The House at Bell Orchard (18 page)

Wide awake now, she sprang out of bed and padded barefoot across the room to throw curtains and window wide. In the east, the sky was flushing faintly pink with the coming dawn, but a thick carpet of mist lay upon the ground, so that trees and shrubberies, their bases hidden, seemed to float mysteriously upon it like ships upon a milky sea. Below her, she could make out the figure of a man, who, as she leaned from the window, spoke in a tone of muted urgency.

“Dorothy!” It was her brother’s voice, hoarse with weariness. “Come down and open the door. I’ve no wish to rouse the servants.”

Astonished but willing, Dorothy waved assent and drew back into the room, fumbling for wrap and slippers. Dragging these on, she opened the door and stole softly downstairs, wondering what had possessed Piers to arrive home at this unreasonable hour, and why, having done so, he desired to be admitted with such stealth to his own house. Such erratic behaviour was totally unlike him.

In the wide hall, grey with the dawn-light filtering through the tall windows, she struggled with bolts and chains. They yielded at last and she pulled open the door, to recoil with a squeak of astonishment at the sight which met her eyes.

On the threshold stood Piers—practical, unadventurous Piers—hatless and coatless, blood trickling down his face from a cut on his brow where a great bruise was also beginning to darken, and his clothes oozing water. He was carrying Charmian. Her arms were clasped about his neck and her face hidden against his shoulder, and water dripped from her tangled hair and from the bedraggled gown which clung in sodden folds about her. While his sister stared disbelievingly, Piers brushed past her into the hall, saying calmly:

“Lock the door again, and come with me.”

As in a dream, Dorothy obeyed, wordless for once with amazement, and followed him up the stairs to her own room. There Piers set Charmian down in a chair, murmured something to her that his sister could not catch, and then straightened up, adding briefly:

“Look after her, Dorothy! I will fetch our mother.”

He went out, and Dorothy, consumed with curiosity and excitement, hastened across to her friend, but Charmian was shivering and sobbing, plainly on the point of collapse, and it was obvious that explanations would have to wait. When circumstances demanded it, Dorothy could be as practical as Piers himself, and by the time that Lady Wychwood came hurrying in, she had Charmian out of her wet clothes and into her own warm bed, and was standing beside her, holding her hand and staring in horror at the red, raw mark of the rope about her wrist.

“Mama!” she whispered in a stricken voice as her mother reached her side. “Look at this!”

Lady Wychwood uttered a shocked exclamation, and bent over Charmian to lay a gentle hand on her forehead, smoothing back the damp, tumbled hair.

“My poor child!” she said tenderly. “Piers has told me something of what you have been through, and be sure that we shall take great care of you, now that we have you safe.”

Charmian had reached that point of utter exhaustion where, now that she was warm and comfortable at last, sleep could no longer be held at bay, but Lady Wychwood’s words penetrated her fading consciousness. With a tremendous effort she forced her eyes open again, and said huskily:

“He is hurt! He said it was nothing, but I am not sure. I am very well now, so please look after Piers.”

Her eyelids drooped again, and she scarcely heard Lady Wychwood’s reassuring answer as she sank into unfathomable depths of sleep. Her ladyship stood for a moment looking down at her, and then, becoming brisk, sent Dorothy to fetch salves and bandages so that she might dress the injured wrists. While she did so, she passed on to her daughter such information as Piers had given her concerning the events of the night, though this was scanty, and did little to satisfy their curiosity. They would not know the full story for some hours yet.

Piers, meanwhile, had gone from his mother’s rooms to his own, and summoned his valet, an imperturbable, elderly man upon whose discretion he could depend. There were many things yet to be done, but he must take a few hours rest before setting about them, and having permitted the servant to dress the cut on his forehead, and issued instructions that he was to be awakened before the morning was too far advanced, he flung himself wearily into bed. For the time being he could do no more.

He was up and out again by midday, and his business kept him away from the Chase until late afternoon. When he returned he went first to speak to his mother, whom he found in the smaller drawing-room. He greeted her with his customary courtesy, but added immediately:

“How is Charmian?”

“She is beginning to recover,” Lady Wychwood replied. “I sent for Dr. Benfleet, and he is of the opinion that a few days of rest and quiet will repair the physical effects of her recent experiences, though I fear it will be long before the poor child forgets what she has been through. He advised me to keep her in bed, but she seems greatly troubled by some matter which she will not confide to me, and says only that she must talk to you. She was growing agitated, and so I allowed her to get up on condition that she remained resting on the couch in my dressing-room, and promised to go back to bed as soon as she has spoken with you.”

Piers frowned. “Did she give you no hint of what is troubling her?”

“None at all. I thought that it might be on account of Harry Fenshawe, for she reproaches herself bitterly that he suffered through trying to help her, but Dr. Benfleet was able to tell us that he now has a good chance of recovery.”

“Yes, that is so,” Piers agreed absently. “I have been to Bell Orchard. All is in confusion there, but at least it seems probable that Harry will live. I cannot help but be glad of it.”

“Nor I,” Lady Wychwood said gravely, “but, Piers, is it true that that foolish young man is married to Amy Godsall?”

“Quite true!” He looked quizzically down at her. “I can see, ma’am, that you, like the rest of the world, will never forgive him, but for my part, I must confess that in some ways I admire him for it.”

“Well, we will not quarrel on that score,” his mother replied with a smile. “There is a great deal that I would like to ask you, but it will wait until after you have seen Charmian. Go up to her now, my dear, for she will not rest until she has talked to you, and I do not wish her to become too tired. You will find Dorothy with her.”

As Piers approached the dressing-room, he heard his sister chattering eagerly within, though her voice ceased abruptly when he knocked. Her light footstep approached the door, and she opened it, to exclaim delightedly:

“Piers, at last!” She stood aside for him to enter, and followed him across to the couch where Charmian was lying, adding frankly: “Well, you look a great deal more presentable than you did when last I saw you, in spite of that bruise on your forehead. I was never more astonished in my life than I was when I opened the door this morning.”

He ignored this comment and took the hand Charmian put out to him, saying with a smile: “Are you feeling better? My mother says there is something you wish to tell me.”

“Yes, there is,” she replied hesitantly, and looked dubiously at Dorothy. “I fear Lady Wychwood found my insistence tiresome, but truly, it is very important.”

“I am sure it is,” he replied reassuringly, “and I imagine that you would prefer to discuss it with me alone.”

“I,” Dorothy informed him pointedly, “am here as chaperone. However, if you will both undertake to stand by me when Mama takes me to task—” she left the sentence unfinished, and with an airy gesture tripped out of the room. Piers watched the door close behind her, and then turned back to Charmian.

She lay propped against a pile of cushions, wearing one of Dorothy’s gowns in a soft shade of blue, with her hair uncovered and very simply dressed. She still looked pale and ill, with dark shadows beneath her eyes, and some haunting trouble in the eyes themselves, and he realized that the grim menace of Bell Orchard had not yet been entirely dispelled. The hand she had put out to him in greeting still rested in his, and now he sat down beside her on the couch and took the other hand also in a firm clasp, saying gently:

“What is it, my dear? What is troubling you?”

“Something that Harry told me last night,” she said in a low voice. “Piers, Miles murdered my father! He shot him while he was unprepared and defenceless, just as he killed the Jacobite a few days ago.” She paused, her fingers clinging tightly to his as though finding strength and comfort in the contact. “I do not know how much I told you when you came to Bell Orchard the other day, for my memory of that time is still confused, but it is all clear in my mind now. I can tell you everything that happened.”

She did so, her soft, hesitant voice recounting a tale of greater and more tortuous villainy even than he had imagined. When she had done, he sat for a little while without speaking, but at last he said quietly:

“Miles should have hanged, but he is beyond the reach of justice now. They found his body this morning. As for Colonel Fenshawe, I imagine that he has made his escape, for when Mrs. Fenshawe discovered last night that you had fled, she summoned her coach and set off as fast as she could for London. Had I not ridden cross-country, I would have met her on the road, but it is too late to pursue her now. There remains only Harry.”

“That is what troubles me,” Charmian said anxiously. “It was Colonel Fenshawe who schemed to rob my father, and Miles who murdered him and the other man. I know that Harry aided them, but he did his best to make amends, and it does not seem just that he should be left to bear the punishment alone. He and Amy tried to help me, and have already suffered because of it. I do not want them to suffer more.”

He regarded her curiously. “Even though Amy left you, bound and helpless, to await Miles’s return?”

Charmian nodded. “Even so,” she replied quietly. “Oh, Piers, how can I bear her a grudge for that? She loves Harry, and believed that he had lost his life through helping me. I think that, in her place, I would have done the same.”

“It is true,” Piers said slowly, “that but for her, I would not have known where to find you. When I reached Bell Orchard and found that you had disappeared, and that neither Miles nor Mrs. Fenshawe was in the house, I made them take me to Harry’s room. He was unconscious, but Amy told me where you were, and what Miles was planning to do. Had she not done so, I could not have arrived in time.”

“Then can we not find some way of helping them? I do not know how much of all this must be made known, but at least only you and I know that Harry was present when his brother committed murder.” She paused, her eyes anxiously searching his face, and then added pleadingly: “Would it be very wrong for us to keep silent?”

Piers did not reply at once, but he knew already that he was going to do as she asked. This was not simply to please her, to see the trouble and anxiety vanish from her eyes, although this was the most compelling reason. He found that he could not forget the old bond of friendship between himself and Harry, or the debt of gratitude he owed to him and to Amy. She, too, had a right to be considered; as Harry’s wife her position would be difficult enough, but as his widow it would be intolerable.

“Right or wrong,” he said at length, “that knowledge we will share with no one. Harry and Amy have trouble enough already.”

“He consorted with the Jacobites,” Charmian said doubtfully. “Does that not mean he would be held guilty of treason?”

Piers shook his head. “You forget,” he said with a faint smile, “that I still lack proof of that. There was nothing to connect that poor fellow Miles killed with the Stuarts, and I can promise you that no more mysterious strangers will come ashore from the
Pride of Sussex.
I have spoken to Jack Godsall, and he knows that in his treatment of you last night I have a weapon against him which I shall not hesitate to use if he gives me cause. In future he will confine his activities to ordinary smuggling, and he is likely to find that less easy and profitable now that Fenshawe is no longer here to bribe the Excisemen. As for Harry, I do not know whether it will be possible to save him altogether from the consequences of what he has done, but I give you my word that I will do my best, and if the worst happens, and he is imprisoned, I will see that Amy and the child are cared for. Will that content you?”

She nodded, and gave a tremulous smile. “You are very good,” she said unsteadily, “and I owe you so much! I still do not know exactly how you came to be at the cottage last night. Dorothy said she thought you had gone to Richmond.”

“I did go there,” he replied, “and what I learned from your friends told me that your danger was even greater than I had supposed. I came straight back to Bell Orchard, but you were no longer there.”

Charmian looked puzzled. “How did you discover that?” she asked. “Surely they did not tell you!”

“They had no choice!” Piers spoke calmly, but there was a gleam of rueful laughter in his eyes. “I was in no mood by then to be denied, and when the servants tried to turn me away, I regret to say that I forced my way into the house at pistol-point.” He laughed softly. “They were so astonished at my behaviour that they told me the truth straightway, and even showed me your empty room in proof of it. Then Amy told me where to find you, and the rest you know.”

Charmian smiled also, but there was more than amusement in her eyes. “I should have had more faith in you,” she murmured. “Dorothy has explained it all to me now, but when you left me at Bell Orchard the other day, when I had pleaded so desperately for your help, I thought that you did indeed believe me mad. I am ashamed now at my lack of trust.”