Love's Tangle (10 page)

“Tilly? Who the...Who is Tilly?”

“The kitchen maid who shares my room.”

He looked surprised at the information, as well he might. His world and hers were poles apart and she wondered if he had any idea how his servants lived.

“Now you
are
here, let’s get on with it.”

He had already unlocked the massive oak door which faced them, its surface patterned with cruel iron spikes. It was a door which clearly said Keep Out, but not to the Duke of Allingham. He pointed to its huge, rusty lock. “The key took an age to locate, so this better be worth the effort.”

The cellar appeared to Elinor to be larger than most people’s dwellings and a great deal dirtier. Household items discarded over centuries marched along each wall. At intervals stacks of files and loose documents lurched in drunken columns, with one or two having given up all hope of ever staying upright and scattering themselves profligately across the floor. Her eyes glanced from one pile to another and her spirits sank.

“Where do you wish to start, Miss Milford?”

There was the slightest trace of glee in his voice. He was enjoying her discomfiture, hoping no doubt she would turn tail and give up. She was not going to.

As her eyes gradually adjusted to the dim light, detail began to emerge and even in the gloomy haze she could plainly see that the rats had enjoyed their sojourn. Virtually every stack of documents had been set upon by sharp little teeth and now much of what had doubtless been priceless history was nothing more than dust. She bent down to peer at the column of papers nearest her. Unusually it had been left almost whole by the rats and riffling its surface she found a medley of tailor’s bills, invoices from gun merchants, hastily jotted notes and a stack of letters, some torn into scraps. She looked more closely and part of a faded signature caught her eye.

“This is where we’ll start,” she said coolly.

He shrugged his shoulders and squatted down on the floor and in a few moments she had joined him. She allowed herself a quiet smile. If the cellar had a window, protocol would be vanishing through it right now. The first documents they turned over were of relatively recent date and could be quickly discarded. But they gave her hope, for Charles’ personal papers would appear to have been moved by Joffey
en masse
. There must be a chance they would uncover documents from that crucial time when her mother—and she felt certain of this—had fled the district for Bath.

They moved on through bundle after bundle of papers, the years gradually passing by their blurred vision. As the dates grew older, they began to move more cautiously. It was a slow process. Year might follow year but the documents were a confused mix of letters, memos, notes, bills, even doodles, and each sheet had to be carefully perused. Somewhere in the house a clock struck two. She was bemused at hearing its chimes. Could it really be two whole hours that she had been kneeling here? Her dress was grimy and her eyes red with soreness.

“This is ridiculous,” Gabriel’s voice echoed off the walls. “I’m a peer of the realm. I command half the county and most of its population. And here I am, filthy and tired, looking for I don’t know what. You’re a witch, Nell Milford.”

She looked astonished. “Yes, a witch. To entice me down to this hell hole for no good reason.”

He heaved a sigh which seemed to come from the bottom of his now sadly scuffed hessians. “There’s just one more batch…” and he flicked through the remaining huddle of papers that were still intact, “…they appear to start around 1795—but if we find nothing, the matter is closed. You will never mention it again. Is that understood?”

She nodded in agreement but had already begun to sift through the papers. Two thirds of the way down this last bundle, she struck what she thought was gold. It was a letter from a John Fortescue of Warwick Court, the City of London. Its bold, black heading made clear that John Fortescue was an enquiry agent. The letter was brief and to the point. After the customary salutation and several pious wishes for the then marquis’s good health, it concluded:

I have searched the entire county of Sussex, so too the adjoining counties, and though I have expended the greatest of diligence, I regret that I have been unable to trace the person your lordship has been most anxious to find.

Who had he been looking for? She caught her breath—surely that had to be her mother. The young Charles Claremont had been looking for Grainne but had been unable to find her. The agent had not searched widely enough. One more county and he might have discovered his quarry in Bath.

“Look,” she said, her hand trembling as she held the letter out to the duke. The candlelight etched deep lines on his face and his response was equally uncompromising. “This tells us nothing.”

“But it does, surely it does. Your uncle was looking for his lover but failed to find her.”

“You have a lively imagination. He could have been looking for anyone.”

“But who else would he wish to find so urgently? And why would he employ an enquiry agent from London? Choosing such a man indicates the search was very important and one that had to be conducted in the greatest of secrecy.”

“Even if that were true, the letter itself proves nothing,” he said flatly. “I’m sorry, Nell, but as evidence it is as tenuous as the locket.”

She bowed her head. He was right, of course. She had stopped thinking sensibly; she was tired, so tired she could hardly keep herself upright. Her eyelids drooped, her body slackened and she’d almost toppled to the floor when she felt strong, steady arms around her. It felt good, safe almost. She must be mad. She was in the most dangerous of places and with a most dangerous man. His face was very close and she could feel the warmth of his skin next to hers. She had only to stretch out her hand and she could run her fingers down the strong cheekbones until she reached a mouth which was full and warm and inviting. What was she thinking? She moved rapidly back from him and in doing so, caught the slightest glimpse of a knowing smile.

But when he spoke, his voice gave nothing away. “You are weary and you must work tomorrow. Go to bed. I will check what documents are left and if, as I suspect, I find nothing, you must accept you have been mistaken.”

She began to get to her feet and in her fatigue knocked against a stash of old hunting rifles that had been propped against the cellar wall. They fell to the floor with a metallic clang. She stood immobile waiting for the reverberations to cease, terrified the noise was loud enough to bring others to the scene. If so, how could she ever explain this night time rendezvous? No one would believe such a far-fetched story as she had to tell. But nothing stirred above and she slowly allowed her breath to escape. The guns had dislodged an old hunting bag, dusty brown leather but of evident good quality with tooled flaps and solid brass buckles and clasp.

“These weapons should have been got rid of years ago,” Gabriel complained. “By now they must be positively unsafe.”

“Whose were they?” She was asking out of courtesy, too dispirited really to wish to know.

“They belonged to Charles. Hunting was a passion with him.”

“And the bag?”

“His too. This stuff must have been here for years.”

“From when he was a young man?”

“Probably. The guns are very old fashioned. He would have replaced them with something a good deal smarter. He never spared money on hunting equipment.”

She picked up the bag and several old shotgun shells fell to the floor. “He doesn’t seem to have been very careful. Look at this ammunition he’s left lying around.”

“It is almost certainly corrupted.” Gabriel had risen to his feet and was gathering together the scattered shotguns.

“This one certainly is.” She had picked up a battered shell and shook it. A grey cloud of ash poured forth, interspersed with slivers of white which looked almost like paper. She looked again. It was paper! These were fragments of burnt paper! She picked up another of the spent shells and shook it fiercely. The same result.

“These empty cartridges—someone has attempted to destroy papers and then hide the evidence inside,” she said excitedly.

“Not just attempted. They pretty much succeeded.” Gabriel’s foot traced a swirl in the fallen ash.

“It must have been Charles.”

“And what if it were? What possible use can a heap of ash be?”

“I don’t know,” she said a trifle mournfully, “except to show he had something to hide and was paranoid about secrecy. Otherwise he would have burnt the papers in a grate and left the ashes there.”

She picked up the last shell. A larger sliver of white appeared at its edge and intrigued, she picked at it with her fingernail. Slowly she maneuvered her find from inside the shell case and then unwound the spiral of paper that emerged. It was the smallest fragment of a page, its edges a curled brown, but some of the ink marks had survived and were just about decipherable.

She grabbed what was left of both candles and peered at the writing which scrawled itself untidily across the page. Her hands were shaking.

“Look!”

“I’d like to,” he said acidly. “What exactly am I looking at?”

“There are a few words only, but is that your uncle’s writing?” She handed him the fragment and willed him to agree.

“It’s his writing all right.”

“We have found something,” she almost shrieked.

“I know we are fifteen feet below the rest of the household but keep your voice down. I cannot afford for my staff to discover me in such compromising circumstances. Think what it would do to my reputation!”

The pleasantry went over her head. “It has come from a journal,” she said eagerly, “a very personal journal, I’m sure. He must have destroyed the rest.” They glanced at the ash beneath their feet.

“I think I can see why.” Gabriel’s face was unusually forbidding. “The first few words are clear enough.
G
…
with child
…then there’s
what have we
and the word after that looks like
done
. There’s a …
must
and a
Louisa
. The last line is badly burnt but I’m sure it says… yes, it says,
no hope
.”

Elinor listened to the words and crumpled. The shock had rendered her limbs useless. She had imagined the duke and her mother lovers, imagined a scandal and perhaps a hasty departure, even that her father had turned his face from his wife, but not this. “She was carrying your uncle’s child!”

Gabriel looked stunned. “He was such a martinet of a man!” he blurted out. “It is almost impossible to believe—your mother with child, and by him.” He walked up and down almost in a trance. Then he burst out, “And you were the child. You had to be.” He fingered again the fragment of burnt paper. “There’s no date here but it has to be you. Your mother had no other child and neither did he.”

She looked at him dazedly. “I am his daughter?” There were long moments of silence. “But what of my own father?” She paused. “Or the man I thought to be my father.”

“What indeed. It would seem he never existed. You have no name, no direction, nothing that suggests he was anything more than an idea. And there is no one on the estate who could tell us for certain—even Jarvis came here a few years after my uncle’s marriage—but I would bet that your mother never married, that there was no husband. No wonder she kept silent!”

Elinor’s face was a study of sadness. “Why could your uncle not have married her?”

“Isn’t it obvious? The family would never have accepted such an alliance.”

“Because my mother was a social inferior? She came from a noble family in Ireland, or so I’ve been told.”

“An aristocrat earning her living as a painter?”

“She fled her home at a young age and used what skill she had to keep a roof over her head.”

“That scandal alone would have ensured my grandfather would never have countenanced the match—he was still alive at the time—particularly when his younger son had muddied the family waters by eloping.”

“Your parents eloped?”

“They did and paid the price for the rest of their short lives. But in any case I believe Charles was betrothed to the unlovely Louisa when barely out of his teens. My grandfather would never have allowed him to break the contract.”

For a minute she was lost in thought. “I see…that is what Charles meant. The
must
and
Louisa
. He was confiding to his diary that he had to marry Louisa but he loved my mother.” She scrambled to her feet. “There doesn’t seem to have been much genuine love in your family.”

“There wasn’t,” he said shortly. “So where does all this leave us? Minus a dairymaid at Allingham, I would hazard.”

She looked tired and confused and his voice softened. “You will hardly wish to continue working in the dairy after the revelations of this night.”

“No, I suppose not. I haven’t thought.” She was stammering a little. “I will leave, of course, but only when it’s convenient. I am happy to remain until Mr. Jarvis has secured a replacement for me.”

“And what does that prim little speech mean?” He had taken up a familiar pose, leaning negligently against the cellar wall.

“It means that
when
I leave hardly matters. It’s what I’ve discovered that is important. My journey has ended in ways I could never have imagined.”

“And how did you think your journey would end?” He sounded intrigued.

“I am not telling you.” Elinor felt very stupid.

“But you must. I need to know how much we have fallen short of your dream.”

She swallowed hard. “I believed my mother was sending me to a man who had once befriended her and that perhaps he was elderly or a recluse or both, since as far as I knew they had not communicated for years.”

“An elderly recluse?” He hooted with laughter until she shushed him urgently, but he was not going to let the topic go. “Tell me, why ever would you wish to visit such a one?”

“I didn’t wish it. My mother made me promise. When she died, I lost the small income that afforded us food and shelter. She could see that this would happen and feared for my future. I think she hoped that Allingham would offer me a new security. I came because I had no choice. I hoped that I might be of use, that an elderly man might be glad of young company. Even, perhaps, that I could make my home here.”