Mrs Pennyfather, fetched at his command by the butler, looked worn and dismayed, but she spoke with all her usual coherence. “My lord, we could not interfere in sight of the mistress, for she threatened us with dismissal.”
Richard snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. My sister has no authority to dismiss either of you from this house, or indeed any servant of mine. You should have known that.”
Topham intervened. “Discretion, my lord, seemed the better part of valour. The mistress was beside herself with rage. Had we interfered —”
“I don’t care if she threw herself to the floor and drummed her heels in a fit of hysterics. What I object to is that you allowed Miss Cavanagh to be ejected from the house in such a high-handed fashion and did nothing.”
“But we did, my lord. We sent to succour her immediately, but in secret,” pleaded the housekeeper, distressed.
A faint trickle of relief crept into the hideous visions of disaster that were clouding Richard’s mind. “You brought her back?”
“Yes, my lord, of course we brought her back.”
He let his breath go in a long sigh. “Thank God! Where is she?”
Mrs Pennyfather’s eyes sought the butler’s and they exchanged an agonised glance that had the immediate effect of reviving Richard’s fears.
“For God’s sake, speak out, will you?”
Topham’s disapproving expression overspread his features and he looked decidedly reproachful. “If you will allow us to speak, my lord, I believe you will not be dissatisfied.”
Richard drew an impatient breath, but held his peace, merely nodding at the man to continue.
“Mrs Pennyfather sent young Becky after Miss Cavanagh with a cloak to cover her. She went through the trees so the mistress would not see her, for Miss Alicia was watching from the window as Miss Cavanagh went down the drive. Becky brought her back.”
“And we put her in the store room behind the stables, my lord,” said the housekeeper, taking up the tale. “I caused a truckle bed to be made up, and we put a brazier in there and brought provisions. Later, I anointed her hurts.”
He had listened to the unfolding story in mounting dismay, tempered by relief that his servants had the sense to secure Isolde and keep her hidden from Alicia. But at these words, shock seized him. “Hurts?”
Again the two servants exchanged a glance. The butler took the question.
“Miss Cavanagh had the misfortune to be injured during the altercation.”
He eyed them both, suspicion and doubt in his head. They were keeping something from him. He sharpened his tone. “Well? Out with it! Don’t attempt to deceive me, I beg.”
Mrs Pennyfather gripped her hands tightly together. “My lord, we did our best. But Miss Cavanagh slipped away in the early morning.”
For one hideous moment, Richard thought she meant Isolde had died. His tongue froze.
“She took the bay mare, my lord,” said the butler.
The whoosh of relief was superseded by a new fear. “She rode? Without a groom? Without money, without protection? Have either of you any idea where she has gone?”
“None, my lord.” Then the housekeeper brightened. “But Becky might know something. She swears she has no idea where Miss Cavanagh has gone. I questioned her closely, my lord, but she could tell me nothing more than I already knew. Only…”
The hesitation sent a flicker of hope into Richard’s breast.
“Only what, Mrs Pennyfather?”
A little sigh escaped the woman. “Well, it’s likely nothing, but young Janey let it out that Miss Cavanagh had made quite a friend of Becky. The girl denies it, but —”
“Fetch her here to me at once.”
Mrs Pennyfather left the room and Topham went to retrieve the decanter. Richard sank into his favourite armchair by the fire, prey to unreasoning panic somewhere deep inside which he strove to control. The butler refilled his glass and brought it over, and Richard found some comfort in the burn of the fiery spirit down his throat.
“If you will excuse me for a moment, my lord, I will instruct James to have the dinner dishes returned to the kitchen to be rewarmed. I think you should eat something, my lord.”
“Thank you, but I have no appetite.”
A disapproving frown was bent upon him. “If you will forgive me saying so, my lord, it will not help matters to starve yourself.”
Richard flung up a hand. “Very well. But not until I have sifted this matter of Miss Cavanagh’s present whereabouts.”
“Even if you are able to, my lord, you will scarcely set out after her tonight. In such weather as this, you cannot hope to come up with her in the dark.”
Although everything in him urged Richard to leap instantly into action, he was obliged to acknowledge the truth of this. Indeed, it would in all probability do more harm than good, since he was likely to run into difficulties himself. Nevertheless, regardless of what the maid was able to add, he would start out in search of Isolde in the morning.
When Topham returned, he instructed him to prime Reeve to be ready with the curricle at an early hour, and turned with eagerness as the housekeeper reappeared with one of the young maids in tow. Richard rose and went to meet the girl.
“Ah, Becky, I am in need of your help,” he said, attempting a soft approach. There was little point in frightening the girl with a show of authority.
To his surprise, the maid met his glance with a degree of belligerence in both face and pose.
“Yes, my lord?”
“You tended Miss Cavanagh, I understand.”
“Not exactly, my lord. Only she were kind to me and — and she’d talk to me a bit.”
The words were subservient enough, but the tone was not, although the girl threw a brief glance towards the two senior servants standing to one side.
Richard was tempted to dispense with their presence, but he knew it would be an unforgiveable breach of protocol. Not that he cared much for that at this particular moment, but it would serve no good purpose to distress his servants. And they had done what they might for Isolde. He dredged up an encouraging smile.
“I am glad Miss Cavanagh had someone she could talk to. But you see, Becky, she is a lady and she has gone off without protection, and I must find her as quickly as I can.”
To his mingled surprise and irritation, the maid’s eyes danced.
“Oh, she’s not in any danger, my lord, not Miss Izzy.”
“How so?”
Again, she glanced at the upper servants, way above her in the hierarchy, and Richard intervened. “I will engage for it that nothing you tell me will get you into trouble, Becky. This is far too important to be holding anything back. If you can tell me where she went, I will be eternally in your debt.”
A dismayed frown crept over the girl’s face. “But I can’t, my lord. I don’t know. She didn’t tell me, honest. Only she said as how she couldn’t stay, and I knew she wouldn’t, not after the way the mistress —”
She broke off, hands flying to her mouth and with another look towards Mrs Pennyfather, this time of clear apprehension.
Richard was having none of it. He sharpened his tone. “After the way the mistress what, Becky? Be open with me!”
The girl seemed to struggle with herself for a moment, but it was plain that a well of indignation would not be contained, for out it came in a rush. “Oh, sir, you should have seen it! The mistress didn’t half slap her to pieces. Blows and blows she give her, and poor Miss Izzy fell to the ground. She got up again and tried to give as good as she got, but she were dazed, for I were peeping through the doorway, though the mistress had sent me off with the clothes. She told me to burn them, but I never did, nor I wouldn’t have if she’d beat me for it, which she did and all, though not as bad as poor Miss Izzy. I hid them, my lord, and later I took them for Miss Izzy, for I knew as she meant to go, and how better than if she were dressed like a boy?”
“What did you say?” cried the housekeeper. “Dressed like a boy? Well, I never did
!”
Struggling to unravel the hideous chain of events related by the maid, and fighting to remain calm as the images presented for his inspection harrowed his mind and heart, Richard waved Mrs Pennyfather to silence. “Go on, Becky.”
“Well, my lord, the upshot of it were as the mistress grabbed poor Miss Izzy by the hair, and dragged her all along the corridor, she did, shouting fit to bust herself and poor Miss Izzy crying with pain, for there weren’t nothing she could do but follow after for the mistress run down that corridor like a mad thing. I crept after, and I saw as Mrs Pennyfather and Mr Topham tried to stop it, only the mistress shouted at them and all, and she chucked poor Miss Izzy out into the cold. She were only wearing a woollen gown. And I heard her crying and begging to be let in, and she rung the bell and knocked the door. And the mistress wouldn’t let nobody open it, she wouldn’t. Oh, my lord, it were enough to give a body nightmares!”
Aghast, Richard could only stare at the girl. Had his sister indeed run mad? Dear Lord in heaven, she ought to be confined! What he was to do with the woman, the Lord only knew.
But that was for the future. The vital thing was to find Isolde and bring her back. He remembered the maid’s first words.
“You said she was not in any danger. What made you say that?”
Becky tossed her head. “For as I fetched her pistol and a sword she said as belonged to her Pa, and she took them both with her.”
Both upper servants exclaimed at this, but Richard paid no heed.
“Had she any money?”
“Yes, my lord, she said she had it somewhere secret like.”
A modicum of the deep-seated panic that had been riding Richard began to subside. The situation might not be as dire as he had supposed. If she could pass muster as a boy, and she was armed — with weapons she’d assured him she knew how to use — she stood a chance for at least a day or two. That she was equipped with funds was a Godsend. Thank heaven she’d had the sense to take his mare and ride!
Now all he had to do was follow her trail and find out where she had gone. If he could discover no trace of her, he had a shrewd notion of one place she might try to reach. The thought of the reception Isolde could find there was enough to revive all his earlier apprehension.
Chapter Eighteen
The house was visible from the gates, which were surprisingly dilapidated, rusty and worn, one of them hanging off a hinge. The building was neither as large nor as daunting as Bawdsey Grange, although it stood two stories high, square and relatively plain, with a mellow look to the walls, weathered to variegated shades of yellow, even in the dimness of a winter’s day.
Isolde’s courage took a leap. Perhaps she might find a welcome here after all. If Lord Vansittart was in residence. If he would consent to see her.
She’d had ample time for reflection upon the journey, rumbling along in the stagecoach from Harwich. Rejecting all too disturbing memories of Bawdsey Grange, Isolde rehearsed what she should say to her uncle. She was unable to help wishing this journey had not been necessary, but at least it would settle the matter one way or the other. She would know whether there was a refuge for her at Greville House, and could act accordingly.
It had been easy enough to discover her uncle’s likely whereabouts. Enquiries at The Duke’s Head in Harwich sent her to a local resident in possession of a Peerage, from which she hoped to learn where precisely in Cheshire the Vansittart estate was situated. When Isolde found he had a nearer place in Hertfordshire, she at once thought to try there first. It was much closer, a far less arduous journey. With luck, she might not be put to the trouble of travelling half across the country to find him.
Leaving the mare stabled at the inn, Isolde took the quicker route by stage, changing once in order to go cross-country to Bishop’s Stortford. With funds enough to pay her way, her most pressing concern was the necessity to maintain her disguise.
A deeper voice and a manly stride worked in her favour, though it was useless to expect anyone to take her for better than a slight youth, not yet old enough to require the use of a razor. Her bruises caused comment and question, but she deflected them with a story of having been set upon by a thief, whom she’d vanquished with the use of her sword.
The horse she’d hired at The Cock this morning was a sturdy beast with his own sense of speed. Moreover, the innkeeper’s directions to Greville House proved inadequate and she was obliged to enquire the way several times. Consequently the morning was already advanced and Isolde added hunger to the gnawing apprehension in her stomach.
Now she was here, the anxiety deepened, tempered a little by the apparent warmth of the house ahead of her. She was relieved that she had taken the precaution of slipping her pistol into the pocket of her cloak rather than dropping it into the saddlebag she had unlaced and perforce brought with her from Harwich, lacking any other receptacle for her belongings. However, she could scarcely enter her uncle’s house armed with a sword. It would have to remain strapped to the saddle on the hired horse.
During the journey, she had gone over what she would say again and again, changing it all with frequency. It bore too close a resemblance to that earlier journey when she had been overtaken with the fear her named guardian would hate her. How much more likely was that expectation from Lord Vansittart? Worse, it occurred to her for the first time that her arrival in male attire might prove excessively awkward.
Well, it was no manner of use loitering here. She dug her heels into the horse’s flank and urged him through the open gates. Cantering down the drive, she took a moment to glance around the grounds. The rolling lawns were overgrown and covered in dead leaves and debris, leafless trees stood out stark in the encroaching woods and the mellow walls, as she neared, proved a deal more weathered than she had supposed.
It began to look as if Lord Vansittart could not possibly be living here, though the knocker had not been taken off the door and the shutters were open.
Reaching the small portico before the entrance, Isolde dismounted and looked in vain for somewhere to tether the horse. There was nothing for it but to lead the animal with her as she went forward to ply the knocker. Its echo resounded within and she stepped back a pace, unnerved.
Footsteps sounded in a few moments, and the door was opened a small way, a plump face in a mob cap peering around it. Relief surged through Isolde. At least she did not have to deal with a personage as intimidating as the butler Topham.
“Is Lord Vansittart at home?”
The maid took her time before replying, looking Isolde up and down and lifting her brows at sight of the horse so close to the front door. She was not as young as Becky, but it was evident she was one of the lowlier servants.
“Well,” she said at last, “he is and he isn’t.”
Isolde tried again. “May I see him, if you please? I am here on urgent business.”
A frown descended and the girl chewed her lip a moment. “I could ask. Who should I say is calling?”
Which was the crux of the matter. She could scarcely announce herself as Miss Cavanagh. Necessity jogged her mind into gear. “Tell him I have a message from his niece.”
The maid’s eyes popped. “His niece? He don’t have no niece.”
Isolde drew a breath. “In fact he does. Only he has not seen her for a very long time. She lived abroad, you see.” She saw doubt and suspicion in the girl’s face, and added in a placatory tone, “You could not be expected to know.”
It was evident the maid was loath to believe it, but Isolde hoped she would be uncertain enough to be unwilling to take responsibility, should it prove to be the truth.
At length, she opened the door wider and stepped to one side. “You’d best come in while I go and see.”
“What about the horse? He’ll take cold and I hired him at The Cock in Bishop’s Stortford. I should not like to take him back in a worse condition than when we set out.”
The maid sniffed. “I could ask Jed to come round and take him to the stables.”
“Thank you. Will you do that first, if you please? I’ll wait here.”
The girl was gone so long that Isolde began to chafe. Had she forgotten? Or simply changed her mind and decided not to admit her? Just as Isolde decided to knock again, a man appeared around the corner of the house, walking towards her at a leisurely pace. From his attire clearly a groom, he greeted her with a grunt and took the horse’s bridle, leading him away without a word.
Moments passed. Isolde began to feel chilled, despite the woollen cloak in which she was enveloped. Becky had insisted she take it, and indeed it had been more than welcome when she was riding in the frosty winter air.
At last she heard footsteps and moved to the door. It opened and the same maid appeared. “His lordship says to bring you up.”
Isolde’s stomach clenched and her pulse kicked into life, heartbeats becoming rapid as she followed the girl into a modest hallway and up a set of stairs that wound around to the floor above, their woodwork dull and stained with sweaty finger-marks.
She was shown into a small parlour, furnished without opulence or taste. There were a couple of mismatched chairs near the fireplace, with shabby damask cushions, a filled bookcase to one side, and a small bureau in the middle, at which sat a man of middle years who did not even trouble to look up from his writing when the maid spoke.
“This is the fellow, my lord.”
Leaving Isolde standing near the door, she departed, shutting the door behind her with a careless shove. As it clicked into place, Lord Vansittart lifted his head and looked across at her.
Isolde barely had time to take in the faintly silvered wings in the pale brown hair, the oddly familiar handsome face before the man’s eyes sprung wide and he stared in evident shock.
“Good God!”
He had recognised her. How? Impossible to fathom, but he clearly knew. She had retained her cloak, but it hung open, revealing her clothes. His gaze slipped down and up again, and his brows lifted.
“I don’t believe it!”
In Honour Bound (Brides By Chance Regency Adventures Book 1) Page 12