She sat for a long time on the milestone, hearing the traffic on the high road—a heavy trundling cart, packhorses, a light carriage with some young men of fashion who called to her to cheer up and join them for supper. The shadows were lengthening. She must get home or her mother would be out of her mind with worry.
Both her mother and her maidservant were on the watch for her. Molly thought: “Poor soul, how pale and tired she looks! How wearily she’s walking!” Mrs. Tyrrell thought: “What on earth persuaded her to go into Markledon looking such a fright? It’s really most unsuitable!” And Amy spent a wretched evening trying to account for her activities without admitting that she had been to the house of the village dressmaker and there seen the man she loved, very much chez lui.
As a result she slept badly and rose late. For once Mrs. Tyrrell was about before her, sitting on the edge of her chair in the breakfast-room with letters in her hand.
“Amy! What a slug-a-bed you are! Bryce has been back from Winchester this hour or more, and there’s a letter for you from your Papa.”
“Back already? How good he is, Mama! He must have risen at the very first glimmer of dawn, to reach Markledon by now.”
“And so he should,” her mother said with surprise. “Did he not rise from footboy to under-gardener in our service?”
“But, dearest Mama, no amount of wages can repay him for the kindness and devotion he—”
“Pooh,” interrupted Mrs. Tyrrell, “if he thinks of asking for an increase in wages, he need not trouble himself. Well, well? What does Papa say in his letter to you? I have read and re-read mine—he insists he is well but I’m sure his heart is breaking, as mine is!” Here she brought her handkerchief up to her reddened eyes, and her daughter took refuge in unfolding the paper on which her name was written in her father’s scrawling hand.
He opened by thanking her for coming to Winchester, for sending the little luxuries by Bryce and for the speediness with which she had done so. He said he was well, and in good spirits. Then he went on:
“I am a little vexed, however, to learn that our good old Uncle Pierce should have troubled you over the matter of the power-of-attorney. When I at last persuaded Jeffrey Maldon to undertake this role I specifically asked him not to let you know unless it was necessary, for I feared it might alarm or distress you to think I was handing over my affairs to another, as if I thought I would not be able to deal with them myself. The fact is that there are business matters concerned with running the estate which must be dealt with: for example, I promised Farmer Emhurst to have his lower field drained before the autumn rains set in, and so someone must hire the men and set the work in motion, for I would not wish to fail in a promise to one of my tenant farmers.
“Jeffrey pointed out to me that our Uncle Pierce was the properest person to whom to delegate this work. And indeed, dearest daughter, had Mr. Pierce come to see me I should have discussed it with him. But when I asked Jeffrey to tell Mr. Pierce I needed him, he had to explain—with some embarrassment—that our good old friend feels some nervousness in being associated with our family just at present.
“You need not tell Uncle Pierce that this was the reason I turned to Jeffrey—it might hurt his feelings, and I should hate to do such a thing. Perhaps you could say that I am a little confused and unhappy—and indeed, my love, I was so, and I cannot tell you what it meant to me when Jeffrey walked in among that crowd of common criminals in the gaol and shook my hand! What a true friend we have found, Amy dear. Although I will admit he might be influenced by some feelings and hopes he has on a certain score—but there, I will not write further on that for fear of embarrassing you, knowing as I do how devoted you are to Bernard. Yet Jeffrey will be a tower of strength to you, I doubt not. Fondest love, Yr. absent but anxious Father.” Amy read this with tears beginning to prick her eyes and ended with salt tear-drops on her cheeks.
“What is wrong?” her mother cried in dismay. “Is he ill? Is it bad news?”
“Nay, ma’am,” she faltered, trying to get control of her voice, “on the contrary, my father is well and thanks us for what we have done for his comfort so far. Take no notice of my crying, Mama—it’s mere foolishness.”
“Let me see,” Mrs. Tyrrell insisted, holding out her hand for the letter.
Amy was unwilling to give it to her, for there would be the almost impossible task of explaining to her what it was that Mr. Pierce had not been entrusted with, and why not, and how Farmer Emhurst’s field could be drained, and why it was important to have it done before the autumn.
“’Tis full of business, ma’am,” she said, holding it out, “about hiring men for some work, and legal matters.”
“Oh, in that case, I shan’t trouble to read it,” Mrs. Tyrrell said, spreading out her own letter again. “In what he writes to me, he speaks of the food as being better now that you’ve arranged for meals to be taken in from the inn. I wonder if they know how to roast crown of lamb? Your father does so enjoy a roast crown of lamb.
Amy had a deep feeling of shame at the suspicions she had so quickly accepted over Mr. Maldon’s actions. Mr. Pierce had come, complained a little and voiced his resentment over Jeffrey, and she had accepted all of it without giving him the benefit of any doubt. She recalled her father’s phrases—“When I at last persuaded Jeffrey to undertake this ... “At last persuaded” ... That implied it was not easily done, and that moreover it was her father’s idea, not Jeffrey’s. And then, “I specifically asked him not to let you know”—here was the explanation of the secrecy of which Uncle Pierce had made so much. Jeffrey had not wanted to distress her—it was as simple as that.
“Jeffrey will be a tower of strength to you.” Would he? After the things she had said to him, and the angry reaction she had brought upon herself? Amy had never been kissed as Jeffrey Maldon had kissed her: could two people meet again after such a scene and be on ordinary terms of politeness? Could she go to him and apologise, beg him to be a help to her and her mother?
He had said he intended to carry on with the investigation into Beau Gramont’s death in hopes of freeing her father, but would he really do so? She tried to envisage what she herself would do if she had been insulted and condemned in that way; she rather thought she would run away and hide, and never go near that person again, ever.
But perhaps Jeffrey was made of sterner stuff.
By and by, as she finished her second cup of breakfast coffee, it came to her that she ought to restore Jeffrey’s reputation with Uncle Pierce. It was wrong to let her uncle think that Jeffrey had talked her father into signing the power-of-attorney, or that he intended to make a secret of it. She must let him know he was under a misapprehension there.
So when breakfast was over and she had dealt with some of the usual household problems, she murmured to her mother that she thought she would go into Markledon.
“But you were in Markledon yesterday,” Mrs. Tyrrell protested. “And it made you very mopish and miserable! I can’t think why you want to go again.”
“I need to speak to Uncle Pierce,” she explained.
“Oh, as to that, I don’t think we should go to him” her mother cried. “He should come to us, and I think less of him for giving us that courtesy only once since your father was taken from us. Our friends have treated us shamefully, Amy.”
“Not all of them, Mama. Jeffrey Maldon has not fled from us.”
“No-o. Although I expected him to come back again more quickly, or at least send messages. But he is young,” Mrs. Tyrrell sighed, “young for a lawyer—he has not Uncle Pierce’s experience and ability.”
“Jeffrey may have something more important than experience,” Amy said with some asperity, “and that is courage.”
“Courage? Oh, well, of course, it is brave of him to stand by us against the Pegmen, I admit, but he will be well paid, you know, Amy.”
“But he has not even discussed the matter of fees,” Amy replied, coming to that realisation for the first time. “I don’t think a
word about money has passed Jeffrey’s lips.”
“Amy,” her mother reproved, “what is this strange idea of referring to Mr. Maldon by his first name?”
Amy went fiery red. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she said, shocked at herself. “But Papa refers to him as Jeffrey—”
“What your father does and what you may do are two entirely different things. I would advise you to be very careful over matters of propriety, situated as we are with the whole world ready to stare us down! And don’t forget that you yourself dismissed him a short time ago as a fortune-hunter.”
“I did not, ma’am! I remember telling you I thought I had misjudged him on that point.”
“But you had thought it previously. And you know, one must admit it is very strange that he should come rushing to our aid when no one else wishes to do so.”
“You are not holding it against him, ma’am? That he is brave enough to go against the tide and befriend us?”
“Well, no,” Mrs. Tyrrell said, muddled by the complexity of her thoughts, “but after all, dearest, if your Papa is hanged you will inherit a large fortune.”
“Mama!”
“It’s no use crying out against it, Amy,” her mother said, dissolving into tears, “the facts must be faced! Your father may be found guilty and you may be orphaned and I may be widowed—and we shall be targets for all the fortune-hunters in England.”
“You are not to speak so! It is wicked and self-centred and wrong! We must be strong in the belief that Papa will be set free, because if we think otherwise we weaken our own resolve to bring it about. Don’t you see—”
“Wicked and self-centred?” Mrs. Tyrrell sobbed, picking out the only words that mattered to her. “You are calling your own mother wicked and self-centred? I never thought I should live to hear it—”
“I’m sorry, Mama—forgive me!”
But the emotional ravages of the scene took a long time to die down, needing the use of sal volatile and a darkened room; so the sun was past its zenith when Amy at last set out for the village.
She was riding Watcher, a spirited little pony her father had given her on her last birthday; she had perhaps had some hidden memory of how Jeffrey had dealt with the mob at Winchester by riding them aside with Gylo and felt that, if she met with any trouble in Markledon, she could use the same method. She certainly lacked the girlish eagerness that had prompted her yesterday to borrow Molly’s clothes. If she was to face Uncle Pierce on behalf of Jeffrey Maldon, she preferred not to do it in fancy dress.
Why it should be so important to put the record right, she wasn’t quite sure. It had something to do with justice, and something to do with a hidden hope that Jeffrey might hear of it and think better of her for it. She very much wanted the good opinion of Jeffrey Maldon.
Uncle Pierce’s servant was very surprised when she handed him Watcher’s reins and told him she wanted to speak to the lawyer. “Sure, he’s not expecting you?” he queried. “He said to me only yesterday that for one reason or another he felt you and Mrs. Tyrrell might be moving out of the Manor House to pleasanter quarters quite soon.”
“We have no intention of being chased out of our home, Datchett,” she replied with hauteur. “Pray tell your master I am here.”
Mr. Pierce hobbled out of his office to greet her. “Well, my dear, you have a great deal of courage,” he remarked as he allowed her to kiss his dry old cheek. “Or should I call it rashness? You surely must have something important to discuss in coming here. About our dear Squire, I take it. Has he decided to plead guilty to the charge?”
“Plead guilty? My father? Uncle Pierce, how can you even think of it?” she cried. “You surely don’t think he is guilty?”
The old lawyer led her into his office and waved her to a chair. He himself settled painfully behind his cluttered desk. “Well, to be candid, Amy—your father is capable of having done it.”
“Of killing a man? Never!”
“If the provocation was great enough, yes, he is capable of it. His temper has always been his greatest defect, and if a weapon happened to be at hand—”
“Nonsense! Weapons have been at hand before now when Papa lost his temper, but he has never used them. He’s taken a stick to an impertinent urchin, I agree, but he has never used a sword—dear Uncle Pierce, my father has never even been involved in a duel!”
“Aye, aye, I see that you are a devoted daughter and don’t wish to think ill of him.”
“I have heard from him, sir—I had a letter this morning in which he explains how it came about that Mr. Maldon accepted his power-of-attorney.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, and it now appears that Papa had to persuade him into it.” She explained the situation, bearing in mind her father’s concern not to hurt the feelings of their old friend. “So you see, there was no question of anything underhanded. Papa was the one who put the idea forward, not Jeffrey.”
“Or should we rather say that that is what your father thinks?” countered Edward Pierce.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“My dear Amy, we all know people who are able to get their own way by means of letting other people persuade them into it. They protest, they hesitate—yet all the while they know what they want and they end up by having it.”
“I think there is no reason to suspect Jeffrey of conduct of that kind,” Amy objected. “And you know, Papa did really tell him not to let me know of the power of attorney, so there was no wish to conceal anything from me for bad reasons.”
“Or did that young man perhaps put that idea into your father’s head? ‘No need to tell Amy, it would only distress her’?”
“You are determined to think ill of him, sir,” Amy said, a sparkle of indignation coming into her eyes. “I believe we must take my father’s word for it that he knew what he was doing and saying. He is not yet in his dotage, Uncle Pierce.”
“No, but you yourself have just said that you think he hired Jeffrey Maldon because he was in some distress of mind.”
Amy was now in the difficult position of being unable to tell Uncle Pierce that her father’s state of mind had been quite clear, and the story about being upset was only an invention to spare Mr. Pierce’s feelings. She sighed and fell silent. The old man eyed her.
“You are very eager to think of Jeffrey Maldon as a knight errant,” he teased. “Could it be that you are lonely and sad because you see nothing of Bernard these days?”
“Ah! I saw Bernard yesterday.”
“You did?” He raised bushy grey eyebrows. “You went again to Parall?”
“No, sir.” She paused. “How did you know I had been there a first time?”
“Bernard told me. We see each other quite frequently. I am the man of business for the Parall estate, you must know, Amy dear. Bernard told me you had been there and had been very kind and understanding. From that, I must say, I had assumed that you would be rather cool in your thinking about Mr. Maldon who, after all, has been harassing the family.”
“I don’t think it can be called harassment to go to the house and ask for information
“But he climbed over a wall, Amy—was found trespassing!”
“Only because he could get no response by going to the front door.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“Uncle Pierce,” Amy said with sudden firmness, “I should prefer not to discuss Jeffrey Maldon with you. I have the feeling that you took a dislike to him early on, and that you are prepared to think the worst of him in all circumstances. If I speak from my own experience of him, I have had only kindness and consideration—and therefore I may not sit by and let you suggest that he is untrustworthy. However, it was not that I wanted to mention just now. It was about Bernard. I saw him yesterday, but not at Parall. No, not at Parall.”
“Where, then?”
“At ... at Miss Hilderoth’s shop.”
Uncle Pierce made a little exclamation of distress.
“Ah! So you knew about that?” she q
ueried.
“About what? My dear Amy, there is nothing to know.”
“Come, I am not a baby, Uncle Pierce! He walked in as if he were very much at home there. It is clear he and Sarah Hilderoth have some sort of understanding. How long has it existed?”
“Nothing has existed, nor exists now, child! Don’t fly off into a jealous miff.”
“Sir, I told you once—I am not a baby! This is not the time to talk of petty things like jealousy. I want to know—I need to know,” she urged, her voice breaking. “I have spent almost all my life being in love with Bernard, and I need to know whether it has all been a waste of time.”
“Of course not. Sarah Hilderoth is not to be taken seriously, Amy! Beau Gramont would never permit it when he was alive, and you and Bernard would have been married very soon but for the tragedy. Now, however...”
“Now, however,” she took it up, with some irony, “Beau Gramont is dead and Bernard is master of his own intentions—and his intention seems to be to link himself with Sarah Hilderoth.”
“Nonsense! The owner of Parall cannot marry a dressmaker.”
“No, he is expected to marry the young heiress next door and keep the pretty dressmaker in a separate establishment, is he not? Was that what Bernard had planned for us three?”
“My dear child, this is unseemly.”
“I agree with you! But it is not of my doing—I was the poor fool who went trustingly on, sure that Bernard loved me. And all the while he preferred Sarah Hilderoth.”
“I assure you his feeling for Sarah Hilderoth was never serious.”
“Serious or slight, it existed, and I never knew of it. I was kept dangling, as Jeffrey so truly said.”
“No one regrets that more than Bernard, I am sure.”
The Fortune-Hunter Page 10
