The Prisoner (13 page)

“My goodness, Jamie, you look like you fell into the coal bin!” Genevieve looked at her brother's blackened face and hands in amusement.

“I'm cleaning the black off the iron,” Jamie reported proudly.

“So I see. The question is, who is going to clean the black off of you?”

Jamie looked down at his impossibly filthy shirt, arms, and hands. “It's not that bad,” he assured her brightly. “I think it will come off with a bit of Eunice's soap.”

“More like we'll be needin' a whole kettle of soap,” Doreen predicted. “Dinna fret, Miss Genevieve, I'll be tossin' him in the bath the moment he's finished, and won't let him touch a thing on the way upstairs.”

“That's fine, Doreen.” Genevieve gently ruffled her hand through the one patch of Jamie's berry-tinged hair that looked relatively clean. If there was one thing she had learned in eight years of raising children, it was that if there was a mess to be either made or found, her boys were sure to get into it. “After you have all finished your chores, I thought it might be nice for us to bundle up in our coats and hats and take a walk. It has started to snow and—”

A loud rap upon the door interrupted her.

“Oliver, would you kindly see who that is?” She struggled to control the shrill thread that snaked through her voice every time someone had come to their door since Haydon's arrival a week earlier. Even the regular delivery of their milk and butter filled her with panic that somehow Lord Redmond had been found out and they were all going to be dragged away to prison.

“Right, ye lassies wipe down the lamps well with these rags, then screw the tops on and place the chimneys back,” instructed Oliver, demonstrating his typical lack of urgency about going to the door. “Once they've had a chance to dry we'll put the wicks in, an' I promise ye'll be amazed—”

“The door, Oliver?” Genevieve persisted. The knocking was growing louder.

“I'm gettin' to it, lass,” Oliver assured her. He cast a speculative eye at Haydon. “Were ye wantin' to slip out the back, lad—just in case?”

Haydon shook his head. If the authorities had somehow deduced that Maxwell Blake was in fact their missing prisoner, he would not abandon Genevieve and her family to try to explain why they had protected him. He would stay with her and make sure the police understood that he had forced her to help him.

“Very well. I'll make a lot of noise if I'm thinkin' 'tis someone ye might not be so keen to meet.” Oliver stood and carefully straightened his frayed jacket before heading out of the kitchen to the front door.

“All right, then, duckies, let's keep working,” said Eunice, trying to alleviate the pall of anxiety that had settled over the kitchen. “Being busy improves yer mind and cheers yer heart.”

Everyone in the kitchen continued with their chores in uneasy silence.

“It's that old codger Humphries from the bank,” Oliver reported, shuffling in a moment later. “Says he needs to speak with ye urgently, lass—an' yer husband, Mr. Blake, as well. It seems news of yer marriage has traveled through Inveraray. No doubt he's come to offer his congratulations.” His tone was scornful.

“Thank you, Oliver.” Genevieve regarded Haydon uncertainly. “I imagine Mr. Humphries would think it strange if I were to meet with him now without my husband—but of course if you'd rather not, I understand.”

“I would be delighted to meet my wife's bank manager.” He regarded her steadily as he offered her his arm.

Genevieve tentatively laid her hand upon his sleeve. She could feel the heat and strength of him shifting beneath her palm, like the muscles of a panther poised to strike. She found herself wanting to grip him tighter, to feel the marble hardness of him flexing against her grasp. She resisted the impulse and lightened her hold on him, until her trembling fingers barely grazed the finely woven fabric of his dark coat.

“Mr. Humphries, how pleasant to see you,” she said as they entered the drawing room. “I should like to introduce my husband, Mr. Maxwell Blake. Maxwell, this is Mr. Gerald Humphries, manager of the Royal Bank of Scotland branch here in Inveraray.”

Haydon blinked at the bank manager in astonishment.

Mr. Humphries was a shriveled little raisin of a man, with twiglike arms and legs that looked wholly insubstantial for supporting the fragile frame over which his loose-fitting coat and trousers were arranged. His thinning white hair was carefully parted just above his left ear, then painstakingly scraped up and over his shiny pink pate and liberally pomaded into place. Unfortunately, some of the slicked-down strands had separated, making it look as though his bald head were bursting through a fibrous white helmet. He required the assistance of a polished black cane to rise from the chair in which he had been seated, and upon rising to his feet he began to quiver so alarmingly Haydon was worried that he was going to topple right over.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Humphries,” said Haydon, striding forward with his hand outstretched so that he could catch the ancient little gnome if he fell.

Mr. Humphries grabbed Haydon's hand in his clawlike fingers and held on, steadying himself. “And you, sir,” he said cheerfully. “A great pleasure indeed.” He gazed at Haydon with eyes like blackberries, aged but alert. “When I first heard that you had married dear Miss MacPhail here, I said to myself, that's a fine man who would take on an impossibly heavy burden like that. A man of principle. A man of generosity. And, I daresay, a man of considerable means.” He gave him a sly wink. “Of course, Miss MacPhail is exceptionally lovely,” he hastened to add, smiling fondly at Genevieve, “but it takes a remarkable man to see the beauty not just in her, but in all those children as well. Six, now, isn't it, counting that new lad? And you're so young.” He looked faintly envious as he eyed Haydon up and down. “Lots of years ahead of you. Marriage, children, money.” He shook his head, nearly overcome with the pleasure of it all. “You're a lucky lass, Mrs. Blake, to have found this handsome knight, here. I wish you and Mr. Blake here years of happiness.”

“Thank you, Mr. Humphries.” Genevieve tried to remain patient as her bank manager espoused the joys of marriage. For Mr. Humphries to make a personal call upon her could only mean there was a problem with her account. She seated herself upon the sofa, feeling a knot of tension stiffen her back. “Can we offer you some refreshment?”

He waved a gnarled hand in the air. “Thank you, no. I don't wish to intrude upon you young newlyweds. I only wanted to offer my congratulations, and to inform you and your new husband of a small development regarding your account with the bank.” He permitted Haydon to ease him back into his chair.

“Which is?”

“Your account is, regrettably, empty.”

Genevieve regarded him in shock. “But—it can't be…I deposited a substantial sum of money into it just two weeks ago. There were sufficient funds there to last at least four months.”

“And so there were,” Mr. Humphries agreed. “I registered the funds myself.” He smiled at Haydon, exposing a row of brittle yellow teeth. “I may have attained the position of bank manager, but I do try to offer my personal service with certain special clients, like your charming wife here. Why, I've known her from the time she was in nappies. Used to handle all of her father's accounts, God rest his soul. A most charming and cultivated man, Viscount Brynley was, and so proud of his bonny wee lass—”

“Forgive me for interrupting, Mr. Humphries,” said Genevieve, who was anxiously clutching the armrest of the sofa, “but what has happened to my money?”

Mr. Humphries pulled his white brows together in puzzlement. “Money? Oh, yes, indeed. Those funds had to be taken and applied to the past-due payments on your mortgage, my dear. Only made a small dent in them, to be sure, but every little bit counts.” He turned to Haydon, chuckling. “I'm sure you're aware, Mr. Blake, if you take a wee penny here and a wee penny there—”

“But why?” Panic was rising fast within her. “You knew that money was set aside to cover our living expenses over the next few months—as the money in that account always is. Why would you use it to make a payment to the mortgage?”

Mr. Humphries sighed. “Well, my dear, unfortunately the decision was not mine. I received written instructions from our Glasgow offices directing me to address the issue of your arrears immediately. Most emphatic they were on that point. It seems we have gone on a bit too long in ignoring your mortgage payments, which, as you know, have increased considerably over the years as you have required further loans. I had tried to explain to them that you are just getting settled and that the payments will be forthcoming in the future, but they were having none of it. Said that the terms I had extended you were contrary to the Royal Bank of Scotland's policy.” He scowled with indignation. “Imagine—I've been with the bank over fifty years, and some milk-fed pup is trying to tell me about bank policy. Insulting, I call it,” he railed, thumping his cane on the floor. “Had I the time to make the trip, I'd go there myself and take this lad to task. I'd tell him that I've been managing the bank's affairs in Inveraray since he was puking in a cradle, and I don't need some stripling to tell me how to do business.”

Genevieve's mind was reeling. “We were depending on that money to get us through the next few months. What am I going to do?”

Mr. Humphries blinked. “Do? Why, just have your husband cover the balance,” he answered happily, pleased to have the solution. “I can open an account for you today, Mr. Blake, and you can arrange to transfer the funds to discharge both the mortgage and the arrears, and the whole matter shall be resolved. We'll close your account, my dear,” he added, looking fondly at Genevieve, “and you need never worry your bonny head about these dreary financial matters again. Won't that be a relief?”

Of course, thought Haydon, watching in grim silence as the last tint of color drained from Genevieve's face. Mr. Humphries had heard that his client was married. And if the town gossips had been doing their job, he had likely been informed that she had married an older man of nearly forty, who was well dressed and cultivated—apparently a man of some means. As a husband was responsible for his wife's debts, Mr. Humphries had come to the utterly reasonable conclusion that Mr. Maxwell Blake would simply pay off Genevieve's debts and that would be that. And therefore he had emptied Genevieve's account, as directed, which was the bank's right to do if she had defaulted on her mortgage payments.

“What is the figure for the amount owing?” Haydon asked calmly. Whatever happened, they must give no indication that they were unable to honor their debts.

“You'll forgive me if I am unable to provide you with the exact figure here,” apologized Mr. Humphries. “If you would make an appointment to come and see me at the bank, I shall be able to calculate it more accurately.”

“Approximately.”

Mr. Humphries frowned, as if he thought it unseemly of Haydon to pursue such a delicate matter beyond the hallowed sanctum of a bank. “The monthly mortgage has not been paid for nearly two years—but I applied the funds in Mrs. Blake's account to that, which covered nearly two months. Therefore there is some twenty-two months still owing—plus interest, of course.”

“How much?” persisted Haydon.

Mr. Humphries scratched his pointed chin, thinking. “Let's see, this house was already mortgaged for some five hundred pounds at the time of the viscount's death. Your wife has taken out numerous additional loans against the remaining equity over the years, which have been paid only infrequently until the year before last. That was when Mrs. Blake came to me and asked if she could avoid making payments at all for a few months. I was, of course, most anxious to be of assistance, and told her not to concern herself with the loans until she was able. I do try to be accommodating to my clients,” he assured Haydon.

Haydon had to fight to keep from raising his voice. “How much?”

“I believe the mortgages now total some two thousand seven hundred pounds. The arrears are in the vicinity of approximately four hundred and forty pounds, including principal and interest.”

Genevieve felt as if a clamp had tightened around her chest. How would she ever come up with such an enormous sum?

“And what terms is the bank offering?” asked Haydon, his expression utterly composed.

“I'm afraid the arrears must be paid at once,” replied Mr. Humphries. “And henceforth—and I do apologize for the stringency that the bank feels it must invoke here—henceforth the monthly principal and interest against the mortgage is to be paid without fail on the first of every month.” His blue-veined lips flattened into a thin line, as if his next words tasted unpleasant. “I hope you will forgive me for bearing this most disagreeable message to you, but the bank has said that if you do not honor the arrears in full within the next thirty days, it shall be forced to bring proceedings against you to sell the house and secure all the moneys owed on it. But that, of course, won't be necessary, now that you have Mr. Blake here to take care of things for you.” He beamed happily at both of them.

“No,” Genevieve murmured, feeling sick. “That won't be necessary.”

“Excellent.” Leaning heavily upon his cane, he managed to extricate his spindly frame from his chair. “Well, then, Mr. Blake, shall we meet at my office tomorrow at, say, eleven o'clock, and get this matter settled?”

“That would be fine.” Haydon smiled, giving no indication that he was concerned in the least about the state of his wife's finances. “Thank you so much for coming here today in person to bring this matter to our attention. Permit me to see you to the door.”

“As always, it is a pleasure to see you, my dear,” said Mr. Humphries, giving Genevieve a creaking bow. “Marriage clearly agrees with you—you look positively radiant.”