“I apprehend that your father lost his life in the war, ma’am?”
“Yes, though not in battle. He died of a fever only a few months after Theo was born. Poor Mama! She was so proud and happy to have given him a son after three daughters—that is why she named him Theodore, the ‘gift of God’—but Papa never even saw him.” She was silent for a moment, and then added more briskly: “Forgive me! I do not know why I am prosing on about family matters which can be of no possible interest to you.”
“On the contrary,” he replied promptly, “I am guilty of an insatiable curiosity about my new neighbors.”
As he had hoped, this retort had the effect of banishing her brief melancholy, and calling forth the chuckle he found so delightful.
“That would be very flattering, Sir Greydon, if only I could believe it to be true.”
“I assure you that it is, though I am not so rag-mannered as to ask impertinent questions, and must hope that you will let fall a crumb of information from time to time. I even refrained from questioning your young brother.”
“I would be astonished, sir, to learn that any questions were necessary. If I know Theo, he was only too ready to offer, unasked, all kinds of information, but for my own peace of mind I would prefer not to know what he said.”
“Nothing to put you to the blush, ma’am, I give you my word, though one thing he said has me in a puzzle. What is this nonsense about Garth House being haunted?”
Watching her, he saw the gray eyes cloud for a moment, but she only said lightly: “Nonsense, sir, as you say. Theo himself played a silly trick, and I believe that put it into Molly’s head to do the same. I was very angry, because both Mama and Cecilia were frightened, but I judged it best not to tax Molly with it. She was bound to have denied it, and that would have alarmed them more than ever.”
His dark eyes quizzed her. “The thought of a ghost does not alarm you, Miss Mallory?”
“It might, sir, if I believed in such things, but I dare say I have too little imagination. And even if such apparitions did exist, why in the world should we be troubled by that of a very old gentleman who no doubt died peacefully in his own bed?” A fleeting change in his expression stopped her short, and she added, between amusement and dismay: “Do you mean to tell me that he did not?”
“I fear I must tell you so. Jonathan Mallory tripped on the stairs, and was killed by the fall.” He raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Perhaps it would be as well if Mrs. Mallory and Miss Cecilia did not know that?”
“Much the best,” Dione agreed firmly, “though for my part I am not altogether sorry to know. I occupy Cousin Jonathan’s room now, and it has more than once crossed my mind, usually just as I am climbing into bed, that he very likely died there. It is quite a relief to know that he did not.”
She thought, belatedly, that this sounded shockingly heartless, and cast a slightly anxious glance at Sir Greydon, only to find that he was trying not to laugh. He said, rather unsteadily:
“Even though you do not believe in ghosts, Miss Mallory?”
She made a little grimace. “Quite absurd, is it not? I did not even know Cousin Jonathan, any more than I knew any of the other people who must have died in that bed, which is centuries old. How inconsistent one’s feelings can be!”
“Most illogical,” he agreed with a smile. “Tell me, why do you suppose Molly Ibstone would play such a trick upon you?”
“Oh, just to be disagreeable! She and her parents have made it very clear that they dislike us, and resent our coming here. I believe they have had matters so much their own way for so long that they have come to look upon Garth House as their own.”
“Very likely. Jack Ibstone is a complete ne’er-do-well, too idle to provide for his family, and I am told they were homeless and destitute when Mallory took them in. Mrs. Ibstone was a servant here before her marriage, and perhaps he felt a responsibility towards her. As you say, they have had things pretty much their own way for years.”
“Well, they are not having their own way now,” she declared. “They are the most disobliging creatures, and you cannot imagine the complaints and arguments I have had today simply because I desired Ibstone to cut back some of the wisteria from the doors and windows. It is quite disgraceful how the place has been allowed to go to rack and ruin, inside and out, but we shall set it to rights in time.”
He found her spirit admirable, and had not the heart to tell her that hard work and enthusiasm were not enough; that the whole ancient, crumbling fabric of the house needed skill and money lavished upon it if it were to survive. That realization must come one day, but he had no desire to be the one to deal the blow.
“It will be an uphill struggle, ma’am, if you hope to persuade Ibstone to pull his weight,” he said frankly. “When you find you need more help than he is prepared to give, send word to Rushbourne, and I promise that you will get it.”
She smiled, but shook her head and said with finality: “That is a kind thought, Sir Greydon, and I am grateful, but we could not possibly impose so upon your generosity. We shall contrive to make ourselves very comfortable here, I have no doubt. But you must think me shockingly ill-mannered to keep you standing out here. Will you not come into the house? I know Mama will wish to thank you for your kindness to Theo.”
He declined the invitation, adding that there was no need to thank him. He had enjoyed Theodore’s company. Dione seemed amused.
“Well, I am sure it is very civil of you to say so,” she replied candidly. “He can be engaging, but I find it difficult to believe, sir, that you are in the habit of entertaining children of his age, which makes it particularly kind in you to put yourself out for Theo’s benefit. We are most grateful, though I cannot imagine why you should do it.”
“To fix my interest with you, Miss Mallory,” he replied promptly.
He had the satisfaction of knowing that he had startled her, for she gasped, and lifted a wide, incredulous gaze to meet his, but she recovered herself in a moment.
“Of course!” she agreed cordially. “How foolish of me not to guess, for I can see how it is. You must have the greatest difficulty in establishing yourself in the eyes of any female.” She had recovered her countenance now, and the gray eyes laughed up at him without embarrassment. “How very gullible you must think me, sir!”
He took the hand she had extended to him, and clasped it lightly for a moment, smiling down at her.
“I think you wholly enchanting,” he said, and bowed slightly, and left her, this time totally bereft of words.
It was just as well, Dione reflected, taking a somewhat agitated turn about the wilderness of garden, that he had left when he did, for she had not the slightest idea how she could or should have answered him. What in the world had prompted him to say such a thing? She was neither a debutante to be courted, nor a lady of fashion to be beguiled into an idle flirtation, and he was too kind a man, she felt sure, merely to amuse himself by flattering a woman in her situation with empty compliments. They were scarcely acquainted, and yet she had felt that a certain degree of friendship and understanding had already been established between them; she was comfortable with him—or had been, until that extraordinary remark threw her into utter confusion. It was some time before she recovered her composure sufficiently to return to the house, and even then, although she was outwardly her usual calm and competent self, the “why” of the incident continued to tease her. Only one explanation failed to occur to her—that he had spoken the simple truth.
Yet so it was. Sir Greydon Varleigh, that most eligible of bachelors, who had remained unmoved while the beauties of three London Seasons were paraded before him; who had been regretting for months the promise made to reassure an ailing old lady, but had resigned himself to the prospect of a fashionable marriage of duty and convenience, had found at last a woman who possessed all those hitherto indefinable qualities he had hoped for in a wife. He had been attracted to Dione Mallory at their first meeting, an attraction that had grown rapidly str
onger with each subsequent encounter. Her directness, her gallant spirit, her ability to laugh at herself, all delighted him, and he was conscious of an urgent desire to lift from her all those cares and responsibilities that she shouldered so cheerfully. She was not beautiful; she probably lacked all those feminine accomplishments that fashion regarded as indispensable; his friends and relations would undoubtedly dismiss her as a mere penniless nobody; but he had fallen in love with her in a way he had never before experienced, and the sort of marriage he had previously contemplated was now unthinkable. It was as simple as that.
His inclination was to devote all his time and attention to her, but it was impossible to ignore the problem that had brought him to Rushbourne, and so to his meeting with Dione. Vivyan Calderwood had done his part in engaging the services of Bow Street, and a discreet individual had waited upon Sir Greydon at the Abbey to inform him that, in addition to inquiries being made in London, he had come to carry out an investigation on the spot. So far, neither effort had had any result. The whereabouts of Oliver Varleigh, and of the Varleigh Medallion, remained shrouded in mystery, and Sir Greydon was beginning to wonder whether it would ever be otherwise.
On the day after taking Theodore driving, he received two letters. One was from Vivyan, informing him that as far as Bow Street could discover, there was no whisper of a jeweled medallion being offered for sale in the underworld of London, and conveying the equally unwelcome news that Lady Varleigh was becoming increasingly out of charity with both her grandsons, the elder for his refusal to return to town, and the younger for his inability, which she regarded as deliberate prevarication, to offer any satisfactory explanation of his cousin’s continued absence. Vivyan, Sir Greydon gathered from the harassed tone of his letter, was having a difficult time.
The second letter, written a day later, was from the dowager herself, bitterly informing him that the engagement of Priscilla Marstow to the Earl of Riversdale had just been announced, and that though she was deeply disappointed, for Miss Marstow was everything she had ever hoped for in a grand-daughter-in-law, she must remind him of the promise he had made to her almost a year ago (heavily underlined). He would oblige her by abandoning whatever preoccupation—probably disreputable, since he was so secretive about it—was keeping him at Rushbourne, and returning to town without delay. She had several other amiable and pretty-behaved young females in mind, any one of whom would make him a suitable wife.
None of this augured well for Dione, in the event of her returning his regard and accepting the offer of marriage he intended to make her. Lady Varleigh would certainly not regard Miss Mallory as a suitable wife for him, and it was difficult to decide which would be the greater shock to her; the announcement of such an engagement, or the theft of the Varleigh Medallion.
For the gloomy frame of mind engendered by the letters, there was only one remedy. Sir Greydon ordered his curricle, and drove to Garth House.
When he emerged from the drive, and the house came into view, he was surprised to see Dione, dressed in her Sunday best, standing on the front steps. Cecilia, in a plain, workaday gown, was with her, and Jack Ibstone, hands thrust deep into his pockets, stood before them in an attitude of complete indifference. Both sisters looked harassed, but at sight of the curricle Dione’s expression brightened, and as Sir Greydon handed the reins to Stubbs and sprang down, she came quickly towards him, saying impetuously:
“If you have come to take Theo driving again, Sir Greydon, will you be so very obliging as to take me instead?”
As he had known it would, her mere presence restored his good humor. He said with a smile:
“I can think of nothing more delightful, ma’am. Have you any preference as to where we shall go?”
She twinkled responsively back at him. “As it happens, sir, I have. It is of the utmost importance that I go into town to see Mr. Birkett, the lawyer, and Ibstone has been to the village to try to hire the innkeeper’s gig, but by the greatest misfortune it is not to be had. Would it be asking too much of you to drive me there instead?”
“By no means, but you must forgive me for pointing out that it would be more proper for you to summon Birkett to wait upon you here.”
“Yes, I know.” She hesitated, and then moved a pace nearer, adding in a low voice: “The thing is that if he came here, he would expect to deal with Mama, but I fear she has no head for business. Besides, she is never at ease with strangers, and is already distressed by the matter which has to be discussed with Mr. Birkett. It would not do at all.”
He could well believe it, having realized that Mrs. Mallory was one of those shy, clinging females who was never able to fend for herself. He wondered with some concern what problem had arisen, and wished that he had the right to inquire, but since he had not, the only thing he could do was to drive Dione to the town, and hope that she would choose to confide in him. He said soothingly that he perfectly understood, and with a bow to Cecilia handed Dione up into the curricle. He would have liked to dispense with Stubbs’ presence in case she did wish to seek his advice, but he knew that even in a sleepy country town it would not do for her to be seen driving with him completely unattended. Not for the first time, he felt a surge of impatience at the petty restrictions imposed by the conventions of polite society.
Dione remained silent while they cautiously traversed the drive and then picked up to a brisker pace along the road. In her anxiety to get to town, and her relief at Sir Greydon’s willingness to drive her there, she had forgotten how their previous meeting had ended, but now, remembering, she began to feel embarrassed. He had not meant it, of course. He had been merely jesting, but the fact remained that there was now a little awkwardness between them that had not been there before. Dione had had other admirers besides Eustace Winton, for her aunt, to do her justice, had always included her and Cecilia in any social occasion, but none of these worthies had belonged, as Sir Greydon did, to the world of fashion, where flirtation attained the level of an art. Such compliments as they paid her had been of a ponderous nature, and had tended to provoke her more to secret hilarity than anything else.
Sir Greydon, by no means inexperienced in the workings of the feminine mind, was able to hazard a tolerably accurate guess at the reason for her unaccustomed reserve, and exerted himself to win her out of it. As they approached the village, he solemnly drew her attention to the square Norman tower of the church, and recommended her, the next time she entered the sacred edifice, to take particular note of the remains of the medieval chancel screen, which were thought to be especially fine. When she turned an astonished gaze upon him, he added reproachfully:
“Do not look so amazed, Miss Mallory. I am endeavoring to entertain you, in a quite unexceptionable way, by pointing out the more notable antiquities of our village. You will observe, for example, that the inn is an interesting timbered building of much the same period as Garth House—!”
“And in a far better state of repair,” she concluded ruefully. “Is there a medieval chancel screen, sir?”
“Certainly there is. I have a vivid recollection of being invited to admire it, at an age when such things were of even less interest to me than they are now. If you wish to judge the depths of my indifference, point it out to Theodore the next time you take him to church.”
“Thank you, but I would as lief not do so. At present he has a tolerably good opinion of me, even going so far as to inform me that I am a ‘great gun,’ which I take to be praise of no mean order, and I do not wish to forfeit that. Which sets me in mind of something I wished to ask you. Theo has struck up a friendship with the boy who was bringing him home the night he fell into the pool. Is that an association which should be encouraged?”
“By no means—if you are so high in the instep that the thought of your brother on terms of friendship with a farmer’s son offends you. If, on the other hand, you wish Theodore to have the companionship of an honest, trustworthy lad who will introduce him to some of the pleasures of country boyhood—yes, indeed.”<
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“Exactly what I told Mama,” Dione observed with satisfaction. “Poor Theo! What with indifferent health, and always having females about him, he has had a sadly dull time of it, yet he is by no means a milksop. It is the worst of bad luck that he has inherited his Mama’s delicate constitution.”
“And his eldest sister’s spirit? I think he is very like you in character, if not in looks.”
“Yes, Theo and Edwina and I are all very much like Papa, except, of course, that Theo takes his looks from Mama.”
“Do you remember your father, Miss Mallory?”
“Yes, though not very well, because he was so much away at sea. Cecilia has only a hazy recollection of him, and the two younger ones, of course, do not remember him at all. I have always felt that to be especially sad for Theo.”
“Very true. I lost both my parents, and my elder brother, when I was only five years old.”
“All at the same time? Oh, poor little boy!” Dione’s eyes and voice were warm with compassion. “How did so dreadful a thing happen?”
“They were traveling from London to Rushbourne when, some ten miles from here, they were overtaken by a violent thunderstorm. A tree beside the road was struck by lightning, the horses bolted, and the carriage overturned down a steep hillside. My mother and brother were killed outright, my father died shortly afterwards.”
“How very shocking, but what a mercy, sir, that you were not traveling with them!”
“Yes, my infant sister and I were suffering from some childish ailment, and had been left behind in London with our nurse, in my grandmother’s charge. We were fortunate, at least, in having devoted grandparents.”
“And your sister, sir?”
“Oh, she is married now, and rarely leaves her husband’s estate in Devonshire. She has four children—I think.”
The Varleigh Medallion Page 9