by M C Beaton
He told Mrs Clarence of some of Hannah’s adventures while she laughed and exclaimed. When he had finished, she asked, ‘And is that what brings you to York? To find some adventures of your own?’
‘No.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘The fact is that that footman of hers, Benjamin, the one I told you about, he … well … he decided that there might be a romance in the offing and so, I think, to prompt marriage or twist my arm in some way … anyway, he told London’s biggest gossip, Mrs Courtney, that I was keeping my brother’s ex-housekeeper as mistress. I scotched the rumour, I hope, by saying that the Miss Pym who was a friend of mine was not the housekeeper but someone from your side of the family. I also threatened to sue anyone who continued to talk libel. But I knew how very distressed Miss Pym must be. I came north on an impulse … to find her, to explain that true friends never paid any heed to malicious gossip.’
She gazed at him quizzically and he flushed a little and looked down. She opened her mouth to say something and then closed it again. She had been about to tease him but had decided against it. Hannah Pym. She remembered Hannah, the waif of a scullery maid who had risen up the ranks of the servants, indomitable Hannah with her square shoulders, odd eyes, and fierce loyalty. Instead she said, ‘And have you found her?’
‘I only arrived this morning, but so far have not been able to locate her.’
‘Where have you tried?’
He took out a notebook and began to reel off the names of the main coaching-inns.
‘Miss Pym appears to gravitate to grand company on her travels. It would do no harm to try the posting-houses, starting with the best.’
‘Which is?’
‘The Pelican. Not far from here. I will come with you if you like. It is within walking distance.’
They finished their tea and cakes and walked out into the sunlight together.
At the Pelican they were told to their delight that Miss Pym had been staying there but had left with the Marquis of Ware to go on a visit to Bradfield Park, home of Lord Wetherby.
‘What did I tell you,’ said Mrs Clarence with a surprisingly youthful giggle. ‘Miss Pym only moves in the best circles. I have my carriage. Stable your gig and come with me and meet my John, and then we will go together and surprise Miss Pym.’
Sir George found he was nervous at the prospect of meeting this ex-footman who had run off with his sister-in-law, fearing he would prove to be a boorish peasant of a fellow.
Rosewood Farm, Mrs Clarence’s home, turned out to be a fine building set among prosperous-looking fields. John Hughes was standing in the farmyard talking to some of the men when they drove up. He led them into the house and said he would change and join them presently.
Sir George was ushered into a sunny parlour. Mrs Clarence had not lost her touch, he noted. The furnishings were in exquisite taste; the latest in light and delicate chairs and tables, and great bowls of roses to scent the air. He complimented her on her home. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It was not like this when we first came here. Such a lot of work was needed to put it in good order. Oh, here is John.’ And what a world of love was in her eyes, marvelled Sir George, as she turned her face up to her husband.
He was a tall, well-built, quiet man, very shy but courteous. Sir George asked him about the farm and John grew animated as he described the improvements he had made and the bumper harvest he expected.
He then listened in amazement to the tale of Hannah Pym whom, he said ruefully, he remembered as a Tartar. ‘So will you come to Bradfield Park with us, John?’ asked Mrs Clarence.
He shook his head. ‘I must get changed and get back out in the fields again. You go, Lucy, with Sir George, and see if you can bring Miss Pym back with you this evening.’
As Sir George and Mrs Clarence drove towards Bradfield Park, Sir George said uneasily, ‘Do you think all Miss Pym’s stories can be true? I had a dreadfully dull journey, no fair maids, no highwaymen.’
‘Oh, I am sure they are.’ Mrs Clarence gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘I think there are people in the world like Miss Pym who make adventures happen. But she is staying at a highly respectable house, so I suppose she is finding it all rather dull after her recent hair-raising experiences and will be glad to see us!’
That morning, Hannah rose early and went through to Yvonne’s room. For a moment she stood very still, looking at the empty bed and then seeing the letter on the pillow. Her first thought was that Yvonne had run away.
She opened the letter and read it and then turned white with shock. It was unsigned but she was left in no doubt as to whom it was from. ‘We have Miss Grenier,’ she read. ‘She has a chance to stay Alive and Stand Trial with Her Father in France. If you alert The Authorities, then I shall kill her before you can reach her.’
Hannah stumbled along to the marquis’s room. He was awake and dressed and just putting on his coat as she erupted into his room.
He silently read the letter, his face grim.
‘Fools that we were,’ he said bitterly. ‘We should have brought in the militia to arrest them while we had the chance. Where can they have gone?’
‘We will ask the servants if they have seen anything,’ said Hannah.
‘We cannot do that. I think Petit would carry out the threat to kill her if we ask anyone for help. Rouse Benjamin. We will search the grounds and see if there is a clue to which way they went.’
Benjamin, his head aching from his libations of the night before, joined them in front of the house. They stared this way and that in the bright sunlight.
‘I do not know which way to go,’ mourned Hannah. ‘Oh, God, send us some sign.’
‘Look at that!’ Benjamin’s sharp eyes had seen something at the edge of the grass. He bent down and picked it up and then held it out to the marquis and Hannah. It was a small seed pearl.
‘She was wearing a necklace of seed pearls,’ said Hannah excitedly. ‘She hardly ever took it off.’ They bent down and searched the grass. A few yards farther on across the lawn, they found another. They searched, sometimes thinking they had lost the trail, but then finding another, and another. And then the trail finally disappeared and they stood, wondering what to do.
‘Listen!’ The marquis held up his hand.
‘Water,’ said Benjamin. ‘There’s a river. Look, there’s a little path over there.’
The path twisted under overhanging trees, still muddy from the recent rain. The marquis silently pointed down at two sets of footprints in the mud, small footprints and large ones.
‘Quietly now,’ he whispered. ‘They may be close.’
In single file they edged along the path, which suddenly opened out into a small clearing at the water’s edge. A stream flowed languidly past. Tied to a small wooden jetty at the edge of the river were three rowing-boats. ‘And see the other rope,’ said the marquis. ‘There was another boat here. Miss Pym, you wait here and I will go on with Benjamin.’
‘No,’ said Hannah firmly. ‘Miss Grenier is in peril. I am not going back.’
In vain did the marquis remonstrate. Hannah stood firm.
Damning all pig-headed spinsters under his breath, the marquis gave in and helped Hannah aboard the rowing-boat while he took the oars. Benjamin crouched in the bow. ‘Now which way, I wonder?’ said the marquis.
‘There’s something there, on a branch, downstream,’ cried Benjamin. ‘Something white. Row there!’
The marquis rowed to where he had pointed, the boat sliding easily downstream. Caught in a branch at a bend in the river, hanging from a sapling like a small brave flag, was a torn piece of sprig muslin. Benjamin snatched it and held it up triumphantly. ‘She kept ’er wits,’ he grinned. ‘Row on, me lord, and I’ll look out for anything more.’
Hannah, seated in the stern of the small boat, gazed about her with a sort of awe that both day and scenery should be so very beautiful.
Benjamin strained his eyes but could see no further markers left by Yvonne, but at least she had managed to leave that little bit o
f muslin to show them the direction in which she had been taken.
‘There’s some sort of building up ahead,’ called Benjamin. They slid towards it. It was a low square cottage with smoke rising from the chimney. A trim vegetable garden ran down to the river. A man was digging a row of cabbages.
The marquis rowed the boat into the soft mud at the riverbank and called to the man, who lumbered down slowly towards them.
‘Seen any strangers about?’ asked the marquis.
‘Only yourselves,’ replied the man slowly.
‘What lies further downstream? Is there another building?’
The man looked at the sky and looked at the ground until Hannah wondered desperately whether he had been struck dumb. At last he said ruminatively, ‘There be a bit of a hut. Used for fishing in his old lordship’s time, folk do say.’
‘And how far on?’ asked the marquis.
‘Reckon about a mile.’
The marquis thanked him and pushed the boat away from the bank and began to row again. Benjamin still looked for any sign left by Yvonne but could see nothing. The current was stronger now and helping the boat to race along. They came round another bend, much farther on, and there, among a stand of trees near the water’s edge, stood the hut, and tied to a post on the bank was the other boat.
The marquis was about to ship the oars and let the boat glide into the bank, but Benjamin, elated at the sight of the hut, yelled, ‘Halloo, I’m sure we’ve found ’em!’
‘Shut up, you fool!’ hissed the marquis as the prow of the boat dug into the mud. He seized an oar to push off again, but he was too late.
The bushes on the river bank parted and there stood Ashton and Petit, with guns levelled on them.
Mr Ashton was in his shirt-sleeves and had one arm bound up. He glared malevolently at the marquis. ‘Welcome,’ said Monsieur Petit, baring his yellow fangs in a smile. ‘Our guests will be delighted to have company. Get out of that boat with your hands above your heads and march towards the hut.’
There was nothing else they could do but obey. The marquis was cursing himself. He had been so sure the night before that Petit and Ashton had fled.
Hannah wondered what would become of them all. She did not want to die. She suddenly most desperately did not want to die and leave Sir George Clarence with only the memory of one silly, romantical spinster.
‘Inside,’ ordered Mr Ashton when they reached the open door of the hut. Hannah, the first, went inside and stopped with an exclamation of dismay. Yvonne and what must surely be her father were lying on the floor, trussed up, gagged, and bound.
‘Move forward,’ barked Mr Ashton, a menacing figure now.
When he had them lined up inside, he held his gun to Yvonne’s head so that they would submit docilely to being bound and gagged by Petit.
‘Now,’ said Mr Ashton with an evil grin, ‘we’ve got you just where we want you. We’re going into town to get word of a boat that will take us to France. When we return, we’ll take the Greniers with us and you three can stay here until you rot.’
Monsieur Petit laughed. ‘Au revoir,’ he said, kissing his hand to them. The next thing, the door of the hut was slammed shut and they could hear a bolt being driven across the door.
The marquis looked at Yvonne. Large tears were rolling down her cheeks and he swore that if he ever got free of this predicament, he would cheerfully strangle both Petit and Ashton with his bare hands.
Mrs Clarence and Sir George arrived at Bradfield Park and gave their cards to the butler. He returned after a short while to say gravely that my lord and lady were ‘not at home’.
‘But what of their guests?’ exclaimed Mrs Clarence. ‘The Marquis of Ware and Miss Pym?’
‘I believe his lordship and his party went out early this morning,’ said the butler. ‘They have not returned.’
Outside, Mrs Clarence hesitated beside the carriage. ‘I can hear voices coming from the side of the house,’ she said. ‘It sounds like it might be the Wetherbys.’
‘Oh, I have no doubt they are at home,’ said Sir George. ‘It’s just that they don’t want to receive us.’
‘Let us just walk around towards the sound of their voices,’ urged Mrs Clarence. ‘If we find them sitting in the garden, we can ask them if they know when Miss Pym and the others are due to return.’
Together they walked around the corner of the house. There was no one in the garden, but the windows of a room overlooking the terrace were open and voices reached their ears clearly.
‘But I’m sure he’s in love with me, Papa,’ wailed a young female voice.
‘The man’s deranged,’ barked a masculine voice. Lord Wetherby, guessed the listeners. ‘Saying I’ve been keeping French spies in the house, saying they were shot at, threatening to call in the authorities. Never heard such rubbish. I tell you, Dusty, they were all foxed, including that crooked-nosed spinster.’
‘They must be coming back,’ said Dusty. ‘They haven’t taken their luggage. Where did they go?’
‘Do not take on so,’ came Lady Wetherby’s voice. ‘Your father has the right of it. They are all mad. That Miss Pym, Ware, and that rude footman were seen walking doubled up across the lawn and then they got in a rowing-boat and sailed off downstream. I hope they drown. Poor pet. Mama shall find you a proper beau.’
Sir George caught Mrs Clarence by the arm and drew her back a little. ‘It is all very odd,’ he whispered. ‘Something is badly wrong here. I know Ware slightly and he is not the sort of man to make up stories about French spies. I would like to find him and ask him what is going on.’ He rubbed his brow and then made up his mind. ‘I think you had better return to your John while I go down the river and see if I can find them. I shall call on you this evening. If I do not call, I think you should get John to take this fantastical tale we have just overheard to the nearest barracks and tell the colonel to send some men to search down the river for us.’ She nodded, wide-eyed. ‘Miss Pym is in the thick of an adventure after all,’ she said.
Sir George crossed the lawns towards the river, feeling conspicuous, wondering if Lord Wetherby might see him and send a gamekeeper after him to accuse him of trespass. He saw a glint of water in the distance through a gap in the trees and made his way there. With the sun shining down and the birds singing and the air full of the scent of roses, it was hard to believe in French spies or in anything bad at all.
He found the rowing-boats, noticing that two were missing, if the posts to which the boats were moored were any indication. He climbed gingerly into one of them, took off his coat and laid it carefully on one of the seats, untied the boat, sat down and picked up the oars. He would go downstream, and if he failed to find any sign of Miss Pym, he could always try to find some peasant who would be glad of some money for the job of rowing him back.
Although he was well aware the current was doing most of the work, he felt amazingly young and athletic as the boat slid easily down the river.
His enjoyment in the beauty of the day sharpened. He could not believe there was any danger. He would find Miss Pym and her companions picnicking beside the river bank. He imagined how Miss Pym’s odd eyes would light up when she saw him. London with all its petty society gossip seemed far away.
A cottage came into view and he saw a man working in the vegetable garden and a woman getting water from a pump outside the house. He moored the boat and called to the man, who came very slowly to the water’s edge and looked at him curiously.
‘I am searching for the Marquis of Ware,’ said Sir George.
The man scratched his head with one earthy calloused hand and stared up at the sky as if for inspiration. ‘Dunno,’ he said at last. ‘Try Bradfield Park.’
‘I have tried there. I was told the marquis and his party had gone out on the river.’
The man stood as if turned to stone, his mouth hanging a little open. Sir George gave an impatient noise and lifted one of the oars to push off.
‘Folks asking questions all day long
,’ said the man suddenly. ‘Grand gennelman and a lady and footman went on down.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sir George, suddenly elated. ‘How far did they mean to go?’
Again that maddening silence, but this time Sir George waited.
‘Asked about a building,’ said the man. ‘Told ’em about a fishing hut, ’bout a mile further down.’
Sir George set off again. He was beginning to feel rather tired. It had been a long day and he had only slept fitfully in the mail-coach during the night. Unlike the stage-coaches, the mail-coaches kept going night as well as day.
Then he saw what must be the fishing hut, but his heart sank a little, for there was no sign of anyone about. But there was a rowing-boat tied up at the water’s edge. They must be somewhere around.
He tied up his own boat alongside it and climbed rather stiffly up the bank, putting on his coat as he did so. The fishing hut stood in a clearing at the water’s edge. Everything was very quiet and still, apart from the rushing of the water.
He began to feel uneasy and could not think why. The stillness of the place began to seem unnatural and he looked uneasily about him as he approached the fishing hut. The door was closed. There was a new shiny bolt across it. Well, they would hardly be bolted inside a fishing hut on such a glorious day. He would need to return to see if he could row against the current as far as that fellow at the cottage and ask there for help in getting back.
He half turned to go. And then he heard a noise from inside.
Hannah lay on the earthen floor in an agony of pain and misery. The ropes which bound her had been tied so tightly that she wondered – were she ever released – if she would be able to walk again
The marquis was now lying still. He had been straining and wriggling in his bonds for the past two hours. In the gloomy light, Monsieur Grenier, a frail-looking man, lay as still as death. Hannah prayed he was still alive. She prayed for a lot of things apart from the well-being of Yvonne’s father. She prayed for rescue. She prayed for life. She prayed the stinking gag in her mouth would not make her sick and tried to ignore the heavings of her stomach.
