The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster

by Patricia Veryan

  They all adjourned to the withdrawing-room and Miss Guild rang for tea, whereupon Miss Finchley suddenly burst into tears and threw herself into Piers arms, declaring her undying gratitude for all he had done in their behalf.

  “And Valerian also,” put in Florian, seating himself on the sofa beside his love and dabbing tenderly at her tearful eyes.

  “Gervaise?” said Piers, obeying his aunt’s militant gesture and occupying his favourite wing chair. “Is he back in England already?”

  “Not so far as I’m aware,” replied Florian. “But he sent a servant to escort this gentleman, and—oh, how can I tell you? It is so wonderful!”

  They waited eagerly and although rather incoherent at times, the handsome young man so many had taken for a foundling or a gypsy was able at last to control his emotion and tell his story. While in Italy, Valerian had chanced to meet a youth who so resembled Florian that the likeness astounded him. His new acquaintance was a member of a family of wealthy vintners and was only too pleased to invite his English friend to their large and charming villa. It had taken Valerian very little time to discover that while a small boy, the eldest son, who also was named Florian, had been taken to England on holiday and a summer boat ride had turned to disaster. They knew the child had been rescued, but despite all their efforts to trace the men who had snatched him from the river, they were never found. The little boy had been the pride of his house and the family had never given up hope that their prayers would be answered and the beloved lost one would be restored to them. Valerian, who knew some Italian, had told them as much as he knew of Florian’s history, and imbued with new hope, the patriarch had at once travelled to England accompanied by his priest and servants who were fluent in the language. No sooner had the old gentleman set eyes on Florian than he’d been sure of his identity, and the youth’s faint recollections of a big bed and a dog and a white pony had confirmed that he was indeed the missing heir and that his true name was Fiorian Gabriele San Sebastiano.

  Thus, the fortunes of Miss Laura Finchley and Fiorian Consett had been reversed; Miss Finchley was the daughter of an accused murderer who had fled the country leaving only debts and disgrace behind him, and the penniless gypsy lad was now the heir to a fortune and member of a large and loving family who were waiting eagerly to welcome him home.

  The occupants of Muse Manor were overjoyed. The entire staff was assembled, Piers called for champagne and refreshments, toasts were drunk, and the rest of the day passed in celebration and congratulations. Unable to sue for the hand of his beloved in the usual way, Fiorian intended to approach Laura’s maternal grandmother. Once her permission was obtained, they would return to Italy in the company of his newfound grandfather where, in due course, Miss Laura Finchley would become Signora Fiorian San Sebastiano.

  Dinner that night was a merry occasion; Mrs. Burrows summoned helpers from the village and outdid herself in providing a splendid five-course meal. The elderly Italian demanded Mrs. Burrows’ presence, kissed the blushing cook’s hand, and embarked on what was obviously a heartfelt appreciation of her skills at having created fare un banchetto-superbo!

  It was an evening to be long remembered, and the participants went happily to their beds. The following morning farewells were said, promises of visits exchanged, and the guests drove off to share their glad tidings with Peregrine and the many friends of whom Fiorian was deeply fond, some of whom had constituted the only family he had known.

  Standing with Piers’ arm about her as they watched the coach rumble down the drivepath, Miss Guild said sighfully, “What a blessing that they have found their happiness at last. ’Twill be a whole new life for Laura. She will lose many friends, but I suppose she will find new ones to replace them.”

  “She did not lose the one she loves,” he said. “That is a loss that can never be replaced.”

  19

  It was a dull, grey afternoon, windy and chill, but Cranford paused to rest at the top of the bridge, gazing at the cottage, now deserted, where his beloved had dwelt with her eccentric but warm-hearted aunts.

  His cloak billowed and he drew it closer with a guilty awareness that if Aunt Jane had already missed him she would be worrying again. He’d not intended to walk so far, but the house had become unendurable after Florian and his party had left. He flattered himself that he’d carried it off well enough, and heaven knows he was glad for their happiness. But he knew himself for an envious man, because that very happiness had brought a keener awareness of his own empty future. All this past week he had tried to tell himself that someday he would find another lady—and known it for a lie. Mary was in truth a rara avis. How could he hope ever to find someone with so bright and resolute a spirit? Who else would possess the same lilting little laugh? What other lips would curve so prettily into that mischievous but so sweet smile? He had found his true love at last and given her his heart, and although he had known little of women, he knew he would never—could never—love again. And he had so hoped for children of his own…Still, not to despair! He had a brother he loved and who was soon to be wed. Hopefully he would at least be an uncle, and Perry would, he knew, allow him to have a part in the lives of his nieces and nephews.

  The cottage had a desolate and abandoned air. Soon after his return home he had sent Sudbury down there to learn if any of the aunts were in residence and the groom had returned saying the cottage was empty. He had therefore sent off a letter to Mrs. Caroline Westerman at the London house, stating his desire to purchase the river parcel. The lady had responded with a prompt and cordial offer to negotiate with his solicitor, since she and her sisters were now in agreement to sell. He had instructed his own man of the law, Barnabas Evans, to represent him in the matter, and being acquainted with legal processes had been mildly surprised by the speed of the various transactions. It now appeared that with luck the sale would be finalized in time for his twin’s wedding. Peregrine and Zoe could live in the cottage while their new home was being built—just where Perry had so longed to see it, atop Quail Hill.

  Mary was doubtless still in Town. He had learned that the choosing of bride clothes was a lengthy business. He had no least desire to visit the cottage and reawaken all the memories it held for him, and so turned his steps instead up the hill. This was where he first had met the lady he had not wanted, and had come to want with every fibre of his being. He wandered about, determined not to be tormented by memory, but surrendering at last when her lovely image persistently invaded his mind; feeling very close to her in these familiar surroundings; loving her; searching, out of habit, for one of her beads…

  The sound of galloping hooves brought Jane Guild running to the door Peddars was already swinging open.

  “Perry!” she gasped. “Oh, thank heaven!”

  Sir Peregrine dismounted, thrust the reins at Sudbury, who came hurrying to take them, and limped rapidly up the steps and through the front door. His face was grim as he demanded, “Where is he? Is it very bad? What happened? A relapse?”

  “No, no.” Miss Guild caught his arm as he started to make his awkward way up the stairs. “He is not here, Perry!”

  “Not here? But I thought—I was sure he is in much pain! Do you say he is no worse?”

  “He is not… better. Exactly. But—oh, never look so afraid. Come into the morning room.”

  He followed her and took the armchair beside her, saying impatiently, “For heaven’s sake, Aunt Jane. Tell me! Something is very wrong with my twin. I have felt it more keenly every day and should have come sooner, I know. Have I failed him utterly?”

  “No, my very dear. There is nothing you, or anyone, can do to help him, though I believe you are right. The poor boy is suffering cruelly, but—it is worse than a physical pain. He loved her, you see. And—and she had given her heart to Gervaise Valerian.”

  Sir Peregrine stared at her in bewilderment. “Cordelia Stansbury? But—Piers knew she loved Gervaise. Everyone knows. Why on earth—”

  She shook her head helplessly.
“Who can say why a man loves one particular lady? Or why he goes on hoping she will return his affection even when ’tis perfectly clear she is deep in love with another man?”

  Baffled, he muttered, “He thought her plain…”

  “He sees her now with the eyes of love. In truth she is no beauty, but she has—I suppose one could describe it as a—a sort of glow.”

  “He offered for her, and she laughed at him. Heavens above, how could he love her after that?” Springing up, he began to limp about distractedly. “I might have known! Always he has been the quiet one, comforting and caring for us all, shouldering our burdens, and never a word of his own hopes. I know—I knew that if he once threw his heart over the hedge it would be a forever thing with him. That notorious jade has broken his generous heart. And he let her, the idiot!” Pausing to look down at her, he said miserably, “My poor idealistic twin! Aunt Jane, whatever are we to do? How can we help him?”

  She said sadly, “I think we cannot. We can only wait and pray he finds his own happiness someday.”

  “Well, and did you find it, sir?”

  The clear voice caused Piers’ heart to give a spasmodic leap. His head jerked up. He half-whispered, “Mary…!”

  For an instant she was dismayed by the change in him, then she said cheerily, “Yes. I’m glad you recognize me.”

  She wore blue today; a soft blue gown under a thick cloak of darker blue. Her curls blew softly under her hood, her cheeks were rosy, and her eyes held a warm smile. He forced himself to look away, and said lightly, “Of course I recognize you. If I appeared surprised, ’twas because I had understood you were in London, choos——Oh, Jupiter! You will have missed your friend! Florian and Laura came to—”

  “To tell you their news. I know. They came here first.” She stepped closer and took his arm, then, noticing how he shrank from her touch, drew back and said in alarm, “Oh, how stupid of me. Have I hurt you?”

  “Only by removing your hand. My arm is not damaged. Our apothecary is something of a tyrant and demands that I not use the arm for a short while.”

  Smiling, she took his arm again, but very gently. “Is it not wonderful, Piers? I was quite worried for Laura. She is too softhearted and—”

  “Not an Amazon like someone I could name,” he said, struggling to appear at ease and yearning to pull her close and kiss those rosy lips.

  “As I was saying,” she said, giving him a stern glance, “Laura is easily crushed, and her father’s disgrace could well have sent her into a decline. Now—it has all worked out beautifully, do you not agree?”

  “I do. She is—is very fortunate.”

  “As is he! Your friend has won himself a gentle and kind lady who will make him a wonderful wife.”

  “Oh, I agree. I did not mean—I only mean that—”

  “That marriage will solve all her problems? One can but hope.”

  “It certainly will bring her happiness—and Florian also. When two people really love one another, as they do, I would think they’ve the chance for a joyous sharing through the years. Surely—you entertain such—hopes for your own future?”

  She was silent, her lips pursed thoughtfully as they made their way higher up the softly undulating hillside. Then she said, “There is the barrow! Over there.”

  He turned at once to look at the green mound she indicated. “Oh, Gad! Then there really is one! And it is on the river parcel! Small wonder old Finchley was so desperate to buy it!”

  They approached the mound together and Cranford gazed down at the line that was visible in the turf. “To think people—centuries ago—buried their treasures here…”

  “And their bones,” she said, twinkling at him. “I did not disturb those, but you may be sure Major Finchley would have felt no such qualms.”

  “True. Did you really—dig here, Mary? It seems almost sacrilegious.”

  “I suppose,” she said, firing up, “had you been a pirate and found bones and treasure hid on a desert island, you’d have been too noble to dig them up! However badly scorched you were!”

  He could not restrain a grin. “Such terms you use, Miss Stansbury!”

  “I am not Miss Stansbury at this moment, sir. I am the outrageous Miss Westerman, who dwelt with savages and flouted all the conventions with not a soupçon of shame!”

  “There is no need for that Plan now, surely?” But reminded of Valerian’s now straitened circumstances, he asked, “And if you should stand in need of funds, will you be allowed to benefit from your treasure?”

  She turned and they began to walk slowly down the hill. Joying in her nearness, and with a not very sincere mental apology to his absent cousin, he reached out and took up her hand, managing to restore it to his arm.

  Mary watched this procedure with interest and replied, “Buried treasure belongs to the Crown, as you know. But our solicitor—we’ve a new one, by the bye—is disputing that ruling because he says it applies only to gold coins and golden objects—not to gems.”

  “Does he entertain hopes of the outcome?”

  “Yes. But I think ’tis rather in the way of splitting hairs, don’t you agree?”

  “I’m afraid I do. But there is a reward—no?”

  “Quite a large one. And if you do not betray me, I shall keep the ill-gotten gains I have accumulated thus far.”

  “Rascal!” He patted her hand, his mind hoarding that pert little smile. “What does my cousin have to say to this?”

  “Oh, you know Gervaise.” She glanced up at him from under her lashes. “He has not the least respect for the laws of the land. If he had his way we would dig up the entire mound at dead of night and have a boat waiting to carry us over to France!”

  “Likely you’re in the right of it. But he has many—good qualities, and—and—you will be able to reform him, I’ve no doubt.”

  “Good gracious me! Why ever should I wish to do such a thing? The female who weds a man with the intent to change his ways is a widgeon! On the other hand, I have to admit that the lady who weds lieutenant Piers Cranford will have to change him to save her own sanity.”

  Taken aback by this unkind remark, he said, “You must judge me a very vexing fellow, ma’am. What have I done to give you so poor an opinion of me?”

  “You have a truly dreadful habit of flinging yourself into danger! Constantly! With no thought of how that trait distresses others!”

  “No! You are unreasonable! Because I chanced to—”

  “No one takes such chances! When you are not fighting Mohocks or charging into burning barns—”

  He said hurriedly, “You know very well I had no choice in either instance! Truly, I am not such a fool as to court danger, Mary.”

  “Perhaps not, but nor do you run from it. I vow your poor wife will live in terror that you are risking your ufe to save someone or something, without a thought for—”

  “Yet knowing Valerian’s volatile nature, it does not concern you that he is—er, not exactly law-abiding?”

  “Do not change the subject! However, I own that I wish he showed more sense, for I am very fond of him. But I have to tend to my own affairs, and cannot—”

  “Mary!” Halting, he faced her and, heart racing, said, “I had understood you were in Town, choosing your bride clothes.”

  She said mischieviously, “You have met my mama.”

  “Yes. Is she—I mean, is there any hope she is—is mistaken?”

  Resuming their much interrupted stroll, she said judicially, “Mama, you know, tends to live as though events that suited her were happening—regardless of whether they actually are.”

  “Then—” He drew her to a halt again. “You were not in Town buying clothes?”

  “Oh, yes. I have quite a sum, for I was able to sell one of my beads. Never say you are going to object?”

  He put his available hand on her shoulder, and looking deep into her lovely eyes said firmly, “For mercy’s sake, stop teasing me and tell me the truth. Are you or are you not betrothed to Gerv
aise?”

  Her brows arching, she said, “Oh, no.”

  He gave a gasp and his own eyes closed for an instant, so that he missed the tender smile that was bestowed on him.

  “I had thought you understood,” she said, all innocence, “that I have a Plan. I have already looked at two small houses. In Kensington Village. And—”

  “Kensington Village? You little scamp! Do you say you intend to move there and write your shipwreck book?”

  “But of course. Aunt Celeste means to be my chaperone.”

  “My dear God! If ever there was a lady unsuited to—”

  “Be so kind as to not speak unkindly of my aunt, sir!”

  “No—I should not, I don’t mean—Mary, Mary! Have you even started this famous book of yours?”

  She walked on, taking his arm uninvited. “Well… not exactly. But I have written to my papa asking him to advise me about life on a desert island. When I receive his reply I shall be able to begin.”

  “But—surely you know more of the subject than does he?”

  “How should I? I have never so much as set eyes on one!”

  “But—you said—I understood—”

  Mary smiled, and lifting one hand, touched his cheek gently. “Poor boy who looks so haggard and ill.”

  It was very hard, and he could not resist kissing those caressing fingers, but he said sternly, “Never mind about that. Cordelia Mary, I want the truth. Were you ever shipwrecked?”

  She folded her hands demurely before her and shook her bowed head, looking, he thought achingly, like a little girl knowing she is about to be spanked.

  “Then—good heavens! Where were you during the year you were believed to be on your desert island?”

  “In the New World.” She looked up, her eyes dancing. “And do you know, Piers, it is the nicest place, full of the most friendly and kind people! You would—”