The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster (15 page)

Mary Westerman drew the hood of her cloak closer. “Warning of—what, pray?” she asked pertly. “My dear aunts have the kindest hearts in the world. If they offended, sir—”

Cranford groaned, “Do not! You know very well that I am in no state to cross swords with you.”

She gave a throaty little chuckle and it occurred to him that although he had known her for a comparatively short while, he felt quite at ease in having made such a remark, as if she were a close friend. “I’ve no doubt your aunts are very kind,” he said. “But you must own they are rather—er—”

“Unusual? Yes. But it is gauche in you to say so!”

He pulled aside her hood, and searching her face anxiously saw that her eyes again held that sparkling look of mischief. Relieved, he pointed out, “I didn’t say it.”

“But you were thinking it.” Again came that soft little chuckle. “If you could have seen your face when Aunt Celeste said you were going off in a huff because we’d not supplied you with brandy! Yes, I know I am naughty to tease you so. They are darlings, but I’ll admit that on first meeting they can be rather… startling. I really did try to—ah, prepare you, but you were having such a lovely time indulging your wrath that you would not listen. Are you quite wrung out? I had thought an Army officer—even one with revolutionary tendencies—would be accustomed to dealing with ladies.”

“So had I,” he said with a grin. “But never in my life have I met such an—to use your own term—an
unusual
trio! I mean no offence, but—are they—always like—er, that?”

“They are held to be a trifle eccentric, but they liked you.” She added with a dimple, “Especially Aunt Celeste.”

Cranford said ruefully. “She is a beautiful lady, but—”

“I know. Poor Aunt Celeste. She is my mother’s youngest sister and has never married. Aunt Caroline and Aunt Lucretia were married to Mama’s elder brothers. They are both widows now. Truly, I doubt they had any thought to frighten you.”

“Frighten me? Ma’am, I was terrified! There must surely be a gentleman in your family with whom I can discuss business matters? I want to bid on this parcel of land, and I want that ugly fence and the sign torn down. You spoke of your father, I think?”

“Yes. Papa is a fine scholar, but he is from Town at present.”

“Do you know when he will return? Is he perhaps at University? I could ride up there, if—”

“I meant that he is out of the country. He does not teach, though he could. He has a great interest in antiquities. In fact, he is the one gave me my necklace. If you wish to find out about the sale of this property, our solicitor can probably help you. I believe he lives in Lincoln’s Inn, or has offices there. His name is—um, let me see now… Shorey, or is it Story? No!
Shorewood
, that’s it!”

He thanked her and swung open the door to the small barn and stables. Inside, it was warm and fragrant. Two lanterns hung from beams and a stove held small glowing logs. A groom came running, and Miss Westerman stayed to stroke Tassels while the filly was being saddled up. She said admiringly, “She really is a beauty. Did you buy her from someone, or was she bred on your estate?”

The groom gave an amused snort and she glanced at him curiously.

Cranford said with a smile, “Tassels was bred on Gresford Finchley’s land.”

Her eyes widened. “And he sold her? How very odd!”

“Matter of fact, the Major gave her to me.”

“Good gracious! He
did?
Now that I find even more odd. I see you know all about it, Thomas.”

The groom nodded. “Everyone in these parts knows, miss. Lieutenant Cranford dug the Major out of a landslide, and was give the filly as a reward. Her being two short jumps from being sold fer hoss-meat.”

“This lovely lady?” Miss Westerman stroked the velvety nose gently. “I find it hard to believe that.”

“She weren’t a lovely lady then, miss,” explained the groom. “A very sick little hoss, she were. The Major thought as he was givin’ nothing away.” He barked a laugh. “They do say as he’s never fergive hisself—nor you, sir!”

“People say too much.” Cranford pressed a coin into the man’s hand as he took the reins. “Thank you.”

Walking beside Cranford to the door, Miss Westerman said, “Laura Finchley had told me her father almost died in a landslide a few years ago. Had you a great struggle to save Tassels?”

“It was touch-and-go for several months, but we were able to pull her through, fortunately.”

“Small wonder she so obviously adores you. Did you train her yourself?”

“Yes. Although my steward has a magical touch with horses, and he worked with her also. She’s incredibly fast.” He prepared to mount up. “Well, I must be on my way, ma’am, so—”

She put a small detaining hand on his arm. “You meant Florian Consett. He is your new steward, I think?”

“And bids fair to be a good one. Do you know Miss Finchley well, ma’am?”

“Very well indeed. We were at the same Young Ladies Seminary for two years and became best of friends. Laura is a wonderful girl, and as good as she is lovely. Some lucky man will win a very special wife when she marries.”

He said with a slight frown, “Someone like Florian Consett, for example?”

“Ah! So you know. I wasn’t sure. Do you not approve? They are ideally suited, and deep in love.”

“And very young.”

“Perhaps, but Laura has a sensible head on her shoulders, and Florian somehow seems much older than his years.”

“He’s had a hard life. If you know this much, you must be aware that her father regards him as a thief and a vagrant, and will have none of him.”

“Major Finchley thinks he is a gypsy, but if he were a very rich gypsy, I suspect he would sing a different tune. Oh, do not put up your brows at me! I know I should not say such things, but after all, Florian was stolen as a child. How can anyone know his ancestry? He might be just as well-born as the Major. Certainly, he has a more agreeable nature! I’d hoped you wouldn’t hold his lack of family background against him.”

“You may believe I do not. I count him a good friend. And if I ‘put up’ my brows, as you say, Miss Westerman, ’twas because you echoed my own thoughts.”

She said eagerly, “Then you will help them?”

“To—what? Heart-break? Certainly not! And if you have any influence with Miss Finchley, I beg you will warn her. If she continues to encourage Florian, she may well be inviting tragedy. Jove! Is that what is meant by looking daggers’?”

“If it is not, then I have failed,” she said darkly.

“I consider myself properly slain.” Failing to win an answering smile, he said, “Try to look at their situation reasonably, Miss Mary, and don’t be too vexed with me. Whatever you or I may think of the Major, he is her father and has a right to want the best for her future.”

She tossed her head and did not comment.

Mounting up, he said, “It’s getting dark. May I escort you back to the house?”

“You may not!” With a swirl of her cloak, she walked rapidly away.

Cranford watched her for a moment, then turned Tassels towards Muse Manor. Miss Mary Westerman was properly cross with him. How like a woman to be so swept up in a romantical involvement that she could not see the danger looming right under her pretty nose. Still, she was a nice little lady and had, for a time, taken his mind from his own troubles, now made so much worse by the tragic loss of poor Gertrude and a perverse worry because, while not wishing his twin to be troubled, he could not dismiss the feeling that it was unlike Perry not to have at least posted off an enquiry as to the state of affairs at the Manor.

A white square loomed up. In large red letters the word SHOT stood out. He swore softly. Finchley’s revolting warning. If he carried an axe or a rope on his saddle… But he didn’t, and he could scarcely shoot the thing down. If he asked Tassels to kick out at such a narrow post she’d probably do her best but might damage her legs in the process. Several unused fence-posts had been piled to one side. A thought came to him. It wasn’t a windmill, exactly, but… Laughter danced into his eyes and he dismounted.

He muddied his cloak when he took up a likely-looking post, but he cared not a button. “I’ve always wanted to try this, Tassels my love,” he said. Mounting up again, he balanced his impromptu “lance” carefully, rode off a short way, then reined around. His first attempt at “tilting” failed; he grazed the post but almost lost his “lance” and his seat and had to turn the mare swiftly to avoid running into the fence. Tassels snorted and pranced as if she entered into the spirit of this new sport.

Boyishly exhilarated, he muttered,
“Nil desperandum,”
gave the mare a longer run, then yelled, “On with the joust, lass! Now!” They thundered at the “enemy” and the “lance” hit home squarely. The shock of the impact almost knocked Cranford from the saddle, and splinters from the “lance” drove through
his gloves, but the signpost lay vanquished in the mud, and he gave a whoop of triumph.

A squeal rang out. Guilt-ridden, he turned and saw Miss Mary Westerman jumping up and down and clapping her hands. “Bravo, Don Quixote,” she called gaily. “So end all villains!”

He swung from the saddle and swept her a low and flourishing bow, to which she responded with a deep curtsy.

Mounting up again as she ran to the cottage, he told himself sternly that it had been a childish prank as a result of which he’d ripped his gauntlets and put some nasty splinters in his hands. Miss Mary would be justified to judge him a proper fool. Still… she hadn’t seemed to think that. In fact she had entered into his scenario merrily. He grinned at Tassels’ ears and began to feel that in a small way he had struck a blow against tyranny. Also, there was no denying he was quite absurdly pleased that Miss Mary had not been disgusted by his nonsense.

When he rode into the Muse Manor stables it was dark and very cold. Bobby Peale, their young under-groom, ran out to take Tassels and as usual commented on her exceptional qualities. Reaching for the saddle-girth as Cranford started towards the Manor, he remarked, “They say lots of gents want her, sir. And that some has offered a high price.”

Cranford heard the note of anxiety in the young voice. Frowning, he paused and demanded, “What else do ‘they’ say? That the Cranfords are on the brink of losing their lands, perhaps?”

The youth flushed and answered nervously, “Meanin’ no disrespect, sir, but… yes, that’s what tavern talk says. Gawd ferbid, I says, Mr. Cranford. Not none of us here wants to lose our—our family. An’ if ’tis true—”

“That will do!” Florian had come into the barn and said sharply, “Tend to your duties, Peale, and keep your tongue in your pocket!”

Cranford said, “Don’t listen to tavern talk, Bobby. I appreciate
your loyalty, but we’re far from losing the Manor, I promise you!”

Walking beside Florian into a rising wind, he scolded, “You should be laid down on your bed!”

“I was. All day I mend fast, as you know. My apologies for Peale’s hasty tongue, sir. He’s a good lad, but—”

“But he’s afraid he’s about to lose his situation. Your friend Finchley has apparently spread the word, in which case I fancy the rest of the staff is worried.”

Florian hesitated.

“Blast the varmint!” Cranford stamped up the back steps angrily. It was doubtless a waste of time, but tomorrow he would see the village constable and at least make a report of trespass, the deliberate destruction of his new plough, and malicious cruelty to animals. He knew what old Bragg would say. “There just bean’t no proof, Lieutenant, sir. And without proof—what can a body do?”

Cranford’s early-morning visit with Constable Bragg was as fruitless as he had anticipated. The constable, on the far side of sixty, flabbily slow but honest and well-meaning, was horrified by the facts laid before him. He blinked his drooping eyes, clutched his sagging cheeks, and moaned his sympathy, but having made copious notes said sadly that Squire Cranford, for whom he entertained the deepest respect, had neither witnesses nor proof to offer. “Such dreadful things, sir, to happen on your own lands! Ungodly, is what it is! Downright evil! But, without proof, sir”—he sighed—“whatever is a body to do?”

Cranford worked off some of his frustration by riding at the gallop to the nearby hamlet of Short Shrift. The day was cloudy but dry, and the rush of cold air past his face was invigorating. The splinters his jousting had earned him were becoming a nuisance. With a mental note that he must soon make an effort to remove them, he went directly to the cottage of the stonemason
where Florian and the sturdy craftsman were deeply involved in a discussion of the rebuilding of Ezra Sweet’s cottage. Cranford listened to the opinions of his steward, and having requested that the construction of a new steeple and bell tower for St. Mark’s be accomplished, wherever possible, by workers from Muse Village, he left Florian to arrange the details and made his way to The Spotted Cat tavern for a late breakfast.

The tavern had been built a century earlier. The coffee-room was small and low-ceilinged, the floor had a decided slope to the east, and the settles and tables were dark with age, but a fine fire blazed on the hearth, and as usual, Cranford was greeted warmly by the host. He had no sooner been shown to a window table, however, than with a great blaring of the yard of tin and a thunder of twenty-four iron-shod hooves, the Royal Mail coach rolled into the yard. At once all was confusion: Ostlers rushed about to change teams, the coachman and guard roared orders for luggage and shipments to be taken off or put on the stage, continuing passengers hurried inside to gather what sustenance they might before the coach left again, disembarking passengers were met by friends or family and joined the breakfast quest, would-be passengers jostled for the coachman’s attention, and the solitary serving maid struggled to help everyone at once without much success.