Her mother was aghast at the plan. “Go to Winchester?” she quavered. “To the ... to the prison?”
“Since that is where my father is, Mama, yes, I must go to the prison.”
“But ... but it’s so unpleasant there, I hear! And unhealthy!”
“Aye, ma’am,” Amy said in a hard tone, “and my father is locked up there!”
The journey was uneventful if one discounted the bad roads and Bryce’s bad driving. The poor man had never handled a coach and four, but since there was no coachman he undertook the task. They went off the road several times and nearly overturned once, but at length they came into the town of Winchester as the light was fading. Amy was tense and full of apprehension at the interview that lay ahead; she intended to ask her father, pointblank, if he had harmed Beau Gramont.
And she was not quite certain of the reply she would receive.
Jeffrey Maldon got his first news of the case in his copy of the London Daily Gazetteer. He was sitting in a coffee-house off the Strand, passing away a morning while he awaited a summons to the office of Mr. Pitt. When, on turning the page of his newspaper, he came across the name of Mr. Tyrrell, he gave an exclamation that caused his neighbour to spill his morning chocolate.
“Why, what ails you, sir?” the man complained.
“Your pardon, sir. I have just seen something that surprised me mightily.” He read the column with growing dismay: Mr. Tyrrell arrested on evidence of an eye-witness to a quarrel, Beau Gramont dead ... “Good God!” he burst out, and got to his feet so roughly that he rocked the table and caused his neighbour to spill the remains of the chocolate.
“Damme, sir, take care!”
“Forgive me, and let me pass, sir. I’m in a hurry.”
“To do what, i’faith?”
“To get back to Markledon.”
“But Mr. Maldon!” was the reply. “You have an appointment with Mr. Pitt!”
“Mr. Pitt will survive the disappointment.”
“Sir,” said Mr. Pitt’s chief secretary, “the Paymaster-General does not like to be treated with disrespect.”
“Then devil take the Paymaster-General!” cried Jeffrey Maldon as he hurried out.
He fetched his horse from the livery stables and was on his way within the hour. The route led via Guildford and Winchester to Ringwood and the Hampshire coast, a busy and dusty road but hard underfoot, so that at least he was not delayed by bogged-down wagons or impassable quagmires. The thirty-mile climb to Farnham over the Hog’s Back tired his mount; he led him for the next hour saying soothingly, “There now, Gylo, good old fellow, take your rest, for we must push on again as soon as you’re ready.” There were still forty miles to go to Winchester. It was already well past noon. Yet in this fine autumn weather the light would hold a long while yet, and if he didn’t press Gylo too hard they could reach the cathedral city without killing themselves and in time to find a bed for the night.
Gylo, as if he knew what was expected of him, tossed his head and snorted when the road opened out ahead of him on the downward side of the hill. Maldon allowed him a drink at the next brook, while he himself washed his dust-streaked face, and then off they went at an easy canter that ate up the miles.
Winchester was a city that Maldon knew quite well. Although it was late evening as he trotted Gylo past the Butter Cross, the shops were still open and the tradesmen were out catching at passers-by, begging them to buy. There ahead, he could see a hubbub—a coach stalled in the crossroad, horses trampling and shying at the catcalls of a crowd who surged about them.
“Tyrrell, Tyrrell, we’ll hang him like a squirrel!” they chanted. “Pegmen for ever, Excisemen never!”
Maldon drew rein. What on earth were they about? What sense did it make, to beset a passenger in a coach, calling out against George Tyrrell? Tyrrell was in prison, safe from their abuse.
Unless...
He dug his heels into Gylo’s sides and went ahead at a fast trot. The men nearest him scattered a little at his approach, not in fear but simply so as not to be kicked by the big black’s hooves. They expected him to go past. He did not, he stopped alongside the coach. One glance showed him the Tyrrells’ initials on the panel. Regardless of whom he hit, he rode Gylo sideways, using his whip on the bystanders to clear a way.
Inside the carriage a small figure was huddled into a corner. He leaned forward and tapped on the glass with his crop. “Miss Tyrrell?”
He saw her brush clenched fists up against her cheeks. She was very frightened—and with reason.
“Take heart, Miss Tyrrell. It’s Jeffrey Maldon.”
“Mr. Maldon!” Her voice came to him faintly through the carriage door. “Oh, Mr. Maldon!”
She slid down the glass a little. Her face was pale as she leaned towards it. “Sir, can you tell me what has happened to Bryce?”
“Bryce?”
“He was driving the carriage.”
There was no one on the box. “He’s gone. I’m afraid, ma’am. Run off in the face of—”
“No, indeed, sir,” she interrupted, her voice rising in reproof. “They dragged him off his seat. Oh, poor Bryce, poor dear man, I hope they haven’t hurt him.”
“Where were you going, Miss Tyrrell?”
“I scarcely know, sir. To find an inn before setting out to see my father.”
“Very well,” he said. “Let’s see what can be done.”
He forced Gylo through the few men who stood between him and the driving seat of the carriage. He swung up to it from Gylo’s back. The reins had fallen between the two near horses, but his long arm reached down to retrieve them. “Up, then, my beauties,” he said, snapping the leather against their backs. “Up, walk on, walk on!”
A howl of anger arose as the crowd understood his intention. “Tyrrell’s man, Tyrrell’s man!” they shouted, clutching at the side of the coach.
But the horses, frightened by the hubbub, were only too eager to move. They plunged forward, scattering those ahead of the coach. One or two rascals began to walk alongside, banging on the sides of the vehicle to frighten Amy, but at a whistle from Maldon Gylo began to canter from one side to the other, crowding the walkers against the wheels so that good sense told them to retire. By the time they turned into Jewry and drew up beside the George Inn, the escort had fallen away.
The ostlers came forward to unhitch the horses. Maldon jumped down from the box and opened the carriage door. Without waiting to put down the step, and scarcely thinking what he was about, he swung her down in his arms. She clung to him in relief and gratitude.
“Miss Tyrrell!” he said. “Are you all right?”
“Faith, sir, if you discount a bad attack of the trembles, I’m well enough,” she said in a voice that shook.
“But what are you doing here, ma’am? And with no footman nor maid?”
“I ... It’s a long story, sir. I’ll bore you with it later, if you’ll permit. But I’ll say this, Mr. Maldon—I was never so glad to see anyone in my life!”
He stood gazing down at her, one arm still around her to support her, and for a moment she saw a blaze in those grey eyes that took her aback. But in a moment it was gone, and he was all urbane politeness. “Let me take you indoors,” he said, “and bespeak a room. Then when we have sent for some refreshments perhaps you will make me au fait with what has been happening.”
The keeper of the famous George Inn was justly proud of his accommodations. A comfortable room was put at Amy’s disposal, her portmanteau was brought up, she washed the grime of travel from her face and set in order the tight curls of her lightly powdered hair. Then, much restored, she went down to the private parlour where the tea things had been set.
Mr. Maldon was already there. He said at once, “To set your mind at rest, I have made inquiries for Bryce and I hear he took refuge in a haberdasher’s shop. I have sent to fetch him here to you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Maldon. I couldn’t forgive myself if harm had come to him.”
“And yo
u? What has been happening to you? I read the news in the London paper.”
“Aye, sir. A strange affair, isn’t it? A justice of the peace arrested by his own parishioners.” Quickly, without undue emphasis on the pain her family had endured, she told him what had occurred and why she was here in Winchester: to see her father and receive his instructions.
“Come, sit down,” Maldon said, leading her to an elbow-chair. “You have had a bad experience here, but there’s no reason to believe the animosity towards your father will last long. Once you have found a lawyer to take the case, everything will become easier. I should like to think I could be useful to you, Miss Tyrrell. If you will tell me to whom I should apply to offer my services, I will do so as soon as I can.”
“Thank you, sir. You are very kind. But... but there is no one to whom I can send you.”
“I don’t follow you. Who is standing in place of your father—who is in the role of head of the family? Mr. Pierce?”
“No, Mr. Maldon. He is, alas, he is too frightened to play any part.”
“Then ... Bernard?”
She flushed. “Bernard has not spoken or written to me since the death of his father. All my messages to his mother have been ignored.” She paused to clear her throat. “It is in times like this that we learn who are our friends.”
Mr. Maldon, who had been leaning over her, straightened and stared over her bent head. “Do I take it, then, that you are utterly alone in this distress?”
“Save for my mother and some of the servants who, God bless them, have refused to be frightened away. That is why I was travelling unattended—my maid is at home with my mother. She is not fit to be left alone without the support of a female companion. We are shunned both by those who believe my father guilty and those who do not. The latter dare not help us—they have had threats from the Pegmen.” Jeffrey Maldon went to the tea-tray and poured the hot brew into the thick china of the George Inn. He brought the cup to her.
“I’m glad I came,” he said. “I was in two minds to turn back again at Farnham—it seemed too ridiculous to suppose you’d need me.”
“You’ve come all the way from London on our account?” He nodded.
“But you had business in London, had you not?”
“Oh, that...” A dismissive wave settled the matter of the Paymaster-General and would-be Prime Minister of England. “That can be attended to another time.”
“I simply cannot express how grateful—”
“Please.” He stopped her with a little shake of his head, and she smiled and sighed.
“The best proof of gratitude would be a plate of cold beef,” she said, aiming at lightness, “for I imagine you did not stop to eat much on the way. Let’s ring for the waiter and order some substantial refreshments.”
“Ma’am, if you would allow me, I should prefer to go to the prison to see your father.”
“What, now? At this late hour?”
“The turnkey will no doubt be willing to bestir himself for a shilling or so. There will be no difficulty.”
“I will come with you,” she said, setting aside her cup and preparing to rise.
“No, indeed!” He was shocked. “Such a place is not fit for a lady at any time of day, and least of all at night.”
“If it is fit for my father, it is fit for me.”
He set her back in her chair with gentle hands. “It is not fit for your father—he is there wrongfully and no doubt in great distress. Believe me, Miss Tyrrell, as a lawyer it is often my task to visit those in custody and I have seen how stricken a man can be when his loved ones come to him there. Let me forewarn your father of your wish to visit him. Let him have a few hours to ready himself for it. It will be best, I assure you.”
She argued for a time, but in her heart she knew he was right. At length she said, “Then if I must stay here I can at least make myself useful. I will see to it that a meal is waiting for you on your return.”
“Thank you. I imagine I shall be gone an hour or one hour and a half at most. Shall you wait up?”
She gave him a glance from her hazel eyes that spoke a thousand words.
“Very well, I shall see you then. A bientot.”
While he was gone Amy gave the innkeeper of the George a great deal of trouble. She ordered a ragout, then changed her mind on the grounds that the weather was too warm; cold beef would be better after all. But then it was so plain ... Instead she would have cold duck prepared for Mr. Maldon, after the French style. But no, perhaps he had no taste for French sauces? She racked her brains, trying to recall what he had enjoyed at her father’s table but, alas, on most occasions when he had dined at the Manor House Amy’s attention had been on Bernard.
That done, she flew upstairs to the bedroom to up-end her portmanteau over the bed, seeking a change of clothes to make herself look less travel-worn. Too late now to regret that she had scolded Molly for spending too long on the packing. She had thought to be in Winchester overnight only, visiting her father and then hurrying back to Markledon with his advice and instructions about his defence. Because she knew he loved her in a particular dress, she had brought it with her—but it was a poor little thing, a cotton gown of sprigged pink and beige, harking back almost to her schoolgirl days.
Still, it was fresher to look upon than her travelling costume, so she put it on, struggling with the unaccustomed task of lacing herself and fastening the waist ties without a maid.
If she had paused to ask herself why it mattered so much to look attractive, she would have said it was because she owed it to a man who had come so far simply to be of use to her. She would have refused to listen to some faint inner voice that murmured she wished to please Mr. Maldon. Honest though she was as a rule, she could not allow herself to think that Jeffrey Maldon had made some inroads upon her feelings. She could still summon up a picture of his face, the day she told him he had no hope of gaining her affections, how sad he had looked then, how hurt and disappointed ...
Why had that memory stayed with her? It would have been more sensible to banish it for ever. Mr. Maldon’s broken heart—if it was broken—should have been no concern of hers; and indeed she thought she had forgotten all about it. Yet as she surveyed herself in the glass she was hoping Mr. Maldon would find her pleasing, and that this new relationship between them would lead on to a lasting friendship. Yes, friendship ... Surely there could be friendship between a man and a woman? She nodded at her reflection.
Her reflection nodded back, perhaps less certain than Amy that her feelings were perfectly under control.
When at last she went downstairs again, the cool late evening breeze was fluttering the curtains of the parlour. The time was nearly ten o’clock. She was a little apprehensive. Never in her life before had she been alone, away from home, awaiting the coming of a male companion at ten o’clock at night.
She heard his voice in the entrance lobby of the inn and flew to the door of the parlour. Her searching gaze tried to read something from his expression, but he was giving nothing away.
“How is he, sir?” she begged. “How is my father?”
“Composed, ma’am, but not hopeful. I told him that you were here in Winchester, and he sends you his fondest love, but requests you not to go to the prison. He says—”
“Not go? Of course I shall go!”
“Miss Tyrrell, if you truly love him you .will not grieve him by insisting. He feels it a deep humiliation to be penned up like a criminal. He cannot bear to think of your seeing him in those conditions. In short, ma’am—I gave him my word I would prevent your visit.”
“You gave him your word—How dare you, sir! What right had you to take such a decision for me?” Amy’s face was on fire with resentment and anger. “You went there, you said, to prepare him for my visit tomorrow—”
“I went to find out what could be done for his defence,” he put in with calmness. “In order to coax him to be frank with me, I must have his trust. I cannot gain it by going back on a promise to
him.”
“But you had no right to promise.”
“I had the right of a lawyer acting in the interests of his client.”
“You take a great deal upon yourself, sir! I have not hired you!”
“You are not my client. Miss Tyrrell. Your father is. He has hired me.”
“But this is most unfair! I thought you understood my feelings. If I had known how you were going to behave I should have—”
“What, Miss Tyrrell? Hired another lawyer?”
She gave a little gasp and checked the words that were springing to her lips. Of course there was no other lawyer. No one else but Mr. Maldon would take the case. She could not afford to antagonise this arbitrary young man, because he was the only helper she had. She pressed her lips together and after struggling for composure said rather coldly, “I have ordered a meal, Mr. Maldon. Are you ready to eat now?”
“Thank you. You are sharing it with me, I hope?”
She had somehow pictured herself sitting across from him in the candle-light in a spirit of complete accord. It hadn’t occurred to her she would be bearing a grudge against him. As for the pink cotton dress, she no longer cared whether it was becoming to her or not. She went briskly to the bell-pull, summoned the waiter, and told him in a very peremptory tone to put the food on the table.
When she turned, it was to find Mr. Maldon watching her with ironic amusement. “Faith, Miss Tyrrell, you make your feelings known,” he remarked.
“But to little purpose, sir!”
“Listen, Amy. Your father’s health is of the utmost importance at this time. He is in danger of sinking into a state of despairing inaction, a thing we must do all in our power to counteract.”
“Inaction?” she echoed. “But my father has always been a most active and forthright man.”
The Fortune-Hunter Page 4
