by May Burnett
“Well?” Patch was looking at her challengingly. “You know how I detest lying in all its forms. That red hair is a lie, can you deny it?”
“A wig, not a lie, and an expensive wig at that,” Cherry corrected. “It has already helped me escape from my London. When a superior force is ranged against you, there is nothing wrong with a stratagem or ruse of war.”
“Whatever happened in London – and your tales make me glad I never was allowed to visit – here in our peaceful Bellington there cannot be the slightest reason to don such a tasteless thing.” Patch stepped closer and peered at the red tresses. “It looks like real hair.”
“It is. Doubtlessly from some poor Irishwoman, who was glad to earn a few pounds when it was cut off her head.”
“How gross, to wear another person’s hair on top of your own.”
“Not that long ago, powdered wigs were all the rage for both men and women. But let’s not quarrel about such an insignificant matter, Patch. Thanks for bringing me this basket – does it hold food?”
“Of course. And I am to tell you from Prune and Matt that they are gone to Norwich today with your jewels; ostensibly because Prune has the toothache and urgently needs a dentist. It never ceases to sadden me how everyone in the family constantly engages in untruths and prevarication.”
“Without Sir Charles, almost none of these lies would be necessary.”
“There is something in that,” Patch conceded. “A sad reflection on how badly life is regulated.”
“So it is,” Cherry agreed, relieved to hear her sister’s tone become more conciliatory. “There are dangerous men staying at the inn, working for Buckley in London, I fear. Since you cannot tell a lie, please stay away from them, and don’t tell them anything about my presence here. They are the reason why I am wearing this disguise.”
Patch raised her brows haughtily. “I am not likely to talk to strangers about you, and if anyone asks, will simply refuse to answer. You know how much practice I have at that.”
Cherry nodded. Throughout their early years, Patch had received many a beating for her endless stubbornness. Had she been born in early Roman times, she would have been a prime candidate for martyrdom.
“I still don’t understand why you are so afraid of this man Buckley. I daresay there are many blackguards in London, but we are far away from his haunts. How did you get involved with him in the first place?”
A good question. It had been Max, of course, who introduced them – Max, who had known perfectly well that Buckley was as unscrupulous as he was rich. Max had flaunted his wife in front of Buckley, but he had bitterly regretted it before too long. Buckley had offered a loan or two when Max had lost a shipment, and from there it had all gone downhill. Till that horrible day when Buckley offered to forgive the loan if Cherry would be his mistress. Instead of knocking him down for even suggesting it, Max had tried to persuade her. That was when her marriage had ended, long before the bullet crushed Max’s brains. Cherry could not possibly confide this sordid story to her virtuous sister. The details would die with her.
“It was Max who foolishly introduced him to me, not realising what kind of man Buckley was. He became obsessed with me, and after Max’s death, tried to exploit my difficult position.” How short and bloodless a description for months of subtle and overt pressure and increasing desperation. At least she had salvaged her self-respect and her jewels, as difficult as it had been.
“Did this man have anything to do with your husband’s death?”
“He had loaned him money, but the problems began with an underinsured shipment that sank. Buckley took advantage of Max’s temporary embarrassment.”
Her voice must have betrayed some of her pain and anger, for Patch briefly touched her cool hand to Cherry’s. “It does not seem fair that you should be disgraced and impoverished, because of your husband’s foolish actions. I would not have expected it of him, though of course I did not know Max well.”
“Nobody expected it of him, least of all I.”
“Are you sure that the fellow is a criminal? Then why is he not in prison or hanged?”
“Very sure, and he’s not an ordinary kind of thief, those get caught and hanged quickly enough. Buckley gets others to do his dirty deeds, a type that flourishes in big cities with plentiful corruption. The countryside does not offer sufficient scope to such men. They are very ambitious, completely without remorse, and count human lives cheap. Typically they have dozens of people under their direct control, including some of those supposed to catch them.”
“That makes me glad my life is here, far away from London. Of course we also have our problems and sorrows, but nothing like this human scourge you describe. It will do you good to stay away from London yourself, after this.”
“No doubt.” Cherry was already homesick for the capital, but Patch would never understand that. “What sorrows were you speaking of just now? You are always controlled and reserved, and look so cool, that I find it difficult to associate the word with you. Or were you referring to Prune and her family?”
“None of us is completely happy,” Patch said, “but you know it has never been my habit to talk about useless feelings or longings. When I wanted to play the piano as a child, and was not allowed to do so, that was a sorrow; but it is long past. Since then there may have been other unrealistic wishes, but God gives me the strength to carry on regardless.”
Cherry shot her a sharp look. Even this admission from Patch was very unusual. She never betrayed any weakness if she could help it.
“What about Prune? She claims everything is right in her life, and I gather she gets on well with Matt, but it cannot be easy to be Sir Charles’ daughter-in-law. Not for all the tea in China would I have accepted that position.”
“She suffered greatly when Sir Charles sent her boys to school last autumn over her objections, surely she wrote to you about it. And as you say, the old man’s tyranny is a hard yoke to bear. You yourself escaped almost at the first opportunity, and as Sir Charles still spent his days at the munitions works then, it was not as bad as it has become since. I am not so sure that Prune and Matt are happy together. Seeing your husband browbeaten and insulted day after day must undermine any wife’s respect for him. And he sees Prune bullied by his father, and is unable to stand up for her without stammering helplessly. I could not live with a man under such circumstances.”
“No, indeed.” Cherry frowned, thinking over Patch’s words. “That is worse than I guessed from Prune’s letters. She always sounds resolute and cheerful. I invited Prune and Matt to London several times in better days. If they had come, Matt could have looked for a position there; that would have allowed them to strike out on their own. I could not understand why they never did so.”
“How easily would Matt find a position to support his family, with that stutter? Besides, Sir Charles has sworn to disinherit Matt and the children, if they leave Bellington without his approval – which he’ll never give. Would you throw away a big estate and fortune, for the uncertainty of a position you could lose at any moment?”
“It might have been the wiser course, even so,” Cherry maintained. She mentally drafted another maxim for her book: Do not regulate your whole life in the expectation of an inheritance that may come too late to do much good. Or not come at all; Sir Charles could be capricious. It would be just like him to disinherit his heirs after all their sacrifices.
She unpacked the basket Patch had brought, and found poppy seed cake, small sausages, hazelnut biscuits, four apples, dried figs, and two mince pies. There also was a bottle of wine.
Cherry was touched. “You carried this heavy weight all this way – thank you, Patch. I hope the day may come when I can repay you and Prune for all you are doing.” She put the hymnal Patch had brought the last time into the basket and covered it with a cotton cloth.
“Charity is your name; surely it is not a surprise to receive it now and then.”
Cherry frowned. “You know I have always hated t
hat name. On the other hand, Patience suits you well enough.”
“Not always. Year after year passes and nothing happens in my life. Even my patience only goes so far.”
“I am sorry,” Cherry said, “but at least no tragedy has happened to you in recent years. There are worse fates - think of our poor parents. They were close to our current age, when they perished so suddenly.”
“Oh, I often do. I still miss them.”
Cherry was not sure that she did. It had been twenty-two years since their death, and life had moved on. “If we had children, either of us, we might have died in childbed by now.”
“It is a risk I would be quite willing to take under the right circumstances,” Patch replied.
Of course she would; nothing ever daunted Patch.
“Maybe it will still happen – not the death in childbed, I mean, but having a baby. At least you are probably fertile, and could have them, unlike me.” Cherry could not remember such a candid conversation with Patch since before her marriage, and felt a little awkward.
Patch smiled. She had always had a luminous smile, rarely seen, but changing her whole countenance. It turned her from a handsome woman into a beautiful one. “Your word in God’s ear, Cherry. And who knows, we might both be mothers yet.”
All she could give in reply was her own, much more wobbly smile. Her sister’s faith, even against the greatest odds, was the one thing she had always envied her.
Chapter 10
Back at the inn, Jonathan had drafted a simple contract. Selbington would consult his solicitor and his sisters, and schedule a meeting for all five principals to sign within the next two days.
“If you change your mind, or any of your sisters does not want to sell, that is still possible until the signatures are witnessed.”
Selbington frowned. “Do you mean, you might still change your mind?”
“No, of course not! I am an experienced businessman. When I make an offer, it stands. But you are only one of four owners. Though I’m not an expert, I believe those pictures may be more valuable than you think. If that gives your sisters pause, then I will not hold it against you.”
“Dusty old canvases are no good to my family.” Selbington folded the draft contract and put it into his pocket. “Do you want the keys now?”
“Selbington, when you sell something valuable, you do not yield possession until the payment has been received. How do you even know that I have the wherewithal to pay for your estate?”
“I am a fairly good judge of character,” Selbington said mildly. “But you have not yet seen the whole grounds, the dower house, the saw mill and the hog farm. Here, at least take the key to the outer gate, and view them at your leisure. The head gardener, Swinton, and his family are the only people staying inside for the present; they have a small house behind the stables. The boy who held the gig was young Josh Swinton, so they will know you are there as their prospective master.”
“Thank you. That makes sense.” Jonathan took the heavy key, which Selbington detached with some difficulty from a ring holding more than a dozen others of various sizes. Once he took possession, he’d call a blacksmith to change the lot.
“I will send over the books of the saw mill and hog farm, so you can study them when you find time.”
“Those footsteps in the dust indicated that someone has been indoors without your knowledge,” Jonathan reminded the young man. “If you have some reliable man you could station to guard the house until the sale is completed, I would willingly pay for the cost.” It would be too vexatious if some local thief made off with that Van Dyck in the few days till he got his own hands on it.
“We can pay for a guard ourselves – it should only be for a few days, after all.”
“Very well, then. I look forward to dinner with your family, and to making the acquaintance of your co-owners.”
Selbington left with a spring in his step, clearly elated at having sold the estate so quickly, and for more than the asking price. Jonathan wondered who had advised him. Even without the art and books, he felt confident that he could resell for twenty-five thousand, though it might take a while to find a buyer so far from town.
But he already knew he would not sell his new estate. Though he was not planning to accumulate land like Lord Pell or Lord Amberley, owning several estates as well as the London town house would only add to his consequence. Lobbock Manor would do very well for one of his younger children when the time came. It was of similar size as his friend James Ellsworthy’s Sussex estate.
How many hogs would he own before the week was out?
And why did he feel so energetic, all of a sudden, without the slightest desire to leave this tiny town – or large village, - until he had explored its possibilities, in every sense? He should be searching for his sister instead of day-dreaming about a red-headed woman. Sophia was a pretty name and suited her perfectly… except that the name meant “wisdom”, and that was the last thing such a woman inspired in a man.
He should be concentrating on business. Now that he was buying the estate, he had to decide how best to manage it from faraway London. Choosing a competent local manager without knowing a soul beyond Paul Selbington might not be easy. The pictures’ transport also was no trivial matter, they would have to be expertly packed and protected against the weather, as well as theft. He might send some of the books along, though it seemed a pity to break up that library.
And he still had not seen the hog farm, the saw mill, and that dower house.
***
Once Patch had left, Cherry ate one of the mince pies, and presently went outdoors into the back garden of the old house. Originally a combination of small orchard and flower garden, judging by some of the surviving vegetation, it was overgrown and uneven under her feet. The most abundant plants were hip-high stinging nettles that she did her best to circumnavigate.
It had occurred to Cherry that many people in the country left keys conveniently hidden close by the lock. With a stick, she carefully explored the immediate surroundings of the door in the back wall. As she had hoped, after several minutes’ search she found a key in a small hollowed-out space behind a loose brick of the wall.
It was almost impossible to turn it in the rusty old lock, and she had to use so much force that she feared the iron key would break. Had she had any oil in the house, she would have fetched and applied it, but the old-fashioned pantry stood empty. The key left its imprint deep in her hand, when she finally succeeded.
Cherry pulled the creaky door towards her, expending considerable force once again, as the grass and weeds underneath were rubbing against the door’s bottom. It stuck before it had fully opened, but she was slim enough to squeeze through the gap.
The grounds before her had also been neglected, though not as long and badly as her temporary home. She could see the ivy-covered walls of Lobbock Manor in the distance, through loosely planted oaks and beeches.
At least she now could walk outdoors without fear of detection. She should have found the key and opened this convenient gate days ago. Then she would not have had to walk around Bellington in her widow’s weeds, and risk attracting the attention of Buckley’s minions.
Walking parallel to the wall, she came across a patch of wild strawberries, and bent over to pick a few. How sweet they tasted, here in the spring sunshine! There also were bushes of blackberries and raspberries against the wall, but at this early season only two raspberries were more or less ripe. She relished the mixture of sweet and tart on her tongue. Within days, more fruit would ripen, and she could come here undetected whenever she liked. The estate was empty and waiting for a buyer. It might have to wait for years.
Why had Durwent – if that was the man’s real name – claimed he was here to purchase it? Probably a mere pretext for what he really intended. Cherry had a fine ear for truth and lies, and his claim that he had come to buy the estate had not rung true.
If he was here as Buckley’s confederate, he clearly had not recognized h
er, or he would not have been asking about the Trellisham sisters, or the Spaldings. It seemed strange that Buckley, or his man, would be interested in anyone beside herself. What would they do if they identified and caught her? Buckley was not the kind of man who tolerated defiance, especially from a woman he considered to be in his power through her late husband’s debts. If she fell into his hands, Buckley’s revenge would be terrible. Yet how would they get her to London, against her will? What would happen when she arrived there?
Cherry shivered, despite the sunshine.
Chapter 11
She was bending yet again, to pick a tiny red strawberry, when a voice startled her.
“Mrs. Jones?”
Cherry straightened and stared in consternation at Mr. Durwent watching her from between two oak trees. How had she not heard him coming? This was her worst nightmare, to be cornered by one of Buckley’s men in an isolated place with no chance of outside help.
But since he might not recognize her, she must not show her fear.
“What are you doing here? You are trespassing.” Her voice was stern. “This estate belongs to Sir Jasper’s heirs.”
“I told you that I was interested in buying it,” Durwent replied, slowly approaching, and looking at her with a slight frown. “I am here with the owners’ full permission.” He produced a heavy key from his pocket and held it up for proof. “Are you not yourself trespassing, Ma’am?”
Cherry huffed out her breath in annoyance. Trespassing? Well, yes, if you wanted to be technical about it. “I am also here with the owners’ permission. I have known the Selbingtons since my childhood.”