The House at Bell Orchard (12 page)

“I spoke of his intention, madam, not of his hope,” the stranger replied grimly. “There are ways by which he could compel you, and I believe he would not hesitate to use them. You should endeavour to escape from this place without delay.”

“I had already come to that conclusion, sir, though not for the reason you suggest,” she replied, and told him of the letter she had written to Mrs. Brownhill. To her surprise the information did not entirely satisfy him.

“Letters can go astray, and in any event, Richmond is a long way off. Is there no one closer at hand whom you can trust?”

Twenty-four hours ago she would have assented at once, but now Piers had turned against her. Yet, however she had offended, surely he would not turn her away once he had heard her story?

“There is Lady Wychwood, at Wychwood Chase,” she said hesitantly. “I have some acquaintance with her, and her son is a Justice of the Peace.”

“Then go to her, my dear young lady, go to her immediately,” he said earnestly, laying a hand on her arm. “Ask her to give you shelter and protection until you can communicate with your friends at Richmond. If you do not, you may find yourself compelled to marry one who is guilty of your father’s murder.”

Charmian regarded him dubiously. “I do not doubt your sincerity, sir, but could you not be mistaken? It is difficult to picture Miles Fenshawe committing either of the crimes of which you deem him capable.”

“Think you so?” the other replied grimly. “Well, no doubt he has deceived many with his foolish mannerisms, but to my mind, of the two brothers he is by far the more dangerous.”

This was hard to accept, though Charmian was prepared to admit that the speaker was probably better qualified to judge than she was, but she felt certain that Colonel Fenshawe himself was capable of any ruthlessness, and that the stranger’s advice to flee from Bell Orchard was sound.

“I will go to Lady Wychwood,” she said abruptly. “Whatever the truth of my father’s death—and I fear that will never be discovered now—it is certain that these people robbed him of his fortune, and no doubt they have a similar design upon mine. I will not spend another night beneath their roof!”

He nodded his approval, but said warningly: “Do not let them suspect your purpose, or they will seek to prevent you. Can you find some excuse to leave the house?”

“Yes, for I often ride to the Chase to visit Miss Wychwood, and it will occasion no remark if I do so again. But what of you, sir? Your danger is more pressing than mine.”

“Oh, I will find somewhere to lie hidden until dark, and then slip away.” He rose to his feet, and bowed with a grace which belied his shabby appearance. “Good-bye, Miss Tarrant! His Majesty shall hear of your father’s sacrifice.”

“Good-bye to you, sir, and my thanks for your warning,” she replied quietly. “Rest assured that none of your enemies will receive any aid from me.”

He bowed again, and then turned away to the steep slope behind the grotto and clambered up it to disappear from her sight among the trees. Charmian stayed where she was, trying to accustom her mind to all that the stranger had told her and knowing that her presentiment of danger had been no idle fancy. Knowing, too, that she would find safety at Wychwood Chase. Whatever the reason for Piers’ sudden coldness, it was not in his nature to deny help to any who needed it.

Suddenly, high up on the slope above her, someone whistled shrilly, a clear, compelling call, thrice repeated, that brought her to her feet in sudden, indefinable alarm. A moment later there was a scrambling sound among the trees and undergrowth, a shower of loose earth pattered down, and then the man with red hair half-leapt, half-fell down the last few yards of the slope, to land in an ungainly heap beside the spring. Something flew from his hand and splashed into the pool.

“Miles Fenshawe!” he gasped as Charmian rushed to his aid. “He saw me, and I dared not risk a shot for fear of bringing others upon us!” He tried to rise, but collapsed again with a gasp of pain. “Damnation! I cannot set my foot to the ground! Where is my pistol?”

Silently Charmian pointed to the spring. At the bottom of the pool, plainly visible through the still rippled water, the weapon lay lost and useless. He blenched, but the next instant was looking again at her as she knelt beside him, and his hand gripped her arm with painful urgency.

“Quick! Into the bushes yonder and make no sound! If he finds us together, you are lost!”

“But you—” she was beginning, but he cut the protest short.

“You can do nothing for me! Hide yourself!” The whistle sounded again, closer now, and this time was answered from the direction of the garden. “They are all about us! Go, in God’s name!”

Unwillingly she obeyed him, thrusting her way desperately into the thick shrubbery surrounding the lawn, hampered by the bulk of her hooped skirts and hearing the silk rip as the branches clawed at it. Crouching down beneath the sheltering leaves, she peered between them at the open space she had left, and saw the fugitive drag himself painfully upright, throwing all his weight upon one foot, as Harry Fenshawe appeared in the opening of the path which led to the garden. He halted there, and she saw, with an odd feeling of shock the levelled pistol in his hand.

“Don’t move, my friend!” he said grimly. “We have waited a long while for you to walk into the trap.”

The other man shrugged, and spread out his hands to show that they were empty. “And now that I have,” he retorted boldly, “no doubt you will slaughter me as you slaughtered the man you deceived and cheated.”

A scowl darkened Harry’s face. “I am no murderer,” he said curtly, “though I could kill you now and swear afterwards that you set upon me. I have a right to be here, and you have not.”

He paused as his brother came sliding and scrambling down the slope, to swing himself on to the lawn with the aid of a trailing branch. In his right hand he carried a naked sword.
Through a gap in the leaves Charmian could see the three men plainly, like a picture in a leafy frame, the Jacobite facing Harry, and the levelled pistol, while Miles paused behind him, sword in hand. What followed happened so swiftly that it was a second or two before she could believe the evidence of her eyes. She saw Miles’s arm draw back, saw the unerring forward lunge, and the shabby figure of the fugitive give one convulsive jerk before sliding to the ground like a puppet whose strings are cut. She heard Harry curse in anger and protest, and then, as Miles wrenched free the reddened blade and stood looking down at the crumpled thing at his feet, the horror of what she had seen rushed sickeningly upon her. A shuddering cry broke from her lips, and she sank senseless to the ground beneath the leafy branches.

12

Bonds of Terror

The sound of that faint cry checked Harry’s recriminations on the point of utterance. For a moment the brothers stared at each other, and then Harry dropped his pistol into his pocket and strode forward to thrust his way into the bushes. Miles turned slowly to watch him, his expression betraying no more than a mild curiosity, which did not change even when Harry reappeared with Charmian’s inert figure in his arms. He stood, the point of his sword resting lightly on the ground, and looked thoughtfully at the unconscious girl.

“So we silenced Rob Dunton just a little too late!” he said softly. “A pity!”

“A pity!” Harry exclaimed explosively. “Is that all you can find to say? Damn it, man! do you not realize that she must have seen all that happened?”

“Naturally, and I realize also that she must be secure within her room before she comes to her senses and starts to babble of it. Take her back to the house, and tell Lavinia not to leave her, or to let any servant come near her, until we have decided what is to be done. I will deal with this!” He touched Dunton’s body delicately with the toe of one polished boot.

Harry scowled, and glanced down at the limp, dishevelled figure in his arms. “How the devil am I to account for her being in this state?”

“Say that she has been taken ill, that you found her lying in a swoon.” Miles bent to wipe his sword on a fold of the dead man’s cloak, and returned it to its sheath. “Gad’s life! Have you no ingenuity?”

Harry glared at him, but realized that this was not the time to start a quarrel. He swung round and carried his burden quickly back towards the house, silently cursing his brother and the plight in which they now found themselves. A startled servant met him in the hall, but was brushed aside and curtly ordered to fetch Mrs. Fenshawe, while Harry bore Miss Tarrant up the stairs to her own room. He laid her down on the bed and stood regarding her with a frown until Lavinia came hurrying in, a loose robe of flowered silk over her petticoats and her hair half-dressed. Her maid was close at her heels.

“What is it?” Lavinia demanded querulously. “What has happened?”

“I fear Miss Tarrant has been taken ill,” Harry answered as she reached his side. “I found her lying senseless in the garden.” Under his breath he added: “Get rid of that confounded woman!”

She cast him one sharp, inquiring glance, and read that in his face which demanded instant, unquestioning obedience. Bending over Charmian, she said briskly to the maid.

“Maria, fetch my smelling-salts and the hartshorn from my bed-chamber. I will look after Miss Tarrant.” She waited until the woman had gone, and then added sharply to Harry: “Well?”

In a few brief words he told her. She turned pale, and sank down on the edge of the bed, looking at him with frightened eyes.

“More bloodshed! My God, Harry! where is it going to end?”

“With our necks in a noose, if
she
ever has an opportunity to tell what she has seen,” he replied grimly. “And how can we stop her, short of killing her also?”

“No!” Lavinia’s denial was immediate and horrified, but her next words showed the selfish thought behind it. “It would be discovered, and besides, there is the money to think of!”

He cast her a look of contempt, and turned quickly to the bed as Charmian moaned and stirred. Her eyes opened, blank at first and then darkening with remembered horror, and her lips parted for a scream, but before she could utter a sound one of Harry’s hands was across her mouth and the other pinning her to the bed. To Lavinia he said between his teeth:

“Get outside and stop that woman of yours from coming in! If she sees her now, we are lost!” To Charmian he added: “Be still and quiet, and no harm will come to you.”

Her only response was to struggle more frantically than ever, but her strength was no match for his. Lavinia, hearing her maid returning, flew across to the door, checked there, and emerged more soberly into the corridor. Her voice, with only the faintest note of perturbation ruffling it, came clearly to their ears.

“You may give those things to me, Maria! Miss Tarrant begins to recover, and I shall not need your assistance. I will send for you when I need you again.”

She came back into the room and shut the door. Harry said softly over his shoulder:

“Find me something with which I can gag and bind her—something soft that will leave no mark. Tis the only way to keep her quiet until we have decided what to do.”

In silence she obeyed him, finding a fichu of soft lawn for a gag, and ripping a silken underskirt into strips to serve as bonds. When at length Charmian lay helpless, bound hand and foot, Harry drew the curtains close about the bed and said grimly to Lavinia:

“If any remark is made, you must say that she is resting. Lock the door and keep the key with you.”

She nodded, and when this had been done, they made their way downstairs. Miles, waiting for them in the parlour, greeted them with a look of bland inquiry.

“All is well so far,” Harry said curtly in reply, and told him briefly what had been done, adding in conclusion: “It will not serve for more than a few hours, though, and after that, God knows what we are to do! Why in hell’s name can you not curb your infernal lust for killing?”

“My dear Harry, you would make me out to be the veriest monster!” Miles protested mockingly. “I did what had to be done, that is all!”

“The one sure way! I know!” Harry said with a sneer. “But what use to dispose of one threat if it means setting another, and more dangerous one in its place? Or do you intend to silence the girl as you silenced her father and Dunton?”

“Harry, for the love of God, have a care what you say!” Lavinia broke in fearfully. “What if one of the servants overheard you? Miles, are you sure that you have concealed—everything—securely?”

“Yes, in the undergrowth behind the grotto. After dark we can find a more permanent hiding place for it. The river should serve well enough.”

He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, and studied his two companions. Harry was standing by the empty fireplace, one elbow on the mantelpiece and the other hand thrust deep into his breeches’ pocket as he scowled uneasily before him; Lavinia, pacing agitatedly to and fro, paused now and then to push back the strands of pale blonde hair which, inadequately fastened, kept falling against her cheek. Miles smiled faintly.

“The situation is not nearly as serious as you suppose,” he said softly. “It means altering my plans a trifle, that is all.”

“
Your
plans!” The strain under which Lavinia was labouring was apparent in her voice. “How long, may I ask, has the making of plans and decisions rested with you? That is your father’s privilege! Oh, why did he not come to Sussex himself?”

“Because, my dear ma’am, he is, as I told you, fully occupied in looking after our interests in London. As for my plans, they have his full knowledge and consent.”

“Then what the devil are they?” Harry demanded bluntly. “You’ll allow, I suppose, that Lavinia and I have a right to know?”

“Of course, dear brother, of course!” Miles assented smoothly. “But first tell me one thing. When do you look to see the
Pride of Sussex
again?”

“Within the week, if the weather serves. Why?”

“Excellent!” Miles said with satisfaction, ignoring his brother’s question. “And within the week, Miss Tarrant will have attained her twenty-first birthday and will be her own mistress, free to marry as she chooses, asking permission from nobody. What could be better?”

They both stared at him, and Lavinia said blankly: “You are not fool enough to think that you can persuade her to marry you, after what she saw today and what Dunton must have told her?”

“Persuade?” he repeated, and laughed. “That is not, perhaps, the most appropriate word. I think, however, that when Miss Tarrant finds herself in France, without money, and with no means of communicating with her friends, she will see the wisdom of marrying me. The alternative, of being abandoned in such a situation, would be even more unpleasant, would it not?”

Harry continued to scowl at him in silence, but Lavinia said dubiously: “France is a Catholic country. How will you find a minister to perform the marriage?”

Miles shrugged. “If I can find none in France, we must travel on to some Protestant state. Remember, the farther we go from England, and the longer the wedding is delayed, the more anxious the lady will grow for it to take place.”

Harry made an abrupt movement, as though dissociating himself from his brother’s schemes, and said with a touch of scorn: “All very fine, but you are not in France yet, and we cannot keep the girl gagged and bound for a week. Even to confine her to her room will make the servants suspicious.”

“But I do not propose to use anything as crude as ropes or gags,” Miles drawled in reply. “Old Granny Godsall boasts that she can brew potions to meet any requirements, so let her now prove her skill, and furnish us with one which will keep Miss Tarrant sufficiently stupefied to prevent her from betraying us. As for the servants, they already believe her to be ill, having seen you carry her unconscious into the house, and if we hint that she is suffering from some kind of mental disorder, they will not think it strange that she is kept locked in her room.”

“Who is to look after her?” Harry demanded. “If she is supposed to be ill, some show of nursing her will have to be made.”

“We shall be obliged to take the Godsalls partly into our confidence,” Miles replied. “Tell them that she has discovered our connexion with the smugglers, and that if she succeeds in carrying the news to Wychwood Chase it will mean the end of a very profitable business. They already believe that Piers is seeking to put down smuggling in these parts. As for looking after Miss Tarrant, Lavinia and Martha between them must attend to that. If no one else is allowed to approach her, it will add colour to the tale that she is mentally afflicted.”

“That may be sufficient to dupe the servants,” Lavinia said dubiously, “but what if Piers Wychwood or his sister come to visit her?”

“Piers will not,” Miles said with a laugh. “I told you how he behaved yesterday when they met. If Dorothy calls here, tell her that Miss Tarrant is too ill to see anyone.”

Harry turned more fully to face them, both hands in his pockets now, his wide shoulders propped against the mantelpiece. His handsome, black-browed face wore an expression of profound contempt.

“Ingenious, b’Gad!” he said sarcastically. “But will it not provoke a deal of surprise when this poor, sick, half crazed girl recovers sufficiently to elope with you aboard the
Pride of Sussex
? Or do you intend to make no secret of the fact that you are abducting her?”

Miles raised his quizzing-glass and through it regarded his brother for several seconds before letting it fall again.

“I have always maintained, Harry, that you lack imagination,” he said in a bored voice. “Piers already believes, does he not, that Miss Tarrant is betrothed to me? Once I have her safely out of England, I depend upon you, Lavinia, to make a great outcry, declaring that I entered into the betrothal against the advice and wishes of my family, because the unfortunate girl is deranged—the servant’s gossip will bear you out in that! You will add that, discovering my father’s intention to prevent the marriage at all costs, I have carried my bride off secretly rather than give her up.” He sighed with mock sorrow, and shook his head. “I fear, however, that our happiness will not be of long duration! A few months, a year at most, and I shall be back in England, a grief-stricken—but very wealthy—Widower.”

For perhaps ten seconds longer Harry remained where he was, staring at his brother with an expression which almost seemed to imply disbelief. Then with an inarticulate exclamation of disgust he strode across the room, and out of it, slamming the door violently behind him. Miles laughed softly, and Lavinia shivered.

“I can appreciate how he feels,” she said candidly. “There are times, Miles, when I find myself afraid of you.”

He shook his head, amusement still lingering in his face. “Needlessly, my dear Lavinia, quite needlessly,” he assured her amiably. “
You
do not stand in my way!”

On the following morning Dorothy Wychwood rode up to the door of Bell Orchard, determined to get to the bottom of the mystery of her friend’s alleged betrothal. The servant who admitted her ushered her at once into the parlour, where she found Mrs. Fenshawe alone.

“Dorothy, my dear, have you come to visit Miss Tarrant?” Lavinia greeted her. “I am so sorry, but she is indisposed and confined to her bed.”

Dorothy looked blank for a moment, but then brightened, for it seemed that this might offer the opportunity she was seeking to talk to Charmian alone.

“Why, then, may I go up to her room?” she said brightly. “I promise I will not stay long.”

Lavinia shook her head. “She is sleeping at present,” she replied regretfully, “and I am sure you would not wish to disturb her. When she wakes I will tell her of your visit, and convey any message you may desire to leave for her.”

She spoke civilly, but in a tone which warned Dorothy that it would be unwise to be too insistent. Trying to hide her disappointment, she said:

“Will you tell her, then, how sorry I am that she is unwell, and that I will come again tomorrow to see how she does?”

“I will tell her, but do not place too much dependence upon seeing her tomorrow. Perhaps it will be best if you do not put yourself to the trouble of visiting her until I send you word that she is well enough to receive callers.”

“Oh, it is no trouble!” Dorothy assured her guilelessly. “I ride out almost every day, you know.”

She left after a further exchange of courtesies, and rode home in a somewhat puzzled frame of mind, to inform Piers of the failure of her errand and to remind him of the promise he had given her. Next day she presented herself again at Bell Orchard, only to be met with a similar disappointment, but when, on the third day, she was again informed that Miss Tarrant was too ill to see anyone, perplexity deepened to suspicion. She asked a few innocent questions of the servant who showed her out of the house, and then, instead of returning home, went to pay a call on the nearest physician, who had attended both the Wychwood and the Fenshawe families for as long as Dorothy could remember. What she learned there sent her hurrying back to Piers.