The House at Bell Orchard (13 page)

She found him in his study, making a desultory attempt to deal with some correspondence, but he thrust this aside as soon as she came in and asked eagerly: “Well, what news?”

Dorothy shook her head. “Mrs. Fenshawe still maintains that Charmian is too ill to see me, and bids me wait until I am sent for, but Piers, I feel sure that she is lying! When I left Bell Orchard I went to call upon Dr. Benfleet, hoping that he might tell me how soon I could reasonably insist upon seeing Charmian, but he knows nothing of it. He has not been summoned to Bell Orchard for months.”

Piers stared at her with a deepening frown. “That is certainly very strange,” he agreed slowly. “One would suppose that Mrs. Fenshawe would have consulted him—unless, of course, she has sent for some other physician.”

“There
is
no other within twenty miles, and in any event, Dr. Benfleet has always attended the Fenshawes, just as he has always attended us. I believe this is all a plot to prevent us from seeing Charmian again?”

Piers pushed back his chair and rose to his feet and went across to the window, where he stood for some moments looking out at the wide prospect it commanded. At length, still with his back to her, he said heavily:

“There is one possibility you have overlooked! If Miles
was
speaking the truth a week ago, and Miss Tarrant knows that he told me of their betrothal, she may wish to have no further dealings with us. The excuse of illness may be a deliberate pretence, to avoid seeing you when you call.”

“But it is not all pretence,” Dorothy said triumphantly. “One of the servants told me that four days ago, Charmian was discovered lying in the garden in a swoon. Harry found her and brought her back to the house, and ever since she has not left her room, and only Mrs. Fenshawe and Martha Godsall have seen her.”

He turned, and regarded her with an expression in which concern was mingled with disbelief. Dorothy, having been so often taken to task for permitting imagination to get the better of common sense, hesitated for a moment, but then, emboldened by his silence, proceeded to expound her theory.

“Piers, suppose—just suppose—that Miles was lying to you that day, and Charmian learned of it. Perhaps Harry told her, to spite his brother, for you know they are always at cross purposes. It distressed her so much that she fainted, and now they are keeping her prisoner and pretending that she is ill, to prevent you from discovering the truth until it is too late.”

He made an impatient movement. “That is ridiculous! What is more, it is impossible! They could not hope to keep her prisoner indefinitely.”

“No,” Dorothy retorted defiantly, “but they might threaten to do so until she agreed to marry Miles.”

Piers turned back to the window again, and stood staring out while his natural common sense struggled against an unreasonable, growing anxiety. It was all wildly improbable, and yet there was just a remote possibility that Dorothy’s suggestion contained a grain of truth. Miles Fenshawe was totally unscrupulous. He was the most completely selfish person Piers had ever known, and if he wanted a thing he would take it, with no consideration whatsoever for anyone who might suffer in the process. In Miles Fenshawe’s world the only person who mattered was Miles himself.

If he had determined to make himself master of Charmian’s fortune, he would have seen the threat to his plans in her growing friendship with Piers, and might have been goaded into taking a reckless step. Of course Charmian could not be kept prisoner indefinitely, but there were ways in which she could be compelled to agree to the marriage, and if she persisted in a refusal Miles was not likely to stop short at threats.

“There is one thing I have not yet told you,” Dorothy said hesitantly after a pause, and something in her voice made him turn to face her again. “It is so absurd that all the rest
must
be untrue also. The servant told me that Martha Godsall says Charmian is going out of her mind.”

“Servants’ gossip!” Piers exclaimed contemptuously, but his uneasiness increased. It was plain that something very odd was going on at Bell Orchard. “Nevertheless, I think I will come with you tomorrow when you go to call on Mrs. Fenshawe.”

On the following morning, Lavinia was in Charmian’s room, standing by the bed and looking down a little uneasily at its occupant. Granny Godsall’s potion had certainly had the desired effect. For most of the time Charmian remained in a heavy stupor, now lying like one dead, now writhing and crying out in the grip of some nightmare. Even when, as at present, she was awake, she seemed dazed and confused, her mind still tormented by the horror of what she had seen and what Rob Dunton had told her—memories which she seemed scarcely able to distinguish from present reality. At first, Mrs. Fenshawe had been completely satisfied, but now she was beginning to wonder how much longer they might safely continue to administer the sinister concoction provided by the old woman. Charmian looked exceedingly ill; perhaps the stuff was more deadly than they supposed. If the girl were to die...

Lavinia turned, picked up the glass containing the next dose of the drug, then hesitated and set it down again. Greedy and selfish though she was, she shrank from the possibility of becoming a murderess. Charmian was lying quite still, staring up at her with frightened eyes, and Lavinia was filled with sudden, angry impatience. All very fine for Miles to issue his orders; he was not obliged to force the hateful draught down the throat of this helpless, terrified girl. Nor, she reflected grimly, would it cause him the smallest qualm if he was.

There was a soft tap at the door, and then it opened to admit Martha Godsall, a big, coarsely handsome woman gowned in sober black. She looked frightened.

“Madam,” she said urgently, “Sir Piers Wychwood and his sister are below.”

“Sir Piers?” Lavinia repeated, her hand flying to her mouth. “What can he want here? Miles was certain he would not come!” She paused, biting her lip, staring at Martha with troubled eyes. “Very well, I will come down, and you go see if you can find Mr. Miles, though I do not think he is in the house. Hurry, woman, hurry!”

They hastened out of the room together, and Charmian lay staring towards the door through which they had departed. Into the confusion and unnatural heaviness clouding her mind, their words had pierced like a ray of light. Piers was here, in the house. If only she could reach him, he would help her, would dispel this hideous nightmare which had held her in its grip for uncounted hours and days.

Painfully she dragged herself up into a sitting position, though every movement turned her sick and giddy and her limbs felt as though they were made of lead, so that the simplest action required enormous effort. But the instinct of self-preservation was strong, and somehow, little by little, she managed to drag herself out of bed and stumble barefooted across a seemingly unending expanse of unsteady floor to the door. Here fortune favoured her, for in their haste both Martha and Lavinia had supposed that the other would pause to turn the key. The door swung open beneath her touch, and the long corridor, floored and panelled in oak, stretched before her, an endless road which must somehow be traversed if she were ever to reach Piers, and safety. Haltingly, clinging to the wall for support, already near collapse but sustained by the two powerful props of fear and hope, she began to make her way slowly along it.

13

A Cry for Help

Lavinia found Piers and Dorothy in the parlour, and greeted them as calmly as she could. In fact she was a good deal more uneasy than she had been for many a day, and wished fervently that Miles were present to deal with the situation. Dorothy’s tiresome persistence she had expected and could cope with, but her brother was a different matter altogether, for after his previous behaviour, his presence now could only mean that something had aroused his suspicions. She felt as though his direct and penetrating gaze was piercing her very thoughts, and looked away, afraid of betraying herself if she continued to meet his eyes.

“We have come to inquire after Miss Tarrant,” Dorothy announced, and it seemed to Lavinia that there was a faintly challenging note in her voice. “I do so hope that she is well enough to see me today.”

“My dear child, I told you that I would send for you as soon as that happy state of affairs was reached,” Mrs. Fenshawe reminded her. “Our poor Charmian is still far too ill to receive visitors.”

“My mother and I were exceedingly sorry to learn of Miss Tarrant’s illness, ma’am,” Piers said courteously, “and if it is in our power to be of any assistance, you have only to inform us. It must be an extremely anxious time for you, particularly as Colonel Fenshawe is in London.”

“You are very good,” Lavinia replied, trying without much success to instil some gratitude into her voice, “and pray thank Lady Wychwood also for her kindness. It
is
an anxious time, but I am not obliged to bear the responsibility alone. Both my stepsons are here, and, as I believe you are aware, Miles has particular cause to be concerned in the matter of Miss Tarrant’s welfare.”

“Of course,” Piers agreed blandly, “and I am sure that both you and he have done everything possible to help her. However, since Miss Tarrant’s illness was so sudden and appears to be of so serious a nature, it does occur to me—if you will forgive the impertinence of the suggestion—that it may be beyond the skill of our good Dr. Benfleet. He is, after all, merely a simple country physician. You have consulted him, of course?”

For a moment Mrs. Fenshawe was tempted to say that she had, but perceived in time that a question so easy to put to the test might be in the nature of a trap. She shook her head.

“No, I have not,” she replied with an affectation of candour. “The truth is, Sir Piers, that it would do very little good. Miss Tarrant’s affliction was not, to us, by any means unexpected, for it is a sad inheritance from her mother, and was, in fact, the cause of that poor lady’s early death. We know what measures to take, and there is nothing else that Dr. Benfleet, or any other physician, could do for her.” She broke off, pressing a handkerchief to her eyes for a moment before adding in a stifled voice:

“Forgive me, but the subject is too painful to pursue. You take my meaning, I am sure!”

“Well, I do not!” Dorothy said flatly. “I do not understand you at all.”

“I imagine,” Piers remarked in a dry, expressionless voice, “that Mrs. Fenshawe is trying to tell us, as delicately as possible, that Miss Tarrant’s affliction is mental rather than physical. Is that not so, ma’am?”

Lavinia nodded, and Dorothy, astonished that she should thus confirm the servant’s incredible suggestion, said indignantly: “I do not believe it!”

“My poor child, it is natural for you to say so,” Lavinia said sadly, “but I fear that you must believe it. You see now why I have tried to discourage your friendship with Charmian—why, in fact, we brought her to Bell Orchard. It is best for her to live in seclusion. Her mother was kept so, for naturally Mr. Tarrant did not wish her affliction to become generally known, and when he was informed of the dreadful possibility that his daughter might have inherited the weakness, his first concern was to keep her, too, sheltered from the world. It is all one
can
do for her!”

Piers’ level glance rested thoughtfully upon her. “Yet surely, ma’am,” he said quietly, “Miss Tarrant entered fashionable society under your protection?”

If he had hoped to discompose her by the question, he was disappointed. She inclined her head in agreement.

“Yes, that is true! You must understand, Sir Piers, that at that time she had shown no sign at all of being afflicted, and it was hoped that she never would. But the shock of her father’s sudden death, and the dreadful circumstances surrounding it, seemed to release the weakness which must always have lain dormant in her mind. For a time she was quite beside herself, and though she recovered after a while, and for some weeks, as you are aware, appeared as normal as you or I, this terrible malady now has her in its grip once more. I am told that it began so with her poor mother.”

Still with that searching gaze upon her, Piers said, on a faint note of interrogation: “Yet Miles means to marry her?”

Lavinia rose abruptly to her feet and began to pace about the room as though she was too profoundly disturbed to remain still. She was beginning to feel pleased with herself, for though the idea of pretending that Charmian was mad had come originally from Miles, she felt that she had considerably improved upon it. She was almost beginning to believe it herself, and felt certain that she was convincing this earnest and meddlesome young man.

“He is adamant!” she said despairingly at length. “Oh, I will not pretend with you, Sir Piers, that I have not tried to dissuade him, and his father swears that he shall not be allowed to make so disastrous a marriage, but all to no avail. Miles is so deeply devoted to her that nothing will turn him from his purpose.”

“Then his friends can only honour him for such devotion, Mrs. Fenshawe, however much they may deplore the implications of it,” Piers replied, and looked at his sister. “Come, Dorothy, it is time we took our leave. We have intruded too greatly already.”

She stared at him in astonishment and dismay, and started to protest, but was peremptorily cut short. He turned again to Lavinia.

“Madam, I can only ask your pardon for what has been an unwarrantable intrusion into your family concerns,” he said quietly. “The only excuse I can plead is that of ignorance.”

“Pray do not reproach yourself, Sir Piers,” Lavinia replied graciously. “I would, perhaps, have been wiser to take you into my confidence at the outset, but you can, I am sure, understand my reluctance to do so.”

He assured her that he did, bowed over her outstretched hand, and firmly ushered his sister out of the room. They were half-way across the hall when from above came a faint, despairing cry that halted them in their tracks.

“Wait! Oh, please wait! Sir Piers, help me!”

Brother and sister spun round as though jerked by some invisible cord. At the head of the staircase, clinging for support to the massively carved balustrade, stood Charmian herself, barefooted and clad in night-attire. As they turned, she swayed as though the effort of attracting their attention had sapped the last of her strength, and sank to her knees, in imminent danger, it seemed, of tumbling headlong down the whole flight. Dorothy remained rooted to the spot with astonishment and alarm, but Piers strode across the hall and took the stairs two at a time, to gather the frail figure into the safety and comfort of his arms.

Seeing her thus closely, he was horrified by the change a few days had wrought in her. The light-brown hair fell tangled and unkempt, framing an ashen face in which her eyes, staring as wildly as the eyes of a trapped creature, were ringed by shadows as dark as bruises, and the hands which clutched at his coat were shaking pitifully. She was panting as though from some tremendous exertion, and the words she gasped out tumbled over each other, breathless and disjointed.

“Help me, for the love of pity! Do not be angry with me! They mean to kill me as they killed my father.
He
told me—the Jacobite, the man with red hair. He came to warn me, but Miles killed him, with a sword, from behind. I saw him do it, and now he will kill me, too. Oh, save me from him, please!”

Kneeling beside her on the topmost stair, an arm about her, he covered one of the frantic, trembling hands with his own.

“My dear, no one shall harm you,” he said gently. “Do not be afraid.”

“But you do not understand! They are not Jacobites at all, though they told Papa they were, and took his money for King James, but they kept it for themselves. Then they killed him so that he could not betray them. Now Miles says that he will marry me, but he is a murderer! He killed the man with red hair!”

Below, in the hall, Dorothy started towards the stairs, but Mrs. Fenshawe, emerging from the parlour, brushed past her without ceremony and mounted the flight ahead of her. Charmian, looking past Piers’ shoulder, saw her approaching, and with a whimper of terror clung to him more tightly than before.

“Charmian, my love!” Lavinia’s voice was kindly and indulgent, the voice of one who reasons with a frightened, disobedient child. “You should not have left your room. What must your friends think to see you roaming about the house so scantily clad? Come, I will take you back to bed!”

“I do not think she has the strength to stand, much less to walk,” Piers said grimly, and rose, lifting Charmian in his arms. “Show me the way, ma’am, and I will carry her.”

“No! Please, no!” Fright and exhaustion combined now to render Charmian more incoherent than ever. “I must not go back there. They will kill me!”

Lavinia spread out her hands in a helpless gesture, and then turned, beckoning Piers to follow her. With Dorothy, a horrified and bewildered onlooker, at his heels, he obeyed, bearing Charmian easily along the corridor she had traversed with such painful effort to reach him. Martha Godsall, who had returned to Miss Tarrant’s room by way of the backstairs, to find with horror that the door was open and the prisoner gone, heard their approach and came hurrying out to meet them. Lavinia waved her back into the room and stood aside for Piers to enter.

Charmian was sobbing hopelessly, so overcome by the failure of her bid for freedom, but as he laid her down upon the bed she flung her arms about his neck, clinging to him with the strength of utter desperation. Through her thin garment he was painfully aware of the violence of her trembling, the panic-stricken thumping of her heart.

“Do not leave me here, for the love of God!” Her voice rose hysterically in a last, frantic effort to convince him. “No one else can help me, no one! Oh, please, please!”

“No one is going to harm you,” he said again. His voice was gentle, and so was the touch with which he disengaged her clinging arms. “My poor girl, you are in no danger, that I promise you!”

Mrs. Fenshawe was close beside them, ready to frustrate Charmian’s attempt to clutch at him again as he moved away. Holding the distraught girl firmly by the wrists, she said over her shoulder:

“My thanks to you, Sir Piers. Martha and I can manage her now, for there is a medicine here which will quieten her. Pray take your sister downstairs again, and I will join you there directly.”

He nodded and went to the doorway, where Dorothy was standing, staring at the scene within the room in wide-eyed dismay. Taking her arm, he drew her out into the corridor and Martha Godsall shut the door firmly behind them, but as they moved away, Charmian’s frantic voice came clearly to their ears.

“No, I will not take it! You are trying to poison me!” Then, rising to a heartrending scream of terror and despair: “Piers! Piers!”

Dorothy gasped and would have halted, but her brother’s hand on her arm forced her on. Looking up at him, she saw that he had turned very white, and that there was a look in his face she had never seen there before, but he did not pause, nor would he allow her to do so. So they came again to the parlour, where she wrenched herself free and dropped into the nearest chair, covering her face with her hands. Piers stood beside her, one hand gripping the back of the chair, but he did not speak and it was plain that his thoughts were not upon her.

Only a very few minutes passed before Mrs. Fenshawe followed them into the room. She went straight to Dorothy and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“My poor child,” she said, “I would have given anything to prevent this happening. You see now what I have tried to spare you.”

“I can scarcely believe it, even now!” Dorothy lifted a white, shocked face towards her; her voice was shaking. “Will she always be so?”

Lavinia sighed. “Who can tell? If her malady follows the same pattern as her mother’s, this darkness will lift after a while and she will be as she was before, but it will return again, more and more frequently, until death brings the only release. If God is merciful, it will not be too long delayed.”

With a sudden abrupt movement Piers turned away, but when he spoke his voice was calm and controlled.

“Once again, Mrs. Fenshawe, we must ask your pardon and take our leave. If there is any way in which I can render you further assistance, pray inform me of it. Come, Dorothy!”

This time his sister obeyed him without protest, apparently still overcome by what she had seen and heard. From the parlour window Mrs. Fenshawe watched them ride away, and then dropped into a chair with a sigh of relief. She felt exhausted, but satisfied. Charmian’s unexpected appearance, her wild looks and wilder words, had convinced Piers Wychwood of her madness as no mere words could ever have done. In fact, although it had given her several moments of violent shock and misgiving, everything had happened for the best.

Dorothy was very subdued during the homeward ride, and they were approaching the ford before she spoke at all. Then she said in a trembling voice:

“Oh, Piers, it is all so dreadful, and I would never have believed it, if we had not seen her! Poor, poor Charmian! I could weep for her!”

Her brother, who had also ridden thus far in preoccupied silence, roused himself to glance at her. “Spare your tears,” he said briefly, “for ’tis to be hoped she will stand in no need of them.”

Dorothy stared. “But, Piers, it
must
be true! She looked so strange, so wild! And we both heard her accuse Mrs. Fenshawe of trying to kill her!”