Mally : Signet Regency Romance (9781101568057) (2 page)

Chapter 2

Lucy drew the rose brocade chair before the fire and ushered Mally firmly into it. “Sit down there in the warm while I make you a nightcap.”

“If I drink anything more I shall have the head to end all heads in the morning.”

“Just warm milk then.”

Mally nodded, wriggling her feet from the velvet slippers. She stretched her toes toward the fire and stared at the slow, curling flames. Without Lucy's presence the room was so quiet, and beyond the drawn curtains she could still hear the seagulls. And the dog. But in the warm safety of her room the unreasonable fear could not reach her in the same way, and as she stared at the glow in the heart of the fire, it was of Chris that she thought.

Lucy returned with the glass of milk and stood watching her sadly. Lucy had looked after Mally since childhood, and there was nothing which the old nurse did not know. “How did it go, sweeting?”

“Terribly.”

Lucy's crisply starched apron crackled as she crouched beside the chair and took Mally's hand. “There now, don't fret about it.”

“I can't help it. Every time it happens. Every single time. It always comes back to Daniel.”

“Sir Christopher should be man enough to understand.”

Mally looked fondly at the nurse's old face framed by its mobcap and wispy strands of gray hair. “But he doesn't understand, Lucy, he thinks I'm—dwelling. And perhaps he's right, for it's two long years now. Two very long years.”

“I know, and it's autumn again.”

“That doesn't help. It's worse when the fires are lit again, and then when the chrysanthemums are brought in— It's the chrysanthemums more than anything.” She stared at the fire again. “They were by his bed the day he died.”

“But there will always be autumns, and always chrysanthemums, little one. You must go on, you cannot keep looking back at what you have lost.”

“I know, I am unfair to you all. To you. Even to poor old Digby. And most of all to Chris—he deserves more than me, Lucy.”

Lucy smiled and patted the gloved hand. “But it's you that he wants, Miss Mall.”

“Lucy, you loved your husband Joseph, didn't you? How long does it take to forget?”

“Forget? Lord above, you don't
forget!
Memories mellow, but they don't suddenly vanish like will-o'-the-wisp. Even now, eighteen years after he was taken from me, I— Well, you have your autumns, but for me it is the springtime. When the daffodils are there again. Joseph was the head gardener up at Castell Melyn when I first met him. Oh, it was a grand place then, with all the carriages, the fine folk, the lights and the music. You've not seen the old place like that, have you? To you it's always been gloomy and deserted, a place for children to avoid because the ghosts await them. But in the spring the daffodils must still be there, where my Joseph first planted them. I've never been back since he died, but in my mind's eye I can imagine them. Drift after drift of pale gold, and beyond that the castle itself with the sun on its yellow stone. Castell Melyn. Whatever knight in times gone by named it that named it well, for it is truly a yellow castle. An enchanted place for me, a frightening place for you.” Lucy smiled. “I've heard tell recently, mind, that someone's bought it and it's lived in again. Perhaps it will come into its own again, eh, Miss Mall?”

“I haven't been near the place since that time Daniel locked me in somewhere there and wouldn't let me out.”

“Aye, and a good thrashing he got from his father on account of it. That wasn't long before his parents were taken by the smallpox. His parents. Your uncle. And half the folk of Llanglyn. So Daniel came to live beneath the same roof as you, and that was the beginning of it, wasn't it?”

Mally nodded. “Maria got so jealous and furious because we wouldn't play with her. We'd go sneaking off, hoping that she hadn't seen us. But she usually found us in the end, and spoiled all our games by insisting on having everything her own way. Poor Maria.” Mally finished the milk. “Lucy—why is Mother here?”

“I don't know.” Lucy got to her feet.

“Didn't she say anything to you?”

“No.”

Mally glanced at the curtained windows. “She must have said something.”

“Only when I asked her if they'd caught the murderer. She looked fit to burst into tears and said that they hadn't. Then she went and locked herself in the Green Room.”

“I know, Digby told me.”

“She's very upset about it,” said Lucy heavily, “as I am myself. And as you are too, if I'm not mistaken.”

“Don't you miss anything?”

“Not where my lamb is concerned. I've seen you jump when a door banged, and glance over your shoulder where the shadows are darker. And it's only since the murder.”

“I know, and I'm disgusted with myself for giving in like this. Oh, I
wish
Mother had let us know she was coming, for she's managed to unsettle me all over again now.”

“Well, you know your mam, Miss Mall, she's a creature of impulse if ever I knew one.” Lucy smiled reassuringly. “My, your hair stayed in a treat tonight. I'll warrant Sir Christopher was the proudest man there.”

“It went very well until the usual subject cropped up on the way home. It was the naming of the house this time.”

“Well, sweeting, you
were
a little tactless there, weren't you?”

“I know. Lucy, do you like him?”

“Sir Christopher? But of course I do, I like him very much.” Lucy unpinned the intricate curls and dropped the pins into a porcelain dish. “But perhaps he's not for you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it seems to my old eyes that he wants a blushing bride who behaves like a maid in the midst of her first love. If that is what he wants, then he shouldn't be marrying the widow of his best friend, now should he?”

Mally looked at the emerald ring on her finger, turning it so that the flames caught it in flashes of deep green. “I love him.”

“I know you do, but do you love him enough and in the right way?”

Mally removed the ring and pulled off her white evening gloves. The ring felt cold when at last she replaced it. “I want to marry him, Lucy.”

“Then carry on as you now do, biting back each unwary word, concealing the truth of how you feel deep inside, and enduring his behavior when he senses you are not being honest with him.”

“You make it sound like a life sentence, not marriage.”

Lucy glanced down at her and said nothing, picking up the hairbrush and brushing the dark hair until it crackled.

When at last Mally was ready to climb into the warmed bed with its lavender-scented sheets, the dawn had turned from gray to silver outside. She lay back, watching Lucy draw the heavy velvet curtains around the bed.

“I wonder if someone
has
bought Castell Melyn? Would you go there again if they had? In the springtime?”

Lucy smiled fondly. “Perhaps. Who can say? Now then, you get some sleep. Good night, Miss Mall.”

“Good night.”

The last curtain shut out the light completely, and Mally lay in the darkness. Outside the seagulls had gone and the dog had ceased its noise, and the only sound was the slow rattle and clatter of wheels upon the cobbles as a tradesman's cart passed the house.

Chapter 3

It was the sun managing to pierce its way through a crack in the curtains which woke her at last the next morning. The clock of St. Blaise's was just striking and she lay there counting the chimes. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Eleven o'clock!

“Lucy?”

“I'm here, just warming your wrap. It's a grand morning, cold, but sunny and fine.”

“And Mother will no doubt have been up for hours!”

“No. She has only just unlocked herself from her cell and gone downstairs. She told me that she had journeyed here in two days from Llanglyn and that she put her exceedingly long sleep down to that.”

Mally smiled. “Not to mention the hidden bottle of something or other she carries around in that huge reticule! Purely medicinal, of course.”

“Miss Mall, perhaps I should warn you.”

Mally paused on the edge of the bed. “What?”

“Well, I don't think Mrs. Berrisford has come here just because of what happened to Mrs. Harmon. I think she's very worried about something else.”

“Why do you think that?”

“My room is above the Green Room, and I couldn't help— Well, I couldn't help hearing her last night. She was crying, Miss Mall, and I don't think worrying about Mrs. Harmon's death would cause that. Do you?”

“Maybe not.” Mally slipped her arms into the warmed wrap. “I'll go down directly then. Just brush my hair and tie it back. That's it.”

“What clothes should I set out for you afterwards?”

“The blue and white dimity, I think. Yes, Sir Christopher is taking me for a drive in Hyde Park this afternoon and the blue and white will look well. Could you have them prepare a hot bath for me in about an hour's time? Good and hot, scented with something flowery and at the very least up to my chin! That will set me up for the rest of the day, and I fancy that after my breakfast with Mother I shall need setting up again.”

***

The fresh bowls of chrysanthemums on the polished table were bright rust and gold in the sunlight streaming through the dining-room window, and their wistful, clean scent filled the air as Mally entered the room. She glanced at them immediately and then at the plump little figure in apple green silk by the windows.

Mrs. Berrisford's hands twisted and twisted the lace handkerchief she held and she stared out at the mass of Michaelmas daisies lining the sun-drenched wall of the garden. Some late roses bobbed here and there, but the Michaelmas daisies were in tumbling confusion everywhere this autumn, a blaze of purple and pink against the mellow brick.

Digby drew back Mally's chair and she met his glance, nodding at him. “Leave us, I think, Digby, and thank you.”

He bowed and Mrs. Berrisford turned at last as the doors closed behind him. “Ah, Marigold.”

Mally smiled, but mentally gritted her teeth, for her name was the one thing in the whole world she hated. “How good it is to see you, Mother.” She crossed the remaining space and hugged her mother's dumpy figure.

“I must ask you, Marigold, for I cannot contain myself a moment longer. Have you seen Maria?”

“Maria?
No.”

“Oh, dear, I hoped and hoped— I wrote those letters, praying that by some phrase you would hint you had seen her.” Her eyes filled with tears and she shook from head to toe.

So that was behind the letters
— “Come and sit down, Mother,” said Mally gently, leading the quivering woman toward the fire and sitting her firmly in the large armchair. “Now then, what's all this about?”

“W-well, I haven't seen her for three weeks or more.” Mrs. Berrisford pushed her henna-rinsed wig more firmly beneath her lace mobcap. “I don't know why she should do this to me, especially at a time like this when we don't know if we're to be murdered in our beds!”

“What happened before she left?”

“Nothing.” But Mally noticed how her mother avoided her eyes.

“Mother, has she gone to the Clevelys?”

“I don't know. Oh, Marigold, do be sensible, how can I go there and ask that old dragon if my daughter happens to have gone to stay there? She'd have the engagement to her precious Thomas broken off quicker than a wink! She doesn't approve of Maria anyway, the world and his wife knows that, and an inquiry like that would only convince her further that Maria is unsuitable. With a capital U.”

“Well, is the admirable Thomas in residence at the moment?”

“No, he's at sea—in more ways than one!”

Mally smiled in spite of her mother's worried face. “But why did you think she'd come here?”

Again there was that refusal to meet her daughter's eyes. “Because—she took the royal mail at Hereford. She bought a ticket for London. I thought—hoped—that she had come to you. We, well, you see, we had had some terrible disagreements.”

“About Thomas Clevely?”

“Good heavens, no! What could you find to talk about in
him!
He'll make a wealthy husband. End of topic. No, no, it was about—someone else.”

“Another man?”

Mrs. Berrisford shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Yes, but it's not quite that simple. There
was
another man, a totally disreputable American by the name of Andrew York. A ruffian and a scoundrel. Just like his master.”

Mally blinked. “Who is or was this Andrew York? I mean, where does he live?”

“He lived at Castell Melyn. He came with
that man
.”

“What man? Oh, Mother, you are leaving me floundering around in all these dark utterances and I haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about. Now then, Maria was seeing this Andrew York from Castell Melyn, is that right?”

“Yes. Foolish chit. She was jeopardizing a perfectly good match and I told her so. In fact I forbade her to see Mr. York again. Oh, I was most forcible, I may tell you.” Mrs. Berrisford nodded firmly.

“And?”

“And she continued to see him. Behind my back. It came to a head on the night poor dear Agatha was murdered. I could not find Maria anywhere. I was frantic because it was such a stormy night. The old oak up at the crossroads was brought down. Oh,
such
a gale. Then Maria came home. It was so late and I was nearly fainting with the worry of it all. She was so pale, like death itself, and she wouldn't tell me anything, just shut herself in her room. The next morning, of course, the news was everywhere about the murder. I thought—well, because she was so strange, I thought perhaps she had seen something in the town. I know that she had gone to Llanglyn to meet the American. I asked her, but she just burst into tears. Pattie and I could do nothing with her. Then Dr. Towers came to the house. He'd been up at Castell Melyn attending that Jamaican everyone
knows
now did the murder but who's being protected by the doctor's insistence that he was too ill to have left his bed!”

“Mother, you're losing me again. What happened when Dr. Towers came to the house?”

“He asked to see Maria and was closeted with her in the library for some time. Well, whatever it was he had to say, it brought a change in her. She seemed lighter when he had gone, but she was still strange and withdrawn and would say nothing to me. Even Pattie tried—now you know Pattie's kept house for us for years and years and Maria always confided in her, but no, not this time.” Mrs. Berrisford drew a long, shaking breath. “Next morning she had gone. She packed a small handcase of belongings and just left the house.”

“To go to this Andrew York?”

“If she did, then her journey was in vain, for Mr. York was dead. The day Maria left, his body was found up near the castle. A riding mishap, it seems. Dr. Towers told me he was found with his foot still caught in the stirrup. He'd been dragged some way, poor man. Anyway, he's buried at St. Crispin's now, God rest his soul. And there's still no sign of Maria. If you ask me, that Jamaican murdered Agatha
and
Mr. York!”

“Mother!”

“Well, Marigold, he
was
in Llanglyn that night. He was seen. And nothing that old fool Towers says can alter that.”

“Who saw him?”

“Jasper Turney and his brother. And Brew Darril.”

“Three of the biggest rogues I've ever clapped eyes on! Shame on you for putting their word above the doctor's.”

“Hereford born and bred, the three of them—so what can you expect but that they're rogues.” Mrs. Berrisford sniffed. “Anyway, Marigold, it isn't only their word. Pattie saw the Jamaican as well, in the lane by our house. So, you see, the doctor is fibbing—the Jamaican was
not
too ill to move.”

Mally sighed. “What was Andrew York like?”

Her mother shrugged. “Good-looking, I suppose. He had a sort of lost look, almost like a little boy, if that doesn't sound too ridiculous. He perfectly
devastated
Maria.”

What had happened in Llanglyn that night? Mally stood by the window. And why had Maria disappeared? She cannot have gone with Andrew York. Nor can she have gone to the boring Thomas Clevely. But she had stopped to pack a handcase and had taken a ticket for London.

“Mother, I must ask this. What sort of an association did Maria have with Andrew York?”

“Marigold!”

“Well, it must be asked, mustn't it?”

“Maria was not
enceinte
!”

“Can you know that for certain?”

Mrs. Berrisford lowered her eyes sadly. “I cannot,” she whispered.

“So, it
is
possible?”

“Anything is possible, Marigold. And—”

“Yes?”

“And she
was
besotted with him. She loved him most foolishly, and—yes, perhaps sufficiently to throw caution to the winds. Oh, dear, if only she would just return, I would forgive her anything just to know that she is safe and well.”

“Did you find out if she actually got on the mail?”

“Yes. She did.”

Mally smiled. “Then she must be all right if she got as far as Hereford and the mail coach. She is up here somewhere, presumably. But why did she not come to me?” Mally stood, and going to the table, poured two cups of coffee from the silver pot. The toast was cold now as she scraped some butter over it and then dipped the spoon into the cook's excellent lime marmalade. “Come and eat something, Mother, and we shall think of what we can do next. Have a cup of this good Turkish coffee to begin with.”

“Turkish?
Oh, my dear, I don't think—”

“Nonsense, you just taste it before you grizzle. Now then, do you know what Maria was wearing when she left?”

“Oh, dear, the man at the inn in Hereford
did
say. It was that little spencer, you know the one I mean, trimmed with white fur. A sort of donkey-brown velvet, I think you would describe it. And a cream-colored gown beneath. A straw bonnet.”

“Donkey brown and cream. Not exactly likely to remain in anyone's memory, is it?” Mally nibbled the toast, staring out at the swaying Michaelmas daisies. “Mother, I think we shall have to send for Mr. Paulington.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Paulington.” Mally thought distastefully of the sly little man with the foxy face and dreadful tweed coat. “He—undertakes to make investigations for people, if you know what I mean.”

“Indeed I do not! What sort of investigations?”

“Well, one of Daniel's friends thought his wife was being unfaithful to him and he came to Daniel with his suspicions. Daniel knew of this Mr. Paulington and gave his friend his address. And sure enough, within a week or so of having been hired, Mr. Paulington produced evidence of the wife's infidelities, the times, the places, and the names of the various gentlemen concerned.”

“Good heavens, and
you
were present at such a conversation?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, that was not admirable of dear late Daniel, not admirable at all. It was lax of him to allow you to remain in the room.”

“Oh, Mother.”

“And you think Mr. Paulington may be able to help us find Maria?”

“He can but try. And don't worry, if Maria took herself to London, then she cannot be another victim of this murderer Llanglyn seems to be harboring at the moment. I will send Digby this very day to Mr. Paulington's address.”

Mally buttered another piece of toast. She had spoken a little more confidently than she felt about finding Maria. There were countless mails arriving at the Swan with Two Necks each day and countless passengers pouring in and out of each one. Would even the redoubtable Mr. Paulington be able to discover a forgotten memory at the back of someone's mind?