“Yes, sir, Mr Penhallow.”
Mrs Meredith came into the hall. “Thank God you came, Burke. I have been fair out of my mind. I’ll order dinner at once.”
“I am not hungry, thank you. I must see the Stukelys,” Burke began.
Mrs Meredith grimaced, and said in a low tone, “She will not eat either.”
Burke nodded. “You are right. Order dinner, we must encourage each other. I will speak with Lesley now.”
“Be gentle,” she said quietly. “She is very hurt.”
“I know that.” He patted her shoulder, and went into the drawing room, closing the door after him.
Lesley was seated in a chair at the desk, little piles of coins and bills before her. She was not counting them, her head was bowed on her hands, her fists clenched and supporting her forehead.
He came up behind her and began to stroke her thick hair. So beautiful her red-gold hair, so soft and silky, in the loose coils...
She spoke, in a choked voice. “He is so little, Burke. And to be alone and frightened ... cold ... hungry...”
“We cannot know that. He might be with someone good to him,” he said gently. “Come to the sofa with me. Let us speak.” He drew her up, and over to the sofa with him. He never had seen her so submissive, so crushed in spirit. It hurt him, though at times he had longed furiously to see her under his heel. He drew her down beside him and put her head firmly on his shoulder. She drew a deep quivering sigh, and relaxed against him. He put his hand over her folded hands on her lap.
“I received a letter from Felicia Stukely also,” he finally began, thoughtfully. “It was a curious letter. What was yours?”
“It is ... on the desk,” she said wearily and made to rise. His arm tightened about her. It was sweet to feel her close to him, he would not let her go.
“Later,” he said. “Tell me of your visit to her. What did she say, what did Stukely say?”
She raised her head. Her face was pallid, but for the red eyelids. “I went at ten o’clock, Aunt Maude with me. We found them at home, breakfasting. Aunt seemed concerned, yet very nervous. You know how her eyes never meet one’s? She could not look at me today. I sensed something ... odd. I think ... Burke, I have the feeling she knows more than she says.”
Burke frowned, his hand paused in caressing her hands. “How odd, Lesley? Tell me carefully. Think about it,” he said sharply. “This is very important.”
She sat up straight, still in the curve of his arm. Her tone took on excitement. “Oh, Burke, do you think it could help? Aunt Felicia seemed nervous and upset. She asked if you were coming, seemed very disappointed when I said I had come with my maid. She asked sharply what I thought I could do. Her hands twisted. She wore ... wore no jewellery ... oh, Burke!” She turned to gaze up at him, her grey eyes luminous. “Do you think ... could it be something about Janssen?”
“She wore no jewellery?” he asked again, repeating it. “She wore no jewellery? That is indeed strange. I wonder ... but go on. Did she speak of Guy Janssen?”
“No, she did not. I would have asked, but Uncle Stukely began to speak idly of Sandy, his disobedience, how he had tried to run away before. He said that Sandy might have run away. Then ... it was strange ... Aunt Felicia contradicted him in a rather hysterical fashion. She said, no, it could not be, that a carriage had driven up, and Sandy had been picked up and put into a carriage and taken off. Sandy could not have planned that,” she said.
“No, no, it is very odd. And Uncle Stukely, what did he say to this?”
“He changed the subject, he did not seem interested in what Aunt said. You know his bullying manner. He listens to nobody but himself, usually, unless he is being cunning and smart. He said it was odd they had had no requests for money from any criminal. Usually persons of that ilk demand money to bring the boy back. I asked him about that ... he was firm in saying nobody had asked for money. I happened to look at Aunt, she was very pale and shaking.”
“I must go and speak with them,” mused Burke, scowling. “I wonder ... I wonder if she knows more about this than she says. And I think her letters were cunningly worded so that we would come to London and begin searching! Yes, I think she said we need not come, but worded the letters so that we would come in all haste.”
Lesley was sitting up straight, her hands clenched before her, her eyes shining. “Oh, Burke, could you be right about this?” she whispered. “It may be a clue. Oh, do go and talk to them tomorrow ... I shall demand to know...”
“My sweet, I think I had best go myself, alone,” he said, with a smile, smoothing her hair back in a caressing fashion. “Your temper is all too quick. What else happened? You said you suspected Aunt Felicia of knowing more...”
“Yes, but that is only a suspicion. Uncle Stukely was so indifferent, he infuriated me. I turned on him and we quarrelled...”
“And so were drawn from questioning Aunt Felicia,” said Burke thoughtfully. “Hm. Your Aunt Felicia is stupid and frivolous, but I think she is also a clever little vixen. When it comes to Guy Janssen, I think she has kept her husband deceived for some time.”
“That may be,” said Lesley indifferently. “Oh, Burke, they did say that Sandy has been gone over two weeks now. I have been so worried since I heard that. Two weeks! More than sixteen days! He could be ... be...” Her lips quivered.
“No, do not think the worst,” he said firmly. He bent and kissed her lips again, they were so sweet and gentle, so soft in their quivering anxiety. He brushed his lips against hers again, they were passive, and he brushed against her cheeks as well, soothing her.
She had been relaxed against him. Finally she seemed to realize she was permitting him to kiss her. She put her fists against his chest, and pushed back from him.
“No, Burke,” she said. “I ... I don’t like being kissed!”
But she had yielded for a time. He did not show his little triumphant feeling. He let her draw herself from his arms.
“Tomorrow, we shall begin to search in earnest,” he said. “First, I shall call upon Felicia and Uncle Stukely, and try to prise from them any further information. Then the constables ... you have notified them?”
“No,” she said. “I forgot! And I fear Uncle Stukely has not ... Oh, dear, Aunt Maude did suggest that, but I forgot!” And she looked like a scolded child.
“No, do not fret, Lesley,” he said gently. “Leave the matter to me. I will send word this evening by a footman and go myself tomorrow. Now, let me see ... your solicitors should be notified as well.” His eyes narrowed. “You know, terrible as this seems, it may be the piece of luck we have wished for in vain.”
“Luck?” she gasped. “How can you say so?”
He nodded, his eyes gleaming. “It may be, Lesley. If by their carelessness they have lost Sandy ... or by their contriving he has been taken, then they are not fit guardians at all! Of course! This may be the weapon I have longed to have in my hand!”
“I don’t understand,” she said, but her eyes glowed at his excitement. “What good can it do, with Sandy gone?”
“We shall get him back,” said Burke firmly, and dared to kiss her cheek again before standing. “Yes, we shall get him back, Lesley! And now for some dinner, and rest. We must be fresh to begin the search tomorrow!”
She jumped up, more eager than he had seen her. “Yes, we must be ready tomorrow. Do let me go with you, Burke! I will be good, I promise!”
It reminded him of Sandy’s broken voice, promising to be good. His head bent. Lesley said, “What is it?” and put her hand on his.
“I thought ... of Sandy,” he said in a low tone. He was half ashamed of the tears in his eyes.
Lesley did not let fly an arrow of wit. “Oh, Burke, you do care,” she whispered, and she pressed his hand with her nervous fingers. He carried them to his lips, and kissed them. “I am so glad ... that you care...”
He put his arm about her and led her to the door. “Yes, I care, very much, Lesley. I think you come to understand me now
.”
She looked at him a little doubtfully, but let the remark stand. They went in to dinner after he had washed the dust of his long ride from him. Lesley was not bright and witty, but she did smile at his story of his departure from Penhallow and of all the fluster of the people there.
“They will all proceed to the townhouse in two days, and open it for us,” he said over the roast beef. “I hope we may impose on Mrs Meredith until the house can be made ready for us. I have sent word to the caretaker to have the house aired.”
“Of course, you are most welcome,” Maude Meredith smiled on him.
Burke attacked the potatoes and beef with appetite. When Lesley picked at her food, he encouraged her tenderly. “Do eat, Lesley, it will be good for you. You will need all your strength in the coming days.” He motioned to the footman to serve her the glass of wine she was trying to refuse. “That will aid you in relaxing and sleeping tonight,” he said, being practical.
She drank some wine, ate some food, and more colour came into her face. She spoke more naturally, asked about Viola. Burke told her Viola would be chaperoned by Mrs Grigson.
“I am sorry to take you from the work of the harvests,” said Lesley. “I know you were concerned about that. Do you have a good man in charge? Reverend Creswick?”
“I have a good man, Bates. Edgar was anxious to follow us to London and aid us as he can. He will be coming with Viola and Mrs Grigson.”
It was quite the most natural and good conversation they had had since before the Stukelys had descended on them at Penhallow. Lesley seemed gentler, softer, her look on him was different ... almost tender, he thought. Something had changed her, and his hopes were rising.
If only they might find Sandy, and quickly, his future looked much more bright. The lad must come first, then he would begin to straighten out the coil he and Lesley had found around themselves.
Their bedrooms were next to each other. He saw Lesley to her room, and said calmly, “Leave your door somewhat ajar tonight, my dear. If you wish me, call. I want you to sleep well tonight. I have a bottle of brandy in my room. If you cannot sleep, tell me, and I shall bring some to you.”
She smiled and shook her head. “I shall not become drunken for your amusement,” she managed to say. “No, I shall sleep tonight. Burke?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“Thank you for coming ... so swiftly,” she said softly.
“I could not do otherwise,” he replied. He bent and kissed her lips very gently and cautiously. It was becoming a delightful habit, and he enjoyed it. To his joy she returned his kiss with unaccustomed lips, sweetly. If it was a bit childlike, well, she had not much experience in kissing, and he was happy with the touch. “Goodnight, my dear. Call me if you lie wakeful.”
“I shall sleep,” she repeated. “Goodnight, Burke. I will see you in the morning.” She hesitated. “If I do not waken early, wake me,” she said anxiously. “I wish to go with you, please, Burke!”
“You shall,” he promised. He gave her into Netta’s charge, and went to his bed, much more peaceful in mind than he had been in many a long day and night.
CHAPTER 13
Burke and Lesley began their search at once, riding out daily in the carriage to the slums and fashion areas, to the poor streets and lanes, to the highways and byways.
Edgar Creswick, Viola, and all the household arrived in London, the townhouse was opened, and Burke and Lesley removed there. Edgar remained at home most days, to receive any persons who might have clues about Sandy. Viola kept the household running, plied them with hot food and tea at any hour they might come home. Mrs Grigson was an excellent chaperone, and besides was a comfort with her cheerful conviction that Sandy would be found soon.
Lesley had written a brief note to her brother Frank at his ship on the coast. He had obtained leave at once and come up to London, showing his deep concern for the boy. Lieutenant Frank Dalrymple had acquired a bright red beard and moustache, and had a formidable manner about him as he went about London on his own, poking and prying everywhere, telling people, “The lad looks just like me.”
Lesley and Burke were both shocked and appalled as they discovered the conditions of the poor in London in their search for Sandy. They rode daily in the most sober carriage, with two grey horses, all about the alleyways and dirt roads of the older parts of London.
On any given day, with their eyes on the alert for a boy of six with red hair, they would see small children begging in the streets, other children working in dark holes in the walls at various tasks from ironing clothes, to threading needles for girls to sew shirts and dresses, to making up posies of fresh flowers to be sold before the theatres in the evening.
Others had more sickening tasks, such as cutting up meat in the markets with immense knives with which they sometimes inflicted wounds on themselves. Some skinned leather, their hands raw with the acids. Lesley saw many blackened sweeps, going about with brooms over their shoulders. She thought of Freddie whenever she saw them.
Burke worried about Lesley. “I hate for you to see these sights,” he said one day, when they returned early. It had begun to rain, they had persisted for a time. When the thunderstorms started and lightning flashed in the blackened sky, they gave up. The children on the streets had scattered to hide in shelters, some under the bridges.
“If I do not see them, will they go away?” she asked bitterly, huddled in the rain-wet carriage, her cloak about her shoulders. “Burke, I feel guilty.”
He frowned. “Why guilty?”
“Because I was raised in a comfortable home, by parents who loved me. Because I was treated gently and spoiled. Because I am warm, well-fed, warmly clothed, with a bed in a beautiful home. We have so much, Burke, they have so little. Yet I saw a child laugh today.”
Burke smiled at her and put his arm about her. She sighed, and leaned against him. “What an uncomfortable conscience you have, Lesley,” he teased gently. “Yes, I do understand, my dear, I am not mocking you. I too feel guilty, for having a sturdy build from eating good food all my life. For having many suits in my wardrobe to change about. What can we do, however? We are but two persons, there are hundreds, nay, thousands of children. Can we rescue them all? Even if I started a factory, I would but perpetuate their slavery to work. I do not know where to start, or where it would end,” he said, more seriously.
She shook her head. “So many children, so much poverty,” she said in a low tone. “And dear Sandy, somewhere among them if he is not —”
He put his large hand gently over her mouth, so she could not finish the broken speech. “We are not going to brood about what has not happened yet,” he said firmly. “I think if he had died, we would have discovered that. The fact that he is still missing is hopeful.”
“Oh, do you think so really?” she breathed.
He nodded, gazing down into her grey eyes. “Yes, I do. Also, Stukely seemed oddly unconcerned. I think if the lad were dead, Stukely would be racing about trying to prove he had inherited all that money!” he added drily. “I saw him two days ago when I went to the club in the evening with Frank. He came over and said he thought we were wasting our time. Sandy will turn up when he is tired of being a vagrant.”
“Oh, I hope you struck him!” cried Lesley indignantly. “As though Sandy would do such a thing!”
“Frank wanted to deal him a facer,” said Burke. “I drew him away. Your brother has as quick a temper as yourself, my dear! I wonder how he manages in the navy!”
She thought Burke was changing the subject to distract her. She was rather grateful to him. He was keeping up her spirits and his own. She did not know how she would have endured it, if she had not had his strength to lean upon.
Presently, as the carriage turned into their street, Burke said, “We have invitations to the Longleys for tonight. I had told them we were uncertain whether we could come. How do you feel about that?”
“I do not wish to go,” she said, troubled. “Must we?”
�
�You are weary, but I think it would do you good to party a little, to laugh and enjoy yourself. It is not a betrayal of your love for the boy. We shall return early, and to bed by midnight.”
She rubbed her forehead. “Let me think about it,” she said wearily.
By evening, he had changed his mind about it. He told Lesley, “I think it will do you more good to sleep, if you can. I believe Frank and I shall go, with Viola and Edgar. Do you remain in, and rest. Or shall I stay with you?”
She pressed his hand gratefully. “Oh, do go out, Burke. You need a change, certainly. I shall remain in, thank you. I believe I shall retire early, to be fresh for tomorrow’s search.”
Lesley lay awake that night, however. The house seemed so silent with Burke, and the others, all out of it. She heard every creak of the floorboards, the cries of the night watchman telling the hours, the clatter of dishes and pans from the kitchens, the low grumble of voices of the quiet servants.
Lesley wondered if she had been foolish to remain home while Burke went out. Did he meet Denise Huntington? Did he perhaps have his eye on some other charmer? Her old suspicions rose. He was a strong, energetic man, with hearty passions. And she did not satisfy them, she made no attempt to do so.
How long would he remain faithful, loving, gentle, considerate? She did not see him long in that role, yet he played it well.
What would he say or do, if he learned that she had come to love him? She flinched. He would be happy at first, he would make love to her, claim her as his wife. She would yield herself to him, become his wife in fact, and become set in the pattern he wished for her.
Then when she became pregnant with his child, he might begin to stray once more. He wanted a son and heir, that was part of the marriage contract for all men. The wife must provide the children who would follow in the steps of the father, inherit his property, carry on the estates and name. And then, what about the wife?
Forgotten, neglected, her role would be frozen to that of wife and mother and housewife. Lesley thought of Burke’s angry reaction when she had given the speech about the children of the village in the cloth factory. Did he think he could force her to give up such speeches, her activities in the realm of making changes in the social system? She wanted to speak out in the area of education, child abuse, the rights of women. Would Burke sternly forbid that?
The Ruby Heart: A classic Regency love story Page 16