by Beth Andrews
‘I could not bear it,’ Camilla sobbed into his chest, ‘if I should lose you.’
‘My beautiful angel,’ he cried, ‘how I have dreamed of holding you in my arms! But not like this.’
Lydia felt as if she were at a stage play. Louisa could not witness a more tender love scene at Drury Lane! She found a convenient chair in a corner of the room and settled back to enjoy the spectacle before her.
‘Am I truly your dearest love, Monsieur?’ Camilla whispered, looking up at him through tear-studded lashes. ‘Do you care for me, sir?’
‘You are more to me than all the jewels in all the crowns of Europe!’ he said. ‘You are my life, my soul!’
‘Oh, Monsieur d’Almain!’ her aunt sighed appropriately, and her lips parted for the expected kiss. However, in this she was disappointed.
With a cry of anguish, the gentleman thrust her unceremoniously away from him.
‘What a worm am I!’ he said. ‘How can I declare my love at such a moment? How can I offer for you when such a cloud hangs over my head?’
‘If you love me, nothing else matters.’
‘If I love you!’ He seemed somewhat offended at the suggestion that he might not. ‘From the first moment I saw you, you are all I have dreamed of, all I have longed for. Mon coeur, mon amour!’
With the culmination of this effluvia of passion, he finally screwed up the courage - or decided that the timing was perfect - to kiss her. It was a long, deep kiss which might have lasted even longer had not Camilla chosen that moment to swoon quietly away.
With a cry of anguish, Monsieur d’Almain lifted her in his arms and placed her gently on a shabby sofa near the front window. Lydia, somewhat annoyed with her aunt for ending such an interesting moment of high drama, plucked the hartshorn from Camilla’s reticule. In less than a minute, the lady had revived enough to continue her discussion with the gentleman who could at last be officially designated as her lover.
‘Voici!’ he cried, kneeling beside her makeshift bed. ‘You are better, n’est-ce pas?’
His beloved would doubtless have reassured him on this point, but she was prevented by a loud banging upon the door of the humble cot.
‘Who can that be?’ Lydia wondered aloud.
‘Henri d’Almain,’ a harsh voice penetrated clearly through the thick wood, ‘we demand that you open to us at once!’
Lydia recognized the voice: it was Thomas Savidge. The others knew it also.
‘No!’ Aunt Camilla cried hysterically, clutching at Monsieur d’Almain’s hand as he would have risen to honor Mr Savidge’s request. ‘They will take you away from me, Henri! They will kill you.’
‘It is useless to resist,’ the Frenchman replied with noble resignation. He gently removed her hand and turned to admit his persecutors, while Camilla fainted away for the second time.
* * * *
It had been a most exhilarating day, Lydia reflected later that evening after coming down from Aunt Camilla’s bedchamber. That poor lady was, quite naturally, prostrate upon her bed and only managed to sleep after being administered a strong dose of tea and a sedative draught.
‘I do not know what to do, John,’ she admitted when she joined him in the parlor below.
‘How is she?’ he asked, referring to her aunt.
‘As well as may be expected, given her nature and the present circumstances.’
‘I understand that he practically proposed to her?’ John enquired.
‘He did indeed.’
‘Damnfool thing to do.’
‘So I thought.’ She nodded. ‘But he is clearly as romantic as she is. They should deal famously together.’
‘Let us hope that the wedding ceremony is not performed beneath a hangman’s noose,’ John commented drily.
‘Oh no!’ Lydia shook her head decisively. ‘We cannot allow that.’
‘The only way to prevent it, I’m afraid, is to find the real killer.’
‘But how?’
‘I think I had better pay another visit to Bellefleur,’ he said soberly. ‘Although I wish I knew what I was looking for.’
They both sat silent for several minutes, each engrossed in their separate attempts to review what they had learned so far, to try and make some sense of it all. It was in this silence that they suddenly heard the unmistakable sound of an approaching carriage. At first they paid little heed to it. They were close enough to the high street that this was not an unusual noise. But their attention was truly captured when the sounds seemed to halt directly outside. There were voices raised, followed by the sound of someone at the front door.
‘Who can that be?’ Lydia asked for the second time that day. There was only one way to discover the truth.
She hurried to the door, John in her wake, and cautiously opened it. After all, the way things stood now, one never could tell what one might find.
The gentleman who stood outside, looking somewhat tired and harassed, was a stranger to John and certainly the last person Lydia had ever expected to see.
‘Papa!’ she cried, feeling an illogical sense not merely of happiness but also of immediate optimism. Everything would be all right now that her father was here.
‘It seems,’ Mr Bramwell declared, returning his daughter’s embrace, ‘that you have been having a much more interesting time here in the country than we have in London.’
Chapter Nineteen
FRESH REVELATIONS
Nothing could have been better timed than Mr Bramwell’s unexpected visit. It was as good as a tonic. Lydia’s flagging spirits revived at once. Her aunt, immediately informed of his arrival, managed to rouse herself from her former stupor to come downstairs. Perhaps only John greeted him with emotions which were not entirely positive in nature. He was well aware that the older man would be judging the suitability of Master John Savidge as a future son-in-law.
Amidst the noise of introductions and assorted exclamations, Lydia managed to introduce the two men. They exchanged a polite handshake while surreptitiously inspecting each other. What either of them concluded at this point was a matter of conjecture, but it was some consolation to note that neither displayed any notable distaste. In appearance, at least, they both seemed satisfied.
There was quite a contrast between them, Lydia thought to herself. Her father was of middling height, slender but strong, with thinning brown hair, but always very neat and almost dandified in appearance. John, of course, was a giant of a man who dressed with a carelessness which did not quite disguise the excellent cut of his attire.
They settled themselves in the same drawing-room which inevitably hosted any gathering in Camilla Denton’s cottage. Before they could proceed to topics of more substantial importance, the usual preliminary trivialities must be got through.
‘How did you come here, Papa?’ Lydia could not refrain from asking.
‘A hired chaise,’ Mr Bramwell replied with a slight smile.
‘How ruinously expensive!’ Aunt Camilla exclaimed, almost forgetting her broken heart and shattered nerves in the contemplation of so rash an action.
‘A trifle extravagant, perhaps,’ he conceded, ‘but I felt that the occasion warranted the expense.’
‘I would be happy,’ John interjected awkwardly but sincerely, ‘to defray the cost....’
‘Nonsense, Mr Savidge.’ The older man could not resist a twinkle. ‘I could not so importune one who is soon to become a son to me.’
‘If you will give us your blessing, sir,’ John replied less stiffly, beginning to comprehend Mr Bramwell and immediately warming to him.
‘I do not know that I dare object.’
‘Do be serious, Papa,’ his daughter admonished him.
‘I shall try,’ he answered doubtfully.
‘All here is chaos and disorder!’ Camilla warned him. ‘Such goings-on as were never seen in Diddlington, brother. I do not know that I shall ever recover from it.’
‘Murder and smuggling in the woods ...’ Mr Bramwell looked around on the
m all, his brows raised. ‘What more could one wish for, indeed?’
‘It has certainly not been dull,’ Lydia agreed.
‘And now your betrothal, my dear,’ he added, bestowing a smile upon her.
‘Nay, sir,’ she corrected him, glancing at her aunt. ‘Not one but two betrothals!’
‘How is this?’ He laughed outright at this. ‘Perhaps I never explained to you that you cannot marry two gentlemen at once. A foolish law, I warrant you, but there it is.’
‘Not I, but my aunt. She is to marry a felon who is even now in the Diddlington gaol.’
‘My dear Camilla,’ Mr Bramwell leaned over to take the hand of his sister-in-law, ‘I felicitate you! A felon, you say? It quite eclipses Lydia’s achievement.’
‘Oh!’ Camilla buried her face in her handkerchief, the tears beginning to flow once more. ‘How can you jest about something so terrible?’
‘I fear the Bramwells are not noted for their sensibility, ma’am,’ he confessed charmingly. ‘Is the gentleman in question one of the smugglers so lately apprehended?’
‘Oh no, sir.’ John was eager to disabuse him of this mistaken conjecture. ‘He is charged with murder.’
‘The murder of the gentleman who shared the stage with my daughter?’
‘No, no,’ Lydia reassured him on this point. ‘One of the servants at Bellefleur was strangled on Sunday morning.’
‘It is a wicked lie!’ Camilla cried out passionately. ‘Henri would never even imagine something so vile. I know he would not.’
‘We are all agreed that Monsieur d’Almain is innocent of the crime,’ John seconded her championship of the absent Frenchman.
‘I am glad to hear it.’ Mr Bramwell folded his arms as he regarded them with mock solemnity. ‘A thief one might welcome into the family fold. A thief, after all, may have his uses if one is in straitened circumstances. But a murderer ... one does not relish the connection, particularly if one is spending the night under his roof. One must feel a certain ... restraint, as it were.’
‘You are a rare one, sir,’ John said appreciatively.
‘We are going to find the real murderer,’ Lydia contributed blithely, ‘so that we can clear Monsieur d’Almain and he can marry Aunt Camilla.’
‘A laudable ambition. I suppose it will not be difficult to discover the identity of the murderer?’
‘No trouble at all, I assure you,’ John answered, with a wry look at his intended.
‘If you mean to quiz me, John,’ she shot back at him, ‘I warn you that I refuse to be baited!’
‘Your daughter, sir,’ John directed his next remark to the other gentleman, ‘is never at a loss for a scheme of some kind.’
‘It seems,’ Mr Bramwell commented in return, ‘that Diddlington is never at a loss to supply a murder for the employment of one of her schemes. It would appear to be all the rage, in fact. A Shakespeare tragedy could not supply such a surfeit of corpses.’
‘It is like a plague!’ Aunt Camilla complained, adding in dire tones, ‘Many have taken to locking their doors.’
‘Surely there is no need for such drastic measures,’ her brother-in-law objected. ‘Next you will be seeking help from Bow Street!’
‘As exciting as that would be, I think we need not send for the Runners yet,’ John said, ‘with Lydia in hot pursuit of the villains.’
‘Stuff!’ Lydia objected crossly. ‘You know that you are as eager as I am to learn the truth.’
‘But not so intrepid,’ he said with a bow.
‘Or so foolhardy,’ Camilla snapped, probably more accurately than she knew.
‘Well, compared to all this,’ Mr Bramwell sighed, looking absurdly crestfallen, ‘my news from town will seem frightfully tame.’
* * * *
‘What news?’ Lydia demanded instantly.
‘Is it my sister?’ Camilla clutched at her chest, always prepared to hear the worst.
‘Is it Louisa?’
Mr Bramwell leaned back in his chair, pausing for an interminable period which could not have been less than five seconds. He was determined to produce the most dramatic effect from his performance.
‘Mrs Bramwell is in excellent health,’ he said at last, ‘so you may be easy on that head, Camilla. She is a little concerned that her daughter and sister reside in a village whose chief business seems to be that of slaughtering its inhabitants and she has discovered that she is far from partial to young men named “Savidge”. Aside from this, however, she has never been better.’
‘I shall not easily win the lady’s favor, it seems,’ John ruminated aloud.
‘Never fear,’ Lydia’s father comforted him. ‘You need only win my favor, lad. In fact, my wife charged me particularly to determine whether you are worthy of our daughter.’
‘And is your initial impression favorable?’
‘Well...’ Mr Bramwell stroked his chin with slow deliberation. ‘It is best not to be too hasty in one’s judgments.’
‘I can tell that Papa likes you, John,’ Lydia explained unnecessarily. Then, turning to her father, she added, ‘You still have not told us anything that is happening in London, sir.’
‘It seems,’ the older man informed them, ‘that I may soon have both daughters married.’
‘No!’ Lydia cried, truly astonished.
‘Is Louisa also betrothed, then?’ Camilla was equally amazed, and quite impressed.
‘It has not progressed as far as that.’ Mr Bramwell held up a cautionary finger, indicating that they should not celebrate precipitately. ‘But she certainly has a suitor who, your mama assures me, has developed a decided tendre for her. And, if that were not enough, he is a member of the peerage.’
There was an appreciative gasp from the female members of his small audience. John’s eyes widened, but he gave no other indication of his surprise.
‘Never tell me,’ Lydia exclaimed, ‘that Louisa has got herself a Duke after all!’
‘That would be a prize catch!’ Mr Bramwell chuckled, enjoying himself hugely. ‘No, I fear your sister will be forced to settle for a mere baronet.’
‘How shabby.’ Lydia was almost disappointed for her sister. Indeed, she had never felt less spiteful towards her.
‘Considering what Lydia has told me of Louisa’s behavior,’ Camilla said frankly, ‘I find it hard to believe that she has managed to attach anyone at all.’
‘You could not be more surprised than Mrs Bramwell and I,’ her brother-in-law confessed. ‘Even Louisa, I believe, found it difficult to credit her good fortune - if such it can be called. She certainly means to have the gentleman, and declares that she would rather die than to return home unmarried.’
‘That sounds like Louisa,’ Lydia nodded her head emphatically. ‘But tell us, Papa, who is he? And how did this come about?’
It seemed that soon after the affair of the pink gown, Louisa had managed to find a secluded corner where she could indulge a fit of mild hysterics in unmolested solitude. However, her sniffling had attracted the attention of one solitary gentleman, Sir Reginald Pevensey, who offered a handkerchief and managed to talk her out of her megrims. He had called at their lodgings the next day to ensure that Miss Bramwell was not laid low by her affliction. Assured that she was much recovered, he offered to take her walking in Green Park. Naturally, there was no question of declining such a gracious invitation.
For the past ten days, his attentions had been so marked that Mrs Bramwell and her daughter lived in hourly expectation of receiving an offer. Indeed, Mr Bramwell continued, he had been given express instructions not to remain any longer in Diddlington than was strictly necessary; for he must be present in London should the blessed event occur. His consent, of course, was a foregone conclusion. How could it be otherwise?
‘What is he like, sir?’ Lydia asked when her parent paused in his fascinating narrative. ‘He cannot be very sensible, I think, or he would not want to marry Louisa.’
‘His intellect may not be superior.’ Mr Bramwell
was willing to concede this point. ‘But his manners are polished and his estate is large. Louisa will have all the pin-money she could desire, and more than enough servants to bully. I could wish that he were a little younger....’
‘How old is he?’ Camilla asked at once.
‘He will never see fifty again, unless he looks a considerable distance behind him.’
Once more there was an incoherent exclamation from the ladies, while John closed his lips determinedly.
‘Papa!’ Lydia squealed. ‘He is older than you are!’
‘Only by seven or eight years, my dear.’
‘She cannot be in love with him,’ Aunt Camilla declared. ‘It is not possible.’
‘Louisa is very much in love ... with herself!’ Lydia said with less than charity. ‘But it is a far cry from the handsome prince she boasted she would get.’
‘A well-heeled widower is not a match to be ignored,’ Mr Bramwell answered practically, ‘especially when one’s own fortune is ... negligible.’
‘Invisible, you mean,’ Lydia said bluntly. ‘I suppose, as things stand, she has little choice in the matter. But do you think she will be happy?’
‘She would certainly not be happy living the rest of her life as an impoverished spinster,’ Aunt Camilla assured them fervently, and with the authority of one who had actually experienced a similar fate.
‘All things considered,’ Mr Bramwell said, ‘I think my daughter has done better for herself than she ever deserved. As for Sir Reginald, poor devil ... well, perhaps a fool deserves to suffer the consequences of his own folly.’
* * * *
Later that night, when Mr Bramwell had been comfortably installed in the one remaining bedchamber, Lydia snuggled down in her bed beneath the embroidered counterpane and considered her own situation in light of all that had happened these past weeks.
It must be a triumph for her mother, she supposed, to have both of her daughters engaged to be married at the same time! Mrs Bramwell might be somewhat doubtful about the young man her youngest child had chosen, but on the whole there could be no doubt that her cup was now about to overflow.