The Fortune-Hunter

by Julia Herbert

  “Is he a good pleader? Will he be listened to?”

  “He’ll do his best, I have no doubt—but to be plain with you, Amy, his skill as a pleader is not the main point. We have to find someone with courage enough to take the case.”

  “And this man has?”

  “I believe so. He wasn’t afraid to defend some of the Jacobite lords after the insurrection.”

  Just as she had been able to feel his sighing by means of the contact of her hand on his arm, so now he felt her stiffen. He glanced down at her.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “He defended Jacobites?”

  “Indeed he did, very ably—though without success, since the case against them was lost from the outset.”

  “What do you mean, lost from the outset? You are not saying the Crown was determined to condemn the defendants if they were innocent?”

  “They were condemned because they were Jacobites. Whether they had given active support to the rebels seemed scarcely to matter.”

  “I’m surprised, sir, to hear you speak as if you think they were harshly treated. At least they were given a trial. One cannot be sure that the Stuarts would have given a fair trial to their opponents if they had won their fight.”

  “Ah, come now,” he said in a tone of reproach, “that is mere prejudice speaking. There were good and noble gentlemen among the Jacobites.”

  “My father never thought so, sir!”

  “And it is of your father we should be speaking, ma’am, not of some political disaster of the past. To return to the point—”

  “Are you a Jacobite, Mr. Maldon?”

  The sudden return to formality of address alerted him to the fact that she was very perturbed. He sighed inwardly. “Who has been speaking to you of Jacobites?” he inquired. “Why are you so quick to pick up that subject?”

  “You have not answered my question, sir! Are you a Jacobite supporter?”

  “No, Miss Tyrrell, I am not,” he said with cool precision. “And now that you have my answer, do you believe it? It isn’t likely I would admit my political beliefs to you if I were a supporter of the Stuarts, in view of your hostility to them. So what have you gained by challenging me?”

  “Are you saying that you would lie to me, sir?”

  “I am not saying either one thing or another, Miss Tyrrell. I am trying to find out what you think should be done next for your father—who is languishing in Winchester Gaol while you waste time getting in a miff over imaginary Jacobites.”

  “Sir, you are impolite!”

  “Madam, you are absurd! Are we discussing Mr. Tyrrell’s defence or are we having a quarrel?”

  She jumped to her feet, her hazel eyes blazing. “Don’t speak to me as if I were a baby, sir!” she cried. “You are the most impertinent man I have ever come across!”

  “More impertinent than Bernard Gramont, who apparently reduced you to tears yesterday when he called?”

  “Ah, so you know of that? Cross-questioning my servants?”

  “Of course not. Palmer told me of it when he brought me some food, out of a wish to be helpful. He said I might find you a little upset because Mr. Bernard had been here ‘lowering your spirits’—but, faith, I find your spirits high and fiery, not lowered!”

  She had actually been on the verge of sweeping out of the room in indignation, but she heard the amusement in his voice. She paused and turned back. “Are you laughing at me, sir?”

  He rose, came to her, and took her by the shoulders. “Amy, you are a source of continual wonder to me,” he confessed. “I never know from one moment to the next how you are going to react! When I arrived you were all eagerness and cordiality—now you are ready to box my ears, are you not?”

  That had been true—a moment ago. Now she gazed into his ice-grey eyes and found laughter there. Her own wrath began to dissolve. “Oh, lud, let us not get in a pet with each other,” she said on a note between exasperation and amusement. “Matters are much too serious for that. Tell me, sir, what are my father’s chances at the trial?”

  “Poor, I’m afraid. We must prevent the trial taking place, as I told you at the outset. But I certainly didn’t think it would prove so impossible to find witnesses who had seen Beau Gramont alive and well after your father left Parall that night. Little Stephen was my chief hope, but he is very elusive.”

  “Stay!” she cried. “Nancy seemed to know where he might be found!”

  “Nancy?”

  “Nancy Saythe—at the dressmaker’s house. She was on the verge of telling me something when ... when ... well, the long and the short of it is, I never heard the end of the sentence.”

  “Is she still there? At Miss Hilderoth’s?”

  “I believe so, Jeffrey. Why?”

  “Because, if she has a tendresse for this man, she may be eager to keep him in this country. If I go to her and explain that Stephen Boles is about to quit the country but can be detained as a material witness if she will tell me where to lay hands on him, she may tell me.”

  “You are right!” she exclaimed. “The last thing Nancy would wish to hear is that Stephen is off to France! Oh, Jeffrey, it’s worth trying!”

  “Then I will go tomorrow and speak to her.”

  “Why not today? Why waste time?”

  “Because I have to write to London and get the letter away today. Moreover, I don’t believe Miss Hilderoth would let me past the door. I need to find out how to get at Nancy Saythe by some backstairs method. But don’t be afraid, Amy, I shan’t delay over this matter.”

  “Of course, sir; forgive me for interfering. You know best.”

  To her surprise he took both her hands in his and held her away for a moment as if studying her. “That is a phrase I never expected to hear from you,” he said with a laugh. “Are you saying that you trust me?”

  “Why, I—certainly I trust you—that is.”

  “Nay, admit it, you were in great doubt only a moment ago whether I was a scoundrel.”

  “No, that’s not true!” To her own surprise, she pulled him close by the hands he was holding and stood staring up at him, as if she could read his very soul by the deep gaze. He did not flinch, but looked back at her.

  A strange warmth seemed to run through her veins as they stood thus, face to face. To her dismay, it was she who turned away. She found she was trembling—but with what emotion she could not tell.

  “I must not delay you, sir,” she said, in a voice she wished was less shaken.

  She had the feeling that he had gently touched the nape of her neck. With his fingertips? With his lips? When she dared to look up, he was gone.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  Mrs. Tyrrell felt better the following morning but decided to stay in bed to recover from her travelling. This meant that Amy had to sit and read to her from Clelia, although she would much rather have been downstairs on the watch for Jeffrey Maldon.

  By mid-afternoon there was still no sign of him. When at last a caller came, it was someone who appeared at the back door with his cap in his hand and a note for Miss Tyrrell.

  “Robin Emhurst is here, miss—son of Farmer Emhurst.”

  “To see me?”

  “Yes, miss, a message from Mr. Maldon.”

  Without waiting to listen to her mother’s protests she threw down Clelia and ran downstairs. The lad was standing in the middle of the room, clutching a folded paper. When she unfolded it she found a few lines in Jeffrey’s broad, firm hand.

  “Nancy Saythe was extremely perturbed by my news of Stephen’s likely departure, but it was a mistake to say I could detain him as a witness—she was alarmed by that and refused to give me any information. I had the feeling she intended to get in touch with Boles, so I have kept watch thus far, with Robin’s help. She has now walked out on the Poole road with a bundle over her arm which appears to contain her belongings. I am following in hopes she is going to find Boles herself. You shall have word as soon as possible.”

  Amy looked up. �
��You have spoken to Mr. Maldon, Robin?”

  “Yes’m. I was in Markledon today bringing in eggs for the market. He asked if I’d help him and of course I said yes at once.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I took some eggs to the back door of Miss Hilderoth’s shop, pretending they’d been ordered. Then I got a chance to speak to Nancy and told her someone had news of Little Stephen for her, at the Garland.”

  “I see. So that’s how Mr. Maldon got a chance to speak to her.”

  “Yes’m. But she were only there a minute or two. She came scurrying out with her face all scarlet and a-clasping her hands. I saw her speak to Timothy Benworth, that was a friend of Little Stephen’s—but he shook his head and she ran back to Miss Hilderoth’s. So me and Mr. Maldon, we watched the shop, him at the front and me at the back, and after one o’clock dinner she come out and went off on the high road. Mr. Maldon rode after her on Gylo but came back after a few minutes to write this note for you, miss.”

  “Thank you for bringing it, Robin. And so Mr. Maldon has ridden off after Nancy again?”

  “No, miss, he hasn’t gone a-horseback. That black o’ his, it’s a sight too noticeable. Nobody in the district has a better beast. He’s gone on foot, ’cos Nancy’s on foot after all.”

  “Towards Poole?”

  “Aye, and if it’s Poole she’s heading for—as I daresay it is—that’s nigh twelve mile, a long enough walk in this mizzly weather and with the wind rising. Perhaps she’ll get on the stage wagon—today’s a day for the stage wagon, Mondays and Thursdays...”

  Amy had had experience of waiting for parcels to be delivered by this cumbersome conveyance, that took goods and passengers cheaply, though slowly, from village to village.

  But that meant that it might be twenty-four hours, or even forty-eight, before she learned whether Jeffrey had been led by the servant girl to Stephen Boles.

  “Thank you, Robin,” she said. “Now you must have something for your trouble.”

  “Nay, Miss Tyrrell, Mr. Maldon give me a sixpence, though I’d have done it for nothing for your sake, miss.” Blushing and embarrassed, he bowed himself out.

  Amy’s mother couldn’t imagine what ailed her for the rest of the day, she was so restless and nervy. “Really, daughter, one would think it was you who had her sensibilities affronted by the gaol at Winchester instead of me,” she complained.

  “I’m sorry, Mama. But I don’t feel like reading to you anymore.”

  “Very well, sit down and let us play bezique—that will keep you occupied enough, I hope!”

  Since it was useless to look for news that day, Amy resigned herself to the role of nurse and companion. But the following day her mother was up and about again, and Amy’s time wasn’t occupied in amusing her. She kept watch by the window in the breakfast room, but no one came up the drive.

  Arguing with herself as the hours went by, she tried to put forward all the events that might delay him. He might have lost track of Nancy. He might have been turned away by Stephen Boles. He might have been set upon—he might be hurt!

  At this she began to pace up and down the breakfast room, clasping and unclasping her hands. The suspense of not knowing what was happening was unbearable. In the end her good sense came to her aid: she must do something herself, or she would go out of her mind.

  She had already had the passing thought that it might be worth while paying a visit to Uncle Pierce. First of all, Bernard had hinted that the old man was repenting his cowardice; he might now be willing to help Jeffrey prepare her father’s defence and, certainly, if the case was going to come to trial as now seemed likely it would be a benefit to have a respected local lawyer involved in the defence. The judge would be impressed by that, even if the jury—who would mostly be smugglers or their supporters—were not.

  And then there was the question to which she herself would rather like an answer: what was the information about Mr. Maldon that Uncle Pierce had had from his London friend?

  Her mother was vexed when she appeared dressed for the ride to Markledon. “You are not going out, Amy?”

  “Yes, ma’am, lam going to see Uncle Pierce.”

  “But you know I am not well.”

  “Mama, you are much better than yesterday, and besides, I am not good company today.”

  “Well, that is true, at any rate. Very well, my dear. But pray hurry back. Evening is coming on—it will be dark soon after six.”

  “Yes, Mama, I promise to be back soon, and if darkness has come on Uncle Pierce will send Datchett to accompany me home.”

  Her mother was quite satisfied with that. Amy hurried out and rode away before Mrs. Tyrrell could delay her any further.

  When she turned into the little lane off the High Street she thought she saw Uncle Pierce’s servant in conversation with another man, in front of the door of the house. Nothing unusual in that—except that she was almost sure the man was Timothy Benworth.

  Tim Benworth had been the foreman of the jury at the inquest, foreman of the jury that had trapped her father into a murder charge. It was accepted—by Jeffrey Maldon and Farmer Emhurst and everyone else who viewed the event dispassionately—that that jury had been made up of Pegmen or men with the fear of death put into them by Pegmen.

  Yesterday, when Nancy Saythe hurried away from the Garland Inn, she had stopped to speak to someone—so Robin Emhurst had reported. To whom had she spoken? To Timothy Benworth, “that was a friend of Little Stephen’s”, as Robin Emhurst said.

  And now here was Timothy Benworth in conversation with Datchett, Uncle Pierce’s manservant. That was worrying. It meant that even in this household, there might be spies at work. She must mention it to Uncle Pierce.

  The two men parted company as Watcher trotted up to the door. Datchett stood on the doorstep, looking quite unwelcoming. “Did you want to see Mr. Pierce, miss?”

  “Of course, Datchett.” Why else would she be here?

  “He’s very busy today, miss.”

  “But not too busy to see me, Datchett.” After all, she was his god-daughter.

  “Please to wait, miss. I’ll go and inquire.”

  ‘She sat down in the hall, feeling distinctly unwanted. It was perhaps the first time in her life that she had ever been kept waiting in Edward Pierce’s house. Outside the wind racketed round the eaves as a harbinger of one of the autumn storms that so often pounded upon this coast. The seas would be running high tonight; even from the Manor House, which was a mile or more inland, they would be able to hear the pounding of the waves on the cliffs at Hengistbury and Bower as the wind carried that mighty sound.

  The long-case clock in the hall ticked loudly. From within Uncle Pierce’s office she could hear the sound of voices. Once she thought she heard laughter and the clink of glasses, but the old oak door was thick and made a good barrier against eavesdropping.

  Perhaps it was true that she had come at an inopportune time. All the same, surely Uncle Pierce could leave his cronies for five minutes to speak to her? She had a sudden sense of isolation, as if no one in the world wanted her. It was the last thing she ever thought to experience in this house, where she had run in and out as a child with Bernard.

  At length, after a wait that began to seem almost uncivil, Datchett appeared. “Mr. Pierce can spare you a few moments now,” he said, and ushered her into the office.

  Uncle Pierce rose momentarily from behind his desk but did not come forward to greet or kiss her. He was a little flushed, as gentlemen often became—so Amy had noted—when they had taken drink.

  “Forgive me for keeping you in the hall,” he began, waving her to a chair. “I had friends with me that I couldn’t get rid of very easily.”

  “It is I who should apologise, Uncle Pierce. Perhaps my coming here is an embarrassment—”

  “Nay, nay, it’s just that we had a little something to celebrate and I didn’t want to cut it short.”

  “I’m happy to hear that. Is it something I may know of?” />
  “Oh, a good stroke of business, that’s all,” he replied, waving a hand in airy dismissal. “And now, my dear, what was it that brought you here?”

  “Something that I dare say could have waited till another time, Uncle. However, since I am here, perhaps you may know that Bernard has paid me a visit?”

  “Did he indeed? He murmured something to me of intending to put matters right between you. I hope he did so.”

  “Well, as to that,” she said, unfastening her cloak and letting the hood fall back to be more comfortable in the stuffy room, “he made an explanation of his presence at Miss Hilderoth’s, which I accepted though I don’t necessarily believe it.”

  “Dear me!” Uncle Pierce pushed his silver-rimmed spectacles up his nose and peered at her through them. “I never thought to hear you speak of Bernard in quite so cool a tone, Amy.”

  She sighed. “I have learned a great deal in these last few weeks. I remember how vexed I used to be with Mama because I thought she was a romantic, but it seems to me now that I was as romantic about Bernard as she was about his father. But it’s useless to regret all that now.”

  “Good, good. I’m glad to hear you take it so well. So now all is calm between you and Bernard? Thank you for letting me know.” The old man’s hand was hovering over the bell on his desk, as if he were about to ring for Datchett to show her out.

  “Oh, but that isn’t the reason for my visit,” she said in haste. “I came to ask if, as Bernard suggested, you would be willing to resume your role as my father’s lawyer?”

  “Resume my role?” Mr. Pierce said, staring at her in amazement.

  She was a little startled at the surprise he was showing. “I’m ... I’m sorry,” she faltered. “Have I embarrassed you? Bernard said you would be willing to ... and ... well ... I thought if I came to put the idea to you...”