The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster (36 page)

“Celeste?” echoed the footman, looking puzzled. “I thought as her name were Miss Mary.”

Through his teeth Cranford snarled, “If someone does not tell me what this is all about—”

“But I did, Mr. Piers,” answered Peddars hurriedly. “Tis Miss Mary Westerman. She did not go home for tea—nor for supper.”

“They found her cloak on Quail Hill,” supplied young Peale, his eyes round and solemn. “Her aunties come s’arternoon and is worried ’bout her.”

“The feathery lady is fair aside of herself,” confirmed the footman, as more men carrying torches or lanterns gathered about them. “It ’pears, sir, as the poor lady has been kidnapped!”

T
he gates stood wide, and despite the lateness of the hour, the Westerman cottage was a blaze of light when Cranford rode into the yard. He flung himself from the saddle and raced up the front steps. The door was opened before he knocked to reveal a liveried footman who scanned him anxiously, and beyond him Miss Celeste Westerman, who clutched her large fan as though it were an umbrella.

“Oh, ’tis you, dear sir,” she said in obvious disappointment, and called, “It is only Lieutenant Cranford, sisters!”

“We can see who it is, Celeste,” boomed Mrs. Caroline, appearing beside her, untidy as usual, and clearly distressed.

“So good of him to come,” trilled Mrs. Lucretia, squeezing between them and shaking a teaspoon playfully in Cranford’s face. “Come in, dear boy. Come along in. My, but how very worried you look, which is most appreciated! We are drinking tea in the large withdrawing-room. You must come and have a cup.”

“Thank you, but—” said Cranford.

“No, ‘buts’” Miss Celeste took his arm as though they
were lifelong friends and led the way along the corridor.

“You are very kind,” he said, containing his impatience with an effort. “But I only came to find out if you have heard anything of Miss Mary’s whereabouts, or—”

“Nothing! We have heard nothing at all.” Mrs. Lucretia wore a large dressing-gown of puce velvet trimmed with pink lace. With not a trace of embarrassment at entertaining a male caller
en déshabillé
, she sat down beside the low occasional table and took up a silver teapot. “Here you are,” she said, handing Cranford a brimming cup. “If you will not sit down you shall have to drink it standing up. We expected, you know—”

“To receive a note,” put in Miss Celeste, taking a chair and gazing soulfully at Cranford.

“Or a demand for ransom, or some such thing,” said Mrs. Caroline, rearranging her perpetual shawl.

Gulping his tea before he realized it was scalding, Cranford gasped, “But you’ve had no word at all, which could indicate that your niece wandered away and became lost, perhaps?”

“None. And we doubt it,” said Mrs. Caroline wearily. “We have thought and thought, and the curate came and Constable Bragg and our solicitor, and they all asked the same questions.”

“And all we know—” said Miss Celeste.

“Is that our dear girl said she was going out for a minute to see the horses,” Mrs. Lucretia imparted, “She is very fond of horses, you know.”

“Which was at afternoon tea time,” said Mrs. Caroline. “Soon after we arrived from Town.”

“And they found her cloak in the meadow, and we’ve not laid eyes on her since!” Miss Celeste sniffed unaffectedly, and dabbed a handkerchief at her eyes.

“But—who would want to kidnap Mary?” wailed Mrs. Lucretia.

“She is not rich,” Mrs. Caroline said heavily.

Miss Celeste waved her fan half-heartedly. “And her mama has not a penny to bless herself with.”

“It is all so
very
droll,” sighed Mrs. Lucretia.

Cranford stood. “I must go.” He hesitated. “Would you wish that I ask Father Barrick to come back and stay with you?”

“It is nice to have a gentleman nearby at times of crisis,” said Miss Celeste.

“And we are fortunate,” observed Mrs. Caroline. “We have our solicitor.”

“Shorewood?” Cranford asked, “He is still here?”

“In the kitchen,” said Mrs. Lucretia. “He wanted to be sure that Cook served us a good meal, but he means to stay for dinner, you know, so he is probably looking to his own menu.”

“And driving Cook demented,” growled Mrs. Caroline.

Relieved that the barrister was present and would be able to guide them in the event of a new development, Cranford said his farewells.

Mrs. Lucretia accompanied him to the front door. In the entrance hall, as he took his hat and gauntlets from the table, she said, “You have lost your heart, I think, Lieutenant.”

He drew a breath and said levelly, “I love your niece, ma’am.”

“Poor boy.” She shook her head. “You must find another lady. Mary is a dear child, but stubborn as was her grandmama. If she cannot have Gervaise, she will never marry. I am very sorry but—so it is.”

Through the endless hours that followed, those words haunted Cranford. The moon had broken through the clouds, making it easier to find his way, but he was bedevilled by the knowledge that he knew not where to look. Constable Bragg had told him that many search parties were scouring the area searching for “the poor lost young lady”; thus far without result. The fact that Mary’s cloak had been found caused the constable to shake his head bodingly and sigh that it was “a bad sign, Squire. A dreadful bad sign.”

He returned home in the hope that Mary had gone there. His aunt informed him that Major Finchley had called to enquire
if Miss Westerman-Stansbury had come to the Manor. “He actually looked concerned,” she exclaimed, awed. “And said Miss Mary had long been a good friend to his daughter, who is greatly distressed by the news.”

Having determined that every able-bodied man on his staff was assisting in the search, Cranford rode out again. Refusing to bow to weariness, he scoured the meadows, calling Mary’s name. He stopped to investigate an abandoned cottage and several sheds where she might have taken shelter from the wintry night air, but at each location found only emptiness. He rode through the woods, calling her, straining his ears for the answer that never came, plagued by the awareness that it was cold and she was out somewhere without her cloak. He dismounted and climbed down into a small gorge, dreading what he might find, but succeeded only in disturbing a fox that scurried away, grumbling. Proceeding to the toll-road, he questioned the gatekeepers and met with irked responses that no such person had passed their way and that several other gents had already asked the same question. His offer of a generous reward for information leading to the lady’s rescue evoked more cordial reactions, and he turned back towards his estate followed by promises to be on the alert for anyone answering Miss Stansbury’s description.

“… If she cannot have Gervaise, she will never marry…”

Almost, he could hear Mrs. Lucretia’s mournful tones. She was wrong, he thought defiantly. Mary’s nature was too affectionate to permit that she could choose to go through life alone, denied the blessing of children. If ever a lady was meant for motherhood… That picture brought an exquisite pang. He thought wretchedly,
‘Why
did she have to give her heart to Gervaise Valerian?’ If she had chosen a good man, a man like Tio, or Jamie Morris, or Roly Mathieson, he could have borne it—somehow. But—
Valerian?

Perry’s words echoed in his ears: “Does it occur to you that he may really have come to care for her?”

“No!” he told Tassels’ left ear vehemently. “He is too much of a care-for-nobody!”

Tio had said, “I know you have never liked him…”

“They all think me prejudiced,” he grumbled to Tassels’ right ear.

Was it true? Why had he always so disliked the man? Because he was so dandified and affected? Because he cared not whom he offended, or how many feelings were hurt by his very lack of caring? Because Sir Simon still lived, and should be part of his life were he anything but a selfish ingrate? And now, having his choice of London’s Toasts, Valerian had chosen the one lady to whom he himself had so completely given his heart!

Conscience argued, “Who set you up as judge and jury, Piers Cranford? Say truth! You envy him more than the fact that his father yet lives! You envy his carefree life and abundant fortune, his dashing manners and the way all the women adore him! Were you to be honest, you would admit that you are simply—”

“I am
not
jealous!” he declared to no one in particular.

Tassels tossed her head, and he sighed and said wearily, “You’re in the right of it, lass. I’m talking nonsense which will—” He broke off as it dawned on him that they were on Hound’s Tooth Hill. He had intended to seek high ground but had no recollection of guiding the mare up here.

“Good girl,” he said, drawing her to a halt.

Bathed in the moon’s soft glow, the countryside stretched out below him in a tidy patchwork; not clearly defined for more than a half-mile or so, but sufficiently to allow him to detect a coach or rider should anyone pass within that patchwork. All was still, all was quiet. Save for the hooting of an owl and the whisper of the night wind, it was so peaceful… His head bowed and his thoughts faded. Jerking his head up again, he acknowledged that he was very tired. Perhaps, if he were to close his eyes—just for a minute or two…

Tassels snorted, and moved restlessly. Cranford was at
once awake, and cursed himself for a fool. He had dropped off. And bless his silver lady for having woken him. Not that there was anyone in sight. But… there was a stirring on the air, more felt than heard. Muffled with distance at first, but drawing nearer until he could identify hoofbeats. Someone was travelling at the gallop—a chancy business at night, even with the moon. From the copse of trees where he had waited for fear of being silhouetted against the sky, he could see the horse now. A tall horse, and a rider who crouched low in the saddle and rode as if a troop of dragoons followed. Cranford’s heart gave a spasmodic leap. He knew that fine black stallion. Beyond doubting, the horseman was his pseudo-kinsman—Gervaise Valerian! And what should bring the fellow here? At this hour? Unless…

It had surprised him to learn that Valerian was distantly related to Marbury and had thus been invited to accompany the duke and his party to the steeplechase. But had the dandy actually been courting Mary for some time? Both she and her aunt had seemed quite at ease in his company, rather than evincing the resentment they might logically have been expected to harbour against him. Had Valerian made a habit of crossing Muse Manor lands to visit the lady he was to have wed? Cranford scowled. He had been unable to summon much confidence in Mary’s Plan to support herself by becoming a successful authoress. Had she in fact fobbed him off with that tale while keeping secret trysts with the man she loved? If that was the case, he had been a proper fool. Well, he would find out tonight. It would be better to know the truth, however bitter, than to keep on hoping.

His jaw tightening, he said, “Come on, girl,” and guided Tassels down the hill.

It was a hare-and-hounds chase after that. Keeping to cover as far as possible, Cranford neither ventured too close nor ever lost sight of his quarry. It became clear that Valerian was doing all in his power to avoid any pursuit. He followed a wildly erratic
route, often glancing behind him, abruptly turning about to retrace his path until it was impossible to guess his ultimate destination. Twice, Cranford was almost caught, reining Tassels behind clumps of shrubs the first time, and next turning in amongst a copse of birch trees with scant seconds to spare. On the third near-miss, he hung back for longer than usual and it was thus he heard another rider approaching. At first he feared Valerian had seen his plunge into concealment and was returning to accuse him, but then he realized there was more than one horse and that they were not ahead, but behind him. He swung from the saddle and held Tassels’ nostrils. A moment later, two horses came up at the gallop. They halted only a few feet from the copse. The first rider was leaning forward, scanning the meadow intently. Scarcely daring to breathe, Cranford heard an impassioned oath, followed by a frustrated “He’s dished me again! Blast the fellow, he is slippery as any eel! A fine dance he’s led us. D’you see him?”

A brief pause, then the second man said haltingly, “I see a rider, sir. About a mile straight ahead. There, by that small lake. But—I can’t tell if it’s our man!”

The first rider swore again. “Likely, he has an accomplice! Well, come on, Sergeant! Be damned if he’ll give me the slip this time!”

Watching them ride on, Cranford knew that there was no longer room for doubt. The man giving the orders had been the elusive “pedlar,” and Joshua was an officer of some sort: probably Military Intelligence. They had been following him in Town and again at the race. They must be hoping to catch Tio in a compromising situation—perhaps with a known fugitive. It was more than likely that the viscount had recovered sufficiently to leave the farmhouse and had either come here or they believed he would do so. They were persistent, confound the pair of ’em! Perhaps they had uncovered new evidence confirming that Tio had fought for Prince Charlie. Or perhaps that
wart Gresford Finchley had informed Military Intelligence of his suspicions.