Maulever Hall

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “I am relieved to think her in such good hands.” Lady Heverdon’s voice was mocking. “At what time shall we send the carriage for her tomorrow?”

  “No need to do so.” The Duke had come forward to Marianne’s side. “I am sure Miss Lamb would enjoy a longer visit from her friend ...”

  “Oh, thank you.” Marianne turned to him impulsively, grateful for his support.

  “I must thank you, too.” But Mauleverer’s brow was darker, his expression more savage than ever.

  “Only best not let her play at cards.” Lady Heverdon laid her hand lightly on Mauleverer’s arm. “They are striking up for the cotillion, Mark; I would not miss it for anything.” There was no mistaking the proprietary gesture with which she led him away.

  The door closed with a little sigh behind them. Marianne found she was still twisting Mauleverer’s handkerchief between her hands. She raised her tear-drowned eyes to the Duke. “Thank you,” she said again.

  “I am sorry—” He broke off. “No, I’ll not pretend to be sorry. He is a fool—and a mannerless one at that. How could he—” Again he broke off, moved a little nearer to her and began again: “Miss Lamb—Marianne—I know I should wait longer, but I cannot bear to see you like this. I do not hope for anything; I do not expect anything, but let me just give myself the happiness of telling you how much I love you. I know it can seem merely an ill-timed intrusion on your sorrow, but—remember me, will you?”

  “Oh!” And then, after a little pause: “I’m sorry—” And the tears came in a flood at last.

  “Don’t be sorry, Marianne.” How did she come to be in his arms? “Loving is worth it. I know you can only think of me, now, as a refuge—a support in your trouble. I am only too happy if you will think of me as that. And, perhaps, some day ...”

  “No.” She raised her drenched face to his. “It would not be fair. I love him too much. I can never get over it.”

  He dried her face gently with his own handkerchief.

  “Never is a long day, Marianne. Only, remember, I shall always be here.” He raised her hands that still held Mauleverer’s handkerchief, kissed first one and then the other, then let her go. “And now, if you do not want a perfectly devastating scold from my aunt, we had best go back to our guests. Can you face them?”

  “Of course I can. Your Grace, you have given me back my courage.” And she let him take her arm and lead her back to the ballroom.

  It was still comparatively early and there were hours of evening to be got through, now without the stimulus of hope. Marianne danced her way dutifully through her list of partners, smiled, sat out, ate chicken and champagne at the Duke’s side, and wondered if the ball would ever end. And all the time, wherever she turned, she seemed to see Mauleverer, assiduous at Lady Heverdon’s side. Even the Duchess commented on it in her dry dispassionate way. “She’s left that cousin of hers at home tonight,” she said, “and makes the new lord dance attendance instead.” Her wise old eyes preached endurance to Marianne. “ ‘Time and the hour run through the longest day.’ ” And then: “Do you realize that you are a mad success, my dear? We shall have paragraphs in all the papers tomorrow.”

  “But no one has recognized me.”

  “Or if they have,” said the Duchess, “they have kept very quiet about it. I wonder ...” She did not say what she wondered. Instead: “John tells me Mrs. Mauleverer stays the night.”

  “Yes; she is not well. I do hope you do not think it forward of me to invite her.”

  “Fiddle,” said the Duchess. “Are we really on such terms, you and I? Besides, John tells me he invited her. Poor John.” Her voice said that she knew everything. And then, “Marianne, if you cry here, I will shake you, coram publico. Duke”—and this time it was the Duke of Wellington she summoned—“come and talk some sense into this ward of mine. She actually thinks Mrs. Jordan a better actress than Mrs. Siddons.”

  The hours dragged by. Candles winked and sputtered in their sockets; the new gas chandeliers were heating up alarmingly; the rooms were emptying at last when the weary musicians struck up for one last quadrille, and the Duke came to claim Marianne’s hand. “It is really the very last.” He led her out to the top of the set. “And I know you wish to end as gallantly as you have carried on.”

  “Thank you.” But, despite herself, her eyes had traveled down the room to where Mauleverer stood facing Lady Heverdon. “You have been very kind.”

  “I have been very selfish.”

  “I don’t think you know how to be selfish. Oh, I wish ...”

  “So do I.” But the dance had begun. Only once, as she moved through it, did she have to encounter Mauleverer. His hand, when he touched hers, was cold as ice, his eyes seemed not to see her; the music changed and he passed on down the room.

  From the doorway, now, came the footmen’s stentorian cries as one by one carriages drew up to collect the exhausted guests. “Lady Heverdon’s carriage stops the way,” was the cry now, and Marianne saw Mauleverer leave the set to escort her home. “It is all over,” she told herself. “Finished.”

  “There”—the Duke seemed to echo her thought—“it is finished. And you are exhausted. Do not wait for the last guests to go; that is my part. Try and get some sleep.” He smiled. “For, indeed, it is morning already. The morning always comes, Miss Lamb.”

  “You mean: it is always darkest, before the dawn.” But she smiled back at him, grateful for the attempt at comfort, before she turned away to climb slowly up the great stair down which she had swept with such hopes.

  XV

  The aftermath of a ball is always depressing. When Marianne woke, late and jaded to inevitable gray December weather, the great house was still in the process of being tidied up. Fanny, bringing her chocolate and rolls in bed, strongly urged the desirability of her staying there. “It’s nothing but confusion belowstairs, miss, and you look a trifle peaked, if you don’t mind my saying so. Nor there’s nothing in the world to get up for. His Grace has gone out of town on business—up first thing, he was, and gave his orders.” A sharp look questioned Marianne’s responsibility for this. “And the Duchess, she’s writing letters and says she’s in a devil of a bad temper—excusing me, miss, but them’s her words—and not to be disturbed. And as for the old lady; she’s sleeping like a baby in the room next door; I borrowed a draught for her from Her Grace’s maid and she looks to be making up several weeks’ sleep. Why don’t you try and do so too, miss? You could do with it.”

  But Marianne could not rest. She was up and dressed in a warm walking dress of dark red merino when Fanny reappeared with a note for her. “The callers have started already,” she announced, “but they’re being sent away fast enough. You should hear the lies: ‘Her Grace is slightly indisposed.’ I wish they could hear what she said. Oh”—she handed over the note—“this came for you. No answer, he said.”

  From Mauleverer? Marianne opened it with a hand that would shake; and read:

  I must see you. There is something you need to know. Tell no one, for your own sake and that of those you love. Perhaps you were right not to trust me before. This time you must. I shall await you at the entrance to the Park. And the signature, in the unknown, precise handwriting: Paul R.

  “The entrance to the Park.” She moved to the window and looked up across Park Lane. Despite the cold, the usual little group of idlers was gathered there. A man, muffled to the eyes in rags, was selling hot chestnuts; a woman called her wares in a voice so hoarse as to be incomprehensible. The place was admirably chosen for a secret meeting. Tell no one ... She did not want to meet Paul Rossand once more alone. And yet, if she took a companion, he would be bound to see and would simply disappear once more. Besides, who could she take? If only the Duke had been at home, she might have consulted him. The Duchess? No, she was in “a devil of a bad temper.” Best see Rossand first. After all, there was no possible chance of her coming to harm in so public a place as Hyde Park. It would be time enough to tell the Duchess about it when she retur
ned.

  It had taken her hardly any time to make up her mind. “I am going out for a turn in the Park,” she told Fanny, “fetch me my warmest pelisse.” How odd it was to have, actually, a choice of clothes to wear and how convenient that Fanny was much too much in awe of her to do more than look her protest at a young lady’s venturing out unaccompanied.

  It was good to be out and good, too, to be alone for once. She dodged her way through the carriages on Park Lane and walked briskly along the other side. The woman peddler had disappeared, but the chestnut seller was still there, surrounded by an eager little crowd of boys. Pausing for a moment to watch them, Marianne took the chance to look about her. No sign of Rossand. She shrugged, and entered the Park. Perhaps it was all a hoax. She took a brisk turn along a path that crackled with frost under her feet. Back to the entrance, then once more out among the leafless trees. If he did not appear before she got back to the entrance, she would wait no longer. She lingered for a moment at the point where she had turned before, admiring frost patterns on the shady side of a silver birch tree. Her feet were cold in their thin shoes. Now, she would go home.

  “Miss Lamb.” He was so near her that she started despite herself. “I am glad to see that you have come alone.”

  “Yes, but I do not intend to stay. So, tell me quickly what it is that you have to say to me.” As on the last time, he was closely wrapped in a heavy traveling cloak, but she would have known that sallow face and lisping voice anywhere. Only, this time, more experienced in society, she recognized that the cloak almost certainly hid the elegant garb of a young man of fashion. Young? Impossible to be sure, but certainly not old. And, more than ever she was sure of this, not to be trusted.

  But, “I wish you would understand that I am your friend,” he said.

  “Why should I? You lied to me before.”

  “Yes.” He admitted it at once. “But for your own sake. Now I am come to tell you the truth. You may wish I had gone on lying.”

  “What can you mean?”

  “Let us walk.” He would have taken her arm, but she moved a little away from him. “It is too cold for you to be standing. Besides, for your own sake, and that of others, you will not wish us to be overheard. You really are alone?”

  “Yes. I hope you do not think I am afraid of you.”

  “Of course not.” He seemed faintly amused at the idea. “An adventurous young lady like you. And indeed it is about those very adventures that I am come to tell you. You did not believe me, before?”

  “No.”

  “Quite right.” He said it, almost, it seemed, with approval. “I am sorry to have to admit that we have never been married, you and I. But, at the time, I could think of no other story so likely to get you safe away from the predicament in which I found you. And, at all events, the story did serve its turn. You left, though not, to my sorrow, with me. And—you have survived.”

  “Survived? What are you talking about?”

  “About attempts on your life. Were you not shot at, once, in the woods? And did not the house where you sought asylum burn down, mysteriously, in the middle of the night?”

  “Yes. I thought—”

  Now he laughed outright. “Of course. You thought I did it. Oh, poor Miss Lamb. Almost, for your sake, I could wish I had. But it was not I you met just after the shooting, was it? I did not give you permission to ride a dangerous horse. Nor was I in the district when the house you were staying in burned down, though it is true that I had been there shortly before, posing as an agitator, and had learned, as I thought, that you had found a safe asylum. Miss Lamb, I know it will go against the grain with you, but, for your own sake, you must realize who your enemy is.”

  “My enemy? You cannot mean Mr. Mauleverer?”

  “Yes, Miss Lamb, or rather, Lord Heverdon—so long as you do not regain your memory.”

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “You never did fathom it, then? I wonder that an intelligent girl like you should not have done so, but I suppose you were blinded by your infatuation for him. But, really, it was all so absurdly obvious. Little Lord Heverdon burns to death in his nursery in the north of England— completely, mark you, so that not a trace remains. And three days later you turn up with a child on your way to Maulever Hall, where the heir to Heverdon lives. I do not know what good you originally thought you would do by going there, but your dangerousness, so far as Mauleverer was concerned, was negatived by your loss of memory. Comic, isn’t it, Miss Lamb, to think that you found shelter in the house of the man from whom you were fleeing. Do you wonder I think you the luckiest girl in the world to have survived?”

  Still she would not believe it. “You mean that little Thomas—”

  “Is Lord Heverdon. It was an ingenious idea, of Mauleverer’s, was it not, to make a parade of not wanting to be a peer ... and then be forced ‘for political reasons’ to take his seat in the Lords. Who, knowing all that, would dream of suspecting how foully, in fact, he played for his title? And will do so again, if you do nothing to prevent him. You—and the child—are to become too much of a threat to him, Miss Lamb, now that you have found such powerful protectors. I suppose he fears some London doctor may restore your memory—at all events, he leaves for Maulever Hall tonight. I would not give much for the child’s chances when he gets there.”

  “I don’t believe it.” And then, admitting doubt: “But how do you know?”

  “I have made it my business to do so. It was madness, Miss Lamb, to leave the child at Maulever Hall, exposed to such danger. I cannot think how he has survived so long, except, I suppose that Mauleverer thought there was no danger of his identity being discovered. But now—with you in London, and so powerfully protected—it is no wonder that he hurries down there as soon as his committee breaks up this afternoon. I cannot go myself. Besides, I have no authority. But surely you could make up some story to satisfy the servants and remove the child to a place of safety. Best of all, you could bring him to London; there must be some one in town who can identify him as Lord Heverdon.”

  “Surely, Lady Heverdon ... Oh!” Marianne paused, horrified.

  “You have seen it at last. Of course she is in the plot too. You must know what a blow her husband’s will was to her. Once the child is out of the way, she will marry Mauleverer—or Lord Heverdon, to give him the title he covets so—and enjoy the entire estate.”

  “Good God.” Appallingly, now, everything fell into place. Something strange about Lady Heverdon’s behavior when they had first met. That cold greeting had not been pride, but shock. She had pretended to be tired, turned pale—no wonder. And, later, she had known a surprising amount about Thomas—again, no wonder. “She knew me all the time?”

  “Of course. You were the nursemaid at Heverdon House. Mauleverer, I believe, had never met either you or the child—I expect he preferred to carry on his villainy from a distance, but Lady Heverdon could not help but recognize you. I tell you again, it is a miracle that you survived.”

  “But you—what is your part in this?”

  “I am not permitted to tell you.”

  She rallied. “That is absurd. You came to me, before, with a tale you now admit to have been a fabrication from start to finish. You cannot expect me to believe you, now, unless you can give me some proof of your bona fides.”

  “But can I trust you?”

  “The question is, can I trust you!”

  “Very well then, but I put my career in your hands. I am one of Sir Robert Peel’s new policemen, specially assigned, because of certain suspicions roused by their activities, to watch Mauleverer and his ‘friend’ Lady Heverdon.”

  “You—? A member of the police force? I don’t believe it.”

  He shrugged. “Have it your own way. I cannot offer you proof, since it is exactly part of my assignment that I should appear other than what I am.”

  “But if you are”—once again she was hesitating—“why cannot you act to protect the child?”

  “How ca
n I? So far, they have been too clever for me; I have suspicion enough to convince me, but no proof that I could take to court—or even to my superiors. I must be able to prove that a crime has been committed before I can take action. That is what has hamstrung me all along; that is why I came to you before with what you so justly condemn as a story of a cock and a bull. But, at least, you must confess, I saved your life. I doubt if you would be quibbling with me here if you had stayed much longer at Maulever Hall. Wait, if you like, until the child’s sudden, and doubtless quite accidental death proves me right, but I would not want to have your conscience afterward.”

  Horribly, his story held together. Against every instinct, and every wish, she felt herself begin to believe him. And yet—no, it was impossible. “Surely there must be someone who can vouch for you, without endangering your task?”

  “I can hardly send you to Sir Robert Peel for confirmation. But stay—you could, I suppose, go to our Bow Street office and ask whether they have an officer of my name. I do not see that that can do any harm. Will that satisfy you?”

  “I suppose so. But what is your name? Not, I am sure, Paul Rossand.”

  He laughed. “I can see you will never forgive me that first deception. But, I ask you, what else could I do? As it is, I fear I have gravely exceeded my commission for your sake. Telling you my name is merely the last of a series of offenses for which I might easily be dismissed. I must ask you to word your query discreetly.”

  “Of course.”

  “Very well then.” He looked carefully around to make sure that no one was in earshot, then leaned close to her, to whisper: “Ask them at Bow Street if John Barnaby is not one of their best men. But lose no time, I beg you. Mauleverer’s committee may break up at any minute and then, I have it on the best authority, he leaves for Devon at once. And, one other thing. For his sake, as well as mine, tell no one where you are going, or why. So far, as I have admitted to you, though I have the strongest possible suspicions, I have no proof against him. If he can be prevented from the crime he now contemplates; if little Lord Heverdon can be saved; who knows, it may be possible to restore the child to his rank without any undue scandal.” She was uncomfortably aware of his sharp eyes, studying her face. “I know,” he went on, “that it is because of your feeling for Mark Mauleverer that you have been so slow to grasp what has been right before your eyes. If you wish, perhaps you can save him. He has been influenced throughout, I am convinced, by Lady Heverdon about whose past career I could tell you things ... But that is not my business, now. My aim is to save the child, and, if possible, to avoid a scandal which must play the very deuce with this Reform Bill Mauleverer has worked so hard for. Just imagine what a handle it would be for the Tories! That is why I have such unusual latitude in handling this case. My instructions come from the top, Miss Lamb, from the very top. Lord Grey”—once again he looked carefully around to make sure they were alone—“Lord Grey,” he whispered, “cannot afford to have Mauleverer discredited. There is your chance, Miss Lamb, if you care to try and save him. Remove the child; bring him back to London; claim, if you like, that you have recovered your memory, that you remember running away with the child in a fit of pique over Lady Heverdon’s injustice—she was a deplorable mistress, as I am sure you can imagine ... Do that, and though there will be a nine days’ wonder, and you must fall under a certain amount of censure, that will be the end of it. You have powerful friends; they will bring you off. And—if you care for it—you will have saved Mauleverer.”