by Fiona Hill
Miss Windle’s curiosity doubled.
“The human animal,” said Mrs. Henry after a long, deep breath, “is a peculiar creature. We are all of us subject, Miss Windle—as I trust you will agree—to our little caprices and humours, our prejudices and our, er, passions. It is the duty of society as well as the individual to attempt to…to control these little whims so that civilization may, ah, push onwards. Where would England be, for example, if our monarchs were in the habit of making laws in a fit of pique or, er, let us say, ordering the execution of various persons under the influence of envy, or wrath? And yet, some few things are done under these influences, both within the government and outside it…and the best one can hope for after having committed such a rash act is—forgiveness. Yes, one must ask—”
“Mrs. Henry, I beg you will forgive me—while we are on that topic—for interrupting, but I am very tired. Is there something you particularly wished to say to me?” Miss Windle disliked Mrs. Henry to the point where she did not mind being rude to her.
The lady lost some of her colour before she replied, “There is. I was coming to that. Miss Windle, I think it will not surprise you to hear that I have sometimes…experienced emotions in regard to you which were not altogether charitable.”
Miss Windle nodded slowly.
“It may, however, surprise you to learn that I was sometimes so carried away by my—emotions that I…I did some damage to your property.”
“You do not mean—!” she exclaimed, startled.
“I am afraid I do,” said Mrs. Henry, in a hushed voice and with eyes downcast for very shame. “It was I who destroyed your needlework.”
“Mrs. Henry, I was aware of a certain friction between us,” said the good lady after a pause, “but I confess I had no idea it affected you so deeply as that! What did you hope to accomplish by such means?”
“I hoped, quite simply, to annoy you.”
“You could have achieved that in a subtler way,” Windle pointed out. “You have cost me months of work.”
“I am very sorry,” said Mrs. Henry, with only the slightest trace of her habitual stiffness. “I have always had an uneven temper. Sometimes I cannot govern myself. It is to this fault in me that I attribute,” she swallowed hard against a rising emotion, “poor Amy’s disgrace! If I had been firmer with her, calmer with her! Oh, how I envied you Lady Caroline—how I envy you. That is why…” But Mrs. Henry, overcome by recent events, could not continue and actually broke, instead, into a long, dry sob.
“Dear me,” Miss Windle murmured kindly, much disconcerted. “This will never do.” She reached out to Mrs. Henry with the intention of patting her hand, but that lady (who had sunk down momentarily into a chair) sprang up again and resumed her frantic wandering about the room.
“When Amy disappeared I went to my priest. I consulted with him…I told him my doubts. He suggested that I speak with you on this head. I thought it might help, that it might somehow…bring Amy back. Merciful Heavens, I hope it may!”
Miss Windle, whose kind soul had by now utterly forgot the wrongs Mrs. Henry had done her, echoed solemnly, “Indeed I hope it may too.” She then settled down to giving Henry whatever comfort she could offer (Mrs. Henry, soon recovering a good deal of her characteristic haughtiness, would not accept much) and to drinking a cup of tea to sooth her own jangled nerves. Their tête-à-tête was interrupted by an abrupt knock at the door, followed directly by the appearance of Lady Caroline Wythe, distinctly in alt.
“News!” she cried.
“From Amy?” Mrs. Henry demanded, rising, and it was pitiful to hear the involuntary eagerness of her tone.
“From Mockabee,” Caro answered grimly. “He has had the impudence to send a note from Morton Hall informing Miss Agatha Meredith that—I believe his words were, that he imagines her friends will like to visit him there soon, and that they may do so at their convenience. Seabury is seeing about the coach now.”
“He mentions Amy?” Mrs. Henry asked, while at the same moment Miss Windle cried out, “The poor man! He will be exhausted.”
“Poor fiddlestick,” said Caro. “I am going too, and so will you if you please, my dear.”
“Oh Caro, I scarcely think I can,” groaned Windle, while Henry repeated her unanswered question.
“Mockabee says nothing of Amy,” Caro told her finally, “and Seabury says he is anxious on the subject. In my opinion, it is only to be expected. It is very clear to me he has got her with him; he simply chuses not to write down as much. Such a piece of evidence could be very awkward for him someday.”
“Pray God she is well,” said pious Mrs. Henry.
“I think she must be, or Mockabee would not entangle himself any further in the business. Come, Windle, run and put on your cloak. The night is chilly.”
“My dear, you do not really intend to accompany his lordship! Does Lady Beatrice countenance the scheme?” inquired the fatigued Miss Windle.
“Oh, she is too tired to care. She stops behind to wait for Mr. Walfish. If you are absolutely dead on your feet I suppose Miss Meredith’s abigail or some such could—”
“Miss Meredith does not employ an abigail,” Henry broke in, “and if she did I doubt if she could spare her. I do not know what Morton Hall may be, or where it may be, but if Amy is there I shall be more than happy to travel there with you, Lady Caroline. I shall be grateful, in fact.”
“Oh, dear!” Caro was not, at least not immediately, mad for the notion. She delayed by explaining that Morton Hall was Mockabee’s country seat, in Berkshire. “It is a matter of an hour, no more, from Two Towers—that is my brother’s house, you know. We shall stay there, of course.”
“I had forgot the baron was a countryman of yours,” Mrs. Henry murmured, not altogether pleasantly.
“I hardly like to admit any connexion with him whatever,” said Caroline, with a civility she did not feel deeply, “but I cannot deny that one.”
“Indeed,” said Henry. Then, in a much softer tone, “Will you permit me to escort you? Miss Windle will be able to rest, and to look after Lady Beatrice and Miss Meredith tomorrow. Miss Windle is dreadfully tired.”
“That is so,” Caro assented.
“I shall not mind the hardships of the journey at all,” Mrs. Henry said, “so long as I may be of service to Amy.”
Lady Caroline cast an interrogative glance at Windle, who gave an almost imperceptible nod in return. “Of course you may escort me, Mrs. Henry,” said her ladyship. “It is good of you to offer.”
Mrs. Henry did not pause to complete these courtesies, but instead left the room with a quick bow and a whispered “Thank you” and went directly to her bed-chamber to pack. She was downstairs no more than fifteen minutes later, a small valise beside her. “I am prepared to leave,” she announced quietly.
It being out of the question to continue with the horses they had used during the last stages, Seabury had been busying himself with finding fresh ones—not an easy task at nine o’clock at night in a provincial village. He succeeded in finding a team not wholly inadequate, and was himself in the act of bidding his aunt and Miss Meredith farewell when Mrs. Henry came down the stairs.
“Now Seabury, be sure you box that hoyden’s ears when you see her, and tell her whose regards you convey when you do so,” Lady Beatrice instructed him. “I should prefer to wring her neck, but I save that pleasure for when I see her myself. And if Mockabee has married her, be certain—well, find a priest anyway and see what may be done about it. If he has not married her, tell them both—”
“My dear ma’am, I hope I shall know how to deal with whatever situation greets me,” her nephew interrupted impatiently, “at least as well as the next person. I trust we are agreed that Amy’s safety is to be attended to first, next her reputation, and after that her immediate happiness. Having agreed to that,” he continued hastily, without leaving time for anyone to agree or disagree, “I think we have done all we can until the facts are known in detail. Lady Caroline?” he ad
ded, turning to take her arm and hand her into the carriage.
“Good-bye dear Windle,” said she, kissing that gentlewoman. She made brief farewells to the others assembled too. Lady Beatrice gave her a piercing look when they parted.
“Be careful of Seabury, my dear,” she murmured. “Do nothing rash. Good things come to those who wait, remember.”
Caroline, a little nettled by this unsolicited advice, replied that she would try to conduct herself suitably.
“Not suitably, my dear. Wisely,” said the old lady. “We must all look for wisdom, Caroline.” On these words, which were uttered in a strangely choaked voice, the marchioness pushed her young friend towards Seabury’s waiting hand. An instant later they were in the coach and travelling.
It was an extremely wearing journey. The weather, happily, had been fine during the past week, so that the roads were not muddy; but it was a long, hard distance to traverse, particularly since time was short. In all likelihood (they told themselves over and over) nothing could happen to Amy Meredith in the next twenty-four hours that had not happened in the last forty-eight. Nevertheless, a sense of urgency nagged at each of the travellers. Though they were on the road in excess of eighteen hours, they paused no longer than forty-five minutes, and that only twice. They slept in the coach, when and as they could, and even had a sort of pic-nic in the carriage between breakfast and their arrival at Two Towers. It was far from a festive occasion, however. No one could think of anything but Amy. Each passed the hours considering to what extent the girl’s unspeakable adventure was his responsibility, and pondering what he might have done to thwart it. Lady Caroline was perhaps the least to blame in this respect, but even she could not help thinking that if she had taken a different tack with Amy—befriended her a little better, or cultivated her confidence—she might have prevented the catastrophe. Besides that, there was the awful likelihood that Mockabee had selected Amy as his prey in order to spite Caro and Seabury. What concerned her most was Seabury’s inevitable distress. Naturally he would deem himself accountable for the disaster. She might have spared him that pain! Mrs. Henry’s thoughts were equally mournful, and Lord Seabury’s certainly were not gayer; and so a very crushed and weary, and extremely doleful and anxious party reached Two Towers a little after five in the afternoon on Thursday, May 22nd.
They arrived unannounced, for it had been the general feeling that a messenger could not have come sufficiently in advance of the party itself to make much of a difference.
“Merciful powers!” were Lady Lillian’s first words on being summoned to meet her unexpected callers. “What on earth does this mean?”
Lord Seabury shook the hand of the sister he had not seen in six years. Lady Caroline embraced her, and Mrs. Henry was introduced.
“Dear me, how very grim you look, Oliver!” exclaimed Lillian.
“I am afraid we come on a rather distressing errand,” said he.
Lady Lillian had begun to lead the newcomers into a drawing-room, but now she stopped suddenly. “Not my father again, I hope! Was there ever such a reprobate—”
Seabury broke in, looking even grimmer than before, “No, not my father. He is very well, thank you.”
“I am certain of that; he will outlast us all. I only thought he might be behaving…” her words trailed off into silence.
“Badly again,” her brother finished. “No, dear Lillian, it is not that.” He paused to sit down heavily on a plumply cushioned chair; Lady Caroline, watching him, wondered at the bitterness in his tone when he addressed Lillian. She had not expected them to be effusive with one another, but the conduct she was witnessing was scarcely even civil. Naturally she had many other things to consider: these were her first moments home in nearly two months. Still, her exhausted brain could focus on only one thing at a time, and for the nonce she was concerned with Seabury and Lillian. “We are chasing Amy Meredith,” his lordship finally resumed. “No doubt you remember her?” In as few words as possible he explained Amy’s disappearance, the party’s removal into Kent, the note received there, and the purpose of their visit to Two Towers. In the middle of this recital Lord Inlowe entered the room, accompanied by their little ladyships his daughters, Delphina and Theresa. All was confusion for a while, as Caroline flew to hug her brother, and then to embrace her nieces. Lord Inlowe was a tall, lean man, with thinning brown hair and the same large green eyes as Caro. He was also an intelligent and sensitive man, and he at once knew that something grave was afoot. After a short interval, therefore, he sent his daughters from the room and begged his brother-in-law (now encountered for the first time!) to say what might occasion his unexpected call.
Lord Seabury repeated the tale. “I must ask you, if I may, to lend me a horse to ride to Morton Hall. Our haste is in vain if I do not go there at once. It is impossible to say what Miss Meredith’s situation may be now.”
A sob escaped Mrs. Henry, whose fatigue had robbed her of her self-control. She was soon prevailed upon by Caroline to be assigned a bed-chamber and to go there now and rest. “Though I shall not sleep a moment until I hear of Amy; I know I shall not,” she insisted, even as a yawn and a tear appeared together on her haggard features. Lady Lillian escorted her to a guest room herself, with a graciousness perfectly correct, if not warm. Left alone with Caro and Seabury, Lord Inlowe asked permission to accompany the viscount.
“That Mockabee is a misery to his neighbours,” he said. “It would be a great satisfaction to me to meet him under these circumstances.”
“Humphrey might be very helpful to you, Seabury,” Caro urged. “He will show you the quickest route to take. In fact, I should like to come along myself—”
“Out of the question,” said Inlowe immediately, while Seabury announced at the same moment, “Impossible.”
“Well, who is to look after Amy when you get there?” Caroline asked, disliking to be excluded. “You will need a woman with you.”
“Nonsense,” said Seabury, while Inlowe pronounced, “Fustian.”
“Good Heavens,” exclaimed Caroline, with a semblance of peevishness. “Quite a little coalition you two have formed, is it not?”
“Be sensible, Caroline. You do not wish to be a part of such a business as this. There may even be some danger in it.” Inlowe reasoned, while he rang for a servant and instructed him to have two horses made ready at once.
“Faugh,” said Caro. “Mockabee will have done nothing to Amy; I am perfectly convinced of it. Nasty he undoubtedly is, but a fool he is not.”
“Pray God you are right,” said Seabury.
“Faugh,” repeated her ladyship in disgust. “You are so busy feeling culpable and anxious, you have had no opportunity of considering the thing calmly, Seabury.” Then, “Oh, dear!” she cried, clamping her hand to her mouth as she remembered her vow not to speak rashly—especially to the viscount. “I am dreadfully sorry. I must be very tired. That is my only excuse. Of course you have every reason to be concerned.”
But Seabury showed no sign of having been offended; on the contrary, he was gazing at Caroline with a look at once penetrating and admiring. She found the effect pleasant but disconcerting. “I hope you can forgive me, sir?” she asked uncertainly.
“Not at all,” he said slowly. “You are entirely correct, no doubt. I ought to have seen it myself. My only fear now is that he has married her.”
“Angels defend us from that calamity!” exclaimed Lord Inlowe, hurriedly kissing his sister before he rushed from the room, explaining over his shoulder that he needed to change his clothes for riding.
“I had better do so too,” said Seabury, still fixing Caro with that piercing look. “Would you be so good as to show me to a chamber?”
“Oh, absolutely!” Caro said, rousing herself from what had almost been a revery. The journey must have wearied her more than she knew, she told herself, for she was obliged to fight an extraordinary desire to march directly up to his lordship, take both his hands in hers, and cover them with kisses. And, moreover,
he did not look much as if he would have minded it. At least, he did not look so to her. “Ridiculous,” she told herself sternly, battling valiantly against the awful impulse. “Show him to a room,” she instructed herself, and accomplished that aim with the help of a footman and the butler. When she left him she did so with a subdued farewell, and the assurance that she would stay awake until he and her brother returned. The viscount never lost that strange light in his eye, but he said nothing out of the ordinary. After she quitted him, Caro went to her own bed-chamber, where she found her own dear Jeannie awaiting her. With Jeannie and with her nieces she whiled away the remainder of the afternoon; at supper she entertained Lady Lillian with a complete account of all the latest London on-dits and fashions; but at last Lady Lillian (who was not strong) went to sleep, taking her nieces with her; and a little time later, Jeannie—accustomed to country hours—could no longer suppress her yawns. Caroline, succumbing to the inevitable, dismissed the girl and prepared herself to keep what remained of the vigil alone. She sat up, so employed, nearly till midnight.
Chapter XIII
“Inlowe!” ejaculated Baron Mockabee when, having been summoned by his butler to the Green Saloon of Morton Hall, he presently entered that room. “This is a surprise.”
“Where is Amy?” Lord Seabury demanded, without prologue. His hatred of the man with whom he was obliged to deal was such that his handsome features contorted involuntarily into what almost amounted to a sneer.
“Amy?” said the other vaguely.
“Damme, man, you have played with us long enough. If Amy is not here tell me where she is. If she is here, produce her, or by God, I will—”
“You will what?” Lord Mockabee inquired, smiling his sharp, lupine smile. He had become even thinner than he was habitually; in his gaunt face the eyes glittered and the lip curled more malevolently than ever before. Lord Seabury was ready to fly at him and knock him to the ground, but Inlowe restrained him with a firm hand.
