A Cousinly Connection

by Sheila Simonson

  "Yes, miss, I'll see to it directly. Do come in."

  Jane and Miss Goodnight were shewn into the library in which a small fire burnt. In explanation, Mrs. Bradford said, "T'house is mostly closed, miss, his lordship not being set to receive ladies."

  Jane and Miss Goodnight exchanged worried looks, but did not enlighten the housekeeper, Had Drusilla not come yet?

  "Perhaps she is with Mrs. Tarrant," Jane murmured over tea and scones. Mrs. Bradford had gone for Thorpe.

  "Let us hope so." Miss Goodnight did not look well, and Jane regarded her with anxiety.

  "Goody, you must have a lie-down, but I do not perfectly know what to do. Perhaps we should go on to the Tarrants' and beg accommodation. I dislike to impose at such a time. The inn at Market Yeading looked decidedly unpleasant, however."

  "Fleas." Miss Goodnight gave a wan smile. "I shall do very well, Jane. Do not be worrying about me."

  Thorpe was just then ushered in. Jane rose and shook his hand with a heartiness born of relief. His good eye twinkled at her.

  "I'm glad to see you, Thorpe. Has Miss Drusilla come?"

  His face went blank. "Nay. She was t'stay wi' her ladyship in Lunnon, miss. Did tha not know?"

  Miss Goodnight's teacup clattered in the saucer.

  Jane swallowed. She explained as undramatically as she could what Drusilla had done.

  Mercifully Thorpe refrained from exclamations and came to the crux. "Saw t'lass at Yeading, did un? In a farm cart?"

  Jane nodded. "Last afternoon. The host at the inn assured me the cart came this way."

  "Did tha think t'ask carter's name, then, miss?"

  "I did." Jane took a breath. "I didn't perfectly understand the man, but I believe he said Wicker or Wickart's lad."

  "Oh, aye, that'll be Dickie Boggs." Thorpe tapped his fore head. "A mite slow, Dickie, but no harm in t'lad."

  "She must be found."

  "Aye."

  "And...and his lordship must be informed directly, Thorpe." Her voice trailed off, for he appeared to be deep in thought.

  "Us'll just ride on over t'Wickarts'. Like as not Miss Drusilla's safe as houses. Never tha mind, miss."

  "You're a great comfort, Thorpe," Jane said gratefully. "Where is his lordship?"

  "At Tarrants', think on. Mr. Will's none so bad--broke's leg and took a great knock on t'head, sithee, but looks to be mending."

  "I'm relieved to hear it. Shall I put the carriage to and go on to Tarrant Manor? I could give Meriden word of your search."

  "Aye, do that, and miss..."

  "Yes, Thorpe?"

  "Don't fratch. Us'll find un."

  Jane blinked hard. "Thank you, Thorpe. I'm obliged to you."

  Although Thorpe and common sense reassured Jane she was very much disturbed not to have found Drusilla's plump self in residence. All phantasies as to how she might feel and act in Meriden's presence were driven from her mind as the carriage bowled along the lane that connected Whitethorn with Tarrant Manor. She could think only of how Meriden must suffer if harm had come to his sister. Miss Goodnight's lamentations did nothing to ease Jane's anxiety.

  By the time they reached Tarrant Manor, it was nearly dark, and a wind from the east spattered a few raindrops on the dusty carriage. The house was cheerfully lit, however. While the maidservant who admitted the ladies scurried off in search of her mistress, Jane settled the exhausted Miss Goodnight into a chair by the fender.

  At last Mrs. Tarrant entered. She was a birdlike woman who must ordinarily have presented a cheerful appearance, but just now she looked harried. "Miss Goodnight? Miss Ash? We did not look for you..."

  Jane said quietly, "No, and we are sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Tarrant. The thing is, Drusilla Stretton has run off. She came as far as Market Yeading in the mail coach, and now we cannot find her."

  "Good gracious."

  "You see, there is some urgency, and if I may speak with Lord Meriden..."

  Mrs. Tarrant looked distressed. "Julian has not yet come in from the home farm. He has been seeing to things for me in my husband's illness. Vincent is here."

  "May I speak to him?"

  "Of course." She rang a bell, and the maidservant appeared with such alacrity that Jane thought she must have been glued to the door listening. "Annie, fetch Mr. Stretton from Mr. Tarrant's room directly."

  The girl scampered off, and Mrs. Tarrant appeared to collect her wits. She looked from Goody to Jane.

  "I am Drusilla's cousin," Jane said.

  Mrs. Tarrant's face brightened. "Julian writ us that you had been very kind to his family. Please be comfortable, Miss Ash. And Miss Goodnight, too, of course."

  Jane said, "I'm afraid Miss Goodnight is feeling rather ill. She is a poor traveler, and we have not had an easy journey."

  "Then she must go to bed at once with a bowl of soup and a hot brick."

  From that point, Mrs. Tarrant took charge. Goody was whisked from the room, Jane presented with another cup of tea, the fire built up, and orders given to set dinner back an hour--all in the brief time it took Vincent to be summoned and come downstairs.

  Jane greeted Vincent in a daze.

  "What's this about Drusilla?" he asked.

  "She's lost, Vincent. B-between Market Yeading and Whitethorn. Thorpe has gone in search of her."

  "Good God! But how does she come to be in Yorkshire?"

  Jane explained.

  Vincent's blue eyes glazed. "I'll fetch Julian. No, dash it, I can't. I'm dressed for dinner."

  "Vincent!"

  "Oh. Well, he should be coming in soon anyway. I'll just run out and find a groom to go for him."

  Jane bethought herself of the coachmen. "I've kept Lady Herrington's men out in the chill, Vincent. Do see to them and the cattle, will you? My wits have gone begging."

  He raced off, banging the front door. Jane heard him whooping in the distance. He had looked more excited than worried, she thought wryly.

  She herself was beginning to tremble from strain and weariness. Mrs. Tarrant entered as Jane tried to pour another cup of tea and took the pot from her.

  "My poor dear, you have had a time of it. Whatever can be keeping Vincent?"

  Jane explained and drank some tea and began to feel less agitated.

  Mrs. Tarrant cocked her head. "That's Vincent outside, and I hear Julian's voice, too."

  Jane jumped to her feet and ran into the hallway. A blast of wind chilled the hall, and Vincent entered, chattering over his shoulder.

  "Yes, thank you, Vincent," said Meriden. "I had better see Jane. Ah, there you are." He went to her and took her hands. "I'm glad to see you, Jane. Will you explain? Vincent has spun me some tale about Dru flinging herself into a bog."

  Jane gave him a tremulous smile. "I trust it may not prove so dreadful, but indeed, sir, I do not know where she is." She found she was clinging to his hands and drew away a little.

  Meriden took her elbow and led her to the salon.

  "Come into my parlour," said Mrs. Tarrant drily.

  "Peggy, I'm sorry to burden you with another disaster."

  "Never mind that, idiot. Don't you think you should hear Miss Ash's story?"

  He drew a breath. "Yes. Well, Jane?"

  Jane explained as lucidly as she could, considering that, in addition to being frightened for Drusilla, she was now vividly aware of Meriden. He was windblown, mud-spattered, and rather damp from the rain, and she thought he looked splendidly and wondered why anyone would wish him to go about in stiff shirtpoints.

  She focussed on the toe of his boot and talked. He did not interrupt. When she had finished, she made herself meet his eyes. He looked more stunned than loverlike.

  "Julian, surely your sister is at Wickarts'," Mrs. Tarrant said. "Thorpe will have found her."

  "Very likely. I'll ride over that way now to see if he has. Shall I bring the body here?"

  "Body?" Mrs. Tarrant stared.

  "I intend to strangle Drusilla," he said apologetically. "I thought I'd better wa
rn you."

  "Oh, no, you will not, sir," Jane interrupted. "I have been waiting to do so for four days."

  His eyes lit. "Yes, but mine is the superior claim. We are closer in blood."

  Jane was prepared to argue that point, but Mrs. Tarrant fixed them with an owlish stare "However you decide to dispose of your sister, Ju, you had better do so here. You cannot have Mrs. Bradford giving notice."

  "Very true. Vincent..."

  Vincent had followed the interchange with sagging jaw. He started. "Er, shall I come, too?"

  Meriden took in his dress. "No, do comfort the ladies." The teazing glint died in his eyes. "If I've not returned by half-past nine, ride over to Whitethorn and tell Mrs. Bradford what has happened. I'll come for you there."

  He made for the hall with Vincent trailing after, uttering protests.

  "No, halfling, I can't wait for you to change."

  The door thudded.

  The ladies exchanged looks. Presently Mrs. Tarrant smiled. "Miss Ash, you look as if you might like a rest."

  "No," Jane said firmly. "I couldn't be still. I should not object to tidying myself, however."

  "Very well, and then perhaps you and I and Vincent should dine. There's no point pacing the floor and dithering." A horror-struck look crossed her face. "Good Lord, Will will have run mad."

  Jane deduced that Will was Mr. Tarrant. "Is he very ill, ma'am?"

  Mrs. Tarrant sighed. "No, very crotchety. An abominable patient. Julian was far more civilised."

  Jane said hesitantly, "You cared for his lordship after Waterloo, did you not? I believe we--that is, the family--are very much in your debt, Mrs. Tarrant."

  "I believe you are," her hostess replied with a hint of coolness in her voice. "For without Will and Thorpe, Julian must have died in Belgium, and it took very careful nursing in Brussels and here, when Will brought him home, to save his left leg. Julian owes us nothing, for he is Will's friend. But Julian's family..."

  Jane felt ready to sink. She was torn between shame and horror, for she had not thought Meriden's injuries to have been so severe, nor did she know how to explain the Strettons to this brisk, kind little woman. Clearly, however, some explanation must be given Mrs. Tarrant.

  "Has Meriden told you anything of his father?" she asked after a moment.

  "I gathered they were not on good terms."

  Jane sighed. "It is not so straightforward."' She explained the late baron without roundaboutation, adding with less frankness an account of the family's ignorance of the then Major Stretton's circumstances.

  Halfway through this recital Mrs. Tarrant sat down. She regarded Jane with a fascinated gaze and in the end merely shook her head. "Thank you for telling me, Miss Ash. I can't say I understand, precisely..."

  "No more do I," Jane said with feeling.

  "You believe Julian's brothers and sisters have learnt to value him as they ought?"

  "And he them," Jane said gently.

  Mrs. Tarrant gave her a sidelong glance. "This sister..."

  "Drusilla!" Jane's apprehension returned. "Lord, I had almost forgot Drusilla. The poor child, how frightened she must be!"

  "I daresay Mrs. Wickart has set her to churning butter for her keep," Mrs. Tarrant said prosaically.

  Jane smiled. "The devil has work for idle hands?"

  "Precisely. A frugal and godly household." She jumped up. "I had best take you up and see to Will while you refresh yourself. He'll be in a fine stew."

  "Mrs. Tarrant."

  "Yes?"

  "May I help you? I have some experience of crotchety invalids."

  Mrs. Tarrant flashed a grin. "Lady Meriden?"

  "I see his lordship has spoken of his family," Jane said with resignation. "I should not call my aunt crotchety, exactly. Something altogether grander. However, I was thinking of my father. When the gout troubles him, he is not by any means easy to bear with, and I fancy I have learnt to divert him with tolerable success."

  Mrs. Tarrant smiled. "I'll take up your offer. I had very nearly decided to enter a nunnery."

  "Then by all means let me help."

  The evening passed with surprising swiftness. Dinner was excellent. Mrs. Tarrant kept up a light flow of conversation that prevented Jane and Vincent from thinking too much about Drusilla's absence, and afterwards they all visited the invalid.

  Mr. Tarrant turned out to be so much like Jane's elder brother, Tom, that she soon felt quite at home with him. A big, good-natured, rather slow man, he was, like others of his kind, inclined to fret at confinement. Jane soon had him laughing and relating military anecdotes, and she took satisfaction in freeing Mrs. Tarrant to visit her nursery.

  When Peggy returned, she surveyed her crotchety husband in mock surprize. "I should have suspected. He is always pretty-behaved with other females, Miss Ash."

  Tarrant gave his wife a slow grin. "Now, Peg..."

  She bent to kiss his nose. "No more frolicking, Will. You may delight Miss Ash with your tall tales tomorrow. It's half-past--"

  "Good God!" Vincent sprang from the chair in which he had been viewing the conquest of Will Tarrant. "Julian's not come. I must go at once."

  Abruptly the lighthearted mood dissolved.

  "Tell Ju to call out my people," Tarrant rumbled from the bed. "And Earnshaw. He'll need the dogs."

  Vincent went white. "The moor..."

  "Yes. He'll want to mount a search party to cover the wild ground between the Wickarts'. and Whitethorn. Go on, lad."

  Vincent vanished.

  Jane spent a night of wretched inaction. She tried to sleep and failed. The pleasant bedchamber allotted her gave over the kitchen garden, but she could see nothing at all beyond. She strained her eyes to catch the flicker of torches, and her ears after the voices of men and hounds, but she saw and heard nothing.

  The fire in her room grew sullen and, as dawn came, ashy. Finally, impatient of fruitless imaginings, she dressed, shivering, and slipped downstairs as quietly as she could in search of the kitchen. She found it quite empty, but the banked fire in the hearth gave off some warmth.

  She found candles and lit them, poked the fire, and set the kettle on the hob. A newfangled iron stove stood next the fireplace. She contemplated wrestling with it, but gave up. A pantry yielded bread and cheese and the remains of a ham. She sliced the bread and cut her finger slightly. The kettle boiled over.

  When she had made tea and eaten a piece of the bread, she felt less stupid and had almost decided to run up for her pelisse when she heard dragging footsteps on the flagway. Fumbling in her haste, she unlatched the heavy door.

  Meriden had been walking toward the main entrance around the corner of the house. When he heard her, he stopped short.

  "It's Jane. No one is awake. Please come here, sir. It's warm, and I've made tea."

  He came back, stumbling a little on the uneven flags, and entered the kitchen without speaking.

  "Drusilla?"

  He shook his head. "She didn't go in to Wickart's farm. Decided to walk from the lane, I daresay." He was hoarse and grey with weariness. "Jane, do you have something of Dru's? A sash or a scarf, perhaps?" His eyes when they met Jane's were dark with worry. "For the dogs."

  Jane swallowed hard. "I have her trunk. I'll fetch something directly, but first, sir, please sit down. There's hot tea and meat and bread. I think you did not dine last night."

  He obeyed, sitting heavily on a bench by the door. "Very well. Only please be quick. They should start as soon as may be."

  Jane brought him food and ran up the stairs and down the hallway to her room. Drusilla's trunk perched jauntily on its side. She tipped it down and wrestled it open by main force, taking no care to be quiet. Gowns, petticoats, slippers blurred before her eyes, and she shook away her tears impatiently. She pulled out a pair of jean half-boots and darted back down the stairs.

  Meriden was sitting as she'd left him, staring at the floor.

  "My lord." She held out the boots.

  "Thank you. Jane
..."

  "What is it, sir?"

  "I should have left her in Bath with her mother."

  There was such misery in his voice that Jane could have wept, but his lordship did not require a watering pot. He required bracing.

  She said as acidly as she could, "Yes, indeed, the very thing. She would then, no doubt, have run away to Bristol and shipped out as a cabin boy. My dear sir, it is Drusilla we are speaking of, not some mythical, docile female who does as she's bid and stays put. And if you do not drink your tea, I shall pour it over yourhead."

  Chapter XVII

  It was Thorpe, not the dogs, who found Drusilla. About ten o'clock he came across her stumbling down a gorse-dotted hillock and sniffling loudly. She was wet, muddy, frightened and hungry, but otherwise quite unharmed, and had spent the night in an empty shepherd's cot. The previous day and a half she had apparently wandered in widening circles west of Whitethorn and sustained nature with a bag of boiled sweets.

  This much Jane learnt from Drusilla later. Thorpe's arrival at the Tarrants' with his charge--heralded as it was by a whooping, hallooing Vincent who had ridden on ahead to spread the good news--was the occasion for more farce than drama.

  Drusilla looked so ridiculous riding pillion behind Thorpe, with her faithful bandbox bumping the horse's rump, that every dignified reproach Jane had rehearsed went by the board.

  She dissolved into unladylike snickers. "Lady Hester Stanhope, I presume. Or is it the Rose of the Pyrenees?"

  Drusilla gave her a look of loathing and slipped to the ground on Vincent's arm.

  Jane composed herself. "Mrs. Tarrant, I must make Meriden's younger sister known to you. Her fame has preceded her."

  "How do you do, Drusilla?" said Peggy Tarrant kindly.

  Drusilla stood looking up at her from the bottom step. Her lip began to quiver. "I meant to be a help to you, ma'am, and instead I've been a trial. I'm sorry." She burst into tears, and Mrs. Tarrant enveloped her in a warm hug.

  She glowered over Drusilla's head at Jane and Vincent and Thorpe. "Poor baby. I daresay Julian has been jawing at you, too."

  "N-no," Drusilla sobbed, "and I would feel so much better if he had."