by M. C. Beaton
Jean picked it up by one corner, carried it over to the fireplace, and dropped it in the grate. Then she lit it, watched it burn, and then pounded the blackened paper up with the poker.
Immediately afterward she felt miserable with guilt. He would have met Nancy in London, Nancy would tell him about the letter, and he would wonder where it was. Guilt seemed to grow as the day wore on, and even the exemplary behavior of Amanda and Clarissa did nothing to lessen it.
By Saturday morning Jean awoke in a calmer frame of mind. Challenged by him, she would lie. She had committed a sin in burning that letter, so what did one lie matter now? She would say that it must have been lost in the post.
She glanced at the clock. It was nine o’clock, later than the twins usually slept, but she had promised them not to disturb them until ten because it was Saturday.
She had just finished dressing, when Betty burst into the room, crying, “They’re gone!”
Cold fear clutched Jean’s heart and then she steadied herself. “How naughty of them,” she said lightly. “I shall find them, never fear.”
But after an hour of searching the grounds she began to panic. She told Dredwort to gather all the servants and tenants together in the hall. It took ages to get them all assembled. Jean, striving for calm, stood up on the stairs and addressed them. She told them the Misses Courtney were missing. She told them the terms of the will, that if there was any fault in the care of the girls, any sign of negligence, the house and estates would go to Lord Hunterdon’s cousin, Basil Devenham, who, she believed, would ruin the estates as effectively as Mr. Courtney had ruined them. Therefore, they must all help in the search, but they were to make sure that no word of the girls’ disappearance reached the ears of the Pembertons, where she believed Basil Devenham was still staying.
They all searched desperately through the day and far into the night without success. The tenants saw the shadow of the poorhouse looming and were every bit as terrified as Jean. By Sunday evening there was still no trace of them.
Jean called them all together again. “We are ruined,” she said flatly, “and may as well call the constable and magistrate and alert the militia. For the lawyer is coming with my lord tomorrow and there is no way we can keep this quiet.”
There was a dismal silence, and then Farmer Tulley called, “I think there might be a way. My twin daughters, Bertha and Jane. They be fourteen but tall for their age, and they’ve got ladylike ways. Can play the piano and draw and suchlike. I’ll bring ’em up to the castle and you present them to the lawyer as Miss Amanda and Miss Clarissa. Get his lordship aside and warn him not to Took surprised and tell him what has happened and try to get rid of the lawyer sharpish.”
There was a murmur of approval. No one was frightened for the welfare of the girls, who were generally detested, and all believed they were hiding somewhere just in order to create mischief.
“Of all the stupid ideas,” Amanda said for what seemed like the hundredth time, and Basil glared at her balefully.
He himself thought he had been very clever. He had paid a gypsy a handsome sum for the use of his caravan for a few weeks. It was hidden in the glades of Chomley Wood, which lay some twenty miles to the east of the castle. He had always romantically fancied himself in gypsy clothes. He had thought the girls would enjoy the setting. But Amanda and Clarissa had cried out at the lack of servants, at the cramped accommodation, at the boredom of being stuck in the center of the woods. They expected him therefore to be their servant, cooking all the meals and doing all the chores. They treated him with open contempt, and Basil could only pray that the reply to the ransom demand which Hunterdon would receive on Monday morning in his post bag would be quick.
The girls seemed to demand a great deal of food, and he was tired of the long journey to St. Giles to fetch even more provisions. Dressing as a gypsy he found was not romantic at all, and some people spat on him in the street. With all the business of cooking over an open fire, he was rapidly becoming as smelly and dirty as the gypsy he was supposed to be, and his white hands were callused with chopping wood.
Also, Amanda and Clarissa, who had been used to their well-structured days under Jean Morrison’s rule, found time lying heavy on their hands and tried to enliven it by playing tricks on him, like putting grass snakes in his bunk bed, or climbing trees and dropping things on his head when he walked underneath. The last object had been a sharp stone that had gashed his forehead.
The viscount arrived in the middle of the morning on Monday. He was glad the lawyer could see how popular he was as a landlord when he drove through the estates, for people kept running toward the carriage, waving frantically. The viscount could not know that everyone was trying to warn him about the situation. So he waved back merrily as the carriage bowled rapidly in the direction of the castle.
His butler met him at the door and said urgently, “A word in private, my lord.”
“Later, Dredwort. Show Mr. Broome to his quarters.”
“As a matter of fact,” Mr. Broome said, “I would like to see the Misses Courtney before anything else.”
“Very well. Where are they, Dredwort?”
“In the drawing room, my lord, but …”
“Come along, Mr. Broome,” the viscount said. “Stop hovering, Dredwort, and see that Mr. Broome’s bags are carried upstairs.”
A footman stood in front of the double doors of the drawing room. “My lord,” he said in anguished tones, “if I might have a word?”
“Stand aside, James. When I have attended to Mr. Broome’s affairs, you may have all the time you want.”
The footman slowly opened the doors and moved aside.
The viscount stood on the threshold. Jean Morrison was there with two young ladies whom he recognized as the Tulley girls. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jean forestalled him firmly by saying, “This must be Mr. Broome. Amanda! Clarissa! Make your curtsies.”
The dandy was often compared to the American Indian for his capacity to maintain a perfectly blank face during times of stress and pain. So with every appearance of complacent calm, the viscount watched the Tulley girls make their curtsies.
“Good day, ladies,” Mr. Broome said. “Now, Miss Amanda …?”
Bertha Tulley stepped forward.
“How is your schooling progressing?”
“Very well, zurr,” Bertha said. “We do have a goodly knowledge of mathematics as well as English and French.”
“Very good, very good. A bit of a country accent there, hey, Miss Morrison?” Mr. Broome had already been told the name of this governess of distinction.
“Yes, that will soon be eradicated,” Jean said. “The poor girls were barely literate when I arrived, and so I decided to leave the problem of speech until later.”
“Quite right, quite right,” Mr. Broome agreed, growing more indulgent by the minute. He thought Jean Morrison looked all a governess should be with her hair scraped up into a cap and wearing a severe gown, and the Tulley girls were very pretty with rosy cheeks and thick blond hair, not at all what he had expected.
“And Miss Clarissa?” Jane stepped forward. “Do you play the pianoforte yet?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Broome. Miss Morrison do be ever such a good teacher.”
She sat down at the piano and played a simple piece of music very competently.
“Well, well,” Mr. Broome said, “I am most pleased, most pleased. Now, if I may retire to my room for a nap, my lord? I am an old man, and long journeys tire me, and as you know, I must travel on to Poole on the morrow to see my niece.”
Jean put her head in her hands when the lawyer had left with the viscount. Then she said, “You did splendidly, both of you. You may do as you please to amuse yourselves, but stay within call in case you are needed again.”
When the Tulley girls had left, Jean sat and waited. She did not have long to wait.
The door crashed open and the viscount strode in, followed by a babbling Dredwort and a crying Mrs. Moody. “You tell me,”
he said, towering over Jean.
In a dull, flat voice she told him of how they were missing, how she had found them gone on Saturday morning, of the frantic search, of how they had decided to have the Tulley girls impersonate Amanda and Clarissa for the lawyer’s visit.
“And how did they manage to leave?” he asked, his voice loaded with sarcasm. “Did brigands come in the night and drag them away? I found the spare key to their room which they had hidden and confiscated it. How?”
Jean hung her head. “I had not been locking them in.”
“Why?”
“Amanda said it showed a lack of trust.” Jean raised heavy eyes. “I thought they were fond of me.”
“You silly widgeon. You nincompoop. Oh, let me think. I shall be in the library if that curst lawyer wants me.”
But in the library he found the letter. It was lying on top of the morning’s post, and something about it and the fact it had only a plain seal made him open it. It demanded half the Courtney inheritance for the safe return of the Misses Courtney. He swore under his breath.
He marched back up to the drawing room, but it was empty. He went to Jean’s room and there she was, facedown on the bed, sobbing.
“Oh, get up!” he shouted. “I need help to think, and I can’t think with you caterwauling about the place.”
Jean sat up abruptly, rage drying the tears on her cheeks, thinking of all the worry on his behalf, all the plotting and planning and all he could do was shout at her.
“Now,” he said, sitting down on the bed and throwing a casual arm about her shoulders as he dragged her closer, “read that.”
Jean read the short letter. “‘If you do not bring a sum of money equivalent to half the Courtney fortune and place it in Dead Man’s Oak at the western corner of Chomley Wood by Saturday, I will kill the Misses Courtney.’”
“Kidnapped!” Jean looked at him wide-eyed, forgetting both rage and grief in her amazement. He gave her a little shake. “Think. Let us think. Observe the writing style. Educated and literate. ‘The Misses Courtney’ mark you. Not ‘the young ladies.’ Could those hellcats have thought up this scheme?”
“I cannot believe it,” Jean said. “They have been so good, so very good. Besides, what can two young girls do with the money?”
“Yes, there is that. They have not been abducted by force. No signs of a struggle?”
“Perhaps there are more smugglers,” Jean said with a shiver. “Perhaps one of them crept up to their room during the night and held a pistol to their heads to make them go quietly.”
“Whoever it was would have had to be a bold man indeed. They left by the front door. In fact, Dredwort said he found the hall door unlocked and unbolted and standing wide open. I’m sure they are behind this. If only I could be really sure. Do you know what I would do?”
Jean shook her head dumbly.
“I’d let them rot,” he said savagely.
“Oh, but they may be in deadly peril. They were so affectionate. Amanda even hugged me.”
“I’ll find them. I am sure I shall when I get rid of this curst lawyer. But why the Tulley girls? I cannot be blamed if they are being held for ransom, or appearing to be held for ransom, and I have the letter to prove it.”
“I did think they might just have run away,” Jean said. “The lawyer was coming. I had to do something.”
He stared down at the letter again. “Chomley Wood,” he said slowly. “I’ll bet that’s where they’re hiding out, and that’s where I’ll be tonight as soon as Broome goes to sleep.”
“Take me with you,” Jean begged. “If I have been duped by them, I would feel better if I helped to find them.”
“No, you have done enough,” he said nastily. He gave her a little shake and then dropped a casual kiss on her nose. “Your eyes are all red with crying,” he said. “You look a fright.”
And so Jean Morrison cried a great deal more after he had left the room.
The viscount rode out that night at the head of a small army of cottagers, farmers, and servants. They had been told to dismount—those that were on horseback—and fan out in the woods on foot. It was a bright moonlit night, and they had all been told not to show any torches.
He thought about the evening’s dinner. If he got out of this mess, then he would reward Farmer Tulley and his girls. They had behaved superbly. And Jean Morrison? He had been too harsh with her. She had behaved like a Trojan and with great loyalty. No longer would she need to worry about her future. He would give her a dowry and a generous allowance. With her unusual beauty she would soon find a husband.
When they all reached the outskirts of the woods, he dismounted, tethered his horse, and, whispering instructions to his “army” to be as quiet as possible, he moved softly into the darkness of the woods, searching and listening.
A twig cracked behind him, and he swung around, but there was nothing there, just darkness lit by the odd shaft of moonlight. He reached a clearing and turned around. There was a sort of scuffling sound behind him and then silence. He strode across the clearing quickly and then darted behind the thick trunk of an oak and looked in all directions. A slight figure ran lightly across the clearing and then stopped quite near him. Whoever it was, he could hear him breathing. He moved gently and softly toward the sound until he saw a dark figure just at the edge of the clearing. He removed his pistol from his pocket and leveled it. “Walk into the clearing,” he ordered. “I am holding a gun on you. Put your hands above your head.”
The figure—a boy?—did as it was bid.
“Now let’s see who you are,” he said.
“It is I, my lord,” a shaky voice answered.
He strode forward.
“Miss Morrison?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
She was wearing breeches, a shirt, and a leather waistcoat, and had her thick hair pushed up under a cap. Jean had found the clothes in one of the trunks in the attic.
“What on earth do you think you are doing?”
“I feel it is all my fault,” she said wretchedly. “I wanted to help.”
“Go home. You are not helping at all. This is no place for a woman.”
“Let me come with you,” she begged. “I have sharp senses.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up her hand and sniffed the air. “There! Do you smell it?”
“I smell trees and grass.”
“Smoke. Old smoke. Like the smell of a fire after it has been put out. Follow me.”
She slid quietly into the shelter of the trees, and he followed. She stopped every now and then and sniffed the air, moving all the time slowly forward. And then he could smell it, too, the faint acrid tang of smoke in the air.
He hooted like an owl, the signal to the other searchers that he was on the track of something. Jean moved noiselessly forward. Sometimes he thought she was mistaken, that she had lost the way, but she walked silently and steadily, the smell of smoke and ashes becoming stronger. He could sense the dark shapes of the other searchers closing about them and hooted softly this time to let them know where he was. He was answered by a volley of hoots, and he cursed inwardly. If there were people close by, they would think it odd that the woods were suddenly full of owls.
Jean was beginning to wonder whether she might be mistaken when the trees fell back and there was a glade in front of her, and in the glade, a gypsy caravan.
Basil stirred uneasily and then woke. There were a lot of noisy owls hooting. He cursed the countryside and all in it. The caravan was close and smelly, and the worst of the smell was coming from the Misses Courtney. They were still wearing the clothes in which they had arrived, the clothes they had subsequently played in, climbed trees in, and slept in.
He could never last until the end of the week, he thought miserably, not in such company. They were evil. He was tired of their white faces, their beady little eyes, and their endless greed. He had never known that two young ladies could eat so much. His hand was sore where he had burnt it on the cooking pot. He had
stumbled when Amanda had playfully tried to push him into the fire and he had saved himself from falling by grabbing the edge of the large pot. Although he affected to have high morals and a strong religious belief, he had hitherto not believed in any supernatural presence. But now he prayed feverishly to the God he hoped existed, after all, to get him out of this mess.
He decided to go outside and savor the presence of a midnight world that was not polluted with either the smell or the horrible pranks of the Courtney girls.
He opened the door, stood on the step of the caravan, and stretched and yawned.
Then there came the scraping sound of a tinderbox. In the glade one torch sprang into life, then another. He trembled. All around the glade were men, men who were closing in.
The tallest walked forward in the moonlight. He recognized his cousin, Hunterdon, and let out a bleat of fear.
“Who are you, Gypsy, and what are you doing here?” the viscount demanded.
Gypsy? Of course Hunterdon couldn’t recognize him. He broke into gibberish which he fondly hoped they would believe to be Romany. “Dish bonker iddle tum?”
The viscount seized a pine torch from one of the men, walked forward, and held it up.
“Basil,” he said in tones of loathing.
“Iggle dimp zuz boo,” Basil said desperately.
“Drag him down and tie him up,” the viscount ordered. He said to Jean, “Come with me.”
Jean followed him up the steps of the caravan as the howling Basil was dragged down onto the grass and bound.
The viscount opened the door. The twins were sleeping heavily. In the light of the torch Jean saw them clearly. They were lying side by side on a narrow bunk, wrapped in each other’s arms.