Miss Treadwell's Talent

by Barbara Metzger

  What had gotten into Socrates was what was getting into his house in Brighton. Not content to invite the treacherous Treadwell trio, His Grace had told Shimpton to come along, with his cat, naturally. And he was prepared to send a note round to Crowley’s widow also, so that wretch’s relic could escape the London gabble-grinders. The earl would rather have the preachy parson come visit. High Oaks was big enough to house any number of unwanted guests, though, and Hyatt had told the duke to invite anyone he wished—but not frauds and felons!

  “How can you trust those females, Duke?” he demanded as they rode toward White’s. “They have no evidence leading them to believe Belinda is in Brighton, no informants other than a fricasseed furball. They just want a holiday out of the City, a visit to Prinny’s seaside, where they’ll find other gentry to gull. Or worse.”

  “Worse? What could be worse than helping people overcome their grief, reuniting families, giving comfort and guidance to the misfortunate, like Shimpton?”

  “Shimpton is not misfortunate; he’s missing a few links in his chain, is all. But, dash it, you’re making those women sound like humanitarians! They are hanging on your coattails, Mondale, trying to better their situation. First they wrest a blank check from you, then an invitation, now a house party. What’s next? Your head on a platter? The dukedom? They will not be content with anything less, I swear.”

  “I thought you were over your irrational misgivings of the ladies, Socrates. In fact, I believed you to be growing quite fond of Miss Treadwell. You were certainly whispering in her ear half the evening.”

  Fond? Shimpton’s cat was fond of kippers; Hyatt was obsessed with Maylene Treadwell. He dreamed of her day and night, but more vividly at night. Why, just touching her hand made him hot and bothered. Her riotous curls made every other ladies’ twisted, braided, and artfully arranged locks seem like straw. Her eyes sparkled like sunbeams on water when she challenged him, and her smile could warm the longest winter. She smelled of lilacs and soap and woman, and if he could have one night with her, Socrates thought, he’d die content, especially if he could visit occasionally, like Max, and if she wasn’t a scheming, shrewish sorceress, up to her pretty neck in skullduggery.

  None of this, of course, was anything Socrates wanted to relate to the father of the wench he wished to wed. He wiped a cat hair off his sleeve and said, “Miss Treadwell is well enough, I suppose. She’ll do, but not as a house guest.”

  “I’m sorry, my boy, for misunderstanding. I did not mean to overstep. I’ll get my man of affairs to find us a house to rent. If Lady Tremont and her daughter believe that there is a chance my Belinda is in Brighton, I am going.”

  “I won’t hear of it. You’ll stay with me, as will whomever you choose to invite. I’ll manage. Lud knows the pile is big enough that I can find places to hide. But tell me, Duke, do you really think it possible that Lady Belinda is with this Collins chap they’re also looking for? Miss Treadwell seemed to think it likely.”

  The duke stared out the window of the coach. “In a way, I am hoping so. Otherwise, I shall have to conclude that something terrible has happened to her.” He brushed a drop of moisture from his eye. “My only child, don’t you know. I am sorry, son, but I would rather see her married to a mail coach driver than lying in a ditch somewhere.”

  “I understand, Your Grace, honestly, I do. But are you sure the dastard means to marry her? I am sorry to mention it, but any loose screw who would run off with a wealthy young heiress who is halfway promised to another cannot necessarily be trusted to do the honorable thing.”

  His hand clenched on the overhead strap, Mondale stated, “Oh, he’ll marry her, all right. If the scoundrel has spent these past days and nights with my girl, he’ll marry her. I can still culp a wafer with my Mantons, you know. And the magistrate for Brighton is a good friend. Hell, Prinny is a friend, too, and he’ll understand, after the trouble he had with his own daughter.”

  “I daresay we can come up with some story to save her reputation, then. Find some relation to swear she was chaperoning them or some such.”

  The duke nodded. “Aye, and it might not be such a misalliance at that, if the fellow really does turn out to be Winslowe’s heir.”

  “He’ll be a duke.” Hyatt agreed, “and you couldn’t arrange a higher match for Belinda without finding a foreign prince. Further, Winslowe was known to be sitting on a fortune, so you won’t be supporting some down-at-heels dancing teacher forever.”

  “A music instructor,” the duke corrected. “But don’t forget we have to find Joshua Collins before the inheritance is forfeited to some worthy cause. I’ll send men tonight, but when can we leave for Brighton, do you suppose?”

  After discussing the logistics of transporting the Treadwell ladies et cetera, et cat, as they entered the men’s club, Hyatt waited until they were seated with a bottle of cognac between them before saying, “You sound convinced that Collins is our man and that Belinda is with him. This mightn’t be some mutton-headed notion of Miss Treadwell’s, might it, founded on nothing more substantial than the ravings of a toasted terrier? I mean, we have no hard proof that Belinda is even in Brighton, much less with a suddenly eligible parti. For all we know, the blasted musician might be an ogre who’s snatched Lady Belinda away against her will.”

  The duke swirled cognac in his glass. “No one kidnapped her.”

  Hyatt raised one dark eyebrow at his friend’s confidence. “Oh?”

  “I hadn’t wanted to mention it before, but I checked the modistes’ bills as Miss Treadwell suggested. Devilishly clever female, that. I don’t know why you’d call her mutton-headed.”

  Ignoring the question of Miss Treadwell’s thought processes, Hyatt asked, “What did you find among the dressmakers’ accounts then? An elopement ensemble? I did not know they labeled them as such.”

  “Negligees.” It was a simple word. It said a lot.

  “Not nightgowns?”

  The duke shook his silvered head. “I am sorry, lad.”

  Sorry? Was the canary sorry when the cage door was opened? Socrates was happier than he’d been for weeks.

  *

  So was Belinda. “I did it; Josh! I did it!”

  Joshua tried to raise himself with his one good arm, but fell back onto the straw pallet. Belinda hurried to place a pillow behind his neck and hold a glass of barley water to his lips.

  “What did you do, sweetheart?”

  “I rode with Asa into Brighton while you were asleep.”

  Joshua wrinkled his nose. “I thought you smelled fishier than usual.” The sale of her wedding ring had permitted Belinda to move Joshua and their meager belongings to a room in a fisherman’s cottage. The conditions were not much improved over the hedge tavern, but now they did not have to fear being murdered in their beds for the price of the clothes on their backs. Nor did Belinda have to worry any longer about evil looks from the men in the taproom. In addition, Asa’s food was plentiful and nourishing, even if fish stew grew monotonous after the third meal. Exhausted by the move in Asa’s fish cart, Joshua had slept for hours.

  Belinda brushed the hair back from his pale forehead. “Bother the smell! Just listen, my love. I sold one of your songs to the director of the musicales at the Castle Inn! He looked at it and immediately insisted I go to a publisher, who is going to print copies tomorrow! He paid me, too! And the maestro liked the piece so much, he has commissioned another to play for the Prince Regent’s arrival next month.” She emptied a pouch of coins onto the mattress beside him. “We can start buying our own groceries and looking for better quarters when you feel stronger. I can even reclaim my wedding ring!”

  Joshua turned to face the wall. “No, Bel, don’t.”

  “But I miss it, Josh, although I hardly had time to get used to wearing it.”

  “No, I want you to take the money—take all of it—and go home.”

  “Home, Josh? My home is wherever you are, silly. I wouldn’t leave you before, when that castaway quack declared
you past praying for. I certainly won’t leave you now that you are so improved.”

  He took her hand in his good arm and brought it to his dry lips. “Sweetheart, listen. I won’t be able to play the violin, you know that. Not now, not soon, maybe not forever. I’ll never be able to support you on what I can earn teaching rich merchants’ brats their scales and set pieces. And selling my compositions is as chancy as the weather. You deserve so much better.”

  “Dearest, if I deserve your love, that is all I can hope for.”

  He ignored her words of devotion. “Look at how we are living now, Bel.” He made her see the crude mattress on the floor, the faded, threadbare blanket, and the bare, stained walls and curtainless windows of Asa’s back room. Their one remaining satchel was the room’s only other furnishing. “I can never forgive myself for bringing you so low. A duke’s daughter, living in a reeking hovel. And that’s how it might be, forever.”

  Belinda was angry. “None of this is your fault! If we hadn’t been set upon by those highwaymen, we would have had enough for a little cottage, just as we planned. You’ve scrimped and saved for two years, driving a hackney by day and playing at night, just so we could do this.”

  “No, I drove the coach so we could meet sometimes in London, and so we had a carriage to drive to Scotland, even though I knew it was wrong.”

  “And I lied to my father for two years about needing more and more pin money, even though I knew that was wrong, too. I betrayed my father’s trust so we would have a nest egg until you became an established composer and a recognized musician. With all our savings and my jewels, we would have done fine on what you can earn giving music lessons, you know we would have! And we will—we just need time!”

  “No, I cannot watch you trying to iron your own gown or bake bread. That’s not the life you were meant to live.”

  “I’ll learn, dash it, Josh. I will. And Asa didn’t mind about the fire. He swore he never liked that old rug anyway.”

  Joshua shook his head. “You’ll learn, and you’ll learn to hate me.”

  “Never, my love.”

  He stroked her hair. “Go home to your father, Bel. You know he loves you enough to forgive you anything, even this.”

  “I could never leave you, silly. When are you going to realize that I’d have no life without you? What, do you think I could just resume my Season, dance at all the balls, then marry my father’s choice at the end? Even if I would think of doing such a thing, that would be the most dishonorable act of all, for Hyatt has every right to expect his wife’s innocence, even if he cannot have her affection. But we are married, Josh, you and I, forever! There is no going back, even if we wished. The ceremony was legal, you said so yourself, not just a handfast ritual that could be overturned. We made sure we had a real minister, not the blacksmith, so we are married in the eyes of God, too. I have our wedding lines, here”—she touched her chest—“right next to my heart. I could be carrying your child”—she touched her stomach—“here.”

  “Deuce take it, Bel, you cannot be breeding! Not when we cannot afford to feed ourselves.”

  “Of course we can. Asa says he’ll teach me to find clams along the shore. You’ll write a brilliant piece for the Prince, and he’ll offer you a position at the Pavilion—composer to the future king!”

  “But I am so weak, dearest, I don’t know if I can write something suitable in time. And without an instrument to play it on…”

  “The Castle Inn’s conductor says you can practice there when you are ready. And I’ll help!”

  He laughed, for the first time in weeks, it seemed. “Ah, sweetheart, you know you can hardly carry a tune. You’ll learn to bake pastries sooner.”

  “But I can transcribe the music for you. All those expensive music lessons my father paid for must be worth something.” He laughed again, and Belinda almost wept at the sound of it. “You are an excellent teacher, my love.”

  He kissed her hand again. “I am, indeed. And you are an eager pupil.”

  Neither one was speaking of music now. Blushing, Belinda lay down next to him, so he could enfold her in his good arm. “And I am not done learning, my love.”

  He wasn’t quite strong enough for another lesson, not yet. Kissing the top of her head, Joshua asked, “Are you sure you won’t go, then?”

  “Never. But I have to let Papa know where I am so he won’t worry. That’s the only thing interfering with my happiness, now that you are recovering. He cannot have our marriage annulled, not after so long, and perhaps his influence can get that lazy sheriff to look for the villains who stole our money. If we were wealthy enough to offer a reward, he’d have found them by now, you can be sure.”

  Joshua frowned. “I never wanted to be beholden to your father, sweetheart. I would not have married you if I could not support you myself. Dash it, you’d have been better off with Hyatt.”

  “Better, but not happier. I’d never have heard the songs in my heart.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Marco Polo might have had a smaller caravan, Socrates thought, but not by much. At least they had no camels, only one cat that needed frequent rest stops on the journey to Brighton. Shimpton and his pet were riding in his own landau, thank goodness, and the viscount’s driver had been threatened with dismissal or dismemberment if he let the lumpkin take the reins. Lady Crowley rode with Shimpton because the duke’s carriage was crowded with Lady Tremont, her daughter, and her aunt, who insisted on carrying her jewel box, her wig box, and her cosmetics box along with her. Three baggage carts followed, and two more coaches with the ladies’ dressers and the gentlemen’s gentlemen. Hyatt drove his own curricle, repaired in record time at great additional expense, thankful not to be immured with the impossible females. Mondale rode with him for the first leg of the journey. When they stopped to change the horses and refresh themselves, however, Lady Tremont suggested that His Grace and Maylene switch places after luncheon.

  “For dear Maylene is looking peaked. Don’t you think so, my lord?”

  Hyatt thought she looked as delectable as a ripe peach, in her burnt orange traveling gown with its jonquil spenser. Her cheeks were flushed, although he could not tell if that was due to discomfort or her mother’s maneuvering.

  “My lamb has always been subject to carriage sickness, you know.”

  “Mother!”

  But Mondale said he wished to speak with Lady Tremont about her psychical experiments, so the shift in seats was made.

  Hyatt concentrated on his horses; Maylene concentrated on the scenery. They both concentrated on keeping their bodies from touching on the narrow seat. Neither noticed the solitary rider on a scrawny horse who followed behind their last baggage carrier.

  When they drove through Brighton, the earl politely pointed out the various attractions, like the Marine Parade and Royal Crescent. He did not need to identify the Prince’s Chinese Pavilion, for no other building could be so fantastical, not in England. Maylene made due note of the fresh sea scent, the chalk cliffs, and the bathing machines on the strand.

  Socrates made note of how the moisture in the air was making her short ringlets curl even tighter under her brown bonnet

  A string of small fishing villages came next, and Socrates explained about the nets and the drying racks they saw. Maylene explained her quickened pulse to herself by the chill in the salt air.

  “High Oaks,” the earl announced at last, as they drove up a long oak-lined carriage path.

  The house was immense, Maylene could see when they were still ten minutes away, of brick and stone, solid and imposing, just like its owner. She made the requisite compliments to its Palladian columns and manicured grounds, and she asked the appropriate questions about the ages of the various wings. Then the carriage drive swung around to the other side of the house, the side facing the sea. Maylene was speechless; Hyatt was smiling at her reaction.

  “It catches everyone that way the first time,” was all he said.

  From the front, the hous
e looked all windows, each reflecting the diamond-dusted sparkle of the blue waters. Nearly every window had a balcony or a terrace or a covered porch, all different, all filled with planters of trailing vines and flowers. In the front of the house, just past the roadway, wild, untamed growth fell away to an endless vista across the water, with nothing but sea birds overhead.

  “It’s…it’s magnificent,” Maylene breathed. Just like its owner.

  “I was hoping you’d like it,” Socrates said, although he had not dared name his vague anxiety. The one time she and her family had visited, Belinda had been more concerned that the bright sunshine would bring out her freckles than with the appearance of the house. The duke’s daughter was young, he’d told himself. She would come to appreciate the place as much as he did in time. Maylene already did.

  He wanted to show her the beach, the stream that ran down to the water, and the gazebo he’d built on the cliff face, out of sight of the house, for picnics and such. He wanted to take her for a ride on the sand, for a sail in his boat, for a swim in the little cove. So what if the water would be frigid still? He could not picture the intrepid Miss Treadwell insisting on using the closed bathing machines back in Brighton. There were favorites places within the house, too, that he wanted to show her, to share with her—as a conscientious host, of course, until they found Belinda.

  Maylene wanted to stare and exclaim and explore. The Prince’s Pavilion in Brighton might be the most unique edifice in England, but this was the most wondrous. High Oaks was no fairy-tale palace, no romantic Gothic castle. It was a house, a marvelous, glowing house where children could grow and play and laugh. Little black-haired children, she let herself dream for a minute, with curly hair. But she was a mere guest here, uninvited and unwanted, she knew. So she would not dream of tiny replicas of Socrates Hughes, Lord Hyatt—not until they found Belinda.