Blanchard’s Cottage, it seemed, was owned by a well-to-do elderly Scottish couple who spent the winter months in their Warwickshire residence, having discovered that they preferred the milder climate of the English middle counties to the harsher elements of their Scottish homeland. Every spring they journeyed north to enjoy a more socially active season at their much larger Edinburgh property. Mr Blanchard had something of a canny nature and, some years earlier, had hit upon the idea of advertising their country cottage in one or two of London’s better class of newspaper. The couple employed a woman from the village to mind the property and to keep a watchful eye on its tenants while they were absent. The woman, one Mrs Jacklin, came in three times a week to keep the place clean and tidy and, for a small fee, apparently, was also perfectly happy to deal with tenants’ laundry.
‘And best to get on the right side of her,’ Radley advised Latimer, with a sideways grin. ‘For, I have to warn you, if you have any secrets, you’ll be hard pressed to keep them from her.’
Latimer laughed. ‘I’ll be careful,’ he said. ‘Although, on reflection, she could be the very person to solve my problem.’
Radley was curious. ‘What problem’s that, then?’
‘A question of identity, really,’ replied Latimer. ‘Did you witness the accident in the courtyard? A young lad just missed being felled by a piece of luggage. Name of Rupert, I believe—’
‘Rupert!’ A startled Radley pulled his horse to a sudden halt and stared at Latimer in obvious consternation. ‘What happened? I didn’t see it—I heard them talking about it, but no one mentioned Rupert Cunningham! Was he hurt?’
‘Not really.’ Latimer shook his head, while savouring the information. ‘Cunningham, you say? You know the family?’
‘I should say so.’ Radley flicked the reins and the horse moved on once more. ‘I have the honour of being engaged to Miss Katharine Cunningham, Rupert’s sister. That boy is a terrible trial to his poor mama—for ever up to some sort of mischief.’
Latimer’s heart sank. So, she’s engaged, he thought glumly and was of a mind to cease his charade right then and there and return to London on the morrow.
‘You’re a lucky man,’ he managed, with apparent nonchalance. ‘Although I couldn’t help noticing that the boy and his sister were both in mourning—a recent bereavement?’
Radley nodded. ‘Aye, sadly. The old man—Reverend Cunningham—he died last month. Kate and I were due to wed a week today, but the mourning period, as you know, has to be three months at the very least, so it looks to be a Michaelmas wedding for us now.’
Both men sat rapt in their own private disappointments as the bay trotted briskly along the leafy Warwickshire lane, but Latimer was hardly aware of the beauty of the rolling countryside about him.
Eventually, clearing his throat, he queried, ‘The family live at the vicarage then, I assume—Reverend Cunningham had the living?’
‘Until a few weeks before his death,’ answered Radley. ‘Although the Cunninghams have never actually lived at the vicarage. They have their own house, Westcotes—about half a mile down the lane from the cottage you are renting. Mansell, our young curate—I suppose I should call him vicar now, as he’s recently been ordained—he lives at the vicarage. I dare say he’ll get the living.’ He glanced at his passenger. ‘We will be passing Westcotes shortly, if you’re interested. It’s quite a pretty old house—you might like to sketch it some time. I’ll commission you, if you like. I’m sure Kate would love to hang it in our morning room.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ murmured Latimer, somewhat apprehensively. ‘But shouldn’t you wait until you have seen something of my work?’
‘Well, you must be able to draw something,’ laughed Radley. ‘You’d hardly be in a position to rent a cottage for the summer if you hadn’t had some success! Ah, here we are! There’s Westcotes, behind the hawthorns.’
Latimer had to crane his neck to peer over the hedge to view the house. As far as he could judge, it was well over two hundred years old, since it was built in the black-and-white half-timbered style typical of the Tudor period. Situated quite close to the road, with just a short driveway leading to the front door, it presented a very charming reminder of a bygone age and would, as Radley had maintained, provide a rather fitting subject for any bona fide artist in search of inspiration.
As the carriage rolled past the gateway Radley raised his whip in greeting and Latimer’s heart gave a sudden lurch as he spotted his ‘perfect angel’ descending from a laden trap that was standing by the front steps of the house. Smilingly waving her hand in a return gesture, she disappeared through the front door.
Latimer swallowed. ‘You don’t wish to stop?’
Radley grinned across at him. ‘No, I’m keen to get on home. My Kate will be waiting for me. She was bent on having my mother teach her the art of butter-making and she’ll surely want to impress me with her efforts.’
‘Then the young lady with Rupert wasn’t your fiancée?’ stammered Latimer, now thoroughly confused.
‘No, that would have been Georgina,’ supplied Radley, casually. ‘Kate’s older sister.’ He paused for a moment, looking quizzically at his passenger. ‘Not thinking of setting your cap at her, are you, old man? I should warn you that there’s no dowry to be had. Cunningham left the family in a pretty uncomfortable state, by all accounts. Miss Georgina needs to find a fatter purse than yours, I suspect, my friend.’
Chapter Two
Georgina Cunningham closed the front door and followed her brother across the hallway. With a sinking heart she steeled herself to account for Rupert’s grubby and dishevelled appearance, not to mention the irreparable damage to the trousers of his best skeleton suit. For the umpteenth time she went over the afternoon’s events, reliving the panic she had felt as she recalled her brother’s look of terror after his fall. Terror she had wrongly laid at the door of that rather handsome stranger who had come to his assistance—and to hers, she could hardly forget. Shock must also have been the cause of that other peculiar sensation she had experienced in the confusion of getting Rupert away from the sudden rush of people about them. She certainly hadn’t expected to see the man again, but surely it was he who had just gone past in Andrew Radley’s gig. Who could he be? Perhaps Katharine would know. However, as she entered the sitting room and read the expression on her mother’s face, she realised that this was not the time for further conjectures on that particular puzzle.
‘Well, Georgina?’ Mrs Cunningham had risen from her seat at the bureau where she had been perusing some papers. ‘It is clear that Rupert has been up to some devilment. What happened this time?’
The boy started forward. ‘Oh, no, Mama, I promise. I really didn’t do anything—’
‘You never do, Rupert,’ answered his mother, regarding the twelve-year-old with a sad smile.
Georgina bit her lip. ‘He is speaking the truth, Mama,’ she said resolutely. ‘I admit I let him out of my sight for a few moments but, truly, he was not to blame for the accident that occurred,’ and, as briefly as possible, she described the mishap in the coaching yard.
‘The coaching yard?’ Mrs Cunningham looked at her daughter in bewilderment. ‘You surely did not allow him to go into the coaching yard alone? You know how dangerous it is!’
‘I was perfectly safe, Mama,’ interjected Rupert hotly. ‘I just wanted to see the stage coming in—it wasn’t my fault that the trunk fell. Besides which,’ he then felt obliged to point out, ‘the gentleman did save me, so no harm’s done!’
‘But you might have been killed!’ protested his mother weakly. ‘And your good trousers are ruined.’
‘Well, I’m sorry for that,’ the boy said contritely then, brightening a little, he added, ‘But Becky can patch them—she always does, you know, and I shan’t mind.’
Mrs Cunningham managed to hold back the smile that threatened and, cultivating a stern voice, she advised him to go upstairs and clean himself up immediately. ‘And do not come dow
n again until you are sent for. I wish to speak to your sister.’
Rupert grinned and shot out of the room, quite happy to let Georgina deal with any strictures to which their mother might wish to give vent.
Mrs Cunningham, however, returned to her place at the bureau and sat in silence for several minutes, studying her daughter with a puzzled frown on her face. Then, ‘This is the third week in succession that you have stayed so long at the market, Georgina,’ she said. ‘Daniel used always to be home by midday. What keeps you there all day?’
‘I wait to get the best bargains,’ said Georgina, carefully considering her words. ‘The stallholders don’t start packing up until after four o’clock and won’t reduce their prices before that. Daniel was not disposed to hang about for so long—which is why I thought it best that I took control of the marketing, if you recall.’
Her mother pressed her hand against her throbbing temple. ‘Forgive my crabbiness, dearest. I know you are doing your best. Everything is such a worry at the moment and I have been waiting to tell you about Mr Pickens’s visit.’ She indicated the untidy heap of papers in front of her. ‘It now seems that we shall have even less than we first surmised.’
Marcus Pickens, who was the family solicitor, had spent many weary hours trying to unravel the tangle of his old friend’s financial affairs and was grieved to have to be the bearer of such unwelcome news to Henry’s widow.
‘My dear Mrs Cunningham,’ he had told her gently. ‘It pains me most deeply to have to tell you how very remiss your husband was in his financial dealings. There are unpaid bills going back for many months. I will do my utmost to settle the most pressing of them, but it will leave you with hardly anything, my dear—barely a pittance.’
For several uncomprehending minutes, Amelia Cunningham had stared unseeingly at the man. ‘But we have always been so careful. Henry never said we were in difficulties,’ she had eventually managed, with some considerable effort. ‘We seldom discussed money—we could have made economies had I but known!’
She had then been informed that their present unfortunate situation had arisen because of the cessation of the generous annuity her husband had received from his father’s estate, which had, naturally, ceased to be paid upon Henry’s demise. It transpired that, apart from his vicar’s stipend, he had had few other sources of income—small blocks of shares, occasional payments for his religious articles, but nothing of any real significance.
‘But there are savings? Money set aside for Rupert’s education and the girls’ marriage portions, surely?’
Pickens had shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘It seems that there was, at one point, a considerable amount doubtlessly intended for that purpose,’ he had intimated hesitantly. ‘But various withdrawals have been made in recent years—Master Harry’s commission, for instance, and the expense of bringing him home from Belgium. The two funerals have absorbed the remainder, leaving a balance that will barely cover Miss Katharine’s dowry, which, as you are aware, has already been agreed in her marriage contract with Mr Radley. Nothing further has been set aside, either for Master Rupert or for the other two girls.’
Opposite him, a white-faced, Mrs Cunningham had sat in shocked silence. Then, angrily brushing away the tears that had threatened to fall, she had inquired of him, ‘But where can it all have gone? We took few trips. We lived a simple life and—after Harry was killed—we seldom entertained. Henry preferred to spend all of his time with his books.’
At these words the lawyer had gestured to the cabinets that lined the walls of the late Henry Cunningham’s study.
‘These cabinets are crammed with the old books and manuscripts that so preoccupied him,’ he had said. ‘And he continued to add to these collections against all of my advice.’
‘Then surely they have some value?’ Mrs Cunningham had queried hopefully, her eyes lighting up as they raked the shelves. ‘I had not realised that there were so many. After Harry’s death Henry preferred to be left in peace with his studying. Sophie was the only one he permitted to sit with him—such a quiet little thing. She takes after her father with her love of books.’
Nodding his head, the elderly lawyer had continued. ‘I, too, shared his love of antiquity, but I often felt that he indulged his partiality to excess and, unfortunately, the high price needed to acquire some coveted specimen or other is seldom recoverable. We should be able to sell some of them, of course, but we will not recoup anywhere near the amount spent. It is a very limited market,’ he had explained sadly, ‘but I will do my best.’
As she recounted these unwelcome tidings to her daughter, Mrs Cunningham was unable to prevent her lips trembling.
‘It is becoming almost impossible to bear,’ she sighed. ‘To have lost both Harry and your father in such a short time. What is to become of us? Not even the tiniest marriage portions for you or Sophie. How fortunate that Katharine’s dowry, at least, was secured.’
Georgina shrugged her shoulders lightly. ‘Do not repine, Mama,’ she said. ‘I promise you that, thus far, I have never had the slightest desire to be wed. I am perfectly content to remain here with you.’ Then, with a little laugh, she added, ‘Unless, of course, some extremely rich nabob should happen to ride up and whisk me off on his charger.’
At which her mother also managed a smile. ‘Papa and I always had the feeling that it would take more than riches to capture your heart, dear girl. Every one of your suitors has been a man of adequate means, yet none has managed to come up to scratch.’
‘That’s true,’ conceded Georgina, her eyes crinkling in amusement. ‘There did always seem to be something rather—lacking—in all of them, but what it was, I would find hard to explain.’
Mrs Cunningham looked searchingly at her daughter and, for a moment, seemed about to reply. Instead, she shook her head and returned her attention to the figures in front of her, saying briskly, ‘We shall have to garner whatever resources we have to pay Rupert’s school fees. Obviously, it is imperative that he be allowed to finish his education.’
Georgina nodded in agreement, for she knew how important it was that a boy should have a good and full education if he were to make his way in life and her young brother’s needs, therefore, must take precedence in any financial arrangements. It had been no secret that her father had pinned the family’s hopes on his elder son making a successful career in the army. Poor, dear Harry, her clever, handsome brother, killed a year ago at Waterloo, barely twenty-three years of age. Following the death of his son, the grieving Reverend Cunningham had withdrawn into himself and seemed, almost, to have lost his faith. Leaving most of his parish duties to his curate, he had chosen to closet himself away in his study, presumably finding some sort of solace in the ancient manuscripts that had eaten up so much of his capital.
‘We must be able to make more economies,’ Georgina stated, with a firmness she was far from feeling. ‘Between us we can surely find new ways to reduce our expenditure. I shall go over the kitchen accounts once more with Becky…’
She stopped as an uncomfortable thought assailed her. ‘Shall we have to let the Harpers go?’ she asked anxiously.
Mrs Cunningham shook her head wearily. ‘I do hope not, my dear. They have been with us for so long that I doubt if I could find the courage even to suggest it. Besides which, we need Daniel for the heavy work and he would hardly stay with us if we even contemplated doing without Becky.’
As she tidied the papers she came to a sudden decision. ‘I shall write immediately to petition my brother James,’ she said, with a renewed determination. ‘He offered whatever help he could afford—even though he has a young family of his own. There was no opportunity at the funeral gathering to speak with him at any great length so the sooner I apply to him the better.’
‘You are still averse to approaching Uncle Cunningham?’ ventured Georgina tentatively.
Her mother chewed at her lip. ‘It becomes more of a temptation, my dear, but your father felt so strongly about the rift that I simp
ly cannot bring myself to flout his wishes,’ she replied sadly and, picking up her pen, she fell to composing her letter.
Georgina watched her pensively for a few minutes then, turning on her heel, she made for the door, saying, ‘Perhaps I should go and see what Rupert is up to.’
Firstly, however, she went to the room she shared with her sister Katharine and, having removed her bonnet, she sat down at the dressing table, chin in hands, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
I must do it, she thought. Three weeks already and today it might have cost Rupert’s life! Added to which, there was now the uncomfortable sensation of having to deceive Mama, and such a situation was not to be borne. For the truth of the matter was that the extra hours that she had delayed her return from the market on the past three occasions had not been spent merely waiting about for better bargains, as she had maintained, but in endeavouring to ascertain the full address of her late father’s estranged brother, Sir Arthur Cunningham. Hampered as she had been by the manservant Daniel on the first occasion, she had offered to take on the marketing herself, but had been obliged to have Sophie, her eight-year-old sister, accompany her last week and Rupert today. It had been very difficult to get any information while keeping a watchful eye on her young siblings. The busy marketplace was always thronged with people, many of whom were local parishioners or family acquaintances, and the shopkeepers were far too busy to waste their time in casual conversation. It had been by the merest chance that today she had overheard the butcher shouting the sought-after address to his deliveryman and, in her eagerness to make a note of it, she had allowed the boy to wander off on his own, with such disastrous consequences.
Dorothy Elbury Page 2