It did not take many minutes to locate the source of the voices, for she had only to follow the sound as they both continued to call for the errant Tamasine. Rounding the corner of the building, she caught sight of two people at a little distance, walking just within the grounds of the Dower House. Ottilia cupped her hands to her mouth and hailed them.
“Sir Joslin!”
She had to call again before he halted, turning in her direction. Ottilia waved and kept walking towards him, calling out as she did so. “We have Tamasine safe, sir.”
He put up a hand in acknowledgement, called out to his companion, who was standing some feet away from him, and immediately set a path towards Ottilia.
After Tamasine’s extraordinary remarks about her guardian, Ottilia was agreeably surprised to see as he neared that he was a personable man, with a significant tan to his skin which lent credence to the notion of the party having been recently abroad in a hotter climate. Sir Joslin was a good deal older than his ward, rather loose-limbed and tall, and wearing just now an expression both dour and exasperated. A sheen of sweat upon his brow, despite the cold, indicated the energetic hunt in which he had been engaged. Ottilia’s sympathy stirred. Young Tamasine must be a trying burden.
The woman who accompanied him appeared to be more harassed than upset, an intense look of concern visible in an otherwise pleasant countenance of indeterminate age. She was clearly mature, but not yet of middle years. Ottilia put her on a par with herself at thirty. Her complexion was a trifle sallow, but not tanned, which suggested either that she had not been with the company in a different country or that she took sensible precautions to keep her face out of the sun.
“I hope my ward has not proved a nuisance to Lady Polbrook, ma’am,” said Sir Joslin as he came up.
He sounded a trifle out of breath and seemed to speak with a little effort. Ottilia hastened to disclaim, putting out a hand in a friendly way.
“Nothing of the sort. How do you do, Sir Joslin? May we dispense with formality? I am Lady Francis Fanshawe.”
He dipped his head in a bow and Ottilia was impressed with the firmness of his handshake, but faintly dismayed by the slight dampness of his ungloved palm. He gestured to the female who was with him.
“Miss Ingleby, Tamasine’s companion.”
Ottilia smiled at the woman. “I wish I might wholly reassure you, but I am sorry to say that Tamasine has suffered a slight accident.”
“Oh, no, what now?” Miss Ingleby sounded despairing.
A frown creased Sir Joslin’s brow. “Is she much hurt?”
“She cut her hand. I was just removing some splinters of glass when we heard you calling.” Inviting them both with a gesture to accompany her, Ottilia turned for the house. “If you don’t mind waiting, perhaps it might be best if I complete the task before you take her home.”
“You are very kind.’
A mechanical tone. Was Miss Ingleby’s mind on other matters?
“To tell you the truth, I am afraid I may be a little to blame. I saw her from my bedchamber window, you see, and waved. I think she may have taken it for an invitation to come and find me.”
There was no reply to this, but Ottilia saw the two exchange a glance which she was at a loss to interpret. It had not occurred to her to pretend ignorance of the evident peculiarities of the girl’s character, but she sensed unease. Were they merely embarrassed? Or could they possibly imagine Tamasine’s condition might be concealed? She tried again.
“I take it she gave you the slip, Miss Ingleby?”
The woman reddened, and it was Sir Joslin who answered, his tone repressive.
“Tamasine is fond of early morning outings. I have spoken to her before about going out unaccompanied, but girls, alas, are too often headstrong.”
The absurdity of this was patent. Headstrong? The child was no ordinary girl, to be coupled with flighty behaviour. Nor could Ottilia believe that Tamasine had the slightest notion of the shibboleths governing the conduct of young ladies, even had she been previously under a laxer rule than obtained in England. She had the mind of an infant, if indeed she had any normality of mind at all. She chose her words with care.
“I imagine you must be anxious to keep her protected, as lovely as she is.”
Sir Joslin had stiffened at the first part of this speech, but at this he relaxed a little. “Indeed.”
“She is not yet out, you see.” Miss Ingleby spoke on a note of apology. “We cannot have all the young bucks after her before she has been presented.”
Ottilia was at a loss how to reply to so blatant a lie. How in the world could a female with Tamasine’s obvious disadvantages possibly make her debut in polite society? Irritated, she was moved to blast this nonsense.
“Dear me. I daresay the advent of my nephew Giles into Tamasine’s life is most unwelcome. Although at two and twenty, as Tamasine confided to me, she must be anxious to spread her wings.”
She had expected Sir Joslin to be effectually silenced, but he proved to be made of sterner stuff.
“Lord Bennifield is naturally welcome in our home, but I cannot sanction any further meetings with Tamasine. I accept his lordship’s explanation that he encountered my ward by chance.”
And there the matter rested, for they were approaching the French windows to the parlour. Thoroughly disappointed to find Tamasine’s guardian so foolish as to attempt concealment, Ottilia could almost wish the girl would confound the fellow with a series of untoward remarks. With some relish, she pointed out the broken pane of glass.
“I’m afraid poor Tamasine put her hand through there.”
Miss Ingleby gasped out, but Sir Joslin frowned her down. “I trust you have not been burgled? Did it happen during the night?”
“No one saw the glass in the process of breaking, if that is what you mean.”
Aware she was being as evasive as the guardian, she found him tight-lipped as he stared at the jagged hole. Had a trifle of pallor entered his features under the tan? Satisfied at these signs of discomfiture, Ottilia opened the door.
“Do come in, both of you, but be careful of the broken glass on the carpet.”
Entering ahead of them and taking care where she stepped, she saw that Teresa Mellis had taken over the task she had abandoned, no doubt set thereto by Sybilla, and the company had been augmented by Francis.
Ottilia caught his expression as his gaze rested on Tamasine before his head turned in her direction. The frank admiration in his face caused her an unexpected pang and it was a moment before she could speak. By the time she had recovered herself, both Miss Ingleby and Sir Joslin Cadel were in the parlour and Tamasine’s bright smile was in place.
“I knew you would find me, and I was not cold at all, and Lady Fan mended my hand.”
She was pointing at Ottilia with her free hand, the other still firmly grasped by the dowager, who inclined her head towards the newcomers.
“Sir Joslin.”
Then Sybilla was acquainted with the man. It was evident she had heard something of Tamasine before, although clearly not from this source.
Sir Joslin bowed. “Forgive this intrusion, my lady. I think you have not met Miss Ingleby, my ward’s companion.”
Sybilla acknowledged the presence of the woman with a nod, and returned her glance to the guardian. “I am glad to have the opportunity of speaking to you, sir, for I must offer my regrets that such an accident should befall your ward in my house.”
At this, Miss Ingleby spoke up. “It is for Tamasine to apologise. She should not have trespassed in your grounds.”
The dowager raised her brows. “No apology is necessary. Miss Roy is welcome to wander here if she wishes.”
“Your ladyship is uncommonly forbearing,” cut in Sir Joslin, “but my ward will not trouble you further, I believe.”
“It is no trouble. Besides, I daresay Miss Roy must feel a restriction in our limited estates here. I gather these sugar plantations are substantial properties. Barbados, was it not?�
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Ottilia’s ears pricked up. That explained the nickname. Then the child must have been referring to sugar canes. She made a mental note to quiz Sybilla on the subject the moment the visitors had departed.
“Indeed, ma’am. My cousin’s plantation was extensive and it is true that Tamasine was able to roam free. There were slaves enough to look out for her.”
The mention of slaves brought about a dismaying silence, and Ottilia looked swiftly towards her husband. Francis’s eyebrow quirked and he flashed a glance at his mother, whose views were known to Ottilia. The dowager was a staunch abolitionist, as evidenced when her tone became icy.
“Teresa, have you done?”
Miss Mellis sat back with a nod, and Ottilia went across to the group on the sofa, relieved to be able to promote a change of subject. “Have you found all?”
“I can see no more, but perhaps you had best check, Lady Francis. Your eyes are younger.”
She stood up as she spoke, effacing herself into a corner as was her custom. Ottilia thanked her and took her place on the floor.
With one of her characteristic laughs, Tamasine piped up. “I was a pin cushion, Lavinia.”
“I hope not, my dear,” said her duenna in a tone that showed clearly she did not appreciate the humour of this remark. “We will bandage your hand presently.”
“Let me do that.” Ottilia indicated the lint and bandages Miss Mellis had brought down.
Miss Ingleby came towards the sofa. “No, indeed, ma’am, you have been incommoded far too much already. If you are satisfied there are no more splinters, pray leave the rest to me.”
It was plain she was anxious to be gone, which was unsurprising, Ottilia thought, considering the evasive manner of their earlier discourse. Glancing across at the guardian, she saw Sir Joslin was leaning on a chair back as he waited. The pose was nonchalant, but an oddity about it slipped into the back of Ottilia’s mind.
She laid down the magnifying glass with which she had been subjecting Tamasine’s hand to a minute inspection. “I cannot see any more splinters.”
“Then come, Tamasine,” said Sir Joslin in a voice of authority, straightening up.
The girl rose with alacrity. “Lady Fan said I was a fairy dancing in the snow.”
Ottilia forgot the reserve exhibited by the guardian and his companion. “And so you were. It gave me a deal of pleasure to watch you.”
Miss Ingleby had taken hold of the girl’s wrist, and Ottilia noted the tightness of her grip. She turned her charge towards the dowager. “You must thank her ladyship for taking care of you, Tamasine.”
Tamasine remained where she had been put, but she did not address Sybilla, instead directing her remarks towards her companion. “You didn’t catch me, Lavinia. I have had a lovely time, and now you may take me back to my eyrie.”
It was said on a note of gaiety, but Ottilia, watching closely, saw the same faint look of malevolence in the blue eyes that the girl had worn earlier in addressing Teresa Mellis. An impulse to prolong the departure came over her and she used the first excuse that came to mind.
“Before you go, Sir Joslin, allow me to present my husband, Lord Francis Fanshawe.”
The two men exchanged bows, and Francis then inclined his head to include Miss Ingleby, who dipped a slight curtsy.
“Forgive me, sir, if we hurry away.”
Ottilia caught her husband’s eye and he rose immediately to the occasion.
“You must do as you see fit, ma’am. But may we perhaps offer you some refreshment before you go?”
“Breakfast perhaps,” came tartly from Sybilla, and Ottilia knew her scheme was frustrated.
Sir Joslin bowed. “We will not impose upon you any further, ma’am.” He glanced at the two females and gestured to the door. “Lavinia.”
Thus adjured, Miss Ingleby said a hasty farewell and drew Tamasine towards the French window. The child made no effort to speak a word of farewell or thanks to anyone in the room, but in the silence left behind, her voice was clearly audible from outside.
“Why did we not have breakfast? I am very hungry, you know. I hope you may have something better for me at home than bread and water.”
Francis waited a moment for the echoes to die away, and then fixed his gaze upon his wife. She was looking a deal brighter than she had done earlier, undoubtedly due to her interest in the present rigmarole with these strangers and that peculiar girl.
“Tillie, what in the world was all that about?”
But his wife was forestalled by his mother. “You may well ask.” She gestured to the window. “You will note the wretched fellow made no offer to have the glass mended.”
“Oh, I have sent for Grig, Sybilla.”
Teresa’s intervention went unheeded. “If this is a sample of West Indian manners, I shall soon be wishing the fellow otherwhere.”
To his relief, Tillie put a question. “You have met him before?”
“He had the decency to make a courtesy call, but I’ve not seen hide nor hair of the fellow since.”
“Is he one of these sugar barons?” Francis cut in before his mother could launch into a tirade.
“Not he, but his cousin was. Tamasine’s father.”
“Is he dead?” asked Tillie. “Who was he?”
“Matthew Roy. One of the Cornwall Roys, I believe.”
This was puzzling to Francis. “Why in the world did they not settle in Cornwall then?”
Tillie’s clear gaze came back to his face. “By Sir Joslin’s attitude, I imagine they were anxious to conceal Tamasine’s condition from the family.”
“You think there is something seriously wrong with her?”
A jerking movement drew Francis’s attention to his mother’s companion and he saw her give a distinct shudder. The dowager had also seen it.
“What in the world is to do, Teresa?”
“Something wrong? You have only to look at the window!” She turned to Francis. “Is there nothing we may do while we wait for Grig to repair it?”
He was provoked into flippancy. “Remove to the drawing room upstairs.”
“Pull the drape across, Francis.”
He went to the window to do his mother’s bidding, but again looked to his wife. “Yes, but what is all this about the window?”
“Miss Mellis thinks Tamasine deliberately broke the glass so that she might get in.”
“Great heavens! That little slip of a thing?”
“My thoughts exactly, Mama.” Francis paused as he set a hand to the curtain, looking back to where Teresa was perched in her usual prim fashion on the edge of a chair near the fire. “It takes a deal of strength to smash through glass.”
“She punched it.”
“With her fist? Are you sure, Teresa?”
“I saw her put her hand through the hole.”
As much astonished by this sudden garrulousness on Teresa’s part as by what she had said, Francis wordlessly brought his gaze to bear again on his wife.
“If she did not do it, how was the glass broken, Fan?”
A thought occurred to Francis and he pulled the curtain aside again, searching about the debris on the carpet.
“What are you looking for?”
“Unless the girl’s hand was severely bruised,” he answered, turning his attention to the area further afield from the French windows, “I suspect there will be a stone in here somewhere. It may have rolled some distance.”
“A stone?” His mother’s tone was arctic and Francis inwardly groaned. “You are saying that mindless child deliberately took a stone and smashed the glass just to get into my parlour?”
A fragment of grey beneath the escritoire near the door caught Francis’s eye. “Aha.” He crossed swiftly towards it and bent down. “There we are. The wall must have stopped it.” Seizing the object, he rose with it in his hand, hefting it for weight. It fitted neatly into his palm.
Tillie came to meet him, looking closely at the offending missile. “It looks quite small.”<
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“Small but serviceable.” He met his wife’s searching glance. “Not the work of a mindless child, Tillie.”
“No, indeed.”
He noted the worried frown between her brows. “What did you make of her?”
An odd look flashed in her eyes and her tone was strangely brittle. “Apart from her extraordinary beauty, you mean?”
Taken aback, Francis wondered what in the world this signified. Some instinct warned him to refrain from asking in company. Instead he held her gaze. “Yes, she is ravishing. But it does not take a genius to see how weirdly she behaves.”
“I should think not indeed,” came tartly from his mother. “Anyone can tell there is something amiss, as Teresa says.”
Francis ignored this. “Tillie?”
The odd look had vanished and his wife’s expression now was merely troubled. She did not answer but instead moved away towards the sofa, her gaze going to Teresa. “Miss Mellis, what do you really think?”
Surprised, Francis looked quickly across at his mother and caught her eye. That she was as much astonished to hear Teresa’s opinion being sought was plain enough. But he had not become acquainted with his wife’s mental powers for nothing. If Tillie turned to his mother’s companion for her views, she had a sufficient reason. But Francis was unprepared for Teresa’s terse response.
“I think she is deranged.”
Predictably, his mother exploded. “Deranged? That is all I need! It is not enough for my son to scandalise society by marrying his mistress in unseemly haste. Now my grandson must needs make a fool of himself over a girl who is fit for Bedlam.”
This was news to Francis. “Giles? How so?”
“According to that idiotic girl, he dances attendance on her every day. And I have no doubt the whole affair is clandestine.”
Francis sighed. “Like father, like son?”
“Not in the least,” came the snapping response. “Such conduct is far more in the vein of his mother than of Randal. And right on Phoebe’s doorstep too.”
Since his deceased sister-in-law’s amours had been all too public, this comparison seemed unfair and Francis did not hesitate to speak his mind. “You can hardly blame the boy for being bowled over. And I have yet to learn that Giles is in the habit of chasing after every petticoat who comes within his ken.”
The Opium Purge (Lady Fan Mystery Book 3) Page 3