His hand slowed, and he gazed dreamily at the unfinished note. Her rages were usually brief, for her nature was too sunny for her to sulk or hold anger. She was probably unhappy at this moment, bless her, regretting her hasty tongue. Or perhaps she was asleep, if her maid had left her in peace. He smiled the fond smile of lovers and, taking up his note, put it down again as rapid hoofbeats clattered over the stone bridge. If this was Paige returning, he must be foxed to gallop his prized horse, Trouble, at such a rate.
Candlestick in hand, he limped to the stairs, unease touching him now, because the clamour of the bell was accompanied by Paige shouting his name. That was no drunken outcry. Something was wrong.
Thornhill, the large and majestic major domo at Alabaster, hurried across the entrance hall and flung the door wide. Manderville strode in, shivering with the cold and clearly agitated. “Has the master retired, Thorny?”
“No.” Vespa came quickly to join him. “What’s amiss?”
Manderville searched his face in an oddly desperate fashion. “Is Consuela here?”
“Of course she’s not here!” A part of Vespa’s mind registered the fact that Thornhill was poking up the fire in the drawing room. The implications were obvious. Trying not to panic, he said, “Come. I’ll get you some brandy. You look half frozen.”
“Only half?” Manderville’s laugh was short and strained. Pulling off his gauntlets he crossed the big room to warm his hands at the fire.
Vespa offered a glass of cognac. He was pale now and deeply apprehensive. Marvelling at the steadiness of his hand, Manderville said, “You staff officers! You’re a breed apart!” He took a mouthful of the liquor and sprawled in a chair. “God! I’d prayed she was here!”
“You’re quite certain she’s not at the cottage, I take it?”
“We’ve searched it from cellars to attic. There’s not a sign of her. That wailing woman of hers had fallen asleep in her room and didn’t wake until Consuela’s supper tray was carried upstairs an hour ago.”
‘Steady! Steady! Keep your wits about you,’ thought Vespa, but his voice was harsh with strain when he said, “She was upset. She likely went for a ride and stopped to call on someone.”
“The hacks are all accounted for. But her new winter cloak is gone, and— The dog, by George! Has Corporal come home?”
“No. If he’s missing also I expect she took him for a walk.” But if that was the case, she wouldn’t have stayed out after dark. Unless she had fallen … The spectre of the quarry rose up to haunt Vespa. She wouldn’t go there, surely? Not after the nightmare they’d all lived through in those ghastly tunnels!
Watching him, Manderville said, “We’ve half the village out searching, Jack. I made a detour at the quarry on my way here. The tunnel’s still boarded up.”
“Thank God!” But Vespa was plagued by a dread vision of his little love lying somewhere, alone in the dark, hurt and afraid, needing him. He turned to tug on the bellrope, but glanced up to find his small staff gathered by the door. Thornhill, the tall and majestic former actor; Harper, short, bow-legged, ex-Navy, who had come close to starving before becoming Alabaster’s manservant; Peg, ‘fair, fat, and forty’ as she described herself, and who had led the chequered life of a barmaid before joining the household as parlourmaid; and the very stout Henri, the latest addition to the staff, who had tumbled down a steep bank while poaching two rabbits and, fully expecting to be hanged, had instead been hired upon revealing that he had once been a chef ‘Par excellence!’ The back door creaked open and hurried footsteps announced the arrival of Hezekiah Strickley, formerly the caretaker and now steward/head groom. The thin, harsh-featured man looked around the gathering and asked, “What’s to do, Captain?”
“Miss Consuela is lost,” said Vespa. “She was at her home this afternoon, but has not been there since about four o’clock. Have any of you seen her?”
No one had seen her.
Manderville said, “Corporal was with her. Is he somewhere about?”
Heads were shaken. Corporal had not been seen either. They all looked apprehensive.
“The village people are out and looking for her,” said Vespa. “It’s late and it’s very cold outside, but there’s a bright moon and we dare not wait for daylight. You men go and dress warmly, and we’ll join the search. Hezekiah, we’ll need lanterns and torches.”
They dispersed at once.
Vespa stood motionless, his eyes blank. Manderville gripped his shoulder. “We’ll find her, old fellow. Never worry so.”
“I keep thinking…” Vespa’s hands clenched hard. “I keep thinking of that rogue who tried so slyly to pry information from her—about Kincraig. If Imre Monteil has—taken her…!” He drew a shaking hand across his eyes.
Manderville’s grip tightened. “Steady, old lad! She needs you now.”
“Yes.” The bowed shoulders were squared, the fair head came up. “Thank you, Paige. I’ll get a pistol.”
“I have brought one, sir.” Thornhill paced in carrying Vespa’s cloak, boots and gloves. “Hezekiah is saddling up Secrets, and Peg is preparing hot soup.”
“You are all—so good,” said Vespa.
Settling the cloak carefully across his shoulders, Thornhill boomed with rare brevity, “We are your people, Captain.”
Manderville thought, ‘And they all would die for him! He hasn’t got my looks, or Toby’s brains, or a great fortune. How in heaven’s name does he do it?’
“You’ll stay at Alabaster, if you please, Thorny,” said Vespa. “I want someone here in case Miss Consuela should come. Or Corporal.”
The valet looked worried. “I should be with you, sir. Peg will be here.”
“Yes, but I don’t want her left alone. Ready, Paige?”
Thornhill swung the front door open. “God go with you, Captain!”
* * *
Consuela whispered, “Nonna is likely talking to Saint Peter by now, but I am asking you, dear Mama. How I fall into these dreadful scrapes I do not know, but if you could contrive to bring me safe out of this one, I would truly be very grateful!”
Her attempt to escape before the carriage drove away had failed miserably. The left-hand door latch was so stiff it might as well have been nailed shut, and all she’d achieved was to break three fingernails in her attempts to open it. Desperate, she’d taken off her boot and hit the silly thing. It had been the magical solution. As if cowed, the handle had yielded easily to her next attempt. Overjoyed, she’d started to open the door, only to hear Lieven’s voice, very close by, saying he thought he’d heard something. Monteil’s cold words, ‘Could I but get my hands on her…’ had seemed to thunder in her ears again, and she’d hidden under the rug. A moment later the carriage had lurched and started off. Helpless, she had hugged Corporal and prayed they would stop somewhere so that she might slip out.
It had begun to get dark, but they had left the fog behind and the team had increased its pace. The steady pound of hooves and the rocking of the carriage had made her drowsy. If they’d stopped anywhere she hadn’t felt it, and had been bewildered to awaken to shouts and moonlight. Peeping from the window she’d glimpsed a quay where fishing boats bobbed and sails flapped and men ran about with lanterns or wind-whipped torches. A horse had been led past, and someone had shouted, “Look sharp, mates! We’ll have the Riding Officers down here ’fore the roach can run!” There had been no sign of an inn or tavern. It had dawned on her then that the coach was to be shipped. Frantic, she had wrenched the door open. Corporal had jumped out and gone scampering off, but before she could follow, the big coachman and two rough-looking seamen had come clumping up, and she’d had to swing the door shut quickly. Men were all about the coach then, chains were being lowered, and she’d had to return to her refuge under the rug lest someone should glance inside and see her.
There had been a horrible lurch, a rocking sensation, howls of “Keep clear o’ the mast, you stupid block!” and “Ye be too far to starboard!” and, more terrifying than the res
t: “Careful, dang yer eyes, or ye’ll swing right over the side!” Flung about dizzyingly, preparing to faint, Consuela had been plunged into deeper darkness, landing with a thud that had rattled her teeth. She’d huddled under her rug, trembling, grateful to be alive, knowing that the carriage was now in the hold of some large fishing boat, probably setting off on an illegal run for France.
Now was her chance! The boat must have a captain. She could appeal to him for help, and Monteil would not dare … But seamen laboured all about the carriage, cursing and straining to load boxes and crates and heavy objects that shook the floor. By the dim light of a lantern their faces looked dark and villainous. In her agitated state she thought they were probably all smugglers who would fear she’d report them to the authorities and be more likely to throw her overboard than to help. Peeping out, she caught sight of the great Chinese coachman, watching. And she was too afraid to move.
For an eternity the uproar had continued. Before it eased the sudden jolts had settled into a steady rising and falling motion. With a sob Consuela realized they were putting out to sea. Her chance to get away was gone. She was all alone in this beastly coach, with not even Corporal to keep her company, and she was cold and very hungry and in great need of a room with a washbowl and towel—and other amenities.
It was chill and stuffy in the hold, the only light coming from a lantern that hung swaying beside a ladder, and was too far from her to do much to alleviate the gloom. Horses were stamping and snorting somewhere. She felt utterly helpless and for once her resolute spirit was daunted. She thought of her beloved Jack, so far away, and of Grandmama and Paige, and even Manning, all worried and searching for her, as they would certainly be by this time. Whatever was to become of her? Who would protect her? If that horrid Monsieur Monteil caught sight of her he would certainly either hand her over to the authorities, or kidnap her away. ‘Could I but get my hands on her…’ She shivered. And what possible chance would she have against him and his gigantic Chinese servant?
She found that she was crying. Disgusted by such weakness she dashed her tears away with the heel of her hand. One might suppose she had never been in danger before, that she must now turn into such a weak-kneed watering pot! Only a little while ago she’d been trapped in a hideous quarry with men who were even more evil than Monsieur Monteil—at least, she hoped they were. Whatever else, she didn’t think Monteil had murder in mind. So why was she snivelling?
What she must do was behave as Grandmama and Papa would have expected. She had, so Nonna insisted, royal blood in her veins. It was time to start living up to it! First of all, she would get out of this revolting coach. She opened the door cautiously. Ti Chiu had gone at last and there were no other men to be seen. The hold was crammed with boxes and bales, great coils of rope, large barrels and smaller tubs. There was very little space between the coach and what appeared to be an empty horse-box with steel bars comprising the walls and roof. She squeezed through the coach door, and was trying to push it shut again when a warm breeze blew on the back of her neck. Paralyzed with fright, she stood utterly still. The breeze blew at her again. She thought numbly that whoever was behind her had very nasty breath. Perhaps, if she moved quickly enough, she could elude him. He said something in a growl of a voice. It must be that giant coachman, she thought with an inner moan of despair, and how could she run when there was scarcely room to move? If she bribed the great brute, perhaps he would take pity on her.
She gathered her courage, jerked around, and came nose to nose with a very big brown bear.
She was not conscious of having screamed, nor of having moved, but somehow she was kneeling on top of a bale, a good ten feet from the cage. The light was a little brighter here and she saw the bear drop down to all fours and mutter to itself disconsolately. Even as her heartbeat began to ease to a gallop she realized that there was something else alive nearby. Strange snuffling sounds were coming from below her bale. She peered through the gloom. A small figure lay writhing about on the floor.
“Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “Are you ill?”
There came a heart-rending wail. The small figure resolved itslef into a boy. Consuela climbed from the bale and bent to offer a helping hand. He sat up and leant back against the bale, drying his tears, and moaning feebly.
“Poor boy,” she said. “I’ll go and fetch help.”
“I never…” he gasped, “saw anyone move so quick … in all my life!”
Indignant, Consuela drew back. “You are laughing at me! Horrid creature!”
“Well, anyone would. You were so—funny.” He sighed, and dabbed at his eyes again. “Why did you stay in the coach? Are you a stowaway?”
“No. I am just hiding from—from somebody.”
“Who? The Excisemen?”
“From a very unpleasant person.”
“Oh. I thought I heard someone crying. I ’spect it was you. Girls are always crying about something or other.”
“I’m afraid it was me. I’ve been in that horrid carriage for hours, and—I’m so cold and hungry, and—if I could just go to a cabin and wash and tidy myself, I think I could bear it.” She knew she’d sounded forlorn and added quickly, “What are you doing down here?”
“Oh, I’m hiding too.” He sounded miserable. “My uncle said he had come to my school in England to take me home to Paris, but I heard him paying a man to throw me overboard.”
Horrified, Consuela exclaimed, “My goodness! We must tell the captain at once!”
“I tried to, but my uncle’s with him. He’s very rich, now. Till I grow up.”
“Is he your guardian, then?”
“Yes. He wants my fortune. I’ve tried to tell them, but they won’t believe me. He gets whatever he wants. He’s a very bad man. I’m doomed.”
“Indeed you are not,” she declared, stroking his thick hair comfortingly. “But you must have some help. You’re much too young to fight him all alone.”
He said staunchly, “No I’m not. I’m—er, twelve!”
He looked more like eight. His coat was well-cut, his shirt gleamingly white. Lurid as it was, his tale might very well be truth. She said, “I’ll help you if I can. But—would you be brave enough to help me first?”
“’Course I would. Come on. I’ll take you to my cabin, and I’ll get you something to eat.” He looked at her skirts dubiously. “You’ll have to climb up the ladder. Can you?”
Consuela assured him she could, and followed as he went up the rungs with the nimble ease of childhood. At the top, he pushed back the hatchway with much huffing and puffing, and peeped out.
Consuela smelled sea air, cold and fresh, and heard voices, flapping sails and ropes and the thud of the bow slicing through the waves.
The boy turned his head. “What does your nasty man look like? There’s a great big fellow hanging over the rail in the stern. I thought he was a pirate, but he can’t be, ’cause he’s seasick. My uncle says he’s Chinese.”
“Is there a very tall man with him?”
“No. But there was when we came aboard. He was all black and white. I ’spect he’s in his cabin. Do you want to try it now? I’ll help you.”
Consuela nodded, and clambered up eagerly. There were several men on the deck, but they were farther forward and not looking her way. She held up her hands and the boy steadied her until she stood beside him looking forlornly at a great expanse of dark tumbling waves.
“Quick, now,” he said, and guided her through an open door into a narrow passageway lit by two hanging lanterns. He flung open another door and announced, “This is our cabin.”
Willy-nilly, Consuela was pulled inside. The cabin was large and surprisingly comfortable, with two bunk beds against the walls, a washstand with soap and towels, and a small writing desk. There was no other occupant, but some large portmanteaux were stacked behind the door, and there were shaving articles on the washstand.
She turned to question the boy and was momentarily struck to silence as for the first time she s
aw him clearly. He was the most beautiful child she had ever seen, with deeply lashed green eyes, auburn curls burnished in the lamplight, a pale and clear skin and finely etched features. She thought, ‘Paige must have looked like this when he was a boy.’
“I’ll go and see if I can get you something to eat.” He opened the door, stuck his head back in and said warningly, “You best be quick ’fore my uncle comes. He’s very wicked. Especially with ladies. There’s a commode under the washstand.”
Consuela’s face flamed.
The boy shrieked with laughter and slammed the door.
* * *
“Oh, but that was just delicious!” With a contented sigh, Consuela set the empty plate aside and dabbed the napkin at her lips. She had been completing her hurried toilette when the door had swung open and the boy had returned carrying a tray of cold chicken, a hard-boiled egg, several slices of buttered bread, two large servings of crumb cake and a mug of lukewarm chocolate. Enraptured, she had at once proceeded to enjoy this feast which she’d told her youthful benefactor was ‘fit for a king.’
He had helped her dispose of the crumb cake, and while she ate had told her more of himself. His name was Pierre de Coligny. He was an only child and his life had evidently been a lonely one. At his birth his British-born Mama had extracted a promise from her husband that her son would be educated in England. He was seven years old when both parents perished in a fire and he was placed in the care of his uncle. That heartless individual had been only too willing to pack his unwanted charge off to school in England. Pierre had hoped to find friends there, but instead had been subjected to the endless beatings of the seniors, and the ridicule of the younger boys.
The Riddle of the Lost Lover Page 13