by Mira Stables
Honor gazed about her in awe and admiration. Never had she seen a room so crammed with treasures. It would take hours of leisurely examination to do justice to this one apartment. And if this was only one of the Marquess’s minor residences, what must Melborne House itself be like? The atmosphere of wealth and luxury that surrounded her seemed almost stifling and she was quite thankful when Mrs. Brownlow conducted them to the picture gallery which seemed positively austere after the profusion they had left.
Mrs. Brownlow’s tastes were otherwise. She was almost apologetic for this simplicity. But it was necessary, she explained, because the gallery was used for dancing when her ladyship gave parties, the Hall, alas, having no ballroom. “A sad pity,” she pronounced, “though the gallery looks very well when it is filled with company and the musicians were used to play in the alcove at this end.”
Honor thought that the gallery looked very well as it was and that the painted company that gazed down from its walls appeared far more distinguished and interesting than the company that gathered in the Assembly Rooms. Unfortunately Mrs. Brownlow was not so well informed about the portraits as she had been over furniture and ornaments and, to Honor’s disappointment, there was no picture of her godmother. “His lordship had her painted by Mr. Reynolds—Sir Joshua, I should say—but I think the picture is in the London house. So she was your godmother, was she, miss? A kind, gentle lady she was, and a sad loss. It’s to be hoped that his young lordship will marry soon. Not that he’s so very young at that—thirty past he must be, and high time he was setting up his nursery if he’s to see his heir brought up to do what’s right.”
In the unusual pleasure of having someone to talk to, the good soul would have examined this absorbing topic in more detail, but at this point Penelope drew her friend’s attention to the portrait of a man wearing court dress of the Elizabethan period. “I wish men wore clothes like that nowadays,” she said admiringly. “Isn’t he handsome? And see how the ruff sets off his colouring.”
The cool blue eyes in the painted face looked at them levelly. It was an arrogant face, lean and hawklike, and despite the elegance of his dress he did not look like a courtier. He had much more the air of a man who would give a good account of himself in a fight. The muscular hand was curled lovingly about the sword hilt and the mouth had a firm set to it that seemed suddenly familiar to Honor. And this, it appeared, was one portrait with which Mrs. Brownlow was well acquainted.
“Handsome is as handsome does,” she told Penelope severely. “And if all the tales they tell of him were true there was many a lass that thought like you, to her own downfall. A rare rapscallion was Lord Hugh. A sea rover he was, and one that could never bide quiet at home. Nor he never married, which didn’t matter so much seeing as he was a younger son, though ’twas said there was more than one babe raised in his image. Not that he didn’t do right by his own,” she added repressively. And then, as though feeling that the tale, despite its antiquity, was scarcely suited to tender maiden ears, she changed the subject. “He it was that brought back the diamond necklace—the one they call the Swynden Luck,” she said.
Honor started guiltily and studied Lord Hugh Swynden’s face with renewed interest. The sense of familiarity was growing on her and the continued flow of Mrs. Brownlow’s discourse fell on unheeding ears as she tried to pin down the elusive likeness. Penelope giggled. “Well he’s exactly the kind of man one reads about in romances,” she proclaimed. “Just the sort to snatch up the heroine and carry her off over his saddle bow. I’m sure I’d go with him willingly enough, if it was me. And isn’t he like that tall man you danced the minuet with, Honor?”
So that was it. Lord Hugh Swynden wore a neat pointed beard while Mr. Jocelyn went clean shaven, but apart from that the two faces might have been those of brothers. There must be some connection between them. So marked a resemblance must indicate a tie of blood and in view of Mrs. Brownlow’s confidences it seemed not impossible. Honor began to study the later portraits, interested to see if the likeness cropped up again, but though eyes of blue or grey seemed to be a common characteristic of all the Swynden men only in that one case was it so remarkable. She was vastly intrigued and wondered if Mr. Jocelyn was aware of his distinguished ancestry.
The visit to the picture gallery concluded their tour. Mrs. Brownlow conducted them to her own comfortable parlour and had one of the maids bring tea and cakes. Penelope, enchanted by the grandeur of the place, enquired when the Marquess was expected, and, wistfully, was there any likelihood of his attending functions in Bath? But the housekeeper could give no very precise information. Her instructions had been to put the place in habitable order. No doubt Mr. Arthurson would inform his lordship that this had now been done. As for his tastes in entertainment, she could not say, never having set eyes on him. He had been serving with his regiment in the Americas when his father died and he had not sold out immediately. This would be his first visit to the Hall since he succeeded to the title, though she understood that he had spent a good deal of his boyhood there. That was before her time, though. No, there was no portrait of him—or none that she knew of. Very likely if there was one it would be in the London house. Penelope had to content herself with the exciting possibility that she might yet meet the owner of all this splendour. She could talk of nothing else. And since Philip was equally enraptured with the undoubted oriole’s nest that he had been shown, conversation on the homeward journey was slightly disjointed.
“Just like a little hammock—so beautifully made and cunningly hidden.”
“I hope he is tall and blue-eyed like Lord Hugh.”
“—with black wings and tail and dark grey legs,” elaborated the earnest ornithologist, until Honor’s laughter startled them both from their respective preoccupations to join in the joke against themselves.
Chapter Seven
In the general way one could rely upon meeting most of one’s friends daily at one or other of the organised entertainments of the season, but by some quirk of circumstance the two girls did not meet again for three days. Then it was that Honor stumbled upon the mystery of the sedan chairs. Not that it was really a mystery—just that in her inexperience she had taken for granted the punctual and reliable services of the chair men who served her and Aunt Thomasine. It was Penelope who quite unwittingly opened her eyes to the truth.
Miss Thomasine had decided that, since she was in Bath any way, she might as well see if the famous Spa water would serve to disperse the occasional rheumatic twinges that plagued her ageing joints. She sipped dubiously at the glass that her niece had dutifully procured for her, announced that it was not near so nasty as she had been led to believe and that therefore it could scarcely be expected to possess curative properties to any marked degree, and drew Honor’s attention to Mrs. Charnley and Penelope who had just come in.
In response to Honor’s wave of greeting the newcomers joined them. Honor gave up her chair to Mrs. Charnley and the two older ladies settled down to comparison of symptoms and uninhibited comment on the assembled company.
“I looked for you at the concert last night,” said Honor, as the girls moved a little aside from the confidences of their elders. “Could you not persuade your Mama to take you after all?” For she knew that Penelope loved music almost as much as her brother did his birds and beasts.
Penelope’s pretty lips drooped ruefully. “Worse than that. She did consent, when I begged so hard. But as Philip was engaged with friends of his own he could not escort us and Mama’s bearers fell into dispute. She says they were drunk. At any rate they abused each other so fiercely that she was terrified and suffered one of her spasms. If Colonel Pen-derby had not come to our aid I do not know how we should have gone on. He got rid of the horrid creatures, though even to him they were excessively insolent. But poor Mama was so over-set that there was nothing for it but to go back home. And now she says that we must not attend parties or concerts unless we can depend on Philip’s protection. Philip is very good and patient but you know how he dete
sts music—unless it be bird song,” she threw in with a brave attempt at a smile. “It would be too bad in me to demand his escort to concerts. It is quite enough that he takes me to all the balls when I daresay he would far rather be about his own concerns.”
“But there must be reliable bearers to be had,” protested Honor. “Ours have been most satisfactory. Even Aunt Thomasine admits that they show every consideration for our comfort.”
“Ah yes! But they are private servants, which is a very different matter,” said Penelope innocently. “Do you know, Honor, if there is one thing that I envy you it is the luxury of having your own chairs and chair men. When one is forced to hire a chair one never knows who has been the last occupant or what playful denizens she may have left behind!” And then, as Honor did not immediately answer, she went on, “As for the bearers, one really wonders how some of them came to be licensed. Unless, as Philip would say, they had greased authority in the fist!”
Honor did not answer. Penelope said a little anxiously, “You’re not displeased with me, are you, because I said that about the chairs? Please, dearest, dearest Honor, you don’t think that I resent your wealth? Indeed I never do, I promise you. Why, Mama says no one would ever guess you to be an heiress, so unassuming as you are, if it were not for the necklace, and, of course,” she finished childishly, “the chairs.”
Explanation and apology had given Honor time to recover from the shock of disclosure. There was something here that demanded investigation but this was not the time or the place, nor was this child, despite her endearing candour, the authority who could answer her questions. She smiled affectionately into the anxious brown eyes and assured her little friend that of course she wasn’t cross. “Though I wish you wouldn’t call me an heiress, for I am no such thing; while as for the necklace it was left to me by my godmother and is my only real jewel.”
Penelope was not prepared to dispute the matter further, though her expressive countenance betrayed the view that there must be different standards of what constituted wealth. True, the necklace might be just a legacy, but people who could afford to keep their own chairs and menservants to carry them were definitely more than just well to pass! However she obligingly changed the topic of conversation, enquiring with deep interest whether anything further had been heard of the expected arrival of the elusive Marquess of Melborne. Honor was obliged to disappoint her on this head and the two then drifted into a much more satisfactory discussion as to the best way of re-trimming Penelope’s bonnet so as to disguise the fact that its satin was distinctly rubbed and faded.
Presently the party broke up. Mrs. Charnley was expecting friends to dinner and must heeds hasten home to supervise her young maid’s anxious preparations, while Honor and her aunt went off to morning service at the Abbey. It is to be feared that the younger lady’s attention was not wholly devoted to the service.
How could she have been so stupid? So unobservant? Now that Penelope had drawn her attention to the matter she knew very well that both chairs and bearers must come from some private source. She might have seen for herself that the chairs bore no identification mark or number as was the case with those that were offered for public hire. And why had she accepted without question the fact that the same bearers appeared with unfailing regularity? She had become quite well acquainted with them and would have recognized them anywhere. She had even given one of the quartet a baby’s cap for his infant son on hearing the other three chaffing him about becoming a father. When one reckoned the number of chair men employed in the city and the widely varying times at which she or her aunt summoned a chair, how could she ever have imagined that it was sheer coincidence that the same men always answered the call?
Goodborn would know all about it of course. But would Goodborn tell? Though he would discourse for hours on the former glories of Beaufort Square, he could also be blandly uncommunicative. With a sudden vivid flash of memory she recalled the air of smug satisfaction on the old man’s face when he had come to tell her aunt that all the arrangements for chairs, for horses and for carriages might safely be left to him. Now that she came to think of it, Philip Charnley had commented admiringly on the mare that she sometimes rode. That, too, was supposedly a hireling. Yet whenever she chose to ride, it was always the same gentle mannered animal that the livery stable sent round for her use. Inexperienced as a rider and knowing nothing of horse flesh, Honor had simply been thankful that her mount should be so docile. Now it struck her as very probable that the mare, too, was a valuable animal from someone’s private stable. But whose? And why should anyone be at such pains to ensure her comfort? The second question must, for the moment, remain a mystery, but she had no doubt at all about the answer to the first. No one but Mr. Jocelyn—with Goodborn’s connivance—had sought to impose upon her ignorance. Mr. Jocelyn, who had so firmly caught her girlish fancy and then had simply disappeared. She stood far more deeply in that gentleman’s debt than was at all pleasing. Like her little friend she knew very well the cost of keeping respectable men servants. Aunt Thomasine had vetoed such extravagance from the outset. It seemed that she, as well as her niece, had been completely bamboozled by a certain smooth-tongued gentleman.
Far from feeling a proper gratitude for this kindly interference in her affairs, Miss Fenton was only aware of furious indignation. She was not an object for any man’s charity, especially one who had cared so little for her acquaintance that he had left Bath without even putting himself to the trouble of bidding her farewell. She would have no more of it. But how was she to obtain such proof of her suspicions as would satisfy Aunt Thomasine?
A direct approach to Goodborn was never in question. It had been clear from their first meeting that Mr. Jocelyn was a prime favourite with the old man. And very understandable too, since Honor was convinced that, apart from their earlier acquaintance, Mr. Jocelyn was in some way connected with the Swyndens. Family loyalty alone would prevent the old retainer from betraying the secret and it would be unfair to put him in a position where his allegiance must be divided. No, she must adopt more devious means.
She chose an evening when her aunt was engaged to sup and play cards with friends who had insisted on sending their carriage for her. Honor’s own evening engagement was one that she would be sorry to miss. She was promised to join a theatre party which included the Charnleys. Mrs. Siddons was billed to appear in the role of Elvira and Honor had not yet seen the great tragedienne. However, with a little contrivance and good fortune she might yet do so and at the same time discover the truth about those chairs.
When Aunt Thomasine had left for her party she told Goodborn that she was a little tired and had decided to stay at home for once. She would write a note to Mrs. Charnley excusing herself and would he please arrange for its immediate delivery. Then, as though it were an afterthought, she asked that their usual chairs should be put at the disposal of her friends. She fancied that she detected a trace of hesitation in his manner and promptly launched into a vivacious account of Mrs. Charnley’s unfortunate experience. The old man unbent at once and was all sympathy and compliance.
Secretly ashamed of having lied to one who had shown her nothing but courtesy and kindness but assuring herself defiantly that he ought not to have conspired with Mr. Jocelyn to deceive her, she went upstairs to write her note to Mrs. Charnley. She wrote that she had been unexpectedly delayed but that she hoped to join them at least in time for the second act. Then she proceeded to change her dress for the evening, without the assistance of Jennet who believed her to be resting. It was slightly disconcerting, she discovered, how difficult a business it was. Of course the dresses she wore now were much more elaborate, but even in so short a time she had become all too accustomed to the services of a maid. By the time that she descended to the hall again she was, indeed, late for the theatre.
Hearing her step on the stair, Goodborn emerged from the slip of a room off the hall in which he was generally to be found during working hours. The look of consternation on his face a
t the sight of his young mistress obviously about to sally forth unattended was comically revealing.
“You’re never going out alone, Miss, at this hour of the night? Jennet said you was laid down on your bed. I’ve let the lads go off to Orchard Street, like what you said. What’s to be done? For let you venture out with strangers is more than I dare do—and you with that necklace on you!”
Honor’s timid request to have a chair summoned was stifled before it could be uttered. Suddenly she was furiously angry. So that was the cause of all this benevolence! Mr. Jocelyn’s care had been for the Swynden diamonds, and not for her at all. She did not stop to consider that, since one did not usually wear jewellery with riding dress, the provision of that pretty mare could hardly be set down to such venal motives. Her fingers flew to the fastening of the necklace, fumbled for a moment in her rage, and tugged at the stiff catch. Then she dropped the Swynden ‘Luck’ into Goodborn’s trembling, unready hand.
“Since that is all that you and your precious Mr. Jocelyn care for, see that you guard it well,” she said fiercely, and was out of the door before the old man could utter a quavering protest.
She had forgotten all about her promise to Aunt Thomasine not to venture unescorted in the streets, but her temper cooled quickly as she realised that she was quite alone in the gathering dusk. Almost, she turned tail and returned to the safety of the house. Then a sedan which had just set down a passenger at the corner of Princes Street came down the Square and she summoned her wavering courage and signalled to the bearers. They obviously thought her a very queer sort of customer but they had seen her emerge from the house and agreed without demur to take her to the Theatre Royal. They seemed respectable, too, though the chair itself was fusty and smelled of heavy scent Growing bolder with the success of the escapade she paid them off with unnecessary liberality and engaged them to carry her home again at the end of the performance.