Love and Money (6 page)

Looking back to the fray, Thomas was surprised to see that a third figure was now standing by the overturned coach. It was a woman. Ah! it was she who had screamed, remembered Thomas. Her hair, uncovered and disordered, doubtless by her efforts to climb from the coach, looked very fair in the moonlight, and rings gleamed on the hands with which she held her cloak together. She was following the sword-play intently, though making no move to help Sir Richard's assailant. In case she should do so, Thomas took Bess nearer. The sandy-haired fellow was now gasping and retreating, and Sir Richard was clearly about to disarm him, when the lady gave a sudden shrill scream. Both the fighters were startled. The sandy-haired man stumbled, his sword flew from his hand; his adversary's forward lunge, shaken slightly from its aim, took him entirely defenceless, and Sir Richard's point passed through his body. The man fell,
sprawling on his back in the dust, and did not rise. Sir Richard exclaimed and bent over him. “Is he dead?” asked the lady.

Even in this moment of alarm and horror Thomas could not but note that there seemed a certain pleasurable anticipation in her enquiry. Sir Richard did not answer, but drew his blade carefully from the man's body, wiped it and sheathed it. Then seizing the leather bag from the road he sprang back into the shadows, mounted his horse and rode off. Thomas, dumbfounded, nevertheless turned Bess and followed him.

“That fellow is like to die, uncle Richard,” he said coldly when they had galloped half a mile.

“I know it. See—turn down this lane and turn to the left again and then again—'twill come out on this same road below the coach. Succour those three and set them on their road and bring them with thee to Bellomont.”

“To Bellomont?” exclaimed Thomas.

“Aye, to Bellomont. Doth not thine uncle live at Bellomont, to whose house thou, Tom, a very worthy young gentleman, art riding, belated by thy mare's cast shoe? Is Sir Richard Bellomont not a colonel of the trained bands, a Justice of the Peace? Who could give better entertainment to travellers foully assaulted by highway robbers? Frankly, Thomas,” concluded Sir Richard in a different tone: “I do not wish the man to die.”

“It is dangerous to bring them to Bellomont, uncle,” faltered Thomas.

“Will you do my bidding or will you not, Thomas Bellomont?” demanded Sir Richard coldly.

“I will do it,” sighed Thomas, turning Bess into the lane.

“That will be best, Thomas,” said Sir Richard. “And heark'ee, Tom!”

“Sir?”

“Take off thy vizard, lad; it is safest in my pocket.”

It was dawn before the travellers were safely housed at Bellomont.

Thomas had found the task of conveying them to his uncle's house extremely disagreeable. The coachman was an honest fellow enough, but such small wit as he owned had been knocked out of him for the time by his fall on the road, and between his stupidity and the fears of the animals, the task of harnessing the horses to the coach again was not an easy one. The wounded man, Captain Miles Brownwood as it appeared, looked most wretchedly ill; stretched out on cushions in the coach, he lay still and silent, his only sign of life the blood which oozed from his wound. His wife on the contrary talked incessantly, even leaning out of the window to confide to Thomas, who rode beside the coach, the most private matters of her married life.

She told him first of all about the gold which her husband was escorting to Leeds, and the couple of guards who had been left behind that evening at an inn on the road—how and why, Thomas did not enquire too closely, for he could not help suspecting that Sir Richard had planned their absence; a messenger from Bellomont on a good horse could have reached the inn she named after Sir John Resmond's visit that afternoon. But this was a mere opening to the lady's discourse; she went on to tell Thomas how she had met Captain Brownwood, how she had married him for pity because he seemed like to run mad for love if she declined, what a wretched life she had of it with him, how he swore, diced, drank, ran after other women and once even offered to beat her, but she could not leave him because of his touching love for her. Some of this account seemed incompatible with the rest, thought Thomas in disgust, nor did he like the manner in which Mistress Rosamond Brownwood— if indeed she was truly wife to Brownwood, which he took leave to doubt—ogled him with her eyes and continually touched the jewels at her breast so as to draw his eyes there. Yet her eyes, light-blue in colour, were large and well-fringed, her bosom full and well-shaped. The hand which lay on the window-ledge was white and smooth (though Thomas doubted the value of the ruby which decked it) and the fair hair was wonderfully fine and silky. But Thomas
could not forget how her unguarded exclamation—if it were unguarded—had thrown her husband on Sir Richard's sword, nor forgive her present careless disregard of poor Brownwood's parlous condition. Moreover, Thomas presently perceived that amongst Mistress Rosamond's chatter lurked shrewd questions; he had told her much of Sir Richard before he discovered whither she was tending. When he saw it he was angry, and answered her next question coldly:

“Sir Richard himself will doubtless be glad to tell you all you wish to know.”

The light eyes darkened, the rosebud mouth tightened, with malice, and Thomas saw that he had made an enemy.

On their arrival at Bellomont Sir Richard, apparently roused from sleep, made a most courtly host. He showed consideration for Mistress Brownwood, concern for the captain; the finest apartments in the house were allotted to the lady, and a serving-man sent riding to Annotsfield for a surgeon for her husband. Sir Richard himself, with the aid of the trusted servant Simon whom Thomas had seen holding Rufus earlier that night, carried Captain Brownwood up to bed, stripped him and dressed his wound. His face when he left the wounded man was sober.

“Will he recover, Sir Richard?” wept Mistress Brownwood. “Oh, say he will recover!”

For some reason not clear to Thomas she had thrown herself on the ground at his uncle's feet; to his disgust Sir Richard, assisting her to rise, seemed to find the touch of her smooth white arm, the excellent view which her posture afforded him of her well-rounded breasts, rather agreeable than otherwise.

“Your husband is in danger, madam, it is useless to deny it,” he replied gravely. “But rest assured that everything possible will be done for him.”

Mistress Brownwood, in a flood of tears, leaned heavily on Sir Richard's arm and contrived to bury her head on his shoulder. Sir Richard's hand strayed lightly over her golden tresses.

“Weep not, my dear,” said he.

“Oh, Sir Richard!” sobbed Mistress Brownwood.

Notwithstanding all this solicitude and the ministrations of the surgeon, Captain Brownwood died the following evening.

“A plague on it, Tom!” said Sir Richard to his nephew, pacing the room restlessly when the servant bringing this news had left them: “I had no thought of killing the man. He stumbled at his wife's call. If only she had not cried out, poor woman, she had not now been left a widow.”

“Exactly so,” said Thomas drily.

“I must give her something in compensation,” continued Sir Richard.

“You will not have benefited much from the robbery, when all is done,” said Thomas as before.

“Take not that tone with me, Thomas,” said Sir Richard sharply.

“Uncle Richard,” said Thomas, gazing at him very earnestly: “Though I shall anger you, I must beseech you to beware of this woman. I have not been to London or seen the court, like you, but yet I know an honest woman when I see one.”

“Dost thou indeed?” said Sir Richard, laughing somewhat bitterly: “If so thou'rt clearer-sighted than most men, nephew.”

“Mistress Joanna is as honest as the day.”

“Not honest now, I fear,” said Sir Richard lightly.

“She cares for your good more than for her own.”

“Well, well,” said Sir Richard with impatience.

“But Mistress Brownwood would sell her grandmother for a couple of gold pieces.”

“Thou mayst be right, Tom,” said Sir Richard with a smile. “But Joanna, though a good little girl enough, is a simple weaver's daughter and no beauty, while Mistress Rosamond—''

He laughed and kissed his fingers with a flourish.

“I have no doubt she knows all the tricks of her trade,” said Thomas sourly.

“Well, it is true, I am somewhat too susceptible to women, Tom,” said his uncle, laughing. “The beams from their bright eyes melt my heart, and when they weep, my resolution is washed away by their tears. Heark'ee—thou thyself shalt find out for me what present moneys Mistress Brownwood needs. Shalt ask her in a few days' time, when the first violence of her grief has died down. Do this for me, Tom.”

“Very well, uncle,” said Thomas, sighing.

“To be blunt, madam,” said Thomas to Mistress Brownwood: “You cannot remain here any longer.”

Captain Brownwood had been dead and buried five days, but his widow showed no signs of removing from Bellomont. In a slashed gown of cream satin, rather dirty (but her skin showed all the whiter for that), she sat listening to Thomas with a frown on her forehead, tapping the finger which bore the false ruby angrily on the arm of Sir Richard's handsomest chair.

“Why not?” said she sharply.

“Mistress Joanna,”— began Thomas, rather at a loss. “That strumpet!” said Rosamond.

Thomas was angered and for a moment could not command himself to speak.

“Listen to me, Master Thomas Bellomont,” began Mistress Brownwood in a clear cold tone: “If you think I do not know it was you and your uncle who robbed the trained bands of their pay money, you are wrong. Do you suppose your uncle could be concealed behind a vizard? For yourself, a plain country lad without much of note about you, it might be possible; but as to Sir Richard, with his handsome person and his grace of movement and his commanding voice, I should know him in any disguise. Besides, I sank my teeth in the robber's wrist as he plucked out the bag of gold, and the marks are still to be seen on your uncle's hand.”

Thomas was silent, appalled.

“Tell me; why did Sir Richard take only one of the bags?
There were three in the box,” continued the woman curiously. “Nay, tell me, Thomas! Do not be afraid. I shall keep your secret—as long as I am here.”

At this moment Sir Richard entered the room.

“Uncle Richard,” said Thomas steadily, turning to him: “Mistress Brownwood here believes you to have been the robber of the coach. She will be silent as to this belief only so long as she is allowed to remain at Bellomont.”

Sir Richard frowned.

“Why did you bring the boy into this matter, Rosamond?” he said. “Have we not settled it between us?”

Rosamond rose and flung herself into his arms. “He vexed me so, talking of my quitting Bellomont!” she cried. “He does not know how much I love you, Richard—I could not bear to leave you now.”

Thomas perceived very clearly whither his uncle's over-susceptibility to women had led him.

“Then I will leave Bellomont,” he said in a cold even tone.

He exchanged a glance with his uncle above the florid yellow curls which were spread over Sir Richard's chest.

“Aye—it will be best, Tom,” said Sir Richard, laughing a little. “But do not be troubled, lad—thine inheritance is safe. There will be no marriages.”

Thomas lowered his eyes so that his uncle should not read the mingled shame and contempt in them, and left the house.

For the next few years Thomas saw nothing of his uncle or of Bellomont, but lived very soberly on his small estate at Mesburgh.

So soberly indeed did he live that his widowed mother's exhortations quite changed their tune. Whereas before his visit to Bellomont she had been wont to warn him against gaming, drinking and running after women, now that he showed no inclination towards these matters she scolded him for being old before his time, lacking in a young man's spirit and taking no interest in girls. Indeed she continually
urged him towards marriage, and was active in searching out suitable young cousins, though how she would like it if he really made a young wife mistress of the house, Thomas sometimes wondered rather grimly. She was eager to advise her son in a worldly fashion, telling him that he could not expect a great marriage in his present condition, but that so-and-so, some daughter like herself of a younger son, was of good birth and though not an heiress would have quite a useful jointure. To these urgings Thomas returned a temporising answer; would it not be better, he said with an air of shrewdness, to wait a little while? To see what befell his uncle? His mother's lined, anxious face cleared at once; she perfectly understood that Thomas Bellomont of Bellomont Hall, owner of the manors of Whitland, South Crosley, Melton, Leptham and Annotsfield, would be able to make a much greater marriage than simple Tom Bellomont of little Mesburgh, whose revenues were not in very good condition in any case owing to the errors of her husband—a well-meaning but gloomy, obstinate, ill-advised and ailing man with whom she had had a hard life; the Lord be praised that Tom was so much kinder and warmer. Such an excellent son was dear Tom!

Indeed this was true; since Tom's visit to Bellomont he had become a man, no longer feared his mother and was therefore able to treat her small foibles with indulgent kindness. His mother was an honest woman, thought Thomas, a faithful wife, a loving mother, the careful mistress of a decent if narrow household. After his visit to Bellomont he set much stock on these qualities and treated his mother with the respect due to their possessor.

Four years after his visit to Bellomont, exactly on his twenty-first birthday, Thomas was summoned into his little courtyard by his mother's toothless old maid Martha, who had been his nurse. She was cackling and beaming with glee, and well she might be, thought Thomas when he came to the door, for there stood his uncle's serving-man Simon, holding by the bridle a really magnificent roan mare, most handsomely caparisoned, a birthday gift from Sir Richard.
Thomas's joy was very keen; for once he forgot the sober demeanour he affected; he sprang on the mare and rode her round the paddock, dismounted, patted her neck and examined her every point, discussing each very seriously with Simon. He had made himself into a much better rider during the last four years, and was not averse to letting Simon see this. Busy with himself and the mare, it was not till she was safely in the modest stable, taking a feed of oats, that he gave Simon more than a passing look. He was perplexed and made uneasy by what he saw. The old man, four years ago so spruce and capable, had now a bent and shabby look. His livery was creased, his collar dirty; his nose red, his grey hair untidy; his air discouraged. He saw Thomas's look of surprise and wagged his head in an embarrassed fashion.