by Joan Smith
“Aye, if we have heard the whole of it.”
“Goose!” I said, and gave her a kiss on the cheek before running downstairs to tease Lord Weylin.
Chapter Fourteen
I found Weylin standing with his back to the door, gazing out the parlor window at the street. The door was open; he had not heard me come in. A glass of brandy sat on the table. I had not seen him drink brandy before. Indeed the hotel ought not to have had this contraband drink on the premises. I stood a moment, admiring his tall body and exquisite tailoring. His shoulders drooped, as though he were fatigued, or sad. In the dim light, his caramel hair looked black. The brandy and the weary posture suggested he was disturbed, which told me he had learned of his aunt’s infamous carrying-on.
Something stirred in me. I had come with the intention of enjoying his shame, but found that I wanted to comfort him.
“Lord Weylin,” I said softly, to catch his attention.
When he turned, I saw that his expression was troubled. His eyes looked dark, his face drawn. He gazed at me a moment, then a slow smile moved his lips. It crept up to light his eyes in a warm welcome. “You came alone,” he said. “I hoped your Mama might have retired.”
“She is still awake, and curious to hear if you learned anything. Bad news, was it?”
He came forward and took my hand to draw me toward the table. We sat. “No news at all, really.”
I knew he was not telling the truth. His manner, his refusal to look straight at me, were as good as an admission. I put my hand on his wrist and said, “You can tell me, Weylin. I think I know the secret already. I have been speaking to Steptoe.”
His other hand came out and covered mine in a firm grip. “I am sorry, Zoie. I had hoped to shield you from the sordid truth. I meant what I said earlier. There is no reason the world need know what your uncle was up to.”
The womanly compassion dwindled to curiosity. “My uncle? What about your aunt? She is the one who had a lover!”
“Lover?” He looked confused. It darted into my head that he meant to deny it. “Are you referring to Mr. Jones?”
“Of course. And he is young enough to be her son.”
“He was her son. That was her guilty secret. I don’t know how McShane discovered it, but it is pretty clear he knew, and took advantage of it. There were letters, receipts, a deal of evidence that McShane had been extorting money from my aunt.”
I snatched my hand back. “I don’t believe it! You are making that up to hide her shame.”
“An illegitimate child is hardly less shameful than having a lover,” he said crossly.
I did not really care if Lady Margaret had a whole platoon of illegitimate children. What vexed me was that he had turned Barry back into a scoundrel, just when I thought we had reclaimed him to relative respectability. “What did you find?”
Weylin put a little heap of papers on the table and began passing them to me, one at a time. The first was a letter from Ireland dated five years before, written during my uncle’s short trip home, before coming to live at Hernefield. I read:
Dear Margaret: While in Dublin I chanced to meet Andrew Jones. The name, perhaps, will be familiar to you? He is twenty-five years old. He was teaching in a poor boys’ school here, and living in abominable conditions. I looked into his history, and know the truth, so do not try to deny it. He seems a very nice, modest lad. I am shocked that you should treat him so badly. Remember that, whatever of his papa, from his mama he carries noble Weylin blood in his veins.
I am bringing him to England. Something must be done to better his condition. I shall not embarrass you by making public what you have done, but I must insist on repairing the damage to the extent possible. There is no reason your family need be aware of it. I shall visit my sister, Mrs. Barron, who lives near Parham. You need not publicly recognize him or me, but we must meet and decide what is to be done about Andrew. I shall contact you when I arrive. I trust we can handle this matter amicably. Sincerely, B. J. Barron.
I wanted to take the letter and fling it into the grate, to hide from the world my uncle’s despicable trick. He had ferreted out Lady Margaret’s shameful secret and used it to put her under his power. Without a word, Weylin handed me another letter. It was addressed a week later. I read:
I cannot like your suggestion of meeting in London, where we might be recognized. An out-of-the-way place would serve our purpose better. I have found a cottage for sale at Lindfield, ten miles south of Tunbridge Wells. I understand that you are not wealthy, but Macintosh cannot have left you destitute. Have you not got a widow’s allowance, or some jewelry you can sell?
There were other letters. I just glanced at them. They had to do with selling jewelry—a sapphire ring, a ruby brooch—the items Barry sold to Bradford. He wrote, too, of buying the house, and arranging meetings every four months at Lindfield. There was an undertone of menace. Barry did not come right out and say, “Do it, or I shall trumpet your shame to the world,” but the message was there, between the lines. But at least Barry was not after the money for himself; it was for Lady Margaret’s illegitimate son.
When I had read the last letter, Weylin gathered them all up and set them aside. “There is no need to tell your mama about this,” he said. “McShane and Margaret are dead and gone. I shall track down this Andrew Jones, and see who he is.”
“We know who he is. He is your aunt’s by-blow. I see nothing amiss in my uncle helping him.”
“That is what McShane led my aunt to believe,” he replied curtly. “Obviously Margaret did have a child out of wedlock. I cannot believe she abandoned him to shift for himself in the world. She was not a monster, after all.”
It did seem a little odd that Barry had gone to such pains for a stranger. “If she knew where he was, then she would not have believed this Andrew Jones was him,” I said uncertainly.
“It is my belief he was sent to India, where such problem lads are often sent. Your uncle ran across him there, or heard the story, and decided to make gain on it. Very likely the lad is dead, and McShane hired a cohort. This plan of extortion would be risky if the real Andrew turned up. I plan to go to London tomorrow and begin investigating there. I shall try to keep your family out of the case when it comes to court. You said your uncle left no sizable estate?”
“Mama had to pay for his burial,” I said.
“Then it seems this Jones fellow got away with the lot. I’ll see him behind bars before this is over,” he said angrily.
“That will hardly keep my uncle’s name out of it.”
“My hope is that Mr. Jones will knuckle under and return what he has stolen without going to court.”
The whole story was so shocking and degrading that it took me a moment to come to terms with it. I unthinkingly poured myself a glass of the brandy and took a healthy swallow. It tasted like fire as it burned its way through me. I immediately fell into a coughing fit, but once that was over, I found the brandy invigorating.
“What makes you so sure Andrew Jones is not your aunt’s son? They spent weeks together, over the space of five years. According to Mrs. Sangster, your aunt was extremely fond of him. Surely she would recognize her own son.”
“After a quarter of a century? She had not seen him since birth—but that is not to say she simply abandoned him. I cannot and do not believe it. As she never had any other children, she probably wanted to believe he was her son. The pair of them preyed on her guilt and sentiment. It was a despicable thing to do—and it robs her real son of his rightful inheritance, too.”
“I thought he was supposed to be dead, in India.” As I began assessing Weylin’s story with a calmer mind, I discovered it was nothing but a tissue of unfounded statements and wild imaginings. “It seems much more likely to me that Andrew Jones is her son, and my uncle was only trying to shame your aunt into doing as she ought. Surely he had some proof of his identity. A birth certificate... something.”
“What business was it of your uncle’s?” he demanded, in no s
oft voice. “The fact is, McShane returned from India penniless, and saw his chance to live in luxury off my aunt for the rest of his life.”
“My uncle did not return penniless! He had five thousand pounds, which vanished. And he lived on his pension. He did not live at Lindfield. Only your aunt and her son met there.”
“And my aunt’s male servant. The description I had from Mrs. Sangster sounds like McShane. I mean to take one of those sketches of McShane to show her. I daresay we shall discover the servant was no one else but your uncle.”
“You will not take one of my sketches, sir. My uncle was not sunk to waiting on your aunt and her bastard, I assure you. As to his living in luxury at your aunt’s expense, I would hardly call that little cottage the lap of luxury. You are quick to jump to conclusions that suit you, milord! Your only concern is that Jones diddled you out of your aunt’s money.”
“There is more than money at issue here. Two unscrupulous men were preying on a vulnerable old lady, feeding her lies, terrorizing her. They are worse than thieves.”
“I will not sit here and listen to my uncle being traduced in this manner when he cannot defend himself. Talk about unscrupulous men preying on a vulnerable lady! You have no proof for any of this.”
“I soon will have. I shall leave for London early tomorrow to find Mr. Jones and beat the truth out of the scoundrel.”
“You had best be very sure of your facts, sir, for if you slander my uncle, you will hear from my solicitor.”
I flounced out of the parlor in high dudgeon. No words followed me about sparing my family shame. So much for his fine claim! I ran upstairs to tell Mama what had happened. Her agitation was as great as my own. We enjoyed a quarter of an hour’s heated tirade against Lord Weylin, then decided to send for a pot of tea, as it was clear we would not be getting any sleep that night.
By the second cup, we had calmed down sufficiently to speak sensibly. “If it were true,” Mama said, fingering her chin to aid concentration, “how did Barry come to discover Mr. Jones was Lady Margaret’s by-blow, as it seems Mr. Jones did not know himself? How did Barry suspect she ever had this illegitimate child? Do you think someone in Ireland was the father?”
Then the truth struck me with the force of a blow. “Good God! Could Andrew be Barry’s son?”
“Barry was the best-looking of all his set, no denying.”
“Why the devil did he not marry her?”
“Perhaps he did not know of her condition. Lady Margaret was still in Ireland when he went to India. I wonder how he learned of it. I daresay she wrote and told him, but it takes such an age for a letter to reach India, and then for him to have to sail back home... It would be too late. The child would already be born. I really think that is what happened, Zoie. Why else would Barry be at such pains to see the lad was taken care of? And it would explain what happened to his own money as well. He gave it to Andrew, as he should.”
I could not like this version of the story either. It put Barry in a bad light, ruining a young lady, then merrily running away and leaving her to her fate. As I thought over the tone of his letters to Lady Margaret, I thought he took pretty high ground, blaming her for abandoning their son when he had abandoned both of them. He should have been begging her forgiveness. But that is the way. Two people misbehave, and it is the lady—and the child—who bear the brunt of it.
“We shan’t tell Lord Weylin what we think,” Mama said. “It is all done and over with now. No point slandering the dead.”
“What of the living, Mama? Weylin plans to get the money back from Andrew Jones. He thinks Jones is an impostor. I fear we must tell him the truth.”
“Plague of a man. Why can he not leave well enough alone? They cannot put us in jail, can they, Zoie? We have done nothing wrong—but it would be wrong to say nothing when we know the truth.”
“We do not actually know it,” I said uncertainly.
“In my bones, I know it,” Mama said wearily. “I always wondered that Barry showed no interest whatsoever in Lady Margaret when he came to stay with us. She was still a handsome lady, but he never looked within a right angle of her. He did not want me to notice anything between them, you see. What he should have done was to marry her—belatedly, to be sure, but better late than never. A scoundrel to the end, and he was such a nice, jolly boy.”
“You must tell Weylin, Mama. He plans to go to London early tomorrow and begin making trouble for Mr. Jones.”
“I shall mention it, but of course, we have no proof. Very likely he will try to get Barry’s five thousand into the bargain. That belongs to my nephew.”
That “nephew” came out as if Mama had been saying it forever. How quickly she had accepted the idea. If her suspicions were true—and she knew Barry better than anyone else did—then I had a new cousin. I was curious to see what Cousin Andrew was like. I was also apprehensive to consider meeting Lord Weylin with this new version of the story, which threw an even more degrading light on Barry.
In the confusion of our discussion, I had overlooked the fact that Mrs. Sangster, at the post office, had not recognized Barry. If he had been staying at Lindfield with Lady Margaret, she must have seen him. Perhaps he had stayed close to the house. Then, too, I had showed her an altered sketch, and said he was a clergyman. She would hardly think of connecting a servant with a clergyman. Would she recognize him without his clerical collar and the mustache? That could easily enough be checked.
Cousin Andrew—he was Weylin’s cousin, too. Odd that we were now connections, just when he must be wishing he had never heard of us.
Chapter Fifteen
As I lay in bed staring at the invisible ceiling, I reflected on the curious situation we had uncovered.
I liked to think that Andrew, Lady Margaret, and Barry had enjoyed some happy days at Lindfield. I understood now why they had all stuck close to the house. They just wanted to be together, away from the prying eyes of the world. Lady Margaret doted on the boy, the locals said. That suggested that she, at least, had enjoyed having her son back. I could not like that my uncle was sunk to posing as their servant. As Lady Margaret had become Mrs. Langtree, why could he not have been Mr. Langtree, and Andrew their son? Did Andrew know he was their son, or did they tell him he was “Mrs. Langtree’s” nephew?
Both Mama and I looked like hags when we went down to the private parlor in the morning. A sleepless night is enough to destroy a lady’s face, and when shame and worry are added on top, it is hard to keep up any countenance at all. I was not too unhappy to find the parlor unoccupied.
When we entered, the waiter said, “His lordship had breakfast early and has left for London. He said to inform you that he would be gone for a few days, madam.”
My first reaction was relief. The inevitable had been staved off temporarily. Then I thought of Cousin Andrew, and knew we could not let Weylin go about his business unchecked.
As soon as we had ordered breakfast and got rid of the waiter, I said, “We must stop Weylin, Mama.”
“I shall write and tell him what I believe to be the truth, Zoie, for I cannot face a trip to London at this time.”
“Would you not like to see Cousin Andrew?” I asked.
“I would, but I am less eager to see Lord Weylin. Best to tell him the truth in a letter, and let him digest it before we have to see him again.”
The letter was much discussed over breakfast. After our plates were cleared away, we asked for pen and paper, and Mama wrote her explanation in a simple, straightforward way. She expressed regret, and the hope that Lord Weylin would not treat Mr. Jones harshly. Whatever of the others, he, at least, was an innocent victim. When we were satisfied with the letter, she gave it to the waiter for posting to Weylin’s London residence.
“Can we go home now?” Mama asked weakly.
I would have liked to take an unaltered sketch of Barry to Mrs. Sangster for confirmation that he was Mrs. Langtree’s servant, but Mama looked so worn, I could not ask her to stay longer. We called our carr
iage. You may imagine my chagrin when I saw that wretch of a Steptoe sitting saucily on the box beside Rafferty. Steptoe lifted his hat and said, “Good morning, ladies.”
When Rafferty let down the stairs, he said to Mama, “He asked if he could hitch a lift. I hope you don’t mind, ma’am?”
“It is no matter,” Mama said. She was beyond caring.
We did not talk much on the way home. I noticed Mama’s frown dwindle to a bemused smile about halfway along the road, and knew she was thinking of Cousin Andrew. I thought of him, too, wondering what he was like, and whether the Weylins would acknowledge him. Of course Mama would. Irish families are close, and if the Duke of Clarence can vaunt his dozen or so by-blows, why should we hang our heads in shame at claiming one?
“We shall invite my nephew to Hernefield for a visit after this is all cleared away, Zoie,” Mama said as the carriage arrived home. “A pity you were in such a rush to dismantle the octagonal tower. He might have liked to use his papa’s room.”
I had lost my enthusiasm for art lessons since learning Count Borsini was a fraud. I would dismiss him, and continue with my work unaided, but as the tower was already dismantled, I would use it as my studio. It was good to be home, even if the future was uncertain. I was even happy to have Brodagan jawing at us again.
“I see Steptoe is back like a bad penny,” she said. “I hoped we’d seen the back of him.” She said a deal more; there was no fault in the world but Steptoe had it. “Where has he been? That is what I would like to know, and I will. The gander’s beak is no longer than the goose’s when it comes to rooting out the truth. If it was a wrong he was doing you, melady, it’ll come back on him in time.”
There would be a breaking and bruising of bones belowstairs, but I had other things to worry about. I went straight up to the attic and searched through every box and bag Barry had brought home with him, hoping to find some confirmation or contradiction of Mama’s suspicions.
Lady Margaret must have answered those letters he had written to her. She may even have written to him when he was in India. That was my major activity for the next two days. After going through everything twice, I was convinced Barry had not kept the letters, or anything else of an incriminating nature.
