by Mira Stables
She walked quietly back to the house, her mood of tremulous, half-eager anticipation dimmed to a vague, puzzled unhappiness. She did not understand its cause. There was a sore feeling in her breast and she felt lonely and unwanted. A wave of homesickness such as she had not felt for weeks seemed to overwhelm her with a longing for the clasp of Gran’s loving arms and Aunt Clara’s sturdy support, and it was only by a determined effort that she blinked back the tears. She bit her lips fiercely to stifle her vague yearnings with a sharper pain. A mean little voice inside her head suddenly made itself heard. “You’re jealous,” it said. “Because his tenderness was for Lucy—poor unhappy Lucy—you’re whimpering like a lost puppy.”
This was intolerable. The more so because it was, of course, the truth. But realising the true cause of one’s miseries is at least one step along the road to fighting them, and instinctively she straightened herself. To be dawdling and dreaming here in the gardens would not help. She would go back to the house and find something to occupy her thoughts. As she crossed the terrace she was met by Miss Trenchard, who had been seeking her everywhere to enquire how she did after the trials of the previous day. Would she like to drive out for a little while? So much more restful than riding those excitable horses. They might even go as far as Little Cropton church, where there were some very unusual brasses to be seen, and a communion cup that dated back to the reign of Elizabeth.
In one way the suggestion was quite tempting, since, in her new mood, escape from Anderley seemed very desirable. But there was the question of bidding Lucy goodbye, and mention of this reminded Mary that Lady Hester had indeed said something about Lucy wishing to thank Miss Elizabeth for all her kindness before she went home. Perhaps it would be better if they planned their drive for tomorrow. That would give her time to search out the story of the Tudor chalice, for she believed that in an old volume in the library she had seen a reference to its having been given to the church by some long dead Anderley in memory of his sister, who had married the Lord of the Manor of Little Cropton and had subsequently borne him twenty-one children, of whom five sons and six daughters had survived to maturity.
Even to Elizabeth’s unsettled spirits the gentle spinster’s awed admiration for this feat of maternal endurance seemed mildly funny, and she was further soothed and steadied by her companion’s placid monologue on the subject of ancient church plate, so that she went to bid Lucy farewell in a more equable frame of mind.
As it fell out there was no opportunity for conversation of an intimate or private nature since both Gertrude and Lady Hester were also present, the former a little flustered by her new importance, the latter calmly assuring herself that nothing had been left behind. Lucy seemed calm and resigned. Though sorrow had left its mark on pale face and tragic eyes and much weeping had roughened her soft voice, her thanks were spoken composedly enough with no trace of last night’s desperate distress. Elizabeth ventured a tentative enquiry as to whether all the necessary arrangements had been made. “Yes, Miss,” began Lucy, “his lordship—” but Lady Hester, speaking at the same time, finished the sentence for her. “His lordship has charged himself with that responsibility,” she said repressively, and Elizabeth, realising that the subject must be a painful one for Lucy, said no more, but engaged herself to visit the girl within a few days. Lucy curtsied low and pressed Elizabeth’s hand fervently. Then she was shepherded out to the waiting carriage by the vigilant Lady Hester with Gertrude fussing delightedly in attendance.
Elizabeth watched the carriage move off. It was a pity that the interview had been so cramped and stilted, but Lady Hester had seemed anxious to hurry the girl away. When next she went to visit her she would try, she decided, to revive the former interest in learning to read. That would give her thoughts a new direction and fill some of the lonely hours that would drag so painfully now that there was no Mally to care for. A little cheered by the thought of doing something practical to help Lucy, she turned to accompany Lady Hester back into the house.
That good lady, usually so amiable and garrulous, seemed oddly silent and reserved today, so that Elizabeth wondered if one of the beloved King Charles spaniels was ailing, but was assured upon enquiry that they were all in full health and spirits. Any reference to her darlings was generally sufficient to launch Lady Hester on an animated account of their latest antics, for she was perfectly convinced that her listener must share her own enthusiasm for such handsome, intelligent and lovable little creatures. Today she lapsed into a brooding silence, her placid brow creased by an unaccustomed frown, and presently announced with an abrupt change of subject that she was going to choose flowers to adorn the chapel. Elizabeth, thankful for any occupation that would serve to pass the hours of this seemingly interminable day, offered to help, and the two of them spent an invigorating half-hour in denuding garden and hot houses of some of their choicest blooms despite a spirited rearguard action by the head gardener.
They carried their plunder in triumph to the chapel, and Elizabeth went backward and forward filling the vases with fresh water while Lady Hester snipped away excess foliage and coaxed stubborn blooms into place. The chapel was cool and shadowy, its dimness lit only by narrow lancet windows which allowed the pale sunshine to cast faint overtones of scarlet and blue on the grey flagged floor. It was very quiet, the massively thick walls excluding all outside sounds. Elizabeth found herself stepping softly and hushing her voice to a whisper as though she might disturb the quiet dust that had lain for centuries in the family vaults below the flagstones. The chapel was not much used nowadays, most of the servants preferring to attend divine service in the village church, which made a pleasant little Sunday outing for them. Only on occasions of great family significance was it used for its original purpose. Fortunately Mr Derwent seemed to find sufficient scope for the exercise of his office in serving the needs of the lonely farms and hamlets which comprised much of the Anderley estate. He was another of the Earl’s lame dogs, reflected Elizabeth with a tender little smile. Literally lame, too, for he had come to haven at Anderley after losing one foot as the result of a rock fall in a quarry accident. Called to bring spiritual comfort to a man hopelessly crushed and dying, a further slight fall had brought tragic consequences upon himself. He was always cheerful despite his handicap. He could still manage to sit a horse, the only means of reaching some of the remote cottages, though he had once wryly admitted to Elizabeth that his progress could scarcely be termed riding, any more than the sober quadrupeds especially provided for his use could properly be called horses.
Elizabeth set a vase of white roses on the altar. They were very lovely against the dark oak of the reredos and the air was already sweet with their scent, but for herself she would have preferred more colour and regretted that Lady Hester had chosen only white flowers.
“Just one more,” said Lady Hester. “I think I will put this larkspur in the stone jar by the chancel steps, if you would be so good as to bring me some more water, my dear.”
It was quite a step from the chapel to the rainwater butts that served this corner of the garden. Elizabeth did not hurry, carrying the water jug carefully to avoid splashing her muslin skirts. As she pushed open the heavy oaken door that guarded the chapel porch she heard voices and stopped involuntarily, wondering who was with Lady Hester, for it was Lady Hester’s voice that reached her, every syllable carrying perfectly on the quiet air.
“—absolute madness. What were you about to promise so outrageous a thing? I have carried out your wishes as regards the flowers in the chapel, but I cannot, for all my earnest endeavours, bring myself to acceptance. I beg of you, before it is too late, make some other arrangement. This one is unforgivable.”
Elizabeth could not hear what was said in answer, for the speaker had his back to her, but there was no mistaking the Earl’s deep tones. She set down the heavy jug, meaning to slip quietly away, but she was arrested in her flight. The Earl must have turned in her direction for now his words reached her clearly, gently spoken but w
ith an underlying determination that would brook no opposition.
“I am truly sorry for your distress, Hester, but my promise is given and I intend to keep it. Derwent has agreed, and the burial will take place tomorrow. I do not see that it will cause the scandal you suggest. What should our neighbours care that I choose to bury this poor babe in our ancestral vault?”
This time it was Lady Hester’s voice that was muffled to inaudibility, though the rising note of protest was plain to hear. The Earl’s reply was brusque, and to Elizabeth, shattering.
“You are perfectly well aware that the child is as much a Scorton as you are. It is scarcely her fault that she was born out of wedlock. By blood she is as much entitled to her place in these vaults as you or I—and probably more so than several who lie here behind their smug memorial tablets with far less claim than Mally to Scorton blood,” he added cynically.
Chapter Fifteen
Elizabeth could never clearly recall how she had reached her own room. Shocked to the heart by the secret that she had accidentally discovered, she must yet have retained sufficient instinct of self-preservation to effect her retreat in silence and then have fled to shelter and privacy, but all she could remember afterwards was the sharp click of the lock as she turned the key and then, flinging herself face down on the bed, breathless and shaking, her hands pressed over her ears as though to shut out those words that still seemed to be echoing across the quiet chapel. “She is as much a Scorton as you or I. It is not her fault that she was born out of wedlock.”
She lay huddled, rigid, her breath coming in deep shuddering sobs while her dazed brain assimilated the shocking truth. There could be no evasion. It would have to be faced and accepted. So many small details were falling into place that it was impossible to delude oneself with the false hope of mistake or misunderstanding. Lucy’s comfortable circumstances, Lady Hester’s dismay on hearing of her own visit to the cottage, Timothy’s shocked refusal to go there and his subsequent criticism of his uncle’s conduct in allowing Lucy to live at home, all were explained. Even Mally’s resemblance to someone whom she had never quite succeeded in identifying was now all too easy to trace. Little wonder that the Earl had been willing to render Lucy all possible service when it was his own child who lay dying.
And she had thought him disinterestedly kind, and had admired him wholeheartedly for his humanity! In her blind ignorance she had thought herself in love with him, had prayed that her love might be returned. Bitterly she recalled the shy dreams that she had indulged only this morning, and pounded the pillows with furious fists in her angry humiliation. It was pain beyond belief that she had been so easy a victim to the wicked charm that had seduced Lucy, and doubtless many another, to their own undoing.
At least she could be thankful that she had discovered the truth in time, before she had betrayed her folly for his amusement. If her heart was sick and sore, he should never guess. And it was at this point that the knowledge was born in upon her that she could not, would not, endure to meet him again. Some means of escape must be devised, and that immediately. She got up, and paced the room, planning, rejecting first one idea then another. She could not go home. That was the first place where he would seek her. But at least she had money in her purse—enough, she thought, to pay for a modest lodging for two or three nights—and when that was done there were things that she could sell. There was the diamond necklace, for instance. It had been bought by her father, a gift for his wife, in readiness to greet her own arrival into the world. The lovely delicate jewel, still in its faded velvet case, had been handed over to her as part of her inheritance. She had never worn it—probably, now, she never would—but it would fetch a considerable sum, enough, she hoped, to support her until she could think of some way of earning her own livelihood. Moreover it could be slipped into a pocket, and that was important, for if she was to escape she would have to ride for the first stage of the journey and it would be impossible to carry much with her.
It would also be extremely difficult to steal a horse, and quite impossible, she suddenly realised, to steal a saddle, for the harness room was kept locked, and several of the stable lads slept in the snug quarters above it and would certainly rouse at any amateurish attempts at forcing an entry. Very well, then, she would ride out openly instead of slipping away by night as she had first planned. She could probably still count on two or three hours’ freedom from pursuit. Not as much as she would have wished, but it would have to suffice. And though it was rather late in the day to be setting out for a ride, she would go now. She could think of some excuse, and she dreaded that any moment a message might summon her to wait upon her guardian in the library. He had said that he would thank her in form for her efforts on Mally’s behalf, and he was punctilious about such matters. He would not forget.
Hastily she unlocked the lacquered cabinet in which she kept her modest jewellery, took the necklace from its case and rolled it in a handkerchief, slipping it, together with her purse, under the maltreated pillows. Then she rang for Edith and bade her send a message to the stables.
“For I have the headache a little,” she explained in languid tones so far removed from her usual manner that had Edith been just a little older she might have found them suspect. Instead she was all solicitude, suggesting that a rest upon her bed with Edith to bathe the poor head with sweet water of Cologne would be much more sensible. Elizabeth was firm. Fresh air was the only remedy that would serve. The girl departed reluctantly and Elizabeth sighed her relief. So far, so good.
She ripped off the sadly crumpled jonquil muslin and tossed it on the bed. A bruised and wilted yellow rose dropped from the velvet sash. She stared at it, deep unhappiness clouding her eyes. Then she picked it up, crushed the limp petals between her fingers, and hurled the shattered remnants into the empty fireplace.
The old-fashioned pocket to tie about her waist under her petticoat was the next need. Gran had bestowed it upon her to use when travelling, explaining the risk of being robbed in crowded public places. In sheltered luxury under the Earl’s care she had never had cause to wear it, but it would serve a useful purpose now. Into it went purse and jewels, she tied the yellowing tapes securely, then hastily pulled on her riding habit to conceal the betraying evidence of intended flight. She was only just in time, for here was Edith back again, still disapproving and now distinctly cross also, since her mistress had made shift to change her dress without assistance. She did not quite dare to voice her reproaches, confining herself to sulky silence as she twitched the hurriedly donned habit into its proper folds and buttoned the tightly fitting sleeves with an air of gross ill-usage. Elizabeth, in a fever to be off, strove to keep rigid control over her voice and movements. No hint of her desperate urgency escaped her as Edith took out her hat with infuriating slowness, stopping to re-curl the ostrich feather which nestled under its downswept brim and to brush off one or two specks of invisible dust. She crammed it on over wildly ruffled locks, driving Edith at last to verbal remonstrance.
“Shall I not dress your hair again, Miss?” she asked.
Elizabeth could have screamed. Instead she said with an ill-assumed indifference, “Later. It would only make my headache worse to have you tugging at it now.”
This was the final straw. Edith coloured furiously, bitterly hurt at this unkind aspersion on her skill, and retreated in dignified fashion to the door, pausing at the last moment to say sullenly, “I gave your message to Robert, Miss, seeing as how Jacky had gone off to his mother’s, him not thinking you’d be wanting to ride so late in the day.”
Elizabeth nodded absently, scarcely aware of the girl’s going, still less of her hurt feelings. The first, most critical stage of the adventure was upon her, and all her mind was bent on effecting her escape from the house without encountering her guardian. In the event she met no one at all as she made a carefully negligent descent of the main staircase and strolled across the south front of the house to the covered way that seemed to promise sanctuary. She met with t
he first slight set-back in the stable yard. In the absence of her own special groom, young Robert, the latest recruit to the staff, had saddled Jackstraw. And Jackstraw was not the mount she would have chosen for this enterprise. Robert’s choice was natural enough. She had several times ridden the horse, an interesting ride when one could give him the whole of one’s attention, but quite unreliable. It was true that he had an amazing turn of speed and a very comfortable action, but he also had less engaging qualities. However, there was no time now for useless regrets. She settled herself in the saddle, dealt patiently with the display of temperament with which Jackstraw always favoured his rider on being mounted, and held him down with some difficulty to the gentle trot permissible to a young lady with a headache.
It was a relief when, turning in the saddle, she realised that Anderley was out of sight and could allow Jackstraw to lengthen his stride. She had not been able to plan the next stage of her journey with accuracy, for she had no idea of the timing of the mail coaches along the Keighley-Kendal turnpike, although she knew that there was a posting house in Kirkby Lonsdale and thought that the mails also stopped there. If she could obtain overnight lodging for herself at the Rose and Crown, and stabling for the horse until such time as he could be returned to his owner, she would take the first coach on the following morning. She hoped it would be a north-bound vehicle since she was less likely to be sought in that direction, but north or south she would put as much distance as she could between herself and Anderley.