The House at Bell Orchard (4 page)

There was irony in the dark, secret face confronting her. “You are mistaken, Miss Tarrant. He felt a deep and passionate loyalty to his rightful King, and a profound faith in the ultimate triumph of the Stuart cause.”

Charmian rose slowly to her feet, one hand at her breast, her eyes wide and horrified.

“Are you trying to tell me, sir, that my father was a Jacobite?”

He inclined his head. “That is precisely what I am telling you. He was a Jacobite, as I am, and all my family. That was the interest we had in common, the shared loyalty which first drew us together.”

She shook her head, still staring at him in patent disbelief. “I cannot credit it,” she murmured. “All he cared about was his studies, the history he was preparing.”

“A history of the struggle between King and Parliament,” the Colonel agreed in a level tone. “Studies which traced the fortunes of the Stuart dynasty for over a century. Do you marvel that from these should arise a deep conviction of King James’s unassailable right to the English crown and a desire to see the German usurper overthrown?”

Charmian dropped down into her chair again; she was trembling so violently that she could no longer remain standing.

“This is treason, sir,” she said in a shaken whisper.

He shook his head. “In this house, Miss Tarrant,” he replied grimly, “the only treason is sympathy with the Elector of Hanover.”

Charmian made a small, incoherent sound of dismay and disbelief, and covered her face with her hands. She knew, of course, that there were still people in England who hoped for the return of the exiled Stuart king, and there had been talk of late that his son, Prince Charles Edward, with the aid and blessing of Louis of France, was planning an attempt to recover the throne by force of arms, but though she knew of these matters she had never concerned herself over them. The last Jacobite uprising had taken place eight years before she was born, and such things as treasonable plots and armed invasions seemed to have no place among the realities of life. Now, without warning, she found herself in the midst of such activities, and was asked to believe that her father had possessed similarly misguided convictions.

Fenshawe waited patiently for all the implications of what he had said to dawn upon her. He propped his shoulders against the shelves of books behind him, and once more took snuff from the gold and enamel box, shaking the lace ruffles back from his hand. At length, as he had known she would, Charmian raised her head, and asked the question for which he had been waiting.

“What has this to do with the loss of Papa’s fortune?”

He shrugged slightly. “Your father, my dear, had been convinced for years of the justice of the Stuart claim, but though he would willingly have done anything in his power to aid their cause, he had no notion how to set about it. All he could do, whenever he visited London, was to frequent the company of those who felt as he did, in the hope that one day some opportunity would offer itself. Eventually, his path and mine crossed.”

He paused, and again took snuff, closing the box with a snap which sounded loud in the silence. Charmian, still huddled in her chair, was aware of the strong force of his personality, and found no difficulty in understanding how her studious, unworldly father had fallen so completely under its spell.

“I will not weary you,” Fenshawe resumed, “with all the details of our ripening acquaintance. It is sufficient to say that eventually your father; finding in me one who was prepared to do more to aid the Cause than merely drinking loyal toasts and railing against the Elector, confided to me his desire to give some practical aid, and asked how he might do so.” He shrugged again. “His years prevented him from taking any active part in our work, but there is one thing of which we are always in desperate need, and that is money. With that he was plentifully supplied and he gave it generously. Too generously, as subsequent events have proved.” He paused again and then added deliberately: “That is where your father’s fortune went, Miss Tarrant—to aid his rightful King. It could have been spent in no more noble cause.”

She moved her hands in a protesting gesture. “But to ruin himself, and then take his own life! That is to carry any loyalty to the point of madness!”

He sighed. “Ah, that I did not foresee! His exact resources were unknown to me, and I had no suspicion until after his death that he had placed himself so deeply in debt. Had I known it, I would naturally have used every endeavour to dissuade him.” He moved away from the bookshelves and came to set a hand on her shoulder. “Your father, Miss Tarrant, was a very brave man,” he said gravely. “He might, perhaps, have weathered the storm and salvaged something from the wreck of his fortunes, but there was always the danger that suspicion might be aroused and the rest of us implicated. He took the only course he could think of to prevent such a disaster. It would not be too much to say that he gave his life for his King.”

Charmian did not reply, and once again silence descended upon the room. Fenshawe moved quietly away and went to stand again by the window, but with his back to it this time so that he could watch the girl. He wanted her to have time to think over what he had said, to realize all its subtle implications, and to regret, as he felt certain she would, the persistence which had provoked his disclosures. There was still a little more to be said, and soon the right moment would come to say it.

For perhaps five minutes he stood there, watching the different emotions which were mirrored in her face, and then, judging that the time was now ripe, he went forward again to stand beside her. She looked up with a start, as thought she had forgotten his presence.

“It is natural,” he said, “that you should be disturbed, perhaps even shocked, by what I have told you, but you will perceive, I am sure, that I cannot afford to have any inquiry made into your father’s private affairs.” He paused, and then added in a voice charged with meaning: “
Any
inquiry!”

She stared at him in puzzlement which was only the beginning of alarm, and said in a faltering voice: “I do not understand.”

He smiled, but it was neither pleasant nor reassuring. “I think you do, my dear,” he said softly. “A little consideration will make plain to you, if it is not already obvious, that by telling you what I have, I place the lives and fortunes of numerous people in your hands. Now it may appear to you to be your duty to inform the authorities of these matters.” He paused to look inquiringly at her, but she made no reply, and only stared at him with frightened, fascinated eyes. He shook his head. “Do not attempt it, Miss Tarrant! We all regard you with affection, but nothing—nothing, you understand—must be permitted to endanger the Cause for which we work. Try to forget all that I have told you this evening. Believe me, it will be far better—for you—if you can!”

4

The Meeting

There was a storm blowing up from the north-west, and the day, which had been hot and bright, was becoming rapidly overcast. Sir Piers Wychwood, riding homewards to Wychwood Chase, cast a knowledgeable eye at the great bank of purple-black clouds sweeping across the sky, and urged his horse from a trot to a canter. The storm was likely to be violent when it broke, and he had no desire to be caught by it in the open.

He was returning from a visit to the house of General Sir Percival Grey, a few miles westward along the coast, during which he had tried to enlist the old gentleman’s support in his attempts to put an end to what Piers felt certain was a dangerous and treasonable traffic between the exiled Stuarts and their supporters in England. As before, he had met with no success. He had no proof to offer, and without it the General, like other local landowners, was not disposed to interfere in the smuggling which had been profitably carried on along the coast for generations. Everyone took advantage of it; many of the smugglers were respected members of the community, and if there was a rougher element among them which occasionally gave rise to crimes of quite appalling violence, that was all the more reason not to incur their ill-will. The local Excisemen seemed incredibly apathetic, and even fiery old General Grey, glaring at Piers from beneath bushy white brows, had hinted irritably that he was making a mountain out of a very small molehill.

Piers had an uneasy suspicion that the General had expected him to broach a very different subject—in short, to offer for the hand of his grand-daughter, Miss Selina. (Piers’ sister Dorothy maintained that Selina herself had been expecting it for years.) It would be an eminently suitable match, even though Miss Grey, a lady of high principles and a decided turn of mind, was twenty-five years old and of a disposition which was at times a little less than amiable. She was well-born and well-dowered, and as practical and level-headed as Piers himself. There were no frivolously romantic notions in Selina’s neat, dark head; if Piers offered for her she would accept him, since he was the most eligible bachelor in the neighbourhood, and she would be a dutiful wife and a capable mistress of his household.

It was all so very suitable that Piers himself did not know why he still held back from the final, irrevocable step. It was high time he married. Better, perhaps, to do so now, and forget the suspected Jacobite conspiracies in which no one but himself seemed particularly interested.

Forget, too, that memory which for weeks had haunted him with a persistence of which he was a little ashamed, the memory of a girl’s white face in the torchlight. In vain he had tried to erase it from his mind, and he found himself constantly indulging in idle, profitless speculation concerning her. Had she found comfort in her hour of trouble? By what name was she known, and what did she look like when she smiled?

Finding himself thus unprofitably engaged once more, he uttered an exclamation of impatience, and urged his horse briskly up the long, gentle slope of the hill which lay between him and the gates of his home. He reached its crest, and before him the road swept down in a long curve past the gates, to disappear a short distance beyond into the belt of woodland which lay between Wychwood Chase and the village half a mile away. Ahead of him, about half-way down the slope, a coach was travelling in the same direction, driven in a way which showed more regard for speed than for safety. It was an elegant vehicle of polished wood and gleaming paintwork, drawn by a team of powerful bays, and Sir Piers had no difficulty in recognizing it as the property of Colonel Fenshawe.

He frowned, and slackened speed again, for he had no doubt that the coach contained Lavinia Fenshawe, whom he disliked intensely. He had heard, somewhat to his surprise, that she was staying at Bell Orchard. Her present haste, like his own, was probably due to a desire to reach home before the storm broke, and if he overtook her before she had passed his gates, common civility would compel him to offer her shelter at the Chase until it was over.

So he checked his horse and waited in the shadow of an overhanging tree, and as he watched the swaying, lurching carriage ahead of him, that importunate memory returned again. He had only to close his eyes to see the girl as vividly as he had seen her that night outside Fenshawe’s house, with her shimmering gown and powdered hair and sweet, grief-stricken face. What the devil ailed him, that he could not put her out of his mind?

The coach was level with the gates; it was past them; in a few moments it would be out of sight among the trees and he could ride on again. It was jolting wildly over the ill-kept surface of the road, and even as Piers prepared to move forward, the off hind wheel struck a large, protruding stone and was wrenched off, to go bounding away into the tall grass on the far side of the road. The coach lurched crazily on to its side and came to rest at a precarious angle in the ditch, only prevented from overturning completely by the hedge-crowned bank beyond. The horses plunged and reared in a panic which the coachman was unable to control, and the groom, flung from his place by the impact but apparently unhurt, scrambled shakily to his feet and stumbled towards them, showing a fine disregard for the occupants of the carriage.

Piers set spur to his horse and plunged headlong down the hill towards the scene of the accident. Drawing rein beside the wrecked coach, he leaned from the saddle to wrench open the door, and then sprang to the ground as Mrs. Fenshawe appeared in the aperture. She was considerably dishevelled, her wide straw hat tilted at a ridiculous angle, and though her face was white, it soon became clear that this was due more to anger than to fright. She allowed Piers to help her down from her precarious perch, but once safely on the ground turned from him with scarcely a word of thanks to vent the full force of her fury on the unfortunate servants.

A faint sound from within the coach caught Piers’ attention, and with a startled glance at the unheeding Mrs. Fenshawe he set a foot on the wheel and swung himself up to look into its interior, to find there the huddled, dark-clad figure of a second woman, who appeared to be trying to raise herself from the far corner, where the thorny branches of the hedge protruded through the shattered windows. Assuming this to be Mrs. Fenshawe’s maid, and reflecting that it was characteristic of that lady to have forgotten her, he made haste to go to her assistance.

Broken glass splintered beneath his feet as he slid rather than stepped down the sloping floor of the coach, but he steadied himself by gripping one of the leather straps and got his free arm round the woman’s waist, hoisting her to her feet. She clutched at his coat, saying in a dazed murmur:

“What happened? Oh, my head!”

Her voice was soft and well-bred, certainly not the voice of a waiting-woman, and Piers realized that it was not a servant but a friend whom Lavinia Fenshawe had so callously abandoned.

“The coach lost a wheel, ma’am, and ended in the ditch,” he replied reassuringly. “Do you feel equal to being helped down on to the road?”

“I—I think so,” she faltered. “I struck my head, and was knocked senseless for a moment.”

She lifted her face towards him as she spoke, and the black silk hood slipped back from disordered, light-brown hair. For the first time he could see her clearly, and it was with a distinct sense of shock that he found himself looking down into the face which had lingered so vividly in his memory. He was astonished, and yet beyond astonishment was the curious feeling that this meeting was inevitable, and had been so ever since the moment he first saw her in London. Such odd fancies did not usually trouble the practical mind of Sir Piers Wychwood, and once again he wondered impatiently why this girl should have so strange an effect upon him.

“Charmian!” It was Lavinia Fenshawe’s voice, petulantly inquiring, indicating that she had at length remembered her companion. “Charmian, are you hurt? Pray, Sir Piers, tell me what is amiss!”

“One moment, Mrs. Fenshawe! Your friend is a good deal shaken,” he replied, and looked down at Charmian with a smile. “You will be out of here in a trice, ma’am, and then you will feel a great deal better. Come, let me help you!”

He assisted her to reach the doorway, and saw her aided to the ground by Mrs. Fenshawe and the groom, who had at length been prevailed upon to leave his horses. Lavinia, apparently anxious to make amends, clasped the girl in her arms.

“My poor child, are you sure you are not hurt? I vow I am the most heartless wretch alive to neglect you so!”

Charmian, who, besides a blow on the head, had sustained the shock of being flung into a corner of the coach with Mrs. Fenshawe’s substantial weight on top of her, was in fact feeling considerably bruised and shaken, but managed to summon up a faint smile.

“It does not matter, Lavinia, and I am not hurt, truly I am not. It was as great a shock for you as it was for me.” Lightning flickered above the hill behind them, and a rumble of thunder echoed her words. Piers, who had jumped down and gone to look at the horses, now returned to the two ladies and said briskly:

“Mrs. Fenshawe, the storm is almost upon us and I fear there is no time to reach the Chase, but if you will condescend to come to the lodge, my people there will be glad to offer you shelter. Your servants can lead the horses up to the stables, and see to it that as soon as the storm is over, one of my carriages is made ready to convey you home.”

Lavinia looked at her wrecked coach and then at the threatening sky, and realized that she had little choice. She disliked Piers Wychwood quite as much as he disliked her, looking upon him as a slow-witted country squire with no social graces, but the only alternative to his suggestion was to trudge the half-mile to the village and probably be drenched with rain before she got there. She inclined her head with frigid courtesy.

“You are very kind, sir, and we will do as you suggest. Come, Charmian!”

She swept past him with as much dignity as the situation permitted, and started back along the dusty road towards the lodge, leaving Piers torn between amusement and annoyance. He found this grand manner ridiculous, since not five minutes before she had been railing like a fishwife at her servants. Charmian had obediently followed her friend, and Piers delayed only long enough to issue a few brief orders to the coachman and groom before hurrying after the ladies.

As he came up with them, Charmian stumbled and nearly fell, and he put out a hand to steady her, looking with some concern at her white face.

“I fear you are still feeling considerably shaken, ma’am,” he said in his deep, pleasant voice. “Pray take my arm.”

She did so with a murmur of thanks, and leaned gratefully upon it, for her head throbbed and she felt more than a little dizzy. Lavinia was walking a yard or two ahead and Charmian could not see her face, but did not need to do so to know that the elder woman was still in a furious temper. The situation savoured slightly of the ridiculous, and that was something Lavinia could not endure.

A few drops of rain pattered down, heralds of the approaching storm, and without looking round Mrs. Fenshawe quickened her pace. Charmian would have done likewise, but Piers said calmly:

“Do not disturb yourself, ma’am. We have only a few yards to go and the storm is still a little way off. We shall reach the lodge before the rain becomes heavy.”

She realized that what he said was true, for though the hiss of the rain could be clearly heard as the storm swept down the valley towards them, the imposing gates of Wychwood Chase were now close at hand. She glanced up at her rescuer, really looking at him for the first time, for hitherto the only thing about him which made any impression upon her was his kindness, and the reassuring calm of his manner.

He was a young man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a pleasant but somewhat serious countenance. There was a good deal of resolution in the firm lips and square chin, and the expression of the blue-grey eyes was extremely level and direct. His fair hair was drawn severely back in a ribbon, and his attire of brown cloth coat, buff breeches and gleaming top-boots almost austere in its plainness. Yet he had an air of quiet assurance which could come only from wealth and breeding, and there was some quality about him, a kind of serene strength, which Charmian found oddly comforting. The thought passed fleetingly through her mind that this was one man upon whom it would be safe to rely.

When they reached the lodge they found that Lavinia had already gone inside, but the lodge-keeper was at the door to meet them, while his wife made Mrs. Fenshawe free of the tiny parlour. Both husband and wife were considerably flustered, a state of mind which Lavinia’s disdainful air did nothing to dispel, but the arrival of Sir Piers soon caused a calmer atmosphere to prevail. Charmian, seeing how with a word and a smile he set the couple at their ease, and observing the obvious affection with which they regarded him, could not help contrasting this with Bell Orchard, where servants seemed to be either cowed or intolerably insolent.

Lavinia, belatedly recalling the demands of etiquette, formally introduced Sir Piers to Miss Tarrant, before inquiring, with a civility which failed to mask complete indifference, after the health of his mother and sister. He assured her that both were well, and thereafter they chatted with careful politeness upon topics of general interest. Charmian took no part in the conversation, but was glad to lean back in her chair and close her eyes, only half-attending to what was being said. The rain was now lashing furiously about the little house, and lightning and thunder followed each other almost continuously, and Mrs. Fenshawe, after some ten minutes of courteous but laboured conversation, left her chair and went to stand by the window, watching the violence of the storm. Piers remained leaning against the table in the middle of the room, and thoughtfully studied Miss Tarrant, who was still sitting with closed eyes. The significance of her black gown, relieved only by a narrow edging of lace about the neck, and a deeper fall of lace where the sleeves ended, was not lost upon him, and although the shocked bewilderment he remembered so vividly had faded from her face, the marks of a deeper and more enduring sorrow had succeeded it. He read it in the shadowed eyes and drooping lips, in the overwhelming sadness of her whole countenance as she sat, unaware of his regard and so totally unguarded, before him.