Joan Smith Page 3

  “The English is best, Peter,” I reminded him.

  “The most best English girl I ever see,” he smiled fatuously, offering his arm to accompany me to the stable. “I think the horse, she is too big for a girl, but now ...” He gave a Gallic shrug that speaks so many words and hastened along to the stables, his elegant little shiny Hessians hopping to keep up with me. He tried to slow us down, for he was low-set, and not very agile in motion.

  The mount was a cross between an Arabian and a Percheron, my favorite sort of jumper. She was a mare, called Nancy. “Whose mount is she?” I asked Pierre.

  “The Hill medicine man lent her. You can drive this animal?”

  “No, but I can ride and jump her. I’m going to change into my habit now and try her paces. Want to come along?”

  “I do not have a horse here. In France, I have many stables. My cousin, he is lending me a horse later soon. We English can’t do without our horses,” he assured me.

  He jabbered incessantly all the way back to the house. It was a relief to my poor ears to leave him at the door.

  Pinny came running to my room when she saw me enter the house. She got out my riding habit and bonnet, brushed them meticulously, and took my gown to hang up as I pulled it off. It was lovely to have her there, picking up after me, and feeling honored to be allowed to do it. I suppose for her it was no worse than sweeping carpets and polishing furniture. “That Mr. St. Clair is a wicked rattle-jaw, Miss Ford,” she warned me, somewhat belatedly to be sure. “Carries on with the girls when her ladyship’s back is turned, and that isn’t the worst of him either.”

  “What could be worse, Pinny?” I asked her mischievously.

  “He has a conning way about him. The mistress is so fond of him I don’t doubt he’ll become a tenant for life.”

  “What, settle down at Troy Fenners you mean?” I asked, surprised that my aunt could tolerate his jabbering.

  “We all think that’s what he has in his mind. He certainly likes it here, especially since Mr. Sinclair moved into the gatehouse. Close as winkle-weavers, the pair of them. If you want my opinion, miss, it’s a case of the scavengers gathering to see what they can pick from her, and they pick plenty.”

  “What on earth are you talking about, Pinny? You mean she gives them things—money?”

  “She’s doing something with it since they came. We never were short of anything before, and that’s a fact. She hasn’t paid us our last quarter wages. Of course she was away visiting, but she’d never have let it go before, and she hasn’t mentioned it since her return either. Cook says the grocer in the village was a-knocking at the back door yesterday for payment of his bill, and her without a pence in her coffers to pay him off.”

  “It must be an oversight. I’ll speak to her if you like, remind her to pay the staff.”

  “Oh, never in the world, miss!” she pleaded, her poor squinted eyes looking horrified. “I wouldn’t want her to know we’ve been gossiping, but it is odd, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” I agreed.

  “Shall I give this muslin a washing, miss?”

  “Good gracious no! I’ve only worn it for an hour. Hang it up.”

  “I pressed the suit you wore for traveling. It’s hanging in the clothespress. Is there anything else, miss? Any mending or polishing of shoes, gloves to be washed?”

  “Do whatever you see needs doing, Pinny,” I answered, glowing with joy at shucking all my personal chores off on her willing shoulders. “I must go now. I can’t keep Nancy waiting.”

  “That great whopper of a nag Dr. Hill left off on his way to the village? I never thought a lady could ride it, but then you’re not ...” She bumbled to a stop, too embarrassed to go on.

  “No, I’m not, am I?” I asked unhelpfully, and left the room, smiling at her.

  The smile faded as I considered her remarks about not getting paid. How was it possible my aunt was short of funds? She had, according to family gossip, ten thousand pounds per annum from Sir Edward, plus whatever small dowry she had brought to her marriage.

  Yet she had not given us girls a guinea on this last trip, as she customarily did. That is all she ever gave us. If her money was being used by buzzard-relatives, the Fords were not to blame. I could not imagine Pierre being so sly, but then his particular brand of English tended to cloud his actual thinking. He might be a cunning rascal, made to appear a fool by his broken English. He spoke a good deal of his cousin, this Welland Sinclair who was staying at the gatehouse. Welland, according to what I had learned, was a pensioner of Lord St. Regis. He might have thought to find easier pickings from a lone female relation. I would canter Nancy down toward the gatehouse and try for a look at Welland.

  My brief stop at the stable decided me I must speak to my aunt. The head groom walked diffidently up to me, and requested me to “just remind her ladyship that she forgot to pay the vet. He was here this morning to inspect a lame plough horse and happened to mention it.”

  “How much is it?” I asked.

  “Five pounds.”

  “That is expensive for inspecting a lame horse!”

  “It’s for the whole year, like. She hasn’t paid him all year.”

  “Very well, I shall speak to her.”

  It was early June. Pierre had been here for six months, since the beginning of the year. Her shortage of funds seemed to coincide with his coming, which might be coincidence, or might be something else. Its being June also made the weather intoxicatingly beautiful. In the morning, the sun was not yet high or hot. There was a refreshing breeze, an azure sky overhead, scudded with billowing white clouds, there were those spreading elms and oaks to give shade and variety to the park, and beyond there was the gatehouse, whose trellised wall was to be scaled by me in the near future. Best of all, there was a prime goer begging to be let out.

  I urged Nancy on, forgetting all else in the process. Instead of going to the gatehouse, I turned west to open ground, through all the park, the spinney, to a fence beyond that separated Troy Fenners from the neighbor. It was a nice high fence, over five feet. She took it without breaking stride, moving lightly, easily, fearlessly. I let her gallop on through the meadow, then turned her round and retraced her steps back to Aunt Loo’s parkland.

  The gatehouse was down at the road, of course. It was a smallish gray stone building, with some pretentious gothic trim that did not suit its proportions. The trellis—it had to be mine, there was only the one—was on the back of the building. It went up to the second story windows but was not substantial enough, in my estimation, to carry me. A ladder seemed a likelier means of access for Gloria.

  I rode around the building twice, checking for other trellises, espaliered trees, or some illegal means of entrance, and also for a view of Welland Sinclair, without finding any of the things I looked for. I was not in a mood to curtail my ride by making a call on him, so cantered down the road to check out the scene of another of my coming feats; to wit, the tollgate booth.

  It was very much like any other tollbooth you might see on the roads of England. The barrier itself could have been cleared on human foot, but I knew from Loo’s conversation it was the actual keeper’s booth I was to essay jumping. Just why Gloria should insist on this maneuver was not clear. A glance assured me Gloria must change her mind, and be satisfied with some other hazard. The hut was six feet high, and perhaps four feet on every side, a spot for the guard to sit down and wait for customers. He thought he had one in me. He came out and proceeded to make such a pest of himself by his ill-bred efforts at flirtation that I had to leave. I returned to Troy Fenners for lunch, and a private chat with my aunt about money.

  Chapter Four

  My aunt was just emerging from her study, which she called a scriptorium since she took up writing, when I came down the creaking stairs. She had on a pale blue cloud today, another floating, diaphanous affair with a muslin slip beneath to provide propriety. The creation defies naming; it was certainly not a gown, yet not quite a peignoir either. It wa
s a huge circle of cloth, with a hole cut for her head, and some embroidered slits from which her arms stuck out.

  “You met Pierre?” she asked.

  “Yes, I did. I have also been riding Nancy. She is a superb mare. I must congratulate Dr. Hill when next we meet.”

  “That will be this evening. I have asked him to dinner. Pierre is inviting Mr. Sinclair as well, to allow you to make his acquaintance. I breathe easier to tell you Pierre is taking his lunch with Mr. Sinclair. He is a sweet boy, but his chatter is so distracting, and he will go on trying to be polite and talking all the time, without realizing what an awful infliction he is. I shall just wash up and meet you for lunch, Gloria. In the solarium today—nice and bright and warm.”

  She was not totally out of her writing mood, since she called me Gloria. I wandered round till I found where the table was laid, in a smallish room with one wall windowed. It was the least gothicy room in the house, and the prettiest I had seen. By the time my aunt joined me, she was calling me Valerie. I mentioned that the groom had asked me to remind her to pay the veterinarian.

  “Dear me,” she said, shaking her head, “has he not been paid either? I don’t know where the money goes. It just flutters away. I think I must owe the servants a little something as well, for they are wearing their Friday faces—you must have noticed it.”

  A good bit of it had fluttered away during our stops at inns, but that still left several thousands to be accounted for. It was a difficult point to raise, being none of my business, but as she was not unapproachable, I asked, “Don’t tell me you are short of funds, Auntie? How can it be possible?”

  A look came over her face, or a lack of look—a strange blankness that was surely designed to conceal her feelings. “No, not really. I daresay I haven’t nearly so much money as your papa thinks I have. Edward left debts to be discharged, you must know. There are expenses to running a place like this. Always something to be repaired or replaced.”

  I have occasionally been charged with being pushier than is acceptable in a young lady, but I was not bold enough to ask point-blank if she was giving money to St. Clair and Welland Sinclair. I hinted at it indirectly instead. “Company to be entertained too, like me. And of course there is Pierre, and Mr. Sinclair ...”

  “Don’t mention it, Valerie. It is nothing—a

  bit of food. The house here is empty, the gatehouse the same. I am happy for the company,” was her uninformative reply.

  She would reveal nothing, but the telltale signs of worry were quite evident on her face. Dr. Hill was her confidant. His casual mention that the money from her writing was a help told me he knew something of her situation. I would question him when I got a chance—do it with the utmost discretion. If she were in a financial pickle, Papa was the one who could help her. He is a veritable wizard with money. You would laugh to hear how little income he gets from his estate, yet we keep up a very respectable appearance—a family of eight. I know he is putting some funds by for his daughters’ dowries as well as educating his sons. Mama too has everything she wants, though she is careful not to want much.

  Loo was chewing distractedly on an herb omelette. When she had swallowed, she said, “I would prefer if you not give any indication to Mr. Sinclair of this, Valerie. There is no need for him to know.”

  “How should I say anything about it to him? I have not even met the man.”

  “You will, and he has a strangely insinuating manner. I seem to find myself telling him things I had no notion of telling, and he will only ... Not that I know he would, but it is possible, and I would rather say nothing.”

  “What is it you think he will do?”

  “He is very close to St. Regis—his secretary. It was St. Regis who wrote asking me if he could stay at the gatehouse. How did he know it was vacant, I wonder? But he makes it his business to know everything about me, pest of a man. Just like his father before him. No, he isn’t though. He’s worse.”

  “What business is it of St. Regis if you have outrun the grocer?”

  “He makes it his business. That is exactly the trouble. The estate, Troy Fenners, is entailed on St. Regis. The Sinclairs always keep everything close in the family. If Edward had had any sons, Troy Fenners would have been theirs, but as he had not, it reverts to St. Regis when I go. I have tenure of the place and the income during my life.”

  “I know that, Auntie, but with such a large income you must have saved thousands.”

  “Not at all, my dear. I do not live in your mama’s nip-cheese way, making soup from bones and handkerchiefs from old shirts, and having my daughters act as house servants. Of course I do not have any daughters, but if I had, they would each have her own woman, as you have. But that is neither here nor there. St. Regis has his finger stuck into everything. I am not at all sure he did not send Welland Sinclair down here to spy on me, and send him back word how I go on. He would have promised Sinclair he could have the use of Troy Fenners to live in after I am gone. Sinclair looks around the place with a very proprietary eye already.”

  “I hope you aren’t planning to go anywhere for a few decades yet. You are only fifty.”

  “Fifty-four actually, my dear. Plus a few months. Twenty-six months, to be precise. I am getting on.”

  “You are a spring chicken. Pray don’t talk so foolishly. About St. Regis, I don’t see that he can do anything. You have control of the income to spend as you wish. He can’t change that.”

  “Yes, but he is the estate guardian, you see. He can recommend repairs and what not, recommend them very forcibly. Edward made the wretched mistake of appointing him to help me look after things, and he takes an overweaning interest in how I go on. Any mortgage or sale must go through him, for he would be responsible for the mortgage in a way if anything should happen to me. Not that it is likely to, but the odious man says ten thousand pounds a year should be enough, and he will never give me a penny more, besides making me spend a fortune to repair a barn—such a waste. And on top of it all, he is forever sending me the snippiest letters you ever saw.”

  “Mortgages?” I asked, wondering that she should require more money than her income, even with the repairs to a barn deducted from it.

  “Mortgages, selling pictures or jewelry or what not—he has his say about everything, making it impossible for me to raise ... But it is only a nuisance. Not serious,” she added, without much conviction.

  I took the impulsive decision it was possible to ask her point-blank after all, and did so. “What in the world would you need more than ten thousand pounds a year for, Auntie?”

  She looked around the room, hunching her shoulders, making poofing sounds with her mouth, undecided whether to tell me to mind my own business or to ignore the question. “Occasionally, for an extraordinary expense....” she said at last.

  “What extraordinary expense?”

  “The barn, as I mentioned. Helping people. Charity work. Things like that.”

  “Helping Pierre?” I essayed.

  “Pierre?” She laughed out loud at the thought. Laughed so hard I took the idea she was trying to hide something. I did not get anything else out of her. I knew she was in some financial trouble but would have to discover its cause in some other manner. I hoped for enlightenment from Dr. Hill.

  A few moments later I asked her where he lived. It was not more than a mile and a half down the road, in a pretty rose-covered Elizabethan cottage, which should not be difficult to find. He was coming to dinner that same day, but if no privacy was found, I could go to him.

  Before long, our talk turned back to Gloria. I explained that I did not think it possible for Nancy to vault over a building, no matter what incentive she had. “She is being pursued by the villain, and the tollgate keeper is his accomplice. She only realizes it as she approaches the booth, and hasn’t time to stop.”

  “She could go around it.”

  “Oh, no, there is a river on one side, and an armed man on the other, prepared to capture her. It is over the top, or she is don
e for. I am convinced it can be done. Oh, and there is something else, Valerie. You must not tell Mr. Sinclair why you are here. I would not want him running back to St. Regis with the story I am writing books. He would dislike it very much.”

  “It is none of their business, but if you want it kept mum, it is no difference to me. How about Pierre? He is on close terms with Sinclair. Will he not tell?”

  “He doesn’t know, my dear. I even told him once, but he does not understand a great deal of what he hears. He thinks I lock myself up mornings to write letters. So I would too, if the alternative were listening to him trying to talk to me. I like Pierre immensely, so charming and generous, but wearing. There is no denying he is hard on the nerves. Now, what would you like to do this afternoon, Valerie?”

  “Go to see the oubliette, and explore the secret passage you spoke of.”

  “I shall go down to the dungeon with you. There might be something in it for Gloria ...” Her voice trailed off, while she looked with unseeing eyes out the window, caught up once more in the tenebrous shadows.

  The oubliette was a disappointment. There was clammy, cold stone, as promised, with a few puddles on the floor. There were three sets of clamps and chains hanging from the wall. There was no light whatsoever, save for the lamps we carried with us. A cloud of cobwebs stroked my cheek at one point, giving me a nice shiver down the spine, and I heard a dainty scuffle in a black corner that was very likely a mouse or a rat.

  With all this marvelous stuff, you will think I am hard to please. What was lacking was the element of danger. It was impossible to raise a goose bump when we had two footmen with us, and Aunt Louise would insist on talking in the most matter-of-fact way to them about cleaning the glass of their lamps, for it was smudged, and of having them come down to give the dungeon floor a good sweeping. She is peculiarly unimaginative for a lady who deals in gothic stories.

  Another slight disappointment in the exploration was that there was not a single sign of anyone ever actually having been confined in the oubliette. I did not hope to see whole skeletons hanging in the chains but had thought for at least a ragged bit of a jacket, a message scratched on the wall, even a dish or a spoon to activate the imagination. There was nothing of the sort.