“Thank goodness for that!” sighed Georgy, as she climbed down from the coach. “Another mile, and there wouldn’t have been a whole bone left in our bodies! What say you, Susan?”
But Susan was silent as they made their way to the inn door, narrowly avoiding two or three squawking hens which ran across their path.
Mine host came cheerily forward, though secretly somewhat overawed at the quality of the company which had unexpectedly presented itself at his doors. Most likely it would be visitors for one of the two big houses in the neighbourhood, he told himself, and they would require nothing but to be directed to their destination. This notion was soon dispelled by Beau Eversley’s request for a private parlour which might be placed at their disposal. The man’s smile broadened as he ushered them into a small, low-ceilinged room which overlooked the road.
“’Tis the public coffee room, y’r honour, but I’ll undertake to see that you’re not disturbed,” he said, wiping with his apron the already well-polished seat of a high-backed settle near the fireplace. “We’ve got none other — can I bring any refreshment for y’r honour — or the ladies?” He bowed in their direction.
“I think you can,” replied the Beau. “And it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that we may require you to furnish us with some kind of dinner, later. Can you manage that?”
The landlord asserted boldly that something could be arranged; and after taking orders for cooling beverages to be brought immediately he retired to review the contents of the larder with his flustered wife.
While the three travellers sipped their drinks, they discussed the best way to set about their mission.
“There are always certain people in a village who can be relied upon to know everyone,” stated Hugh. “The innkeeper, the doctor and the clergyman. I doubt if this place is large enough to boast a doctor, and it may not even have a resident clergyman.”
“Then that leaves the innkeeper!” exclaimed Georgy, triumphantly. “And I’m sure I don’t know why we shouldn’t ask him at once.”
“One reason,” replied her brother, setting down his tankard. “We’ve no wish to make a stir, and such people gossip.”
“Then shall we inquire if there is a clergyman?” asked Susan, diffidently.
This was done; and they were told that the clergyman, a Mr. Robbins, lived hard by the church in a creeper-covered cottage with a chimney that was slightly askew.
“We’ll go there immediately,” stated Georgy, jumping up.
“Not so fast,” drawled Hugh. “For all we know, our friend Mr. Robbins may live alone, and would find it disconcerting, to say the least, to be faced unexpectedly with two young ladies of such undoubted beauty and charm.”
Georgiana turned to Susan. “Depend on it, Sue, he’s going to suggest something disagreeable — he’d never bother to flatter us so, else!”
Susan dimpled. “I’m entirely of your opinion. All the same, I do think there may be something in what your brother says. Surely we needn’t all three go along simply to find out where this woman lives? When we do know that, then perhaps the task of questioning her would be better left in our hands. But I do agree that Mr. Eversley should be the one to approach the clergyman — that is—” she paused, directing a questioning look at Hugh — “if you think so, too, sir?”
He nodded, set down his tankard, and stood up.
“It shouldn’t take long. In the meantime, you might care to take up with the landlord the matter of our dinner. We shall certainly be staying.”
A few minutes’ walk brought him to the cottage. The door was opened by a neat maidservant, who led him through a dim passage into a small, quiet room at the back of the house, where an elderly man sat writing at a small desk in the window. At sight of his visitor, he rose, dismissing the servant with a vague smile. He peered shortsightedly at the visiting card which she had placed in his hand.
“Mr. — er — Eversley,” he read, looking up from the card and fixing his visitor with a pair of faded blue eyes. “Please to be seated, sir. A fine, warm afternoon, is it not? Have you come far? Perhaps I can offer you some refreshment?”
Beau Eversley politely declined this offer, and accepted a seat.
“I see you are busy, Mr. Robbins, so I will take up no more of your time than is necessary. I’ve called on you in the hope that you may be able to assist me in tracing a woman who lives in this village — or perhaps, I should say, who once did so.”
A shadow crossed the worn face. “A woman, Mr. — er — Eversley? I trust none of my parishioners is — ah — in any kind of trouble?”
The Beau laughed gently. “Not so far as I know — at any rate, this inquiry does not concern itself with the present day. The woman I am seeking is called Polly, and was resident in this village some fourteen or fifteen years ago.”
The old man shook his head. “Polly — it is not uncommon name for a female. And fifteen years since — dear me, it will not be easy. Can you tell me no more, sir?”
The Beau hesitated for a moment, then made up his mind. There should be no fear of gossip here.
“It’s difficult, because I myself know so little about her. Only that she lived in this village, and had in her charge at that time a female child who at the age of two or three was removed from her care to that of a relative in London.”
A gleam of recognition came into the faded eyes. “Ah, yes, that Polly. To be sure — Polly Whitaker. A godly woman, and a fruitful one, who often acted as wet nurse to the children of the gentlefolk hereabouts.”
Beau Eversley’s expression sharpened, and he leaned forward eagerly. Mr. Robbins sighed, and shook his head regretfully. “But if you wish to speak with her, sir, I fear you have left it some years too late. Polly Whitaker was interred in our own churchyard four years since come Michaelmas.”
Beau Eversley bit back the hasty expression that came to his lips, changing it into a cough.
“That is a pity,” he said. “Possibly the unfortunate woman left a husband — or children — who are living here at present?”
“Her husband predeceased her. He was a farm labourer, you know, and succumbed to an inflammation of the lungs, caught during exceptionally severe weather. Only three of her children survived. They are all here in the village, if you should wish to see them.”
“Thank you — that is, I wonder if you could tell me what their ages would be?”
“Their ages — dear me, now, let me see.” The old man furrowed his brow, and stared through the window with eyes that did not see the buttercup-starred meadows beyond. “It will be in the Parish register, of course—”
“Perhaps I had better give you some idea of what I am looking for,” put in Beau Eversley. He hesitated, “Naturally, you would treat as confidential — I just mention it, you know—”
The clergyman inclined his balding head. “Most of my work is confidential, my dear Mr. Eversley. But pray continue. I hope I may be able to help you to whatever it is you wish to discover.”
“The fact is, sir, that my interest lies not so much in this Polly herself, but in the child I mentioned just now. A child called Susan, who was taken from the woman’s care at about the age of two, and transferred to London. All this happened some fifteen years ago; and unless the woman’s own children were old enough at that time to have known anything of Susan which they may still retain, there is no point in my seeking them out.”
“I think I can tell you with certainty that they were not, Mr. Eversley; for at the time the eldest of Polly’s surviving children cannot have been more than three or four years old himself.”
“I see. Thank you, sir.” Beau Eversley strove to conceal his inevitable disappointment. “Then there seems no. point in my interviewing these people.” He paused. “I suppose, Mr. Robbins, you yourself cannot help me? Do you happen to recall anything concerning this child who was called Susan?”
Mr. Robbins slowly shook his shining head with its fringe of thin grey hair.
“I fear not. As is usual
with gentlefolk, the ladies of the two important houses in the neighbourhood put out their babies for nursing; and Polly Whitaker was a great favourite with them. For one thing, as I mentioned earlier, she was an exceedingly fruitful woman, and therefore a reliable nurse. I believe also that she was very gentle and patient with little ones. There was often a child from one of the big houses in her care; but I fear, at this distance of time, I cannot clearly recollect any particular child—”
Beau Eversley stood up. “No, sir. Of course it would be too much to expect. But thank you, all the same.”
He returned to the inn with lagging step, turning over in his mind what ought to be done next. He might question the innkeeper, of course; but it seemed unlikely that, fifteen years after the event, anyone would remember anything about a small girl who had left the village for good almost as soon as she was able to walk. A neighbour of the late Polly Whitaker’s, or a servant from one of the big houses might be able to assist; but there seemed no way of avoiding gossip if such means were to be used.
He was still pondering the question when he walked into the coffee room to find his sister and Susan in animated conversation with the landlord and his wife on the subject of dinner.
“And we can offer you fish from the Pinn, ladies,” the innkeeper’s wife was assuring them, with a smile.
“The stream over yonder?” asked Susan, waving a hand in the direction of the window. “Can you really catch fish big enough to eat, in that? It looks too shallow.”
“’Tis very deep in places, miss, and they catch lovely roach and perch — even a pike, now and then. I mind once, many years agone, it were, when Master Robert from the Place were a little lad — he caught a big ’un, ’e did, durned near as big as hisself, and fell in—”
She broke off, and stared hard at Susan, who was listening to the story with eager dark eyes and parted lips.
“But, bless me!” she continued, her eyes still on Susan’s face as though it puzzled her in some way. “You’ll know all about that, miss, I’ll be bound!”
“I will?” asked Susan, startled. “Why should you say so?”
“Why, you’ll be related to them, up at the Place, won’t you, miss? It was talking about the fish and that day Master Robert fell in the Pinn — at that moment, you fair put me in mind of him, that you did, though he was fair as fair, and you’re dark enough, miss, in all conscience! But it’s the expression, see — something in the way you look — I’d know you anywhere for one o’ the family, come to think!”
‘‘For one of what family?” asked Beau Eversley, in a more than usually pronounced drawl that served to cover the keen interest he was feeling in the conversation.
“Why, y’r honour, the family up at Pyncott Place, to be sure! Though there’s only been the old gentleman living there on his own for many years now, and it’s seldom we see any of the rest of the family here in the village to visit him. Not that it’s altogether their fault, for they do say that company bain’t welcome at the Place these days, unless they’m specially invited. So—”
“Yes, yes, my good woman,” interrupted Beau Eversley. “But what is the name of the owner of Pyncott Place?”
“Why, y’r honour, I thought you must know. ’Tis Sir Josiah Radley, to be sure.”
THE PORTRAIT
Pyncott Place was a rambling house that had evidently been started in a modest way in Tudor times, and added to, not altogether harmoniously, by successive generations. A short carriage drive brought Beau Eversley to the porticoed front entrance. His knock was answered by a footman, to whom he handed his card. The man seemed reluctant to admit the visitor; but, as Beau Eversley so evidently expected this, he was at last requested to take a seat in the hall.
It was some time later that a quiet-footed man dressed in a sober suit of grey came to him.
“Mr. Eversley, I believe? Can I be of any service to you, sir?”
Hugh stood up. “I would like to have a word with Sir Josiah Radley, if he can spare me a moment of his time.”
The man shook his head. “I fear Sir Josiah is not at liberty to see anyone. But perhaps there is something I can do for you, sir? I am his secretary, and handle all his affairs. My name is East — Matthew East, at your service.”
He bowed. Hugh Eversley inclined his head in acknowledgement, and drew his snuff box from his pocket, in order to give himself time to think.
“Perhaps it would be possible for me to arrange an appointment for tomorrow with Sir Josiah? I have come some way in the hope of seeing him personally.”
“You will no doubt be aware, Mr. Eversley, that my employer is an old man. He keeps mostly to his room, rarely seeing anyone save his own family, nowadays — and then only by invitation. I am sorry. But, as I mentioned before, I have full authority to attend to all business matters—”
Beau Eversley flicked open the lid of his snuff box, and thoughtfully took a pinch of its contents.
“The matter on which I wish to see your employer would come, I think, more under the heading of a family matter.”
Mr. East, the secretary, paused for a moment considering the tall, elegant figure before him. Even in rural Middlesex, the name of Beau Eversley was not unknown. Mr. East was a diplomatic man, and had no wish to give offence to such a one without very good reason.
“In that case of course, Mr. Eversley, it will be suitable for me to approach Sir Josiah on your behalf.” There was a door quite close to the spot where they were standing. He moved across, and flung it open. “In the meantime would you care to wait in here, sir? Perhaps I can have some refreshment sent to you?”
Hugh declined this offer, but stepped into the room. “Possibly you should mention to Sir Josiah,” he said, as the secretary turned to go, “that I am a close friend of his grandson, Mr. Peter Radley.”
Matthew East’s expression lightened. “That will certainly be an advantage, Mr. Eversley. You must understand that my employer—” he hesitated a moment — “does not enjoy the kind of health — in short, sir, it is many years since he was in the habit of receiving unexpected visitors. Nowadays such things are apt to put him out.”
“I understand perfectly, Mr. East.”
The man went, closing the door softly behind him.
Beau Eversley strolled over to the window, and gazed outside with unseeing eyes, turning over in his mind exactly what he would say to Sir Josiah. It would be a ticklish subject to broach, to say the least of it, and supposing they were on the wrong track, after all? Their suspicion was founded on slender enough evidence, for the innkeeper had refused to bear his wife out in thinking that Susan favoured the Radley family in looks: while Hugh himself, who had known Peter and Barbara Radley for many years, could not truthfully say he was able to detect any resemblance. Yet, he thought suddenly, there were times when Susan had reminded him of someone; and had not Horry Walpole commented on that very same thing when they had surprised her lurking in the gardens at Strawberry Hill?
He turned from the window, and glanced idly round the room. A number of portraits hung on the walls. For lack of any better occupation, he moved round and subjected each of them to a cursory scrutiny. There was one of a haughty beauty wearing a green gown with the low, circular décolletage of a hundred years before, that to Beau Eversley’s eyes looked hideous. Another showed a gentleman in a flared coat holding a sporting gun in an unlikely attitude. He passed on to the next, a portrait of a boy about twelve years of age who was leaning against a tree, one hand resting on the head of a large dog. He was a handsome child, with a head of very fair curls; but it was not his beauty that suddenly arrested Beau Eversley, making him stare hard at the picture. The eyes were deep and dreamy, the mouth showed the beginnings of a tremulous smile; he knew that expression well, for he had observed it often on a face he was coming to know and love — Susan’s face.
He moved closer to the picture, hoping to read at its foot the name of the subject. After a moment, he drew back, disappointed, for only the artist’s name appeared. He
looked once more into the painted brown eyes which were so like the dark ones; which now had the power to touch his heart.
He controlled a quiet start as he heard the opening door behind him. Matthew East entered quietly.
“I’m afraid I have been unable to prevail upon Sir Josiah to see you, sir. I am sorry; I did all that was possible, but he is quite adamant.”
Beau Eversley turned. “I see,” he replied. “Is there any possibility of making another appointment?”
Mr. East shook his head. “I fear not. My employer — ah — made it quite clear that he did not wish to see you, sir, at any time.”
Beau Eversley raised one eyebrow. “In spite of the fact that I wish to discuss a family matter with him?” The secretary hesitated. “Shall we perhaps say — because of that, Mr. Eversley? My employer’s relations with his family are somewhat — um — ah — unusual, sir.”
“I see.” Beau Eversley idly lifted his quizzing glass and levelled it at the portrait which had so attracted him. “That picture, Mr. East — can you tell me who is the subject?”
The secretary followed his gaze. “That is a likeness of Mr. Robert Radley, taken when he was a boy. As you are acquainted with the family, sir, you will doubtless be aware that he was the younger son of my employer, and died, when quite a young man — I believe in his early twenties.”
Beau Eversley nodded. “I have certainly heard something to that effect. That would be well before your time, Mr. East, I imagine?”
“Indeed, yes, Mr. Eversley. I have been in Sir Josiah’s service only for the last twelve years.”
“Quite a spell, nevertheless,” replied Hugh, in a casual tone. “Well, it is evident that I can do no good here, so I’ll take my leave. I must thank you, Mr. East, for your endeavours on my behalf. I’m very grateful indeed to you. Good day.”
He was turning out of the carriage drive into the lane which led back to the inn, when two figures in pale shades of muslin swooped down on him, breaking into his thoughts with eager questions.
The Clandestine Betrothal Page 15
