Maulever Hall

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “You mean—nothing will be done?”

  “Nothing. You have my word for it. But, you have not much time.” And as if to underline his warning, London’s golden-voiced churches began to chime the hour. “May I escort you to Bow Street?” he asked. “I cannot, of course, come in with you, but I do not like to think of you going there alone.”

  It was the clincher. If he was so certain, he must, indeed, be what he claimed. “No need,” she said. “I believe you. God help me.”

  “At last. You will not regret it, Miss Lamb. But, remember, not a word to anyone if he is to be saved.” He drew his cloak still more closely round his face, ready to leave her.

  “But where can I get in touch with you?”

  “I hope there will be no need. The less hint of collusion between us, the better. But, if it is absolutely vital, a note to Bow Street will always find me.”

  This assurance laid to rest her final doubts, or, rather, her last glimmering of hope. If he spoke so confidently, he must indeed be what he claimed. But there was no time, now, for anguish, for the horrible laying together of one tiny fact with another that must prove Mauleverer a villain. If she was to save him from the results of his crime, she must act at once. And save him, of course, she must. There was no question about that. Hurrying back across the frozen park, she looked at herself almost with horror. Mauleverer was a proved villain, had even tried to kill her—and she still loved him, and was still prepared to risk anything to save him from the consequences of his crime. Crossing Park Lane, “Oh, the poor Duke,” she thought.

  She re-entered Lundy House, as she had left it, by a side door and got safely to her room without encountering any of the morning callers who were doubtless still paying the morning-after visits that etiquette demanded. She must be alone and achieve some order in her frantic thoughts. Mauleverer was a villain. It was not possible. And yet—how little, in fact, she knew him. That he was fiercely ambitious, she had always been aware. Could it be that love had blinded her to the true direction of that ambition? That was the rub; that was what weakened her passionate, instinctive defense of him. It was the very fact that she loved him so. How could she trust herself to consider his behavior with the cool light of reason. And yet, Paul Rossand, or rather, Mr. Barnaby had given her no cause to trust him either. Why should she believe him against Mauleverer?

  Absurd to have let him convince her so easily. She picked up her pelisse and fur mull and hurried downstairs. She had never taken a hackney carriage before, but found one easily enough in Park Lane and directed the man to drive her to Bow Street police station. He gave a little whistle of surprise at the instruction, but whipped up his horses readily enough, while she sank back in the musty interior and went on wrestling with her chaotic thoughts.

  She was received civilly enough at Bow Street, and made her enquiry bluntly and without preamble. “Mr. Barnaby? Course he’s one of ours, miss, but you can’t see him now. He ain’t here.”

  “I don’t want to see him. But there is such a man?” she asked again.

  The man looked at her in faintly pitying surprise. “Course there is. Jim,” he shouted to a colleague who was lounging against the wall trimming his nails with a penknife. “Here’s a young lady wants to know if John Barnaby is real!”

  “Real. I should rather think he is, and so do a plenty of burglars and other such, I can tell you. Just be grateful you ain’t ever likely to run into him in the way of business, miss, that’s all.” Her appearance had won her a courteous hearing, but he made no attempt to conceal his opinion that she was just another crazy young society female. She thanked him and returned to the hackney carriage, whose driver she had told to wait. And still, on the drive back to Lundy House, she tried, in the face of this new evidence, to believe that it was Rossand, not Mauleverer, whom she should suspect. After all, he had been in the village just before the cottage had burned down. But he had explained that. And it was equally true that, before that, it had been Mauleverer who had appeared immediately after the firing of the shot that had nearly killed her. Looking back, trying to sort out memory from imagination, she was sure that she had thought, at first, that his footsteps were those of her attacker, looking for her to administer the coup de grace. Then, in the exquisite relief of his appearance, she had forgotten all about it. But, hope would go on arguing, if he had attacked her, why did he not finish the business? And, of course, brutal reason had its answer ready: he had heard Lady Heverdon coming. And, still, she would not believe it. Impossible to trust her own judgment. She must defy John Barnaby’s instructions at least to the extent of consulting the Duchess. She would not be blinded by her feelings; she would advise her.

  The decision was an enormous relief; and she paid off her driver and hurried indoors with a new spring of hope in her heart. Somehow, the Duchess would be able to explain it all ...

  Fanny was in her room mending the silver flounces that had been torn last night. How long ago it seemed.

  “Mrs. Mauleverer is awake and asking for you, miss.” Fanny bit off her thread and admired the set of the flounce.

  “I will go to her presently, but first I must see the Duchess. Ask her maid if she is well enough to see me for a few minutes, will you?”

  “Of course she’ll see you, miss.” But Fanny returned almost at once with the news that the Duchess had got up and gone out. “A gentleman came to see her, miss, and wouldn’t be denied. She saw him at last, it seems, then asked for you, found you were out and sent for her carriage and is gone off with him. Goodness knows where.”

  “Did you happen to learn his name?”

  “Yes, miss. Barnaby, it was, John Barnaby. He wouldn’t say at first, but when he sent up his name, the Duchess saw him at once.”

  That settled it. Hope drooped and died. “You don’t know where they went?”

  “No. But out of town, I should think. The Duchess has taken her maid.”

  Could they have gone to Maulever Hall? It seemed the most probable explanation, and yet, what new development could have made John Barnaby change his plans? He had been so urgent that she tell no one. Now, apparently, he himself had taken the Duchess into his confidence. Surely this was flying in the face of his instructions from Lord Grey, for the Duchess, as the known friend of the Duke of Wellington, might well feel in honor bound to tell him a story that redounded so gravely to the discredit of one of his political opponents. And it was the political argument, she knew, that had really convinced her. It made appalling sense that Lord Grey might stretch many a point to save the character of a man who was so identified in the public mind with his Reform Bill. So—what was she doing sitting here? Perhaps Barnaby had decided to sell out to the Tories ... There were all kinds of possibilities, none of them pleasant. The only certainty was that she must act without further delay.

  “Fanny, I must have a traveling carriage. At once.”

  “A carriage, miss?” Fanny’s tone underlined incredulity.

  “Yes, I must leave for Devon as soon as possible. Give the orders, will you? There is no time for talk.”

  “But, miss—”

  “Don’t argue, Fanny. Give the orders and then pack me a cloak bag—merely the barest necessities. I shall return directly.”

  Fanny looked more and more puzzled. “But you will take me with you, surely?”

  “No.” Her tone made argument impossible, but as Fanny went reluctantly off to order the coach, she admitted a qualm to herself. Impossible to take garrulous Fanny, but—to make so long a journey unaccompanied? The Duchess would not like it—she did not much like it herself.

  There was a little timid knock at the door of her room, and Mrs. Mauleverer put her head anxiously round it. “Oh, there you are at last, my dear.” She looked much better this morning. “I have been longing to see and thank you. I cannot think what possessed me to make such a spectacle of myself last night. I am afraid this London life does not suit me so well as I thought it would.”

  Here was the answer. Who better than
Mauleverer’s own mother to accompany her on this chancy journey? She kissed the old lady and went straight to the point. “Do you really feel that? And are you strong enough for a journey?”

  “I’d go anywhere with you. And indeed I feel a different creature this morning. But what do you mean?”

  “I have to go down to Devon—to Maulever Hall—at once. I cannot take my maid, but do not like to go alone. Will you come with me?”

  “With all the pleasure in life, my dear. But do you really mean to start at once? I do not see how I could be ready so soon.”

  “I must,” said Marianne. “I will lend you what you need for the journey, and, surely, you must have left clothes at home.”

  “Oh, yes.” The old lady was brightening up every minute. “And Martha will be there. Do you know, I shall be glad to see Martha. But I must write a note to my son and explain. What an adventurous creature he will think me, to be sure.”

  Here was a new difficulty. Marianne tackled it at once. “My journey must be a secret one, for reasons I hope to be able to explain presently.” How devoutly she hoped she would never have to do anything of the kind. “Could you not merely write Mr. Mauleverer that you intend to spend a few days here with me?”

  “I suppose so. I am sure he will never miss me.” Her voice held such bitterness that Marianne found herself once more reluctantly forced toward believing in the villainous Mauleverer of Barnaby’s description. And yet, as always, there was an argument for the defense. What, after all, had his mother ever done for him?

  While Mrs. Mauleverer wrote her note to her son, Marianne, with very much greater difficulty, composed one to the Duchess. Whatever John Barnaby had said, she found that she could not simply go off without any explanation. Very likely there was no need—very likely she would find the Duchess and John Barnaby at Maulever Hall before her. And yet—why should she? Nothing was safe, nothing was certain. Nor was it safe to say much in her note. Suppose some prying servant should open and read the letter. She wrote, therefore, briefly, and to the point: I have received news that makes me anxious about the child I left behind me, and am gone to fetch him. Mrs. Mauleverer accompanies me. And then, with a brief apology for the suddenness of her departure, she signed, Marianne, the only part of her name that was certainly hers. For along with her anxiety for Mauleverer, her interview with Barnaby had brought renewed and bitter misery on her own account. She had so hoped that he knew who she was, but all he had told her was that she had been the nursemaid at Heverdon Hall. He had not even, it now occurred to her, told her her name. Perhaps he had never known it. Why should one know a nursemaid’s name?

  And yet—she could not believe it. That she was gently born, no one who knew her had questioned. Of course, some family disaster might have left her compelled to earn her her own living, or she might be, as Mauleverer had once suggested, a penniless refugee from France, but why, knowing herself as she now did, should she have chosen to go out as a nursemaid? She was, she now knew, remarkably well educated for a female, and indeed the Duchess, on discovering that she could write Latin verse and translate some of the easier bits of Homer, had laughingly told her she must be the only child of a scholar who had wanted a son. “You have certainly been educated like a boy.” She could speak French, too, and also possessed the more generally accepted female accomplishments. So equipped, she could surely have aspired at least to a governess’s position. What depth of disaster had sent her out to seek her fortune as a nursemaid?

  She began to think she would never know. Nothing had come of the ball on which the Duchess had pinned such hopes. Or at least, she supposed, John Barnaby’s visit had probably come of it, but that was cold comfort enough. She was back where she had started from, fighting all over again to believe Mauleverer innocent and Barnaby either himself misled or purposefully misleading her. But why should he? He had told her, and his actions confirmed it, that his purpose in coming to her was to protect Mauleverer, for political reasons, from the consequences of his action. How then, could she possibly go on distrusting him? But she did, and justified herself by the memory of their first interview. She had believed him then in what he now cheerfully admitted to have been a pack of lies; why should she believe him now?

  While her thoughts chased each other round and round in this tormenting spiral, she and Fanny had been busy making preparations for their journey. Now they were interrupted by the groom of the chambers, who brought Mrs. Mauleverer an answer to her note. She looked frightened as she opened it, then sighed with relief. “Thank goodness, Mark makes no objection. It seems he is going out of town himself. I knew nothing of it; I thought he was fixed here till Parliament resumed. But I suppose it is for another of their political meetings. Of course, he does not tell me where he is going.”

  Marianne was afraid that she knew. Everything tended to confirm John Barnaby’s story. She picked up her pelisse and fur muff. “We must leave at once,” she said.

  XVI

  The journey, made in an old barouche of the Duke’s that was usually employed for the conveyance of servants and baggage, was far from luxurious, but Marianne’s only concern was for speed, and this, fortunately, she was able to pay for, since the Duchess had insisted on making her a lavish allowance. Marianne began by bribing the coachman, who had not been best pleased at the prospect of setting off so far from London, “and with Christmas just coming too.” But his sullen expression changed to a beaming smile when Marianne handed him a handsome pre-Christmas tip, and promised him as much again if he could beat the time she had made when she came up from Devon with the Duchess.

  He was sure he could do it. The barouche might be old, but had been well built in the first place. Its springs were still good, and, like all the Duke’s possessions, it had been kept in admirable order. “Not much fear of busting an axle or a splinter bar and being held up that way,” he promised her. “If we’re half lucky in the cattle we find on the way—some of them post horses is nobbut dirt, and fit for wagons if that—but if so be as we has a bit of luck, I hope I can get you there tomorrow evening. It’ll be a rough night for the old lady, I reckon?”

  “Better than freezing on the road for two days or so,” said Marianne. “Besides, we are in a hurry.”

  He grinned at her. “So I reckoned.”

  Everything was ready. The hamper of provisions Marianne had ordered for the journey had been stowed in the capacious old-fashioned coach, along with hot bricks for the ladies’ feet and a positively arctic supply of furs. “Anyone would think we were retreating from Moscow,” said Mrs. Mauleverer with a rare flash of humor as she settled luxuriously in her corner. And then, anxiously: “You are sure the Duke will not mind?”

  “Positive. Besides, it all belongs, as a matter of fact, to his aunt.”

  “To the Duchess? Lucky woman.” And Mrs. Mauleverer prattled contentedly away on the theme of money and its advantages, until Marianne was compelled to pretend sleep in self-defense. Then, when Mrs. Mauleverer’s voice dwindled apologetically away, her conscience pricked her. What right had she to criticize Mauleverer for impatience with his mother when she herself was just as bad? She opened her eyes again, sat up straight in her corner, and forced herself to enter into a long and circumstantial description of last night’s ball. The old lady listened avidly. “If only I had not been indisposed,” she said over and over again. And, “I shall be better when I am back with Martha.”

  Night had fallen by now, and the coach lumbered on through the darkness. They stopped to change horses, and coachman and groom changed places. Like all the Duke’s servants, they were a thoroughly reliable pair of men, and Marianne had no qualms about settling back in her corner and composing herself to rest as best she might during the long night’s drive that lay ahead of them. Mrs. Mauleverer, on the other hand, was full of characteristic anxieties, of fears of highwaymen or an accident on one of the lonely stretches of road that lay ahead. Marianne was brisk with her, almost, she feared, ruthlessly so, but she could not help herself. H
er own anxieties were concentrated on what tomorrow held.

  At last, restlessly, she slept and dreamed, inevitably, of danger and a horseman pursuing. It was reassuring, somehow, on being wakened by the carriage’s lurching over a particularly rough bit of road, to hear nothing but its familiar noises and, close to her, Mrs. Mauleverer’s little, bubbling snore. Rain was beating fitfully against the carriage windows and she thought sympathetically of the coachman and groom, out there in the cold and wet. But at least their discomfort should be a powerful inducement to speed. She peered out of the rain-spattered window, but there was nothing to be seen but a blackness that varied slightly in intensity. They were driving, she decided, through a forest. It did not really matter. Nothing mattered, except that they should get there in time. In time for what? Her mind nibbled restlessly at all the old questions. She must not let it, for that way lay wakefulness, and she would need all her wits about her tomorrow.