by M C Beaton
“Stop weeping and moaning,” Amanda snapped when they returned from the schoolroom. “We must think what to do. We must get revenge on him and above all on that Morrison creature for killing poor Mr. Perdu.”
Amanda then fell silent, remembering the first time they had met Perdu. He had been strolling on the beach and had fallen into conversation with them. He had flattered them and teased them, and then had introduced them to the smuggling haunts. As they were allowed to roam where they wished, Amanda and Clarissa had enjoyed the vulgar company, and subsequently the bribes of money for their services. Both had been in love with Perdu.
“There’s one person who must be interested in harming Hunterdon,” Amanda said slowly. “Mr. Devenham. If anything happened to us, he’d get the estates and fortune.”
“But what can we do?” Clarissa dried her eyes. “Hunterdon will just send those statements to the lawyers.”
“Will he?” Amanda looked at her. “Think on’t. The lawyer would inform the authorities, as is his duty, and the authorities would want to know why he kept it quiet. He’d be an … an accessory. That’s it. Without us he’d stand to lose everything.” She smiled slowly. “I wonder if Mr. Devenham would settle for half of everything.”
“I don’t understand,” Clarissa said plaintively.
“Look! We disappear. We arrange with Devenham to keep us somewhere. We send a ransom note demanding half of what the Courtney fortune is worth. He has to pay or lose all.”
Clarissa looked at her doubtfully. “Wouldn’t he just pack up and leave? Why would he want us back?”
“No, he loves this place now, the house and the peasants. And precious Miss Morrison would get the blame for not taking care of us. And if we get Devenham on our side, we’ll get him to spread it around that she’s Hunterdon’s mistress. Ruin her!”
Clarissa looked at her sister in awe. “I don’t know how you think of such wonderful things. I don’t, really.”
Jean, dressed in her nightgown, cap, and wrapper, emerged sleepily from the viscount’s bedchamber just as the departing Lady Conham and her daughter, Eliza, were making their way downstairs. Lady Conham stopped stock-still and raked Jean up and down with a freezing glance. “Disgraceful!” she said, and then with a toss of her head she walked on while Eliza followed, drawing in her skirts as she passed Jean as if any touch might contaminate her.
Jean said after them, “It is not what you think.” But both ladies, their backs rigid, descended the stairs.
It was too bad, thought Jean miserably, that she should have been close to being murdered the night before and have to endure being damned as a trollop the morning after. She went to her room and looked in surprise at the clock. Two in the afternoon!
She washed and dressed and went to the twins’ room, but it was empty. She hurried to the schoolroom, praying that they had not escaped, but that was deserted as well. Then she heard the faint sound of the piano from the drawing room and hurried downstairs.
She hesitated, her hand on the door. Highland and superstitious, Jean had a sudden dread that she would open the door and find the ghost of Perdu seated at the piano.
But when she went in, Amanda was seated at the keyboard with Clarissa behind her on the long stool. Amanda was playing a simple tune with her right hand that Jean had taught her. Both girls were neatly dressed and their hair was braided.
Jean closed the door. Amanda stopped playing. Both girls stood up and faced Jean.
She saw their downcast faces and the purple shadows under their eyes, and thought, “I had forgotten. They are little more than children.”
“Do you know what happened last night?” she demanded.
“Yes,” Clarissa whispered, still mourning for Perdu, but her sister was made of sterner stuff.
“We didn’t know we were doing anything wrong,” Amanda pleaded. “There’s a lot of smuggling going on along this coast, and everyone takes something from the smugglers, tea or silk or wine. Mr. Perdu, he made it all seem like a game.”
The fact that Amanda was speaking carefully and precisely should have warned Jean that this was a rehearsed speech, but she did so want to believe them, and besides, it was beyond her comprehension, despite all that had gone on before, that two such little girls could be other than sadly misguided.
Amanda remembered Perdu and gave a convincing sob. “We’re most terribly sorry, miss, and we’re afeard of the hangman.”
Jean rushed to them and gathered them in her arms. “There, now. Do not cry. You have been very wicked, yes, but I blame your father for not having controlled you. You have been punished enough. Now Lord Hunterdon wishes to send you away. But surely if you study hard and behave well, he will come about.”
Amanda kissed Jean’s cheek. “Thank you, miss,” she said in a broken voice. “Oh, thank you.”
“So,” Jean said briskly, “the sun is shining and you are both pale. Put on your bonnets and we will go for a walk.”
The viscount met them in the hall as they were leaving. “Where are you going?” he asked Jean.
“Just for a walk. The Misses Courtney are in need of fresh air.”
“The Misses Courtney have nothing up with them that death and mutilation would not cure.”
The twins threw themselves into Jean’s arms, crying, “Save us!”
Jean held them close and stared defiantly over their heads at the viscount. “They were misled, my lord,” she said, “and they are truly penitent.”
“Miss Morrison, I am very tired,” he said. “I am going to bed. But you will not go anywhere without a guard.” He saw Dredwort standing in the shadows, listening with interest. “Dredwort! Two of the grooms, Harry and John, to accompany Miss Morrison on her walk, and that lady’s maid, Betty, too. In future, she and the young ladies are not to go anywhere unescorted.” He turned back to Jean. “I shall talk to you further when I awake.”
When he at last settled his head on the pillows, he realized they smelled faintly of rosewater. Of course! Jean Morrison had been in his bed last night. He should have commended her on her extreme bravery. He should have asked after her health. But before he could think of any of the other things he should have done, he had fallen fast asleep.
Jean walked steadily along the beach, the two grooms and the maid behind her, making it very clear it was the governess they were protecting and not her charges, while the twins walked ahead, talking in low voices.
“I think they know about the secret staircase,” Amanda whispered, “and we’re going to be closely watched. We have to get a letter to Devenham. He’s probably still at Pembertons. Wait a bit. A letter might fall into the wrong hands. Damn that poxy, murdering governess. Scotch seed of a whore.”
“Face like a twat,” Clarissa said, and they both sniggered.
“I think I’ve got it,” Amanda said. “We’ll behave like model misses, but we have to be ever so affectionate with Morrison. Get her to think we love her and that our bad behavior was caused by lack o’ love. She’ll fight him to keep us here and he’ll do what she wants ’cause he doesn’t care much one way or t’other as long as he’s left in peace. Then when everything’s settled down and we’ve got her eating out of our hands, we’ll say tearfully that locking us in at night shows a lack of trust—a lack of love. Then we’ll be able to sneak out, take a couple o’ horses from the stables, and ride over to the Pembertons.”
“Big place,” Clarissa said. “We won’t know where to find him.”
“True.” Amanda kicked a pebble viciously. Then her face brightened. “The Pembertons’ butler, Sanderson, he took tea and wine off of Perdu. Wouldn’t want that known, would he?”
“No,” Clarissa said. “But we wouldn’t want it known that we knew that, and Sanderson might be sharp enough to realize it.”
“You’re getting mightily clever, sis. Right. Try again. We tell Sanderson we’ll have a new source. He likes buying cheap, charging his master dear, and pocketing the difference. We’ll tell him we’re spoony about Devenha
m and ask him to take a note to him. In it we’ll urge Devenham to meet us somewhere between here and St. Giles.”
“But will he come?”
“’Course, silly. Why do you think he’s staying so long with Pemberton? Hoping Hunterdon will slip up somehow.”
“When do we start hugging and kissing the Scotch fright?”
“Slowly, slowly. Dawning respect and admiration followed by impulsive outbursts of affection.”
“You’re beginning to talk like Dr. Johnson’s dictionary. What’s impulsive?”
“Sudden-like.”
“Oh.”
“Race you to the end of the beach.”
Jean watched the flying figures without bothering to follow them. The tide was in and they could not get past the outcrop. She envied them their resilience. Despite the warmth of the day, she felt cold and alone. She would have liked someone to lean on, someone to tell how really frightened she had been. Although she was used to scenes of violence, of bodies rotting on gibbets, the sight of the dying Perdu lying on her bedroom floor seemed imprinted on her brain. But there was no one to care.
She kept the twins out as long as possible so that they should enjoy the best of the day’s sunshine before turning reluctantly back to Trelawney Castle. She dreaded going indoors. The great house that she had been beginning to love now seemed a dark place full of horrors.
Mrs. Moody met her in the hall. “If you please, Miss Morrison,” the housekeeper said, “his lordship thought you might enjoy a change of bedroom, and so we have taken the liberty of moving your things.”
Jean suddenly remembered the necklace she had hidden under her pillow. “Mrs. Moody, Lord Hunterdon lent me some very expensive jewels for the ball and I left them in my bed.”
“They are safe, Miss Morrison. I found them myself and took them to his lordship.”
Seeing that the maid, Betty, was walking closely behind the girls as they mounted the stairs, Jean followed the housekeeper. The room allotted to her was one of the guest bedrooms. It had a small dressing room and adjoined a private sitting room. It was light and airy with a fine view of the sea through the open windows.
The bed was modern, without posts, but surmounted with a canopy like a crown from which hung curtains of fine lace. There was a nosegay of flowers on the toilet table at the window and a flat red morocco box. Wondering, Jean opened the box, and there was the sapphire necklace with a little card saying “Thank you for your bravery, H.”
Mrs. Moody had left. Jean sat down suddenly, her legs shaky. He cared a little. He cared enough to know she would dread sleeping in the room where Perdu had been shot down.
A footman appeared. “His lordship’s compliments, miss, and would you join him for dinner in half an hour?”
All Jean’s gloom and misery fled. With a feeling that all her troubles were over, she put on her best gown, boldly fastened the sapphires about her neck, and went down to the dining room.
Chapter Seven
THE VISCOUNT ROSE as Jean entered the dining room and surveyed her appreciatively. She was wearing a gown of soft blue jaconet with a fall of lace at the low neck. The sapphires blazed against the whiteness of her skin. “You look very fine,” he said as a footman drew out a chair for her. He put up his quizzing glass. “Dear me, that is cotton lace.”
“Yes, my lord.” Jean suddenly thought: This is ridiculous. We have shared adventure and near-death and yet the first thing he notices about me is that my lace is cotton!
The viscount was a genuine Regency dandy, that peculiar type of aristocrat who was able to concentrate on trivia even in the middle of a war. Jean remembered her father telling her of some lord, who, when in Flanders, suddenly saw what he thought was a rare flower growing in the midst of the carnage. With musket shot tearing about his ears, he bent down and plucked the flower, took a small notebook out of his pocket and a lead pencil, and carefully wrote down place, time, and date when he had found the flower before pressing it in the pages of his notebook and then recommencing the fight.
The viscount began to talk about the gardens at the back of the house, saying work was to begin on them the next day and the summerhouse would perhaps be torn down.
When the servants had retired, Jean said, “Thank you so much for this necklace. I cannot help, however, thinking that perhaps it might be too grand a gift for a governess.”
He considered the matter. “I suppose it is. Still, you need not wear it in company if you think it will occasion comment.”
For some reason this practical solution hurt Jean, and she said waspishly, “I fear my reputation has been ruined.”
He smiled at her over the rim of his wineglass. “Who’s the lucky fellow?”
“I am not funning, my lord. On leaving your bedroom this morning, or, rather, early afternoon, I was seen by Lady Conham and Miss Eliza.”
“Were you now. That must have poured cold water on the marital ambitions of that family.”
Jean said in a thin voice, “But as far as they were concerned, you had been taking your pleasure with a servant, and that will not put any ambitious mama off. But the question of my reputation is another matter.”
“Of course it is,” he said. “I’ll write to the Conham woman. The story of the smugglers is all over the county by now, so it will be easy to explain what you were doing in my room.” His eyes teased her. “Was my bed comfortable?”
“My lord, we must talk of serious matters. I am flattered that you have asked me to dine with you, but should not the Misses Courtney be also present?”
“No, Miss Morrison. I shall dine in solitary state from now on, but this evening I felt like indulging myself. Besides, we must talk of the girls’ future. Even before the smuggling episode I had been considering the possibility that I might have to send them away if they proved to be actually villainous—which they have. I was asking my guests about various places, not letting them know, of course, that it was for the Courtney girls. So … it appears there is in Bath a highly successful seminary for young ladies who have strayed from either the path of the law or the path of morality. It is a rigorous regime, more like a genteel prison, but they appear to get results.”
Jean leaned forward and clasped her hands together. “My lord, as I said, I am sure they are truly penitent. Think for a moment how easy it was for such a man as Perdu to lead them astray. I gather their father loved them and indulged them, but he did not actually have anything much to do with them. He allowed them to rout a series of poor governesses and then let them run wild. So, bored, and with empty minds, and no refinements of speech or manners, they were easy prey for such as Perdu. He could be very charming. He supplied them with interest and adventure, and I think both were a little in love with him.”
“What is your experience of love, Miss Morrison?”
“My lord, I am being deadly serious.”
“And a bit of a bore, too. The fact that I didn’t shoot that pair as well as Perdu amazes me. Oh, very well, what are your plans for Goneril and Regan?”
“They are still children and not like King Lear’s daughters,” Jean said severely. “My lord, give me a little more time with them and I am sure the improvement will amaze you.”
“Any improvement would amaze me. It actually does look quite well by candlelight.”
“My lord?”
“Your lace. But there is a lace box somewhere. Ask Mrs. Moody. She’ll give you the lace book and the key to the box. Keep it locked, or the girls will be selling priceless lace behind your back in order to buy chocolates.”
“My lord, such a box should be kept for your bride along with the jewels.”
“Do you think so? Oh, well, take some of it and then score off what you have taken in the lace book.”
Well, what was he supposed to say? thought Jean bleakly. I shall never marry. I want to marry you.
But some imp prompted her to ask, “Do you intend to marry, my lord?”
“I suppose I ought to. Lots of fine girls at that ball of min
e. But I couldn’t see one of them here. Not walking about or sitting at table in the evenings with me. I picture the lady I want as my wife tall, I think, and beautiful, smiling graciously, but she is always silent in my dreams, for the minute I imagine her speaking to me, I conjure up the sound of bad French or lisping baby-talk or any of the other horrors they go in for. Who is the man of your dreams, Miss Morrison?”
What if she said someone like you? “Oh, tall, strong, noble, intelligent, worthy, serious, kind,” Jean said, ticking off the virtues on her fingers.
“I’m tired,” he said crossly, “and you are not enlivening the evening by singing the virtues of some puritan bore. Talk about something else.”
“What do you wish me to talk about?”
“Miss Morrison, were you never taught to flirt?”
“Of course, my lord, it is part of every young lady’s education. But governesses do not flirt with employers, not unless they wish to face a life of ruin.”
“Really …” he said peevishly, “if you go on in this vein, I will need to cut off your supply of novels.”
Jean rose to her feet. “I will leave you to your wine, my lord.”
“Have I given you permission to leave?”
“No, my lord.”
“Then sit down.”
Jean sat down, staring at him wide-eyed. What if he made some sort of advance? Could she resist him?
“Rhododendrons, I think,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” Jean looked at him stupidly.
“For the gardens at the back,” he said patiently. “Here, I’ll explain. It’s been a sort of terracing. It would be pleasant to have a winding walk bordered by rhododendrons going down to the beach. Perhaps the gardener can get some without going all the way to India. I’m sure he could get some out of Pemberton’s gardener. And fuchsia. Statuary, too. I don’t know much about trees and flowers.”
