Beau Eversley nodded. “Understandably. And when did you find that she had gone, ma’am?”
“Oh, not until the next morning—”
“The next morning?” he repeated, amazed. “But by that time the child had been alone in her room for half a day and a whole night!”
“Yes, but you see, sir,” replied Mrs. Fyfield defensively, “we both thought that she wanted to be left alone, and that in the end that would be the best thing for her. About seven o’clock, after the tray had been removed from outside her room, I went up once more and knocked. Again, she told me to go away — she said there was nothing she wanted, and she meant to get into bed presently. After that, Cynthia’s betrothed — a Mr. Beresford — I think you are not acquainted with him — called on us. We all sat in the back parlour, which is cooler than the one that looks on the street — and I did not go near Susan’s room again until Cynthia and I were about to retire for the night. Then I tapped gently on the door, but, receiving no answer, tried the handle. The door was still locked; so, thinking Susan must be in bed and asleep, I retired to my own room.”
“Was the door of Susan’s room still locked in the morning?” asked Eversley.
“Yes. When she didn’t appear at breakfast, I asked the housemaid to knock on her door. The girl came down to say she could get no answer, so I went up myself. After knocking and shouting until I was quite exhausted, I became alarmed, and opened the door with the housekeeper’s set of keys. There was no sign of Susan, and the bed was all made up as though no one had slept in it — and then I saw the letter, propped up on her dressing table. I can tell you it was a most unpleasant shock, Mr. Eversley!”
“I’m sure it was, ma’am. What did she say in this letter?”
“It was quite short — only a few lines. She said that she was going away for a short while, but would not tell me where, as she was particularly anxious that you shouldn’t find out where she was. She said she meant to break off the engagement between you, and was writing to inform you of this. She finished by saying I was not to worry, for she would be somewhere quite safe — she underlined that three times. At the end of the letter—” the tears started to Mrs. Fyfield’s eyes — “she wrote ‘Thank you for all your kindness to me in the past. Your affectionate friend’ — all my kindness, indeed! Why, I assure you, Mr. Eversley, I thought of that child as my own niece — I even do so now, and am consumed with anxiety on her behalf!”
“Quite needlessly, I am sure, ma’am,” said the Beau, with more assurance than he felt. “Tell me, do you know if Susan took any money, or clothing?”
Mrs. Fyfield nodded. “Yes, we had lately been buying some new garments for her with money supplied by her lawyer. Most of these were missing, and her small portmanteau was gone, too. There had been a sum of money left over from our purchases, and this I had handed into her own keeping some days previously, so she most likely took that along with her. At any rate, I could find no trace of it — for I thought it best to search her room in order to reassure my self that she had not just run off with nothing but the clothes she stood up in!”
“I must confess that was in my own mind,” admitted Eversley. “Have you consulted your lawyer at all?”
“Oh, yes! I went to Mr. Watson at once, for I felt that Susan was in trust to me, so to speak. Really, it must seem such a very odd situation to anyone else, but I have come to accept it over the years — is it not surprising, sir, how one can become accustomed to the most unusual circumstances? I often think—”
“Yes, indeed.” He was quick to interrupt this philosophical flight, knowing how easy it was for his visitor to wander from the point. “But what did Mr. Watson have to say?”
“Why, he seemed to be not the least little bit put out. But then, you know, he is not a demonstrative man, and I cannot imagine he would ever get into a taking about anything under the sun!”
“How did you explain the matter to him, ma’am?”
“Well, of course, I could think of no better way to explain it than by telling him the truth — or most of it, at any rate,” she added, hastily. “I said that a suitor had approached me for Susan’s hand — but didn’t give any name. I thought perhaps in the circumstances—” She hesitated, and gave him a long, considering look.
He raised his brows, inviting her to continue.
“Well, you know,” she went on candidly, “I’ve had time to give everything a deal of thought since Susan disappeared; and I’m beginning to wonder if, after all, she might not have been telling the truth — the second time, I mean, when she insisted that she’d made it all up about your being betrothed. The only trouble is—”
She stopped again, searching his face with a surprisingly shrewd look in her eyes.
“Yes?” His expression was inscrutable.
She realized that he did not intend to help her.
“The trouble is, that I don’t quite see why you should have confirmed her story, and actually come to me to ask for permission to address her, unless you really had been secretly engaged to her. I can’t think of any other reason why you should go to such lengths — and yet I have a strong feeling that it was all a take-in! Forgive me if I am wrong, but—”
“Perhaps we could return for a moment to Mr. Watson — with your permission, ma’am. Having learnt of the circumstances and their outcome, what did he suggest you should do?”
“Well, first of all he was for doing nothing. I gave him Susan’s letter to read, and he said it was obvious from it that she had some particular destination in mind — most likely the home of a relative or friend — and that she could come to no harm, and would no doubt return in a short time, feeling much better about the whole affair. But I think he must have seen that I still didn’t feel easy in my mind; so then he said there could be no harm if I inquired discreetly among our relatives and friends to see if I could trace her.”
“And this you have done?”
“Yes. It was a simple matter; for, as I think I explained to you before, I was always careful to keep Susan away from anyone who had known my family in the days before I took her into my care. As for friends — although she made several while she was at Miss Fanchington’s seminary, she never visited at their homes. That left only those of my own friends whom she had met during the school holidays — and I cannot say that she ever reached that degree of intimacy with any of them which would lead her to plant herself on their doorsteps without so much as an invitation!”
“But you did make discreet inquiries, nevertheless?”
“Oh, yes. I declare, I have never paid so many calls for long enough! And it all had to be done so carefully, as you will appreciate — I had no wish to give anyone the slightest notion that Susan had run away. However, I think I may say—” she finished, not without a certain pride — “that no one suspected anything was amiss. And I am confident that she is not with any of them.”
He frowned. “Nevertheless, her letter to you led the lawyer to believe that she had a definite destination in mind. The question is, where?” He paused for a moment, and a light came into his hazel eyes. “It might not be a bad notion to ask my sister what she knows of this.” Another pause, then he shook his head. “But no! There isn’t the slightest possibility that Susan could have seen Georgy — that is, if you are certain that she didn’t leave the house during that afternoon.”
“Oh, no! As I told you, Mr. Eversley, Cynthia and I were constantly going up to her room, and talking to her.”
“Except for the period after seven o’clock, when Mr. Beresford called on you, and you assumed that Susan had retired for the night,” he said, thoughtfully. “Now, let me see…No, I am confident that it would have been impossible. I myself escorted my sister to a masquerade that evening.”
“Indeed, sir, I never seriously considered it! For, as she says she wishes above all things to keep out of your way, it would scarcely serve her turn to go and stay with your sister.”
“Perhaps not — although I must confess I am not such
a frequent caller at my parents’ home as you might suppose, ma’am. However, you may be right. I should be bound to hear of it, if she were there. Well, it seems for the moment that we are unable to solve the mystery.”
Mrs. Fyfield sighed. “I came to you as a last resort, hoping that perhaps she might have changed her mind, and told you where she was going. What do you think I should do now, Mr. Eversley? For she’s been gone over a fortnight, and I am bound to be anxious, no matter how calm Mr. Watson may be about the business!”
“He is probably right,” replied the Beau, drawing a handsome blue and gold snuff box from his pocket and regarding it abstractedly for a few moments. “Tell me, ma’am, did he make any disclosures to you about the young lady’s parentage?”
“Nothing to the purpose. It seems that throughout he has been acting upon instructions received from a client at the time when Susan first came to me. He pointed out that he was not at liberty to reveal the name of this client, nor the nature of what had passed between them—”
“Very proper, of course,” nodded Hugh, taking snuff in a deliberate manner, and returning the box to his pocket. “There is nothing, however, to prevent him from seeking his client’s permission to acquaint you with these particulars.”
“So he said on my first visit, and he undertook to do that very thing. But when I waited on him again yesterday, he told me that it was of no use. His client positively refused to divulge anything.”
Beau Eversley was thoughtful, tapping his fingers; on the arm of his chair.
“I wonder, ma’am, did you by any chance point out to Mr. Watson that this attitude of his client’s might make it difficult to — er — arrange a suitable marriage for Susan?”
“Indeed I did. For, of course, I do realize, always supposing—” she darted a shrewd look at him — “that an engagement really does exist between you, that a gentleman in your position would scarce feel disposed to wed a nameless girl. If it should chance to turn out that she is the natural daughter of a gentleman of birth, there would not be much harm done, even if it isn’t quite what one would like. After all, Horry Walpole’s niece, the Countess of Waldegrave, was Sir Edward Walpole’s natural daughter, and no one ever thought any the worse of her for that. Indeed, Joshua Reynolds painted her three daughters, as you doubtless know, and the picture was exhibited at the Royal Academy — so what could be more respectable than that, I ask you?”
“I must confess I cannot at present think of anything,” replied the Beau, dryly.
“Yes, but suppose Susan should turn out to be the daughter of a mere nobody — or — or worse? What then?” pursued Mrs. Fyfield.
“What indeed?”
“However, Mr. Watson naturally does not know who Susan’s suitor is, and so he doesn’t quite view the matter in that light,” continued Mrs. Fyfield. “He can see no reason why I shouldn’t do what his client recommends, and continue to represent Susan as my niece, just as I have done all these years.”
“You did not then tell him that you had revealed the truth to me, as well as to Susan?”
Mrs. Fyfield looked a little sheepish. “Well, no, I did not,” she confessed. “I was anxious at all cost to keep your identity secret—”
Hugh Eversley nodded. “I appreciate your discretion, ma’am. But does not Mr. Watson’s mysterious client desire to know something about the man who is seeking to marry his protégée?”
She shook her head in bewilderment. “That’s the oddest part of it — it seems that this man (for I suppose it must be a man?) doesn’t want to trouble his head with the affair at all. Mr. Watson told me that his client’s latest instructions were that he might marry the girl to anyone whom he saw fit — providing it was not to a known fortune-hunter.”
“So Mr. Watson has not even taken you into his confidence as regards the sex of his client?”
“No. But surely it must be a man? I cannot believe, though,” said Mrs. Fyfield, thoughtfully, “that he would be Susan’s father, natural or otherwise. Surely no parent could be quite so indifferent to the fate of his offspring?”
The Beau shrugged. “As to that, ma’am, there are some very odd people in the world.”
“I am beginning to believe it But what should I do now, Mr. Eversley? I cannot endure any longer not to know where Susan is! I declare, I find myself quite unable to take the interest I should in my own daughter’s approaching marriage — I cannot dismiss Susan from my mind!”
Beau Eversley reflected that Mrs. Fyfield was not the only one in this situation. It suddenly came home to him how many times his own thoughts had turned to Susan over the past weeks. He stood up abruptly.
“Then I think we must find her, Mrs. Fyfield. After we’ve done so, I am sure you’ll agree it will be for her to decide if she wishes to return to you at once, or after an interval.”
“Oh, yes!” replied Mrs. Fyfield, eagerly. “As long as she is staying somewhere suitable, I shall not mind at all! It is only the anxiety of not knowing where she is that quite cuts up my peace of mind!”
“Exactly so.” He paused, a frown of concentration on his brow. “I think, you know, ma’am, that it will not do for her to remain in ignorance of her parentage. Evidently it is useless to expect any help from the lawyer on that head. Are you quite sure that you can throw no light on the mystery yourself? There might be some small detail which you can recollect — did the child bring any personal possessions with her when she came to you, for instance?”
Mrs. Fyfield shook her head. “Nothing I can think of — excepting, of course, the clothing she was wearing. And that has been thrown out these many years!”
“No toys? Nor trinkets?” Again she shook her head. He sighed. “A pity. There might have yielded some clue to her identity.” He broke off, as another thought crossed his mind. “How did the child come to you? Who brought her?”
“Why, Mr. Watson, to be sure! I well remember it was a bitterly cold day, and poor little Susan was crying, what with cold and fatigue — and the abigail who was holding the child did not look in much better case herself. They brought her in a closed carriage, after dark. Cynthia had been some time abed — she was only six years old, then, you know, Mr. Eversley — and I remember her nurse grumbling that Susan’s crying would waken her. However, it didn’t, and Nurse soon had little Susan quiet and safely tucked up. Although I recollect that Nurse did tell me that the child used to wake and cry in the night for long enough after that — it seems she was asking for someone called Polly. I had to tell Nurse that this was the name of Susan’s own nurse at her old home; for, of course, Nurse thought Susan was my brother’s child, and that I knew all about her past life.”
“Naturally. And I dare say your surmise was correct.” He began to pace slowly up and down the room.
“Polly,” he repeated, thoughtfully. “The name of a nursemaid. Not much to go on. Polly — from — where?” Suddenly he turned to his visitor, speaking in a brisker tone. “Did they chance to let slip the name of the place from which they’d collected the child?”
Mrs. Fyfield hesitated. “Not as far as my recollection goes — though it’s so very long ago, I might well have forgotten. But you may be sure that Mr. Watson would not let slip anything he didn’t wish me to know. I tell you what, though, Mr. Eversley,” she added, with a flash of inspiration, “the abigail who was with him might have made some such communication to Nurse; for she went off with Nurse after Susan was settled in bed, and they took some refreshment together, while Mr. Watson and I were discussing the arrangements about the child.”
“Do you know where this woman can be found?”
“Nurse? Oh, yes. She lives in the village of Islington — I go to visit her sometimes, for she was with me from the time of Cynthia’s birth until Susan went to school, and one cannot quite cast off an old servant, you know.”
“Do you think, ma’am, it might be possible to ask her about this matter without betraying the reason for your interest in it?”
“Oh, yes, I am certain
of it!” exclaimed Mrs. Fyfield, with a touch of pride. “Do you know, Mr. Eversley, I find I have quite a talent for dissimulation — is it not shocking?”
MORE THAN A SISTER
Lady Eversley was not at home when her eldest son called on her later that morning.
“It doesn’t signify,” he told the butler. “Is my sister here?”
“Miss Georgiana is at present staying in the country with Mrs. Cunningham, sir.”
Beau Eversley stared. “The devil she is! When did she leave Town?”
“More than a fortnight since, Mr. Eversley. She journeyed to Richmond with Mrs. Cunningham.” The man waited a moment, while Hugh stood there frowning, then added, “can I convey any message from you to her ladyship when she returns?”
Hugh started. “No, it’s of no consequence. I’ll look in again.”
He left the house and slowly descended the steps to the street. Georgy in Richmond — it was incredible! What on earth could have possessed her? He well remembered how she had poured scorn on Evelina for leaving the diversions of the Town. She must have had some powerful incentive to take such a course herself. It might be worth while to look into her motives.
Once he had reached this conclusion, he lost no time in setting out for Richmond, and arrived at his sister’s house in the early afternoon.
It seemed to take some time to find the mistress of the house, but she came to him at last, and welcomed him affectionately.
“Hugh! I declare it’s an age since you were last here! There’s nothing amiss, I trust — Mama is well?”
The Clandestine Betrothal Page 12
