Yvonne Goes to York

by M C Beaton

  Time flowed past as Benjamin’s fortunes rose and sank and rose again. It was past midnight when the company declared the game at an end and urged Benjamin to join them in several bottles of wine.

  ‘Must get back to Bradfield Park,’ said Benjamin. ‘What, old Wetherby’s place? You won’t get much from him. Proper old skinflint,’ said one.

  ‘House seems pretty grand,’ commented Benjamin, his clever black eyes roaming from face to face.

  ‘Lady Wetherby holds the purse-strings,’ said another. ‘Wetherby speculated on ’Change and lost his fortune. Has to ask her for every penny.’

  Benjamin made his way out into the fresh air, trying to clear his tipsy brain. Lady Wetherby cracked the whip because she had the money. Therefore, it followed that Wetherby might want money of his own and might be prepared to assist a traitor to get it.

  He went along the winding road feeling muzzy and tired. He sat down by the side of the road and put his head in his hands. He shouldn’t have drunk so much. The next moment, he was fast asleep.

  Hannah, Yvonne, and the marquis were in the little sitting-room between the bedchambers. The marquis had called to move his night-things to Yvonne’s room and had found both of them dressed, awake, and worried.

  Benjamin had not returned, explained Hannah. The marquis said he would wait with them. He was not so worried about Benjamin’s fate as Hannah was, thinking that any unsupervised servant had probably taken to the town’s taverns. Benjamin was quick and clever but no servant could surely be expected to play detective for very long when the delights of the town lured him.

  Yvonne was quiet, stitching away, adding an extra flounce to another muslin gown, Hannah having given her a gown to cannibalize. She was turning the events of the day over in her mind. She and Hannah had searched the grounds and the house and had not found any place where a man might be hidden. When they had gathered in the drawing-room that evening, Mr Ashton and Monsieur Petit were absent, as was their host. Lady Wetherby blithely said her husband had had some business to attend to in the town. The marquis, on hearing this, became convinced that Lord Wetherby was in on the plot and was glad he had not confided in him.

  But Dusty had been very much in evidence, thought Yvonne, and she had been winsome, she had been charming, and she had been totally sickening. How could the marquis bear that unending stream of baby talk, that vacuous blue stare? But he had flirted easily with Dusty and had appeared to enjoy her company immensely.

  ‘I suppose he will marry her.’ Yvonne turned brick-red when she realized she had voiced this thought aloud.

  The marquis’s silvery eyes glinted at her in the lamp-light. ‘Who will marry whom?’

  ‘I was remembering something, that is all,’ said Yvonne, pricking her finger with her needle and uttering an exclamation of dismay.

  ‘If you mean I will marry Dusty, no, I do not think so,’ said the marquis. ‘But it is important that Lady Wetherby thinks so. I was talking to one of the gamekeepers and he told me that it is Lady Wetherby who has the money, but that she is nonetheless notoriously clutch-fisted. It is only the thought of my title and fortune that has made her welcome us.’

  ‘So you do have a fortune, Mr Giles?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Grenier.’

  ‘Then why the alias?’

  ‘A whim. I am a whimsical fellow. I confess I sometimes do silly and irrational things.’

  ‘Do you kiss females when the whim takes you?’ Yvonne’s voice was sharp and Hannah looked from one to the other.

  ‘Oh, yes. But that has proved too dangerous a sport. Do you know, Miss Pym, that the last lady I kissed had her revenge on me?’

  ‘How could I, my lord? But how did she get her revenge?’

  ‘She stole my heart.’

  ‘Miss Dusty, I suppose,’ said Yvonne waspishly.

  ‘Now you are being deliberately obtuse.’

  ‘If I may interrupt your banter,’ said Hannah, ‘I would like to remind you that my Benjamin has not yet returned and I am nearly out of my wits with worry.’

  ‘If we took some action, we should feel better,’ said the marquis. ‘Let us walk a little way past the lodge gates and we might meet him coming home.’

  Hannah was relieved at the prospect of any action whatsoever. Soon the three were making their way down the long drive. Yvonne gave a little shiver and looked back. ‘I feel as if the whole house is watching us,’ she whispered.

  ‘Do you not think that they might try to kidnap Miss Grenier?’ suggested Hannah nervously. ‘I feel we have made a grievous error in coming here.’

  ‘They would not dare. Besides, I am convinced Lady Wetherby knows nothing of it.’

  ‘Why are you going along with this adventure, my lord?’ asked Hannah. ‘If you travelled north with the sole purpose of calling on a friend, will not he or she be waiting for you?’

  The marquis hesitated. If only he could be sure about Yvonne. If he could be sure she was not playing a deep game, then he would call the authorities to have Petit and Ashton arrested and then let them prove their innocence in a court of law. But he could not bear the idea of Yvonne herself having to stand trial. In his very English way, the marquis had doubts about Yvonne simply because no other woman had ever aroused his senses so much. He wanted to marry her were she innocent. He could not marry a traitor. Perhaps she was used to charming men. She could certainly play the coquette very easily.

  ‘Give me another day and I will tell you,’ he said.

  They opened the small gate at the side of the larger lodge gates and let themselves out into the road. A bright moon was shining through the black lace of the trees above, harlequinning their faces in chequered patterns of silver and black.

  ‘Oh, where can that wretched footman of mine be?’ mourned Hannah.

  ‘Why, there, I think,’ answered the marquis in a voice suddenly tinged with amusement. A little down the road, they could see a figure sitting on a milestone.

  ‘It cannot be Benjamin,’ protested Hannah. ‘Why should he fall asleep by the roadside when he was so nearly at Bradfield Park?’

  They approached the sleeping figure. It was indeed Benjamin, head buried in his cravat, hat tilted down over his face, snoring heavily.

  ‘Wake up this minute!’ shouted Hannah, angry with relief.

  Benjamin started awake, screamed, ‘Spies!’ and fell over behind the milestone.

  ‘Faugh! What a smell of beer.’ Hannah wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘And tobacco. Get up, you lazy hound, and present yourself.’

  Benjamin, now fully awake and sobered, clambered out onto the road and said huffily, ‘I was exhausted, modom, what with trudging around all them carpenters.’

  ‘And taverns, by the smell of it.’ Hannah gave his arm an irritated shake. ‘Well, what did you find, if anything?’

  So Benjamin told them of how Ashton and Petit had visited Grenier where he was working and how he had evidently gone off with them without a struggle.

  ‘So if he went willingly, he is somewhere about in hiding,’ said the marquis. ‘If not, in captivity. We have played cat and mouse long enough. The time has come to confront Lord Wetherby with what we know.’

  ‘My father would never have gone willingly with them,’ exclaimed Yvonne.

  The marquis’s voice held a cold edge. ‘You have not seen him for some time. He may have changed.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Let’s not stand here arguing,’ pleaded Hannah. ‘We must go back to the house and try to find Lord Wetherby if he has returned.’

  They silently made their way back up and through the lodge gates and up the drive under the thicker blackness of the trees in the park. Then Yvonne let out an exclamation. ‘I am … how you say … tripping over my shoe-lace.’ They waited as she bent to tie it. And then, in the stillness of the night, the marquis distinctly heard a gun being cocked nearby.

  ‘On your faces,’ he shouted. He put an arm round Hannah and an arm around Yvonne, who had just straightened up, and bor
e them face downwards on the grass beside the drive. ‘What …?’ began Benjamin, who was still standing. There was the sound of a report and a bullet whizzed through Benjamin’s tall hat. He let out a screech and fell on his face on the grass.

  ‘They’ve killed Benjamin,’ wailed Hannah, crawling on her hands and knees towards her footman’s fallen body.

  ‘No, modom,’ came Benjamin’s voice, ‘but the bleeders ’ave wounded me dimmed ’at.’

  ‘Stay where you are,’ whispered the marquis. He sat up cautiously and drew a pistol from his pocket. Then, holding it primed and ready, he eased himself to his feet. A bullet whizzed past his ear and the marquis took aim and fired in the direction from which the shot had come. There was a sharp scream of pain, then the sound of breaking twigs and branches, then nothing.

  ‘I think I wounded whoever it was,’ said the marquis in a low voice. ‘On your feet and let us make rapidly for the house.’

  Hannah found her mouth was dry with fear. She put an arm around Yvonne’s waist and ran with her towards the shelter of the portico. The marquis and Benjamin soon joined them. They had waited behind, the marquis with his gun at the ready, until they were sure the two women were safe.

  ‘Now,’ said the marquis. ‘Let’s rouse this household.’

  In the hall, he rang the bell until the butler appeared in his night-shirt. The marquis ordered him to rouse the staff and then Lord and Lady Wetherby.

  Lord Wetherby proved to be at home and came down the staircase with his wife, both of them looking very angry indeed.

  ‘What is the meaning of this, Ware?’ demanded Lady Wetherby. ‘Is not my Dusty to get her beauty sleep? “Stay in your room, pet,” that’s what I told her, for ten to one they’re all drunk.’

  ‘We went out to look for Miss Pym’s missing footman,’ said the marquis, addressing both servants and master. ‘On the road back through the park and not far from the lodge gates, someone tried to kill us. Someone shot at us. As you are here, Lord Wetherby. I am sure our assailant was either Ashton or Petit – by the latter I mean the man who calls himself Smith. They are spies for the French, so what are you doing giving them house room?’

  ‘I didn’t know who they were,’ raged Lord Wetherby. ‘I mean, I know that loose screw, Ashton. Why should I turn ’em away? Said they were only going to stay a few days. French spies be damned. You’re romancing, that’s what. Been at the brandy, hey?’

  ‘You will soon be making a statement to the nearest magistrate,’ said the marquis, ‘for I intend to go to the authorities in the morning and put the whole case before them.’

  ‘You do that,’ shouted Wetherby. ‘And then take yourself off and those women with you.’

  Lady Wetherby looked alarmed. ‘Watch your tongue, Wetherby,’ she said, ‘and don’t you go insulting Ware like that or you’ll have our Dusty heartbroken. Don’t she dote on Ware already? Don’t he dote on her? Well, now.’

  She folded her surprisingly strong arms under her ample bosom.

  ‘Dote on Dusty, dote on Dusty!’ shrieked Lord Wetherby, suddenly beside himself with rage. ‘Everything for bloody Dusty and nothing for me. Gowns that cost hundreds of pounds for Dusty, and if I want a new hunting dog, you won’t loosen those purse-strings. Well, let me tell you this. If you think Ware cares a fig for dear little Dusty, you are a bigger cretin than I thought you were. His most noble lordship has only got eyes for that French cousin of his, and if you weren’t so blind, you would see it.’

  ‘He can’t marry his cousin,’ shouted Lady Wetherby. ‘Produce totty-headed brats if he marries his cousin, you old fool. Course I don’t give you any money. You’d just lose it like you did your own.’

  ‘Enough of this,’ said the marquis. ‘Where are Petit and Ashton?’

  ‘Beg pardon,’ said the butler, ‘but they aren’t in their rooms and their luggage has gone.’

  The marquis gave an exclamation of disgust. ‘Now we may never find them.’ He turned to Hannah. ‘Take Miss Grenier to her room. She can sleep in her own room tonight.’ Lady Wetherby heard this, misinterpreted it, and let out an outraged squawk. The marquis ignored her.

  ‘Come along,’ said Hannah gently. ‘A good night’s sleep is what you need.’

  She led Yvonne up the stairs and then stayed with her until she was safely in bed before retiring herself. Hannah fell almost instantly into a dreamless sleep.

  Yvonne awoke an hour later. Someone was shaking her gently by the shoulder. ‘Miss Pym,’ she exclaimed, sitting up in bed.

  ‘No,’ said the voice she had come to hate and dread. ‘It is I, Petit. I have your father. If you want to see him alive, you had better get dressed and come quietly. One scream from you, and I will return to where he is hidden and kill him on the spot. If you come quietly, he will live to stand trial.’

  Yvonne climbed slowly down from the high bed. He lit a candle on the mantelshelf and she saw he held a gun. ‘Was that you, shooting at us in the park?’ she whispered.

  ‘No, that fool Ashton. One of you winged him, and serves him right. He thought he would take matters into his own hands and kill Ware and so make matters easier. He was hiding in the park, waiting for me when he heard you return. Get dressed!’

  Numbly, Yvonne did as she was told, using the bedcurtains as a screen. Monsieur Petit dropped a letter on her pillow. It was addressed to Miss Pym and the Marquis of Ware. ‘That should keep them quiet,’ he said.

  Seeing that Yvonne was ready, he held open the door for her and then closed in behind her with the gun at her back.

  7

  To die will be an awfully big adventure.

  Sir James Barrie

  Sir George Clarence climbed down stiffly from the mail-coach outside the Bull. He stood in the sunlight of the inn yard and looked about him. The day was still and warm. He decided to reserve a room for himself at the inn before going in search of Miss Pym. Perhaps she might be resident at the inn herself. He had asked about her at all the stops on the road up, but there had been no news of any Miss Pym travelling in the opposite direction.

  Inside the Bull, they told him that yes, he could have a room; but no, there was no Miss Pym.

  Sir George followed his luggage upstairs, feeling slightly flat. He had somehow imagined that Miss Pym would be there, waiting for him.

  He was also beginning to be plagued by a nagging doubt about Miss Pym’s fantastic stories. Could she really have had so many amazing adventures? He himself had suffered a quiet but dull journey in the company of a highly respectable lawyer, his wife, and a Scottish lord of ancient years who took snuff for what seemed like the whole of the journey. But he had come to see her, and see her he would. He shaved and washed and changed and went down to the stage-coach booking office just to make sure that her name was not already down for the journey back; but again, there was no mention of Miss Pym.

  After a good breakfast, he sallied forth in a light gig to call at the other hostelries in the town, drawing a blank at first one and then the other. He was just negotiating through the press of traffic outside the Minster when he let out an exclamation. He was sure he had just seen a familiar figure turning in at the door of the great cathedral.

  After some difficulty, he found a place for his horse and gig, and then hurried off into the Minster.

  He stood for a moment taken aback by the lightness and beauty of the interior, and then moved forward. All was calm and hushed and quiet. Great shafts of sunlight shone through the magnificent stained-glass windows, splashing patterns of colour across the nave.

  And there, in the centre of the nave, stood that familiar slim figure. He found his heart was beating hard.

  ‘Lucinda,’ he said softly. ‘Lucy. Is that you?’

  She turned to face him, her eyes widening in surprise, and he found himself looking at his sister-in-law, Mrs Clarence.

  She was as beautiful as ever, although there were little lines etched around her eyes and mouth. She held out both hands to him, crying, ‘My dear George. Oh,
my very dear George.’

  ‘Shhhh!’ hissed a verger waspishly.

  ‘Come outside,’ urged Sir George. ‘Let us find somewhere where we can talk.’

  Arm in arm, they walked to a pastry cook’s near the Minster. ‘I will tell you why I am here when we are seated,’ said Sir George.

  She was still graceful, still elegant, he thought in wonder, as she poured tea and smiled on him, her eyes sparkling with warmth.

  ‘Your news first,’ said Sir George, picking up his old-fashioned handle-less teacup. ‘Do you know Jeffrey is dead?’

  Her eyes clouded over ‘Yes, I read the obituary in the newspaper.’

  ‘And are you still with …?’ He paused delicately.

  ‘John. John Hughes. We are to be married next week, very quietly of course. You must blame me …’

  ‘Not I,’ said Sir George stoutly. ‘You forget, my dear, I knew my brother very well, and he was always, even before his marriage to you, a moody and depressed man.’

  Mrs Clarence looked wistful. ‘I thought before we were wed that his moodiness was a mixture of the lover and the poet.’

  ‘So how do you live, Lucy? What do you do?’

  ‘I am a farmer’s wife now. John did not want to live on my money, so we bought a tidy farm and he made it pay. Such work, such long hours.’

  ‘And children?’

  Her fine eyes flashed. ‘Two,’ she said merrily. ‘Two little boys.’

  ‘And do you still have to work so very hard?’

  ‘Oh, now I have no end of servants. John made the farm very prosperous. He paid me back all the money he had borrowed to buy the farm. We are very grand. But what of your news, George? I heard you had retired. And why are you in York?’

  He leaned back in his chair and smiled. ‘Do you remember Hannah Pym?’

  ‘My housekeeper! Of course!’

  ‘Well, it is a long story but I will try to make it as brief as possible. My brother left Miss Pym five thousand pounds in his will. I took a fancy to Miss Pym. I remember the morning after the reading of the will, seeing her standing by the window at Thornton Hall watching the stage-coach going by. She said she wanted to travel on the Flying Machines. And that was the start of her adventures.’