aloud.
‘Naturally.’
‘It did not take much to fan the flames of suspicion which would condemn him.’
‘And so she had no qualms about sending an innocent man to the gallows for her own crime,’ Mr Savidge commented in the stern but dignified tones of His Majesty’s official.
‘A mere trifle,’ John observed, ‘considering what she had already done in the name of Mammon.’
‘It is a pity,’ Aunt Camilla addressed Mrs Chalfont, ‘that you did not heed Sir Hector’s advice to lay up treasures in Heaven rather than on earth. Had you done so, you might not now be preparing to face your Maker with the stain of murder on your conscience.’
* * * *
Within the hour, all had returned to normal. The surgeon had set Mr Cole’s leg and shoulder, and he and his sister were locked up in a special room behind the stables which served as Diddlington’s gaol and which had so recently been occupied by the Frenchman.
Lydia and her aunt were once more ensconced in Mrs Wardle-Penfield’s old but sturdy carriage, along with John. However, on this return journey, d’Almain himself accompanied them. Each lady sat with her lover’s arm about her, and with nothing remaining to dim the light of their happiness.
‘I dare swear that Mrs Chalfont feels no remorse whatever for what she has done,’ Lydia commented in a kind of wonder.
‘Which should remind us,’ d’Almain answered her, ‘what a blessing guilt can be. Guilt and shame must have prevented many from acts of the most reprehensible kind. Fortunately, most of us are hampered by conscience - if not by inclination - from attending to the promptings of our baser instincts.’
‘They are a wicked pair,’ Camilla said, referring to the housekeeper and her brother, ‘to kill for something which did not rightfully belong to them.’
‘The love of money,’ John quoted blithely, ‘is the root of all evil, as the apostle warns us.’
‘Thankfully, they did not profit by their crimes,’ Lydia said with some satisfaction.
‘And my father has apologized to you, sir, for his unfounded suspicions.’ John inclined his head in the direction of the Frenchman.
‘It was only natural that, as a foreigner, I should be the most obvious suspect.’ He smiled with a somewhat rueful fatalism. ‘It is my rightful role, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Natural?’ John considered the matter. ‘Perhaps. But not really justifiable by any standard of reason.’
‘Ah! My friend, how often is reason employed by our fellow men in such a case?’
‘Very seldom, I should think,’ Lydia answered his rhetorical question.
‘At any rate,’ d’Almain said, changing the subject, ‘I must thank you both for your efforts on my behalf. Without you, I would soon be facing the prospect of a well-tied noose, rather than preparing for my wedding.’
‘Though there may be little difference between the two,’ John suggested.
‘You will soon find out the difference for yourself, sir,’ Lydia challenged him.
This directed their thoughts in more pleasant channels, and Camilla and Lydia were soon debating what might be the best dates for their prospective nuptials. The gentlemen were asked to contribute to this discussion, though it was clear that their opinion was a mere formality. This was a sphere in which ladies reigned supreme, while men were mere ciphers.
‘I can hardly believe it!’ Aunt Camilla said with a sigh and an adoring gaze directed toward her fiancé. ‘Soon I shall be Madame d’Almain.’
Lydia and John, watching the gentleman seated opposite them, were surprised to see a flood of rose-red surge up into his cheeks. He cleared his throat, obviously ill-at-ease, and it required no great wit to discern that he was about to reveal something which caused him no little embarrassment. Even Camilla must have sensed that something was amiss.
‘What is it, my dearest?’ she asked apprehensively.
‘There is something I must tell you, ma chère.’ His arm tightened about her, as though he would protect her from a blow which might be of his own making.
‘You are not going to confess to having killed someone?’ Lydia asked him, her mind still occupied with murder and general mayhem.
The Frenchman smiled slightly before he imparted his news.
‘Whatever it is,’ Camilla said bravely, ‘it can never change my love for you.’
‘I am glad of that!’ her love exclaimed, looking deep into her eyes.
‘For Heaven’s sake!’ Lydia cried, interrupting this inappropriately intimate moment. ‘Tell us what is wrong.’
‘You are not going to be Madame d’Almain - precisely,’ he stated simply.
‘What!’ Camilla blenched at this. ‘You are not going to marry me?’
‘Of course I am going to marry you.’ He was quick to alleviate her misapprehension. ‘But in truth, I am not Monsieur Henri d’Almain.’
‘You are not?’
‘No.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘I am Henri Phillipe Augustin de Bretonville, Comte d’Almain.’
‘Comte d’Almain?’ Camilla repeated, her mind grappling with this information but failing to comprehend its import.
‘Yes. When we are wed, you will become the Comtesse d’Almain.’
‘A French aristocrat.’ John chuckled appreciatively. ‘If that don’t beat all.’
‘Oh Lord!’ Lydia fell into whoops, laughing until the tears streamed down her cheeks.
‘How can you be so unfeeling, Lydia?’ her aunt chastened her. ‘This is dreadful! I cannot marry a French aristocrat.’
‘You do not love me?’ the horrified Comte demanded.
‘Of course I love you,’ Camilla said. ‘I have always loved you. But I am a mere Miss Denton, not a comtesse!’
‘You need not fear being too grand,’ d’Almain warned, realizing that her innate shyness made her feel woefully inadequate to such an exalted position. ‘My title, I fear, is all that I can offer you. My family’s wealth was lost in the terror.’
‘But how came you into Sussex, sir?’ John could not refrain from enquiring.
The Comte explained that, while living in London he had befriended a young man whose mother had lodgings in Diddlington. Wishing to escape the narrow confines of the émigré community in town, and to earn his living without having to apologize for it to every aristocrat, he had moved to the country.
‘I did not intend necessarily to remain in Diddlington,’ he confessed charmingly, ‘until I made the acquaintance of a certain Miss Denton.’
‘Oh, but it is too much!’ Lydia said. She had managed to govern her laughter by now. ‘Forgive my unseemly behavior, sir. But I was only thinking how Louisa’s match will be thrown quite into the shade by this news. I cannot wait to write and tell Papa all about it.’
‘You are incorrigible, Lydia,’ her aunt said, but could not hold back a smile herself.
‘If you say so, Madame la Comtesse,’ her niece quizzed her. Indeed, she never afterward referred to her aunt as anything else.
* * * *
With such a conclusion to a most eventful day, it was quite a gay party which descended from the carriage when it reached Fielding Place, the home of Mrs Wardle-Penfield. That good lady was on the watch for their return and invited them all in for tea. The old tabbies of the village had already begun to mew, and it was already known that something of great moment was going forward at Bellefleur that day. Naturally, the great lady of Diddlington must be assured of being the first to learn exactly what had occurred.
Mrs Wardle-Penfield was not one to be put out of countenance, but the tale unfolded by her four guests was such as to make her spill a goodly amount of tea upon her best linen - though, mercifully, not on her puce silk afternoon-dress.
‘Incredible!’ she cried at one point. ‘Quite incredible.’
She declared that she had known all along that her French friend was too great a gentlem
an to have been involved in anything as sordid as murder.
‘One can always tell quality, my dear comte.’ She inclined her head graciously toward him. ‘And as for that unspeakable woman and her - brother, did you say? - have I not always maintained that it was not one of our own who committed so foul a crime?’
‘So you did,’ Lydia agreed, exchanging a look with her aunt, which intimated their shared remembrance that the lady’s suspicions had been centered almost entirely upon the Frenchman.
‘Yes.’ The old woman was more than pleased with herself. ‘They are Londoners, you say? What else can one expect from that bastion of brutality?’
It was not long before Mrs Wardle-Penfield had pretty much talked herself into believing that she alone was responsible for solving this most perplexing problem. Had she not supplied the carriage to convey them all to the very lair of the two cowardly killers? Had it not been her sage counsel which had led to their capture?
Her visitors derived a great deal of entertainment from her performance. However, after some time, her soliloquy on the subject became too lengthy and repetitious, and everyone expressed a shocking degree of fatigue and discovered in themselves a strong necessity of being at home in order to recover from the strain of the day.
* * * *
‘You should be very proud of yourself,’ John complimented Lydia when they were able to steal a few minutes alone together.
‘I was not the one who provided the solution to this mystery,’ she demurred.
‘Do not be so modest, love.’ He placed his hands upon her shoulders and drew her close to him. ‘You know that I would never have stumbled upon the truth as I did without your help.’
‘We have done well, have we not, John?’ She wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled up at him.
‘We are perfectly matched, I think,’ he agreed.
‘In that case, Mr Savidge,’ she said, pouting, ‘I think it most disagreeable that you have not kissed me this age.’
‘That is easily remedied.’
He proceeded to rectify his omission, to their mutual satisfaction, and it was some time before he returned home to discuss the events of the past few hours with his father. His betrothed, meanwhile, made her way upstairs to her aunt’s bedchamber, where the two women indulged in a comfortable coze which lasted until well after midnight. Then, feeling that quite enough had been accomplished for one day, Lydia fell into bed and into her customary deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter Twenty-five
THE FINAL KNOT
Summer was at its last prayers, but managed an almost miraculous renaissance for the wedding of Miss Lydia Bramwell to Mr John Savidge. The little church was filled with the usual assembly of well-wishers, ill-wishers, and those who wished only to see and be seen. So much had transpired over the past months, that a mere wedding seemed almost insignificant in the scheme of things. Nevertheless, it represented a blessed return to the ordinary and a brief moment of gaiety and pleasure before the bleak days of autumn and winter obliterated the last of the summer roses.
Among the guests was the newly married Comte and Comtesse d’Almain, fresh from their bridal trip to the Lake District - a highly suitable corner of England for so romantic a couple. For the moment they remained at the bride’s cottage, though there was already some talk that they might soon be moving nearer to town. Many eyes were upon them during the ceremony, though they had eyes for none but each other.
The bride’s sister, Miss Louisa Bramwell, was there, tricked out in the very latest of London fashions, which every lady present examined with a mixture of envy and a careful catalog of each tiny detail which they might copy to embellish their own country wardrobe. Attached to Miss Bramwell’s arm was her fiancé, Sir Reginald Pevensey, a dignified-looking man who must once have been quite handsome in his way. His manners were universally pleasing, though less charitable persons were inclined to dismiss him as a nincompoop. However, his future bride was clearly enamored - if not of his person, at least of his wealth and title - and was eager to show off her ‘dearest Reggie’ to all and sundry. She would doubtless be as happy in their union as she had any right to expect.
Lydia was especially delighted to be once more united with her parents. It was the last time they would behold her as a spinster, and she detected an uncharacteristic mistiness in her father’s eyes. Mama’s expression was one of almost beatific rapture. With her youngest daughter married, and the eldest only months away from that state of ultimate felicity and security, she had fulfilled every mother’s fondest dream.
Even John’s father had forgotten his earlier reservations concerning his son’s match. In fact, he could not have been more contented with the way that everything had turned out. Lydia might have seemed an unimpressive catch at first. However, the elevation of her relations had increased her own worth immeasurably in his eyes. Indeed, from that time on, Mr Savidge never mentioned his daughter-in-law to anyone - be they intimate friend or perfect stranger - without also taking pains to describe her sister, Lady Louisa, and her dear aunt, the Comtesse d’Almain! He had high hopes that his grandchildren would attain the loftiest of heights, quite eclipsing their humble parentage.
He had even expended a considerable amount of blunt in procuring for his offspring a wedding present beyond anything they could have imagined - - or desired. Sir Hector’s American relations, the new owners of Bellefleur, were not interested in cumbersome English estates, and had been eager to part with the property at an absurdly low price. Three days before their wedding, he placed the deeds in John’s hands.
There was little that either John or Lydia could do but accept such a generous offer. Many of their acquaintance felt that they displayed a deplorable lack of sensibility in seeking to inhabit an aristocratic home far above the station to which they had been born. Then too, there was the fact that at least one person had been murdered there. Who could tell what supernatural baggage might encumber their new home and disturb their domestic tranquillity?
Of course, neither party cared a fig for such nonsense. John looked forward to enclosing some of the land in order to breed racehorses. Lydia expected to enjoy running a large household, and made a mental resolution to read — or at least attempt to read - every book in Bellefleur’s vast library.
As for Sir Hector’s famous treasure, it had by now been identified by those who were familiar with such antiquities as perhaps the oldest extant copy of the Gospel of Saint John. There was some argument in regard to the precise date, as there always is in such cases, but the general consensus was that it was certainly no later than the beginning of the second century.
And so Lydia’s season in Sussex had consequences beyond anything she could possibly have imagined. Who could blame her for the feeling of pride and self-satisfaction which filled her breast as she settled into the carriage beside her new husband and they pulled away from the inn that evening, to cheers and waves from their family and friends?
‘Well, Mrs Savidge,’ John quizzed her gently, ‘you have had an extraordinary season, have you not?’
‘I certainly have had smugglers and murderers and husbands enough for any young lady!’ she retorted.
‘You are content with your lot, then?’
‘Reasonably so.’
‘What would you add to your desiderata?’ he enquired. ‘Another murder, perhaps?’
‘Or another husband ...’ she suggested saucily.
‘I’m afraid you will have to make do with me.’
She heaved a heavy sigh. ‘Very well then. It will have to be another murder.’
‘I have heard of a very suspicious death in Hampshire,’ he said, raising one eyebrow suggestively.
‘Truly?’ She was intrigued in spite of herself. ‘That is not very much out of our way, is it?’
He laughed and pressed her close to his side. ‘I am very sorry, my dear,’ he told her, ‘but I refuse to spend the first few weeks of my married life hunting for a killer in Hampshire!’
‘
What better way to spend it?’ she objected.
‘I can think of several things I would much prefer to be doing with my new wife,’ he admitted.
‘What sort of things?’
‘That,’ he said mysteriously, ‘is something which you will soon discover for yourself! I can only assure you that it will be much more pleasant, and I trust will put all thoughts of murder out of your head.’
The two Misses Digweed, watching the carriage carrying the newlyweds disappear in the distance, shook their heads and muttered their own cryptic comments, which they did not hesitate to impart to Mrs Wardle-Penfield.
‘Most imprudent match,’ said the eldest.
‘So well-suited,’ the younger added eagerly.
‘A regular hoyden.’
‘Charming girl.’
‘It cannot last.’
‘Delightful couple.’
‘A pair of simpletons.’
‘So clever!’
‘Well, they’ll rub along tolerably.’
‘So they will.’
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
I,
the author of the preceding opus,
do hereby dedicate
this poor bagatelle
to Raymond and Mebane
for your support and encouragement
to starving artists
of the romantic kind
(Notably myself)
Copyright © 2006 by Beth Andrews
Originally published by Robert Hale [UK] (ISBN 978-0709081098)
Electronically published in 2013 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
http://www.RegencyReads.com
Electronic sales: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
