The House at Bell Orchard Page 15

  “Ingenious, b’Gad!” he said sarcastically. “But will it not provoke a deal of surprise when this poor, sick, half crazed girl recovers sufficiently to elope with you aboard the Pride of Sussex? Or do you intend to make no secret of the fact that you are abducting her?”

  Miles raised his quizzing-glass and through it regarded his brother for several seconds before letting it fall again.

  “I have always maintained, Harry, that you lack imagination,” he said in a bored voice. “Piers already believes, does he not, that Miss Tarrant is betrothed to me? Once I have her safely out of England, I depend upon you, Lavinia, to make a great outcry, declaring that I entered into the betrothal against the advice and wishes of my family, because the unfortunate girl is deranged—the servant’s gossip will bear you out in that! You will add that, discovering my father’s intention to prevent the marriage at all costs, I have carried my bride off secretly rather than give her up.” He sighed with mock sorrow, and shook his head. “I fear, however, that our happiness will not be of long duration! A few months, a year at most, and I shall be back in England, a grief-stricken—but very wealthy—Widower.”

  For perhaps ten seconds longer Harry remained where he was, staring at his brother with an expression which almost seemed to imply disbelief. Then with an inarticulate exclamation of disgust he strode across the room, and out of it, slamming the door violently behind him. Miles laughed softly, and Lavinia shivered.

  “I can appreciate how he feels,” she said candidly. “There are times, Miles, when I find myself afraid of you.”

  He shook his head, amusement still lingering in his face. “Needlessly, my dear Lavinia, quite needlessly,” he assured her amiably. “You do not stand in my way!”

  On the following morning Dorothy Wychwood rode up to the door of Bell Orchard, determined to get to the bottom of the mystery of her friend’s alleged betrothal. The servant who admitted her ushered her at once into the parlour, where she found Mrs. Fenshawe alone.

  “Dorothy, my dear, have you come to visit Miss Tarrant?” Lavinia greeted her. “I am so sorry, but she is indisposed and confined to her bed.”

  Dorothy looked blank for a moment, but then brightened, for it seemed that this might offer the opportunity she was seeking to talk to Charmian alone.

  “Why, then, may I go up to her room?” she said brightly. “I promise I will not stay long.”

  Lavinia shook her head. “She is sleeping at present,” she replied regretfully, “and I am sure you would not wish to disturb her. When she wakes I will tell her of your visit, and convey any message you may desire to leave for her.”

  She spoke civilly, but in a tone which warned Dorothy that it would be unwise to be too insistent. Trying to hide her disappointment, she said:

  “Will you tell her, then, how sorry I am that she is unwell, and that I will come again tomorrow to see how she does?”

  “I will tell her, but do not place too much dependence upon seeing her tomorrow. Perhaps it will be best if you do not put yourself to the trouble of visiting her until I send you word that she is well enough to receive callers.”

  “Oh, it is no trouble!” Dorothy assured her guilelessly. “I ride out almost every day, you know.”

  She left after a further exchange of courtesies, and rode home in a somewhat puzzled frame of mind, to inform Piers of the failure of her errand and to remind him of the promise he had given her. Next day she presented herself again at Bell Orchard, only to be met with a similar disappointment, but when, on the third day, she was again informed that Miss Tarrant was too ill to see anyone, perplexity deepened to suspicion. She asked a few innocent questions of the servant who showed her out of the house, and then, instead of returning home, went to pay a call on the nearest physician, who had attended both the Wychwood and the Fenshawe families for as long as Dorothy could remember. What she learned there sent her hurrying back to Piers.

  She found him in his study, making a desultory attempt to deal with some correspondence, but he thrust this aside as soon as she came in and asked eagerly: “Well, what news?”

  Dorothy shook her head. “Mrs. Fenshawe still maintains that Charmian is too ill to see me, and bids me wait until I am sent for, but Piers, I feel sure that she is lying! When I left Bell Orchard I went to call upon Dr. Benfleet, hoping that he might tell me how soon I could reasonably insist upon seeing Charmian, but he knows nothing of it. He has not been summoned to Bell Orchard for months.”

  Piers stared at her with a deepening frown. “That is certainly very strange,” he agreed slowly. “One would suppose that Mrs. Fenshawe would have consulted him—unless, of course, she has sent for some other physician.”

  “There is no other within twenty miles, and in any event, Dr. Benfleet has always attended the Fenshawes, just as he has always attended us. I believe this is all a plot to prevent us from seeing Charmian again?”

  Piers pushed back his chair and rose to his feet and went across to the window, where he stood for some moments looking out at the wide prospect it commanded. At length, still with his back to her, he said heavily:

  “There is one possibility you have overlooked! If Miles was speaking the truth a week ago, and Miss Tarrant knows that he told me of their betrothal, she may wish to have no further dealings with us. The excuse of illness may be a deliberate pretence, to avoid seeing you when you call.”

  “But it is not all pretence,” Dorothy said triumphantly. “One of the servants told me that four days ago, Charmian was discovered lying in the garden in a swoon. Harry found her and brought her back to the house, and ever since she has not left her room, and only Mrs. Fenshawe and Martha Godsall have seen her.”

  He turned, and regarded her with an expression in which concern was mingled with disbelief. Dorothy, having been so often taken to task for permitting imagination to get the better of common sense, hesitated for a moment, but then, emboldened by his silence, proceeded to expound her theory.

  “Piers, suppose—just suppose—that Miles was lying to you that day, and Charmian learned of it. Perhaps Harry told her, to spite his brother, for you know they are always at cross purposes. It distressed her so much that she fainted, and now they are keeping her prisoner and pretending that she is ill, to prevent you from discovering the truth until it is too late.”

  He made an impatient movement. “That is ridiculous! What is more, it is impossible! They could not hope to keep her prisoner indefinitely.”

  “No,” Dorothy retorted defiantly, “but they might threaten to do so until she agreed to marry Miles.”

  Piers turned back to the window again, and stood staring out while his natural common sense struggled against an unreasonable, growing anxiety. It was all wildly improbable, and yet there was just a remote possibility that Dorothy’s suggestion contained a grain of truth. Miles Fenshawe was totally unscrupulous. He was the most completely selfish person Piers had ever known, and if he wanted a thing he would take it, with no consideration whatsoever for anyone who might suffer in the process. In Miles Fenshawe’s world the only person who mattered was Miles himself.

  If he had determined to make himself master of Charmian’s fortune, he would have seen the threat to his plans in her growing friendship with Piers, and might have been goaded into taking a reckless step. Of course Charmian could not be kept prisoner indefinitely, but there were ways in which she could be compelled to agree to the marriage, and if she persisted in a refusal Miles was not likely to stop short at threats.

  “There is one thing I have not yet told you,” Dorothy said hesitantly after a pause, and something in her voice made him turn to face her again. “It is so absurd that all the rest must be untrue also. The servant told me that Martha Godsall says Charmian is going out of her mind.”

  “Servants’ gossip!” Piers exclaimed contemptuously, but his uneasiness increased. It was plain that something very odd was going on at Bell Orchard. “Nevertheless, I think I will come with you tomorrow when you go to call on Mrs. Fenshawe.”


  On the following morning, Lavinia was in Charmian’s room, standing by the bed and looking down a little uneasily at its occupant. Granny Godsall’s potion had certainly had the desired effect. For most of the time Charmian remained in a heavy stupor, now lying like one dead, now writhing and crying out in the grip of some nightmare. Even when, as at present, she was awake, she seemed dazed and confused, her mind still tormented by the horror of what she had seen and what Rob Dunton had told her—memories which she seemed scarcely able to distinguish from present reality. At first, Mrs. Fenshawe had been completely satisfied, but now she was beginning to wonder how much longer they might safely continue to administer the sinister concoction provided by the old woman. Charmian looked exceedingly ill; perhaps the stuff was more deadly than they supposed. If the girl were to die...

  Lavinia turned, picked up the glass containing the next dose of the drug, then hesitated and set it down again. Greedy and selfish though she was, she shrank from the possibility of becoming a murderess. Charmian was lying quite still, staring up at her with frightened eyes, and Lavinia was filled with sudden, angry impatience. All very fine for Miles to issue his orders; he was not obliged to force the hateful draught down the throat of this helpless, terrified girl. Nor, she reflected grimly, would it cause him the smallest qualm if he was.

  There was a soft tap at the door, and then it opened to admit Martha Godsall, a big, coarsely handsome woman gowned in sober black. She looked frightened.

  “Madam,” she said urgently, “Sir Piers Wychwood and his sister are below.”

  “Sir Piers?” Lavinia repeated, her hand flying to her mouth. “What can he want here? Miles was certain he would not come!” She paused, biting her lip, staring at Martha with troubled eyes. “Very well, I will come down, and you go see if you can find Mr. Miles, though I do not think he is in the house. Hurry, woman, hurry!”

  They hastened out of the room together, and Charmian lay staring towards the door through which they had departed. Into the confusion and unnatural heaviness clouding her mind, their words had pierced like a ray of light. Piers was here, in the house. If only she could reach him, he would help her, would dispel this hideous nightmare which had held her in its grip for uncounted hours and days.

  Painfully she dragged herself up into a sitting position, though every movement turned her sick and giddy and her limbs felt as though they were made of lead, so that the simplest action required enormous effort. But the instinct of self-preservation was strong, and somehow, little by little, she managed to drag herself out of bed and stumble barefooted across a seemingly unending expanse of unsteady floor to the door. Here fortune favoured her, for in their haste both Martha and Lavinia had supposed that the other would pause to turn the key. The door swung open beneath her touch, and the long corridor, floored and panelled in oak, stretched before her, an endless road which must somehow be traversed if she were ever to reach Piers, and safety. Haltingly, clinging to the wall for support, already near collapse but sustained by the two powerful props of fear and hope, she began to make her way slowly along it.

  13

  A Cry for Help

  Lavinia found Piers and Dorothy in the parlour, and greeted them as calmly as she could. In fact she was a good deal more uneasy than she had been for many a day, and wished fervently that Miles were present to deal with the situation. Dorothy’s tiresome persistence she had expected and could cope with, but her brother was a different matter altogether, for after his previous behaviour, his presence now could only mean that something had aroused his suspicions. She felt as though his direct and penetrating gaze was piercing her very thoughts, and looked away, afraid of betraying herself if she continued to meet his eyes.

  “We have come to inquire after Miss Tarrant,” Dorothy announced, and it seemed to Lavinia that there was a faintly challenging note in her voice. “I do so hope that she is well enough to see me today.”

  “My dear child, I told you that I would send for you as soon as that happy state of affairs was reached,” Mrs. Fenshawe reminded her. “Our poor Charmian is still far too ill to receive visitors.”

  “My mother and I were exceedingly sorry to learn of Miss Tarrant’s illness, ma’am,” Piers said courteously, “and if it is in our power to be of any assistance, you have only to inform us. It must be an extremely anxious time for you, particularly as Colonel Fenshawe is in London.”

  “You are very good,” Lavinia replied, trying without much success to instil some gratitude into her voice, “and pray thank Lady Wychwood also for her kindness. It is an anxious time, but I am not obliged to bear the responsibility alone. Both my stepsons are here, and, as I believe you are aware, Miles has particular cause to be concerned in the matter of Miss Tarrant’s welfare.”

  “Of course,” Piers agreed blandly, “and I am sure that both you and he have done everything possible to help her. However, since Miss Tarrant’s illness was so sudden and appears to be of so serious a nature, it does occur to me—if you will forgive the impertinence of the suggestion—that it may be beyond the skill of our good Dr. Benfleet. He is, after all, merely a simple country physician. You have consulted him, of course?”

  For a moment Mrs. Fenshawe was tempted to say that she had, but perceived in time that a question so easy to put to the test might be in the nature of a trap. She shook her head.

  “No, I have not,” she replied with an affectation of candour. “The truth is, Sir Piers, that it would do very little good. Miss Tarrant’s affliction was not, to us, by any means unexpected, for it is a sad inheritance from her mother, and was, in fact, the cause of that poor lady’s early death. We know what measures to take, and there is nothing else that Dr. Benfleet, or any other physician, could do for her.” She broke off, pressing a handkerchief to her eyes for a moment before adding in a stifled voice:

  “Forgive me, but the subject is too painful to pursue. You take my meaning, I am sure!”

  “Well, I do not!” Dorothy said flatly. “I do not understand you at all.”

  “I imagine,” Piers remarked in a dry, expressionless voice, “that Mrs. Fenshawe is trying to tell us, as delicately as possible, that Miss Tarrant’s affliction is mental rather than physical. Is that not so, ma’am?”

  Lavinia nodded, and Dorothy, astonished that she should thus confirm the servant’s incredible suggestion, said indignantly: “I do not believe it!”

  “My poor child, it is natural for you to say so,” Lavinia said sadly, “but I fear that you must believe it. You see now why I have tried to discourage your friendship with Charmian—why, in fact, we brought her to Bell Orchard. It is best for her to live in seclusion. Her mother was kept so, for naturally Mr. Tarrant did not wish her affliction to become generally known, and when he was informed of the dreadful possibility that his daughter might have inherited the weakness, his first concern was to keep her, too, sheltered from the world. It is all one can do for her!”

  Piers’ level glance rested thoughtfully upon her. “Yet surely, ma’am,” he said quietly, “Miss Tarrant entered fashionable society under your protection?”

  If he had hoped to discompose her by the question, he was disappointed. She inclined her head in agreement.

  “Yes, that is true! You must understand, Sir Piers, that at that time she had shown no sign at all of being afflicted, and it was hoped that she never would. But the shock of her father’s sudden death, and the dreadful circumstances surrounding it, seemed to release the weakness which must always have lain dormant in her mind. For a time she was quite beside herself, and though she recovered after a while, and for some weeks, as you are aware, appeared as normal as you or I, this terrible malady now has her in its grip once more. I am told that it began so with her poor mother.”

  Still with that searching gaze upon her, Piers said, on a faint note of interrogation: “Yet Miles means to marry her?”

  Lavinia rose abruptly to her feet and began to pace about the room as though she was too profoundly disturbed to remain
still. She was beginning to feel pleased with herself, for though the idea of pretending that Charmian was mad had come originally from Miles, she felt that she had considerably improved upon it. She was almost beginning to believe it herself, and felt certain that she was convincing this earnest and meddlesome young man.

  “He is adamant!” she said despairingly at length. “Oh, I will not pretend with you, Sir Piers, that I have not tried to dissuade him, and his father swears that he shall not be allowed to make so disastrous a marriage, but all to no avail. Miles is so deeply devoted to her that nothing will turn him from his purpose.”

  “Then his friends can only honour him for such devotion, Mrs. Fenshawe, however much they may deplore the implications of it,” Piers replied, and looked at his sister. “Come, Dorothy, it is time we took our leave. We have intruded too greatly already.”

  She stared at him in astonishment and dismay, and started to protest, but was peremptorily cut short. He turned again to Lavinia.

  “Madam, I can only ask your pardon for what has been an unwarrantable intrusion into your family concerns,” he said quietly. “The only excuse I can plead is that of ignorance.”

  “Pray do not reproach yourself, Sir Piers,” Lavinia replied graciously. “I would, perhaps, have been wiser to take you into my confidence at the outset, but you can, I am sure, understand my reluctance to do so.”

  He assured her that he did, bowed over her outstretched hand, and firmly ushered his sister out of the room. They were half-way across the hall when from above came a faint, despairing cry that halted them in their tracks.

  “Wait! Oh, please wait! Sir Piers, help me!”

  Brother and sister spun round as though jerked by some invisible cord. At the head of the staircase, clinging for support to the massively carved balustrade, stood Charmian herself, barefooted and clad in night-attire. As they turned, she swayed as though the effort of attracting their attention had sapped the last of her strength, and sank to her knees, in imminent danger, it seemed, of tumbling headlong down the whole flight. Dorothy remained rooted to the spot with astonishment and alarm, but Piers strode across the hall and took the stairs two at a time, to gather the frail figure into the safety and comfort of his arms.