The Intrepid Miss Haydon

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  The tone was enough. With no more hesitation than was necessary to rid himself of the articles he was carrying and to don his coat, he conducted her along a passage, through a green baize door and across a checkerboard hall to a small parlour.

  He knocked timidly on the door, and a sharp voice bade him enter.

  An angular female of middle years was sitting before an oak bureau writing a letter as Madeleine was shown into the room. She was wearing a modish grey morning gown and an attractive lace cap which did not succeed in softening her thin, shrewish face. She put down her pen and turned towards them, raising her eyebrows.

  “A lady to see you, if you please, ma’am.”

  Madeleine came forward and curtseyed.

  “My name is Madeleine Fougeray, ma’am.”

  Mrs Benton favoured her with a cold nod as the servant withdrew.

  “May I ask to what I owe the favour of this visit?”

  “I apologise for intruding upon you, ma’am, but I understand that you are in need of maidservants, and am come to offer myself. I have a testimonial here from a lady with whom I have been previously employed, milady Northcote.”

  She handed over the fulsome letter which she had begged from Lady Northcote before they parted in France. Mrs Benton took it reluctantly, looked Madeleine up and down for a few moments, then condescended to read it.

  “Very pretty,” she acknowledged grudgingly. “I see this lady says you’re an accomplished needlewoman. Well, I can certainly do with one such here, for the household linen is deplorably neglected. But why is it that you are no longer in Lady Northcote’s employ, my good girl? I see she gives her London direction, so I can easily verify anything you may tell me.”

  “You are welcome to do so, madame,” replied Madeleine with dignity. “I was employed by milady as her personal maid while she was on a visit to Paris. She has her own abigail in London, so when she returned to England she no longer required my services.”

  Mrs Benton looked at her curiously. “Yes, I had guessed you were French, although your English is sufficiently good. But since there was no post for you in Lady Northcote’s London household, why have you come to England?”

  Madeleine had given serious consideration as to what she would say at this interview, and had come to the conclusion that it would be wiser to keep as far as possible to the truth.

  “I have now no surviving relatives in France, madame, so came here thinking to find a home with an aunt who lived in Brighton, as I understood. But when I went to the house, I learned that she had moved away, no one knew where. I am left, therefore, with no home and very little money. I must find a post.”

  Mrs Benton studied Madeleine acutely for several moments. The girl had a certain air of breeding and shapely hands, very different from those of the country housemaid whose clumsy ministrations she was at present obliged to support. Cousin Fabian — she called him cousin, but the actual relationship was more remote — had expressly forbidden her to advertise for an experienced lady’s maid. He would have none but local staff with the sole exception of his valet, a smooth-tongued, deceitful creature whom Mrs Benton privately detested and almost feared, and who had been with him for many years.

  “Very well,” she said at last. “I will engage you as my personal maid on a fortnight’s trial. Be here at seven o’clock in the morning to commence your duties. I’ll summon the creature who is at present maiding me, and she will instruct you as to the times at which I expect various services, besides making you acquainted with my wardrobe. You will thereafter present yourself here at seven each morning and leave the house each evening after you have dressed me for dinner.”

  “But — but shall I not live in, madame?” stammered Madeleine, dismayed.

  “Certainly not — none of the other servants do so, with the exception of Mr Grenville’s personal man and certain of the stable hands,” snapped Mrs Benton.

  “But I have no lodging,” protested Madeleine. “Please, madame, the smallest room — almost a cupboard — would suffice! And then I would be at hand,” she added with a hint of guile, “to assist you to retire for the night, madame, which now I must suppose you are obliged to do unaided.”

  Mrs Benton’s first impulse had been to send the girl at once about her business; but this final remark gave her pause. Why should Cousin Fabian have the benefit of a valet constantly in attendance, while she was obliged to make do with a daily maid? It was a ridiculous foible of his that all the household staff should leave the premises after dinner had been cleared away. It relegated the house to the level of a country inn rather than a gentleman’s residence. She made up her mind.

  “Very well, for the present you may sleep in one of the smaller attics, but understand that this is a temporary arrangement only. The maid will show you where it is. Ring the bell for her.”

  When Madeleine returned to Friston House, she found Corinna and Laurence had long since breakfasted and were wondering at her absence. She quickly explained where she had been and the outcome of her visit. At first they protested that it was absurd for her to take such a step; but her quiet resolution at length prevailed.

  “I regard it as of the utmost importance that no one in my place of employment shall know on what friendly terms I stand with you and your sister,” she said, smiling to soften her firm tone. “It will make for questions, n’est-ce pas? And I don’t wish to be thought other than I seem. Once I find my aunt — if, indeed, I ever do! — all these matters will arrange themselves, and we can meet as equals.”

  “Never say you don’t intend us to meet at all in the meantime!” protested Corinna. “How else will we keep you informed about the search for your aunt?”

  “I shall hope to walk over here most afternoons, for I was informed this morning that I can usually expect to be free between the hours of three and five,” said Madeleine. “But one must be discreet, I think, so I will enter by the garden gate and wait for you in the shrubbery, so that your servants do not see me.”

  “Yes, by Jove, and I tell you what!” put in Laurence, fired by this hint of mystery. “When you get the chance, Madeleine, examine the grounds at Eastdean Place for some suitable spot there where we could creep in to meet you or leave messages, y’ know! ’Pon honour, it should be capital fun! And I was thinking how slow things would be after our escape from France!”

  Madeleine could not but smile at his eagerness.

  His final words to her were that he intended to waste no time in pursuing the search.

  “Corinna and I will set out this very afternoon,” he promised. “Pluck up, there’s a good girl.”

  She pressed his hand earnestly. “You are very good, Laurence, far more than I deserve. I have been thinking that perhaps the simplest way to find them would be to engage a lawyer — but that is a costly business, and—”

  “No, no, we might have recourse to that in the end, but I have other plans first,” he assured her heartily. “Leave all to me.”

  She exchanged a warm embrace with Corinna and went on her way.

  “Of course, I couldn’t tell her a lawyer was out of the question, seeing that her cousin is most likely breaking the law,” Laurence said to his sister when Madeleine had gone. “In the circumstances, he’d be scarce likely to come forward in answer to a lawyer’s advertisement, now, would he? But I think our best bet is to find those smugglers who brought us across the Channel. They operate somewhere in this area, or they wouldn’t have chosen to land us at Cuckmere Haven, so they’re bound to be this chap Fougeray’s lot.

  “Tell you what,” said Laurence. “Let’s try our luck in the villages — I remember Richard saying that he and other local landowners suspected that their villagers might be involved with the smuggling fraternity, but since there’d been no outrages, they didn’t concern themselves to probe into the matter. West Dean’s on our way. Let’s try there first.”

  “But it’s on Richard’s estate,” objected Corinna. “Would it not be more proper to call and explain to him what
we’re attempting to do, and allow him to put the questions?”

  “Pooh! I tell you, sis, you seem to have developed a devilish silly notion all at once that Richard is the best person to handle everything! I suppose you think just because he brought us safe out of France — and I’d remind you he wasn’t the only one concerned — he’s some kind of hero!”

  Corinna blushed painfully, relaxing her grip on the rein momentarily so that her horse faltered. She soon set it right, grateful for the incident because it enabled her to keep her face hidden from her brother.

  “Stuff!” she said roundly. “Very well, do it in your own way.”

  They turned off the high road by an ancient farm along a path which climbed for a while before descending steeply to the small, sequestered village surrounded by trees. Having dismounted and tethered their horses to a convenient post, they strolled towards a group of lichen-covered cottages. In one of these an elderly woman in a coarse fawn gown and white apron was standing in the open doorway. As they halted before her, she curtseyed, surveying them with a fixed, slightly hostile stare.

  They attempted to engage her in friendly casual conversation, Laurence doing most of the talking; but she seemed disinclined to cooperate, answering in monosyllables and staring beyond them at the path by which they had come, as though expecting someone.

  “It must be lonely here of nights,” Laurence said after a time, in desperation. “And the sea’s close at hand. D’ you ever get any unwelcome visitors — smugglers, say? I’ve heard rumours that this is smuggling country.”

  Halfway through his speech, he was conscious of footsteps approaching behind him. He swung round quickly as a harsh voice spoke in his ear.

  “Ye’ve ’eard a deal too much, mister. Who be ye, and what d’ye want wi’ honest folk?”

  He faced a burly, menacing farm labourer. Corinna retreated a step and tugged at her brother’s arm, but he stood his ground.

  “Nothing in the world,” he said airily. “Only passing the time of day, y’know.”

  “Well, pass it otherwheres,” growled the labourer.

  As if others had been watching behind curtains, a small group now converged on the scene. They surrounded the pair, so that Laurence began to wonder if he would need to fight his way out, and how Corinna would fare in such an undignified affray. On her account, he was hesitating what he should do next, when the clopping of hooves made the villagers look round.

  To Laurence’s relief, the approaching horseman was Sir Richard. He reined in, surveying the group with raised eyebrows.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” he demanded.

  There was much bobbing and pulling of forelocks among the villagers, who at once began to disperse as silently as they had arrived. The woman in the cottage door and the burly labourer took the hint and retreated into their cottage.

  “And what exactly was all that about?” asked Sir Richard, having swung out of the saddle to walk beside them towards their horses.

  Laurence explained.

  “Good God, you must be all about in your head to think you can ask questions of that kind without setting up their hackles! And when your sister is with you, too!”

  “And why should I not be with him?” demanded Corinna hotly. “Disabuse yourself of the notion that I am a helpless, half-witted female!”

  “You well know that I hold no such notion. Though I might be forgiven for supposing,” he added, not altogether wisely, “that your wits would provide a safer solution to the problem than this.”

  She turned an indignant face towards him, her eyes sparkling with golden fire.

  “You are altogether odious! Don’t speak to me again!”

  She gestured to Laurence to help her into the saddle, then urged her horse forward into a pace suited to her turbulent emotions. She was indeed angry, but mixed with the rage was a strange feeling of exhilaration and challenge. She realised suddenly that she was actually enjoying herself. She wanted to fight him, to goad him out of his habitual calm detachment into — what? She was in no mood to seek an answer.

  “Ay, that’s more like it,” said Laurence encouragingly, as they both brought their horses up to join hers. “Quite like old times! But honestly, Richard, how the deuce else am I to set about the business? Seems to me if we can but track down some of these smugglers, we shall find Madeleine’s cousin and, through him, her aunt.”

  Sir Richard agreed, and was about to say more when they saw a horseman coming towards them along the road into which they had just turned. He drew level, gave a start of surprise, then swept off his hat and bowed with a flourish. It was Fabian Grenville.

  “Why, Miss Haydon!” he exclaimed in lively pleasure. “What brings you to these outlandish parts? But I forget — Beresford’s estate is here, and your sister also lives close by.”

  He bowed again more briefly to the gentlemen.

  “’Servant, Beresford — Haydon.”

  “My brother and I are staying with my sister Lydia for a while,” replied Corinna, not too cordially, for she had not forgotten Mrs Peters.

  “I am relieved to see that you came safe out of France,” continued Grenville. “I took myself off as soon as matters looked chancy. You may not know that I’ve decided to settle in at Eastdean Place, my old family home? Old is the operative word, for the house and grounds need a deal doing before the place can be considered fit for a gentleman’s residence. I’ve been there some weeks now and made good headway. Curst workmen all over, though, getting under one’s feet. Still, I hope to see the back of ’em before long, and then I’ll give a housewarming. Trust you’ll all be able to come to it — how long do you intend to remain with Mrs Beresford, Miss Haydon?”

  “My plans are uncertain, but I think at least a month.”

  “A month only! Then I must hasten to rid myself of those fellows. My party would be quite spoilt, ma’am, I assure you, if you could not be present.”

  She returned a thin smile to this compliment, and they parted with the usual civilities.

  “Dare say it won’t ruin his party if we aren’t able to be present, though,” remarked Laurence.

  Corinna made no reply, and Sir Richard merely grunted, something approaching a scowl on his usually pleasant countenance.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Sir Richard’s reproof to Laurence had not altogether fallen on deaf ears, so that young man decided that whenever possible in future he would try to exclude his sister from his investigations. He still considered that something might be learned in the nearby villages, and set off for Eastdean, but this time resolved to proceed more warily. He had not previously visited the village, the first sight of which affected him in much the same way as it had Madeleine. It was difficult to connect such a pretty, seemingly sleepy place with the dark doings of smugglers. He was reluctant to abandon his theories without putting them to the test, however; and, having pondered for a moment, he strolled casually into the Tiger Inn. He ordered a tankard of ale and seated himself on one of the settles beside an aged countryman with blackened teeth and a lined, weather-beaten face.

  “Morning, gaffer,” said Laurence affably.

  The old man returned the greeting, then quickly drained his pot of ale, with an eye to the main chance.

  “Allow me,” said Laurence handsomely. “Landlord, fill up, will you?”

  The innkeeper, a large, red-faced man in shirt sleeves, obliged, at the same time subjecting his stylish customer to a searching scrutiny. Strangers, especially those of the Quality, were rare in Eastdean.

  Having pledged the old man’s health, which privately he considered none too robust, Laurence proceeded to engage him in casual conversation.

  His companion seemed ready enough to talk, but his endless stream of chatter conveyed no useful information. Either the man was obtuse, or else he was not to be drawn on the subject of his neighbours’ activities.

  After a while, Laurence gave up the attempt as hopeless. He rose to leave, setting down the price of another drink
beside his unrewarding informant.

  Reluctant to return home without having achieved anything, he decided to take a look at Grenville’s house. Following Madeleine’s description, he soon came to the drive, but did not turn along it, as this was decidedly no social call. What he had in mind was to try and discover some kind of rendezvous for the three of them on occasions when Madeleine might not be able to come to Friston House.

  To either side of the drive a boundary wall enclosed the grounds of the house, with a narrow lane running alongside. The wall curved round to enclose the ground at the rear of the house, and he came to a back entrance in the shape of a battered wooden door which looked as though it had not been used for years.

  He tried the door, delighted when he found it gave way to his touch. Trees were planted at intervals inside the wall; after carefully closing the door behind him, he took cover behind one of these and peered out across the grounds.

  These were not extensive; no gardeners were at work in them, though it was evident that much needed doing. A wilderness of overgrown shrubs and unkempt grass stretched from the trees across to a small formal garden enclosed by low hedges. Confident that if he kept to this end of the grounds, he would be too far from the house to be overlooked, he began to explore the wilderness.

  Thrusting his way through a jungle of overgrown rhododendron bushes, he found in its centre a small, ornamental wooden hut which must once have been intended as a summerhouse. Obviously no one had been near it for years, for it was in a dilapidated state, with peeling paint and windows encrusted with dirt. Pushing open the rickety door, he disclosed a similarly neglected interior. The once pretty white-painted bench with chintz cushions was filthy and festooned with spiders’ webs; the ironwork of a marble-topped table was covered in rust.

  “It’s the very place,” he said enthusiastically to Corinna and Madeleine later. “But perhaps you’d best clean the hut up a bit, Madeleine, or you’ll both be setting up a squawk about soiling your clothes.”