“You do not subscribe to your wife’s theory?”
“That he was abducted? She is very distressed. I don’t think she was thinking straight when she said that to you. I talked to Mr Cooper, his tutor, and it seems they had some sort of argument. Cooper confined Edmund to his room and I suspect he must have climbed out of the window – though how he avoided breaking his neck, I can’t imagine – but he is safe! Where is he?”
“Perhaps we should give the news to Mrs Hughes first?”
“Yes, yes, quite. This way, if you please.”
They went back into the library. Mrs Hughes was sitting hunched in a chair by the fire, a brown shawl of great ugliness wrapped about her, covering her customary black dress. She looked up at Giles fearfully.
“Do not be afraid!” said the Bishop, his hand raised. “Edmund is found! Deo gratias!”
“Oh, oh!” she exclaimed and leapt up from her chair, and grabbed Giles’ hand, and to his horror, attempted to kiss it, rather as if he were some papal prelate. “Thank you, thank you! Where is he? Is he quite well?”
“A little rough round the edges,” Giles said. “But he is in good hands, and will, I hope, be able to come home soon.”
“Very soon, please, Major Vernon,” she said, grabbing his hand again in both hers. “Please?”
“I think we need to talk a little first, ma’am,” he said. “If you would sit down?”
“I don’t understand,” said the Bishop.
“A few facts need to be clarified. Yes, ma’am?”
She nodded, avoiding his gaze, and he handed her back to her chair, where she seemed to shrink, even as she sat down. Her husband went and stood protectively by her.
“I will keep this brief,” said Giles.
“Thank you,” said the Bishop, who seemed wary.
“May I sit down?” Giles said, pulling up a chair.
“Of course,” she said.
“Now, Mrs Hughes, the Bishop has just told me that Mr Cooper confined Edmund to his room on the day in question and that he feels he probably climbed out of the room and ran away somewhere.”
“I don’t know, I really don’t,” she said, glancing up at her husband. “If my husband says so, then –”
“Then, after he had climbed out of his room, my feeling is that he came to see you. To air his grievances.”
“I’m sorry, sir, what do you mean?”
“You were, I think,” Giles said, taking out his notebook and consulting it, “in the summer house.”
“Yes, I told you that.”
“You did indeed. And it is your custom to go there each day at that time?”
“Yes.”
“Now this is where it gets a little confused. Edmund tells us that he did indeed climb out of the window and go to find you. He was angry with Mr Cooper, and he wanted to talk to you about it. A rather rash thing to do, but understandable.”
“Quite,” said Mrs Hughes.
“So you can you confirm that you saw him at the summer house that day?”
“No, I did not see him.”
“Although he told me he was there. He went there and spoke to you. Is he lying?”
“I don’t know. He is not one to lie but, in this case, I think he must have. Perhaps he is not straight about what happened.”
“He seems very clear about it to me. And quite distressed at the same time. Can you tell me why?”
“I really don’t understand what you are asking me.”
“Perhaps I should rephrase that, ma’am. Edmund went to see you at the summer house, saw you there and was distressed by what he saw. Have you anything to add to that?”
“He is confused,” she said after a moment. “He must be, because there was nothing there to distress him.”
“So he did see you there, ma’am? He is not lying about that, I think?”
She glanced up at her husband who looked puzzled to say the least.
“I am sorry, Major Vernon, what is the end of this?” he said.
“I need to know exactly what happened. This is not a simple case of running away, you see. Now, ma’am, will you confirm to me that you did see Edmund that afternoon at the summer house?”
“Perhaps,” she said.
“My dear,” said the Bishop. “That is not the answer to such a question. Did you or did you not see him?”
There was a long pause and she said, “I did.”
“Then why did you not say so before?” said the Bishop. “What on earth –”
“Mrs Hughes was not alone,” said Giles. “That was the difficulty.”
“How dare you say that!” she exclaimed.
“I am simply saying what your son told me. He has no reason to lie about this, but you, ma’am, have every reason.”
“What are you saying, sir?” said the Bishop.
“Edmund told me he saw his mother and a man engaged in congress.”
“What!” exclaimed the Bishop.
Mrs Hughes leapt up from her chair.
“Where is he? Where is Edmund? How dare he say such things? He must have lost his reason. What on earth would make him say such a thing about – where is he, sir? I demand to see my son!”
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to see him for a while. And I think his reason is quite intact. He saw what he saw. He is not an imaginative boy, given to fanciful stories.”
“He truly said that to you?” said the Bishop. “Truly?”
“He did.”
“And you deny this, Margaret?” the Bishop asked turning to his wife.
“Of course! Of course! He is lying.”
The Bishop looked at her for a moment, and then turned away, clearly thinking hard.
“He is not a fanciful boy,” he said, “and I have never known him tell a lie.”
“And have you ever known me tell a lie?” said Mrs Hughes. “This is nothing but wicked slander. The devil has got hold of our boy, John, that is the cause of it. That he could say such a thing about me, his own mother –” She sank back in her chair, her hands pressed to her face, apparently sobbing.
“You did just lie about his seeing you there,” said the Bishop after a long pause. Then as he spoke, his voice had a dry, staccato quality to it, as the reality of the matter began to affect him. “At the summer house. Why would you be so equivocal, unless you had something to hide, Margaret? Can you explain that?”
“I forgot that I saw him,” she said, looking up at her husband. “One does forget things.”
“On the day your son goes missing?” said the Bishop. “What else did he say, Major Vernon? Who was there with my wife? Was it someone Edmund knew?”
“It was George Bickley.”
The Bishop closed his eyes and looked Heavenwards, as if asking his maker for strength and guidance.
“You warned me against him,” he said at length. “You told me and I did not see it. And I trusted you, Margaret, I thought that you –” Words deserted him and he walked away and sat down in a far corner, his head bowed, his hands pressed to his face.
“Edmund is lying!” she screamed, jumping up and pursuing him. “Of course he is! Of course!”
“Silence!” exclaimed the Bishop, standing up and towering over her. “I have seen all the signs. I knew there was something going on, I knew, but I could not bring myself to accuse someone whom I thought – I don’t know what I thought. That I was prey to delusions, that my wife could not, would not descend to such vile wickedness as this! But my own boy who cannot lie, who has never lied – he saw the truth and now, oh God help me, now –” He reached out and gave Mrs Hughes a shove. It was rather feeble but full of very evident repulsion. However it was enough to make Mrs Hughes fall to the floor bawling.
“He assaulted me!” she screamed. “That was what Edmund saw! Have pity on me, for the Lord’s sake, John. I had no choice!”
“So that was why you stood silently by and let him horsewhip your son until he was unconscious?” said Giles. “And let him drag him away to goodness
knows where and then cry abduction on his command? That is not the usual reaction of a woman who has been assaulted, ma’am!”
“I had no choice,” she sobbed.
“I think you did, Mrs Hughes, and you chose your lover over your son.”
“He was attacked?” the Bishop said.
“He has a couple of cracked ribs where Bickley kicked him, and welts from the whipping. But he has been well patched up, and is perfectly able to recall what he saw and what happened to him. I have no reason to doubt him as a witness. He has nothing to hide.”
Now the Bishop found his strength and grabbing his wife by the shoulders, manhandled her into a chair. Then, taking another chair, and pulling it up to her, he grabbed her chin and said, “Look at me, Margaret, and remember that all your sins are clearly laid before the Lord and that you will be judged accordingly. Tell me the truth. Did he in fact rape you? Or are you his lover?” She said nothing. The Bishop proceeded, his voice colder and quieter now, “If you do not tell me the entire truth now, I will have nothing more to do with you and I will take your children from you, and you will be turned out like a beggar into the world! So be honest, for their sake, Margaret.”
“My lover,” she said, softly after a moment. “Yes, my lover, John, and I have never felt so loved as when in his company. I have never felt this way in my life before.”
The Bishop looked away, as if he had been struck. The ardour in her voice had been undeniable and without any note of apology.
Giles found himself remembering what Emma had said to him that night at Ardenthwaite, the same fervent tone, and he felt ashamed of what he had wrought in her and of the destructive power of strong affections. Mrs Hughes had thrown everything away for Bickley, while he had made Emma give up her secure and prosperous future. For what?
In that respect, was he really any better than Bickley?
-o-
Having briefed Peterson on the state of his patients, Felix was glad to find that Holt had taken his usual efficient command of the situation. He found him in a dressing room, laying out his clean clothes. There was hot water too, in a shallow tub, so he stripped off his filthy clothes and started to sponge himself down.
“I shall need a shave, Holt,” he said.
“Certainly, sir.”
“And then I am going to Ardenthwaite.”
“Not to Holbroke, sir?” said Holt, handing him a towel. “I thought you might want to see the young lady, sir. See that her wrist is setting straight.”
“That is none of your business,” said Felix.
“Given that Mrs Connolly is getting married, there’s nowt to stop you now, sir,” Holt went on, quite unconcernedly.
“Did Major Vernon mention that to you?”
“He did, sir,” said Holt. “And I told him what I am telling you now. It is better for you both to look elsewhere. Christian marriage is a fine institution.”
“And what do you know about it, Holt? You’re not married.”
“I may be, sir, sooner rather than later. Especially if we go to Holbroke.”
“Oh, so you have an object there, do you?”
“Met her last year. We’ve been biding our time, but now it is the courting season.”
“Have you told Major Vernon this?”
“No,” said Holt, and added with a trace of nervousness, “not yet. Shall do, soon enough, when I have my answer.”
Felix wondered if this meant he intended to look for another place, more compatible with married life.
Felix put on his clean shirt and sat down so that Holt might shave him.
“So, you think we should go to Holbroke?” he said, when Holt had finished.
“Like I said,” Holt replied, dragging a comb through Felix’s hair. “It’s courting season.”
-o-
“Holt?” said Lady Maria. “Major Vernon’s man? Oh, how delightful. Who is the young woman?”
“Mary-Ann Fuller. I think she is a still-room maid,” said Felix.
“He has a sweet tooth, then,” said Lord Rothborough.
“And this courtship is the only reason we have the pleasure of your company?” said Lady Maria, with a playful smile.
“No, I thought I had better see how Miss Blanchfort’s wrist was faring.”
“Oh, but of course,” said Lady Maria, “her wrist. That must be of the greatest concern to you.”
“Maria, really,” said Lord Rothborough with a frown. “Remember what I have said on this subject? That sort of imputation is most unbecoming.”
“How can I resist, Papa?” Maria went on in the same playful manner, apparently not at all feeling the sting of his reproach. “When she will have me play nothing but arias from Donizetti’s Lucia for her? I think she has cast her Edgarro –”
“Maria, enough!” said Lord Rothborough. “Have a care, for goodness sake!”
Felix was glad of this, for her words had disturbed him. That she should speak so plainly was mortifying, and it must have shown, for she glanced at him and said, “Oh, I have made you uncomfortable! I am very sorry, truly, Mr Carswell. Can you forgive me? I was only teasing, but I have hurt you, I see.”
“Of course you have not,” he said. “It does not matter.”
“Go and find yourself something profitable to do, Maria,” said Lord Rothborough. “I wish to speak to Mr Carswell alone.”
Maria went, but not before she had kissed them both by way of apology. Seeing her bright but contrite eyes, Felix felt heartily sorry for her.
“She only meant to be kind, I think,” he said, when she was gone.
“When I have expressly told her not to speculate on that matter?” said Lord Rothborough. “The trouble is that she does not have her sisters here to keep her in check. Eleanor is a strange companion for her. She seems to have unsettled us all, in truth.”
“You might say that,” Felix said, thinking of the disturbing dream he had about her only the previous night, when he had been sleeping on the couch at the foot of Edmund’s bed.
“And you are feeling something of a fascination,” Lord Rothborough went on. Felix nodded. “But there is no need to act upon it, at least in the short term. In fact, I would advise you against it. As I said before, I want to see you well-settled, but not at the expense of your happiness.”
“So you think she cannot make me happy?”
“I don’t know. That is for you to determine: if the fascination you now feel means something more, if it might form the basis for a more profound association. It is in your hands.”
In that moment, Felix rather wished that his hands were completely tied and the decision was Lord Rothborough’s to make. He felt it would have been simpler to accept that, whether he were to forbid it utterly or endorse it entirely.
“Perhaps I should not stay here,” Felix said.
“No, stay,” said Lord Rothborough. “You need to test the matter, surely? And as I said, there is no need to act in haste. She is still in mourning, and you are both young. You have time, and you should tailor your actions accordingly.”
Felix had a strong desire to be very frank about the state of his passions, and how he ached for consummation. The idea of pursuing a slow, decorous, courtship seemed to him quite impossible. It was not in his nature, and he was quite certain it was not in hers. After all, how could one discover the true nature of the ocean by standing gingerly on the shoreline, retreating each time the water threatened to splash one’s boot tips? The only way to know was to wade in and immerse oneself.
But of course, that way, there was a considerable risk of drowning.
Chapter Thirty-six
Miss Blanchfort had gone for a walk. Given that the gardens at Holbroke were extensive, and the park beyond vast, there were a hundred places she might be. Without any more specific knowledge, to attempt to find her seemed futile. Therefore Felix decided to wait until she returned, and made his way to the library.
Lord Rothborough had the excellent habit of always seeking out what was new and inte
resting in literature, and Felix found lying on a table a couple of freshly published books on scientific subjects. He took them and settled down to read.
Unfortunately the first book was not nearly as good as the reviews and advance mentions had promised, and Felix soon found himself annoyed by it. So he put it aside and began the other. A few pages of this were enough to irritate him excessively and he took to pacing the great library, wondering what on earth he was doing there, and if he would not be better leaving at once. Lord Rothborough’s advice and Lady Maria’s hints had confused him utterly. He wanted very much to see her, and at the same time the thought of it terrified him.
It was nearly noon and the spring sunshine had grown intense. A footman came in to adjust the blinds, so that the light should not spoil the books, and not liking to be plunged into shade, Felix left the room by the small garden door and went outside.
A few steps and a turn of the corner took him to the terrace, which looked down on the geometric beds of the great parterre. It was bristling with crimson and yellow tulips, while the great fountain was playing, its three jets spouting and sparkling from the mouth of a giant gilded sea creature. Walking about the basin was Miss Blanchfort, a slight figure in black. Her shawl and black bonnet lay abandoned on the grass nearby, and her copper hair was falling down too. Occasionally the breeze grew stronger and caught the water jets so that they threw their spray over her. Instead of recoiling, she seemed to revel in this, like a bird splashing in a puddle.
Felix ran down towards her and then stopped on the far side of the fountain basin, so that they faced each other across the silver-grey expanse of water. He saw that she had got herself quite wet and that the effect was extremely becoming. Then, as he stood quite lost in admiration, the breeze, like a mischievous spirit, turned and threw the water at him.
He exclaimed at it, jumped back and heard her burst out laughing.
“Isn’t it delightful?” she said.
“Yes, yes, it is,” he said. “You are not feeling so tired now?”
“No. I must be mending fast. I’m hoping you will tell me that this horrible thing can come off,” she said, tapping her splinted arm, which was resting in a now sodden black silk sling.
The Ghosts of Ardenthwaite (The Northminster Mysteries Book 5) Page 32