The House at Bell Orchard Page 11

  “Harry! Miles!” Lavinia had recovered her composure, and spoke sharply. “For pity’s sake, can you never meet without embarking on a mortal quarrel? There are more important issues at stake than the fancied slights you put upon each other, and I, at least, desire to know exactly how matters stand. Your father’s letter told me nothing.”

  “As usual, my dear Lavinia, you show admirable common sense,” Miles murmured, “and now that Harry has designed to tear himself at last from the arms of his rustic light-o’-love, I will explain to you both what could not be set down in writing.” He put down the cards and leaned back in his chair, one white hand toying with the quizzing-glass which hung on a ribbon about his neck. “In the first place, my father is seriously displeased by this intimate friendship which you have allowed to grow up between Miss. Tarrant and the Wychwoods. It is unnecessary, undesirable, and could be exceedingly dangerous to us all.”

  “Do you think I do not know that?” Lavinia said indignantly. “I assure you, I have done all in my power to discourage it! Her first meeting with Piers Wychwood was an unfortunate chance, but since then he and his mother and sister have gone out of their way to befriend her. Harry will have it that they know her to be an heiress, and hope to draw her fortune into their own pockets.”

  “Then for once Harry is very probably right,” Miles replied in a bored voice, “but such a thing cannot be permitted to happen. It should never have been permitted to come within the bounds of possibility.”

  Harry gave a short, angry laugh and turned to Lavinia. “We are totally in the wrong, m’dear!” he said with heavy sarcasm. “When Lady Wychwood and Dorothy came to call upon you, you should have locked Miss Tarrant in her room and ordered them out of the house. I should have called Piers out and run him through! That would have discouraged them, and no one would have suspected that we have anything to hide.”

  “I suppose you imagine that you are being witty,” Miles said contemptuously. “Unfortunately I do not find such schoolboy humour amusing.”

  “I must say, Miles,” Lavinia put in hastily, “that I feel you and your father are being a trifle unjust. Harry exaggerates, of course, but how could we prevent the association without giving rise to speculation? Piers Wychwood is troublesome enough already, and it would be fatally easy to give him cause to suspect us. We acted, as we thought, for the best.”

  Miles lifted the quizzing-glass, and through it surveyed his stepmother with some severity. “You display an astonishing lack of imagination, Lavinia,” he drawled, “stop me if you do not! From Harry one does not expect finesse, but from you—!” He shrugged, and let the glass drop to the length of its ribbon. “However, it is of no importance now! I will put an end to this most ill-advised friendship. That is why I am here.”

  “Is it, b’Gad?” Harry said with a sneer. “May we ask how you propose to do it?”

  Miles shook his head. “If a remedy so obvious has occurred to neither of you,” he replied, “I do not intend to enlighten you. It will be done, and done effectively, that I promise you. Now, in the fiend’s name, let us leave this and come to other matters! There are certain facts which my father desires you to know.”

  He had spoken with no change of tone, and yet his two companions knew instinctively that what he had to tell was not good. They exchanged glances, and Harry reached out to draw a chair up to the table, and sat down. The action revealed, more clearly than words could have done, that he was prepared, for the moment, to set aside his differences with his brother, and came to serious business.

  “Concerning Rob Dunton?” he asked briefly.

  “No,” Miles replied, “not concerning Dunton. His whereabouts remains a mystery. We are aware that he had business with certain persons in London, and that he then intended to travel farther north, but unfortunately the names of those he intended to visit are unknown to us. However, he must have completed his mission by now, so, allowing him time to discover where Miss Tarrant is at present to be found, I believe we may expect to see him here in the near future.”

  “Suppose,” Lavinia remarked, “he has guessed the nature of the trap you have set for him, and has left England by some other route?”

  Miles raised his brows. “Without informing Miss Tarrant of what he knows? That is scarcely likely.”

  “He might have decided to send word to her by someone else,” Harry suggested. “As long as she is in our company, he knows that he would have little chance of approaching her himself, but a stranger, he would reason, might accomplish it. Still, we have little to fear! No stranger can enter this neighbourhood without Jack Godsall being informed of it.”

  “Precisely, which makes it necessary for her to remain at Bell Orchard.” Miles glanced at Lavinia. “Does she receive letters?”

  “Not without my knowledge, nor send any, either,” Mrs. Fenshawe replied cynically. “In that respect, believe me, no girl was ever more carefully watched.”

  Miles nodded his satisfaction, but Harry said impatiently: “Oh, to hell with that! What do you have to tell us, if it does not concern Dunton?”

  “Nothing pleasant, dear brother, I assure you,” Miles said sardonically. “It seems that we underestimated the persuasive powers of our friend, Piers. The seed he sowed when he was in London shows promise of bearing fruit.”

  Once again Lavinia and Harry exchanged glances, and the latter said shortly: “Damn you, can you put nothing in plain English? What do you mean?”

  Miles looked pained. “Am I so obscure, or are you merely dull? I thought my metaphor exceedingly apt, but then I know so little of such rustic matters as sowing and reaping! Does one reap fruit? No, surely not! One gathers it! Perhaps—”

  The rest of this mocking speculation was lost as Harry’s fist crashed down upon the table and he said in a voice unsteady with anger: “Devil take you and your metaphors! Are you going to tell us in plain words what is amiss, or must I choke it out of you?”

  “Your partiality, my dear Harry, for the more brutal forms of physical violence is appallingly ill-bred,” Miles retorted acidly. “It must be due to the company you keep.”

  Lavinia clutched at Harry’s sleeve as he sprang to his feet. “Stop it this instant!” she said angrily. “This bickering belongs in the nursery! Miles, what do you mean about Piers Wychwood?”

  “I mean, ma’am, that Piers found at least one person in London who took seriously his talk of Jacobite agents landing here, and that was his uncle, Lord Corham. His lordship has since been pressing the matter in the appropriate quarters, and though it would be too much to say that the Government has been stirred to action, there has at least been talk of action to come. Our first intimation of it came when my father found it necessary to increase the amount of money he has been expending to ensure that Excise activity in this neighbourhood is kept to a minimum. A few days ago we learned that bribery is no longer sufficient.”

  “Not sufficient?” Harry was still on his feet, leaning forward with his hands resting on the table, but his anger against his brother had either abated or was being held in check. “You mean we have been betrayed?”

  “I mean that we stood in grave danger of it. The man Winthrop got wind of what was afoot, and took fright. Smuggling was one thing, but when it came to treason, he wanted no part in it.”

  “Winthrop!” Harry said angrily. “I always felt that he was not to be trusted!”

  Miles nodded. “The weak link in the chain! Unhappily we had no choice in the matter, since he holds the position he does.”

  “Miles!” Lavinia spoke sharply, “you say ‘we stood in grave danger’. Do we still?”

  “I think not! Winthrop lacks wit as well as courage, and instead of selling his information to those above him, came whining to my father that we had deceived him. From his point of view, that was a mistake.” He paused, swinging his quizzing-glass to and fro at the end of its ribbon, his gaze reflectively following it. “One might say,” he added pensively, “a fatal mistake.”

  An uneasy
silence fell upon the room. Lavinia sat staring before her with troubled eyes, nervously twisting the rings with which her long, white fingers were laden, and Harry swung sharply away and paced the length of the room. Returning to the table, he said abruptly:

  “I do not like it! We never intended this!”

  Miles shrugged, his eyes still intent upon the swinging glass. “We never foresaw the necessity for it! My father shared your misgivings, until I persuaded him to abandon them, for when a situation arises, one must deal with it as best one may. It is the only way!”

  Harry stood looking down at him, and though a frown still darkened his face, it was less of anger now than of perplexity. Perplexity, and some disgust.

  “What a damned, cold-blooded devil you are!” he said at last, and his brother looked up to meet his eyes.

  “I am a practical man,” he replied coldly. “Bribes or threats may serve for a time, but when silence is essential there is only one sure way to obtain it.” He yawned delicately behind his hand and rose to his feet. “This has been an infernally long day, and I am weary. I will bid you both good night.”

  He took Lavinia’s unresisting hand and bore it to his lips, and then strolled across to the door. Pausing there, he lifted his quizzing-glass once more and surveyed the silent couple by the card-table.

  “May you enjoy pleasant dreams,” he added ironically, and went out, laughing softly to himself.

  The weather had improved a little by the following day, but it was still sufficiently unsettled for Mrs. Fenshawe to crush in no uncertain fashion Charmian’s tentative proposal to ride to Wychwood Chase. Charmian would have liked to insist, but, fearful of arousing Lavinia’s suspicions, did not dare to force the issue.

  She was not the only person at Bell Orchard who had formed the intention of visiting Wychwood Chase that day. Miles, emerging from the house midway through the morning, looked with disgust at the grey sky and wet, wind-scoured landscape. It was not actually raining, but looked as though it might do so again at any moment, and he did not relish the prospect of being caught in a sudden downpour during his ride.

  His horse, a mettlesome grey, was awaiting him in the charge of his personal groom, and he looked it over critically before swinging up into the saddle. In spite of his dandified appearance he was an excellent rider, just as he was unexpectedly skilful with sword or pistol, but he preferred to dissemble these accomplishments and be known rather for exquisite manners and incomparable taste in dress. Most people shared Piers Wychwood’s view of him, and believed him incapable of holding an opinion upon anything more serious than the correct depth of a bow or the design of a waistcoat.

  Arriving at the Chase, he inquired for Sir Piers but was informed that he had ridden out. Apparently undismayed by this, Mr. Fenshawe signified his intention of paying his respects to her ladyship and Miss Dorothy, if they would receive him, and so was presently ushered into their presence. He stayed with them for three-quarters of an hour, regaling them with all the more innocuous scraps of gossip current in London, informing her ladyship that he had had the pleasure of speaking with her sister, Lady Corham, only a few days before, and delighting Dorothy with several well-chosen compliments. Then, having gleaned the information that if he rode home by way of Wychwood End he would probably encounter Piers in the village, took his leave with every indication of regret.

  The rain, which had hitherto held off, began to fall just as he rode into the village, but as he was fortunate enough to see Piers crossing the bridge towards him, he was able to make this a pretext for inviting him to take a glass of wine at the Wychwood Arms, on the other side of the green. Piers, eyeing him with the faint amusement, which was his usual attitude towards the younger Mr. Fenshawe, and of which Miles’s resentment was as bitter as it was carefully concealed, accepted the invitation, and a few minutes later they were comfortably settled in the wainscoted parlour of the old inn.

  For a little while their conversation was general, but as Miles filled their glasses for the second time he said, with the air of one who braces himself to perform an unpleasant task:

  “I am devilish glad to have this opportunity of talking to you, Piers! That was my real reason for visiting the Chase today. In fact, it was my reason for coming to Sussex.”

  Piers, taking the glass held out to him, regarded him with frank surprise.

  “You astonish me, Miles!” he said bluntly. “I cannot imagine any matter between us being of such importance that you would travel all the way from London to discuss it.”

  “No, I am sure you cannot,” Miles replied ruefully. “That is what makes it so deuced embarrassing. Oh, the devil! It is a curst awkward situation altogether.” He took a few sips of wine, and then added abruptly: “It concerns Miss Tarrant!”

  Piers, who had been in the act of raising his own glass to his lips, checked, and then set it down again with the wine untasted. His face had become suddenly very stern.

  “I do not think,” he said coldly, “that that is a subject I care to discuss with you, now or at any time.”

  “Unfortunately, my dear fellow, it is one which must be discussed. You are under a misapprehension which it is my duty to correct.” He paused to take another sip of wine, and then added with lazy deliberation: “Miss Tarrant is betrothed to me.”

  He was watching the other man closely without appearing to do so, and saw with satisfaction his slight change of colour, the sudden look of shock in the blue-grey eyes. Piers said violently:

  “I do not—” he checked, was silent for an instant and then added in a more controlled voice: “I find that difficult to believe.”

  Miles shrugged slightly and moved his hand in a small deprecating gesture, but made no reply. There was another, and longer pause.

  “Are you trying to tell me,” Piers said at length, “that this betrothal is of a clandestine nature?”

  “My dear Piers, you amaze me!” There was faintly mocking reproach in Miles’s voice. “Surely you do not suppose that either Miss Tarrant or I would stoop to anything so ill-bred? The marriage was arranged with all due regard for propriety, and with the consent of her father. Unfortunately he died before it could be made generally known.”

  “You mean, do you not, that he took his own life?” Piers said in a hard voice.

  “If you must have it bluntly, yes, he did,” Miles replied acidly, “but not, I assure you, because I was to become his son-in-law.”

  Piers made no response to this, and after a little Miles continued:

  “You will agree, I am sure, that in the circumstances it was impossible to make any kind of formal announcement. Miss Tarrant has no relatives, and so it was decided that she should come with my stepmother to Bell Orchard until she has recovered somewhat from the shock of what has happened. In a month or two we shall be married quietly there, and I will take her abroad until her period of mourning is over.”

  Piers turned abruptly away and went across to the window, standing there with his back to the room. Miles smiled maliciously to himself and drank the rest of his wine. A minute passed, and then two, marked by the measured ticking of the tall clock in the corner.

  “This is a damnable situation from every point of view,” Miles remarked at length. “My stepmother did all she could to avert it, but did not feel at liberty to disclose the truth. That is why she sent for me.”

  “Miss Tarrant herself could have disclosed it with no fear that the confidence would be betrayed.” Piers’ voice was admirably controlled, but he could not keep it entirely free from bitterness. “She and my sister, I should have thought, had achieved a sufficient degree of intimacy for that.”

  “That, my friend, is the crux of the whole matter,” Miles said resignedly. “It is difficult for me to explain without seeming disloyal to Miss Tarrant, but I wish you to know that I do not blame you in the least.” He sighed. “No, I know only too well where the true fault lies. It was the same in London, even while our betrothal was being discussed. That air of shy innocence can be
very misleading!” He paused, as though selecting his words with the utmost care. “Do not misunderstand me! She means no harm by it, and one must remember that she has long lacked a mother’s guidance. Perhaps that is why she resents my stepmother’s attempts to check her waywardness. I should have come with them to Bell Orchard, for she will attend to what I say, but I did not imagine that it would be necessary. With her father so recently and shockingly dead, I could not believe—! However, ’tis all made plain now, and I know that I can depend upon your discretion.”

  He paused again, but Piers neither moved nor spoke. Miles drew on his gloves, smoothing them carefully over his hands, and picked up his riding-whip.

  “It will be best, I think,” he drawled, “if even Lady Wychwood and Miss Dorothy are told nothing until after Miss Tarrant and I are wed. That will spare all of us a degree of embarrassment. Do you not agree?”

  “Certainly, if you wish it,” Piers replied curtly, without looking round. “I am not in the habit of gossiping, even with my own mother and sister.”

  “My dear Piers, I am sure you are not!” Miles agreed softly. “I will take my leave, then, but no doubt we shall meet again. I shall stay at Bell Orchard.”

  There was no response from the rigid figure by the window, and once more a smile of malicious mockery curved Miles’s lips. He strolled out into the passage and called to the inn-keeper to have his horse brought to the door, for the rain had lessened to a mere drizzle. While he waited for his orders to be obeyed he lounged gracefully in the doorway, idly twirling his whip and gazing across the village green with a satisfied, reflective smile. He was feeling very pleased with himself.

  For a long time after Miles had left him, Piers remained staring from the parlour window, though he saw nothing of the familiar scene before his eyes. His first reaction to Miles’s statement had been outright disbelief, but a moment later had come the chilling thought that Miles had nothing to gain by telling a lie so easy to disprove. Here, too, was the explanation of the Fenshawes’ concern for Miss Tarrant, which in a family as self-centred as he knew theirs to be, had puzzled him a good deal. No wonder that Lavinia Fenshawe, who hated the country, was now prepared to remain for weeks at Bell Orchard. The hand of an heiress for a younger son was an achievement indeed.