by May Burnett
They looked at William, who shrugged. “I am not privy to his lordship’s motives or finances.” From his instructions not to stint on the repairs, William deduced that Pell was very rich, but he would not gossip about his temporary employer.
“It would be better for Bankington if a family resided there again. While it is encouraging that Lord Pell has the house restored, an absentee landlord does not provide steady employment and custom to the local shops. That Liverpool merchant who bought it before never stayed there above a week.”
“I wonder at the Bellairs ladies coming back to visit,” Mr. Harris said. “Given all that happened, surely the house must hold sad memories.”
“What do you mean?” William could not stop himself from asking. That any tragedy should touch the beautiful Miss Bellairs struck him as profoundly wrong, against the laws of nature.
“Rupert Bellairs inherited when he was only two, and was brought up by an elderly guardian,” Harris readily explained. “He spent his time at school and with friends, and fell into bad company. He was very good-looking, mind, and a bruising rider to hounds. With the estate and a large fortune, he was eligible enough and married a Miss Bollard in his twenties, sister to a baronet, and well-dowered. Everyone hoped that the marriage would steady him. There were the two daughters, and for a time all seemed well. But he found country life boring, and spent his life in the city, gambling and – um – indulging in other vices.”
“The London house was the first to go,” Temple took up the tale. “The losses mounted up. He fell ill – there is some speculation on the nature of the illness, but it cannot have been quite as bad as the worst rumours, or Lord Pell would hardly have married into the family.”
William frowned. Did that mean what he thought it did?
“Everyone knew things were bad,” Temple continued. “but when Rupert died new creditors came out of the woodwork, and the situation was even more desperate than anyone had expected. Since Bellairs Hall was not entailed any longer, it was sold off and the ladies lost everything, though I heard there was a small amount settled on the girls – not enough to survive on. They sought refuge with Rupert’s mother on the continent. She had married an Italian count almost fifty years earlier, and is still alive in Verona. She must have been quite surprised to have two granddaughters and a daughter-in-law she had never met in her life, descend upon her household.”
William’s blood ran cold at imagining Miss Bellairs in such dire straits. “Didn’t the ladies have friends or other relatives that could have helped them without leaving the country?”
The older gentlemen looked at each other, a little shame-faced. “Everyone thought it best that they leave, under the circumstances,” Harris offered lamely. “Mrs. Bellairs’ older brother could easily have helped – Sir Damian Bollard was a wealthy man – besides, he ought to have ensured that such a thing never happened by securing her portion to his sister’s possession with a solid settlement. But he had disapproved of the match and so Mrs. Bellairs’ entire fortune was gambled away with Rupert’s own.”
“A very poorly managed business.” Sir Reginald shook his head. “I would never allow my own daughters – if I had any – to be married without any protection; especially if the husband was already known to be wild and unsteady.”
“As it turned out, it was a good thing the ladies went to Italy,” Temple said. “That is where they met Lord Pell, and with his marriage to the younger Miss Bellairs the ladies are once again secure and respectable. She has recently given an heir to the Marquis, so even in the next generation Miss Bellairs will be closely related to one of England’s wealthiest peers and highest titles. She has been much sought-after in London, I understand, and has a dowry of ten thousand pounds.”
“Like a cat that always falls on her feet,” Harris said a little sourly.
William’s fist tightened around his tankard. “I hardly think that a lovely lady whose misfortunes were entirely unmerited deserves such a comparison.”
Harris shrugged. “No offense intended. Take my advice, Trey, and don’t fall in love with her. She is too rich fare for an architect, or anyone other than a lord.”
Anything he replied to that would only make him look more of a fool. William swallowed another mouthful of ale instead.
“Talking of that, wasn’t young Doctor Dorringley sweet on her at one time?” Temple said with a sideways look at Harris. “It would be most unfortunate if her return distracted him from another courtship.”
Harris looked uncomfortable for a moment. “If it does, then Dorringley will not be the man my daughter should marry, anyway. She deserves better than to be any man’s second choice.”
“Well said,” Sir Reginald said. “And of course your Betty is a pretty girl too.” There was just an element of doubt swinging in his voice.
“Will your daughter be present at the dinner party on Monday?” William asked Harris. “I look forward to making her acquaintance.”
“Oh yes, the whole neighbourhood will be there. Betty and her sister Ruth as well. We will see how Doctor Dorringley acts when he sees Miss Bellairs again. I shall be watching him most carefully.”
“He is not such a fool as to make cows’ eyes at one girl while courting another,” Temple said. “A country physician cannot afford scandal. But the situation is not without interest, I confess.”
William had little interest in Miss Harris and her medical beau. Had Miss Bellairs reciprocated this doctor’s feelings? If so, did that mean that she was willing to consider a professional man as a husband? But then her circumstances had changed drastically since that time, and what might have seemed adequate when her family had been on the verge of ruin might be spurned now.
“Is your nephew, Lord Laxeley, married?” he asked Sir Reginald.
“Not yet. You think he might be a possible match for Miss Bellairs? Terence isn’t much in the petticoat line. But then he is twenty-six and has a duty to the name. I suppose stranger things have happened.”
“I bet you five pounds, Reginald, that he’ll lay his heart at Miss Bellairs’ feet within three weeks of your dinner party,” Temple said mischievously.
“Done. My nephew is not so easily bowled over as all that.”
Lord Laxeley must have a far harder heart and head than William, at least in his uncle’s estimation. Suppressing a sigh, William took his leave of the convivial group and went for a walk outdoors. It was too early to sleep.
It was pure coincidence that his steps led him in the direction of Bellairs Hall, and he turned back before he came too close. Given what he had learned this night, prudence seemed highly advisable.
Chapter 7
“Do you mind coming back to the East Wing with me, Miss Bellairs? I want your opinion on a small matter.”
It was not the first time the architect had consulted her. Margaret put down her sketch book and rose. “Certainly, Mr. Trey.”
She followed him up the stairs and down a long corridor, into a smallish, ill-shaped room with only one window. It had never been used that she could remember.
“Do you see this wall, Miss Bellairs? The awkwardly placed door to the left is the only access to the small room beyond. This unnecessarily thick separating wall has been added later, and has no purpose that I can see. It makes two narrow rooms out of what must have been one decent one, and carries no weight. I propose to knock it down to restore the original larger room, but wanted your permission first.”
Why had Margaret never noticed that the separating wall was a useless encumbrance? Probably because she never had workmen with hammers and chisels at hand, to rectify such issues. “Pray go ahead, Mr. Trey. The odd size of these two rooms has always prevented them from fulfilling a useful function. I wonder why this wall was built. In the narrow servant quarters it might make sense, but here in a guest room it is just a nuisance.”
“Thank you, Miss Bellairs.” Mr. Trey’s admiring look warmed her, after another less than harmonious breakfast with her mother and Mrs. Carney.
Mrs. Bellairs had urged Margaret to have additional evening dresses fashioned right away, as though she were willing to use the rustic seamstresses available in Bankington ever again. They had compromised on an urgent message to London, for more clothes and sundry household necessities.
Her mother was out of the house now, affording Margaret relative peace and quiet. Mrs. Bellairs and Mrs. Carney were to make a tour of several parishes’ graveyards, to gather inspiration for the monument to be commissioned for Rupert Bellairs. They had urged Margaret to accompany them, but she had declined on the grounds that so many graves would inevitably put her into a melancholy mood.
She returned to her sketching, trying to ignore the loud knocking noises form the East Wing. Before long, the new footman – rescued from the workhouse, and all of sixteen years old – appeared to summon her once more.
“Mr. Trey’s compliments, Ma’am, and he requests your presence in the room they are working in at your earliest convenience.” Tom looked proud of himself for remembering such a complicated sentence correctly, and she rewarded him with an approving smile.
What could it be now? Normally Trey came to seek her in person, rather than sending servants with messages. She walked back to the East Wing slightly faster than usual.
Her curiosity was soon appeased by Mr. Trey, whose cheerful expression was a welcome contrast to her thoughts of graveyards. “Miss Bellairs, thank you for coming so quickly. The men have uncovered a box in the wall we are knocking down. I wanted you to be present as we open it – unless you want to take possession of it as is?”
She hesitated only a moment. “Whatever is inside belongs to the owner of the Hall, my brother-in-law Lord Pell. The more witnesses when we open it, the better. Proceed, Mr. Trey.”
The metal box, somewhat rusted, was four by six inches long, and some three inches high. From the way Mr. Trey held it, his muscles visibly bulging under the tight sleeve of his jacket, it must be very heavy indeed. Margaret’s heart began to pound in anticipation.
Trey said, “I’ll have to fiddle with the lock, as we lack the key. Though it looks simple enough. A table would be more convenient.”
“In the room opposite,” Margaret suggested, and led the way into that abandoned guest room. Margaret whisked away the chipped bowl, and Mr. Trey set the box down on the surface of the sturdy washing table. The two local workmen and young Tom had followed and watched the box with avid eyes. Should she send them away? But opening the box with only Mr. Trey present would expose her, and possibly him, to even more speculation and gossip.
“Maybe we’ll need a locksmith?” she wondered. “The lock will be rusty, and might not work even with the key. Still, we could search the house for keys of similar size, and try those with a little grease.”
“No need, Miss Bellairs.” Trey took a metal tool out of his pocket and inserted it into the rusty lock. His hand looked strong and capable. A look of concentration crossed his face, and his fingers moved carefully, probingly. With a grating noise the lock turned.
Margaret wished she had possessed this useful tool when she was spying for the War Office in Verona. It would have made matters easier on more than one occasion. Nonetheless she raised her brows as she looked at Trey.
“As an architect, I often come across locked attic doors and similar obstacles,” he explained. “Sometimes it is inconvenient to call a locksmith.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense, open the lid, Mr. Trey!”
“Why don’t you do the honours, Miss Bellairs? Doubtlessly it was one of your own ancestors who hid this box in the wall.” He offered her a large, clean handkerchief.
Wrapping the cloth around her hand as a makeshift glove, Margaret tugged at the lid. The hinge was stiff and rusty, but she was not a frail woman, and after a few seconds she succeeded in opening the box.
Despite the knowledge that the contents belonged to Anthony now, she could not suppress a small gasp – what she saw was exactly as she had hoped. Gold coins, mixed with antique jewels.
“Ooh!” the first workman said, staring with wide eyes.
“Gad!” the other echoed. “Some people have all the luck!”
“I am sure the owner will show his gratitude to you, when we have sent the box to him,” Margaret said repressively. “Why don’t you return to your work in the meantime?”
“What shall you do with the box?” the architect asked, when the men and Tom had reluctantly taken their leave. “It must be well guarded until it reaches London.”
“First I need to get it into the inhabited part of the house. Then I shall make a detailed inventory, with sketches of the jewels and any unusual coins. After that, I suppose I’ll need to find a reliable way to convey it to Pell House.”
“A pity you did not find this hoard earlier, when you were in need,” he said. “Then it would have belonged to you, Miss Bellairs.”
She looked at the glittering hoard. Would it have been enough to preserve the house, her heritage?
“If my father had found it he would have gambled away everything, to the last coin. This treasure will belong to my nephew eventually, so it is not quite lost to the family. The Bellairs line will be extinct, in any case, after my sister and me.” When in his cups her father had sometimes lamented the lack of a male heir, and justified his own extravagance with that circumstance – as though he did not owe the slightest consideration and security to his wife and daughters.
“Tell me where to take the box,” Trey said. “It is too heavy for you, I can barely carry it myself.”
“Then you knew that it had to contain gold as soon as you took it up?”
“Or lead, or stones. It was too heavy for anything else.”
“I am much obliged to you, Mr. Trey, for calling me at once.” She wondered uneasily if he had been tempted to share the bounty with the workmen. Would she have done so in his position? If she knew the workmen better, and could rely on their silence, possibly.
“What else could I do? I was instructed to consider you the owner’s representative, Miss Bellairs.”
“I shall suggest to Lord Pell that he pay you a finder’s fee, and a suitable gratuity to the men too.”
“The men will be grateful, but if you suggest to him that I am obviously lucky and might be considered for other architectural jobs, that would be more useful, Miss Bellairs. I do not need any part of your gold.”
She stared. “You are more eager for work than for treasure? That is an unusual attitude.”
He hefted the box in his muscular arms, balancing it against his shoulder.
“Where to, Miss Bellairs?”
“My sitting room,” she decided, “I need the table there for my sketches.” She set off, leading the way.
“Don’t tell me where you will be keeping the gold until it is sent off, but please promise me that you’ll have it hidden and guarded, and not where you yourself might be endangered,” he said, walking just a step behind her with the box. “It is inevitable that the workmen will tell the others about this find. By tonight all of Bankington will have heard all about it, and the value will increase in the telling.”
He was right. It would be a sensation in this rural village, maybe in the entire county.
“Why are you more interested in work than gold, Mr. Trey?”
“My family is not poor.” He did not sound winded from the load he carried. “But I find it impossible not to be active. I used to work for the East India Company for the first ten years of my career – but then decided that I was more interested in architecture. Alas, now that I have finished the required training, I must compete against men with greater experience, and younger men who are just eagerly starting out.”
“You cannot be much older than thirty-five,” Margaret said, “not all that old.”
“Thirty-four, not that it matters. I am eager for opportunities to apply my new training and knowledge. Most architects would not want to come all the way to Derbyshire for such a small job, but I need all the practical work I can fi
nd.”
“I see,” she murmured, with involuntary sympathy. “You want to accomplish something worthwhile and have to catch up with men who started earlier, certain of their direction while you made a false start.”
“That is it, in a nutshell.”
“Many people make false starts, and most are too lazy or afraid to change direction. I wish you good luck in your profession, Mr. Trey.”
“I appreciate your gracious good wishes.” He smiled at her. She felt a little warmer all of a sudden.
A good thing her mother was not around to see her walking like this with a man who was not related, and no chaperon in sight.
“By the way,” Trey said, when he had set the box down on the oak table she indicated, “I have been invited to a dinner party by Sir Reginald Milldale this Monday, and I understand that you and your mother will also be present. If you would prefer not to socialise with your architect, I can send a note that my duties prevent me from attending.”
Margaret shook her head at him. “And deprive the hostess of an extra single man? You have no idea how hard those are to find when organizing a dinner party. I do not understand why you would suppose I could have any objection to meeting you there, Mr. Trey.” Her mother might feel differently, but then he had only asked for her opinion. “How did you meet Sir Reginald?”
“He and two other gentlemen, Mr. Temple and Mr. Harris, were meeting at the inn for a game of whist and invited me to make a fourth.”
“I hope they did not fleece you, Mr. Trey.”
“I can hold my own. I won almost two pounds off them.”
“Well done.”
“Sir Reginald was acquainted with my uncle some time ago, it turns out. That may have encouraged him to look on me as a possible guest,” Trey confided. “Since the workmen knock off at six, my evenings are free.” He eyed the box she was once again gingerly opening. “Forgive me for asking, but how much confidence do you repose in your staff? I understand most of them are very recent hires?”
