by Fiona Hill
“Is Miss Meredith here?” he asked quietly.
“My dear sirs,” Mockabee said emphatically, “I think it well to mention—for official purposes of course—that Amy Meredith is not now, nor has ever been, in my custody.” Even as he said so, however, he beckoned to a waiting footman and gave him a meaningful nod. The man disappeared.
“By God, Mockabee, what manner of trick is this? Do you suppose I have come all this—”
Lord Inlowe interrupted his brother-in-law with a loud and significant cough. “My good friend, I think perhaps you had best wait a moment longer,” he suggested.
“Lord Inlowe is very wise, very wise,” said Mockabee. “May I offer you gentlemen sherry?” He began to pour, but did so clumsily and spilled a few drops. His right shoulder was still sore, so that he was obliged to use his left hand.
Within minutes the footman reappeared, with him Amy Meredith.
“Amy!” cried Seabury, with an instinctive movement towards her. The footman, rather than releasing her however, placed himself between the two. Mockabee commended him.
“You see, my dear Seabury, it would be foolish of me—I am sure you will agree in a moment—to give you my, er—what you have come for, that is, before I receive what…what I require.”
Seabury cursed.
“Dear me, what an excess of temperament! I am certain our lady-friend has heard no such language before. Not, at least, from me.”
“I can imagine,” muttered Seabury. “How do you feel, Amy? Are you well?” he questioned eagerly. The man who held her made as if to whisk her away, but Mockabee stopped him.
“Let him assure himself as to her condition,” the baron instructed. “Go ahead, Seabury. You will find she has come to no evil—no thanks to herself I may add.”
The viscount’s fury with his host was great indeed, but it was not stronger than his desire to know Amy was safe. She looked very pitiful: her clothes were soiled, her hair unwashed and uncombed, and her usually rosy cheeks were unnaturally white. She insisted, however, that she had not been harmed.
“Did he tell you to say so?” Seabury asked.
“Yes, dear cousin,” she said, beginning to weep as soon as she spoke. “But it is true in any event. Please take me away from here, please!”
“Are they hurting you, Amy?” his lordship continued urgently.
“No,” she said, though her tears seemed to contradict her answer. “I pray you, take me away from him! I know I have been wicked, terribly wicked—”
“Did he force you—did he…” Seabury’s throat choaked against the words and he glanced at Mockabee dangerously.
“Be easy,” the baron said unpleasantly. “She is just as pure as when I made her acquaintance—however pure that might be, gentlemen.”
Amy looked so woefully confused by the turn the conversation had taken that Lord Seabury tended to believe her captor. “He has fed you well?” he asked in a calmer voice.
“I suppose so. Well enough. Please, dear Seabury, please take me away!” She was going to continue her petition, but at this point Lord Mockabee nodded to the footman and he conducted her out of the Green Saloon again.
“Do not fret, Amy,” the viscount advised her retreating form. “I shall not quit this place without you.”
Mockabee smiled at these words. “I am glad to hear you say so, my lord. I expected you would feel that way.”
“Of course he does,” Lord Inlowe broke in impatiently. “Now name your price and let us have done with these theatricals.”
Seabury, whose exact sentiments could not have been stated more succinctly, faced his adversary in silence.
“Ten thousand pounds,” Mockabee said.
“Good God!” cried Inlowe, without meaning to. “Mockabee, you ought to swing for this.”
“Done,” Lord Seabury said faintly.
“Done?”
“I shall write him a promissory note of hand at once. Mockabee, have your man bring me some writing paper.”
The baron, prepared for this need, showed Seabury to a small escritoire in one corner of the large, lavishly appointed saloon.
“Seabury, you do not mean to pay the man his sum!” exclaimed Inlowe. “You cannot believe he expects it! Come, come sir. This is very madness.”
“Every penny,” Seabury replied in a low tone. “I was prepared to pay twice as much.”
“In that case—” Mockabee commenced, grinning.
“No,” Seabury shot back. There was something so threatening in his intonation that the discourse stopped there.
“But what on earth…why on earth should you do such a thing, Mockabee?” Lord Inlowe asked while the other wrote—not an unreasonable inquiry when one had seen the opulence of Morton Hall. Its owner surely did not seem to be short of money.
“Losses,” the baron said lightly, “in the West Indies. Perhaps you heard of them; it seems half London did. Disastrous, if you consider my fondness for velvet. And lace. And sherry,” he added, draining what remained in the crystal glass he held. “These things are expensive,” he continued, shaking his head as if the thought saddened him. “Ruinously expensive. Ten thousand pounds, however,” he went on, brightening, “will purchase a very great deal of sherry. Inlowe, are you acquainted with Miss Amy Meredith?” he appended.
Lord Inlowe owned, mistrustfully, that he was not.
“I think when you are,” Mockabee resumed deliberately, “you will see how the scheme of abducting her might—might almost suggest itself, as one may say, to a mind otherwise idle. She is a young lady just perfectly made, if I may say so, to be a dupe. She seems rather to scream for it.”
“Mockabee, one more word from you and I will request your presence on a duelling-ground—see if I do not!” Inlowe exploded.
Seabury, however, was strangely patient under this onslaught. “Miss Meredith is not…it is quite true that she is extremely silly, and gullible. Your own sister attempted many times to persuade her to ignore this—this man, but to no avail whatever.”
“Ah, your sister, Lord Inlowe! Another story altogether!”
“What the devil do you mean?” asked Humphrey.
“Nothing, dear sir, nothing,” said the baron with a mockery of a bow. “Only ask her someday about card parties, and the game of brag. Her answer should afford you a pleasant half-hour’s entertainment.”
“What the devil does he mean?” Humphrey repeated, turning this time to Seabury. The viscount shrugged.
“Best to leave it be,” he said gently. “Now, Mockabee, here is your note. Where is my cousin?”
“Ah, my dear sir! You do not suppose I shall hand over your precious jewel before I have converted this—no doubt excellent—piece of paper into cash?”
“I certainly do suppose it!”
“Hardly businesslike, dear sir. I should not have expected it from you.”
“Mockabee,” said Inlowe, fairly bursting with anger, “you had best chuse something you will accept as a pledge, and you had best do so immediately. We shall not leave tonight without Miss Meredith, if we have to arm a band of the citizenry and bring her out by main force.”
“Ah, and expose the poor dear to the cold eye of the public! Unthinkable,” pronounced Mockabee, with heavy sarcasm.
“Then you had best decide, sir, what you will accept for security,” muttered Inlowe menacingly.
“Lady Caroline?” said the baron lightly.
“Damn your eyes,” Lord Seabury burst out, “if you do not come up with an answer in ten seconds, I shall murder you outright. I swear I will, on—on this ring. Take this ring, Mockabee! It has been in my family ten generations and more. Take it and hold it until your wretched cash arrives. Will you?”
“Inlowe, have you no little bauble to contribute?” the baron inquired. He had already received from Seabury the massive gold ring, thickly encrusted with emeralds.
The Earl of Inlowe removed from his right hand an heavy signet-ring. “I have never parted with this since my father gave it to me
twenty years ago. Now send for Miss Meredith, or I shall not answer for the consequence. Mockabee!” he thundered suddenly, with a resonance surprising in one so slender.
The baron pulled the bell-rope as if galvanised. When the manservant appeared he was instructed to fetch Miss Meredith.
“If ever I hear another whisper from you, Mockabee,” Seabury told him fiercely after the footman left, “or even so much as half of a whisper, I shall bring you to trial regardless of the hardship to my family. Is that understood? This trick succeeded once: it cannot again.”
Lord Mockabee bowed and gestured largely, if vaguely, with his hand. “Naturally, dear sir, this marks the end of our intercourse.”
“See that it does,” said Inlowe briefly, but eloquently.
Miss Meredith appeared a few moments later, without baggage.
“Where are her things?” Seabury asked, though he hardly cared.
“I should guess,” said Mockabee, with one eyebrow expressively raised, “in some shrubbery in Kent. Unless someone has moved them. They were a trifle…obvious.”
Lord Seabury wrapped his cousin in her travelling cloak (ornamented since the night of her escape from her aunt’s with a long rent down one side) and bundled her towards the doorway.
“Good-bye, my dear,” said Mockabee, with a low bow. “Your acquaintance has been—an enriching one.”
Inlowe tossed the man one last furious glance, but Seabury did not even deign to turn. He quitted Morton Hall without another word, put Amy up upon his horse, mounted it himself, and was five miles closer to Two Towers before he spoke a syllable.
Even then he said little. Amy wept during most of the ride to Lord Inlowe’s estate; she was so distraught that she could scarcely even grasp who Lord Inlowe might be. She understood, however, that Mrs. Henry awaited her at their destination, and this soothed her tremendously. Seabury, beyond satisfying himself that she was safe and sound, did not care to converse much with her just then. He was vastly, overwhelmingly tired, nor was it the ordeal he had just lived through that concerned and exhausted him. Certain ideas, certain thoughts would not be laid to rest in his weary head: they insisted upon calling attention to themselves, standing up (as it were) and demanding consideration. In spite of these thoughts being intimately connected to Lady Caroline, he hardly even saw her when the small party at last reached its destination. He nodded curtly to her, handed Amy into Inlowe’s care, and staggered off to bed—though not before giving thanks, in simple but deeply heartfelt words, to his brother-in-law.
“I suppose Mrs. Henry is asleep?” said that gentleman to his sister when the viscount had disappeared up the staircase.
“Yes, I think so,” said she, peculiarly chilled by what had just passed. “I should not like to wake her. Amy, will you allow me to put you to bed?”
Amy dropped a few extra tears on being denied the presence of her indulgent chaperone, but she quietly acceded to Caro’s request none the less. Caroline felt rather like crying herself, as she privately reflected while helping Amy to climb under the covers. She had asked Inlowe to wait up for her, and went down, after bidding Amy a final good-night, to find him in the library. She had never imagined Miss Meredith could be so docile and tender; indeed, the girl had actually asked for a hug from her before she left the room. Caroline mentioned the fact to Humphrey after he had recounted to her what had passed at Morton Hall.
“Dear me yes, the poor little thing has been through quite an adventure,” said the young earl. “Practically melted in your friend Seabury’s arms, you know.”
“Not my friend,” said Caroline stiffly.
“Not your friend? Seabury? I hope you do not mean to say you have taken him in dislike, Caro? He seems the devil of a fine fellow to me!”
“Do you like him, Humphrey? I do too. Oh Humphrey, I have been such an idiot!” she cried abruptly, allowing her weary head to drop into her hands and hiding her brimming eyes.
“Dear me, Caroline! What is the matter?” He rose and went over to her to pat her head gently. “I am sure it cannot be so bad as all that. It is something to do with Seabury?” he prompted, when she did not answer.
Caroline broke out into what can only be described as a sob.
“What a lot of tears we have had tonight,” exclaimed poor Inlowe, quite at a loss as to what could trouble his sister. “Have you offended Lord Seabury, my dear? You say he is not your friend. I am certain you have but to speak to him, and he will forgive you. He seems an extraordinarily fine fellow, Caro! I am sorry not to have made his acquaintance sooner; I cannot think why Lillian avoids him.”
Caroline said “Oh Humphrey” several times.
“Really my love, you must tell me a little more than that if I am to help you. Caro, perhaps you are just tired. Perhaps you ought to sleep a while, and when—”
“No, no, there is no cure for it! I have been an idiot, and he will never ever love me,” she burst out, more frantic each moment. She was, in truth, terribly exhausted.
“Who will never love you? Seabury?” asked Inlowe, bewildered.
Caro raised her tear-stained face to his. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, Seabury—and I love him so much! Oh Humphrey!” she repeated, and lapsed into a fresh set of sobs.
“Oh dear,” murmured her brother, feeling quite unequipped to deal with such an extremity as this. “You—are you perfectly certain he does not care for you, pet? If I recall correctly, he objected rather—well, violently, when Mockabee remarked he would accept you as a pledge. A vulgar joke of course, but I did not think it required quite so wild a retort. He damned Mockabee’s eyes, you know, and threatened to kill him.”
“Did he?” said Caro, her tears ceasing for a moment. “But he is very chivalrous; you do not know him as I do. He would do the same for Windle, believe me.”
Inlowe shook his head slowly. “I am not so sure,” he said vaguely; then, “by the way, this reminds me. What did Mockabee mean about you and card parties, Caroline? Something to do with brag, I think? Or was it faro?”
Caroline’s eyes flew open and she stared at her brother. “Good Heavens, Humphrey, tell me what he said!”
“But he did not say anything. Or rather, he said you would have something to say about it. You certainly look as if you do, my dear.”
“Promise you will never breathe a word of this.”
“Promised.”
Caroline straightened herself in her chair, clasped her hands firmly in her lap, and told her brother the story of her quarrels with Baron Mockabee. “You see, this is precisely the sort of thing,” she concluded fretfully, “Lord Seabury could not forgive. My behaviour was inexcusable throughout the whole affair. It may even have given Mockabee the idea of using Amy in his plot—as a sort of revenge upon the family, you know. And Humphrey, you have no notion how I have regretted my conduct! When I found Seabury had risked his life to defend me…and all because of that wretched poem…and that because of my stupid scheming! Well, you can see the chain of events goes on for miles, but in the end one cannot help but assign the blame to me. It was my fault, all my fault,” she practically wailed, while Inlowe sat down again and gazed gravely at some indistinct point before him. This was his habitual attitude for hard thought, and when Caro saw him that way she fell silent and watched him expectantly.
“Caroline,” he said finally, shifting his gaze to her, “there is no getting around the fact that you were imprudent in your early actions. Not inexcusable, mind you—but imprudent.”
Lady Caroline nodded sad assent.
“However. As regards your subsequent behaviour, I do not think it can be faulted. Having recognized your mistakes, you endeavoured at once to correct them. Sorely tried by your adversary, you kept your tongue and bore your trials gracefully and patiently. Frankly, I think that is the end of the matter. This business of Amy Meredith’s abduction is nothing to do with you, my dear. From what I understand, she brought it upon herself entirely.”
“Oh but Humphrey, even if Seabury could be bro
ught round to that point of view,” she objected, “he knows perfectly well I have been indiscreet. Why, he saw me that night in men’s clothing! Indiscretion is what he cannot bear. You saw how brief he was with me tonight. Oh dear, he is going to marry that horrid Susan Manning and while away the rest of his life in dreadful, killing tedium!”
“Susan Manning?” echoed Inlowe thoughtfully. “Now where have I seen that name before? Just recently, it seems…”
Caroline interrupted his concentration by asking, “Oh, what does it matter anyhow? My life is ruined.”
“Oh my, Caro; that is a little harsh, I protest,” said he.
Exhausted though she was, Caroline’s good sense told her (after a very little reflection) that he was right. “Of course—I do not know why I exaggerate like that. I had better go to sleep after all, my dear. Oh Humphrey!” she said for the twentieth time that night “You are the most wonderful brother anybody ever had. I have not even asked you how you are!” She hugged him, new tears standing in her eyes.
“Well, well…I am perfectly fine, in any case,” he murmured. He kissed her forehead. “Very glad to see you too, my dear, no matter what may have brought you home.”
With a few more phrases they bade one another good-night. Caroline fell into bed without so much as brushing out her hair, and slept at once. She awoke hours after the family had breakfasted, and finding her eyes uncommonly puffy as a result of the previous night’s weeping, was reluctant to seek out the others. Instead she had Jeannie bring her some chocolate, which she drank in bed. She then attired herself in her old riding habit (blue, for which she was heartily thankful—she was sick to death of rose), slipped out of the house, and rode over to Gaworth to visit Angela. She was not at home, therefore, when Lady Beatrice and her party arrived, a little before two in the afternoon, and completely missed the explosive reunion between the marchioness and Amy Meredith.
“Brace yourself, young woman,” said Lady Beatrice when, all necessary greetings and information between visitors and hosts having been exchanged, she had succeeded in shutting herself and Mr. Walfish into a sitting-room with Amy. Lord Seabury had been invited to join this festive little group, but had declined, preferring instead to accept another invitation (this from Lord Inlowe) to have a look round at the grounds. Miss Meredith appeared properly cowed when her aunt continued, “I have been angry in my time, my good gal, but never, never have I been so angry as I am with you now. What fever so diseased your brain as to make you attempt such lunacy as this? What snake persuaded you—no, never mind; I know the answer to that! But what possessed you, Amy Meredith?” she demanded, pretty much at the top of her voice, while she rose to tower majestically over the victim of her inquisition. “I must have an explanation!”