The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster

by Patricia Veryan

  “I do, and I am quite in sympathy with her. But don’t worry, Miss Tassels. I think your master is a great tease and has no least intent to ever let you go.”

  Watching her, in some unaccountable fashion he was reminded of Cordelia Stansbury; yet how different they were. Mary Westerman was such a friendly, cheerful damsel. Her fresh young face was innocent of powder and paint, and the glossy curls that peeped beneath the hood of her cloak were her own. Nor did she wear hoops, and the small feet that he glimpsed below her gown were encased in sensible half-boots. No paint and wig and high Spanish heels for this young lady, and in his eyes she was far more attractive for the lack of them.

  He swung down from the saddle. “Perhaps I can help? Is this where you broke your beads? I had thought it was over there.”

  “You are likely right, Mr. Cranford. Thank you.”

  He accompanied her up the rise and Tassels grazed as they talked and searched about. It was easy to talk to Mary Westerman, and before he knew it Cranford found himself telling her about the flood and the loss of his prize cow.

  She halted and touched his arm with ready sympathy. “Oh, the poor dear thing! However did it happen?”

  He felt a rush of gratitude for her understanding, and told her what he knew of the matter and of the suspicions he and Dixon shared. He was not given to betraying his feelings and was embarrassed to realize that he had been rambling on for several minutes and that his voice sounded hoarse and strained in his own ears. He stopped speaking abruptly, and feeling his face grow hot, exclaimed, “What a fool I am to babble on like this! I apologize, Miss Westerman, and hope you will believe that I have not quite taken leave of my senses. I do apprehend that she was, after all, only a cow.”

  “Not so! I saw her and her calf one day. Such an unusual animal, and when I called to her she came over to chat with me in the most friendly way. Tis no wonder you considered her to be more of a pet. I know little of cattle but I thought her very beautiful and can appreciate that you had such plans for her. It is indeed a great loss. I am so very sorry.”

  Overwhelmed by such warm kindness, he thanked her gruffly and there was a brief but not uncomfortable silence as they walked on side by side.

  With his head bowed he exclaimed, “Jove! I believe I’ve found another of your beads!” He retrieved the small stone and wiped away the mud that coated it. “No—I think this cannot be—”

  Miss Westerman took it from his hand eagerly. “It is! What keen eyes you have!”

  “Are you sure, ma’am? It is red, and the other was green, as I recall.”

  “My necklace is of mixed stones. Very old, and quite unusual.” She shivered. “Goodness, how cold it has become. I must start back, sir.”

  “He whistled Tassels to him. I’ll walk with you, if I may.”

  “Thank you, but you have a long ride before you. Had you to come all the way up here to use this bridge? Is the one near your farm impassable?”

  “It is unsafe for any but a single rider. My tenant farmer cannot get his waggons and supplies across until we have turned the river to its proper course. Actually, I rode this way to see the fence and the signs your family has put up.”

  She frowned. “Not so, Mr. Cranford! The fence and that horrid sign were put up by the gentleman who desires to buy our property. To my mind it was a great piece of impertinence since the sale is not yet finalized.”

  “It sounds unlawful as well as impertinent.” And sure of her answer, he enquired, “A local individual, ma’am?”

  “Yes. He is called Major Finchley.”

  The Westerman cottage was larger than Cranford had supposed. He was too angry to pay much heed to the half-timbered exterior or the wainscoted entrance hall, and when Miss Westerman left him he stamped, glowering, after the neat footman. He was ushered to the withdrawing-room, and advised that Mrs. Westerman would be with him “in a moment.” He snapped, “I wish to see Mr. Westerman!” The footman bowed, smiled in an irritatingly supercilious manner, and withdrew.

  Several “moments” slipped past. Pacing up and down, seething with impatience, Cranford had to acknowledge that this was a charming room, furnished for comfort rather than elegance. The sofa was large and covered in a red velvet that bore the marks of use. He decided to see if it was as soft as it looked. He sat down and at once had to spring up as Mary Westerman came in. She had tidied her curls and wore a simple primrose-yellow gown that became her very well. Accompanying her was a matron whose age he guessed to be in the neighbourhood of fifty.

  He was presented to Mrs. Caroline Westerman. Inherently shy, he usually found older women less intimidating than young damsels, but this lady was truly formidable. She stood half a head taller than he, and without being stout, was built on a grand scale that put him in mind of Horatio Glendenning’s stepmother, Lady Bowers-Maiden. Unlike the countess, however, Mrs. Caroline Westerman could not be described as a handsome woman: her nose was too large, her mouth a thin line above an up-curving chin, and the light hazel eyes that might have been a redeeming feature held a fierce and belligerent glint. Moreover, she presented a very untidy appearance. Wisps of greying hair escaped a cap that sagged crookedly on her head. Her gown of purple velvet, worn over very large hoops, was not enhanced by an outsize multi-coloured shawl that appeared to have been crocheted without the aid of any pattern or design. Bowing before her, he caught a glimpse of muddy riding boots and was almost undone. With an effort he collected his wits, and began, “I have come, ma’am, to—”

  Her arm flew up and he had to step back quickly to avoid the flying shawl. “We are not blind,” she said in a deep booming voice, and wrenching the shawl about her as if she subdued a determined enemy, she added, “We will wait, if you can contain yourself, for our sister. Ah, Lucretia, this impatient young fellow is Lieutenant Piers Cranford. You may make your bow, sir, to Mrs. Lucretia Westerman.”

  Cranford turned to face a very stout lady who smiled at him as she extended her hand. Bowing over it, he scarcely dared look up. Mrs. Lucretia was probably a year or two younger than Mrs. Caroline, and there could be no doubt but that she had once been very pretty. Her powdered curls were neatly dressed under a lace-trimmed cap, she had a small up-tilted nose, and eyes of china blue; unfortunately, they, together with her mouth, were almost lost in the swell of her cheeks, and as for a chin, she now had four of them. She wore a green gown trimmed with swansdown that would have been becoming save for the fact that it had been made for a lady of far less ample proportions. Cranford could all but hear the seams straining, and wondered in awe how her abigail had ever managed to fasten the buttons. Her bosom was generous, much too generous for the very décolleté bodice that struggled to contain it, and fearing that at any second the struggle would be lost, he averted his eyes, and said rather hoarsely, “I am here to—”

  “How droll.” Mrs. Lucretia lowered herself cautiously into a wing chair beside her sister and panted, “But it is quite correct, Caroline. He is here.”

  “Yes, and keeps telling us of it, as if we did not know. I wonder why,” said Mrs. Caroline, regarding Cranford with suspicion.

  “To find—” he began.

  “Oh! A game! But how droll!” Mrs. Lucretia clapped her plump hands. “I love games! He has lost something!”

  “Try not to be so foolish, sister.”

  Cranford, who had sat down, sprang up again, beginning to feel surrounded as a new voice was heard.

  The lady now entering was tall and graceful, beautifully gowned, and at least ten years younger than her sisters. Her hair was powdered and dressed in the latest style, and her features were delicate. She wielded a large feathery fan as she advanced with a faintly sinuous sway into the room, her fine hazel eyes fixed admiringly on Cranford.

  Mrs. Caroline flung her shawl about her shoulders so violently that she then had to fight her way out of it, and emerged growling irritably, “This is—”

  The latest arrival raised a delaying hand. “I know who he is, Caro.”

 
“If you have met him before, you should have told us.” Mrs. Lucretia put her fan over her lips concealingly, but did not trouble to lower her voice as she said to her elder sister, “Is it not just like her to keep him all to herself? He is very handsome, of course.”

  Mrs. Caroline’s fan was also brought into play while above it her eyes fixed the embarrassed Cranford with a hard stare. She said quite audibly, “We do not judge him especially handsome. And she likely has never met him.”

  “I am—” began the latest arrival.

  “Miss Celeste Westerman,” her sisters-in-law chorused triumphantly.

  She sighed, and from behind her fan said to Cranford, “Poor dears. They like to think they know everything.” She extended her hand, her eyes flirting with him in exaggerated roguishness, and as he touched her fingers to his lips, murmured, “You will think it foolish, Lieutenant, the way they fancy they cannot be heard if they hide behind their fans.”

  Since she was doing precisely the same, he merely smiled and asked evasively, “Forgive, but did we meet in Town, Miss Celeste?”

  Seating herself on the red sofa, she said archly, “I will forgive you—if you sit here beside me.”

  “Aha!” cried Mrs. Caroline, her shawl agitated, “she has not met him! We knew it!”

  “They think I don’t know why you have come,” purred Miss Celeste, patting the cushion beside her. “But I do.”

  “To pay a courtesy call, of course,” declared Mrs. Caroline.

  “And long overdue,” agreed Mrs. Lucretia, tugging at her bodice in a way that terrified Cranford. “But he wants to know about the fence; that is his true reason for calling.” Up went the fan as she leaned to her sister and confided loudly, “Only see how she flirts with him, Caro! I declare it is most droll!”

  “I am not flirting with him,” argued Miss Celeste, pouting, and then adding provocatively, “But I’ll own I’ve ever had a soft spot in my heart for gentlemen with curling hair and such very blue eyes.”

  “Or with no hair,” appended Mrs. Caroline waspishly.

  “And a squint,” tittered Mrs. Lucretia.

  They put their fans together and, “safely hidden,” laughed hilariously.

  Miss Celeste shrugged and said with disdain, “Pay no heed to them, Lieutenant Cranford. They are silly and jealous, is all.”

  Sure that his face was scarlet, and considerably off-stride, Cranford stammered, “No, but—but Mrs. Lucretia is quite right, ma’am. I—”

  Miss Celeste rapped her fan across his knuckles and uttered a piercing shriek. “Oh! You horrid thing! I am not flirting with you! How dare you presume so!”

  Aghast, Cranford looked about helplessly for Miss Mary and saw that she stood just inside the open door, watching him, her eyes alight with mischief. Realizing that rescue from that quarter was unlikely, he said, “No, no, ma’am! I did not mean—What I meant was—I—er, I came hoping to have a few words with Mr. Westerman.”

  Three fans were lowered, three pairs of eyes regarded him wonderingly.

  “Now this is very droll,” murmured Mrs. Lucretia.

  Mrs. Caroline said with a snigger, “Is that so? We wish you well of it, sir!”

  “Why?” demanded Miss Celeste.

  “Because he don’t wish to deal with tes, you ninny,” said Mrs. Caroline. “He fancies us too foolish.”

  Miss Celeste fluttered her lashes at Cranford, and again patting the sofa cushion beside her, said wistfully, “Is that why he will not sit here?”

  Cranford sat down gingerly, and said in a nervous rush of words, “I feel sure you all are very capable, ma’am. But I want—”

  “What, you dear man?” gushed Miss Celeste, leaning towards him. “You shall have anything you ask. Anything!”

  ‘Dear God!’ thought Cranford. “It is a—a legal matter concerning the sale of this property and that confoun——”

  Mrs. Caroline howled and threw her shawl over her head. “No swearings! No cursings! Remember you are in a ladies’ withdrawing-room, sir!”

  “Yes. Yes, indeed! I apologize,” he gasped. “What I mean to say is, it’s that—er, revoltingly ugly fence and—and the sign. I understand they were put up by Major Finchley, and I want to know by what right—”

  Mrs. Caroline’s shawl flapped wildly. Emerging from it, she struggled to restore her cap, which had fallen over both eyes. “Oh, there you are!” she said breathlessly. “How should we know about Major Finchley? What a foolish question! Waste of time! Waste of time!”

  “Why would he come here to waste our time?” asked Miss Celeste, bewildered.

  Mrs. Lucretia suggested, “He is a spy, perhaps.”

  “Or a revolutionary,” contributed Mrs. Caroline, adding solemnly, “Lots of young fellows are these days. Too much time on their hands, so they occupy themselves with mischief and mayhem, fighting for lost causes they know little about and that no one else gives a fig for.”

  “It is too droll” remarked Mrs. Lucretia, clearly washing her hands of the issue. “Speaking of which, it is time for tea.”

  With an emphatic nod Miss Celeste declared, “He will want brandy in his.”

  “Good gracious me,” exclaimed Mrs. Lucretia. “Well, I suppose there must be some in the house, though he should have warned us ahead of time. Are you sure, dear?”

  Miss Celeste said, “Well, of course I am sure. He is a gentleman, and they all do.”

  “No—please,” gulped Cranford, yearning to be elsewhere. “I thank you, but—”

  “Here is dear Mary come with the tray,” said Mrs. Caroline, beaming.

  Mary Westerman came into the room, followed by a maid bearing a laden tea-tray.

  “Our guest demands brandy also,” panted Mrs. Lucretia, sitting up straighter and then making a frantic grab for her wilting bodice.

  With an anguished glance at Mary, Cranford said, “You are very good, but I must be on my way; if you could just—”

  “You see?” exclaimed Miss Celeste. “Because we did not bring the brandy at once, he will go off in a huff!”

  “Men!” snorted Mrs. Caroline.

  The maid gave the culprit a censuring look, set the tray on a table before the sofa and hurried out.

  Mary Westerman murmured dulcetly, “But of course he shall have some brandy, and Lieutenant Cranford would never be so ill-mannered as to go off in a huff.” She slanted a twinkling glance at him. “Would you, sir?”

  Mopping his brow, he summoned a smile. “Certainly not, ma’am. It will be my pleasure to drink tea with you—but without brandy, if you please.”

  “I declare,” said Mrs. Lucretia, eyeing him curiously, “How very…”

  Cranford waited, although he was sure of the final adjective.

  Mrs. Lucretia did not disappoint him. “… droll,” she said.

  “It would have been kind in you to give me a little warning!” Walking to the stables beside Miss Mary, Cranford was glad of the chill breath of the wind. After the arrival of the tea-tray, another hour had passed before he could decently escape, and he still felt considerably shaken.

  Mary Westerman drew the hood of her cloak closer. “Warning of—what, pray?” she asked pertly. “My dear aunts have the kindest hearts in the world. If they offended, sir—”

  Cranford groaned, “Do not! You know very well that I am in no state to cross swords with you.”

  She gave a throaty little chuckle and it occurred to him that although he had known her for a comparatively short while, he felt quite at ease in having made such a remark, as if she were a close friend. “I’ve no doubt your aunts are very kind,” he said. “But you must own they are rather—er—”

  “Unusual? Yes. But it is gauche in you to say so!”

  He pulled aside her hood, and searching her face anxiously saw that her eyes again held that sparkling look of mischief. Relieved, he pointed out, “I didn’t say it.”

  “But you were thinking it.” Again came that soft little chuckle. “If you could have seen your face when Aunt Cel
este said you were going off in a huff because we’d not supplied you with brandy! Yes, I know I am naughty to tease you so. They are darlings, but I’ll admit that on first meeting they can be rather… startling. I really did try to—ah, prepare you, but you were having such a lovely time indulging your wrath that you would not listen. Are you quite wrung out? I had thought an Army officer—even one with revolutionary tendencies—would be accustomed to dealing with ladies.”

  “So had I,” he said with a grin. “But never in my life have I met such an—to use your own term—an unusual trio! I mean no offence, but—are they—always like—er, that?”

  “They are held to be a trifle eccentric, but they liked you.” She added with a dimple, “Especially Aunt Celeste.”

  Cranford said ruefully. “She is a beautiful lady, but—”

  “I know. Poor Aunt Celeste. She is my mother’s youngest sister and has never married. Aunt Caroline and Aunt Lucretia were married to Mama’s elder brothers. They are both widows now. Truly, I doubt they had any thought to frighten you.”

  “Frighten me? Ma’am, I was terrified! There must surely be a gentleman in your family with whom I can discuss business matters? I want to bid on this parcel of land, and I want that ugly fence and the sign torn down. You spoke of your father, I think?”

  “Yes. Papa is a fine scholar, but he is from Town at present.”

  “Do you know when he will return? Is he perhaps at University? I could ride up there, if—”

  “I meant that he is out of the country. He does not teach, though he could. He has a great interest in antiquities. In fact, he is the one gave me my necklace. If you wish to find out about the sale of this property, our solicitor can probably help you. I believe he lives in Lincoln’s Inn, or has offices there. His name is—um, let me see now… Shorey, or is it Story? No! Shorewood, that’s it!”