by M C Beaton
There is nothing that strikes more terror into the upper-class soul than the thought of being dragged to court and accused of libel.
‘I said nothing,’ squeaked Sir Paul.
‘I am sure you did not,’ said Sir George smoothly. ‘But do put it about that I am out for revenge.’
Now as he walked home, he was not so much angry any more at the insult to his name as concerned about Hannah. Damn that mischievous footman. What had he ever done to prompt that cheeky servant into thinking his feelings towards Miss Pym were more than that of a friend?
But he remembered the presents he had given her and he remembered with warmth the enjoyment and amusement her tales and adventures afforded him. She would know of the scandal and be feeling ashamed and distressed, and that he suddenly could not bear.
York, he thought, was so very far away. But not by mail-coach. It was a long journey by stage-coach, but the mails travelled as far as Edinburgh in only thirty-four and a half hours.
The gossip had sickened him of London society. He was a tired old retired diplomat who had not had any adventures in a long time. Would it be so very wrong to travel quickly to York and surprise Miss Pym?
He imagined the way those odd eyes of hers would light up.
He would do it! He would take the mail-coach in the morning, and check at each change of horses whether she was on any of the down coaches. He would feel rather silly travelling so far just to miss her.
Having come to this momentous decision, he felt younger than he had felt in years.
6
’Tis true, your budding Miss is very charming,
But shy and awkward at first coming out,
So much alarmed, that she is quite alarming,
All Giggle, Blush; half Pertness and half Pout.
Lord Byron
As the adventurers travelled to Bradfield Park, a procession was making its way through York for the opening of the assizes. In front marched the judges in their huge powdered wigs and black gowns, then came the mayor and corporation, and then behind them footmen, liveried in white, with large nosegays in their buttonholes. The whole town was in motion, the streets full of young misses in white muslin, men in dark-blue coats and carefully brushed hats, and military people in red. There was an air of festivity and holiday.
Benjamin said that there were eight cases of murder to be tried at the assizes, among them a young couple charged with beating their own child to death. It seemed an odd occasion for holiday, English people priding themselves as they did on their humanity. The marquis said sourly that there usually was little else to watch in a country town.
For her part, Yvonne thought it odd to look out at this parade of British justice and yet feel herself beyond the help of the law. As if he had been thinking the same thing, the marquis said, ‘We should really be going to Bradfield Park with a squad of militia to arrest Petit and Ashton, were it not for our concern for Monsieur Grenier.’
The usually resolute Miss Pym was also feeling the chafing bonds of discretion. ‘Surely Monsieur Grenier would be safer if Petit and Ashton were arrested.’
‘They may yet have Grenier,’ said the marquis, ‘and that we must find out. Petit will no doubt have all his papers in order, forged papers to show that he arrived in this country during the brief break in hostilities with France. “Are you Monsieur Petit of the Paris Tribunal?” “No,” he will reply and he will produce excellent references to prove he is a traveller in French silks from Lyon or something like that. Ashton will cry innocence. A suspicious government will send Petit back to France and Ashton will go free. We must have some proof.’
‘Cannot they be arrested and made to speak?’ asked Yvonne.
‘No, my dear,’ said the marquis with a smile. ‘We have brutal ways of killing, but we no longer torture. We certainly often put people in the pillory and they are lucky if they can still be found alive after being stoned by the mob, but no one stands near them in their torment to hear a confession. So we shall be polite and English and enjoy the comedy. We know Monsieur Petit to be a dangerous man and Ashton a paid and dangerous fool. They know, we know, and so we now have to wonder where Lord Wetherby fits into the scheme of things. It is quite amazing what the impoverished aristocracy will occasionally do for money. And yet I have never heard it said that Wetherby is short of money.’
‘But quite a number of the aristocracy sympathized with the Revolution,’ said Hannah.
‘Before the Revolution, Miss Pym. Yes, some had their sons taught trades and also their daughters, and even the ones who did not believe in the idea of liberty, equality, and fraternity also taught their children trades, convinced that England, too, would soon have a revolution and they wanted to make sure their sons and daughters could earn their bread.’ His eyes sharpened. ‘What is your father’s trade, Miss Grenier?’
‘A lawyer. He is an advocate.’
‘And we practise Common Law in England, not Roman Law, so he could not find employment. Can he do anything else?’
‘He said that there were too many lawyers in France and that in any case, the law, such as it was, had become a farce. He was a trained carpenter, also.’
‘Aha! We should have thought of that.’ The marquis looked at Benjamin. ‘When we are settled in Bradfield Park, if we are settled in Bradfield Park, then I feel you should use those sharp wits of yours, Benjamin, and return to the town and find out if Monsieur Grenier is employed as a carpenter. I am surprised he gave his own name to the greengrocer. Mayhap he might be trading under an English name. Look for a common English name.’
Bradfield Park was just outside York, only half a mile from the old city gates. Yvonne felt increasingly nervous as they turned in at the lodge.
The house itself, when they reached it, proved to be modern. Built only about thirty years ago, it was of square design, with Palladian windows and a white portico. They were alighting from their carriage when the marquis called, ‘Wetherby!’ A thin little man carrying a gun at his hip and with a dog at his heels was strolling across the park. He scowled when he saw them and then came forward with obvious reluctance, his beady eyes on the luggage which Benjamin was unstrapping from the back of the carriage.
‘Oh, it’s you, Ware,’ said Lord Wetherby, peering up at the marquis. ‘Can’t put you up. No room, no room. Excellent inns in York. Rather stay there myself. We’ve got a rotten cook.’
The door of the mansion opened and a short, plump lady in a gauze cap and a chintz morning gown came hurrying up to them. ‘Bless my soul, it is Ware. I looked out of the morning-room and I said to Drusilla, ‘Dusty,’ I says, ‘I swear that’s the Marquis of Ware, or my name’s not Wetherby.’ And Dusty, she says to me, “Oh, Mama,”’ – here Lady Wetherby’s voice rose to an alarming falsetto – ‘“It can’t be! Oh, my poor ickle heart.” The sweet child, for she saw you at Almack’s and quite dotes on you.’
‘I am delighted to meet you again,’ murmured the marquis, sweeping her a magnificent bow and scrape. ‘May I introduce my cousin, Miss Grenier, and a dear old friend of my family, Miss Pym?’
‘Delighted! Delighted! Such a pleasure. I said to Wetherby his wits must be wandering to allow such a loose screw as Ashton bed and board, for no prospects there whatsoever and poor Dusty yawns whenever she do see him, which is as little as the pet can help, her being sensitive and more suited to real gentlemen than fribbles.’
Lord Wetherby poked the barrel of his gun into the turf at his feet and said moodily, ‘No room.’
‘No room!’ echoed his spouse, her plump little mouth hanging open in surprise. ‘No room! Why, bless my soul, Wetherby, if you ain’t shot your own brains out by mistake.’ Lady Wetherby threw back her head and laughed. ‘Haw! Haw! Haw!’ Hannah reflected she had seen such laughter written, but it was the first time she had actually ever heard anyone laugh like that.
‘We have mountains of room,’ gushed the ebullient Lady Wetherby, ‘and you must stay with us forever and ever, amen. Haw! Haw! Haw! And won’t Dusty
be in high alt. Come along! Come along! A little luncheon, I think. Don’t growl, Wetherby. You sound like your dog. And change into your morning dress, do. Don’t you dare sit down in top-boots. Come along!’
Like an animated chintz-covered sofa, she waddled in front of them, calling to the servants, ‘The Blue Room for Lord Ware, Red Room for Miss What’s-it, the young one, and the Yellow for Miss …’
‘Pym,’ said Hannah shortly so as not to risk hearing herself described to the servants as the old What’s-it.
‘We shall have a cold collation in half an hour, Ware. Ring the bell and someone will show you the dining-room. Has not the weather been most glorious except for yesterday’s rain? You must get Dusty to show you the gardens. The pet does so dote on flowers, being a delicate blossom herself.’
Yvonne kept close to Hannah as they mounted the curved staircase behind a bombazine-gowned housekeeper. ‘I fear Lord Wetherby does not want us,’ whispered Yvonne.
‘But her ladyship most certainly does,’ murmured Hannah, ‘and I think she rules the roost.’
To Yvonne’s relief her room was near Hannah’s, with a sitting-room in between. The maids were unpacking their trunks when the marquis appeared and dismissed the servants. ‘Do not unpack too much,’ he said to Yvonne. ‘My bedchamber is along the corridor. You sleep there tonight and I will sleep here.’
Yvonne nodded, her eyes wide with fright.
‘Do not look like that,’ he said quickly. ‘I am sure neither Petit nor Ashton will dare to make a move while we are all here.’
‘Perhaps Lord Wetherby is a conspirator,’ suggested Hannah, who had entered Yvonne’s room in time to hear the exchange.
‘I would think that highly unlikely,’ said the marquis. ‘With such a man, the motive would need to be money and he seems to have plenty of that.’
He left them to change. Yvonne put on her sprigged muslin, wishing she had something new and pretty to wear to give herself courage.
She and Hannah went downstairs to the dining-room. Ashton and Petit were already there. Monsieur Petit’s pale eyes wore a veiled look.
‘We meet again,’ said Mr Ashton. He was wearing a tight coat with very long tails and a ridiculously high collar. His painted face was embellished with a black patch on one rouged cheek.
‘Yes, what a surprise. You and Monsieur Petit,’ said Hannah.
‘Don’t know who you mean,’ said Mr Ashton curtly. ‘This here’s my friend Mr Smith.’
‘As you will,’ snapped Hannah.
The marquis and Lord and Lady Wetherby entered the room. ‘Dusty’ll be along in a minute,’ said Lady Wetherby. ‘Says she’s prettifying herself, as if she needed any embellishment. Blessed are the lilies of the field, I always say. Miss … er … have you met Mr Ashton and his friend, Mr Smith?’
‘Pym,’ said Hannah severely. ‘Yes, we all met on the road north.’
‘Now ain’t that a coincidence!’ said Lady Wetherby, clapping her lace-mittened hands. ‘Just like poor Dusty pining after Ware here and then he lands on the doorstep. You can see the hand of God everywhere. Oh, here’s my pet.’
A breathtaking vision of blonde curls, blue eyes, and dimples trotted into the room. She was wearing a delicate muslin gown with a pink sprig. Pink silk ribbons were threaded round the low neckline and pink silk ribbons between the deep flounces at the hem. On top of her glossy curls was a knot of pink silk roses. She curtsied low to the company, looking up at the marquis with a fond, doting look.
‘Now we’re all here, pray be seated,’ said Lady Wetherby. ‘You there next to Dusty, Ware, and Misses … umer … there.’
Hannah found herself seated between Ashton and Petit.
Yvonne felt suddenly homesick for her own country-women. These Englishwomen could be so silly. Only look at the way Dusty – stupid name – was flirting shamelessly with Ware, and of course, he was enjoying it! And she used such a lot of baby talk, it was hard to understand what she was saying.
For all but Lady Wetherby, her daughter, and the marquis, it was an uncomfortable meal. Ashton, Petit, Hannah and Yvonne ate in stony silence, and Lord Wetherby glared round the table as if wishing them all in hell.
At last it was over. Dusty prettily asked if she could show the marquis the succession houses and the marquis said he could think of no happier way of passing a summer’s day. Yvonne’s heart felt like a stone. She wondered if he would kiss Dusty in that shattering way.
But her spirits rose a little when Hannah suggested that they take a walk in the grounds. ‘You see,’ said Hannah, as soon as they were out of earshot, ‘if perhaps Lord Wetherby is in on the plot, your father might be here. We can look as if we are admiring the gardens and take a walk around the house and find out if there is somewhere where he might be hidden.’
‘If they had him, would they not have taken him off to France?’ asked Yvonne, although she was feeling cheered at the idea of doing something.
‘They may have to wait for news of a ship,’ said Hannah. ‘Let us begin. Benjamin has gone back to York to see if he can find a trace of your father.’
Benjamin walked through the busy streets of York. He was homesick for London. He longed for a game of dice. But he still had a bad conscience about Miss Pym and Sir George, and so he began to call at first one carpenter’s shop and then the other. He had reached his third call at a furniture manufactory when all his good resolutions began to fade. Three of the workmen were in the long, wood-scented shed playing dice. It was more than flesh and blood could bear. In no time at all, he was crouched down with them on the sawdust-covered floor, rattling the dice, feeling the old excitement coursing through his veins. He won a handful of silver and rose to his feet just as the foreman strode into the shed and the men leaped back to their work.
‘What’s all this?’ demanded the foreman, glaring about. Benjamin flicked sawdust from his livery with a fastidious hand. ‘I am here looking for a certain carpenter – calls himself Grenier.’
‘Never heard of ’im,’ said the foreman. ‘Off with you and stop keeping my men from their work.’
Benjamin went off whistling. The day was fine and he craved another game. He made his way to a tavern and soon was rattling the dice again, winning gold this time, for the company was of the gentleman class. Gambling fever created a democracy. Aristocrat would play with beggar. When the game was over, he asked for the nearest carpenter’s and made his way there. And so the rest of the day wore on, with Benjamin interposing his calls on carpenter’s shops with gambling in taverns.
He learned there was a carpenter’s shop on the outskirts of town on his road back to Bradfield Park and called there just as the owner was locking the doors. Patiently, he asked the usual question. The owner, a Mr Griggs, said he had never come across a carpenter of the name Grenier or Miller. ‘Wouldn’t be in the trade yourself?’ he asked. ‘I was short-staffed today, what with some of them demanding a holiday for the assizes. What’s the fascination in sitting in a dusty court hearing poor wretches being sentenced to the rope? It’s beyond me.’
Benjamin straightened his livery. ‘I am a footman,’ he said haughtily, if a trifle tipsily, for he had drunk quite a number of tankards of ale during his visits to the taverns.
‘And what’s a footman doing looking for a carpenter?’
‘This carpenter is a friend of the Marquis of Ware,’ lied Benjamin.
‘If he’s a friend of a marquis, what’s he doing working as a carpenter?’
‘He ain’t no ordinary carpenter,’ said Benjamin. ‘He’s one of those Frenchies.’
‘Oh, an immigrant! We had one of those. Good worker.’
‘Name?’
‘Called himself Green.’
Green … Grenier, thought Benjamin, his interest quickening.
‘What became of him?’
Mr Griggs patted the now locked doors rather like a man patting a horse and turned round. ‘Well, he was working at the lathe when two men came in. He looked none too pleased to see them.�
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‘Tall man wiff white ’air?’ exclaimed Benjamin, whose accent always became cockney when he forgot to control it. ‘An’ a foppish, prancing young fool?’
‘Sounds like ’em.’
‘So what happened?’
‘They come up to him and began to talk. Mr Green took off his apron, hitched his coat and hat down from a nail on the wall, and just walked off with them. I ran after him and said, ‘Hey, you can’t just stop work when you feels like it.’ He says as how he’s sorry but he’s got to go.’
‘Maybe they held a gun on ’im,’ said Benjamin, half to himself.
‘Not that I could see,’ said Mr Griggs. ‘Here! What’s all this about?’
‘Too long a story,’ said Benjamin over his shoulder as he strode off. He felt uneasy. If Mr Grenier had just walked off, just like that, could it be that he had really changed his mind and wanted to go back to France with them?
But he wouldn’t have disappeared like that without having let his daughter know, thought Benjamin. And he had surely used his real name at the greengrocer’s so that his daughter would be sure of finding him.
The sky was turning a pale green and a bat fluttered high above his head. Better get back quickly and report what he knew. He stepped out smartly, but as he came abreast of a tavern he could hear the merry sound of voices, the tinkle of glasses, and the rattle of dice.
His feet seemed to have a life of their own, separate from his brain and his conscience, both of which were telling him to get back to Bradfield Park as quickly as possible with his news.
He saw that the men playing dice were finely dressed. He edged towards their table, waited until one threw up his hands in disgust and walked away, and neatly slid into his place.
