Amberley Chronicles Boxset II (Amberley Chronicles Box Sets Book 2)

by May Burnett

  "Is that why you kept sending me for more charcoal and pencils, and always had money for new shawls or other fripperies?" Emily sounded incensed. "I had wondered how that was possible. How much did this Major Andrews pay for the information you sent him? However much it was, it was not worth risking your neck, Margaret! Nor endangering the rest of us, including our poor cousin!"

  "It was not all that much," Margaret said wryly. “I had already come to the conclusion that it was not nearly enough compensation for the effort, but as insecure as we are here, I did not want to cut off even that modest extra income. I did save a little nest egg, in case of emergency. Did you know that Armando is planning to remarry soon, and we may have to look for new lodgings?”

  “I only know it by chance – how did you find out? But that is moot now.” Emily shook her head. “We need to depart, but where are we to go and what is to become of us? I have only a few miserable coins to my name, and I fear mother is in no better state.”

  “Leave that to me, and eventually your cousin,” Anthony soothed her. “I shall fetch you and your mother tonight; we can slip out of town under cover of darkness, and when your absence is discovered in the morning, shall be far away. That gives you several hours to pack, but don’t bring more than the most necessary items. I suggest that we travel to Geneva and await your cousin there, on the shores of Lac Leman. I am amply provided with funds; we shall do well enough.”

  “We are very much obliged to you,” Emily said. “As you are not related to us, you are generous to assist us in this emergency. I shall never forget it.”

  Anthony shrugged off her gratitude; first they had to make their escape. “You realise it will be best not to tell anyone but your mother that you are leaving? And even less in what direction and where we are travelling?”

  “Indeed,” Margaret said, and Emily nodded, more reluctantly.

  “Is there any servant you have to bring?”

  “Nobody,” Margaret said, with a trace of bitterness. “The servants of the Mardiglios are an arrogant and lazy lot. I shall be very glad to see the last of them. We could not afford to hire anyone ourselves.”

  “So much the better. We shall find a servant or two in Switzerland, or on the way. For now it is best to travel light – we shall be five already with my valet, in one carriage. Is your mother fit enough for this?”

  “She will be,” Emily grimly announced. “Even if I have to drag her out of bed. This might be just what she needs, a reason to leave her chambers and stop moping and crying all the time. But I fear she will not be a very cheerful travelling companion.”

  “I shall bear up. If Mrs: Bellairs should be reluctant, impress upon her that it is essential that she come along for the sake of your reputations.”

  “She knows it, Mr Wetherby, she was born and brought up a lady,” Margaret said. “Even in our reduced circumstances, we know what is due to our name.”

  Emily glared at her. “I wish that were true, or you would never have engaged in such dangerous pursuits. What on earth were you thinking!”

  “I was thinking that it was no great sin to work for our own government, and that the gossip they were interested in could easily be collected by anyone staying in this town,” Margaret replied. Her cheeks were red. “Don’t be such a prig, Emily, you would likely have done the same. It was like a game.”

  “A deadly game,” Anthony reminded her. “The Austrians take this sort of thing greatly amiss. We shall have ample time to discuss the rights and wrongs of it during our journey, but I must leave now, to prepare for our departure, brief the lawyer, write a letter to Conrad – there is much to do. I shall come to your door an hour after midnight with the coach, so bring only what you can carry. Will you be able to leave unobtrusively?”

  “Not by the front gate,” Margaret said, “at night the back door will be more discreet. The back street is just broad enough for a carriage of normal size.”

  “I shall have a look at it now, when I leave. Until tonight, then. Don’t be late – I cannot stand in a narrow street with the coach for long without calling attention to us, attention that we need to avoid at all costs.” He hesitated a moment. Ehrenblatt had believed they had forty-eight hours, but he might be off. “If anyone comes to arrest you before that, try to slip away and send me a message at the inn, telling me where to find you – maybe in such Church.”

  “It seems so strange,” Emily said. “Like a nightmare. If Margaret had not confessed her part, I would have considered this the ravings of some madman.”

  Anthony could sympathize. “Let us hope it does not really turn into a nightmare, Miss Emily, and that we can all safely leave from here within the next –“ he consulted his pocket watch, “– fifteen hours.”

  He took his leave of the ladies with a small bow. Had he sufficiently impressed the seriousness of the situation upon them? He thought so, although he could not help wondering at Margaret’s fecklessness, and wished he had been able to talk to the girls’ mother, whom he had not met yet. From Emily’s words, she sounded like a sad case, not the kind of passenger he looked forward to sharing the coach with. He might have to hire an extra horse and ride outside as long as the weather was fair, leaving more space for the ladies.

  In any case, he would try to cheer the woman up with the prospect of a return to England, and security; she was useless to her daughters in her state of melancholy. Emily deserved a mother who looked after her, instead of adding to her burdens.

  Chapter 11

  A life can change forever in the blinking of an eye.

  Maxims for Young Gentlewomen, Vol. 2, by a Lady (1824)

  As soon as Mr Wetherby had left, the sisters rushed to their mother’s bedside, but she was so dazed from the laudanum that they could not make her understand the urgency of the situation.

  “Let’s pack first,” Margaret said at length, in frustration. “Maybe it is as well if she rests over the day, none of us is likely to get much sleep tonight.”

  Emily had to agree. Glad for once that it was not the custom to take meals together in the Casa Mardiglio, they began to sort and fold their meagre belongings, only interrupting their labours for a hasty lunch in the kitchens.

  Emily faced the dilemma whether to pack her new evening dresses in addition to her old black ones, more suitable for daytime wear. Remembering that her future husband was supposed to pay back her grandmother’s expenditures, she was inclined to leave those dresses behind. Yet was she not owed compensation for months of shopping and other unpaid errands? In the end she took one of the new dresses, the pretty blue one she had never worn, leaving the other two. Had she had a new cloak she would have taken it without hesitation, for her own was almost worn through, despite turning the fabric, and the lining had holes too numerous to mend.

  She packed for her mother as well.

  Around teatime – if they had been home in England – Mrs Bellairs was sufficiently lucid for her daughters to inform her that imminent flight was their only recourse. At first their mother flatly refused to believe them. Brought to understand the danger through both girls’ determined efforts, she began to cry helplessly at the prospect of being uprooted yet again. As unhappy as she had been in Verona, to leave without a clear destination and prospects terrified her.

  “You have to come,” Margaret told her briskly, “our good name would be irretrievably ruined were we to travel alone with an unmarried gentleman, and we cannot afford to travel without Mr Wetherby. Besides, haste and secrecy are essential.”

  “We cannot simply leave the Contessa and her family in the middle of the night, without explanation,” Mrs Bellairs objected. ”Not after living on her hospitality for nearly two years.”

  Margaret and Emily exchanged a look. “That would be dangerous,” Margaret said. “We can always write later.”

  “She will never forgive the affront.”

  “I shall write her a note of explanation, Mother, and leave it under my pillow,” Emily offered. “You are right - it would be
too rude and ungrateful to leave without a word.”

  Margaret did not look happy with the notion, but said only, “Be careful what you put on paper.”

  Since the packing was done and her mother’s fearful lamentations only heightened her own misgivings, Emily decided to deal with this chore right away.

  Dear Grandmother, she wrote,

  For urgent reasons I cannot explain now, we are obliged to travel back to England at once. We shall write when we are settled in our future home.

  Would there be a future home? Who would pay for it? Emily’s heart was heavy as she dipped the quill in the ink bottle once more.

  Thank you for your hospitality over the past two years, during this difficult time of our lives. We shall make every effort to repay the costs you incurred on our behalf, when we are in a position to do so.

  She was determined not to be in debt to the Contessa a day longer than necessary, but was she merely fooling herself? It was unlikely that she would ever be rich enough to defray even this modest obligation. Only two days earlier she had cautiously looked forward to the possibility of Margaret marrying Sir Conrad – but their cousin would not want anything to do with them once he learned that Margaret’s folly was the reason for his imprisonment. And it would come out. Wetherby would tell him everything in due course, when they were all safe – God help them.

  Your obedient granddaughter,

  Emily Bellairs

  Her note was rather brief after two long years in this house, but Emily did not find it in her heart to write more. Nobody would be able to tell in which direction they had left, from the information that they were returning to England.

  She folded the paper and put it under her pillow. As they were in the habit of making up their own beds – the Mardiglio servants being disinclined to wait on poor relations – it might be some time before the note was found.

  The hours of the evening passed with excruciating slowness. Mrs Bellairs kept offering new objections and complaints. Margaret and Emily took turns trying to reassure her.

  Margaret’s luggage was twice the size of Emily’s. How many of her sister’s clothes and baubles had been financed by the wages of espionage?

  The day had been hectic and filled with anxiety; the evening took on an air of unreality. Surely their humdrum, respectable existence could not include a flight from the authorities in the middle of the night! This sort of thing happened in sensational novels, not in real life.

  Margaret looked fiercely determined, as beautiful as she had ever been. It had to be admitted, she was made for adventure and drama. Emily and their mother were accidentally caught up in this danger, bit players supporting the intrepid heroine. At least that was likely how Margaret saw the matter. Emily felt a deep anger burning in her stomach. Now they had to pull together, but once they were safe, she would have it out with her sister.

  ***

  Half an hour after midnight Emily slipped down the old winding stairs and unbolted the back door. There must be no delay at the last moment.

  All was ready; since there was no other choice, she was impatient to be gone. For the last hour all three ladies had sat in tense silence, watching the clock.

  “Now,” Margaret said as the longer hand moved forward that last fraction. The sisters jumped up and grasped their bags and hat boxes. Despite leaving so much behind, it was an awkward bulk.

  “Come, mother,” Emily said gently. Mrs Bellairs rose from the settee, her limbs stiff from hours in the same position, holding on to the back for support. She would not be able to carry anything, so Emily took her bag as well, balancing both bags and a hatbox with some difficulty.

  The winding stairs were steep, the centuries-old marble worn and irregular. Only long familiarity enabled Emily to gingerly pick her way down in the darkness with her heavy load. Margaret was not having any problems, from the briskness of her footsteps further down, but Emily did not like the faltering nature of her mother’s movements at her back. She could not help, having her own hands full.

  As they were between the third and second floors, her worst fears were realized. Her mother cried out loudly in sudden pain, and fell down on the steps, bumping into Emily’s kneecaps. Emily perforce dropped her bags and the hatbox, but could not stop herself from crashing heavily and painfully into the wall, before landing on her behind, on the cold stairs. Her luggage went clattering down as she rose, turned back up, and hurried to investigate what had happened to her mother. Loud groans reassured her that Mrs Bellairs was still among the living, but that cry earlier – what had happened?

  “Come on!” Margaret half shouted from downstairs. “We must not tarry, leave the luggage if necessary!”

  “Mother is hurt,” Emily called back.

  “Damn!”

  Emily was too frightened and desperate to be shocked at her sister’s exclamation.

  It was too late to flee, in any case. From several directions she heard stirrings in the house, doors opening, footsteps rapidly approaching. Someone was running up the staircase. If only it had not been so dark!

  “Mother, what is the matter?” she asked, forcing her voice into calmness.

  A pained groan was her only answer.

  A door opened just beneath her, on the second floor landing. Lantern light spilled over the silhouettes of two men, one of them her uncle Armando, a big blunderbuss in his right hand. It was aimed at the other man’s chest. Her heart stuttered.

  Armando was the first to speak. “What are you doing in my house at this late hour, Signore Wetherby, without an invitation? Only a thief sneaks in through the back door.”

  Was there to be no end to the catastrophes of this day?

  She called out, “It is all right, Uncle Armando. Mr Wetherby is here to escort us, at our invitation.”

  The lantern swung in her direction. The Count stared at her, taking in the shabby travelling cloak, and her mother’s bulk on the stairs.

  “Do I have to remind you, Emilia, that you have no right to let strangers into the house without permission?” His cold voice reminded her yet again that they were only living here on sufferance. He measured her contemptuously. “Where were you going at this hour of the night?”

  “Let me explain,” Wetherby said glibly, but the Count was in no mood to listen. To Emily’s dismay, several servants, including Donato with a big stick in his beefy hands, had assembled behind their master, and were watching the scene with fascination.

  Margaret appeared from downstairs, a martyr’s expression on her face.

  “We have to leave, Uncle. You don’t want to keep us here, do you? Please just let us go.”

  “Your mother seems in no condition to go anywhere.” The voice was Uncle Guiseppe’s. He came down the stairs with a candle in a holder, pausing to investigate Mrs Bellairs’ state. “That leg is broken, I make no doubt.”

  “Oh no.” Margaret was pale and trembling. “But we must –“

  “Should we call the watch, to take this Englishman in charge?” Donato asked. He seized one of their bags from the stairs and easily hefted it in the air. “This may be full of stolen goods.”

  How typical of the dishonest lout to immediately think of such a thing. Emily’s indignation tightened her throat, but she croaked, “How dare you!”

  “We’d better let mother get to the bottom of this,” Guiseppe said dispassionately to his older brother. “Bring their luggage to the Contessa’s salon, Donato, Geronimo. Anna, help Teodoro carry Signora Bellairs there, careful not to jostle that leg. Girls, come along, and you too, Wetherby.”

  “Mr Wetherby has nothing to do with any of this,” Emily protested. “He only entered to render help, when he heard Mother cry out.”

  It was too dim to see clearly, but Wetherby’s gaze briefly rested on her, before he turned back to Armando. “I assure you there is nothing sinister about my presence here. By all means let us talk to the Contessa.”

  The whole crowd trooped to the Contessa’s salon on the second floor, where Mrs Bella
irs was settled on a sofa. She was in great pain, but her groans subsided once she was immobile, though silent tears were still running down her cheeks. Emily pressed her own handkerchief into her mother’s hands, but she only clutched it ineffectively. What were they to do? As Guiseppe had said, her mother clearly was not going anywhere that night.

  In silence, except for whispering among the servants, they waited some fifteen minutes until the Contessa appeared. During this interval Margaret and Emily exchanged looks of deep alarm, but had no chance to talk and agree on any story. Wetherby did not seem nearly as worried as the situation warranted, but then it was not his neck that was threatened with a noose.

  To Emily’s relief Guiseppe dispatched one of the loitering servants to find a physician for Mrs Bellairs. Armando scowled but did not countermand the order.

  Emily looked at her mother warningly. If it had been only the Contessa, they might have made a clean breast of all and cast themselves on her mercy, but the younger Mardiglios were hand in glove with the Austrian authorities, and the presence of the servants would make it suicidal to admit anything.

  “Mr Wetherby,” the Contessa said coldly, when she finally had made her entrance and sat in her favourite chair, “What are you doing in our house, uninvited?”

  “I am here as a courier, as it were,” Wetherby said calmly, “on behalf of Sir Conrad Bolland, these ladies’ nephew and cousin. When he was dragged away to prison for no reason that I can discover, he begged me to take his relatives away from this dangerous city.”

  “Dangerous city?” Armando repeated incredulously. “What nonsense is this?”

  “He may have been exaggerating the possible danger in his mind,” Wetherby allowed. “Nonetheless as a faithful friend I immediately proceeded to carry out his wishes. My carriage and servant are waiting downstairs, to carry Mrs Bellairs and her daughters back to England. They are to await Sir Conrad on his estate.”