A very young girl, the only person in sight, hurried along with the handle of a small wicker basket over the crook of her arm. Gervaise stepped out of his coach and approached her. “Where is the vicarage?”
Overcome, presumably because a stranger had spoken to her, she burst into tears and ran into the alehouse. Presently, a neatly garbed, rosy-cheeked woman emerged from the building. She eyed him suspiciously before she sank into a deep curtsey. “Whatever did you say, sir, to send our Polly indoors in such a state?”
“I merely asked your Polly where the vicarage is,” Gervaise replied, sorry for causing the child’s tears.
“Oh, the foolish child! She is very shy.” The woman looked at him full in the face. “Will you partake of some refreshments, sir? Oi’ve fresh baked bread and tasty meat pies if your honour would care to try them.”
“I am sure they are delicious, but no, thank you. Instead, please tell me where the vicar lives.”
The woman pointed to a stone house. “Next to the graveyard.”
He doffed his hat. “Thank you. Be good enough to serve my postilions with ale, bread and cheese, and a meat pie apiece.”
“Yes, sir, at once.” She beamed. “As though I was a lady born and bred,” she said under her breath.
Gervaise suppressed a smile before turning away from her to skirt the green. With amusement, he noticed the hitherto quiet road filled with curious men, women, and children.
“What be he doing here, Mother?” asked a shaggy-haired boy of some eight or nine years.
Gervaise paused and turned his head. He grinned at the freckled urchin. “I have come to seek justice.”
The boy’s bright blue eyes widened. “Be you able to rid us of—”
The youngster’s mother clapped her hand over his mouth. “Be quiet, Jamie. Do you want to get us into trouble?”
Gervaise strode toward the vicarage. Doubtless, the boy had been about to refer to Lord Kemp. In all probability, the villagers wanted to be rid of Juliana’s half-brother. The more inquiries he had made concerning the man, a heartless landlord, the less he liked the answers.
Gervaise rapped on the vicarage door. After a wait of several minutes, a plump lady in her middle years opened it. “Good day to you, sir,” she said, a question in her eyes.
He doffed his hat. “My compliments, madam. Please forgive the intrusion. I have come to see the vicar.”
“Your name, sir?”
“Is of no consequence,” Gervaise replied, for fear she would gossip and Lord Kemp would find out he had visited the clergyman.
She curtsied before admitting him to a minuscule hall, through which she led him to a scrupulously clean, sparsely furnished parlour, suffused with the mingled scents of potpourri and beeswax furniture polish.
A slender gentleman dressed in clerical black, his pure white hair abundant and his brow unmarked by strife, sat on a wing chair by the fireplace reading his Bible.
“Father, forgive my disturbing you. You have a visitor.”
The clergyman looked up.
Gervaise inclined his head. “I presume I have the pleasure of addressing Doctor Anstey.”
“That is so, sir.”
After the vicar put a bookmark between the pages of his Bible, he favoured Gervaise with a smile of singular sweetness and stood.
Here, thought Gervaise, is a man at peace with God, himself, and the world. The cleric reminded him of his Brahmin teacher, Gopal Krishna das, not in appearance or dress, but because of his tranquil expression.
“Whom do I have the pleasure of receiving?” the vicar inquired.
Gervaise hesitated.
Doctor Anstey indicated a chair for his visitor to be seated upon. “I presume you do not wish to identify yourself because you have come on a private matter.”
Gervaise glanced at the vicar’s daughter. “Not at the moment. You are right, I am here on private business.”
“Ah.” Doctor Anstey’s eyes glinted, as though he understood why Gervaise withheld his name.
The vicar sank onto an elaborately carved chair behind a table on which lay a neat pile of papers next to several books. “How may I be of assistance to you?”
Gervaise glanced at the lady who had admitted him.
“My daughter,” the vicar explained and looked at her. “My dear, please be good enough to serve us some Canary wine and, if it is not too much trouble, some of those biscuits of your own making, which I particularly like.”
Mistress Anstey nodded and then left the room.
“Now that we are alone, will you not tell me your name, sir? I shall not divulge it to anyone.”
The vicar seemed sharp-witted. Gervaise realised he must be on his guard, for fear of revealing more than he intended. “The Earl of Beaumaris, at your service.”
“I am astonished and honoured by your visit, my lord. Pray tell me how I may be of assistance to you.”
“I shall come straight to the point. Did you marry the late Lord Kemp and Marguerite, daughter of Sieur de Hautville?”
“May I ask what interest you have in my answer, my lord?”
“Have you any reason to withhold your answer?” Gervaise asked, reluctant to admit Juliana was his protégée, for fear of creating scandal.
“Come, come, my lord, be frank. I shall not repeat anything which passes between us within these walls.”
The door opened. Doctor Anstey looked across the room. “Ah! Our wine.” He peered at the tray. “And the biscuits. God granted my dear daughter an expert hand when it comes to baking. I think you will enjoy these.”
Mistress Anstey’s cheeks flushed poppy red. “Thank you for the compliment, Father.” She looked at Gervaise. “I hope you will relish them, sir, they are baked according to a receipt my mother gave me.” She served the wine and biscuits, obviously delighted by her father’s compliment.
“Thank you, my dear. That will be all.” The doctor smiled at his daughter, thus softening his dismissal.
“Excellent wine,” Gervaise commented after his first sip.
“Yes, indeed it is. It is the last of the wine the late Lord Kemp gave me. He was always very good to me.”
Gervaise arched his eyebrows. He understood the unintentional implication that the new lord of the manor did not look to the old vicar’s welfare with the same solicitude as the previous one.
“I think Mistress Kemp has a more generous heart than her half-brother,” Gervaise ventured.
A crease formed on Dr Anstey’s forehead but his blue eyes regarded him without wavering. “What do you know of the lady?”
“No more than she is in distress. She needs your help. That is why I asked you if you married her parents.”
Doctor Anstey pursed his thin, blue-tinged lips. “Yes I did, though I confess to misgivings, which subsequently plagued my conscience.”
“Misgivings?”
“My patron was not only newly converted from The Church of Rome to the Anglican faith, but his new wife was a Huguenot. Oh, she was charming, kind, and very beautiful, but—” He broke off before continuing. “Forgive an old man’s gossip. I shall pray for forgiveness.”
“Your gossip, as you term it, might help my protégée’s cause,” Gervaise said gently. “Tell me about Mistress Kemp’s half-brother. Am I right to believe he was born a Papist?”
Doctor Anstey nodded. “Yes, he became an Anglican when his mother died, and after his father’s conversion to the Anglican faith. I should not doubt him. When he is in residence at Riverside House, he attends church every Sunday. Now I beg you to put no more questions to me. To speak of these matters might cost me my living.”
Gervaise’s jaw tightened at the thought. The vicar should not be fearful of his welfare in his old age. “There is no one present to overhear our conversation. I shall not repeat it. Dr Anstey, allow me to be frank. If I can restore Mistress Kemp to her rightful position, I am sure your situation will improve.”
The vicar put his wineglass down and brushed crumbs from the knee of
his shabby black velvet breeches. “Am I to assume you are her champion, my lord? And, forgive my frank speaking, may I assume you will do naught to harm the lady’s good name?”
“You are correct. Mistress Kemp is in the care of my sister, Lady Barbara. Now, sir, may I see the record of the marriage?”
“I regret to say the register has been stolen.”
Gervaise grunted. He had no doubts about the thief’s identity but proving it might be impossible. “Shocking! Well, to business. Could you be good enough to oblige me by confirming the marriage in writing, and also summon two witnesses?”
Dr Anstey scrutinised him. “I shall be pleased to oblige you, my lord.” He rang a hand bell.
“My dear,” he said to his daughter, who answered the summons, “thank you for the biscuits. They were delicious. I enjoyed them very much.”
Gervaise rose and inclined his head to her. “Indeed they were, I doubt our sovereign lady, God bless her, enjoys better ones.”
Once again the lady flushed in response to a compliment. Her smile added charm to her plain face. “Thank you, sir.”
“Now, my dear,” her father said, “send for the innkeeper. He can sign his name, can he not?”
Gervaise did not blame the lady when her eyes gleamed with obvious curiosity. “Yes, Father, I believe he can.”
“Also, be good enough to send for Mistress Abbot. She is discreet, and has the advantage of being able to read and write.”
Doubtless a vicar’s daughter knew better than to question her father about his business. She curtsied and then went to do Dr Anstey’s bidding without comment.
Gervaise sharpened a goose quill for the old man.
Some thirty minutes later, the testimony in his pocket, Gervaise, now bound for London, returned to his coach. In the capital city, he would engage Mr Hutchinson to secure a copy of the late Lord Kemp’s earlier will and testament in which he left Riverside House to Juliana.
* * * *
While William rode at a leisurely pace toward Riverside Village he saw a coach come toward him. Why had the vehicle strayed along the rutted road from the Queen’s Highway? He realised it would be useless to question the villagers. They turned sullen faces to him whenever he spoke to them.
How they resented the increased rents. He groaned. If every inch of his property did not yield as much as possible, he would be unable to meet Ravenstock’s demands. Curse Juliana! If only she had agreed to marry the man.
He wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. How he wished he had not signed that damnable document in the green years of his youth.
What was the viscount going to do? Not satisfied with milking him until he could scarce pay the servants, Ravenstock still wanted to marry Juliana, even after the man had forced him to forge his father’s will in order to disinherit her. Tears gathered in William’s eyes. He dashed them away.
That devil Ravenstock would find Juliana and then what? Not even his once pampered half-sister deserved to be the satanic viscount’s wife. William told himself there was nothing he could do. For the first time, he considered murder. Yet, if he arranged the viscount’s death, what would happen to the incriminating document, the will that Ravenstock had forced him to forge?
He urged his horse forward. Thank the Lord for his daily ride. It removed him from the monotonous sound of Sophia’s nagging tongue. “Why,” she had demanded, “must we remain in the country for most of the year? What,” she had asked, “do you spend your income on?” Furious tears had poured from her eyes. When her tongue had sprayed metaphorical poison at him, he cursed the day he married her.
There was no alternative. Juliana must save him by marrying Ravenstock. God alone could help her. Without doubt, the easiest course would be to tell the viscount Juliana was staying at The Grange. Afterward, he, himself, need not be involved in the courtship.
His spirits raised by the solution, William returned to Riverside House with a lighter heart. He dismounted, went straight to his closet, and wrote to Ravenstock.
When he finished the letter, he folded it and dripped sealing wax onto it. He pressed his signet ring into the warm wax, and then rang the hand bell.
While William waited for a servant to despatch the letter, he had a brilliant idea. He must find Henrietta. With the child in his custody, he could force Juliana’s obedience. He clutched his head with nervous hands. Where could Juliana have sent her? His eyes widened. Of course! He might know where the brat was. If he was right, he could regain custody of Henrietta and use her as a pawn. He tore up the letter to Ravenstock and dismissed the lackey who had answered his summons.
He shuddered. Could he trust Ravenstock to be content if he settled Riverside estate on Juliana after the marriage took place? Would the viscount honour his promise to give him the ruinous document as soon as Juliana was his wife?
If only he had confided in Father, surely he would have helped him out of his appalling predicament. After all, as he knew, his father was a papist at heart and, therefore, might have sympathised with his youthful folly. Father was always kind—even if Juliana was his favourite child.
William laughed harshly. Stupid Juliana had never suspected the truth about their father’s religious inclinations. Even so, he fingered his throat as though a hangman’s coarse noose tightened around it. “May the blessed Virgin and all the Saints in their glory protect me,” he murmured making the sign of the cross.
* * * *
“I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality, but I must not trespass on it any longer,” Juliana explained to Barbara and Ralph, certain William would come to The Grange without delay.
Ralph, who was studying the forthcoming sale of a neighbour’s horses advertised in his broadsheet, looked across the parlour at her. Barbara laid aside the bonnet she was embroidering for her daughter.
“My love, it is a joy to have you here. I will not listen to talk of you leaving.”
“You are very kind but I must depart immediately. I would appreciate the loan of two horses, one for me and one for Pierre. Gervaise would wish him to accompany me.” Juliana clenched her teeth. If, as she assumed, William was on his way, she could seize the opportunity to visit Dr Anstey and ask him if he had conducted her parents’ marriage.
Ralph peered at her through the curls of his wig which dangled over his eyes. “My dear young lady, I regret I cannot lend you any horses for I faithfully promised Gervaise to see no harm comes to you during his absence.”
Juliana flushed. She had promised Gervaise to stay here but—
“We shall say no more about your departure.” Ralph picked up his broadsheet and started to read.
Juliana heaved a sigh. Although she had been prepared to walk when the postmaster in Riverside Village refused to provide her with a horse, she now realised it would be foolhardy to leave on foot.
Ralph cleared his throat. “Shall we ride this afternoon, Mistress Kemp?”
“Yes, thank you,” Juliana replied, wondering if she could steal two horses by night with Pierre’s help. She decided it would be impossible because most of the stable hands slept above the horses stalls. Thwarted, she picked up a book, opened it, but did not read a single word. When would Gervaise return?
* * * *
In the afternoon, her cheeks flushed with fresh air, Juliana returned with Ralph from a ride in the parkland, which rolled from the south of The Grange to the border of the nearest village.
Ralph helped her to dismount.
“Thank you for riding with me, sir,” Juliana said.
“My pleasure, madam. As you know, my wife does not care to ride so it is a joy to have so charming a companion.”
She sighed, remembering the past when she had ridden with her father. “I enjoy riding. Indeed I used to go for a hack daily, and more often than not, I also went for long walks with my sister.”
Ralph handed the reins of their horses to Pierre, who led the dappled mare and bay gelding toward the horses’ stables.
&nb
sp; Followed by her host, Juliana ran up the broad steps, past the large urns of pinks and trailing ivy. She entered the cool of the house, swept off her riding hat with an impatient hand, and hastened up the stairs. Today, Gervaise might come.
With Sukey’s assistance, it did not take long to change from her cloth riding habit into a soft, black silk gown and a satin petticoat, trimmed with ruched blue-black ribbon. Much more satisfied with her appearance, she joined Barbara in the rose garden.
Her hostess was sitting on a marble bench, watching her small son and daughter play with a King Charles spaniel which pranced around them wagging its tail in eager expectation.
“No, no, James, do not tease Lady.” Barbara laughed. “Throw the stick for her instead of waving it in the air.”
Watched fondly by his four-year-old sister, Margaret, a blonde miniature replica of Barbara, six-year-old James threw the stick, which fell among the rose bushes.
Juliana’s heart twisted with longing to see Henrietta. Was the child missing her as much as she was missed? Did she cry into her pillow at night, or was she content with their good-natured nurse?
Margaret stood still, hesitating to fetch the stick for her brother.
Juliana knelt to retrieve it. A shadow covered her.
“Allow me,” a deep voice said.
She did not need to look up to know who spoke. “Gervaise,” she cried out. “At last, you have come.” Heedless of her hostess, Juliana sprang to her feet and cast herself at him. “How I have missed you.”
Gervaise caught hold of her upper arms and held her at a small distance from him. A smile hovered at the corners of his lips. “I am flattered by your welcome, but one would think I left you to rot in jail instead of with Barbara and Ralph.”
Juliana laughed, standing in the sunshine amid the scents of cut grass, lavender, and honeysuckle which permeated the air. Smiling with delight she looked up into his tanned face. “I missed you,” she said simply.
Far Beyond Rubies Page 14