THE VARLEIGH MEDALLION
Sylvia Thorpe
When little Theodore Mallory inherited Garth House from an aged and distant relative, it seemed to his eldest sister, Dione, the answer to many problems. Against all advice, she persuaded her widowed mother to remove the family from the luxurious London home where they were living on the charity of rich relations and to set up house at their newly acquired property in the country.
But Garth House was not quite what Dione had expected. And though she possessed a happy facility for making the best of things, she would have found it difficult without the encouragement and advice of their neighbor, Sir Greydon Varleigh, with whom she struck up a prompt and satisfying friendship.
Sir Greydon, however, had problems of his own, not the least of which were a match-making grandmother and the missing Varleigh Medallion, a priceless heirloom.
What Sir Greydon wasn’t prepared for was ... Dione.
ONE
The Royal George was a posting house, and though by no means as large or as well known as the famous inns of the great highways, it was, as its owner, Mr. Henry Hobkin, was fond of asserting, an establishment of the highest order. It catered almost exclusively to the quality; if some prosperous tradesman chanced to break his journey there his wants were civilly attended to, but it was made plain to him in subtle ways that this was by favor and not by right.
It was therefore with a sensation of mild outrage that, on a chilly, overcast evening in May, Mr. Hobkin beheld two unescorted and shabbily dressed young women enter the innyard on foot from the street outside. From the window of the temporarily deserted coffee-room he watched them approach, the taller of the two walking purposefully and her companion following with obvious reluctance. Moving to listen at the door giving on to the passage, he was able to discover that they wished to hire a carriage, and he nodded silent approval of the civil but very definite refusal of this request by the passing waiter to whom it was addressed. That should have been the end of the matter, but the spokeswoman of the pair was unexpectedly persistent, and the waiter, who was young and inexperienced, began to sound harassed. Mr. Hobkin heaved a sigh of exasperation and went himself to send these unwanted guests about their business.
Miss Dione Mallory, seeing him emerge into the passage and wave dismissal to the waiter, braced herself for battle. She was no stranger to the disagreeable consequences of being poor, having lived with them for the whole of her twenty-two years, but she had never learned to like them. However, since it had fallen to her to fend not only for herself but also for the rest of the family, she was resigned to the sort of humiliation now confronting her, and only very occasionally did she reflect wistfully how pleasant it would be to have such battles fought for her. Now, with the wisdom of experience, she gave Mr. Hobkin no chance to speak, but said briskly:
“Are you the landlord? Excellent! I wish to hire a carriage to drive to Brambledon, and this man tells me that he cannot arrange it. Will you be good enough to see to it, if you please?”
Mr. Hobkin bridled. It was bad enough to be expected to perform so menial a task himself, but it was an added insult that this be demanded of him by a young person who had undoubtedly alighted only a short time ago from the common stagecoach that had halted at the Griffin farther along the street. He said austerely:
“You have been correctly informed, miss. It cannot be arranged.”
“Why not? This is a posting house, is it not?” Dione saw the way he was eying her, and added bluntly: “Are you afraid we shall be unable to pay the charges? You need have no apprehension on that score.”
“Dee!” The younger girl, a very pretty, fragile-looking blonde, uttered an embarrassed protest that was not attended to, Miss Mallory merely saying practically:
“Well. I can perceive no other reason for him to refuse us. In fact,” she added, turning again to the innkeeper, “I believe it is unlawful for you to do so. In any event, a carriage I must have, and there appears to be nowhere else where I may obtain one.”
Mr. Hobkin glared at her. Out of the corner of his eye he had detected a smirk on the departing waiter’s face; there were sounds from the yard indicating that a carriage had just arrived; a moment later he heard a voice he recognized as that of one of his most valued patrons. Clearly this tiresome young woman must be got rid of without delay.
“The landlord of the Griffin has a gig he lets out for hire,” he informed her tartly. “You’d best ask him, miss, for I can’t oblige you.”
“A gig is not the least use,” she began, but even as she spoke Mr. Hobkin was brushing past her to greet a gentleman who had just entered, with a manner that had undergone a rapid and remarkable change.
“Good evening, Sir Greydon.” He was bowing now and smiling, all affability. “This is indeed an honor, sir! How may I serve you?”
The newcomer nodded an acknowledgment of the greeting and shot a quick glance past the innkeeper toward the two young women. He said pleasantly:
“In no way, Hobkin, that cannot wait until you have attended to these ladies.”
“Thank you.” Miss Mallory, far from retreating in confusion as Mr. Hobkin had hoped, came forward with what he could only regard as shocking boldness. “I am merely endeavoring to hire a carriage, but so far have met with no success.”
Sir Greydon’s brows lifted, and he cast a perceptive glance at the fuming Mr. Hobkin. “A reasonable request, one would suppose. What appears to be the difficulty?”
“I have already told the lady, sir, that she can hire a gig at the Griffin—”
“And I have told you that a gig is not the least use, for we are traveling with our mama and our little brother and sister. We left London very early this morning; the stage could take us no nearer to our destination than this, and so a carriage we must have.”
To the indignant Mr. Hobkin this merely sounded impertinent and overbearing, but the other man was more perceptive and detected a faint undertone of desperation in her voice. It was no concern of his, but Hobkin’s sycophantic manner had irritated him for years, and he saw no reason why he should not exert a little of the influence he possessed.
“A very natural desire, ma’am,” he agreed, and glanced at the innkeeper. “Hobkin, you will oblige me by having the carriage these ladies require brought to the door as speedily as may be.”
It was pleasantly said, but unmistakably a command, and Mr. Hobkin visibly changed color. Swallowing his chagrin, he made haste to obey, and as he passed out of earshot, Sir Greydon added confidentially:
“He is a shocking toad-eater, of course! I have known him for years so you must forgive me for puffing off my consequence a little.”
The younger sister blushed and cast down her eyes, but the elder was betrayed into a little spurt of appreciative laughter.
“We forgive you freely, sir, for we stand very much in your debt and must thank you for coming to our aid.”
“It was a pleasure, ma’am. You will not be kept waiting for long, but there is no need for you to stand in this drafty passage.”
He stepped past them and opened a door. “You will be more comfortable in the coffee-room.”
She inclined her head and moved forward, but her sister clutched her by the arm.
“Dee, we should not! I am sure Mama would say—”
“Oh come, love, what harm is there in going into a public room? See, there is no one here, and we may sit down and be comfortable for a few minutes, which I at least shall be heartily glad of after being jolted all day in that odiously uncomfortable coach. I am sure it is no wonder that poor little Theo feels so sadly out of sorts.”
She deposited herself in a chair near the fireplace, and after a moment’s hesitation and a doubtful, timid glance a
t Sir Greydon, her sister fluttered after her and sat down close by. Sir Greydon himself followed them into the room, but remained standing by the open door.
“I fear, sir,” Miss Mallory observed politely after a few minutes, “that your kindness in helping us has led to your own requirements being neglected. I would have expected the innkeeper to send someone to attend to them.”
“It is of no consequence, I assure you,” he replied with a smile. “I expect he means to teach me a lesson.”
Dione chuckled again and looked speculatively at him. The innkeeper’s attitude had made it plain that he was a person of some importance in the neighborhood. He was clearly a man of fashion, yet there was nothing of the dandy about him, for he affected none of the more absurd extremes of attire. His height and powerful build suggested the athlete rather than the drawing-room beau. He was black-haired and his swarthy complexion was startlingly emphasized by the snowy folds of an intricately arranged neckcloth. And though not handsome, his countenance compelled attention because of a striking quality that had nothing to do with mere good looks. With characteristic decision Miss Mallory decided that she liked him, not least for the fact that there was no hint of gallantry in his manner. She feared none on her own account, but knew only too well that her shy, pretty sister could all too easily become the object of unwelcome attentions.
Sir Greydon was aware of her appraising regard, and was amused by it. He found it a novel experience to be so candidly assessed, for the young ladies he met were usually thrown into a confusion, either real or assumed, which manifested itself in blushes and flutterings and similarly missish behavior which, had they but known it, bored him to distraction. This girl with the expressive gray eyes and delightful chuckle was regarding him as levelly as a man might have done; there was, in fact, a certain boyish directness about her, as though she had no patience with the more obvious feminine wiles and blandishments. No patience, or too strong a sense of humor.
“Have you much farther to travel, ma’am?” he inquired after a moment.
“A few miles only, sir. We are going to a village called Brambledon. Perhaps you know of it?”
He was surprised, for this was the village nearest to his own home, and he could not imagine for which household there these two could be bound. It was obvious that she and her sister were gentlewomen; it was equally obvious, from their shabby appearance and the reference to the stagecoach, that they were in straitened circumstances. Passing his neighbors under swift mental review, he had to admit himself at a loss, and was aware of a curiosity that it would have been ill bred to indulge.
“I do know it, ma’am,” he replied, “and am able to tell you that you have a little less than six miles to go. You should reach Brambledon before dark.”
“Thank heaven for that!” she said fervently. “I will confess, sir, that I had begun to wonder what was to become of us, until you were kind enough to use your good offices on our behalf. Believe me, I am very grateful.”
He smiled and shook his head, and there was silence until, a moment or so later, Mr. Hobkin returned to inform them that the carriage was at the door. Dione got up and turned to take leave of Sir Greydon, but he, having perceived an unexceptionable way to satisfy his curiosity, said easily:
“Permit me, ladies, to escort you to the carriage.”
He did so, and having handed the younger sister up into it, paused before performing a like service for the elder to inquire: “Where precisely may I direct the post boy to convey you, ma’am?”
“To the Griffin first, if you please, where Mama and the children are waiting, and then to Brambledon. To Garth House.”
She was looking up at him as she spoke and was disconcerted to see a look of blank astonishment, almost of disbelief, cross his face. He seemed to be on the point of making some comment, but instead, he merely bowed, assisted her into the carriage, and turned to convey her directions to the post boy. The steps were put up, the door closed, and the carriage jolted forward across the cobblestones.
As they passed under the archway and turned left along the street, the younger Miss Mallory broke her silence.
“Dee, how could you? To enter into conversation with a strange gentleman met at an inn! I was ready to sink.”
“I know you were, love, but it would have been the height of bad manners to sit mumchance as though he were not there when he had been of such help. That odious innkeeper would never have hired us a carriage if he had not insisted upon it.”
“Yes, but what must he have thought? So fashionable, plainly accustomed to moving in the first circles—and you chatted with him as though you had been acquainted for years! It would be no wonder if he thought you dreadfully fast. You know, Dee, there are times when I blush for you.”
“Yes, Cecy, and I am very grateful to you,” Dione assured her earnestly, “for you know how hard I find it to blush for myself.”
“Dee!” Cecilia gave in to reluctant laughter. “You are the most shocking creature! What Mama would say I cannot imagine.”
“I can,” her sister retorted rather wryly. “I think we will make no mention of—what did the innkeeper call him?—Sir Greydon. Or of the assistance he rendered us.”
“Greydon is a most uncommon name,” Cecilia remarked. “I do not think I have ever heard it before.”
“No, nor I.”
“The innkeeper was known to him,” Cecilia offered, “and he said himself that he knew Brambledon. Perhaps we shall find that we are neighbors.”
“Yes, perhaps.” Dione found that she did not wish to pursue that train of thought, for it recalled Sir Greydon’s reaction when she told him their destination. He had looked—what? Startled? Shocked? What had he been about to say, and then changed his mind? He knew Brambledon; what did he know of Garth House, to make him look so oddly at her when she spoke of it?
There proved to be no need for the girls to practice any deception upon their mother with regard to Sir Greydon, for she was too thankful to learn that they had succeeded in hiring a carriage to query the means by which this had been accomplished. They found her sitting with her two youngest children in the coffee-room at the Griffin, her arm around eleven-year-old Theodore, whose head rested on her shoulder. He was a delicate-looking little boy with the same fragile, blond good looks as his mother, and though even his fond Mama would have been willing to admit that he was by no means as angelic as his appearance suggested, no one could deny that he was far from robust. The motion of the stuffy, overcrowded coach had made him violently ill, so that by the time the present stage of their journey was reached he was utterly worn out. The landlady at the Griffin, a kindly soul, had done all she could, but he was still sufficiently exhausted to worry his mother. The health of her youngest child, the longed-for son whom his sailor father had not lived to see, was a constant source of anxiety to Mrs. Mallory. Though she loved her daughters, Theodore’s well-being was always her first concern.
It was primarily for Theodore’s sake that the family was making this long, uncomfortable journey, though as the day progressed Mrs. Mallory’s original misgivings had grown stronger and stronger. She was obliged to keep reminding herself that Dione believed it was the right thing to do; indeed, she had insisted so strongly upon it that Mrs. Mallory had finally been won over to follow a course of action that at first she had refused even to contemplate. Being of a gentle and pliable nature, she had, over the years, come to depend completely upon her capable, practical eldest daughter, just as in the early days of her marriage she had depended upon her husband.
Dione herself, looking at her little brother’s white, exhausted face and closed eyes, was conscious of a stab of anxiety. She dissembled this, however, saying with firm kindness:
“Come, Theo love, I have a carriage waiting. We shall soon be at our new home, and then you can be comfortable.”
He burrowed his head closer against his mother’s shoulder, protesting fretfully that the jolting of the coach would make him sick again. Dione said patiently:
“It is not a coach this time, but a post chaise, so we shall be traveling in prime style. Besides, we have less than six miles more to go. Come along, love! Mama is tired too, you know.”
He still protested, but allowed her to help him up and lead him out to the carriage. Mrs. Mallory followed with Cecilia, while Edwina, who at fourteen not only looked very much like Dione but bade fair to become just as capable, gathered up various small items of baggage. Eventually they were all crammed into the chaise, the luggage was piled on the roof, and they were able to set out on the last stage of their journey.
As there was so little room and Theodore was small and light for his age, Dione took him on her lap. For a time he was silent, but then, apparently satisfied that his worst fears were not to be realized, he revived sufficiently to ask:
“Mama, tell me again what Garth House is like?”
Mrs. Mallory, who had begun to doze fitfully in her corner of the chaise, roused herself with a start. “My love, I have told you a dozen times already.”
“I know, but I want to hear it again. Please, Mama!”
She sighed, but as his wishes always came first with her she complied, the three girls listening resignedly to the now familiar recital.
“Well, dearest, you know that I have only visited Garth House once, and that was nearly twenty-five years ago, with dear Papa. It was just after we were married, and he took me to visit his cousin, Mr. Jonathan Mallory. They were the only members of the family left, for Mr. Jonathan had never married.
“It was early summer when we went, and I remember how very pretty the gardens were, with the roses just coming into bloom. There is a walled rose garden, with flagged paths and a fountain in the center. The house stands at the foot of a hill and is hidden from the road by a spinney through which the drive winds, and one supposes that it must be quite buried among trees, but it is not so at all. There is open space all round it, and a pool—almost a small lake—close by. The house itself is very old, with panelled rooms, and stone-flagged floors downstairs, and curious little corners and staircases.”
The Varleigh Medallion Page 1