The Straw Halter (8 page)

He recognized her immediately, and as neither of them was looking his way he allowed his gaze to wander from her glorious dark hair to her finely turned ankles, which were just showing beneath her dress. Her face and figure were superb, he thought. She reminded him of someone. Probably an actress whom he had seen.

‘Hello, Richard. I’m a bit late, the business took longer than I thought. Have you ordered?’ Reluctantly Richard Choicely turned from the window to greet his friend William. When he looked back a few seconds later Betsy and Daniel were touching hands then each went off in different directions.

Following his gaze William said, ‘She is a beauty, isn’t she. Got your eye on her?’

‘Of course not. It is just that she reminds me of someone but I cannot think whom.’

‘She looks like a younger version of your mother to me. Noticed her as I came in. Ravishing. An absolute stunner.’

Business and eating took up the next hour or so for Richard, and it wasn’t until he was on the homeward run that he thought again about the girl in the market-place. Of course William was right, she
did
look a bit like his mother. More than a bit,
uncannily
like her.

When he reached home and divested himself of his garments he poured himself a whiskey and went into the long gallery to look at the painting of his mother which was hanging there along with the other Choicely family portraits.

The likeness was unmistakable. His thoughts flew back twenty years to his brother Benjamin. Was it possible? There had been talk about a rough woman from one of the villages arriving one day and demanding to see him. She made such a fuss that his father eventually spoke to her. What he told her Richard never knew, except that the woman went away and they never saw her again, but he heard the rumours circulating among the servants that: ‘Young Benjamin’s been at it again and this one means business.’

Only a month later Ben had been killed in a horse-riding
accident
. It was an unusual accident to befall an experienced rider because no one else seemed to be involved and there were no trees or obstacles lying in his path to have caused his horse to stumble.

Sir Benjamin and Lady Choicely were devastated and for a while Lady Helen went into a decline. Ben was her firstborn and favourite child. Richard had known this since he was a small boy and understood it to be because he was the heir to the Choicely estate. As he grew older he discovered another reason
for her preference. The young Benjamin was the image of his mother’s father, whom she had adored, whereas he, Richard, had inherited his father’s looks and temperament.

The two brothers were as unlike each other as could be. Benjamin’s hair had a gleaming blackness like his mother’s, his eyes were almost navy-blue and dancing with merriment, even when he was a child. Richard’s sandy-coloured hair imitated his father’s and his grey-green eyes were, he knew, more serious than Ben’s twinkling ones that seemed to get him anything he wanted. When Benjamin Choicely died in that freak accident Richard became the heir apparent.

Now he wondered about the girl. She appeared to be the right age and the more he pictured her in his mind’s eye the more he saw the family likeness. He had never known his maternal grandfather but his mother would relate tales of heroic deeds credited to him and as a young child he often wished he had the black hair and laughing eyes that came down through that side of the family. It seemed to open the door to so much that was fun, and the young Richard would have liked more of that. As it was he was cast as the intellectual boy and in truth even that had been hard work.

He struggled with studies to please his parents, to gain a little more of their attention and praise. It never worked for him. He was a good horseman but Ben was a brilliant one. He was a proficient archer but Ben was better. He was an admirable
cricketer
but Ben was an inspired one. The only thing he outshone his brother in was gentleness and that was not a quality that counted for a great deal in the Choicely family.

He was known in the servants’ quarters as the caring son; he knew this because the cook mentioned it one day when he had been particularly upset over a treat that he had been promised
and which was stopped because he had answered his father back. Not that he had told her, but she seemed to know just the same.

‘’Tis a crying shame,’ she said, as she set a glass of
home-made
lemonade before him in the kitchen. ‘That young scoundrel Ben would have got away with it. But don’t you fret, Master Richard, we all know your worth down here. You’re the caring one and in the long run that’s what will count. Your brother may be having the best of it now but he’ll get his
comeuppance
one day, you’ll see.’

He used to spend a great deal of time below stairs then, but was careful not to let his parents know because he knew it would be banned. Often when they thought he was out roaming the grounds he had sneaked back in through the laundry door of the servants’ quarters where he always felt welcome. In later years, when he succeeded to the baronetcy he thought it had helped him enormously to fulfil his duties because he knew and understood the working people so well.

If, and it is a very big if, he told himself – but
if
that girl is Ben’s daughter she may have a claim to the estate. Not a
legitimate
one because of the circumstances of her birth, but a claim in his eyes, nevertheless. The gentle one had inherited
something
from the maternal side of his family, even if it was not their dark good looks and vivacity. That was self-preservation. If the girl was who she undoubtedly
could
be, he wanted to find out quietly. After all, his brother had been the elder and he had left no heirs. Could this be an unofficial heiress? If the position had been reversed he knew Ben would have laughed and denied it, and as she was illegitimate she would have no legal rights, but if she
was
his brother’s daughter and his niece Richard wanted to know.

R
ichard Choicely made a few discreet enquiries about Betsy Forrester, the farmer’s wife. His findings neither proved nor disproved his suspicions about her being his brother’s child.

He discovered that a certain George Hatton had had a wife who was much younger than he, but no children. He learned that he also was a farmer, but here his information stopped. No one was able to tell him in what way Betsy Forrester had been connected to Hatton.

He did not visit the farmer, feeling that it would be
inappropriate
for a man of his standing. He did not let the mystery go however, and quietly pursued his quest through others
whenever
he had the opportunity.

It was some weeks after this that he discovered the girl who was haunting his thoughts had once worked in Wren Court which was but an hour’s drive away from Chasebury Manor. Much closer than where the farmer Hatton lived. Richard decided to pay a visit to Wren Court.

John Wallasey, who still lived there with his wife Sarah, at first denied any knowledge of her. ‘Servants come and go,’ he said, but eventually he confirmed, with prompting from Sarah, that a child called Betsy had once worked for his late mother.
They both said they had no idea where she had come from before that, nor what had happened to her. Richard had to accept this but felt sure they knew more than they told.

With his fondness for chatting to the servants however, he discovered that Betsy’s name before her marriage had been Salden. He extended his detective work to several nearby villages, gradually widening his area until he learned of a family of that name who lived in Marshdean.

Other business interests prevented him from doing much for a while and it was almost six months and well into autumn when he donned a peasant’s outfit for a trip to Marshdean. He did not travel in the carriage but in the pony and trap.

‘Put me down just outside the village and give me a couple of hours,’ he told John, his driver, ‘then pick me up here.’

He strode away, walking at a brisk pace. It was noon, the weather was mild and pleasant and he felt excited about this expedition to uncover the mystery. In his youth he hadn’t really mourned his brother for they were never close, but now he wanted to find out because he could not seem to get the farmer’s wife out of his mind for long. And he found the family likeness to his mother uncanny.

When he came to the George and Dragon he went in. It was well patronized but not crowded. He ordered a beer and bread and cheese. Sitting at the bar he looked around before selecting a thin man with dull grey hair and a short to middling grey beard, who appeared to be alone. He took his drink and food across to the table.

‘Mind if I join you,’ he said.

‘Suit yourself,’ the man replied. He looked to be in his fifties or sixties and if he was a villager he was likely to know the family.

‘I’m a stranger here but I’m looking for a family called Salden,’ Richard said. ‘I was told they came from these parts. Don’t know them by any chance, do you?’

‘Can’t say as I do. Why d’you want to know.’

Richard was expecting this one. ‘I have a message for one of them. She’s called Betsy Salden.’ He watched the old man’s eyes and face as he said the name and had the satisfaction of seeing a glimmer of recognition.

‘No, never ’eard of ’em.’

Richard indicated his three-quarters finished ale. ‘Let me get you some more,’ he said, rising from his seat.

Twenty minutes later he left the inn, armed with the knowledge he wanted. ‘Big family,’ his informant had told him. ‘Couldn’t tell you the names of most of ’em but Betsy, she stood out. Real beauty she was for all she was so young.’

‘Young, how young?’

‘Just a kid. Nine or ten. Went into service somewhere. Used to come home once a year and she made yer mouth water she did. Never saw her much after she turned fourteen or fifteen. Some of the family’s still about, though I did hear the mother died last year. She could have been good-looking in her youth, I shouldn’t wonder, but nine or ten kids did for her.’ He chuckled suddenly. ‘Nice drop of ale they serves here.’ Richard walked to the bar and bought him another.

The man slurped noisily. ‘Thank ye. What’s your business with ’em?’

‘Knew them years ago. I’ve been travelling and wondered how they were. Would you know where they’re living now?’

‘Still at the old place, far as I know.’

Richard, who had noticed many flower names for the cottages as he walked down the street, said, ‘I could never
remember the name of their cottage, but it’s down the bottom there, isn’t it? Violet or Ivy or something.’

‘Rose,’ the old man said, almost bursting with information now his thirst was being regularly sated. ‘On the left in Wicket Lane at bottom of hill. Did hear there was a to-do about it after the old lady died. She was the tenant see, but one of the older children and his family took it over. Bit of fighting about it. Betsy Salden,’ he mused softly, ‘Mm-mm. Not seen ’er fer years. She didn’t come back to the village I know that. You wouldn’t miss a girl with her looks.’

Richard thanked him and left. He followed the main street where the pub was for a few hundred yards and, following the old man’s instructions, turned into the lane on the left.
Half-way
down he found what he was looking for: Rose Cottage, which stood out from its neighbours by its dereliction. There were no flowers in the small garden as in some of the others, and the yellowing grass was long.

Richard approached the front door. He had planned what to say and when after a few moments a voice from the yard where the back door was situated called irritably, ‘What d’you want?’ he made to go towards it.

‘We don’t want nothing.’ The voice was surly and the door banged shut. Richard stood for a moment contemplating his next move when it suddenly opened again. An unkempt and unshaven man blocked the entrance, ‘You don’t look the begging sort. What you come for?’

He obviously hoped it was to give them something good, and regretted his first instinctive slamming of the door.

‘I’m looking for Betsy Salden.’

The man spat. ‘What for?’

‘I knew her years ago. Wondered if she was still here.’

The man cackled noisily. ‘Not her. Never come near the place once ’er mother kicked the bucket. Good riddance too, I say. Too ’igh an’ mighty ever since she were little.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What you want ’er for? You got some money for ’er, then?’

Richard smiled – he’d thought as much when the man called him back. Good job he didn’t look anything like Ben or Betsy, who, he was becoming surer than ever now, was his brother’s daughter by this Salden woman who died last year.

‘No. Just wanted to look her up for old times’ sake.’ He moved swiftly down the path, aware that the man was watching intently. He tried to slouch and not appear to stride out, to make it seem he was simply a wanderer and not a man with a purpose.

Once more in the lane he kept up the gait so as not to arouse suspicion. The last thing he wanted was for them to associate the girl with the Choicelys. If she turned out to be Ben’s child he wanted to know. He wasn’t sure yet what he would do, but he would certainly see that she was never destitute. He turned back into the main street, where he met no one as he walked to the end of the village, although he didn’t doubt for one moment that there were people who saw him and wondered who he was. It was a further mile to where the pony and trap would be waiting – he had told his driver to go off on his own and not stay close until it was time to collect him. The trap was there waiting and soon they were heading for Chasebury Manor.

During the next few days Richard found out a lot more about Betsy Salden. He now knew she had gone to work for Mrs Wallasey when she was ten and had been married to George Hatton at barely fifteen. Quite how she became Daniel Forrester’s wife he wasn’t sure, but the most likely explanation was that George had sold her. Richard could not understand
why: a lovely woman like that, but it seemed the only logical thought. Unless she had run away from George Hatton and Daniel had rescued her. The more he thought about it the more likely that seemed to him. His natural curiosity coupled with his love of research took over and he determined to find out more about the life of the beautiful woman who could possibly be his niece.

His logical mind looked at every aspect of the situation. On physical appearance alone the idea was feasible – he had the portrait of his late mother taken down from the wall and studied it from every angle. Those dark–blue fathomless eyes, that midnight-black hair, the skin colouring, which Richard thought the artist had captured perfectly in the painting, it all matched. No wonder that girl had looked familiar when he first saw her. She was like a younger edition of the mother he remembered coming into the nursery when he was a child.

Although he did not have it taken down he went on several evenings after dinner to the long gallery and looked on his brother Benjamin’s portrait. The likeness was there too,
especially
when you knew what you were looking for. Again his astute mind searched for snags but found none. He tried to picture the girl with her long hair cut to just below her ears, with a man’s body stature instead of a woman’s and grinned ruefully when he realized that man or woman, both Ben and Betsy seemed to have the charisma that made folk remember them for their beauty.

That was another thing, her name. Betsy. He wondered if her mother had deliberately given her a name beginning with the first two letters of his brother’s, but he dismissed this as too fanciful. He wished he had a portrait of Betsy to compare with the others, but he only had the impressions in his mind.

He returned to the library, fetched some paper and pens and tried to draw the girl. He had been a reasonable artist in his youth although Ben’s drawings and paintings were the ones that found their way to his mother’s treasure-chest. Now he mentally tossed that rather bitter memory away, as his pencil rapidly sketched the high cheekbones, the small nose, the long hair and the glorious figure of the woman he had seen only twice in his life.

Richard Choicely sank into the deep armchair. On the small table by his side was a drink and on his lap a sketch-pad with various drawings of Betsy Forrester. He sipped and savoured the brandy, gazing all the while at what he had drawn. There was no doubt she had many of the features of his mother’s side of the family, the Beaumonts. How he hadn’t seen it was his mother of whom she reminded him, he didn’t know. William had noticed it immediately, so it definitely wasn’t imagination on his part.

Recalling the time when the village woman had come to Chasebury Manor Richard tried to remember what he knew, which had been precious little at the time. He realized Ben was in serious trouble but his elder brother seemed to thrive on it. This time, though, there had seemed to be real concern in the family. He recalled the talk in the servants’ quarters. It always stopped when he appeared, but he heard enough to know something was afoot.

In retrospect, remembering snatches of conversations he wasn’t meant to hear, and picturing the scenes between his parents, he was sure that this was Benjamin’s child and the woman was her mother. What had she hoped for when she came to Chasebury? Money most probably, or recognition for her daughter. Was the beautiful Betsy that child? Those memories
were hazier than the ones of his brother’s death, which occurred not so long afterwards. As he stroked the brandy-glass he let the memories run through his mind again, like a
well-remembered
play.

Ben had gone riding early in the morning. He did this most days and he was usually gone for several hours. Later that
afternoon
his horse was seen in the woods over a mile away and the search for him began. They found him in a clearing half a mile from the house, dead, with head wounds and a broken back.

His mother was inconsolable and took to her room, refusing to see anyone but her husband when he took her food to her. Sir Benjamin went around the place, carrying on his duties but with such a forbidding air that the young Richard kept out of his way.

Recalling that time now he found the snatches of talk among the servants were clear in his memory.
‘Not a natural accident, Pike says there was some rope stretching between two trees.’
This had been cook and the butler speaking about Pike the gamekeeper.

‘Foul play – mind, he had his enemies. There’s many a wench round these parts whose lives he’s ruined. I know one from the village as nearly died a few months ago when she was in trouble.’

Yes, there had been lots of such conversations which
mysteriously
stopped when he appeared in the kitchen. His young mind must have registered not only the words but the
expressions
and tones of voice, for he could picture the scenes as clearly as if it had all happened yesterday instead of all those years ago. He wondered now about that rope stretched between two trees. That servants’ gossip he had picked up on must have embedded itself deeply in his mind and was being triggered now by a beautiful and familiar face seen in the market-place.

Had the woman who had left Chasebury without anything
for her child taken a terrible revenge on the man who fathered it? If only Pike were still alive. Suddenly he remembered that Pike had had a son. If he wasn’t mistaken that son was now gamekeeper to Charles Dicton at Pensfield. His hands lovingly circled the brandy-glass and he smiled to himself. He would pay Charles a visit just as soon as he could.

It was nearly ten days later before Richard found the time to take the twenty-six mile trip to Pensfield. He travelled with his coachman and they put up at an inn for the night. The following morning he sent a note to Sir Charles Dicton and less than an hour later the two men were greeting each other. At first the talk was about the land, the king, the government, but eventually Richard asked about the gamekeeper.

‘Yes, Jim Pike’s with me. A good man.’

‘As was his father,’ Richard said. ‘He was with my father for many, many years. I should like to have a word with Jim about his dad if that is possible while I’m in the area. I remember him as a little lad, of course. We are about the same age.’