The Fortune-Hunter

by Julia Herbert

  “I wish now that I had decided to come with you.”

  “You can still change your mind.”

  “No, I must stay with the servants. It is unfair to leave them here, guarding a house by themselves with angry smugglers roaming the countryside.”

  “I trust you will remember that last phrase if anyone comes to the house. Pray don’t open the door to anyone unless you know who it is.”

  “I will be careful.”

  “Amy, I wish I didn’t have to go...”

  “I wish it too.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “I know.”

  “A bientot.” He touched his riding crop to the rim of his tricorne and turned Gylo towards the gates. The big carriage rolled forward ahead of him, the grinding of its iron wheels drowning out the words Amy was saying in farewell.

  She was rather glad of that afterwards, for what she had called was, “I shall think of you all the time!”

  The rest of that day seemed to go on for ever. Amy had never found time hang so heavy on her hands. She tried to busy herself with the tasks that were accumulating in a house needing a staff of fourteen and now looked after by a lady’s maid, a butler, and a former under-gardener—she dusted, she made bread, she sharpened quills and filled the inkwells. But nothing seemed to dispel the great expanse of emptiness. For once she was glad to go to bed.

  Next day bade fair to be as bad. But as she was sitting in the library dealing with some of her father’s papers, Palmer the butler came in, his face alight with pleasure at the news he was bringing. “Miss Amy, a visitor for you. Mr. Bernard is here!”

  “Bernard?” she repeated stupidly, looking up. “Here?”

  “Yes, miss, shall I show him in?”

  “Why—yes—please to do so.”

  She put up her hands to her hair, hastily brushed back this morning into a ribbon. She straightened the front of the plain little day gown she was wearing. That was all her preparation for receiving Bernard at last to the Manor House.

  When he came in she thought he looked somewhat better than the last time she had seen him—at least, the last time she had had a real look at him. That moment in Miss Hilderoth’s shop had been a mere glimpse; she had observed him closely last when she had gone to Parall and found him looking so wan and ill in the rose arbour.

  “Good morning. Bernard,” she said with great calm, but without offering her hand.

  “Good morning, Amy.” He took the chair she had indicated, stretching silk-stockinged legs in silver-buckled shoes on the old oak boards of the library.

  “To what do I owe this honour? I rather thought you and I should never see each other again until, perhaps, the trial of my father.”

  “Nay, Amy—don’t be hard on me. I’ve come to ... to set things right about the other day.”

  “The other day?” she said, feigning bewilderment.

  “In Sarah Hilderoth’s. You went off so rashly that I didn’t have a chance to explain.”

  “But you are going to do so now?”

  “I don’t know what you were thinking when you hurried off like that! I was only there because my mother sent me to inquire after her mourning clothes, which Miss Hilderoth is making.”

  “Indeed? I should have thought your mother would send one of her daughters, not her son.”

  “Well, you know she is a little astray in her head at the moment. We prefer not to cross her in any little whim. She asked me to go, and so I went.”

  “I see,” Amy said, her voice showing the total lack of belief she felt. “So your presence is explained—but not your words.”

  “Words? What words?”

  “You came into the room remarking that you’d come down because I’d been ‘got rid of’.”

  “But Amy, my dear, I didn’t know it was you! I’d fled upstairs when the maid went to answer the door, because I was ashamed for anyone to see me in a dressmaker’s shop. When I heard all the girls coming downstairs I took it that the customer had gone and so I could take my leave. That’s all.”

  Was it true? Somehow she didn’t think so. Uncle Pierce had made no demur when she had said there was a connection between Sarah Hilderoth and Bernard. But she didn’t want to have a wrangle about it.

  “If I misjudged you, I apologise,” she said. “I may have misread the situation.”

  “It hurt me, Amy,” he returned. “I have enough to contend with at the moment without misunderstandings of that kind.”

  She couldn’t help remembering that when she had apologised to Jeffrey Maldon he had accepted at once, and returned an apology of his own. But Bernard felt he had nothing to apologise for, obviously. Perhaps he was right—but as to having enough to contend with, so had she, without having guilt heaped on her for being unjust to him.

  Bernard was glancing about the room. “How different it all looks,” he murmured. “I feel as if I’m back here after an interval of many years.”

  “Our lives are certainly so changed that a century might have gone by since you were last here.”

  “And yet things go on much as usual. I saw the tenants coming in on quarter day.”

  “Yes, I saw you observing us,” she said rather coolly.

  “Oh, come, Amy, you can hardly blame me for feeling a curiosity to see how your knight errant was acquitting himself! I must say I was rather taken aback to see how assiduously he was taking control of the place.”

  “My father has given him charge of his affairs for the time being. He has a high opinion of Mr. Maldon.”

  “Naturally, a man would think well of another who appeared to be busying himself in his defence.”

  “Appeared to be?” she interrupted. “What do you mean by that? Mr. Maldon has been extremely

  “Tell me what he has actually accomplished? He is seen walking about in Markledon; or riding about the country, but what good does it do your father?”

  “He might have achieved more if you had allowed him to question the servants at Parall.”

  “Amy, my household has been through enough! Besides, don’t you think I have questioned them? If there was anything to be reported that could change the situation, I should have let you know it. But of course it makes a good excuse for Maldon if he can say I obstructed his enquiries.”

  “How you dislike him!” she cried. “I wonder why? What harm has he ever done you?”

  He started to his feet. “Dislike him?” he repeated, forcing a laugh. “He is nothing to me! It’s just that I hate to see you being fooled. You know, of course, that he boasted he would marry money soon after he came here?”

  “What?” she gasped. “How dare you say that! He is incapable of any such vulgarity!”

  “Don’t be absurd, Amy! Why have you let him bedazzle you like this? You were always so quick-witted before.

  “Ah, but that was when I was a happy, carefree country heiress! Now I’m a sad little wretch with a father likely to be hanged for something he didn’t do—and I am bedazzled, if that is the word you wish to use, because Jeffrey is the only shining light on my horizon. No one else came to our aid—only Jeffrey Maldon.”

  “Because he sees a fortune in it, of course! Either you’ll fall into his arms in gratitude if he frees your father or, if the worst happens, you’ll wed him to have someone to look after the estates. Either way he wins—and you lose.”

  “You have been talking to Uncle Pierce,” she said with disdain. “He said some such nonsense to me.”

  “It isn’t nonsense, Amy. Uncle Pierce has had inquiries made about him, in London, where he came from. What brought him here in the first place? Don’t you see he cast his eye down the list of heiresses that the fortune-hunters sell to each other, and decided you were a good catch?”

  Amy knew of the lists that penniless young men made up from the news of legacies published in the newspapers. Many a foolish girl had been led to the altar by a man who wanted none of her but her fortune.

  “You know, Amy...” he sank his voice
... “Uncle Pierce says he’s reputed to be a Jacobite!”

  “A Jacobite!” Amy knew nothing about politics but she’d heard her father fulminate about the rascals of two years ago who had followed the Young Pretender into England at the head of a pack of Highland brigands. A Jacobite! Enemies to King George, all penniless because their lands had been confiscated...

  She pulled herself together. “There’s no proof of that!”

  “Uncle Pierce has proof. He’s got a letter from a friend in London.”

  “I shall never believe it till I hear it from Jeffrey’s own lips.” After a moment of wild thought she added, “And anyway I don’t care! Papa would disapprove, but I don’t care!”

  “So it’s as bad as that, is it? You’re so much under his malign influence that

  “Malign! How can you use such a word? He’s done nothing but good and useful things here. I don’t understand you, Bernard. Don’t you want me to have a friend? Do you prefer that I should be absolutely alone, without helpers, in this fight to save Papa?”

  That cut off the next words he was about to utter. He crossed the room and took one of her hands, though she tried to prevent it. “Amy, you and I have been bound to each other by the closest of ties since we were children. You must know that I hate to think of you unhappy. Oh, this wretched, wretched murder! God knows my father didn’t deserve to die, but neither does yours. Oh, Amy, it’s such a dilemma!”

  She was pained and embarrassed by his breakdown. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry for him but that she had not the strength to bear his woes as well as her own. Finally he turned away to brush tears from his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I told you I had enough to contend with. Day after day, the thing stares me in the face—and my poor mother keeps asking when my father is coming home. Well, my dear. I’ve said rather more than I meant to when I first came. You don’t want to believe me, I can see that, but bear my words in mind. Jeffrey Maldon may be the only helper at hand, but that doesn’t mean you have to grow fond of him into the bargain. Should he achieve a miracle and save your father, pay him off with a good round sum. But better yet, replace him with someone else, someone whose motives are not in doubt.”

  “Name me one person who would accept the post,” she riposted in a tart tone.

  “Uncle Pierce, of course.”

  “But he refused.”

  “But that was only at first. He’s had time to think about it since, and I’m sure if you really tried to persuade him he’d agree. And Uncle Pierce, as we all know, is no fortune-hunter.”

  The echoes of that conversation rang in her ears the rest of the day. A Jacobite? Could it be true that Jeffrey was a Jacobite? She tried to recall what he had said in political discussions with the other gentlemen at dinner, but could remember nothing. It seemed to her that she had never heard Jeffrey voice an opinion on the Hanoverians or the government. Was that in itself suspicious? Most men were only too eager to hold forth about politics.

  But no! She mustn’t allow herself to be led into this kind of scared distrust. It had happened before and she had been proved totally and utterly at fault. She wouldn’t wrong Jeffrey again by listening to his detractors.

  Nevertheless she was very glad to hear the rattle of the carriage wheels next day, and see Gylo cantering ahead of the vehicle on the long drive up to the door of the Manor House. She couldn’t prevent herself running out to greet the travellers.

  Jeffrey swung down from the saddle to take her outstretched hand. He was about to say something, but at sight of the welcome on Amy’s face he checked. For one extraordinary moment she thought he was about to fling his arms wide to invite her embrace. They stood, as if poised on the verge of some leap across the invisible gulf that always kept them apart, and it seemed to her that they spoke to each other—without words, without gestures, but from heart to heart, in a language more powerful than spoken phrases.

  At that moment some understanding hovered on the edge of Amy’s mind. She almost knew something of vast importance—but what? And about whom? Herself? Was there some secret about her own character that she could not decipher? Was there some part of her own behaviour that she did not understand?

  If there had been no interruption, she might have run to Jeffrey and by contact with him might have understood the enigma. But the carriage was rolling up to the door, and the moment passed. When Jeffrey spoke, it was of something more urgent than her momentary bewilderment.

  “Pray,” he said, “don’t be distressed if your mother expresses herself strongly. Her visit to the prison was more afflicting than she expected, because she was totally unprepared for the grimness of it.”

  “Oh, poor Mama—is she very unhappy?”

  “She has made herself quite ill, I fear. I wanted to forewarn you so that you wouldn’t think it was anything serious with regard to her health.”

  The carriage rolled up. Bryce jumped down and opened the door. Without waiting for the steps to be let down Mrs. Tyrrell flung herself out, being caught by Jeffrey’s strong arms and her daughter’s lesser ones.

  “Oh, daughter, that is a dreadful place!” she wept. “It is not fit for a genteel female to visit.” And with almost hysterical animosity towards Jeffrey: “You should not have made me go! It was very wrong of you!”

  “Mama!” cried Amy. “It was you yourself—” At a shake of the head from Jeffrey she broke off.

  “Come, Mrs. Tyrrell,” he said, “you had best go to bed. Amy, see her upstairs. She needs to be comforted and looked after.”

  “Ye-es,” she agreed unwillingly. “But you will wait? I want to hear your news.”

  “Of course.”

  She assisted her mother up the staircase and with Molly’s help got her to bed. For nearly an hour she was busy, but at last hurried downstairs. “Sir!” she cried, her voice shaking with a variety of emotions at being at last alone with him. “How indebted I am to you for taking care of Mama! And you are not to be hurt by her words to you.”

  “Of course not. She was overset. She had no idea, of course, what a prison would be like.”

  “Did it affect Papa very much?”

  He gave a half smile and a little shrug. “I fancy your father is accustomed to your mother’s reactions,” he remarked. “I was somewhat brief with her afterwards, I fear, which has added to her sense of injury.” He paused. “But I had a great deal else to think of.”

  She drew him to sit beside her on the settee opposite the fire. “What has happened? Something is wrong?”

  “Not exactly wrong, but we are now caught in a trap of urgency. I regret to say the trial is fixed for the end of this month.”

  “So soon?” she gasped.

  “I must tell you frankly that the quickness of the event is due to the Pegmen’s machinations. They want it over and done with as soon as possible—it is to their advantage.”

  “Oh, Jeffrey—shall you have the defence ready by then?”

  “Not unless I can find at least Stephen Boles—and that brings me to the next point the news I have had concerning him. David Bartholomew sought me out in Winchester.”

  “Bartholomew—the riding officer for the Customs Department? What was he doing in Winchester?”

  “He had been at Ringwood in the New Forest, mingling with the smugglers. The Pegmen have been gathering from as far away as Kent. They wouldn’t come so far for nothing. It seems as if they intend to try something at Poole, where their contraband cargo is locked up. And yet,” Jeffrey said, rubbing his chin, “I can’t believe they will be so mad, with a naval vessel at the ready in the harbour. Ah well, that’s neither here nor there for the moment.”

  “No, sir, you were speaking of Stephen Boles.”

  “Yes, Little Stephen, as I hear he is called among his friends. The rumour in the alehouses is that Little Stephen is to go to France soon.”

  “To France?”

  “So the talk goes. There is to be some great stroke by the Pegmen, after which they will have a great deal of mon
ey, and Little Stephen is being sent to France to invest some of it in new cargoes of brandy and silk.”

  “To France?” she said again, clutching at the sleeve of his riding coat. “But we cannot let him go abroad!”

  “How can we prevent him? We don’t even know where he is.”

  Amy tried to sort out her busy thoughts. “Perhaps it is no bad thing if he is not present at the trial,” she suggested. “His evidence was wholly against my father, so it is perhaps best that he is not there to give it.”

  Her hand was still on Jeffrey’s sleeve. She felt him sigh. “If only that were true,” he murmured. “But his evidence will be given.”

  “How can that be, if he is not there?”

  “Don’t forget that he gave it on oath at the inquest. On the basis of that evidence the jury brought in a verdict of murder against your father, and on that verdict he was charged. The testimony given by Little Stephen is in the court record—it is admissible evidence. And...” he hesitated, but decided to go on, “if he is not there, the evidence cannot be challenged by cross-examination. Your father’s counsel would have to do the best he could to counteract its effect without being able to put a single question to that lying rogue.”

  She bowed her head in dismay at the words, but in acceptance of his judgement on the situation. “Oh, Jeffrey,” she whispered. “What can an advocate do in the face of such circumstances?”

  “Little enough, I fear. Yet he must do his best. I am writing today to an acquaintance in London who may be willing to go into court with the case.”