“How can you talk such nonsense? He has no regrets. I tell you, I saw him. I heard what he said. ‘Have you got rid of her?’ he called—and he meant me. I was a nuisance, an intrusion. Sarah Hilderoth was the one he cared about. And he still cares for her. Oh, Uncle Pierce, why did you not tell me? Why did you let me go on and on expecting Bernard to ask for my hand?”
“But he would have done so, Amy, I promise you. He spoke often of the time when he would settle down with you.”
“With a sigh, you mean. He thought of it as the end of his time of freedom. I wonder that he agreed to the idea when he could have insisted on having Sarah.”
“That would have been quite impossible. His father would not hear of it.”
“You mean that Bernard asked for permission to marry Sarah?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“That is what you meant! Oh, heavens,” Amy said, hiding her face in her hands, “what an idiot I have been I All these years, idolising the boy who came like a fairy-tale prince into my life—and he preferred the seamstress for his wife. Well, at least I know now. I have woken up from my fairy-tale. Harsh reality has shown me the truth and I can almost feel it in me to be thankful, for if I had married Bernard and then learned afterwards that he had never loved me—”
“But he does love you, Amy!” Mr. Pierce broke in, in great agitation. He struggled out of his chair and came to her, to take her hand in both of his. “This business about Sarah Hilderoth—it’s a mere infatuation. He’ll get over it. You and he were meant for each other—”
“No.” She shook her head.
“But you were, you are! Both your families wanted the match, your lands lie alongside each other, you would make such a perfect pair—”
“No, Uncle Pierce. It’s finished. I would have been the happiest woman in the world a few weeks ago if Bernard had asked me to name the day, but now if he came to me I should refuse him. I know now that he has never loved me as a man should love the woman he marries—I know now that he never could.”
“Oh, you are overset by what has been happening, my dear—”
“No, it isn’t that. I have learnt such a lot these past few days, Uncle Pierce!” Despite herself, she heard a piteous note in her own voice. “I’ve learned that ... that there can be something more between a man and a woman than fondness and companionship. There can be enmity, anger—perhaps even bitterness. But those at least make a standard of comparison for the tepid affection I have had from Bernard—they show its total lack of depth. If he never saw me again, Bernard would not grieve. He would say, ‘I wonder what ever happened to Amy Tyrrell?’ and then turn the page of his newspaper. And I blame myself for an equal shallowness that must have existed in me, for not having known all this!”
“Tut tut, you are having a fit of the vapours about nothing, Amy! Just because you came upon Bernard in his little love-nest, you are breaking your heart. In a few days you’ll have forgotten all about it.”
“Perhaps. But I shan’t change my opinion about Bernard.”
“Are you so fickle, then? You can love him for as long as you have and change your mind overnight?”
“Fickle?” The word brought her up sharp. “Perhaps I am. Perhaps I have been constant so long that when fickleness catches me, I surrender to it completely.” She gave a little laugh. “At least no one can say I am a flirt. I was true to Bernard for my whole life up till now, and would have remained so for ever, even if we had never been able to come together after this tragic death. But I saw him with Sarah Hilderoth, and everything is different. It’s over, completely over.”
“So now eleven years of love are to be replaced by hate?” Mr. Pierce said with a sigh of reproach. “Poor Bernard. Hasn’t he trouble enough?”
“Who said I hate him? I’m fond of him—it’s a habit I shan’t grow out of, Uncle Pierce. I am fond of him and wish him well, but that is the end of it.”
“I’m happy to hear you haven’t been swept up by jealousy and resentment. Depend upon it, Bernard needs you now more than he ever did. His family hang upon him like clinging shadows—his mother is very ill, poor lady. The death of his father has brought poor Bernard problems that he ought never to have had to face. I beg you, Amy, be kind to him.”
“Of course. Tell him he can rely on me to do all I can for him. Tell him I bear him no ill-will for yesterday’s encounter.”
She kissed the old man in leave-taking. He held her back as she turned to the door. “You will go straight home, Amy? It is really not safe to be about in Markledon alone.”
“I thought I might go to see Mr. Maldon.” She was trying to screw up her courage for it.
“You’ll be unlucky. He has gone.”
“Gone?”
“He was seen riding out of the village yesterday and is not back.”
She was disappointed and yet relieved. She wouldn’t have to see him to apologise—yet she wished to see him. “You keep informed of his whereabouts?”
“Oh ...” Uncle Pierce waved a gouty hand. “In a place this size, everyone knows what everyone else is doing.”
The manservant handed her the reins of her pony but she couldn’t mount straight away because a group of village boys, playing trap-ball in the broad main street, made Watcher restive. She led him, deep in thought.
The next moment she found herself immediately outside Jeffrey Maldon’s lodgings just as he stepped out with his arms full of papers.
“Miss Tyrrell!”
She was so taken aback that she gave an exclamation and a little start, which caused Watcher to shy and prance a little, iron hooves ringing on the cobbles of the roadway. Mr. Maldon put his papers under one arm and with the other reached out to soothe the restless creature.
“There, there, my beauty. What a handsome boy it is. What is your name?”
“He’s called Watcher, sir. I ... I’m surprised to see you, Mr. Maldon. I was informed you were out of Markledon.”
“As you can see, you were misinformed.” His tone was cool though polite. “Is it wise to be in the village unescorted?”
“Perhaps not. But it seems strangely quiet today.”
“That’s because most of the men are out, either marching towards Poole or watching those who are doing so.”
“Marching towards Poole? But why?”
“That is difficult to tell. May I help you to mount, Miss Tyrrell?”
“Well, I ... I should like a word with you, if it is convenient.”
“Not entirely. As you can see, I am moving office.” He took the papers from under his arm to show her. “My landlady finds my tenancy unhealthy.”
“Oh, sir! That is on our account, is it not? I am so sorry.” She hesitated. “And where are you moving.to, if one may inquire?”
“David Bartholomew, the riding officer for this area, has offered me accommodation in his cottage.”
“But that is some distance out of Markledon.”
“That matters little, since I seem not to have many clients in Markledon.”
“May I come with you to your new lodgings, so that we may talk?”
He shook his head. “That would not be fitting. David’s is a bachelor establishment.” He took a moment to think. “May I ask you to wait one moment?”
“Certainly.”
He went back into the little house, and she heard him calling to his landlady for permission to bring her indoors. “Nay, sir, I’d rather not!”
“Oh, come now, Mrs. Mason. Miss Tyrrell must be known to you. Surely you don’t begrudge her a few minutes’ shelter in your house?”
“But it’s on account of her and her father that there’s all this trouble,” Mrs. Mason faltered.
“Very well, I will take her to the Garland where they can scarcely refuse to serve us—but they will be very uncivil, I am sure.”
“Oh, Mr. Maldon ... I would not want anyone to be rude to Miss Tyrrell, sweet lady that she is. Well then, let her come in—but pray don’t stay long, sir.”
&nbs
p; He reappeared on the doorstep. “Pray come in, Miss Tyrrell.” He hitched Watcher to the post that marked the little forecourt in front of the house. “As you no doubt heard, we must not overstay our welcome.”
“Thank you.” She came in, her full-skirted riding habit brushing the sides of the narrow doorway. He showed her into a front room that had been his office, a spartan enough place. There was only one chair, which he placed for her.
“You wished to speak to me, ma’am?”
“Yes, sir. I ... I wrote to my father yesterday—”
“Yes, he told me he had had a letter.”
“You have seen my father, sir?” she cried.
“That was where I was when they told you I was out of Markledon. I rode to Winchester to clear up some important points with him.”
“And ... and he told you he had heard from me?”
He nodded.
“Did he tell you on what score?”
“No, he did not.”
“I wrote to ask him about the power-of-attorney, sir. And he explained it to me.”
“I see.”
“I scarcely know what to say next, Mr. Maldon. I am very, very sorry for having accused you so unjustly.”
“Thank you. I accept your apology.” He was standing a little in shadow, so that she could not properly make out his expression as he went on: “I believe I owe you an apology also.”
“Yes, sir, I believe you do.”
“I make it now. I regret my actions on that occasion.”
“I accept your apology.” She held out her hand. “Let us start afresh.”
He took her hand, and for one moment she thought he was going to carry it to his lips. But, to her surprising disappointment, he gave it a brief pressure and released it.
“Did you come to Markledon on purpose to say this to me?” he inquired.
“I ... I believe I did. I could not have been easy without this explanation, once I had had the letter from Papa. Oh, pray, sir—how was my father? He writes that he is well—does he seem so?”
“Yes, Miss Tyrrell, he is tolerably well. We had a long talk.”
“What about?”
“About the reason for his strange refusal to speak about the events of that night. He said at the inquest that he had not been at Parall, although it seemed clear that this was untrue. That first time I saw him in prison I asked him for the truth, but he said that it was better to remain silent so that you and Bernard could take up your lives again.”
“Ah,” she said, on a note of pain. “Bernard...”
She saw him look at her. “I’m sorry. But if you wish to know what I spoke of with your father, it may be necessary to grieve you further.”
“It was about Bernard, then?”
“I’m afraid so. I pointed out to your father that you and Bernard could never marry if he was convicted for the murder of Bernard’s father. I told him point blank that since the tragedy Bernard had not come near you. He was very shocked at that. It seems he had taken it for granted that you and Bernard were still close.”
Amy bent her head so that her face was hidden. “No,” she murmured, “we are not close any more.”
“It may yet be possible to rectify all that,” he said in a steady voice. “I am not sure that Bernard is involved. His father may have been lying.”
“His father? Lying? What do you mean, Mr. Maldon?”
“Beau Gramont told your father that Bernard is a ringleader of the Pegmen.”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
AMY’S immediate reaction was a gasp of surprise and disagreement. “Oh, no!”
“Please don’t be distressed. It may be some cruel joke on the part of Beau Gramont, or some ruse to keep your father quiet. It isn’t necessary to think ill of Bernard.”
“No—thank you—I was so startled—pray go on, sir.” Truth to tell, her exclamation had a slightly different connotation from that which Jeffrey Maldon heard. She had been disclaiming the possibility of Bernard’s being a ringleader in any enterprise. Much though she had loved him, and fond though she still was of him, she knew in her heart that Bernard could never lead anything. As to leading smugglers—planning devious undertakings, taking precautions against the Excisemen, organising the bestowal of the goods—all that was beyond him. The rough and cruel men who terrorised the district would never take orders from such as Bernard Gramont.
Jeffrey Maldon was quite unaware of the way her mind was working. He heard her cry out against what he had said and sighed inwardly. She loved him still ... Incredible though it might be, she could still be hurt by a slur cast upon that self-centred booby. Well, he would try to tell the rest without causing her any more unhappiness than he must.
“I told your father with all the emphasis at my command that unless I knew what really happened that night, I could not hope to gain his acquittal. I said that if he was not acquitted, you and Bernard would be parted for ever.”
He paused to watch her. She nodded without speaking.
“When he had had a moment to think about it, he understood that I was right. Until then he had not imagined that ... that Bernard would turn his back on you. I explained that to him by telling him how deeply Bernard’s mother had been affected.”
“Yes, she is very ill, I hear.”
“In the end your father related to me the events of the night in question. He said that after dinner there was some discussion about measures against the Pegmen—do you recall it? I, of course, was not there.”
Amy cast her mind back. “Nor was I, Mr. Maldon. I think there was talk of asking for more troops. Papa became cross about it, and I asked Bernard what had annoyed him. He said Papa thought it absurd to expect two hundred men to patrol the whole coastline of Hampshire and Dorset and that if there were more dragoons and—if I remember rightly—more cutters, the results would be greatly improved.”
“Did you know that your father had used his own funds to hire a privateer cutter and provision her?”
“No!” she exclaimed, astonished. “Had he done so? It is so like him!”
“David Bartholomew told me—the Swift— to guard the waters between here and Guernsey, from which the Pegmen are making a regular run. No one except your father and David knew about it—the utmost secrecy was observed.”
“You may say so! I had no idea of it!”
“Exactly. So that when Beau Gramont made his clever pun on the cutter’s name, your father knew that someone had had access to his private papers.”
“Why? What did Mr. Gramont say?”
“When your father stated that more cutters to patrol the waters would soon cut down the smuggling. Beau Gramont said: ‘The race is not always to the swift’.”
Amy sat for a moment in silence. “Yes,” she said slowly, “I see. And afterwards Papa sat looking at him in the drawing-room with the strangest expression—of disbelief and reproach.”
“Well he might, Miss Tyrrell; Those two had been close friends for years, ever since the Gramonts bought Parall and moved in. All at once your father realised that for years Gramont had been making a fool of him, using him. Nothing he did as a magistrate to stop the smugglers was any good—his best friend was spying on him. He was very bitter about it when he told me, Amy. It had struck him to the heart.”
“I believe you,” she said, stricken. “Poor Papa! He always admired Beau Gramont—so much more handsome and witty and charming than he. And now to learn—or at least to suspect—that he was a double dealer...”
“And all because the man could not resist the chance to make a bon mot. Your father said to me, I dare say he thought I was too stupid to understand the double meaning! But your father is not stupid, Amy. He had caught Stephen Boles out that very afternoon, buying tea at a low price from the smugglers and pocketing the difference for himself. And Stephen Boles, he tells me—”
“Came from Parall with a recommendation from Beau Gramont. He replaced a footman who was killed in a carriage accident about a year ago. And that f
ootman,” Amy said, thinking back, “also came to us from Parall.”
“So Beau Gramont always had a spy in your house, you see.”
“It is insupportable!” Amy cried, jumping up. “How dared they? Treat my father so, who is so good and honest and unsuspecting? Jeffrey, how could they?”
“Selfish men can do anything if they feel it is to their advantage,” he replied, shaking his head at her. “And though I only came to the district a short time ago, I had come to the conclusion that Beau Gramont was very selfish. He treated his wife very badly.”
“Flirting with other women, you mean? Yes, it made her very unhappy. But she adored him so, you know. We all did. He blinded us with his good looks and his fine clothes and his charm.” She paused. “Yet you saw through him?”
“Well, perhaps that was because I came from outside, from London where men like Beau Gramont can be seen by the dozen in every theatre or gaming club. To me he was—” He broke off. He had been about to say: “As trifling as his son.”
Amy was pursuing her own line of thought. “So now we know why Papa went to Parall by the little gate that night.”
“Yes, he went to have it out with Gramont about the joke on the name of the patrol vessel.”
“And not, as Mama has almost persuaded herself, to challenge him for having flirted outrageously with her that evening.”
“No, I think not,” Jeffrey said, suppressing a smile. “Your father has more sense than to think Beau Gramont was serious in that.”
Amy frowned. “I should have disliked him for that,” she said with half a sigh. “It was wrong of him, it made my father restless—and yet, you know, we all took it for granted, that Beau Gramont could flirt with anyone’s wife if he wanted to. Ah well, he will never make a husband uneasy again. So, Papa went to Parall.”
“He tells me he simply walked in by a side door you all used?”
“Yes, the garden room. It was always open, until very late—I think so that Beau could slip in quietly when he came from one of his little escapades.”
The Fortune-Hunter Page 11
