He met her eyes and read the stern warning that told him there was no explanation. He had been neatly trapped. Fuming, aware that there was also no escape, he thought savagely that it would have been bad enough had it been that saucy little hussy Angela Alvelley, at least she had some liveliness, but this plain and dim-witted creature had been born for spinsterhood! She was croaking something.
“It is—is not what you think, Mama. Someone must have—”
Her hostess hissed softly, “Quiet, you little widgeon!” And in a louder tone, “Well, Valerian? You are surely aware that you have compromised the gel. You must set things to rights.”
Helpless, he said in a voice that shook with rage, “I apologize, Mrs. Stansbury for my—impetuous haste in—in courting your daughter. And I—beg you will permit me the—the honour of—of offering for Miss Cordelia’s hand in… marriage.”
From the corridor came a chorus of relieved exclamations.
Mrs. Stansbury dabbed a tiny square of cambric and lace at her tearless eyes, and moaned that she accepted Mr. Valerian’s offer. “Though, it should have been made in a less scrambling fashion, you naughty boy.”
Valerian barely restrained a shudder.
Lady Hall-Bridger fixed him with a stern stare, then smilingly urged her guests to return to the ballroom. They drifted away, chattering happily over the juicy on dit they would be able to relate to those unfortunates who had not witnessed the downfall of the popular but naughty young rake, who deserved just what he had come by.
Several people, excited, failed to keep their voices down. Their comments would haunt Cordelia’s nightmares:
“Poor Gervaise! Who’d have dreamt he would be snabbled by such a plain and dull chit!…”
“Gad, but London’s hopeful beauties will yearn to murder her!…”
“He was caught by her mother, my dear! That poor little mouse has neither the courage nor the wit to set such a trap. For trap it was, of that I am certain!…”
“Cordelia Stansbury! The last one I’d thought Valerian would look at, much less compromise so blatantly…”
“I feel for Gervaise. Only last week he told me he meant to remain a carefree bachelor till he reached thirty-five, at least.”
“The more fool he, to be so indiscreet. Well, he’s stuck with the chit now, poor fellow…”
Sick with shame, Cordelia wept, and longed for an early grave.
“Less than a month!” Mrs. Evaline Coffey tucked in her several double chins and poured her guest another cup of tea.
Comfortably seated on a rose velvet overstuffed chair in the private parlour of the Mayfair house the late Mr. Coffey had provided for his family, Miss Saphronia Aymer’s finely drawn brows arched higher. She was a thin lady on the far side of middle age, and her powdered wig, which was somewhat out of the present style, framed an angular face not improved by a very sharp nose and chin. “As the sister of a well-known clergyman,” she said in a fluttery high-pitched voice, “I should not really comment on the matter. But… one cannot help but ask oneself what on earth could have possessed the lady—especially such a lady as Regina Stansbury—to allow her daughter to go off and visit friends and then leave the country with them so soon after the announcement of her betrothal. Has she given any explanation, Evaline?”
Mrs. Coffey refilled her own cup and stirred the tea briskly. “She tells everyone the gel was eager to visit her papa and obtain his approval of her betrothal. Stuff!”
Blinking at such vehemence, although she agreed with the sentiment, the clergyman’s sister was struck by a sudden thought. She caught her breath, leaned forward and half-whispered, “But—but surely, this was Mr. Valerian’s duty? Never say he accompanies the girl?”
“Gervaise? Certainly not! Lud, Saphy! That young scamp is in enough trouble with half the ton believing he was in his cups and really did try to seduce Cordelia!”
“And the other half suspecting Regina Stansbury set the scene and won herself a wealthy son-in-law. But if that were so, Evaline, what a fool she would be to send her daughter halfway around the world almost before their betrothal was safely established. If Valerian has really been entrapped and now Cordelia is gone away for many months, he is liable to cry off and claim—oh, desertion or some such thing. No?”
“Exactly so. I’ll own Cordelia was devoted to her father and probably did want to see him, but I’d stake my life her mother would have fought such a plan tooth and nail. She knows Valerian, and would not risk losing her prize catch. Unless…” Mrs. Coffey set down her teacup and stared at it thoughtfully.
Miss Aymer leaned forward again and hissed avidly, “If the gel really sails to Egypt she will be gone—at least nine… months?”
Mrs. Coffey said with a slow smile, “You’ve a quick mind, Saphy. Naughty, but quick.”
“Oh, my goodness! Do you really think…But Cordelia cannot have sailed alone. Who escorts her?”
“A Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Walters and family. Close friends, so Regina claims. I never heard her mention the name before, but now she purrs that it was “so very dear” of the Walters to allow her “beloved child” to travel with their party. And do you know, Saphronia, those hard eyes of hers fairly hurl rage when she says it No—there’s more to it—far more than we are told!”
Miss Aymer drew back, her own eyes wide. ’The morals of today’s youth appall one, Evaline! My dear brother—he is Chaplain to Sir Brian Chandler, you know—Nathaniel would be sick at heart were I to hint at this latest scandal.” She saw her friend’s disapproving frown and added hurriedly, “Not that I would, of course, for we really have no proof, have we? But—that poor child! Just think, she is on the high seas at this very moment. An East Indiaman, I suppose?”
“As you say,” said Mrs. Coffey, then added with a titter, “Or as her dear mama says!”
Extract from Notice posted at the East India Company in Leadenhall Street:
It is with deep regret that the Company adds the following names to the previously published list of those who perished when The Sea Horse, 500 tons, outward-bound for Egypt, foundered off the Cape of Good Hope during a violent storm on the night of May 2nd, 1748:
Dr. James Johnson and family.
Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Jurgens and party.
Sir Kenneth and Lady Lindall and Miss Lindall.
Mr. and Mrs. Horace Needham.
Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Walters and party.
Three other vessels in the fleet sustained heavy damage, but so far as is known there was no further loss of life.
2
January 1749
Hampshire had received a light fall of snow during the night, but with the dawn came a weak but welcome winter sun. The ground was hard and the air was still cold, but for the most part the wide-spreading acres of Muse Manor were green again, the patches of white fast retreating to lurk in shady spots and among the woods.
Suddenly, the hush of early morning was shattered by the pounding of hooves. Two horses, one a tall and powerful bay stallion, the other a dapple-grey filly, galloped neck and neck over the brow of a low hill and thundered down the slope. The riders, superb horsemen, were also twins, and at seven and twenty were so alike that until recently it had been difficult to tell them apart. They both were tall and well-built, their features clean-cut, the chins firm, the eyes wide-set and of a deep blue. Neither wore a wig but the thick dark hair of each was powdered and neatly tied back.
Exhilarated by their race and the rush of cold bracing air, they crouched lower in their saddles, urging their mounts to greater speed. The river came into view, winding its broad and gleaming ribbon through the lush meadowland, and the brothers turned their mounts towards the bridge that spanned the fast-flowing waters and marked the end of the contest. The bay horse was powerful, but gradually the filly began to pull ahead until, when the bridge was reached, she was a full length in the lead.
With a triumphant shout Piers Cranford drew her to a halt, patted her firm neck and told her that she had done splendidly, a
s usual. His brother came up with a whoop and a scattering of dirt clods and the big bay reared as if indignant that he’d been beaten by the smaller animal.
“Jolly well done!” Peregrine Cranford dismounted, revealing the fact that he wore a short wooden peg-leg in lieu of his right foot. He stroked the nose of his stallion and advised him breathlessly that he must not be put out because a young lady had bested him. “For you must admit, Odin, that she’s a very beautiful lady.” He turned his head, smiling up at his twin as Piers swung from the saddle. “Though how Tassels achieves her astonishing speeds, I cannot fathom.”
Piers was proud of his horse, and, always pleased when she received a compliment, he said with a grin, “Nor can anyone else, though a surprising number of fellows are ready to relieve me of her keep.”
“Don’t blame ’em at all. Would you sell her?”
Piers shrugged and answered carelessly, “Oh, perhaps. If the price were right.”
They led their mounts onto the bridge side by side, and Piers scanned his twin obliquely. They both had served as lieutenants with the King’s forces during the recent Jacobite Rebellion. Peregrine’s foot had been crushed by a gun carriage when its panicked crew deserted the disastrous Battle of Prestonpans, and two days later, under harrowingly adverse conditions, his foot had been amputated. Later, infection had set in, necessitating a further amputation. Although he had recovered, the ordeals had weakened him, and during the past three years, there had been several close brushes with death. “He’s going along much better now,” thought Piers, for if suffering had left its mark on the fine features, Peregrine had recently found his lady, and happiness glowed in his eyes.
Peregrine glanced at him. “Well?”
“Well—what?”
“Yes, I thought you were wool-gathering. I asked what you would consider an acceptable price for Tassels.”
“She is beyond price.” Piers patted the mare fondly. “As you know very well.”
Peregrine found no fault with this remark, for he himself would like to have owned the mare. Perfectly formed and of a most affectionate nature, she was a pretty creature and attracted attention wherever Piers rode. Her coloration was a rare pearly white, splashed overall with small round circles of softest grey, remarkably uniformly spaced, with only her head and tail being a solid pale grey. Neither colouring nor conformation were Arabian, her barrel and hindquarters being more rounded and her back short and strong, but Piers believed that she had some Arab blood, evidenced by the delicately shaped head and large expressive eyes.
“Thought you might be in the basket and had changed your mind about selling her.”
Peregrine had spoken in jest, but Piers said a scornful “Gudgeon!”
They came to a halt and stood looking up at the wooded hill that rose some half-mile to the north-east.
Piers asked curiously, “Now what are you grinning about?”
“I was thinking of how furious old Finchley must be. He wants Tassels so badly he can scarce contain himself. Has he thrown another offer at you?”
Major Gresford Finchley, their southerly neighbour, was a quarrelsome individual, harsh of voice and manner, and recalling their most recent encounter, Piers nodded. “He has. He gets alarmingly red in the face each time I refuse.”
“The monstrous major is a man who likes his own way. Does he bellow at you?”
“Bellows at everyone. Last time, I had all I could do not to laugh at him. He knew it, and for a minute I really thought he was going to strangle me. The silly fellow went so far as to howl that she had belonged to him originally.”
Indignant, Perry exclaimed, “Why, that sour old skinflint! After you saved his scrawny neck? That’s at the root of it, y’know. He can’t bear to admit he let such a prize escape him. If he’d dreamt when he gave her to you that she would develop such speed, you’d never have laid a finger on her!”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Piers chuckled. “He may have thought that having dug his precious person from under that landslide, I rated a magnificent prize.”
“Any decent fellow would’ve thought that, I grant you. Not many men would have risked crawling under that slope on Hound’s Tooth Hill to dig him out with their bare hands. The rest of the slide could have come down on you at any second—and did come down scant minutes after you freed the ingrate!”
“I can scarce name him Ingrate’ when I look at Tassels.”
“The clutch-fist only gave her to you because he thinks or—thought then—that bay is the only colour for a horse, besides which he judged her days were numbered. And a mighty sick creature he gifted you! I’d have wagered a thousand guineas you’d never be able to cure her foot. I used to marvel at all the hours you spent caring for her and then training her with such patience. Well, you’ve been rewarded. Seriously, how many offers have you had for her?”
“Very many. And you’d be surprised by the anger levelled at me when I refuse.” As if sensing that they spoke of her, the filly nudged her soft lips against his neck. Piers caressed her and said scoffingly, “And where would you get a thousand guineas, twin?”
The smile faded from Peregrine’s eyes. “If I had such a sum, I’d build Zoe a house atop Quail Hill.”
Piers gazed thoughtfully at the hill that rose a short distance to the north of the bridge, but he made no comment.
Peregrine stifled a sigh, then said a quiet “You’ve gone away again. What’s wrong?”
“You are what’s wrong, Sir Perry.” Still unused to his recently conferred knighthood, Peregrine flushed. “D’you realize,” Piers went on lightly, “that you dozed off last evening having raved about your affianced all through dinner and given poor Aunt Jane and me not a word of the ton gossip. Cruel! You know full well that we rusticate here and know nothing of what is going on. Has any more been heard of that nest of traitors you and Rossiter and Morris outwitted last autumn? Have Falcon and Gwendolyn announced their betrothal? Has a date been set? How does—”
Mounting up again, Peregrine laughed and begged for mercy. “’Tis only a month since we were lucky enough to defeat the League of Jewelled Men. There has been no further word of them—beyond the fact that Smythe faces execution. You did know that.”
“Dear Reginald Smythe.” Swinging into the saddle, Piers mused, “I still find it hard to believe that slimy little toad was the mighty ‘Squire’ and led those madmen in their lunatic plan to topple the government. Our monarch did well to confer a title on my intrepid little brother.”
“Pish! Falcon’s the one should have been knighted, not me, and their betrothal will be announced next month, which is—Who’s that?”
Between the bridge and crest of the hill where Peregrine had dreamt to build his house the land rose in a series of gently undulating folds. On this sunny morning the landscape offered a charming picture, its various shades of green threaded by the silver of the river. The new owners of the parcel had erected a cottage on the eastern side of the property, but were seldom in residence. Today, however, the emerald meadow was enlivened by a splash of pale pink.
“Aha! A lady,” said Piers. “I suppose she must be one of the Westermans.”
They rode down the bridge and Peregrine asked, “What are they like?”
“I’ve no least notion. Why they bought the place is more than I can understand.”
“Jupiter! Haven’t we even paid a courtesy call? What shocking neglect of our new neighbour! You should have cultivated their acquaintance long before this.”
“Even you, Sir Perry, would have found it difficult to cultivate the acquaintance of folk who are never there.”
“Well, there’s someone there now. We must seize this chance to introduce ourselves.”
“Not while she’s alone, you block. If two strange men go galloping up to her unannounced, she’ll likely faint dead away!”
His words fell on deaf ears. The more impetuous of the twins, Peregrine was already cantering Odin across the bridge and into the north meadow. With a snort of exaspera
tion for his brother’s impatience with protocol, Piers followed.
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.”
The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster Page 2