Melandra Patricia D’Arblaise
Aged 19 years
24.5.1795
‘I myself was travelling in the carriage with them, when it overturned,’ she went on, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘Both Milord le conte and the driver perished on the instant. La pauvre madame was also very badly injured. I myself was fortunate enough to escape with only a few cuts and bruises and so managed to make my way to Milady ’ighsmith’s ’ouse to summon assistance. Sadly, for la petite contesse, giving birth to ’er child took every bit of the little strength she ’ad left and she died moments after the babe was born!’
With a sad shake of his head, Maitland stared down at the long-neglected headstone.
‘Poor little Melly,’ he said, reaching into his pocket for his handkerchief and hurriedly blowing his nose, in an attempt to prevent the sudden bout of tears that threatened. ‘So beautiful and so very young.’
‘Yes, quite! Dreadful tragedy, I’m sure!’ interrupted Fenton, rudely pushing his cousin aside in order that he might get a closer look at the tablet’s wording. ‘So, the fellow’s name was D’Arblaise, after all, and seems he was a count too, by jove!’ He let out a low whistle. ‘Well, who would have thought it!’
Determinedly ignoring his cousin’s crass observations, Maitland was focussing his attention on the runaway tutor’s given names. ‘Étienne-Georges Cristophe,’ he murmured, a puzzled frown on his forehead. ‘But old Hornsey seemed pretty sure that the child was named for its—that is, her—father. Cristobel? Christine?’ He shot an enquiring look at their guide who, having risen to her feet, was studying the two young men with an expectant gleam in her eye.
‘No, by golly!’ let out Fenton, his voice rising in sudden excitement. ‘Don’t you see? It’s George! Georgianne! Georgianne Venables—or whatever she calls herself—it has to be!’
Georgianne? Maitland’s heart thudded to a standstill and, as a rapidly descending spiral of hopelessness threatened to overcome him entirely, he struggled to gather his wits together. Oh, God, no! Not Georgianne! he pleaded silently. Don’t let it be Georgianne, I beg you! Having done his utmost to hide his true feelings for her, how could he now approach her and beg her to be his wife? he asked himself, in weary resignation. Any declaration of love from him at this stage would, almost certainly, be construed as simply a wanton desire to get his hands on the considerable fortune of which she was shortly to find herself in possession! She was even more lost to him now than she had ever been!
Utterly crushed and unable to collect his thoughts, it was several minutes before he could do anything other than gaze at the indisputable inscription on the tablet in the grass below. But then, slowly as, one by one, his senses gradually began to recover from the mind-blowing shock they had just received, his eyes were drawn, once again, to his late cousin’s name. He heaved a deep sigh, it having suddenly come to him that she too had paid a heavy price for falling in love. Suddenly, he stiffened. Beloved wife, he read. Wife! But hadn’t Catford only just informed him that Georgianne had been born out of wedlock? He spun round to face Marthe Matthilde, renewed hope in his eyes.
‘It isn’t Miss Venables, is it?’
‘Mais non! Of course not, monsieur,’ she replied, in astonishment. ‘I should ’ave thought the answer to your puzzle was plain to see. Just as Milady D’Arblaise requested, the infant was named for ’er father!’ She paused momentarily and a slight frown sifted over her brow. ‘Regrettably, since Étienne is not, of course, a name in common use in this country, we were obliged to settle for the English version which—as I should have thought you would have known—is Steven!’
‘Steven?’ repeated Maitland dully, his faculties still not entirely back on form. ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow.’
The old woman gave an impatient shrug. ‘Steven— Stephen—why, Miss Stephanie, of course! Stephanie ’ighsmith! Milady took her for adoption soon after she was born and brought the child up as her own granddaughter!’
For a moment, totally dumfounded, Maitland could do nothing other than simply stare at her but then, as the implication of her words began to penetrate his brain, a slow smile spread over his face and, within minutes, he was laughing out loud!
‘Stephanie Highsmith!’ he chortled, shaking his head in wonder. ‘By all that’s holy! Did you hear that, Jerry?’ And, spinning round to catch Fenton’s reaction to this astonishing news, he was somewhat taken aback to discover that there was no sign of his cousin.
‘Now, where the devil has he got to?’ he muttered, half to himself.
‘I fear the other gentleman left some little while ago,’ Marthe Matthilde volunteered, pursing up her lips. ‘’e appeared to ’ave lost interest long before ’e found out the real truth of the matter and took ’imself off. I daresay you will find ’im waiting for you in ’is carriage.’
‘No doubt.’ Maitland smiled, offering her his arm to lean on, as they made their way back towards the park’s entrance. Now completely at ease with himself, he added, ‘It was very good of you to go to all this trouble to help us, ma’am—I really cannot thank you enough.’
She shook her head. ‘I believe that it was only right that you should know the truth,’ she replied. ‘This uncle who ’as died—he was the gentleman who came ’ere, non?’
At Maitland’s nod, she pursed her lips and went on, ‘I could not like ’im.’ e became most violent when I was obliged to inform ’im that his niece ’ad perished. When I asked him what he intended to do about the pauvre enfante ’e merely slammed a bag of money on to the table and stated that, as far as ’e was concerned, we could all go to the devil! Sacré bleu!’ e refused even to look at the child—which is presumably why you were unaware that she was female!’
‘But did you not tell him that Étienne and Melandra had married?’ questioned Maitland. ‘That surely would have made a difference to his attitude?’
‘The man was not interested to ’ear anything that I ’ad to say,’ replied Marthe Matthilde, with a typically Gallic shrug of her shoulders. ‘We ’ad parcelled up milady’s belongings and papers to give to ’im, but ’e simply tossed them aside and left!’
‘It is possible that he was overcome with grief,’ Maitland pointed out. ‘We all have different ways of expressing our sorrow.’
‘I am well aware of that, young man!’ retorted the nun, with some asperity. ‘’ad your uncle shown even the slightest interest, I would have been glad to tell ’im that I myself was present at ’is niece’s wedding and that la mère superieure of my Dublin convent ’ad bestowed upon me the ’onour of accompanying the young couple on their journey back to England!’
Maitland was curious. ‘Have you never wanted to return to your previous calling?’ he asked, in some surprise.
‘Sadly, the opportunity ’as never arisen.’ She sighed. ‘But, as you know, there are many ways in which one may serve the Lord and I do not consider that I ’ave acquitted myself too badly during these past twenty years or so.’
‘According to Miss Highsmith,’ laughed Maitland, ‘you have practically run the place single-handed!’
‘Possiblement!’ returned Marthe Matthilde, with a disaffected smile. ‘Nevertheless, this discovery you ’ave just made may well ’ave—’ ow you say?—put the cat among the pigeons. Miss ’ighsmith is not the sort of young lady to allow the grass to grow under ’er feet and I am very much afraid that once she gets ’er ’ands on this legacy that you speak of, there will be no ’olding her. She will be off before you can mention the proverbial Monsieur Robinson by name! I fear that it will break Milady’s heart!’
‘Perhaps we may be able to persuade Mr Hornsey, our solicitor, to find some way to restrict any tendency that Miss Highsmith may have to embark on a wild spending spree?’ suggested Maitland, offering her a sympathetic smile, as he waited for her to lock the gate. ‘My uncle may well have made certain—’
His words ended in an indignant intake of breath as, having glanced across the road to where his cousin’s carriage had
previously stood, he saw, to his growing consternation that, just as its owner, it was now nowhere to be seen! The confounded swine had taken off without him!
Couldn’t wait to share the good news with his supposed lady love, thought Maitland sourly, as he pondered on what his next move might be. Well, I wish the pair of them the joy of each other!
But then, as the joyful prospect of finally being able to declare his own feelings to Georgianne recaptured his attention, he resolved to put his cousin’s self- centred conduct out of his mind. Instead, he thanked Marthe Matthilde once again, bade her farewell and, with shoulders back and arms swinging smartly to and fro, he set out to walk to towards Gresham Hall, whose drive gates were something in the region of two miles up the road.
It was only after he had travelled a distance of some half-mile or so, that the odd remark that Marthe Matthilde had made about Fenton’s surprise departure suddenly came to him. The old woman had pointed out that his cousin had left the little graveyard before learning the real truth of the matter! As the reason for Fenton’s furtive behaviour became hideously clear to him, Maitland rocked to a standstill, his fists clenched in a wild fury. The cunning bastard had taken off under the mistaken impression that it was Georgianne who had inherited the bulk of Roger Billingham’s estate!
At this realisation, a fearful premonition leapt into Maitland’s brain and he began to run as though his very life depended upon it—although it was, in fact, the impending threat to Georgianne’s that added wings to his feet. He sped down the lane and hurled himself through the Hall’s gateway, ignoring the shouts from the indignant gate-keeper. His heart almost bursting, he leapt up the front steps and hammered on the large oaken door.
The instant the door started to open, he thrust himself through the gap, pushed past the astonished Moffat and tore up the stairs into the morning room, where, as he had supposed, the entire family—with one ominously notable exception—was assembled.
Gasping for breath, he sought out his friend. ‘Help me, Cat!’ he croaked, as his hands reached out for the back of the nearest sofa, in an attempt to stop himself collapsing on to the floor. ‘I think that Fenton may have abducted Georgianne!’
In an instant, the whole company was on its feet, a cacophony of voices raised in consternation, but it was Stephanie Highsmith’s voice that finally penetrated the noise as, marching over to where the thoroughly shattered Maitland was still clutching at the sofa for support, she screamed at him, ‘Nonsense! You are talking absolute drivel! Jeremy is eloping with me this very evening!’
At her words, a sudden hush fell over the room, but Stephanie, ignoring the raised eyebrows and pitying looks, gave a defiant sniff and exclaimed, ‘Well, so what? You were all bound to find out sooner or later. It’s obvious that Mr Maitland has just made a silly—’
‘For God’s sake shut her up, Mama!’ pleaded Catford, as he limped over to his friend. ‘And someone get the poor devil a drink!’
Putting his arm around Maitland’s heaving shoulders, he drew him down on to the arm of the sofa. ‘Now, Will,” he commanded softly, ‘tell me what’s happened.’
Shaking his head, Maitland heaved himself back on to his feet. ‘We have to go after him, Cat,’ he insisted. ‘He believes that Georgianne is Billingham’s heir! God knows what he intends to do with her!’
‘But, what the devil has given him that idea?’ asked the astonished Catford.
In short, clipped sentences, Maitland outlined the bones of his conversation with Marthe Matthilde, culminating in the discovery that Fenton had made off with the carriage. ‘It’s as clear as a pikestaff that he must have gone after her!’
‘He could well have run into her when she was on her way back from the church!’ put in Lord Gresham who, like the rest of the group—Stephanie, in particular—had been attending avidly to Maitland’s hurried account. But then, as he looked at the clock, he shook his head, adding, ‘Fairly unlikely, however, since Georgianne’s little Sunday-School group never finishes until twelve-thirty, and it is now barely a quarter to one. I doubt if your cousin has even managed to accost the girl, let alone abduct her!’
‘Georgianne is at the church?’ demanded Maitland, a sudden gleam of hope springing into his eyes as he made for the door. ‘Then she should be on her way back through the park by now. If you will all excuse me, I’ll go and meet her myself!’
Taking the stairs two at a time, he made for the rear terrace and, after hurtling across the lawn and on to the path that ran alongside the lake, he cast his eyes anxiously over towards the bridleway that led to the church, desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of Georgianne’s slender form as she emerged from the little copse.
Surely it was well past the time that she should be on her way home, he thought, his panic rising and although his lungs had, yet again, reached bursting point and the stitch in his side was already well nigh unbearable, he forced himself forwards at an even more punishing pace.
Arriving at the entrance to the church and unable to halt his rapid progress, he cannoned straight into Philip Childs, who was just on the point of departing.
‘Why, Mr Maitland,’ exclaimed the vicar, as he staggered back in surprise, grabbing at the door handle to prevent himself from falling. ‘I had not expected to see you again so soon!’
‘Miss Venables!’ croaked Maitland, leaning over and clutching at his side in agony. ‘Is she still inside?’
‘Miss Venables?’ repeated the Reverend Childs, in some confusion. ‘Why, no! I’m afraid you have just missed her! A young man took her up in his carriage not ten minutes since!’
Clapping his hand to his head in despair, Maitland found himself obliged to think quickly. ‘A horse!’ he cried urgently. ‘Do you have a horse I could borrow?’
‘Well, yes, of course!’ returned the vicar, with a puzzled frown. ‘But, I don’t understand—is something amiss?’
‘I’m afraid there’s no time for explanations at the moment!’ gasped Maitland, reaching forwards to grab the other man by the arm. ‘We have to hurry!’ Then, dragging the highly indignant vicar towards the rear of his house, he demanded to know where he kept his horse.
Wordlessly, the goggle-eyed Childs pointed his finger in the direction of the small stable situated at the far end of the property.
Releasing his hold, Maitland made for the stall. ‘I need you to get a message up to Lord Catford at the Hall right away,’ he called over his shoulder, as he unlatched the stable door. ‘Tell him that I was too late. Fenton has abducted Miss Venables and I’ve gone after them!’
‘F-Fenton? Abducted?’ stuttered the confused clergyman. ‘Am I to understand that—?’
But, before he could finish his sentence, Maitland had ridden off in pursuit of his cousin’s carriage.
Chapter Twenty-One
Having seen and heard more than enough to convince himself that Georgianne was indeed the principal heir to the bulk of Billingham’s large fortune, Fenton had sneaked out of the Highsmith property and taken off with all the speed that he could muster. Intent upon reaching Georgianne before his cousin could be given the opportunity to acquaint her with this startling news, his sudden recollection of a remark that Stephanie had once made, regarding her friend’s ‘odd little pastime’ of staying behind after the morning service to read Bible stories to the village children, had convinced him of the possibility of catching her before she left the church.
This latest development in the search for his uncle’s heir had very quickly convinced him of the need to abandon his former plan to elope with Stephanie. Although the idea of being seen about town with such a tasty morsel on his arm had originally been more than enough to tempt him into relinquishing his previously cherished bachelorhood, it came as no hardship for him to cast the lovely Miss Highsmith out of his mind now that he had found a far bigger fish to fry. The only difficulty now, as far as he was concerned, was in conjuring up some plan that would persuade Georgianne to get into his carriage.
Whipping up his ho
rses, he urged them down the winding lane that led to Willowby’s little church where, to his great delight, he was just in time to witness Georgianne waving farewell to the last of her pupils. Pulling up sharply at the entrance to the church, he leaned out of his seat and gave her a frantic wave.
‘Miss Venables! Thank God I have caught you!’ he cried, as the now perplexed Georgianne came hurrying towards him.
‘Is there something wrong, Mr Fenton?’ she asked, having caught sight of his hurriedly adopted expression of deep consternation.
‘My cousin has met with the most dreadful accident!’ he informed her, in the gravest of tones. Then, having registered the look of horror on Georgianne’s face, he began to warm to his theme. ‘I fear that he has taken a bad tumble from his horse and is, even as I speak, lying close to death’s door!’
Georgianne’s hand flew to her mouth, her cheeks whitened and unchecked tears sprang into her eyes. ‘I must go to him!’ she whispered. ‘Take me up with you, Mr Fenton, I beg of you!’
‘That is why I am here, my dear,’ replied Fenton, almost hugging himself with glee at how easily the foolish girl had been duped into accompanying him. Then, on another sudden stroke of genius, he added, ‘He has been asking for you!’
And, without further ado, he reached out his hand, hoisted her up on to the seat beside him and applied his whip to his already heavily perspiring horses.
‘But, how could such a thing happen?’ she beseeched him, as the speeding carriage charged past the gates of Gresham Hall and on up the lane towards the turnpike. ‘Your cousin is, far and away, the most accomplished horseman I have ever come across.’
Since keeping his horses at such a furious pace required most of his concentration, Fenton was forced to think quickly. ‘Er—I believe a child ran out in front of him,’ he improvised. ‘Dare say he came a cropper while trying to avoid the nipper.’ He was starting to feel somewhat ill at ease at having to weave such a tangled web of deceit and, as he felt himself getting deeper and deeper into the mire, slight pangs of conscience began to prick him. ‘You know Will, he does not have it in him to harm a youngster,’ he then added, trying to console himself with the thought that that much was true, at any rate.
The Major and the Country Miss Page 21