“I asked her if you had brought any possessions with you when you came,” he continued. “I thought there might be some clue to your identity among them. However, it seems there was nothing. That was very remiss of you, don’t you agree? The heroines in novels always contrive to have a locket or a ring, or something of the kind which will help to identify them.”
He was rewarded by a faint laugh.
“But my questions did prompt Mrs. Fyfield to remember that when you first came to her you used to cry for someone called Polly — do you recollect the name, by any chance?”
She considered for a moment, then shook her head. “No, I cannot say I do.”
“Well, most likely it wouldn’t have taken us much further if you had, for we still would have to discover where this Polly lives — if, indeed, she is still alive and has not moved away since you were brought from her care. However, Mrs. Fyfield, who is, by the way, a most ingenious female! — has thought of something which may help.” He went on to explain how Mrs. Fyfield thought her former nursemaid might possibly have some information.
“Of course,” he concluded, “it’s only a straw in the wind, but it might turn out to be helpful.”
“And if it doesn’t?” asked Susan.
“Then we’ll think of something else,” he said, energetically. “We’ll find the answer, never fear.”
“There is someone who knows the answer all the time,” said Susan, slowly. “And that is the person who is Mr. Watson’s client. Whoever that person is—” she went on, with a trembling lip, “whether my father or — or some other relative, one thing is clear. He — or she — doesn’t wish to have anything to do with me at all.”
She turned towards him, her dark eyes bright with threatening tears. In that moment, he knew at last that he no longer regarded Susan as a sister — if, in fact, he had ever done so. He longed to draw her into his arms and murmur words of comfort against her soft, dark hair. But he thought of his brother George, and of the understanding which appeared to be growing between these two. Instead, he patted her hand in elder brother style.
“You can’t know that,” he replied, consolingly. “There might be circumstances which would make it impossible for you to be received.”
“I can think of one circumstance,” she said, uncertainly. “And — and that — would make it impossible for anyone — ever to — to consider — me — as — as—”
In another moment, Beau Eversley’s quite commendable control would have given way. But a shadow fell across the arbour, and George was standing there, holding a tray on which stood two silver tankards.
“We thought you’d had long enough,” he began, “and Eve took pity on your thirst, Hugh — why, Susan!”
He broke off abruptly, setting the tray down clumsily on a small wooden table within the rose arbour. He turned on his brother angrily.
“You oaf, Hugh! What have you said to upset her so? Damned if I don’t—”
“Watch your tongue!” returned Hugh, sharply, forgetting for a moment the need to treat George as an equal in front of Susan, and not as a younger brother. He recollected in time, and rising to his feet, lifted one of the tankards from the tray and carried it outside, leaving the two of them together in the arbour.
“What has he been saying to you, Sue?” asked George, bending over her in a protective way.
“Nothing,” replied Susan. The interruption had staved off the threatening tears, leaving her a trifle irritable. “I wish you will not fuss so, George! It was not anything your brother said — it is just that I felt a trifle low — but I am all right now, I assure you!”
“Well, if you’re certain,” conceded George, reluctantly. “Only I’ll not have him coming here,” he added, raising his voice, “setting you at sixes and sevens! D’ye hear that, Hugh?”
The Beau raised his face from the tankard, and laughed gently. “Oh, yes. My hearing’s always been excellent.” He took another draught of ale. “This stuffs deuced good, old chap,” he said. “Let me recommend you to come and take a damper.”
George glowered for a moment, then glanced at Susan. She smiled back at him, and at once his expression lightened. He picked up his tankard; and raising it to her, drank deep.
FAREWELL
It was plain that Susan did not yet feel quite ready to return to her home in London; and when Evelina hospitably insisted that she should prolong her stay in Richmond she gave way thankfully, after an initial polite show of diffidence. Hugh, however, resisted all his sister’s attempts to persuade him to remain with them for a few days. He pointed out that Mrs. Fyfield would be anxiously awaiting news of Susan, and also that he had had a number of engagements in Town. The truth was that he had no wish to stay and watch the daily strengthening of the attachment between Susan and George; but perhaps he did not admit this even to himself.
He returned to Town without delaying longer than was necessary for Susan to write a letter to Mrs. Fyfield. He was in a somewhat reckless mood, a rare thing for the nonchalant Beau Eversley, and drove as though pursued by the devil himself. Passing a south-bound Mail coach just outside Kew, he swept past it with barely an inch to spare, causing the stolid Mail coachman to describe his parentage in unflattering terms.
Arrived in Town, he went straight to Duke Street with Susan’s letter. Mrs. Fyfield’s relief at having news of her missing charge was sincere and uninhibited.
“As long as she is in safe hands, sir, she may stay away as long as she wishes — poor child, I’ve been thinking so much about her odd situation over these last few weeks, and one cannot but sympathize with her wish to go right away from everybody she knows! And for her to be with your sister, Mrs. Cunningham — why, of course, Mr. Eversley, nothing could be more suitable! Though even now I am not sure how much truth there is in that Banbury story she told me of your engagement — but, there, I’ll not tease you with questions at present. You must be quite fatigued, and longing for your dinner after so much travelling — if you would do us the honour to sit down at our table, I can assure you we should both be delighted!”
The Beau politely but firmly refused. Mrs. Fyfield then told him of her intention to visit Nurse on the following day, and he asked if he might look in to hear the result of the interview. They agreed on a time, and he took his leave.
Several hours later, having changed his dress and dined, he called at the playhouse for Maria McCann. The reckless mood was still upon him, increased by the unusual quantity of wine he had taken with his solitary dinner. The lady cast a sharp glance at him as they settled down together in his town coach, and gave a low gurgle of laughter.
“Sure, an’ I’ll swear ye’re just a bit on the go!” she teased.
“You don’t mean to insinuate that an Eversley is incapable of carrying his liquor?” he asked, raising one eyebrow in his own particular mannerism.
“Be easy.” She tapped his knee with the ivory fan she was carrying. “One would need to know you very well to discern it. But I have not seen you so, before. Have you just left a particularly gay party? Or is something amiss?”
“I dined alone,” he answered, fingering a curl that danced on her cheek to the movement of the carriage.
“Then there is something wrong. Tell me.”
“The only thing wrong,” he replied, putting an arm about her and drawing her close to his side, “is the distance that you insist on maintaining between us.”
She used the fan again, this time a little more sharply. “Sure, an’ I thought we’d been over all that and had done with it! A fine thing, to start it all up again just as we’d reached a comfortable understanding — and myself away back to Ireland before long.”
His arm tightened round her, and he laid his cheek against hers.
“Maria,” he murmured, while his lips sought hers, “surely you cannot be so cold?”
A street lamp’s glow slanted briefly across the interior of the coach, and caught the rich colour of his tawny hair.
Suddenly, she turned to
wards him in swift abandon, pressing her mouth to his. For a long moment they clung together, almost as if the embrace were a prelude to farewell.
Then he raised his head, and softly spoke her name. Gently, she disentangled herself from his arms.
“It will not do,” she stated, simply.
He tried to take her in his arms again; but this time there was no yielding on her part.
“Why won’t it do?” His tone held a hint of chagrin. “You have no need of returning to Ireland, and nothing else stands between us.”
“I do have need of returning to my own country, for that is where my work lies. But, apart from that, there are two things that stand between us — or, I should say, two people.”
“What people?” he asked, a trifle out of humour. “For my part, I know of no one.”
“No?” She looked him straight in the eyes. “An actress perforce learns a deal about the emotions. When you kissed me just now, it was a kiss of desperation, as though in my arms you sought to forget some other woman.”
“Fustian!” he drawled, recovering his poise. “You read too much into too little, my dear. I suppose you have the habit of dramatizing everything — an occupational hazard, perhaps.”
“Perhaps. But in this instance, I’m prepared to wager—”
“Be careful,” he warned her. “It will not be money I shall ask for, should you be the loser.”
She took no notice of the interruption. “I would stake my last coin that you are in love with someone else. And I fancy,” she added, thoughtfully, “that I know who it is.”
“Then be so good as to inform me, for I have no idea!”
“Come, who is play-acting, now? You may as well admit that you are in love with that little schoolroom miss — what is her name? Susan — yes, that’s it — Susan Fyfield.”
“I’ve told you before that the child means nothing to me.”
“Oh, yes, I know; and it was partly true, then, at least. But if I am not mistaken—”
“Which, of course, you are—”
“—you are now head over ears in love with her—”
“Stuff!” he retorted, forcibly. “If you must know, I have every expectation of seeing her eventually wed to a younger brother of mine.”
She gave him a long, considering look. “So that is it,” she said, in a satisfied tone. “Now that you’ve at last discovered you want her, you believe you’ve lost her to someone else. But you’re faint and far off, dear Hugh. I could not at first be certain of your feelings in the matter, but I never had any doubt from the beginning that the child was completely infatuated by you.”
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Infatuation! Yes, that was it, right enough. You yourself may know how easily such a fantasy comes and goes.”
She shook her head. “That I do not,” she replied, with a wistful smile. “For when I was in the grip of such a feeling, I married the man who inspired it.” She paused. “I have had causes enough since then to regret that marriage — and yet, in spite of all—”
“Is that your second person? Your dead husband? Is it he who stands between us, as you imagine Susan does?”
“No. For I am not so foolish as to look for such a love twice in a lifetime. One must be content with less,” she said, softly. “Yet the other person I mention is the man I intend to marry.”
“To marry!”
“Does that surprise you? Perhaps you think me fit only for a less binding connection?”
“No, not that — but—” He broke off, uncertain how to continue.
“Well, never mind what you think. The fact is that I am to wed the manager of a playhouse over the water — his name need not concern you. It will be a comfortable arrangement, for I shall still have my work, and we will each of us gain a companion who shares an abiding interest.”
“Then why did you come to London at all?” he asked, puzzled. “If your future was already planned—”
“There was something I had to do, first,” she interrupted him. “Something I had to know.”
“You’ve mentioned this before,” he said, with a quick frown. “I recollect you told me then that you had not succeeded in your mission — whatever that was.”
She shook her head sadly. “No. I have still not succeeded. And now the time has come for me to leave.”
“Won’t you tell me what it is?” he urged. “I would like to assist you—”
She laid a cool hand over his. “Better not,” she answered, slowly. “There’s no saying what harm might be done—”
“Confound these mysteries!” he answered, impatiently. “Can’t you trust me?”
“Implicitly, my dear. But there are others concerned.” The coach slowed to a stop, and she pulled her gauze scarf about her bare shoulders. “And here is my lodging,” she finished. “I must leave you.”
“But wait! May I not accompany you indoors, at least?”
“Not in your present mood, my friend.” Before he realized what she was about to do, she suddenly leaned over and planted the lightest of kisses on his cheek. Then she stood up as the coachman came to open the door.
“Sure, and we’ve had many good times together,” she said, softly. “But perhaps this had better be our farewell.”
FAMILY LIKENESS
Two days later, Beau Eversley was back in Richmond with news which he hoped might carry Susan a stage further towards solving the riddle of her parentage.
He found her playing hide and seek in the garden with Evelina’s small children, and experienced some difficulty in persuading them to part with their playmate for a while.
“You will not mind if Georgy stays to hear what you have to tell me?” asked Susan. “She knows all about my affairs, as I think you realize.”
He nodded, reflecting wryly that evidently she was set on avoiding a tête-à-tête with him. Her manner towards him had undergone a noticeable change. No longer did she blush and stammer when he was by. She regarded him steadily and calmly with her inscrutable dark eyes; and when she spoke to him there was just a trace of reserve in her manner.
“First of all,” he said, “I must tell you that your — that is to say, Mrs. Fyfield — was most thankful to get your note. Had you seen her relief when she had read it, I think you would realize that she does indeed hold you in the same affection which she would feel for a niece. She sent you a reply, and here it is.” He held out a letter, and Susan took it from him carefully to avoid touching his fingers. “But before you read it,” he continued, quickly, “may I tell you of the news she brought back from your old nurse in Islington yesterday?”
Both Susan and Georgiana exclaimed at this, and Susan’s face became more animated than before.
“I will spare you all the details that were gone into,” he said, dryly. Susan smiled, for she knew only too well how Mrs. Fyfield would have digressed in telling her tale. “The gist of it was that the woman managed to remember Mr. Watson’s abigail saying that they had fetched the child from a village in Middlesex. Half an hour’s searching of her memory produced the information that this village had been called Pyncott. I have looked it out, and find that it is a place situated west of Harrow, on the road to the village of Rickmansworth.”
“Capital!” cried Georgy, her green eyes glinting. “We must go there at once, and try to find this woman called Polly.”
He toyed with his quizzing glass. “I had thought of going there alone.”
Both girls raised a quick protest.
“That is just like you, Hugh, to be keeping all the fun to yourself!” exclaimed Georgy in disgust.
“I think I ought to go,” put in Susan, with quiet dignity. “There is no reason that I can think of why you should charge yourself with my affairs, sir.”
“I offered my help, and you accepted it,” he reminded her, gently. “In any event, you will need an escort. Perhaps you might prefer to—” he paused for a moment — “take my brother George?”
“George!” exclaimed Georgy, incredulously. “You must
be wanting in your wits Hugh! Take George on an affair of such delicacy! In any case, he is away for a few days, visiting some friends of his who turned up unexpectedly and carried him off.”
“In that case perhaps you will allow me to accompany you, Miss Susan?”
Susan looked surprised at the marked diffidence in his tone.
“You are very good, Mr. Eversley,” she answered, quietly, “and I should be grateful for your escort.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop being polite to each other!” exploded Georgy. “When do we start, Hugh?”
They started off immediately after nuncheon, and by late afternoon had reached a turnpike somewhere along the road to Rickmansworth. At this point, they knew that their road forked; an obliging gatekeeper set them right for Pyncott village.
The road turned out to be nothing better than a rough, waggoners’ track, which in any other weather than that of a sunny June day would have been impassable for the Cunningham’s delicately sprung coach. As it was, the young ladies received a severe jolting. Georgy wound down the window to call out a protest to her brother, who was riding a little way ahead; but she quickly drew her head in again, because of the dust.
“Phew! What an odiously uneven track this is!” she exclaimed in disgust to Susan. “I dare swear we shall break an axle or something, and then we shall be in a pickle!”
“I suppose this is the only approach to the village,” replied Susan, sensibly.
“Well, for my part, I had rather be on horseback. You may depend Hugh had the best of it, as men always contrive to do, my dear!”
At that moment, the coach rounded a bend in the road, and came into a pleasant village of half-timbered cottages which clustered around a small inn. Beau Eversley drew rein, turning his head towards the coach.
“We’ll pull in here,” he directed, indicating the inn with a gesture of his riding crop.
The Clandestine Betrothal Page 14
