They sighed and departed, she heard their laughing chatter in the hallway. Edgar was teasing Viola about her large bonnet, and she giggled at his remark.
Lesley sat in her chair like a statue, too listless to move. The footmen moved quietly about her, removing the plates, the silver-covered dishes of food. She sipped at her tea, one footman refilled her cup, she drank some of that. The day stretched long and empty before her.
The butler came in. “The post, madam,” he said, and set several letters before her. She turned them over in her long fingers. Aunt Felicia had written to her, and to Burke. Lesley frowned. Aunt Felicia was a poor letter-writer, and she had written to both of them. What was on her mind?
Sandy! Something had happened to Sandy!
In nervous agitation, she tore the letter while unfolding it. She spread out the page, and frowned over the scrawled lines.
Dear niece Lesley,
I am too too horrified and shocked to write with care. Too too bad news. Sandy gone. Horrible. Snatched off by somebody. Carriage before our gate. Gone. There is a notorious gang of child-snatchers about. Stukely thinks it was them, Sandy is a sturdy child, well-built, strong and mischievous. Must have gone with them. He was out with his governess, we must never permit him out. mischievous. snatched him away from in front of the house, closed carriage, she did not get a look at him.
The letter rambled on, the spelling and punctuation became worse. Lesley glanced to the end, not bothering to decipher it all.
The words had jumped from the page, the important words that Sandy was gone, snatched off by somebody. Child-snatchers!
Lesley rose from the table, snapped at the startled footman, “Bring two small trunks and a hat box to my bedroom at once!”
“Yes, madam!” he muttered, and dashed off without asking why. She turned to another footman.
“Tell one of the coachmen — ask Grimes — tell him to hitch up the barouche and good horses, be in front of the manor house within half an hour. We shall proceed to London at once.”
“Yes, madam,” said the other footman, equally dazed, and went out through the kitchens.
Lesley proceeded up the wide stairs, calling to Netta as she approached the west wing. Netta came out to meet her, shocked at Lesley’s face.
“Oh, madam, what is it?” she cried.
Lesley had the letter crumpled in her hand. “We are going to London at once,” she said. “Go and pack something for yourself, I shall begin to pack here.”
Netta began to protest, to question. Lesley turned on her savagely, as she never did.
“If you will not go, I shall go by myself! Do not bother me with your questions, Netta!”
“Yes, madam,” whispered Netta, and ran up the stairs to the servants’ quarters near the nursery.
By the time the panting footman brought in two trunks and the large hatbox, Lesley was laying out the clothes she would take with her. She dumped some of them into one trunk. The footman fastened it up, and took it downstairs.
“Jewellery ... money,” muttered Lesley. She might need money and jewels for bribes. What would criminals require in order to return Sandy to her?
She dumped the leather case of rubies and diamonds into the bottom of the other small trunk. She opened her drawers, searched feverishly, came up with several other small cases of jewels, which she wore so often it was too much trouble to return them to the safe.
Her other more expensive things were in Burke’s safe, and she did not have the combination. Men. They must keep everything to themselves. She cursed him mentally, so bitter towards him, so upset, she was not rational.
By the time Netta had returned, dressed for travelling, Lesley was also ready. She had flung a pelisse over her thin muslin gown, changed her slippers for short boots, and put on a blue bonnet that did not match the green pelisse. Netta began to speak, then stopped herself, and silently took the hatbox handed to her. The footman had returned for the second trunk. Lesley picked up her purse which she had stuffed with the little money she had, some coins, some notes.
“Let us go,” she said abruptly, and swept down the stairs. The butler attempted to ask her something, she brushed past him. Evidently the housekeeper had not caught wind of any activity and remained serenely in the kitchen quarters, probably planning luncheon.
It was quite two hours before Lesley could relax into her corner of the great closed barouche. Netta had heard her order Grimes, “To London, the Dover Road,” and said nothing.
Lesley sensed the maid was watching her with troubled face. The woman was loyal, good to her.
She finally turned to Netta. “Sandy has been ... snatched ... carried off,” she said, in a choked tone.
The woman caught her breath. “Oh ... madam ... Miss Lesley, oh, that poor boy!”
“Yes. Aunt Felicia wrote.” She held out the note blindly, then remembered that Netta could not read or write. She opened the crumpled, torn note and read it to her, then read it again slowly.
Netta was visibly horrified. “Taken away! Child-snatched! Oh, madam, it is dreadful. That poor little boy ... and they should have taken better care of him!”
“Yes, they should,” said Lesley bitterly. “But nobody cares a damn about him but me!”
“Oh, madam, Mr Burke, he cares about the little lad. Right fond of him, he is. And him pacing the floor of his study afternoons, worrying about him, he does.”
“He does?” asked Lesley blankly. Netta nodded wisely.
“Yes, madam. I take tea to him sometimes in the afternoons, when you don’t come down. And him talking to Mr Reverend Edgar, and them worrying and worrying about what they can do. He scratches letters to the solicitors almost every day, and has the footmen running up and back to London regular, he does.”
Lesley felt some pain releasing itself slowly in her heart. “He does that? I did not know,” she said slowly. “I thought ... he had forgotten. I thought ... he did not care.”
“Oh, madam, you should talk to him. We should have talked to him afore we left,” said Netta simply. “He’ll be that worried about you too. And the lad ... he might have been able to do something about the lad.”
Lesley shook her head and blindly stared from the window. The beauty of the August sunlight on the wheatfields, on the green pastures, did not take her attention today. She could not appreciate the scarlet poppies, the white daisies with golden hearts, the weeping pale green of the willows, the beautiful horses grazing.
“Where will we be staying?” asked Netta presently.
“Where? At the townhouse, of course,” said Lesley.
“It be closed, madam. The servants all came down to Penhallow for the summer, but for the caretaker,” she said.
“Oh, Lord,” said Lesley wearily. She had been concentrating on how to rescue Sandy. What should be the first step? How could she set about this?
“We could go to Mrs Meredith. Is she still in London?” Netta’s voice was gentler. She was sorry for Lesley now, treating her like a child.
“I think so ... she wrote last week ... she had an invitation to Devon but did not wish to undertake the long journey. Her leg was bothering her,” said Lesley, her hand to her head. “Oh, do you think she would take us in?”
“Of course she will,” said Netta soothingly, and leaned back in relief. Presently Netta tapped on the roof and asked the coachman to stop where they could lunch.
Her mistress was plainly not in condition to think of practical matters such as eating and changing horses. She and Grimes would have to take care of that.
Lesley ate swiftly, impatiently, as soon as the innkeeper could hurry his cook and maid into providing a table and food. Netta insisted on her drinking some tea and resting for half an hour, while the horses were being changed and Burke’s fine blacks rubbed down and stabled. Grimes was worried about them, what would Mr Penhallow say to him if the blacks were stolen?
The barouche then proceeded to London, arriving there as the late summer sun was just skimming over th
e edge of the horizon. The coachman pulled up with relief at the townhouse of Mrs Maude Meredith, and sighed with pleasure as the footman came out in dignified manner and a lackey appeared from the side of the house. At least they were home.
Lesley staggered with weariness as she was shown into the drawing room of her friend. Mrs Maude Meredith soon came into the room, saw her young friend, and held out her arms.
Lesley’s mouth trembled, she cast herself into the warm arms, and wept on her shoulder.
“My dear, my dear, whatever is the matter?” asked Mrs Meredith, drawing her to a couch. She studied Lesley gravely. She had worried about this marriage. However, she was shocked at Lesley’s thin and wan appearance, at the abandon with which the girl wept. “Is it Burke? Surely not?”
Lesley shook her head, drawing back. “Have you seen Sandy?” she asked, her grey eyes studying Mrs Meredith’s face.
Maude Meredith shook her head in turn. “No, I have gone there each week, as Burke asked me to do. However, they have refused me permission to visit the child. I have been sore troubled about the matter, as I told your husband.”
“Burke asked? He wrote?” Lesley stared in amazement.
“Of course. He loves the child, he wrote and explained all to me. My dear friend, whatever has happened? You are fair distracted.”
Lesley fumbled the letter from her reticule. Before Mrs Meredith could read it, she stammered out the contents. “Sandy has been taken away, child-snatched ... missing ... gone. Aunt Felicia wrote ... oh, I am out of my mind! Where could he be? How can we get him back?”
Mrs Meredith’s mouth compressed hard as she carefully read the missive. “Gracious heavens, what a dreadful matter,” she said soberly. “And that scatter-brained Felicia ... she sent me no word. I wonder if they have even notified the constables...”
“I must proceed to them at once,” and Lesley started up.
“No, no, dear child, it is past eight of the evening. And you are exhausted. No, we will go there tomorrow morning, and demand an explanation. What did Burke say?”
Lesley grimaced. “I did not tell him,” she said simply.
Mrs Meredith groaned. “You did not? But your absence ... your flight to London...”
Lesley tossed her head. “He will learn when he returns home ... I suppose he knows by now.”
Mrs Meredith then learned all about the swift flight, her charge’s wilfulness. She ordered some supper prepared, and while Lesley protested, Mrs Meredith insisted on hearing the entire matter as she ate.
Mrs Meredith sat in silence then, contemplating. Finally she spoke. “My dear friend, the matter is not just the disappearance of Sandy, then. You are very upset over what you believe is the loose behaviour of your husband.”
Lesley’s pale face flushed, she finally nodded. “Yes, I had come to hope,” she said in a low tone, “that he had changed. We were ... coming to understand each other, I believed. He tried to ... I mean at first ... the first nights ... but I soon set him straight! I will not be his true wife!” And she tossed her head angrily, the red-gold curls escaping from the loose coils about her forehead. One curl hung down over her brows, she pushed it back.
“I read between the lines of his letters to me,” said Mrs Meredith thoughtfully. “It is true, Lesley. Forgive me for prying, but we are such old friends. Have you...” She hesitated, delicately. “Have you ... denied him ... your bed?”
“Of course!” said Lesley.
Mrs Meredith groaned a little, her fingers pressed her forehead. “And he is fair distracted over you. And now Sandy, missing ... taken from you by Felicia and that oaf Stukely ... Lord, what a coil.”
“Sandy is important, Burke is not,” said Lesley, the flush paling. She felt terribly weary, she had lived on tea and not much else since Sandy had been taken from her. She drooped. “Oh, Aunt Maude, how can I get Sandy back?”
“Burke is also important,” Mrs Meredith reproved gently. “He may be a boy grown up, but he is also a boy who can be hurt. And I think you have hurt him deeply, not trusting him.”
“How could I?”
“Oh, my dear, did you ever listen to his side of it?” Mrs Meredith stood, and went over to her pretty little desk. She unlocked a drawer and took out half a dozen letters bearing the bold black handwriting of Burke Penhallow. “My dear, I am going to leave you for a time while you read these letters. Then we shall not discuss them for now. You shall go to bed and rest. In the morning, we shall consult over what is to be done.”
And she put the packet in Lesley’s hand and left the room, closing the door after her.
Lesley felt like throwing all the letters into the fire. Burke did not matter, he had betrayed her, betrayed and dashed all her timid little first hopes. She turned over the packet in her hand. Her mouth was tight, she felt strung-up and weepish.
Finally she forced herself to unfasten the ribbon band and sort the letters, putting the earliest first. She would read for a bit, then stop.
The letters caught at her attention, she found herself absorbed, wondering, concerned, then finally softened as she read.
The first letter was polite, saying they had arrived at Penhallow. He thought Lesley was enjoying it, Sandy certainly was. He wrote:
The boy is a delight. I am looking forward to becoming a father one day! Never have I been with a lad who so enjoyed Nature. I look at things through new eyes. He points out a flower, I study it more closely with him.
Lesley is much like that also. She encourages the women to confide in her, she will make a fine squire’s lady, as they call her. Though educated far beyond them, she manages to speak in their way, simply, directly. It is a pleasure to be with her.
Lesley swallowed, finished that letter, laid it aside. It could all be an act, to deceive Mrs Maude Meredith. He wrote gracefully, with a nice turn of phrase.
The second letter was warmer; he thanked Mrs Meredith for writing, and spoke of Lesley’s good, warm nature.
She seems so cool and poised, it was difficult at first to realize it is partly a shy reserve that keeps her from speaking frankly. I thought because we had been friends much of our lives that she would trust me and confide in me. Instead I find her very suspicious of men. It will take a time to win her confidence. I am resolved to be patient with her.
The third letter was very frank, written in the heat of passion, then cooling to despair. He spoke of the way Sandy had been taken from them. Burke wrote starkly:
I am convinced it was a plot among the four of them. Denise had been my mistress, I am frank about that. However, I had visited her just after becoming engaged to Lesley. I settled some money on her, thanked her for her kindness to me, and said I would carry on no affairs now, for I meant to settle down and become a devoted husband, a married man and would be dull to her! I thought she believed me, and would not be so brazen as to follow me about. When she came with the Stukelys and Guy Janssen, I truly believed she had transferred her affections to the Frenchman.
However, I think he is still involved with Felicia Stukely, as I informed you privately two months ago. Evidently, he wished to continue to receive moneys and jewels from her. Denise came to my bedroom. I had been asleep and wakened to find her kissing me most boldly. I rejected her, and started from the bed. I snatched up a robe. She was in nightdress and sheer negligée.
We went into the hallway, I would not speak with her, nor allow her to remain. On coming out, I heard a sound, turned my head, and saw Lesley staring at us from her door. You may imagine my shock and despair, for she would surely misunderstand.
Lesley turned hurriedly to the next page, absorbed in this frank tale of what had happened, according to Burke.
I then escorted Denise back to the main hallway. To my further shock, I found Felicia and Stukely and Janssen all awaiting us. Lesley had followed us. She was witness to it all. I am ashamed to say I was so shaken, so started from a deep sleep, I had not my wits about me, or I would have expressed myself more forcefully. I tried to say it was a
plot against me. Denise said, very weakly, she wished my advice. It was utterly damning! I could have wrung her neck.
In the morning, Stukelys departed for London with Denise and Janssen — and took Sandy with them. Lesley will not speak to me, she blames me utterly. Viola refused to go, and I did back her in this. I feared I had no grounds for keeping Sandy. After all, we had taken him before the courts had decided for us.
I have written to my solicitors about this matter. I beg you to contact them, keep in touch with them. Also will you go to see Sandy when you can, keep me informed as to his condition? I have warned Stukely if Sandy is mistreated I will take my whip to him, and so I shall. But that will not heal Sandy’s wounds. I am sick with it all.
There was a pause in the scrawled letters. Then after a little space, the letter continued in even writing which showed some time had elapsed after the above was written.
Forgive me for casting so many burdens upon your shoulders. However, your wisdom and knowledge of the world is such that I truly believe you can carry out these commissions in splendid fashion. I beg you to do so, not for my sake, but for Lesley’s sake and for Sandy’s.
You have believed me rake, and so I was. It seemed to me I would hurt no one by being so, if it amused me. I am wrong. It has hurt me, and Lesley, and most of all an innocent child. If I could change the years behind me, believe me, I would do with speed. No words can express how ashamed I am of my behaviour, which was so frivolous, so lacking in thought and decency, and which has rebounded on two innocent persons, hurting them both. The pain I feel is my just deserts. I love Lesley with all my heart, though I do not deserve her. I had thought to persuade her to confide in me, to come to love me. How can she love such an idiot as I have been?
That is my problem, forgive me for burdening you with it. I beg you to do as I requested, to write to me, and tell me what of Sandy. Lesley is so stricken with grief, I cannot make her rise above it. Pray for us. Your friend, Burke Penhallow.
The Ruby Heart: A classic Regency love story Page 14