He smiled and went on,
“Sixteen hands in height, sound in wind and limb and altogether an animal that would fetch a competitive price in any sale. Who will start me off at sixty guineas?”
There was silence.
“Well, make a suggestion, gentlemen.”
“Thirty,” someone called out almost grudgingly.
“Ridiculous!” the auctioneer exclaimed. “Very well then, thirty guineas – forty – fifty – sixty. Against you, sir. Seventy – seventy guineas I am bid. What advance on seventy? It’s cheap at the price, gentlemen, you would pay far more at the local horse fair. That I can assure you.”
He paused and looked round.
“Seventy guineas, a magnificent animal in the prime of life, quiet, easy to handle, a lady’s mount and yet well capable of carrying a gentleman all day in the hunting field without showing exhaustion. Seventy guineas, any advance on seventy?”
“Seventy-five,” a voice called.
Syringa looked quickly to see a farmer she most disliked, a man she always suspected of being as hard on his horse as he was on his employees.
‘Oh no! Please God, not him,’ she prayed. ‘Please God!’
“Seventy-five guineas,” the auctioneer said. “Any other bid? No advance on seventy-five? Very well – going – ”
‘I cannot bear it,’ Syringa thought. ‘I cannot bear Mercury to go to that man.’
“A hundred guineas,” a voice came from the back of the room.
With a sudden gasp every head in the room turned to look at the last speaker.
“Thank you, sir,” the auctioneer said. “Thank you very much. A hundred guineas! Any other bids? Very well then, going – going – gone!”
Syringa craned her neck.
It was the same quiet voice that had spoken before. She could not see the man. He was lost in the crowd and she felt too embarrassed to stand up.
‘I must talk to him,’ she determined, ‘I must tell him about Mercury – I must ask him to be kind to him.’
And then her attention was recalled to what was happening in front of her.
“That concludes the sale, gentlemen,” the auctioneer said.
“How much? How much has it made?”
A voice came from the hall and then was taken up by several others.
“Yes, tell us!”
“Let’s know the full amount!”
“What’s the tally?”
There was something hostile in the questions and the auctioneer bent his head to consult with his clerk.
“This is rather irregular, gentlemen,” he said. “I have not yet disclosed the proceeds of the sale to the previous owner.”
He looked towards Sir Hugh as he spoke.
“Then tell him,” someone suggested. “He can’t be too drunk or too deaf to hear that!”
Syringa looked apprehensively at her father.
As if he realised what was taking place, Sir Hugh rose unsteadily to his feet.
“Very well,” he said in an aggressive tone. “Let’s have the accounting here and now, if that is what pleases you.”
He turned to the auctioneer.
“How much has this rabble paid for my prize possessions?”
They jeered and laughed at this and the auctioneer, again consulting with his clerk, said,
“I make it a little under ten thousand pounds, Sir Hugh.”
“Ten thousand,” Sir Hugh repeated reflectively.
There was silence and then the auctioneer, in a voice that he meant to be low, but which somehow was perfectly audible in the hall, said,
“You will remember, Sir Hugh, that amount is owed to Sir Percy Grayson and Lord Cloverdale.”
“I am well aware of that, my man,” Sir Hugh said. “See that they receive the money due to them.”
As he finished speaking, there was a sudden yell of fury.
It was almost like the sound of wild animals baying and the men who had sat quietly through the auction came surging up to the stand like a great wave of the sea, knocking over the chairs as they did so.
“’Tis our money,” one man shouted. “We’re entitled to it. It’s ours. You pay up and pay us first. That’s what we’ve come for.”
There were shouts from the others and Syringa saw that they were all pulling bills from their pockets, long curling pieces of parchment with Sir Hugh’s debts to them written in neat script.
“Pay! Pay! Pay!”
One of the men started to chant the words and now they all took it up.
“Pay! Pay! Pay us, pay us!”
For a moment Sir Hugh stood bewildered and then with an effort he straightened his shoulders and put up his chin.
“I regret, gentlemen,” he said, “that my pockets are to let. You cannot have what I do not possess.”
“Then ’tis prison for you, me fine gentleman!” one man screamed.
“That’s right, put him in the debtors’ prison. That is where he belongs,” another cried.
It seemed to Syringa that they were like dogs snapping and snarling at her father.
Because she was afraid for him she went to his side and put her hands on his arm.
“Come away, Papa. There is nothing you can do.”
“Pay! Pay!” the men were chanting. “Prison! Take him to prison! Get the bailiffs!”
Syringa’s hand tightened on her father’s arm.
There was something bestial and unrestrained in the cries and yells from the men she was facing.
Then suddenly Sir Hugh put his arm round her shoulder.
“Here is my last possession, gentlemen,” he said. “You have had everything else from me, what do you bid for my daughter?”
Syringa glanced up at her father in consternation.
He was very drunk she realised, drunker than she had thought when he had risen from the chair. She knew him so well that she realised he had reached a wild state when he would say or do anything.
A state when he would defy the fates, when he felt himself immune from the consequences of his own action.
“Papa! Please, Papa!” she begged.
Sir Hugh did not hear her. He was facing his accusers with a smile on his lips and defiance in his eyes.
“Shy?” he sneered. “Come on, speak up!”
The men were hushed into silence.
“Are you too chicken-hearted to take my last possession from me? You have taken everything else. Go on, have the lot! She must be worth something on the open market. Young, untouched, a good wife for an honest man. Bid for her, you swine!”
There was silence.
Then from the back of the hall where a crowd of the villagers and farmers still stood staring in bewilderment at the noise and turmoil around the hall, a quiet voice said,
“Ten thousand pounds.”
There was a gasp, an audible sound that seemed to echo and repeat itself.
Almost automatically the auctioneer resumed his rightful place.
“Did you say ten thousand pounds, sir?” he asked. “Ten thousand pounds, I am bid. Any advance on ten thousand?”
There was only silence and then the hammer came down.
“Going – going – gone!”
Syringa gave a little cry.
“Papa, you cannot mean it!”
Her father took his arm from her and pushed her to one side, forcing his way through the crowd of creditors staring at him open-mouthed.
Then walking unsteadily across the hall, he went into the study and slammed the door behind him.
Syringa made as if to follow him, but she could not do so because the crowd of men besieging the auctioneer almost swept her off her feet.
“Pay us! Pay us!” they were crying.
The auctioneer’s voice was shrill but still authoritative above the uproar.
“You will all be paid, gentlemen, all of you, if you will wait your turn.”
His words calmed the mob and at last Syringa could move.
Then, even as she pushed her way towards
the hall, there was an explosion, the loud echoing report of a pistol shot, and she knew what had happened!
Chapter Four
Nanny put an egg down on the table in front of Syringa, who looked up with a question in her eyes.
“Where did this come from?”
“Mrs. Geary let me have half a dozen,” Nanny answered.
“You mean she gave you credit!” Syringa cried. “Oh, Nana, you know we cannot do that.”
Her old Nanny put her hands on her hips.
“Now listen to me, Miss Syringa. If you think I’m a-goin’ to stand here and watch you starve yourself to death, you’re mistaken! We’ve lived on potatoes and bits of vegetables for the last two weeks and I for one’ll put up with no more of it.”
She paused and, as Syringa did not answer, she went on,
“Not even a leaf of tea. I never thought the time would come when I couldn’t have a cup of tea and that’s a fact!”
“Oh, I know, Nana,” Syringa said miserably. “It’s worse for you than it is for me. But we cannot run up debts, you must see that.”
“And who is goin’ to notice a few shillings?” Nanny asked fiercely. “Not his Lordship, who’s too high and mighty to call on us or to leave the gay lights in London for the boredom of the countryside.”
“Why should he bother about us?” Syringa asked. “It must have been a mistake his agent bidding for me like that.”
Her voice was low almost as if she spoke to herself and then, looking at the brown egg in front of her, she automatically picked up her apron.
“That’s right, eat it while it’s hot,” Nanny said. “You know as well as I do that you’re real hungry even if your pride’ll not let you admit it.”
“Of course I am hungry,” Syringa answered, as she broke off the top of the egg and took a spoonful. “But we have no right to pledge his Lordship’s credit.”
She took another spoonful and then asked quickly,
“You have had an egg yourself, Nana?”
“I have and I’m not ashamed of it!” Nanny answered. “I am getting’ on for sixty and I’ve never had to work without food in my life, and I’m not goin’ to start now.”
She watched Syringa eating the egg with satisfaction and then said,
“Mrs. Geary is still willin’ to buy the mirror. She’ll pay up to three pounds for it and three pounds’ll buy us a lot of food.”
“It’s not ours to sell,” Syringa answered. “You know that.”
“Do you imagine his Lordship would miss one carved mirror when he owns King’s Keep?”
“He paid for it and it’s his,” Syringa answered. “Whether he knows about it or not, I cannot be dishonest.”
Nanny snorted and Syringa went on,
“We are of no consequence to someone of such importance, but at the same time I wish to keep my self-respect. And I will not, Nana, I will not run into debt.”
Nanny knew that she was thinking of her father and her face softened.
“I don’t want to do anythin’ to upset you, dearie,” she said, “but you knows we can’t go on as we are. Let me send a message to King’s Keep to find out when the Earl is returnin’.”
Her eyes were worried.
“I can’t watch you a-wastin’ away in front of my very eyes.”
Syringa did not answer and after a moment Nanny continued,
“Supposin’ he never comes to see us? I’ve been findin’ out about the Earl of Rothingham this last week or so. There are many tales about him and none to his advantage.”
“What sort of tales?” Syringa asked slowly.
She spoke almost reluctantly as if the words were forced between her lips.
She had finished the egg and she rose from the table as she spoke.
There was nothing else to eat, no bread, no butter, and her only drink for the last few days had been a little honey and warm water. Now the honey had come to an end.
“Of course,” Nanny began, “few have seen his Lordship because he didn’t come into the house until the Colonel died. They say he’s not like his father, that’s a blessin’ at any rate!”
“Was the last Earl very bad?” Syringa enquired.
“You’ve heard your father speak of him,” Nanny replied. “He couldn’t come home after the Colonel took over. A gamester, that’s what he was. He gambled away everythin’! Everythin’ he could lay his hands on!”
“How terrible for his family,” Syringa murmured.
“He only had one child, the present Earl and he’s been abroad for years. Though I should be surprised if he’s not a chip off the old block, they all say he doesn’t gamble.”
“That at least must be a point in his favour,” Syringa answered and shivered as she thought of her father.
“’Tis not only gamin’ that brings about a man’s downfall,” Nanny snapped.
“What do you mean by that?” Syringa asked.
“There be other – things,” Nanny said evasively.
“What sort of things?” Syringa insisted. “What have you heard about the Earl of Rothingham that you have not heard before?”
“Well, Mrs. Geary was speakin’ about his Lordship this very mornin’. It appears that Joe has taken some groceries up to the house. Very honoured she was at being invited to supply King’s Keep. The Colonel never patronised shops in Whitley.”
“What did she tell you?” Syringa asked.
“Joe was hearin’ up at the house that the Earl is a hard man. It seems that, when he paid them a visit some weeks ago, his Lordship demanded a great many improvements to be made on the estate. From what I hears, he had Mr. Archer shakin’ in his shoes.”
“I expect things had become a little slack,” Syringa said. “After all the Colonel was eighty. And he was too ill to be troubled these past five years.”
She gave a little sigh.
“I miss him! He was always very kind to me and I do hope the new Earl will not alter King’s Keep. It’s so lovely as it is.”
Nanny did not answer her and after a moment Syringa went on,
“They said his Lordship is a hard man and you heard other tales about him?”
“I shouldn’t be a-gossipin’,” Nanny said almost crossly, “but they do talk about him as being a rake and oh, my dear, it’s worried about you I am! What’ll become of you in the clutches of a man like that?”
Syringa gave a little laugh.
“You are making his Lordship into a bogey man. What can he do to me?”
She did not see the expression on Nanny’s face and continued lightly,
“The worst he can do is ask for his money back and I cannot see how, even if I work for the rest of my life, I can ever make ten thousand pounds! It must have been a mistake, Nana, the agent bidding for me like that.”
“Well, if it was, it’s an expensive one!” Nanny said tartly and, picking up Syringa’s plate, she left the room.
Syringa went from the house to the stables.
‘I am not worried about myself,’ she thought, ‘so much as Nana and Mercury.’
He was the real worry. Mercury! It was not good for him to eat only new grass – he needed the oats and hay he had always had, but they had been finished for over a week.
Syringa had brushed out the granary, getting down on her hands and knees to find every tiny grain and now there was nothing left.
Mercury heard her coming and whinnied. She opened his stall and let him out. He nuzzled his nose against her and she patted his neck.
“You had better go for a run in the field,” she said, “and I will groom you.”
She knew really that she ought to exercise him, but she had felt so tired and weak these last days and, although more than anything else, she loved riding Mercury, it had been too much of an effort.
It seemed incredible that anyone living in what, compared with the villagers, was a large house with her family possessions around her, could be completely without money.
Syringa had thought that after the sale there wou
ld be a message of some sort from the new owner, but apart from the fact that she had learnt that the purchaser was the Earl of Rothingham, she had heard nothing.
She thought at first that the absence of any communication was in consideration of her father’s death.
But when the funeral was over, attended by none save a few villagers, she and Nanny had gone back to the house and waited and waited without hearing anything.
At first Syringa had been almost afraid to go out riding or to leave the house in case the Earl or his representative arrived.
Then, as the days went past, she began to think that they must be forgotten.
It would not have mattered, she thought, except that they had literally no money to buy food. The last of the chickens, which they kept to supply the house with eggs, had been killed before the sale to make a meal for her father.
Nanny had begged, borrowed and finally bought food and, despite everything Syringa said, she continued to do so.
There were a few vegetables in the garden, spring cabbages, some small marrows and a few very tiny new potatoes.
These fortunately had been planted earlier in the year when Sir Hugh had returned home for a short time with a little money and Syringa had persuaded him to expend a few shillings on planting vegetables in the garden and purchasing a few hens.
But now even the vegetables were finished and Syringa realised that for Nanny’s sake and for Mercury’s something had to be done.
She led Mercury into the paddock and leaned on the gate to watch him trotting around for a moment as if to exercise his legs and then stopping to crop the grass.
‘I must do something!’
She found herself repeating the words to herself as she walked back to the house. Even if she was prepared to hold tightly onto the only thing she had left – her pride, she could not let Nanny suffer. She was too old and it might even kill her!
As she entered the hall, Syringa came to a sudden decision.
‘I will change my clothes,’ she told herself, ‘I will put on my riding habit, ride to King’s Keep and ask them for news of the Earl. They must have some idea when he is visiting them again. Or perhaps I should see the agent. I think it must have been Mr. Archer who was doing the bidding at the auction.’
The Ruthless Rake Page 7