A Cousinly Connection

by Sheila Simonson

  She must make the news known. At the thought of her aunt's probable reaction, however, her courage failed her, and she tucked the letter into her reticule. She would await the right time. When in doubt, do nothing.

  Chapter IX

  Lord Meriden made a strategic withdrawal next day, apparently at some distance, for he took the gig and an undergroom with him, and apparently on an errand of some urgency, for he fled very early. Jane suspected her aunt had stunned Meriden as severely as Meriden's proposed changes had stunned her aunt.

  Lady Meriden had retired, hors de combat, to her bed, which did not surprize Jane. What did surprize her was that his lordship's disappearance affected her cousins. Felix sulked and practised, and practised and sulked. Maria wept sporadically. Drusilla asked a great many loud unanswerable questions.

  No one had the temerity to warn Horatio and Arthur of their impending doom, however, so the twins, troubled neither by their brother's presence nor by his absence, went on doing whatever they had been doing in the stables. For once they troubled nobody. Except possibly Thorpe.

  Jane waited a full day before making her way down to the stables. She went not so much from a wish to see the twins as from vulgar curiosity about his lordship's domesticated poacher. She found Thorpe rubbing down a sturdy bay hack and directing gruff remarks at her cousins. Horatio and Arthur were perched in the loft and appeared intent on a difficult task.

  Jane cleared her throat. The twins looked up.

  "Oh. Just Jane," said Arthur. Horatio grunted. They were engaged in polishing brasses, Jane observed in some astonishment, and bent back to their work without further comment.

  "Mr. Thorpe?"

  A lined brown face appeared over the bay's rump. One brilliant blue eye twinkled at her, and the other canted vaguely off to the left. An auspicious and a drooping eye. Jane wondered what she should say.

  "I came to see how the boys do," she ventured at last. "I'm Jane Ash, their cousin."

  "Ah, now, miss. Yon's a hard question. Thur none so quick wi' they brasses as a man'd wish, think on." Two straw-coloured heads poked up momently from the loft, then bent again over the tackle. Thorpe scratched his chin and favoured Jane with a twitch of his scarred eyelid. "But they do shew some promise, miss. Some promise." The boys began rubbing with supernal energy.

  "I'm relieved to hear it." Jane smiled. In fact she was relieved--and mystified. Hers not to question Providence, however, even in the guise of a one-eyed groom. She found it hard to place the man's speech--a hybrid with northern overtones--but ventured a reasonable guess. "Are you a Yorkshireman, Thorpe?"

  "Aye. Huddersfield way. Born in Yorkshire, bred in t'army, as they say."

  "You're far from home, then, on both counts."

  "That's so, miss." He gave the horse a final brisk rub and regarded her amiably from his good eye. She thought he was amused.

  "Er, have you served his lordship long?"

  "Seven years."

  "From Portugal to Waterloo, I collect?"

  His eyes--or eye--narrowed. "And in Yorkshire after. B#226;tman I was after Talavera. Trooper afore that. Lost me eye."

  "I'm sorry to hear it."

  "Ah."

  "I hope you're settling in comfortably at Meriden Place."

  "Tolerable, thank you, miss. It's none so snug as Whitethorn. Yon's t'major's place in t'East Riding," he added in affable explanation. "A sight smaller nor this billet, but reet comfortable, think on."

  "I'm sure it is," Jane murmured. Meriden Place reduced to the status of a mere billet, and not a snug one. How very fortunate Aunt Louisa never visited the stables.

  Jane suspected Thorpe of bamming her, but, as she didn't know how to respond in the proper spirit, she made a graceful exit and went blinking out into the daylight.

  "His lordship's just off to Dorchester," Thorpe said blandly from the stableyard. "In case they was wondering, up t'house."

  Jane fled.

  The afternoon was enlivened by Vincent's arrival in a dashing phaeton drawn by a pair of matched greys. Strangely he seemed in high spirits. As he had left them after Christmas sunk in gloom and muttering animadversions upon his still absent brother, Jane did not quite know what to make of this alteration, but she saw to his room, which lay uncomfortably near his lordship's. She failed to prevent him from closeting himself with his stepmama, where he would be regaled with his brother's latest atrocities, gave it up, and decided to wait on events. She anticipated another Scene without pleasure.

  * * * *

  Julian had not intended to leave Meriden in enemy hands after so brief an engagement. However, the same post that had brought Jack's letter to Jane had summoned Julian to Dorchester to a meeting with Horrocks, his man of business.

  Julian was not unmoved by Lady Meriden's performance. To have stigmatised her as a mere purveyor of Cheltenham tragedy would have been unjust, for she had clearly suffered a grave ordeal. In any case, Julian did not wish to think unkindly of her ladyship. It was some relief to him to find her relatively coherent, for her letters had left him in some doubt of her sanity, but he was sorely puzzled by her attitude towards him. Resentment he could understand. Beneath her excessive language, however, he had detected real apprehension. That was the puzzle. He did not suppose himself such an object as to strike terror into a mother's bosom.

  He had only the dimmest recollection of her ladyship from his childhood. Contrary to her imaginings, he bore her no ill-will for sending him off to his mother's family. From what he had observed of the family at Meriden Place, he thought she had done him a favour. In Lord Carteret's huge household he had found cousins his age to play with, an indulgent, elegant grandmère, and a severe but devoted grandfather. And, more immediately, a new pony upon which he could roam freely across acres of Devonshire moor. It was true that he had sometimes wished for his brother Harry and more than once dreamt of his own mother, but she was dead, in any case, and beyond wishing for. If Lady Meriden had accused Julian of bearing her a grudge, he would have been startled, for he remembered his childhood with pleasure.

  His stepmother aroused in him an uncomfortable mixture of compassion and irritated bafflement. It can be no easy thing to find oneself and one's children in the hands of a total stranger, but that must be laid to his father's door, after all. Why Lady Meriden assumed--a belief she had apparently transmitted to her children--that he meant to deal unjustly with them Julian could not imagine. The estates were grossly encumbered, but he had every intention of seeing that his brothers did not suffer from his father's folly.

  The trouble was, they had already suffered from his father's indifference. How to repair the damage without bringing on her ladyship's megrims exercised Julian's imagination all the way to Dorchester. There he found other matters to bedevil him, for Horrocks presented him with news. More of Harry's debts had come to light and must be discharged directly. His dead brother had borrowed heavily on the expectation. From friends.

  Horrocks disliked every place but London and indeed every part of London that was not properly the City. Dorchester pleased him not at all. Thus he was in no very cheerful temper when he laid Lord Meriden's tangled affairs before him. Nevertheless, he regarded the silent young man across the table from him with curiosity and sympathy.

  Meriden looked sick. "Why the devil did Harry need such sums?"

  "Your brother was a leading member of the ton, my lord." Which you'll never be from the look of you. "He was used to attend all the race meetings, of course, and must hunt with the Melton men. I believe he also frequented the more exclusive gaming houses. Faro, you know. The allowance your father made him proved unequal to the charge."

  "So I should imagine," Meriden said glumly. "Well, Horrocks, what do you suggest?"

  "There is the London house. A valuable property."

  "Encumbered?"

  "No."

  "Entailed?"

  "No."

  "Then sell it."

  Horrocks cleared his throat. Although he had dealt with th
e young man at some length in London that winter, he still found such despatch alarming. His noble clients were far more inclined to curse him, and to delay action until matters had become desperate, than to cooperate. His lordship's father had been among the more maddening, considering his creditors honoured by his patronage and debt the only gentlemanly condition. The Honourable Harry had been cut from the same cloth. Horrocks was torn between admiring his present lordship's determination to clear the estate of debt and thinking him somehow not quite the gentleman.

  "Well, what is it?" Julian asked.

  "That should account for about half the sum."

  Meriden swore.

  Horrocks straightened the papers on the table and set the standish carefully beside them.

  "I beg your pardon, sir," Meriden said, after a moment's pause. "Not your fault."

  Startled by this unwonted courtesy, for his lordship's father had been known to throw things at him in moments of strong emotion, Horrocks hesitated.

  Meriden ventured a suggestion. "I daresay a second mortgage..."

  "No. Unwise, I think. I would suggest...your Yorkshire property."

  "No! I won't sell that, by God! That's mine."

  "I had not intended so drastic a measure, my lord. I believe Whitethorn is clear of debt?"

  "Yes."

  "A loan on the next year's income would realise a respectable sum. The price of wool..."

  Meriden's face set in bleak lines, but he did not reject the notion.

  "If you could reduce the expenses of running Meriden Place beyond what we spoke of..."

  "Horrocks," Meriden said gently, "have you made Lady Meriden's acquaintance?"

  Horrocks blinked. "Why, no. I have corresponded with her. I thought her ladyship might be persuaded to remove with her daughters to Bath. She has an excellent portion, after all."

  "Meriden is her home."

  "Yes, it has been, sir, but if you were to marry, she must then set up her own establishment."

  Meriden gave a short laugh. "Unlikely--unless you mean to sell me to an heiress."

  Horrocks made no reply.

  Meriden stared at him. "My good man..."

  "No, no, my lord. No such thing. An instance, merely. As I was saying, if her ladyship were to remove to some congenial watering place, then you would be able to close the house and yourself remove with your brothers to one of your other properties."

  Meriden smiled slightly. "Take myself back to Yorkshire. No, it won't do. I must say I'm strongly tempted, but if I'm to be Lord Meriden, and God knows at this moment I wish I weren't, I shall have to spend the greater part of my time in Dorset. The properties here are not in good repair, and the tenants have long-standing grievances. My father spent little time on their concerns, and his agent, I don't scruple to say, was little better than a thief. I've sent him packing."

  Horrocks stared. "Surely you mean to replace the man directly."

  "Of course..." Meriden's eyes narrowed. "No," he said softly, "Why should I?"

  "My lord--"

  "Do you think I 'd make a muddle of it? Perhaps, but I could scarcely mismanage things worse than Peavey, and at least I'd have my own interests at heart."

  After a long considering pause, Horrocks nodded. "Your experience in Yorkshire would stand you in good stead. It might do. You'll keep on the bailiffs at Fern Hall and Rosehaugh?"

  "If they're competent." Meriden leaned back, smiling a little. "As to closing Meriden Place, if ever I decide to cast Lady Meriden from her hearth, Horrocks, I shall require you to explain the matter to her. Only consider how narrowly you have escaped this time."

  Horrocks covered an alarmed titter with his dry cough. A most unnerving young man.

  "I take it that we have once more steered a clear course out of the River Tick."

  "Just so, my lord."

  Horrocks left Dorchester next morning, having won his major points but feeling, most unreasonably, as if he had been outflanked, outmaneuvered, in a word, rompéd.

  * * * *

  Horrocks' feelings would have dumbfounded Julian, for he perceived no victory. He had what he knew to be irrational protective impulses about Whitethorn. Anything that touched it touched him to the quick. Thus he went, not home, but back to Meriden, blue-deviled and edgy and possessed of an unreasonable notion that he had forgot some vital piece of business. To make matters worse, he smashed his bad knee climbing into the gig. Instead of merely aching, it burned and stabbed at every jolt in the way, and he convinced himself he would be hobbling about, of no use to anyone, for weeks.

  In his misery he snarled at the timorous undergroom he had brought with him, and the boy lapsed into terrified silence which remained unbroken until they drew up before the stables.

  "Eee zur," he blurted. "'Tes Master Vincent."

  Julian very nearly turned the gig about and headed for the nearest inn. However, his sense of duty prevailed. Leaving the boy to haul his traps up, he steeled himself and entered the stables. Vincent was not in sight. Thorpe was--stolid and solid as ever.

  "How did you go on with my brothers?"

  "Yon niffy-naffy sprig?"

  "Vincent? No. I meant the twins."

  Thorpe grunted. "A fine pair of bandidos, me lord. Kept me to me word." He laid a thick finger on his scarred eyelid.

  "Did they? You must've worked 'em hard." Julian sat, with what grace he could muster, on an upturned keg.

  Thorpe grinned. "I did. Like as a pair of ferrets and twice as knacky, ain't they? Full of t'old Nick."

  "Hell-born brats." Julian stretched his leg cautiously and drew an involuntary breath. After a moment he went on, "They won't take kindly to being parted."

  "No, they won't, then. School 'em together."

  "You sound like her ladyship."

  "Ah." Thorpe gave him a shrewd look. "It was in me mind they'd be fair frighted without each other."

  "Frightened?"

  "Noan but lads, me lord. Never been apart."

  "Small for their age, are they not?"

  "Aye."

  Julian frowned. "Well, it won't be for some months. I hope that school Horrocks suggested in Lyme Regis may suit them, and God help the masters. D'you think the boys are quick to learn?"

  Thorpe scratched his chin reflectively. "Young Arthur, now, he's got a quick tongue. T'other don't say much, but to my mind yon's the one for the plotting and planning. Fair see un think."

  Julian was silent, turning Thorpe's observation over in his mind.

  "Twins is reet odd that road."

  "I know. That's why I thought to separate them...but you think they'll be frightened? I'd not have said so."

  "Thur none so bold and brassy as they'd have tha think, me lord."

  Julian stared at his clenched hands. "What if I guess wrong? My God, what business have I to be rearing children?"

  "Nay, then, let's run off to the Indies." Thorpe took up the leathers he had been braiding into a quirt and resumed his task.

  "There's the other boy, too. Felix."

  "Blinded?"

  "Yes. And vile-tempered and spoilt and bright as the lot of 'em lumped together."

  Thorpe clucked his tongue.

  "They've made a great baby of him." Julian drummed his fingers on the rim of the keg, torn by a vast impatience. The notion of himself in the rôle of parent might have seemed amusing, or at least ironic, from the safe distance of Whitethorn. Close to, the prospect was little short of nightmarish. He lurched to his feet and grabbed for Thorpe's shoulder without thinking.

  Thorpe steadied him. "Crocked tha leg again. Thought so. Stiffened oop yet?"

  "No, but it will." Julian's temper snapped. "Mind your business, damn your eyes."

  "Tha may damn un all tha likes," Thorpe rejoined, lapsing with acid dignity into broad Yorkshire, as he always did when he was strongly moved. "Thur sharp enow for all tha damning. Sneck oop and use tha stick. Me lord," he added as a palpable afterthought.

  Julian smiled reluctantly. "I'm in the hell of
a temper, Thorpe. Sorry."

  Thorpe grunted, unmollified.

  "That's all it needs, you know. A stick, a melancholic complexion, perhaps the least suggestion of a fevered brow--I'd find her ladyship drooping all over my waistcoat."

  "Thought tha meant t'make peace with un."

  Julian shivered. "Not on those terms."

  "Watering pot, eh?" Thorpe's normal speech reasserted itself. If he took umbrage often, he rarely held a grudge.

  "Tragedy Jill," Julian agreed. He took a few steps, keeping his grip on Thorpe's shoulder, and discovered that at least the leg held. "I don't know how it is, Jem, but you always bring out the worst in me. Her ladyship has undergone great trials."

  Thorpe chuckled. "They two rapscallions among un, I'll lay odds. And yon twig of deviltry wi' the flash rig."

  "Vincent--oh, God. I'd best go on up to the house, and do not," he added grimly, "mention the word stick."

  Thorpe forbore, but recommended bed and a particularly vile-smelling liniment which had, he asserted, done wonders for Dancer's right foreleg. These and other well-meaning prescriptions followed Julian out into the yard.

  He made his way to the house. It seemed a very long way, every five yards barred by some hideous obstacle such as a flight of terrace steps or a patch of loose gravel. He gained the door of his rooms in no very pleasant state of mind.

  His hand was on the ornate latch when Vincent erupted from a near chamber, slamming the door with thunderous violence. "Oh, I say, I'm glad you're back. Devilish late, ain't you? M'sisters expected you before noon."

  Julian resisted the impulse to plant his brother a facer. "How are you, Vincent?"

  "Merry as a grig. I say, Meriden, I must talk with you."

  "Now?"

  Vincent stiffened. "When it's perfectly convenient, of course."