by Carol Arens
‘You have found Rosanna!’ Her cheeks were flaming with pleasure and he longed to fan them with his breath, to cover her soft skin in butterfly kisses until his mouth reached the entrancing hollow at the base of her neck.
‘You have found Rosanna?’ she repeated a little unsurely.
With a huge effort he pulled his thoughts back to the business in hand. ‘I have found her and spoken to her, but...’ his strong fingers reached out and covered her small hand ‘...but I fear that I have discovered little. Rosanna knows nothing of Gilbert’s disappearance. She admits to knowing him, but very slightly. He was a pleasant gentleman, she said, and they would exchange a few words when they encountered one another. The last time she saw him was on market day when she bumped into him by chance. She spoke to him for a few minutes only and never saw him again.’
Lizzie broke through his hand’s clasp and jumped abruptly to her feet. She stood facing him and her expression was scornful. ‘And you believed her?’
‘I must believe her.’ He rose to stand tall beside her. ‘I can see no reason for her to lie. And she confirmed something that James Armitage had already hinted—that Gil had made a friend of the excise man who died and that the man’s death upset him greatly. She wondered if Gil might have fallen prey to the blue devils because of that and his disappearance was the result.’
‘So though she knew your friend only slightly, she could discern when he was greatly upset and liable to depression!’
He felt irritated at her evident distrust. ‘I imagine the man’s death was a topic of general conversation in the town—until the magistrate ruled that it had been an accident. She would have no doubt exchanged words about it with Gil and he was never a person who could hide his feelings.’
She turned away from him, her shoulders hunched angrily.
‘Why can you not accept what she says? I asked her the same questions two or three times and always received the same answer.’
She was facing him again, looking straight into his eyes, her expression unwavering. ‘She is lying. I cannot believe you were taken in by her.’
‘Why are you so certain that she is lying? I am a good judge of character, Miss Ingram, and I can assure you that I was not taken in by her.’
‘We are not talking character here. We are talking of a beautiful woman, who no doubt fluttered her eyelashes, smiled sweetly and spoke softly.’
He flushed angrily. ‘That does not necessarily suggest that she is a liar.’
‘It does suggest, though, that you have been duped.’
‘I resent that accusation.’ He did not take kindly to having his word challenged and felt an overwhelming impulse to shake her. He had no interest in Rosanna, seductive as she was. He had no interest in any woman. No, that was no longer true. He should have no interest in any woman, he corrected himself. He could not be certain that Rosanna had told him the truth, but without an alternative, he must believe she had spoken in good faith.
‘Resent it you may, but it rings true. She has wound you round her small finger, as she does all the men of the town. She has told you a pack of lies. Of course, she knows more than she is saying and you were too besotted to make her tell you. She has deceived you.’
‘You are entitled to your opinion.’ His voice was sharp with suppressed anger. ‘I have done what I promised and can do no more.’
‘You disappoint me, Major. I had thought you more resourceful.’
He would have liked to grab her there and then and shown her just how resourceful he could be, but he had himself under control now and his tone was deliberately measured. ‘I am sorry that you are disappointed, but I trust that you will still feel able to come to Chelwood on Friday. I will send my carriage for you.’
‘Please do not concern yourself,’ she said icily. ‘If I wish, I am quite able to get to Chelwood by myself.’
His response matched hers in rancour. ‘Of course you are. How stupid of me! I had forgotten your last visit.’
And with that he turned on his heel and, without another word, strode towards the wooden steps.
Chapter Six
Lizzie stared sightlessly at the water eddying in small circles so close to her feet. She was angry and she was disappointed. Justin Delacourt had allowed himself to be duped! She was furious that he had not seen through such obvious duplicity, but disillusioned, too. Within minutes of meeting Rosanna, he had obviously succumbed to the woman’s flattery; at the first flutter of her eyelashes, he had capitulated. He was no more subtle than that, no more reliable than any soldier, no more dependable than the father who had abandoned her. Had she really allowed herself to think that just possibly she had found a man who measured up to her dreams: a man of action, brave and daring, yet one who was also steadfast and trustworthy? If so, she was more foolish than she would have believed possible.
She turned to make her way back to Brede House, feeling out of sympathy with the whole world. She needed to walk off her animosity for she was too restless to take up a book or settle to her drawing, but she could not leave the house.
Mrs Croft was in her room taking a late-afternoon nap and would need her services when she awoke, but Lizzie had to relieve her stifled feelings or she would burst. She would attack the parlour! Hester had cleaned it that very morning, but she gave that not a thought. Grabbing a dustcloth and feather duster, she began ruthlessly to scour and polish the furniture. With every vigorous lunge, she imagined her fists to be pounding a row of military chests, with every swish of the feather duster, she was decapitating a line of soldiers. The more she cleaned, the more furious her movements, so that she became a whirl of activity, filling the small room. Several ornaments wobbled beneath her hand and nearly fell from the mantelshelf, a vase narrowly avoided being swept from an occasional table, but when she snatched up the tea tray left there from Mrs Croft’s nuncheon, she did so with such violent motion that the china slid dangerously to one side and her employer’s favourite teapot left the tray and toppled towards unyielding floorboards where it broke into small pieces. She was brought to a sudden halt and was standing aghast at the carnage when Mrs Croft came slowly into the room.
The old lady blinked, surprised into stating the obvious. ‘You have had an accident, my dear.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Croft. I thought to get the parlour sparkling for you and look what I have done.’
‘Accidents will always happen, my dear. I am sure you were trying to help.’ Lizzie had the grace to feel ashamed. ‘Get Hester to clear the pieces before we sit down, will you?’
‘There’s no need to bother Hester. I can clear it quite easily myself’, and she began to shovel the sad fragments into the dustpan. ‘I know that you loved this teapot, Mrs Croft. I promise to replace it as soon as I can if you tell me where it came from.’ She could only hope that it was not an heirloom or so expensive that it was beyond her purse.
‘You must not worry yourself, Elizabeth. The pot is of no value—I believe I bought it last year from a stall in the market. It has been a good pourer, but I’m sure I must have a dozen other teapots in the cupboard.’
‘Maybe, but this one was your favourite and you must allow me to buy you another,’ Lizzie said firmly. ‘Tomorrow is market day and, if you will excuse me for just one hour, I shall get there bright and early and return with an exact replica!’
* * *
She was in the town before ten o’clock the next morning, still feeling shamefaced at yesterday’s outburst. What was it about Justin Delacourt that made her so angry? It was perhaps better not to question herself too deeply, for she had an uneasy suspicion that she would not like the answer. She must simply put him out of her mind. He was not the man on whom to pin her dreams—there never would be a dream man and Miss Bates was right when she’d advised Lizzie to be sensible in contemplating the future and to settle for a secure life. Her heart mus
t be given to a man she could depend on, or, if not her heart, at least her loyalty.
The market was already in full swing as she turned the corner of West Street and found herself outside the white frontage of the George, the oldest coaching inn in Rye. Farmers had gathered there to do business and a chatter of conversation filtered through the open windows and into the street. Lizzie walked past, her eyes fixed on the line of stalls stretching into the distance, trying to locate where she might begin to look for china. A loud cry of ‘Milk!’ rang in her ear and, alarmed, she almost cannoned into a milkmaid, painfully burdened by a wooden yoke and brimming pails, but intent on selling her wares. She walked on, passing stall after stall, amazed at the bounty on display. There were dozens of wooden trestles groaning with every conceivable fruit and vegetable and several stalls outside the baker’s with pile after unsteady pile of flat breads for sale. Everywhere mounds of clothes—men’s, women’s and children’s, of every hue and style—were tumbled together and spread on linen sheets to protect them from the dirt and damp of the cobbles. The smell of roasting meat floated in the air and mixed with that of sweetmeats, making her feel slightly nauseous. Several people were already eating, seated on upturned barrels or using them as makeshift tables.
The market snaked right into Lion Street and she followed the line of stalls until at last she came to those displaying china at the quieter end of the thoroughfare. Here a street artist had set himself up, perched precariously on a folding stool, but vociferous in his invitation to the passing crowd to have their likeness drawn. She wandered slowly from stall to stall, picking up a cup here, a saucer and plate there, looking for the elusive pot. There were numerous teapots, but none that seemed a match for the one she had so carelessly destroyed. She turned and walked back down the road again, once more past the artist and once more refusing his offer. She could draw her own likeness if she had a mind. But in pausing to walk around the seated figure, she discovered a stall she had not seen before, half-hidden by the man’s bulk. She saw the pot immediately and pounced. Surely it was an exact match. She was about to ask its price from the stallholder when a small ripple ran through the crowd. Almost a frisson of nervousness, she thought, seeming to affect all those around her. The buzz of chatter dwindled to nothing and the stallholder’s attention was lost; he was no longer looking at her, but up the street in the direction she had come. She followed his glance and caught her breath.
It was Rosanna, her voluptuous curves gowned this morning in bright emerald silk and her ample bosom sporting a neckline so low that she was almost unclothed. It was downright indecent, Lizzie thought. No wonder the crowd had held their breath. But accompanying Rosanna was a man, one of the group Lizzie had spied days ago at the window of the Mermaid Inn. It was the tow-headed man, the man with a face that spoke wickedness! Rosanna was clinging to him, gazing dotingly into his eyes, occasionally pressing her lips to his as arm in arm they strolled leisurely along the pavement towards the High Street, looking neither to left nor to right. People instantly made way for the couple, averting their eyes. They had passed Lizzie now and were disappearing around the corner; an almost audible sigh flowed through the crowd, a gasp as everyone once more began to breathe easily.
Lizzie turned to the stallholder. ‘Who was that?’
‘Them’s folk yer don’t want to know, miss.’
‘Everyone else seems to know them.’
‘That woman ain’t fit for decent society.’ The man spat disparagingly on to the cobbles.
‘And the man?’ Lizzie persevered.
The stallholder lowered his voice. ‘He’s a bad lot, a very bad lot. Name of Thomas Chapman. That’s all yer need to know.’
It meant nothing to her. ‘Is the name of Chapman important then?’
‘You’m a furriner, I take it. You keep clear of all the Chapmans, believe you me. Them’s a bad lot,’ he repeated.
‘But how?’
‘You’m a persistent one, ain’t you, missy? That man’s grandfather was George Chapman, the George Chapman, but no doubt yer never heard o’ him?’
‘No,’ she said, bewildered.
His voice dropped again, almost to a whisper. ‘Gibbeted he were, on Hurst Green.’
She stared. ‘Shocked yer, haven’t I? But he were part of the worst gang ever. Notorious they were. The Hawkhurst Gang—a bloodthirsty lot, cruel and violent. They terrorised this part o’ the world fer years and George, well, he murdered a revenue officer who were doing his duty. Then he paid the price.’ His tone expressed satisfaction.
‘So George Chapman was a smuggler?’
‘Told yer, didn’t I? One o’ the Hawkhurst gang.’
‘And this man?’
The stall holder spat again. ‘Like father, like son. Or in this case, like grandfather.’
‘Thomas Chapman is a smuggler?’
The man hastily shushed her and looked warily around. ‘Never say that. Remember, them’s that asks no questions ain’t told no lie—watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!’
‘But I understood there was no longer smuggling in this area.’ She remembered what Justin had told her. ‘There are preventives along the coast, is that not right?’
The man snorted. ‘What use are a few of them against that band of cut throats? There are two revenue cutters...’ he held up his fingers, counting them out, one, two ‘...two between here and Poole! The Stag were here last week and we won’t see the ship again for nigh on a month. Plenty of time for the mice to play, wouldn’t you say?’
‘But there are revenue men on shore. Excise men? I heard there was one based in Rye until a short time ago.’
A frightened look crossed his face and he hastily took the teapot from her hand, wrapping it in string and brown paper. She wanted to ask him more, ask what he knew of the dead excise man, but his face told her that he would say nothing. He might even refuse to serve her if she persisted in her questions and send her away empty-handed. She passed over the coins and turned for home.
Her mind was teeming. From the first time she had set eyes on Thomas Chapman, she had known that he was bad through and through. She had not known why, but every nerve in her body had told her that it was so. And now it appeared that Rosanna was an intimate of his, in fact, far more than an intimate. She was not simply the woman who happily replenished the men’s tankards at the Mermaid Inn, but Thomas Chapman’s lover. She must know what had happened to the excise man, Lizzie thought, and more to the point, she must know what had happened to Gilbert Armitage. But what was Justin’s friend doing with a woman who was so evidently another man’s lover? Had he not known of the relationship? He could not have done and Rosanna had played him for a fool. It was the only explanation. Gil Armitage was a wealthy young man and ripe for the plucking. She had no doubt played him cleverly, encouraged him in his infatuation to shower gifts on her and expensive gifts at that. She would get precious few from Thomas, Lizzie was sure. But what a tangle! Rosanna was in thrall to the evil Thomas while Gilbert was in thrall to her.
* * *
She walked swiftly back to Brede House, feeling vindicated. She had been right and Justin Delacourt had been wrong. It hardly mattered, though. His friend had fallen into the clutches of a desperate gang of men, it seemed, and wherever he was, he needed to be rescued. The only person who could do that was Justin. But he knew nothing about Rosanna’s insidious connection and would have to be told. The future happiness of the Armitage family depended on her sounding the alarm, she realised. But how was she to alert Justin? He was unlikely to visit Brede House in the near future. She could write him a letter telling him of her discovery, but would he even read it? They were hardly on speaking terms, after all. And if he did read the letter, would he believe her? Past experience was not encouraging. But she had to speak to him, make him see that he must act immediately if Gilbert were to be saved. Despite her promise to k
eep away, she must go to Chelwood—there was no other option.
* * *
‘I hope you will feel able to go to Sir Justin’s entertainment, my dear. Hester can accompany you.’
Mrs Croft fixed Lizzie with an anxious gaze as the young girl poked the fire into a comforting warmth. She was settled for the evening in her favourite chair, but something was marring her contentment. She had been speaking of Chelwood, as she often did, though always in relation to Sir Lucien, her mind taking pleasure in wandering the byways of the past. It saddened Lizzie to see the way that the world narrowed so drastically with age, and the ability to look forwards was overtaken by the enjoyment of looking back.
‘I would like to go, Mrs Croft,’ she said, excusing herself the small, white lie.
Her employer’s face cleared. ‘That is good news, Elizabeth. I feel that one of us should be there, but I very much feared that you had decided not to attend.’
‘My gown has been concerning me.’ Another white lie. ‘It is sure to be a grand affair, despite Sir Justin’s mourning, and it has worried me that I might appear poorly dressed in a gathering of Rye’s finest.’
The old lady leant forwards, her face warm and her eyes alert. ‘If that is the problem, I may be able to help you.’
Lizzie looked puzzled. Was Mrs Croft about to double her wages? She did not think so. And surely she could not be suggesting that she donated one of her own gowns. Lizzie was a fine needlewoman, but the stiff taffetas and voluminous skirts of the old lady’s generation would defeat even her dexterity.
‘My granddaughter—’ Mrs Croft broke off, finding it difficult to continue. Lizzie looked astonished. She had not known there was a granddaughter or even that Mrs Croft had once been married. She’d hardly considered the matter, but if she had, she might have concluded that the Mrs was simply a courtesy title, so very spinsterish was Henrietta.
‘I had a granddaughter,’ the old lady tried again. She paused for a moment and with an effort gathered herself together. ‘She was most fashionable in her time, you know. My dear Susanna.’ Her eyes filled with unshed tears and she hurried to finish what she wished to say. ‘Of course, the dresses Susanna left are no longer fashionable, but their materials are not so very different from those young women wear today and they have maintained their depth of colour and their texture. I know you to be most adept with a needle, so if you would care to take a look...’