The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster (4 page)

Far from fainting away, the young lady who sat on the rise amid the meadow grasses was allowing Peregrine to assist her to her feet. Riding up, Piers noted that the ringlets peeping from under her ruffled cap were an unpowdered soft light brown. Her eyes were hazel, not particularly large, but with a sparkle; she had a small uptilting nose, high cheek-bones and a clear but rather tanned complexion lacking the pale pink-and-white daintiness so carefully cultivated by ladies of the
ton. A
country maiden, he deduced, whose mama had not warned her against the sun. She was of average height, and when she bent to pick up something her cloak was blown by the wind and revealed a pink gown and a shapely figure. Pretty enough, he thought, dismounting, if not a beauty by London standards. But as she turned to him in response to his brother’s introduction, he noted that she possessed a charming little mouth and a warm and unaffected smile.

Without a trace of shyness she told them that she was visiting relations in London. “But my aunt sent her woman to collect some things she’d left in the cottage, and I was permitted to accompany her. I’ve never seen the cottage. Such delightful surroundings, and the countryside so green and beautiful. Just as I remember…”

Her eyes had become sad and remote. Watching her curiously, and wondering that an unwed girl was allowed to roam about without so much as a maid to accompany her, Piers said, “Then you have been here before? I must have mistaken. I thought you—”

“Said I’d never seen the cottage?” She smiled and nodded. “Well, that is true. I mean that—that I remember the countryside. I’ve been abroad, you see. But our groom told me about you gentlemen” She looked from one to the other approvingly. “You are twins, I think? How very nice that must be. Unless you squabble all the time, of course.”

Peregrine laughed. “Acquit us of that, ma’am. Not that we’ve never come to cuffs, my brother being so elderly he must always rule the roost, and—”

“And
my
brother being harum-scarum,” interposed Piers with a grin, “and incorrigible and lacking all respect for his seniors. But I think you have broke your beads. May we be of assistance, Miss—er…?”

“I am Miss Mary Westerman.” She offered a demure little curtsy, and glancing down at the green bead she held, added, “I did not notice it right away, and I fear I must have trod on the poor thing, for as you see it is all mud, but I can have it repaired, so “tis not—” She broke off as a large woman came toiling towards them, waving her arms and panting breathlessly. “Oh, dear! Here is poor Brownie and will be quite out of curl because I am talking with you. Pray excuse me, gentlemen. I must hurry.”

Their offers to intercede for her were answered by a brief wave as she fled.

Looking after her, Peregrine said an amused “I think Miss Mary is getting a fine scold from her maid. And what did you think of her, Gaffer? I saw none of the town airs and graces you so dislike, and she’s a pretty little creature, no?”

“Charming, certainly.” Again, Piers swung into the saddle. “And if you are at your unrelenting matchmaking, for mercy’s sake, give it up. I have but now met the lady. And besides, I’m not in the petticoat line at the moment.”

“At the
moment?
You’ve been saying that for years, and only because you spend every waking second worrying about Mitten and me, and the estate. Your time for worries is done, twin. Shut ’em all away. M’sister’s happily wed, and I’ll soon be off your hands, so you’ll have time to concentrate on finding a nice bride. Now, in my opinion, Miss Westerman is—”

“—Not one to simper and be shyly coy, as damsels are supposed to be,” Piers commented, taking care not to notice his brother’s difficult climb into the saddle. “Certainly the lady is not an arbiter of fashion.”

Peregrine sighed resignedly. “We are in the country, I’ll remind you, where a lady don’t have to dress as if she’s going to a Town party. Are you become sufficient of an expert in female attire as to criticize her dress?”

“Gad, no! And I had no business saying such a thing.”

“Why did you? You ain’t usually so critical.”

“I hope not! But it struck me that—well, her gown was pink.”

Throwing a hand to his brow, Peregrine moaned, “Frightful! She should be pilloried!”

“Bacon brain! Seriously, I never yet met a lady who’d wear a green necklace with a pink gown.”

“Well, that’s told her tale, poor lass. To the darkest cell in the Tower with her!”

Piers swiped his tricorne at his aggravating brother. With a whoop, Peregrine was away, and at the gallop the tall bay and the dainty grey filly thundered down the hill once more.

“Much better.” Miss Jane Guild set a French knot in her embroidery and gave it an approving little nod. “Finding Zoe has made Peregrine very happy and I think she is a darling girl, no matter what your great-uncle says.”

The withdrawing-room at Muse Manor was a spacious but comfortable chamber, warmed, on this chill evening, by the flames of a fine log fire. Piers rose to move a candelabrum closer to his aunt. After the tragically early deaths of their parents in a shipping disaster some sixteen years ago, Miss Guild had been father and mother to the orphaned twins and their sister Dimity. She was plump now, and her hair, although luxuriant, was greying. Her features reflected good nature, and if she had never been a beautiful woman, they all had known she’d given up her chance for a suitable marriage and chosen instead to care for her dead sister’s family. The children’s terror of being parted was thus banished, and their gratitude had very soon deepened into love.

“Great-Uncle Nugent hoped each of us would make what he calls ‘gratifying alliances’” said Piers, resting a hand on her shoulder fondly as he returned to his chair. “The old fellow approves of Mitten’s husband, since Tony Farrar has a title and a respectable fortune. But Zoe Grainger has little to recommend her—in his eyes, at least.”

Miss Guild put down her embroidery and blinked at her tall nephew near-sightedly. “I suppose her dowry is not large, but you’ve always planned that Perry will have a share of the Manor property, no?”

“If I had my way, he’d have an equal share, but he won’t hear of it. Says the estate must remain intact and that he’ll accept ‘a few acres only,’ the silly numps.”

“What have you in mind, dear?”

Piers hesitated briefly, then said with slow deliberation, “My twin has been through several kinds of hell since Prestonpans
Hell have his happiness now, by heaven, but he will! I mean to deed him three hundred acres where he can build Zoe the house he’s always dreamt of.”

“That is so like you, my dear one,” said Miss Guild. “Have you decided which area to give him?”

“The north-east acreage. He’s always longed to build a house on Quail Hill.”

Startled, his aunt pushed the spectacles higher on her small nose. “But—that’s on the river parcel! You had to sell that property years ago.”

“Yes. I mean to buy it back.”

“But—but I thought you were planning to sell the estate.”

“Sell Muse Manor? Now why in the name of—Why ever would you think such a thing?”

“Perhaps because I heard you tell Florian only yesterday that you’ve had many offers and that one was very tempting.”

“Aye.” Frowning, he said slowly, “And I’d give something to know who made it. The solicitor is blasted secretive about his mystery would-be buyer. Not that it matters. I’ve had lots of offers for Tassels as well, but I’d no more sell her than sell this estate. Even if Perry and Mitten would hear of it—which they would not!”

Miss Guild blinked over the spectacles, which had slipped down to the end of her nose again and asked if they could afford to buy the river parcel, even if it were put up for sale.

“Oh, it’s for sale,” Piers said airily. “Old Finchley is hot after it.”

“Then I do indeed hope we are able to buy it back! I do not like to speak ill of anyone, you know that, but Gresford Finchley is a nasty bully and makes our Florian’s life miserable only because he takes him for a gypsy—which he is not and if he were ’twould make no odds. How shall you go about it, dear? Do you mean to ask Sir Anthony for a loan? I expect he would be only too glad to help.”

“Perish the thought! Tony is a grand fellow and I couldn’t
wish a finer husband for Mitten, but to beg money from a relatively new family member—ugh!”

Amused by his revulsion, she shook her head and chided him for “foolish pride.”

He laughed and kissed her, and refrained from divulging that he’d already applied to their banker for a loan. Old Seequist had been agreeable and beyond saying that he’d have to obtain the approval of the directors, had promised to have the papers ready on Friday. It would mean delaying the repairs to the Home Farm this year, but it was much to be preferred over breaking his brother-in-law’s shins. Why, poor Farrar would wonder what kind of family he’d married into!

“…all of a twitter, and you’ve heard not a word I said!” Miss Guild clicked her tongue and observed that Peregrine had been right. “He was sure you were fretting over something. Am I allowed to know what it is?”

“It is that my twin borrows trouble where there is none. If my attention wandered just now, ’tis because I am wondering who is ‘all of a twitter,’ as you claim.”

“Had you been attending me, child, you would have heard me say that this morning I received a letter from your Aunt Clara.”

“Aha. Cousin Adam up to his tricks again, is he?”

“If he is, she did not mention it, though that wretched boy has led them a merry dance these past few years. No, my sister-in-law was big with
ton
news.”

With a lift of the eyebrows, Piers said, “Never say my Uncle Harvey ventured out of Leicestershire at last? I’d not have thought anything could lure him from his precious farm.”

“A surgeon lured him, poor soul. He will trust no one but the man he’s always gone to in London, so they went but only for two days, and Clara had not time to come down and see us. She was able to take tea with some old friends who gave her all the latest news of the
ton.
Society is evidently agog because a young lady of Quality, who was lost at sea a year or so ago,
has been rescued from some island or other and is back in Town again. You can imagine the scandal!” Miss Guild sighed. “How I feel for the poor child.”

Piers looked at her curiously. “I’d think you’d be glad for her. I fancy her family must be overjoyed, unless she is ill, perhaps?”

“Ruined, rather. No, never look so betwattled, Piers. Do but consider: a young spinster, unchaperoned, cast up on an island inhabited only by savages, and living with them for a year and more! Goodness gracious! You can imagine what…” She broke off, her gentle face rather pink.

“
I
can,” said Piers with a chuckle. “But I don’t believe
you
can. Or in fact, should, dear Aunt.”

Her blush deepening, Miss Guild took up her embroidery hurriedly and resorted to the only appropriate comment. “Men!” she said.

The large coach shot round the bend, taking up the centre of the lane with the team at a full gallop.

Piers Cranford, who’d been gazing through the window, lost in thought, was hurled to the side as his own carriage swerved violently to avoid a collision.

On the box, Florian Consett howled an incensed “Hey! Get out of the way, dimwit!”

The coachman driving the larger vehicle responded with a flood of fiery profanity as his wheels skidded from the road surface. The coach lurched and almost overturned, the horses snorting and squealing in terror. Enraged, the coachman scrambled from the box, seized the bit of the off-leader and attempted to drag the team back onto level ground. His loud curses and brutal hands further alarmed the animals, and he resorted to his whip, cutting savagely at the panicked bay as the horse reared in pain and fright.

“Stop that at once!” Florian secured the reins, leaped from
the box and ran to seize the coachman’s whip and attempt to wrest it from him.

Cranford wrenched the door open and jumped down. He recognized the other coach as belonging to his neighbour, Gresford Finchley. He hadn’t seen the face of the coachman, but the man’s bulk and temperament identified Grover, the Major’s head-groom, in which case the fat would be in the fire. Sidney Grover shared his master’s loathing for the youth they referred to as “the thieving gypsy,” and he and Florian had already come to blows. Cranford swore and ran to them; he’d not wanted any more disputes with the cantankerous major, but he had no intention of allowing anyone in his service to be abused. Florian had been of inestimable aid to Peregrine, who valued him highly; he had become a friend as well as an employee and, aware of his background, Piers could understand and sympathize with his present behaviour.