The Fortune-Hunter

by Julia Herbert

  “You don’t think Mr. Maldon is a fortune-hunter, do you, my love? Your Papa seems to have a regard for him.”

  “I have come to the conclusion that perhaps I misjudged him,” Amy confessed. “But you know. Mama, even supposing I cared a jot for him, it would be a most imprudent match. He hasn’t a penny.”

  Mrs. Tyrrell smoothed down the front of her gown and waved dismissal at her maid who had been lacing it up at the back. “As to Mr. Maldon’s income, Amy—well, you know, your father could do a good deal for him in his career as a lawyer.”

  Amy thought about it. “I don’t think Mr. Maldon is the kind of man who would want his father-in-law to help him in his career,” she ventured. “But this is all suppositious! You know I don’t have to concern myself about Mr. Maldon.”

  “No, indeed, there’s only one young man we concern ourselves with, isn’t there?” Her mother sighed. “But, Amy,” she went on, “why does not Bernard propose? I’m sure I’ve expected your engagement every day since you were eighteen, but nothing comes of it.”

  Amy bent her head to conceal the blush of vexation that this thrust produced. “Well, ma’am, you know Bernard is only a year older than I. Twenty-one is full young for a man to settle.”

  “Why, my dear, your father and I were married when he was Bernard’s age—aye, married and expecting our family!”

  “Yes, but Mama, I think that my father was never like Bernard. Bernard is so—so lively and full of a thousand interests. Papa has always been serious, I imagine.”

  “I hope Bernard will prove to be serious,” Mrs. Tyrrell said, pouting. “It will be very dreadful if you have refused four offers for his sake, and then he fails you.”

  “But, dear madam, you wouldn’t have me accept a man—any man, Mr. Maldon for example—simply to avoid being an old maid?”

  Mrs. Tyrrell laughed. “You are in no danger, my Amy. Go, take off that hat and cap and get Molly to do your hair with some fresh flowers or perhaps a feather. Give Bernard something to think about—perhaps if he sees you have dressed up for Mr. Maldon he may wake up to his responsibilities!”

  Amy called to her maid as she went into her room, but the faithful Molly was already there with rose-water in a bowl and a scented towel. Together they worked on her appearance, the maid enjoying it perhaps more than the mistress. Amy was preoccupied; it was strange how her little interview with Mr. Maldon had affected her.

  As she came downstairs later she heard her father’s voice raised in anger. She paused on the staircase, surprised. Although he sometimes lost his temper, he had good manners that ought to have prevented an outbreak while guests were present. A moment’s eavesdropping told her he was speaking to one of the menservants.

  “And where,” he roared, “did you find eighteen shillings for a shawl, sir?”

  She heard a mumbled reply as she hurried downstairs to join him and perhaps soothe him back into good humour.

  “Out of your wages?” cried Mr. Tyrrell. “You’ve saved eighteen shillings out of half a year’s wages? Let me tell you, sir, that you’re a financial genius! Sir Robert Walpole could not have done so much!”

  She had reached the cool dimness of the hall now, to find her father confronting Stephen Boles, one of the footmen, a man for whom she had no affection. All the same, she mustn’t allow Papa to berate him a few yards away from the drawing-room door where their friends could hear.

  Even as she thought this, Mr. Maldon came into the hall from the drawing-room. “Is anything wrong, sir?” he inquired, leaning a little forward from his great height to see into the darkness of the hall after the brightness of the company room.

  “Nay, sir, what do you think of this rogue? All at once he buys a costly shawl for his sweetheart Nancy, and tells me he saved the money when we both know he earns insufficient to have done it.”

  Maldon met Amy’s eyes across her father’s shoulder. He understood the message flashed to him. “Well, Mr. Tyrrell, we both know that servants can have little extra occupations that bring in a trifle—”

  “Aye, and I know what this rascal has done. Tell me the truth, Stephen Boles—you dealt with the smugglers last week when you were sent into Poole for provisions, did you not? Bought cheaply from them, and kept the difference in price to yourself?”

  “No, sir, I swear, sir,” Stephen Boles began. “I never went near the smugglers, sir. I met a man at an inn—”

  “Don’t lie to me, sir! A man at an inn! So he stopped you and offered you Bohea tea at one-third the correct price, and you expect me to believe you didn’t know he was a smuggler? And in any case, what have you to say for the dishonesty of pocketing the money?”

  “Papa dearest,” Amy interposed, coming to him with a rustle of taffeta and taking his arm, “pray don’t be so angry with him. He did it to buy Nancy a shawl for her birthday—did you not, Stephen?”

  “Little enough to buy her,” Boles growled, “since she gets such poor pay and has nothing to spend on herself—”

  “Nancy gets paid the same as any other kitchen-maid,” Mr. Tyrrell interrupted. “Are you taking it upon you to stir up discontent among my household staff, sirrah?”

  “Mr. Tyrrell, I think he only meant—”

  “Perhaps so, perhaps so, Mr. Maldon. But you won’t defend a man who hobnobs with smugglers?”

  “But you have not quite established that he did that, sir.”

  “He bought tea from a man who offered it to him at a discount price. It has to be either stolen or smuggled—that’s common sense, sir. And that being so, Mr. Maldon, I think you’ll agree I have a right to be indignant.”

  “Well, it’s certainly true that—”

  “So you’ll have to go, Boles. I won’t have you in my house. I abhor dishonesty, and even more the activities of the smugglers, who undermine our entire society! As a justice of the peace it’s my duty to stamp on smuggling and all who support it—and so there’s an end of it, Boles! You’ll leave my house this night.”

  “Oh, Mr. Tyrrell, sir, pray don’t turn me away, sir.”

  “What else do you expect? I won’t have a thief and a supporter of contrabandists—”

  “But without a character, Mr. Tyrrell, I’ll never get another place.”

  “You should have thought of that before! You’ll be out of this house before sunset, sir, or I’ll take a whip to you.” Boles, small and broad-shouldered, abandoned his pretence of contrition. He shot a venomous glance at his master and turned away. “So much the worse for you!” he snarled over his shoulder as he stamped off.

  “What did you say? Come back here this instant!”

  But the footman had disappeared through the door to the servants’ quarters.

  Mr. Tyrrell turned a wrathful glance on his daughter. “And that’s the man you were trying to intercede for,” he muttered.

  “Yes, Papa, I believe I was wrong in thinking he meant no harm,” she agreed. “But you are very naughty to lose your temper like that. Didn’t you promise me you would never do it again after you frightened poor Mr. Hoddilow over those pigs he tried to sell you?”

  Despite himself, Mr. Tyrrell laughed. “Confounded rogue,” he explained to Mr. Maldon. “Tried to sell me pigs weighing two hundredweight after he’d poured water into them to make them heavy! I tell you, Mr. Maldon, there are few honest men in this world!”

  He pushed his grey wig straight and allowed himself to be shepherded back into the drawing-room where his wife was flirting mildly with Beau Gramont. “Look here, Eliza,” he addressed her, “what were you thinking of to allow smuggled tea into our kitchens?”

  Mrs. Tyrrell, startled, snapped her fan shut and turned to stare at him. “Smuggled tea, my dear?”

  “Didn’t you see that there was no Customs tag on the bag? Really, Eliza—” his voice rose a little—“it’s sheer carelessness. What would people say if they knew? I, who am so hot on the trail of the smugglers—”

  “Ah, George,” Beau Gramont said with a flashing grin that showed hi
s fine teeth, “it’s a hard role you’ve chosen! A magistrate who sets his face against the Pegmen has to watch his step.”

  “Pooh,” said Mr. Tyrrell, throwing himself into a tapestry chair, “it’s little enough to do, when one considers the risks taken by the riding officers. Poor Rivers...!” Rivers was a Customs officer with a stretch of coastline under his jurisdiction which, like others, he had to watch by riding its length several times a week. During the previous month he had been found dead on the beach, stretched out to drown by the tide after the fashion of the smugglers who terrorised the district—pegged down by his wrists and ankles to await the incoming waves. It was from this style of getting even with their enemies that they were known as the Pegmen.

  “If anyone asks my opinion,” said Gramont, “Rivers was a fool. We all know that dozens of the riding officers are in the pay of the Pegmen—why could he not have been less honourable?”

  “Come, Beau, that’s no way to talk,” Mr. Tyrrell protested. “They are very brave men, risking their lives and sometimes losing them.”

  “The more fools they!”

  “I can’t help thinking,” Bernard put in, “that it’s excessively foolish to ride around the countryside in an exciseman’s uniform. One could say it’s truly asking for trouble!”

  “Which they get,” Maldon countered.

  “Oh, so you defend them, do you? I think it foolish, and useless too,” Bernard said.

  Amy saw her father bridle at Bernard’s words, and interposed hastily to prevent an argument. Of course it was all a joke, but her father took it so seriously. He held that the Pegmen harmed the countryside in a hundred different ways—not only did they break the laws enacted by Parliament, but they took horses and cattle to transport their smuggled goods, made farmers hide the tea and tobacco in their outhouses, and lorded it over the local inhabitants like robber barons.

  Others might say that the taxes on goods such as tea, spirits, lace and tobacco were iniquitous, and that smugglers were doing their friends a favour by landing such cargoes on lonely beaches at night. Amy’s father believed that if the law was wrong it should be changed in Parliament, not flouted by ruthless men for their own gain. Amy was inclined to think he was right. But she didn’t want an argument about it now. .

  So she soothed him now with gentle protests, and charmed Bernard away from his conversation with inquiries about the horse he intended to buy.

  Mr. Maldon was so depressed by the sight that he took his leave as soon as he could, immediately the meal was over and without waiting to share the port with the gentlemen after the ladies had left them. Amy heard him go out to the stables to get his horse, and for some reason drifted to the window of the drawing-room in time to see him ride down the drive. If he had glanced back, she might have waved a farewell.

  But he did not.

  When at length the men came to the drawing-room for tea, it immediately appeared that something had happened to mar the tranquillity of the evening. To Amy’s experienced eye it was clear that her father was vexed; he was silent and grim, and she saw his glance turn, with something like bewilderment, towards the Gramonts, father and son. It was some jibe against the Government, no doubt, of which he was an ardent supporter. She sighed inwardly. How cross gentlemen became over politics!

  She asked Bernard what had occurred. He shrugged. “Your father wants troops out,” he said. “How the farmers would love that! Cavalry riding down the corn ...” He went on for some moments in rather ironic comment on Mr. Tyrrell’s proposals, so that she had no chance to lead him on to more romantic topics.

  One way and another, she reflected wearily while Molly undressed her, it had been a most unsatisfactory day. First Mr. Maldon and the perplexity of how to treat him; her father in a rage with Stephen Boles, and in a pet with his friends; and finally her disappointment with Bernard. Why it should seem so important that Bernard should have declared himself today, she couldn’t tell. But she felt as if some last, precious opportunity were slipping out of her hands.

  Perhaps it was the weather that caused this mood of depression. The wind had dropped during dinner; now a strange heavy calm prevailed. A good storm would clear the air, she felt. At length, oppressed by the heaviness of the air under the tester, she got out of bed and leaned out of the window.

  Outside everything was still. The garden was like a painted scene, all silver and shadow—the garden of an enchanter.

  Then she heard the creak of the postern gate that gave access between the Tyrrells’ grounds and Parall. A figure crossed the lawn and made its way rapidly towards the door of the garden room. She recognised that tall, portly figure—recognised the mood implied by that rapid, plunging walk. It was her father, and in a temper.

  She drew back and stood listening for him to climb the stairs, but the footsteps didn’t come. Presumably he had gone to pace himself into calmness, up and down the library, as he often did.

  She sighed and lay down in her bed again. Being awake and aware did her no good: she had better try what sleep could do.

  The next thing she was conscious of was a tremendous hammering which seemed at first to be inside her head. But when she sat up in alarm she found that the noise came from downstairs. It was a tattoo upon the oaken front door.

  A moment later it ceased abruptly as the butler went to answer it. A moment’s silence, then in the morning sunlight she heard Palmer hurrying up the stairs.

  “Mr. Tyrrell! Mr. Tyrrell!” he cried, knocking and calling at the door of her parents’ room. “Oh, Mr. Tyrrell, please come at once. Mr. Gramont is dead!”

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  At first Amy’s heart had turned to stone. She thought the butler meant Bernard. But by the time she had found her dressing-gown and gone out, the true facts were being revealed.

  Beau Gramont had been found dead in the hall of Parall, killed by a blow from a dagger.

  Mr. Tyrrell must go at once, as the local magistrate, to see that an inquiry was started. The village constable was scarcely capable of dealing with this. “May I come too, Papa?” Amy asked. “Mrs. Gramont may need help.”

  “She has daughters, Amy—”

  “But sir, they will be overcome! You know how they all adored their father.”

  He hesitated. “Very well,” he said. “But be quick.”

  She dressed with trembling haste and was with him as he hurried out of the house. It took only a few moments to reach the entrance hall of Parall, but at the front door the constable, John Day, put himself in her way. “’Tisn’t suitable for a lady, Miss Tyrrell,” he mumbled. “Be so good as to go in through the side door.”

  She did as she was bid without demur and hurried upstairs to Mrs. Gramont’s bedroom. There she found her with her three daughters, and which of them was most in need of her support it was difficult to say. Mrs. Gramont herself was prostrate with grief, incapable of forming a sentence. Janet, white as marble, was trying to make her take some soothing tincture. The two younger girls were huddled together in a duet of tears.

  Time flew by as Amy helped get Mrs. Gramont to sleep and persuaded Janet to go to her room and dress. The others, Mildred and Patty, she coaxed into coming downstairs to take control of the servants, who were wandering about without direction. By dint of hard work she got a meal cooked that served as an early dinner, though Janet refused to eat and Mrs. Gramont remained in the thrall of her semi unconsciousness.

  About two o’clock in the afternoon her father came in search of her. “Come, Amy, we must go,” he said.

  “Go?”

  “Fetch your shawl—ah, you have it. Then come along.”

  “But, Papa—I am needed—”

  “Someone else will have to take charge. We cannot stay.”

  “Cannot? I don’t understand you, Papa.”

  Her father flushed. “The fact is, Amy...”

  “What?”

  He cleared his throat. “They’ve asked me to go.”

  “Asked you to—? Who has ask
ed you?”

  “The constable—and Bernard.”

  “Bernard doesn’t want you here? But, in Heaven’s name, Papa, why not?”

  “Because, Amy ...” He paused and sought for words. “Because a magistrate ought not to conduct a case in which he must give evidence.

  “Evidence?” She caught at his arm. “I don’t understand. What evidence can you possibly give?”

  “We need not discuss that. In the meantime I must not stay here, child. So come along.”

  “But Papa, even if you go, surely I ought to stay?”

  Mr. Tyrrell put a heavy arm around her shoulders. “My dear, you force me to say it. Bernard wishes us both out of this house.”

  His words were like a wave of cold water dashing over her.

  She gasped. Then, white-lipped, she went without further protest.

  As they were going out of the door Constable Day came hurrying up, his plump face creased in dismay at what he was about to say.

  “Excuse me, sir—before you go—you’ll promise not to leave the district before the inquest?”

  Mr. Tyrrell drew himself up. “Certainly I’ll not leave the district! Why should I?” He turned and strode away, leaving Amy to run after him with her hands to her burning cheeks at the insult.

  When they reached home, Amy’s mother was sitting expectantly in the drawing-room. “Well, how did it happen? I always said one day Beau Gramont would meet a jealous husband who wouldn’t be satisfied with easy explanations. A duel, was it?”