by Beth Andrews
‘Oh, they have been around since I can remember.’ He leaned back in his chair and began to unfold the tale. ‘Apparently the story stems from the fact that Sir Hector travelled extensively in his youth.’
‘The Grand Tour?’ She raised a brow knowingly.
‘Rather more than that,’ he said. ‘Alexandria, Baghdad, Jerusalem: places which most white men have only heard of or read about in books.’
A year or two after Sir Hector’s return from his mythic journey, there began to circulate a story that he had found a great treasure which he had brought back with him from the East. The exact nature of the loot was never disclosed. Some speculated that it was a fortune in jewels; others that it was a single ancient artifact, likewise encrusted with special stones - or perhaps magical properties.
‘In the last years, when I have visited him,’ John explained, ‘Sir Hector has indeed spoken of his “treasure”, but I can never be sure if he is in earnest, or whether he considers it a fine jest. He may even have been persuaded in his own mind that it is true, merely by the constant repetition of it over the years.’
‘You say that he is very old, and something of a recluse?’ Lydia persisted.
‘Over ninety, I should say,’ John agreed, eyeing her with a mixture of amusement and concern. ‘You do not mean that you really do believe this old wives’ fable, do you?’
‘Why not?’ she cried defensively. ‘Stranger things have been known to occur. Why should he not have discovered a treasure in Timbuktu or some such place?’
‘In the first place,’ he pointed out, ‘Sir Hector is a very wealthy man in his own right. What use is a treasure to him?’
‘The rich,’ Lydia said grandly, ‘are never satisfied. However extensive their estate, they are ever eager to enlarge it.’
‘There is some truth in that,’ he acknowledged somewhat reluctantly. ‘But what does this have to do with the murder of Mr Cole?’
‘Ah!’ she cried dramatically. ‘That was what I am determined to discover, though I have my own ideas.’
‘Which are?’ He was irritated, she thought, tapping his fingers restlessly upon the desk where his unfinished accounts lay before him.
‘What if,’ she suggested, leaning forward and lowering her voice, ‘Mr Cole had been Sir Hector’s companion on his journey all those years ago?’
‘Impossible!’ John said scornfully. ‘He would have been far too young at the time. Sir Hector could give him a good forty years! Neither is it likely that someone of Mr Cole’s class would have been travelling with a peer, except in the capacity of a servant.’
This momentarily dashed Lydia’s enthusiasm, but it quickly revived under the impetus of her imagination.
‘Let us suppose,’ she said after a moment’s hesitation, ‘that it was Mr Cole’s father, or someone else of his acquaintance, who knew about the treasure. Perhaps this person and Sir Hector had stolen the treasure—’
‘I do not believe it!’ John protested. ‘Sir Hector is of a pious - almost saintly - disposition. I find it hard to believe that he would steal anything.’
‘However, you did not know him in his youth,’ Lydia reminded him.
‘True.’
‘Will you at least consider the possibility of my conjectures?’ she pleaded.
‘And, supposing them to be valid,’ he said with a very direct look, ‘what do you intend to do about it?’
‘I have not yet determined what course of action to take. But once I have ...’ she caught her lips between her teeth, uncertain how to continue, ‘may I rely on your support?’
John rose from his seat and came around the desk. He reached out his hand to her and she stood at once, looking up into his eyes. If ever a man’s eyes could be described as ‘true’, they were John’s.
‘You may always depend upon me, Lydia,’ he said, gently but firmly.
He then bent his head and pressed a kiss upon her lips which was equally firm and gentle. However, this was not enough for Lydia. She promptly flung her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with such fervor that he had no choice but to respond in kind. It was very pleasant, but did not last for long; for, just as everything was progressing in a most interesting manner, they were rudely interrupted by a startled cry.
‘Well!’ The scandalized syllable was uttered from a few feet away.
Somewhat reluctantly, John released Lydia and they both turned to look through the aperture of the door which they had so conveniently left ajar. This opening was quite enough both to give their audience an excellent view of the scene they were witnessing, and to allow John and Lydia to perceive the identity of the witness to their embrace. It was none other than Mrs Wardle-Penfield herself.
Chapter Twelve
TRICKS AND STRATAGEMS
‘Oh!’ was all that Lydia was capable of uttering.
‘Mrs P!’ John added, staring at the lady in horror.
‘If you will both excuse me,’ Mrs Wardle-Penfield intoned with awful politeness, ‘I will be on my way. It is plain that you are both very busy.’
She would have turned and stalked off, had not John emerged from his temporary paralysis in time to forestall her. He stepped forward and opened the door, calling out to her in his usual tone of calm authority, ‘Pray do not be so quick to leave us, ma’am. If you would but spare a minute, I can explain all.’
She had but half turned, and was no doubt eager to depart that she might waste no time in spreading the word that Camilla Denton’s niece and the innkeeper’s son were carrying on the most scandalous liaison right under the very noses of Diddlington’s fine citizens. However, at these words she hesitated. On the one hand, she wished to display her distaste at such unseemly dissipation; on the other, she was eaten up with curiosity as to what possible story the lad could come up with. In the end, curiosity won the day.
‘I am sure,’ she said, turning back to the office and directing a piercing gaze at a red-faced Lydia, ‘that you owe no explanation to me.’
Lydia was secretly inclined to agree with her, but realized that nothing less would serve to save them from public humiliation and disgrace.
‘We are betrothed, ma’am,’ John said baldly. Lydia had never been so near swooning in her life, but could not think of any better ruse herself.
‘I have already sought my aunt’s approval,’ she rushed into speech, eager to support his statement.
‘I have written to Mr Bramwell,’ John added mendaciously, ‘and only await his permission before the banns are called.’
Mrs Wardle-Penfield looked from one to the other, eyes narrowed, and Lydia was aware of feeling unusually nervous. The old woman was no fool. But when she spoke, her words startled them both.
‘You’re a deal too young to be contemplating marriage, in my opinion,’ she said. ‘But you’ve both got heads on your shoulders, which is more than I can say for most young people nowadays, and I’ve seldom seen a couple better suited. You’ll do.’
Having expressed her opinion on the matter, she obviously felt that there was nothing further to add. She said that the subject she had originally called to discuss was of no importance, and could wait. In the meantime, she must just visit the Misses Digweed. She left the happy couple to speculate on how soon the entire town would learn of their engagement.
‘I am so sorry, John,’ Lydia exclaimed as soon as they were alone again.
‘I should not have kissed you,’ he confessed grudgingly.
‘It seemed a perfectly reasonable thing to do.’
‘Did it?’
‘Did you not think so?’
‘It is certainly becoming a bad habit with me.’
‘Kissing young ladies?’
‘Kissing you.’
‘You do not kiss other young ladies, then?’ she asked, secretly rather pleased.
‘I kissed Miss Carteret a few weeks ago.’
‘Did you?’ She was not so pleased at this news.
‘Yes.’
‘And did you enjoy it
?’ She was somewhat curious on this point.
‘It was very pleasant,’ he admitted.
‘Oh.’
‘But kissing you is more than pleasant.’
‘Is it?’
‘I should say so!’
‘Still, it must be horrid for you to be forced to offer for me.’
‘No.’ He paused a moment before adding, ‘To tell the truth, I had been considering offering for you for the past week or more.’
She stared at him in surprise. ‘You said nothing of this to me.’
‘Well, no,’ he muttered. ‘I mean, I wasn’t sure what to do, so naturally I would not embarrass you so.’
‘I see.’ She did not, in fact. But what else could a young lady say?
‘I suppose I must write to your papa,’ John said.
‘Perhaps it would be best if I wrote to him first.’
‘If you think it best.’
‘I do.’
‘You had better inform your aunt,’ he said with a wry look, ‘before she hears it from one of her friends!’
* * * *
‘What!’ Camilla Denton sat bolt upright in bed. The powders which Lydia had fetched from the apothecary were forgotten.
‘I am betrothed to Mr Savidge,’ Lydia repeated, and followed her news with a frank description of what had transpired today at the inn.
‘Thank God John was willing to offer for you!’ Camilla croaked, sinking back onto her pillows. ‘Have you any idea how near you have been to total disgrace?’
‘I have.’ Lydia shrugged philosophically. ‘But John would never allow my reputation to be ruined.’
‘What were you thinking of, kissing him in such a wild fashion?’
‘I very much enjoy kissing John,’ Lydia replied. ‘Why should I not?’
‘Why not!’ Her aunt looked as if she were about to expire in her bed. ‘Unnatural child! Kissing can lead to ... well, when you are married, you will find out what it leads to.’
‘I imagined that there must be more to it than that,’ Lydia confessed. ‘I quite look forward to finding out what it might be. John says he likes kissing me much better than kissing Miss Carteret.’
Camilla closed her eyes, apparently abandoning the struggle to preach propriety to someone who was clearly out of her senses.
‘John has made a noble sacrifice to save your virtue,’ she said at last.
‘Nonsense!’ Lydia objected to this romantic excess. ‘He would quite like to marry me, and I can think of nobody else I would prefer to marry.’
‘You are in love with him?’ Camilla asked, her eyes growing somewhat misty.
‘I do not know.’ Lydia cocked her head, considering the matter. ‘I have never been in love before. How can one tell if one is in love?’
‘One just knows,’ Aunt Camilla said with simple faith in the mysterious powers of the human heart.
‘Well I do not.’
‘Then you are not in love.’
‘Very well, then.’ Lydia was not dismayed at this revelation. ‘I am not. I must go and write to papa.’
She left her aunt with a look of complete bewilderment upon her pretty face. For herself, Lydia was not certain what she thought about ‘being in love’, as expounded by her aunt and so many others. It seemed an ephemeral condition at best, which scarcely survived a year of marriage. How many miserable love matches had she heard her mother speak of to her friends. In choosing a mate, it seemed to Lydia that the head had at least as much right to contribute to the decision as the heart. A little more common sense and a little less emotion was called for.
* * * *
It took more than an hour for her to compose a letter to her father which managed to convey something of what had taken place, without alarming him unnecessarily. She reflected that it could not but be difficult for a daughter to announce that she intended to marry a young man she had known for only a few short weeks. Indeed, perhaps she was in love, for the most lovestruck young lady could hardly behave more idiotically.
Yet, in truth, she had not meant to consider marriage so soon. It had been, so to speak, thrust upon both of them: herself as much as John. Yet now that she thought about it, it had definitely been in the back of her mind. She really had meant to marry John someday, so why should it not be sooner rather than later?
She felt no common enjoyment of his company, and their thoughts often seemed to jog along remarkably well together. Except for his occasional lapse in kissing her without due caution (to which she had not the least objection), John had behaved just as a gentleman should do. She had better mention that to papa, she thought, writing swiftly: not the part about the kisses, of course, but only that Mr John Savidge was a most unexceptionable young man.
Should she exaggerate his fortune? No. Better not. It was more than respectable, in any case. Suddenly she began to laugh, for here she was writing of her expected marriage. She, who had come to Diddlington with no such thought in her head! It was so droll. What would Louisa say? And mama!
She went into such a fit of laughter that she collapsed on her bed, helpless and exhausted. Luckily, Aunt Camilla had heard nothing, so she was undisturbed. At length, she fell into a deep sleep from which she awoke the next morning completely refreshed.
Chapter Thirteen
UNEXPECTED DEVELOPMENTS
Before Lydia could post her letter the following morning, she received one herself. This was her father’s latest installment in the story of Louisa’s London season.
‘Another letter, my dear?’ Aunt Camilla was concerned. This will cost a fortune, I fear. Your allowance will never stand it.’
‘Papa has got a friend to frank it, Aunt,’ Lydia reassured her.
‘What news?’ the other lady could not refrain from enquiring.
‘Another debacle!’ Lydia’s head was bent over the page, the better to decipher her father’s minuscule handwriting. He had clearly reduced the size of his script to save paper. ‘Oh dear! I knew Louisa would make a cake of herself in that dreadful pink dress. With cherry-red ribbons too!’
She then went on to explain the famous argument over Louisa’s attire. Camilla shook her head in wonder and disapproval, declaring at last that poor Louisa had even less sense than her sister. Lydia took no offence at this, knowing that almost every word and action on her part went against her aunt’s strict notions of propriety.
Lydia read parts of papa’s letter aloud to her aunt: enough to inform her that Louisa’s appearance at an assembly in town had been greeted by universal derision. Even her hen-witted sister could not fail to notice the giggles hastily hidden by fans, nor the withdrawal of several ladies from her presence. She had, it seemed, gone home and treated her parents to a display of strong hysterics in which she blamed everyone for her disgrace: mama, Lydia - even poor papa, who had always maintained a safe distance from the proceedings connected with his daughter’s come-out.
‘It will be a miracle if she receives a respectable offer,’ Camilla pronounced fatalistically.
‘She never would listen to reason,’ Lydia said, for the first time experiencing something like sympathy for her foolish and headstrong sister.
‘I see,’ Aunt Camilla nodded toward the sealed missive beside her niece, ‘that you have your own news to dispatch. We had best go and do so at once.’
After a few minutes of bustle and confusion, they emerged from the cottage and made their way toward the center of town. On the high street they were apprehended by the Misses Digweed, who clearly had been acquainted with all the pertinent (and impertinent) facts surrounding her engagement to Mr Savidge.
‘Such wonderful news!’ cried the elder.
‘You know what they say about “marrying in haste”,’ the latter remarked.
‘A nine-days’ wonder!’
‘Been expecting it this age.’
‘So well-favored.’
‘Plump in the pocket too.’
‘Oh, Dorothea!’
It was some time before they were able to
disentangle themselves from the verbal web of this enterprising duo. When they did so, Lydia was surprised to find her aunt hailing a complete stranger.
* * * *
‘Kate!’ Miss Denton called out to a short, plump young woman who had just stepped up onto the pavement perhaps three yards ahead of them. ‘It is Kate, is it not?’
‘Yes, Miss Denton,’ the young woman replied, dropping a slight curtsy to them both.
‘It has been a long time since we have seen each other. Just before Easter, I believe?’
‘Yes ma’am.’
Aunt Camilla introduced Lydia to the young girl, adding that she was a servant at Bellefleur.
‘How does Sir Hector get on?’ Camilla added, with real concern. ‘Such a fine old gentleman!’
‘He’s been very poorly these past weeks,’ Kate responded, shaking her head sadly. ‘Not at all himself.’
‘Has he seen Doctor Humbleby?’
Kate replied that he had not.
‘Really, Mrs Chalfont should have insisted upon it.’
‘Mrs Chalfont?’ Lydia asked curiously.
‘Sir Hector’s housekeeper that is, miss,’ Kate enlightened the other girl.
‘Is Sir Hector as ill as that?’ Lydia began to probe gently, dangling her question in the hope of catching something worthy of her efforts.
‘I’ve never known ‘im to be so low, and that’s a fact.’
‘Perhaps,’ Lydia suggested, ‘all the trouble in Wickham Wood has overset his nerves.’
‘Could be, miss.’ Kate considered this explanation, which apparently found favor. ‘Now that you mention it, this spell come on just around the time that man was found dead in the woods.’
‘I think I should pay a visit to Bellefleur,’ Aunt Camilla said, as if she had read her niece’s mind. ‘I shall bring along some brandy and a receipt for a tonic which is said to do wonders for persons of advanced age.’
‘A splendid idea, Aunt.’ Lydia’s mind was returning to the problem with which she had been so consumed before her unexpected betrothal. ‘I would love to meet Sir Hector. Perhaps he needs the company of a young person to lift his spirits.’