Goldsmith's Row (20 page)

"Then why does she herself look on it as some kind of proof?"

"Do you suspect her of witchcraft?"

"Good God, no! But surely this doesn't matter any longer? You know for certain now that Grace is an impostor."

"It matters to this extent," he said. "That unsavory fellow Wacey tried to brand her with this vile accusation. I'd like to dismiss him from my service and charge him with assault, but if Grace is going to be the subject of unanswered riddles and rumors that no one can explain, it will be difficult to free her entirely from the imputation of witchcraft. The whole business might continue to hang over her like a sword of Damocles."

Philadelphia was startled. He had dealt most effectively with the witch-hunters;  Wacey was  groaning in his chamber, still half stunned,  and conscious  of nothing
but
his own discomfort. Those two vicious louts would spend the night locked in the  stable.  The  small  fry  had  retreated thankfully out of sight, there was no fight in them. But she saw Laurence's point; they were not likely to relinquish their savage and distorted view of Grace unless it could be openly challenged and made to appear ridiculous. "What can we do?" she asked. "Ask some questions."

They went back into the parlor; he took a stool near the fire, and said quietly to Grace: "I'm very sorry my servants used you so abominably. Whatever treatment you might have expected, it was nothing like that."

Grace flushed scarlet and began to shake more than ever. On Laurence's other side, Joel pushed away the plate of meat he was toying with, and braced himself to sit a little straighter in his chair. There had been an illusion until now that they and Laurence were allies, with Wacey and his followers as the common enemy. But that could not continue, there had got to be a reckoning between the two conspirators who had been found out, and the representative of the wealthy family they had conspired to rob.

There was an uneasy pause, broken surprisingly by Coney, who spoke up in a clear, young voice a little roughed by nervousness.

"I hope you won't be hard on Grace, sir. She didn't properly understand what she was doing, not to start with, and she didn't want to go on cheating the old dame, only she was afraid to confess. She wasn't going to touch the inheritance. And as for all the money that's been spent on her already: we'll pay it back, bit by bit—I promise we will. I— I'm Grace's betrothed husband, sir, and I don't earn a great deal at present, but I mean to marry her and take care of her as soon as I can."

Philadelphia thought of the clothes and presents that had been lavished on Grace, and of the pittance that this boy would get in wages from the Dutch stone-carver, and hoped that for once Laurence's spirit of mockery would remain dormant.

Laurence did not laugh. He said, "That is a great tribute. I hope you value it, Grace; I think it's more than you deserve."

"Oh yes, I do," she whispered, moving closer to Coney. "That's the first I've heard of a betrothal," protested Joel.

"It's true, just the same," retorted Coney. "I didn't tell you on the ride down, or I dare say you'd have put me off that horse. And it's no concern of yours, all you ever did for Grace was to drag her into your plotting and teach her to do wrong, so that she was always in fear of discovery. When those villains threw her in the lake, it was all your fault."

"Yes, I know," whispered Joel, putting up a hand to shade his eyes. Philadelphia thought he was in a good deal of pain.

"Not all Joel's fault," remarked Laurence. "In this particular instance it's hard to say whose fault it was. I believe there is some question of a rhyme that you didn't get from Joel, is that so?"

"No, I didn't." The mention of the rhyme had made Grace articulate. "I've known it all my life. The other things I did learn from Joel, but not that… If you please, Mr. Tabor—are you going to send me to prison?"

"No," he said gently, "you shan't go to prison."

"Or back to Southwark?"

"Southwark—good God!" (No, my dear, you shan't go there either, don't fret.) "But I am just beginning to see—Joel, what was it took you to the Charity Hospital in the first place?"

"I followed your cousin's child right to the door, or so I thought."

"In which case I have done you an injustice."

Joel stared at him through bloodshot eyes. "It seems very unlikely," he said with a brave attempt at irony.

"I had never supposed that you made any effort to find my cousin. I thought you went straight to a place where you could get hold of a likely girl to satisfy my aunt."

"That's not true. I swear to you, I didn't set out to deceive her. Not until I had tried my hardest to discover the child. I always knew you suspected that part of the story; believe it or not, you were wrong."

"You have convinced me," said Laurence. "Frank's child must have been at the Charity Hospital at some time or another. How else did Grace learn the rhyme?"

"That's the part I can't fathom," said Joel slowly. "It doesn't make sense. Mrs. Bullace assured me there never was a child at the Hospital who could have been your cousin."

"She was right, sir," put in Grace. "I've been thinking it over and over, and there isn't anyone who fits."

"Haven't you forgotten something?' "What?"

"That you ought to have been looking for a boy." There was a moment's silence.

"Even so," said Joel, "it wouldn't have made any difference. I remember Mrs. Bullace saying that she had never admitted any unknown foundling who was past the age of infancy. She insisted that she knew the histories of all the older children committed to her care."

"Committed to her care? That's the point," said Laurence. "A boy of five would go straight into the Master's house, wouldn't he? Mrs. Bullace would hear all about him, I don't doubt, but he'd hardly enter into her calculations when she claimed that she knew where all her own particular children came from. And since you were looking for a girl, I don't suppose she'd even think to mention him—why should she?"

"Oh!" said Grace, suddenly.

Laurence glanced at her. "Was there a boy who came to the Hospital when you were both around five years old? A boy who'd lived in the country, he may have told you stories as well as rhymes…"

"Yes," said Grace, her face full of wonder. "I ought to have guessed, all along. There was only one person it could ever have been. It was you that lived in the cottage, Coney, and came to Southwark in a farm wagon, riding on top of the hay…"

"What of it?" said Coney sharply. He was bewildered and defensive.

Laurence leant forward, scrutinizing him closely. Philadelphia noticed with a flicker of excitement that the boy's capable, well-shaped hands were remarkably like his own.

"And your proper name is Francis," continued Grace, innocently stating a fact that she had taken for granted all along.

"What's that got to prove? It's the sort of name everyone has. There were two Franks at the Hospital when I got there, you know that as well as I do. That's why I've always been Coney. And I can tell you one thing, sir," he added, addressing Laurence, "I've always known my proper surname, and it's not any of those they've been trying to fasten on Grace. It isn't Tabor or Fox or Perry."

"Is it by any chance Martel?"

Both the orphans gaped at him as though he was now the one who dealt in magic.

"How did you know?" breathed Grace.

"Because it was the only name left that Cicely Fox was likely to use if she didn't claim him as her own flesh and blood. Martel is your father's name, Francis. Even though you aren't entitled to use it, I dare say she hoped he might acknowledge you. That may be why she persuaded her husband to leave Kent and come to London, poor woman."

"I don't want anyone to acknowledge me." Coney had scrambled to his feet, angry and defiant. "I don't want to be a lapdog in any great family. I loved my nurse, she was the one who did everything for me. She told me I was the grandson of a lord, and
my
mother's family could buy up half London, but they never cared a straw for me, and I'll not go round whining to become their pensioner. I've got a craft of my own and I won't give it up to please anyone; I'm going to be an alabaster and live the life I
choose."

"Well done, Cousin Francis," said Laurence equably. "I know exactly how you feel."

Coney eyed him resentfully. "Don't you understand? I'm not your cousin, and I don't want to be."

"Very well." Laurence stood up. "I'd like a word with you in private, all the same."

"No," muttered Coney, childishly obstinate.

Laurence looked him up and down. "Cousin or no cousin, you're young enough to do as you're told," he said crisply.

Coney recognized the note of authority, and allowed himself to be shepherded out of the parlor.

In the shadowy hall, where he had consulted with Philadelphia, Laurence turned to his reluctant companion.

"Now," he said, not wasting words, "do you want to help Grace?"

"Why else should I be here?"

"Then listen to me. She's been accused of witchcraft because she seems to know things relating to the Tabor family which she can't account for and didn't get from Joel Downes. My steward has convinced himself that she's made a bargain with the devil. This is plain foolishness, but it's not easy to deny without some rational explanation. The fact is, of course, that she grew up alongside the child who had in  truth  been  cared  for  by   Cicely  Fox.   There's   nothing strange about Grace knowing that rhyme; she heard it from you, and you heard it from Cicely, who was your mother's nurse. But if you refuse to let me say so, how can I clear Grace of that calumny?"

"I hadn't thought—I don't want her to suffer—you're not trying to trick me?" asked Coney with a return of suspicion.

"No, I promise you. Perhaps I should tell you that your grandfather tried very hard to prevent me becoming a painter. Since I managed to get the better of him, it would be churlish of me to stop you following your chosen craft. You shall be a stone-carver—provided you're a good one. I warn you, I've no patience with bad workmen."

Coney grinned and said that he intended to be a very good stone-carver. Having overcome his distrust of Laurence, he was prepared to produce plenty of memories of Cicely Fox, and her stories about his parents. He had brought them all into the Charity Hospital, his only treasures, the fragments of a happier world. It was no wonder that Grace, with nothing of her own to recall, had brooded over everything he told her until it seemed to be part of her actual experience.

"Didn't it strike you," asked Laurence curiously, "that the child Grace was impersonating had a history extremely like your own?"

"No, for I never paid much attention. I hated her telling all those lies for money, and I wanted no part in it. Besides," Coney pointed out, "they were looking for a girl. How could I ever have guessed it was me they wanted?"

When they went back into the parlor, Laurence was able to inform the company that he was satisfied with Coney's credentials.

"This is Frank's son."

"I must say I should never have recognized you," said Bess Iredale, observing him carefully.

"Madam?"

Laurence laughed. "Mrs. Iredale is the only one of us you have previously met, Cousin. She christened you on the day you were born—in fact, I suppose she must be your godmother."

"Oh." The boy stood awkwardly on one leg and mumbled something inaudible.

"I should like to make up for lost time by doing some service, if I can, to help you," said Bess.

"I don't want…" began Coney, but Laurence pressed his arm, and he subsided.

"I was wondering," pursued Bess, "what is to become of Grace? Yes, I know you hope to marry in due course, but you're young to be thinking of that, you have your way still to make, and where's she to live in the meantime?"

No one felt qualified to answer. Grace was not to go to prison nor to the Charity Hospital (two fates she seemed to fear about equally) but it would hardly do for her to return to Goldsmiths' Row with Mrs. Tabor. The old woman was not vindictive, and might forgive her; even so, it would not be at all the same, and to make Grace go back, discredited, to a place where she had recently been shown off as an heiress—that would be turning kindness into a punishment.

The girl glanced from Laurence to Bess, her eyes full of worldless entreaty, like a lost dog.

"How would you like to come to Bristol with me, Grace, and help me to care for my children? There are six of them, three boys and three girls, and they are getting too much of a handful for my nursemaid. I should be glad of your company too, for my husband is so often away at sea."

"I'd like to go with you, madam," said Grace hesitantly. "I'd be happy to live in a house where there are young children to care for. If Mr. Tabor will allow me."

"Well, Laurence?"

Skillfully seizing his opportunity, Laurence set about breaking down his new-found cousin's last scruples of resistance.

"What do you say, Francis? I think this is as much your concern as mine."

"I'd be very glad for her to remain with Mrs. Iredale," said Coney in a splendidly grave and judicious manner. "She will be safe there. Until I can provide for her myself."

26

Philadelphia was entrusted with
the
task of telling Mrs. Tabor that they had found her grandchild after all. Mrs. Tabor was apathetic and still half-drugged after a long night's sleep; she was not much interested in the news. If she had a strange grandson nearly sixteen years old, her only coherent feeling was that she did not want to see him.

This was in some ways a relief, otherwise Philadelphia would have been obliged
to
tell Coney's grandmother that he did not want to meet her.

"The case was different when I thought there was a girl," said the old woman after she had thought it over. "I wanted to find her. But I understand now that it was simply because I hoped she would remind me of Frank. So that I could enjoy the good times all over again, the years when we were happy, before she went away. I dare say that was wicked of me, grieving over the past—anyway, I've learnt my lesson. You can't expect a child to play the part of its mother. And I don't understand these young creatures, I'm too old and too tired. I wish them both very well—Grace as well as Francis—I'm sure Laurence will do all that's required, and make proper provision—and one day, perhaps, he can bring the boy to see me. But not now."