Authors: Mistress of Marymoor
“Well, at least ask your Uncle Walter for a groom to go with you.”
“I can’t do that. My uncle would either prevent me from going or he’d come with me and interfere. Thank heavens he went out this afternoon and won’t hear about this till it’s too late to stop me. Come with me to find Mother, Bessie. I don’t have time to explain the letter twice.” She hurried out to the back garden, the maid close on her heels, still protesting.
Mrs Jannvier glanced up, smiling. “Look! Aren’t the beans coming along well now?”
“Mother, stop working and listen carefully!”
Something in her daughter’s voice made Isabel Jannvier set down her trowel and stand up. “Is something wrong?” Her voice was wobbly with nervousness, her muddy hands were clasped tightly at her breast, and fear showed in her gentle, faded blue eyes.
Deborah laid one hand on her arm. “Not wrong, no. A messenger has just brought a letter from my Great-uncle Ralph Jannvier, the one who lives at Marymoor House.”
“Dear me! I thought he’d have died years ago!”
“It seems he’s dying now and wishes to see me.” Deborah took a deep breath and added in a tone of wonder, “Mother, he promises to make me his heir if I will do as he asks, whatever it be.” That phrase had worried her, but she had decided the rewards were too great to quibble. “The messenger won’t say what my great-uncle wants, but he assures me it’s nothing unlawful and—and I believe him. So I shall go there and accept the offer, then come back for you. Only I must set off at once.”
Bessie gasped in shock.
Isabel frowned. “I don’t think Great-Uncle Ralph is rich, Deborah dear. Your father always used to say it wasn’t worth trying to tap him for a loan because all he had was a rambling old house and some stony moorland acres. Those were your father’s exact words.”
“My father knew nothing of farms and land values. Besides, anything is better than nothing, which is what we have now. I’d deal with the devil himself to get an inheritance that would enable us to leave here. Wouldn’t you? And we don’t need to be rich, just—just have enough to live on quietly.”
Isabel nodded.
“Mother, I can’t—I simply can’t!—let this opportunity pass!”
She heard her mother sigh longingly and knew she had won her point.
* * * *
Walking round the village green to stretch his legs while the ostler saddled the horses he’d hired, Matthew paused as he heard voices from the other side of the wall. Deborah’s voice carried particularly clearly and her words made him scowl. Maybe she was more mercenary than he had thought.
“I can’t—I simply can’t!—let this opportunity pass!” that determined voice declared.
Matthew gave a snort of bitter laughter. She was little different from other women, it seemed. Most of them would do anything for money. Well, he’d be interested to see if she was still determined to accept the offer when Ralph told her exactly what he wanted. Very interested.
He grimaced at his own scruples. Who was he to judge her? She wasn’t the only one unwilling to let this opportunity pass. But at least his motives included love of Marymoor House and a fondness for Ralph, as well as a desire to better himself.
“So we’re agreed on one thing, at least, Miss Deborah Jannvier,” he muttered. “Let’s hope it’ll be enough.”
* * * *
In the garden there was silence for a few moments, then Isabel’s vague blue eyes came suddenly into sharp focus. “I do understand,” she said quietly and patted her daughter’s hand, leaving a smear of rich brown soil across the slender wrist. “You must do whatever you think right, dear. When do you leave?”
“In half an hour—less. The man who brought the message will escort me to Marymoor. We’re to ride there. How far away is it?”
“I don’t know exactly. I’ve never been there. About thirty miles, I suppose. A ride of several hours at night. You will be careful?”
Deborah hugged her again. “Of course!”
Bessie could stay silent no longer. “Mrs Isabel, you’re never going to let her go!”
“Why should I not?”
“Riding alone—across country—with a strange man! It’s not decent.”
“I trust my daughter absolutely.”
“But we know nothing about him and—”
Deborah started walking towards the house. “May I borrow your riding habit, Mother?” she called over her shoulder
“Yes, of course, dear. You know I have no need of it.”
Indeed she did know, Deborah thought bitterly. Her Uncle Walter had a stable full of horses, but none was ever offered for the occupants of this cottage to use. They had to walk everywhere, except when he sent the carriage to take them up to the Hall to dine, which he only did when he had nothing better to entertain him, and this kept them effectively prisoner in Newgarth village.
The maid stayed behind with her mistress to say urgently, “You can’t let her go off like that, Mrs Isabel! It’s too dangerous! He’s a stranger. He might even be an impostor. And besides, she has no experience of men like him.”
“What do you mean ‘men like him’? What was he like?”
“Well,” Bessie sniffed in disapproval, “he was good-looking, you can’t deny that, the sort of man women run after and make fools of themselves over. But you can never tell what’s behind a face, can you, not on one short meeting? He’s no gentleman, that’s for sure, for all his clothes are of good quality.”
Isabel’s blue eyes became vague again. “I shall trust Deborah’s judgement in this. Besides, when have I ever been able to stop anyone from doing what they want?”
Bessie sighed, gave her lady a quick hug, sighing for the way life had reduced Isabel to a shadow of her old self, then bustled off to help Miss Deborah.
* * * *
When the voices faded from the other side of the wall, Matthew glanced across at the inn and decided that another pot of ale and something to eat would not go amiss before the journey. As he strolled back, he pondered on what he’d overheard. Was the mother complaining of the daughter’s wilfulness—or of her husband’s feckless nature? Was the daughter as mercenary as she had sounded? He shrugged. Only time would tell—and whatever Deborah Jannvier’s nature, he would so as his dying friend wished.
Anthony Elkin was not going to profit from Ralph Jannvier’s death.
* * * *
Upstairs, Deborah hastily donned her mother’s riding habit, a garment which was very old-fashioned, but of good quality dark green cloth and showing little wear. The jacket and waistcoat, which were like men’s garments, fitted her perfectly, but would have hung on her mother’s thin frame nowadays. The full petticoat was a little short, because she was taller than her mother, but there was no help for that. Under it she put on a pair of the yellowed flannel trousers her mother had always worn when riding to protect her legs. On her head she wore the rather battered three-cornered hat that went with the outfit.
Bessie stopped protesting and started to help pack. Shaking out Deborah’s best cloak she folded it carefully, saying, “It may grow cold later.” She then put a change or two of clothing into Mr Jannvier’s old saddlebags, muttering, “You’ll have to sleep in your shift, there isn’t room for much more.”
There was a hammering on the front door, then it opened and that deep voice called out, “Are you ready yet, Miss Jannvier? I’ve got your horse waiting at the inn.”
“The cheek of it!” huffed Bessie. “Opening a lady’s door and yelling at her like that! A gentleman would know better.”
The listener below scowled as he heard the maid’s words echo down the stair well. Who would want to be a fine gentleman if the few he had known were examples of the species?
“Never mind. I’m ready now!” Deborah stole a last glance in the small mirror, not displeased with her appearance.
Bessie’s face crumpled and her eyes grew bright with tears, “You will be careful, won’t you, dearie? I shan’t rest easy till you’re safe home again, that I shan’t! Let me carry this down for you.”
Downstairs, Isabel Jannvier had come out of the parlour and was asking Mr Pascoe about Ralph’s exact state of health.
“A seizure,” he said, his face betraying sudden sadness. “Very unexpected. He had seemed hale and hearty for a man of his age until two days ago.”
“He’s enjoyed a long life,” she said quietly.
Mr Pascoe’s mouth twitched. “Enjoyed isn’t exactly the word I’d use for Ralph Jannvier. He’s a stern and determined man.”
“’Tis a pity he never had a son.”
Silence, then. “Aye. I suppose so. Ah, there you are!” With a nod to Mrs Jannvier, he moved towards the door, holding it open impatiently.
* * * *
Not until Deborah and Mr Pascoe had galloped off down the lane did Bessie realise they still didn’t know exactly where this Great-uncle lived. And all Mrs Isabel would say was, “Marymoor village lies somewhere to the north-east of Rochdale, I believe. On the edge of the moors. I just hope my brother won’t pursue her. You know how he likes to have a finger in every pie.”
“He’ll be angry about this.”
“Yes. But then he’s always angry about something.”
“Hadn’t you better do some more work on his shirt?”
“Not today. I shall enjoy myself outside while the weather is fine.”
As her mistress drifted out to work in the garden again, always her refuge in times of trouble, Bessie tutted to herself and went back to the kitchen to deal with the strawberry conserve with much sighing and rattling of pans and jars. She had one of her feelings about all this. There was trouble brewing. As she worked, phrases like, “murdered in her bed” and “never heard of again” floated through her mind and she prayed fervently that Deborah would be all right. And that somehow, she would be able to take her mother away from this dreadfully unhappy life.
* * * *
Neither of the two older women was surprised to receive a visit from Walter Lawrence just after nightfall.
“Is it true what Frank tells me?” he demanded, bursting into his sister’s cottage.
“What does he tell you?” Isabel tried to quell her fear of him.
“That my niece has ridden off with a stranger.”
“She’s gone to visit her Great-uncle Ralph. There can be nothing wrong in that.”
“Nothing wrong? How dare you let her go anywhere without consulting me, Isabel, when I am the head of the family and responsible for you both? And this man she went with wasn’t a relative, I’m sure.”
“Only a messenger from Ralph Jannvier,” she said placatingly.
“Who knows what will have happened to your daughter by now? By heavens, I guard mine more carefully. Have you no sense? You told me the old uncle refused to pay your husband’s debts, so you owe him nothing. Nothing at all!”
“He’s dying. Wants to see her. There was no time to be lost, Walter.”
“It’ll be a trick of some sort. You’ll see.” His eyes narrowed as the words sank in. “Is this to do with his will? Is it?”
Isabel lost herself in a morass of phrases, but by the end of it her brother had the information he required, or near enough. “The less you have to do with the Jannvier family from now on, Isabel, the better—unless there is some profit to be had. You were a fool ever to marry into it.”
He growled in annoyance as that vacant look settled in his sister’s eyes again. He was beginning to suspect that she was losing her wits. And if so, he’d have no hesitation in locking her away, because a mad sister could do him no credit. Not that she’d ever been very sensible, running off to marry a feckless fellow like Paul Jannvier, a man with no income but what his wits and the cards brought in.
As he left the house he threw at her, “And don’t come to me for help if your daughter gets herself in trouble and comes back with a swelling belly. I’ll condone no immorality.”
Isabel roused herself from her abstraction to say, “Deborah wouldn’t do anything immoral.” She focused on a particularly pretty vase of flowers, which she had just finished arranging, and prepared to endure more homilies and scolding.
But for once Walter cut the diatribe short and left her to her own devices. He wanted to ask the people at the inn about the stranger and where the next change of horses would be. It should be easy enough to trace him. It might even be worth sending Frank after the two of them. His manservant had helped him in many ways over the years, ways other people knew nothing about. He had complete trust in the fellow. If there were any profit in this situation, Frank would find it for his master—and be rewarded for his troubles, as usual.
Well, why should Walter not profit from any inheritance, if that was why Ralph Jannvier had sent for Deborah? His sister and niece owed him something, for hadn’t he paid all their debts—well, the tradesmen’s debts, anyway? Gambling debts were no concern of his.
And he’d not only housed them since then, but made them an allowance. Yes, they definitely owed him repayment for all that. He would start drawing up the accounts the following day. He smiled at the thought.
Yes, Frank should definitely go after them and investigate the situation.
* * * *
As she cantered along on the sure-footed mare, Deborah threw back her head and breathed deeply of the warm evening air. She couldn’t help wondering what her great-uncle wanted her to do and wishing he’d offered her a hint. She had to be content with the fact that her companion had assured her it was nothing unlawful. Matthew Pascoe had a way of saying things that made you believe him.
She stole another glance sideways at him. He rode well, looking very much at home in the saddle. He was wearing a dark riding coat over a cloth waistcoat, and but there was no pretence to fashion in the garments, no wide cuffs or rich materials. Under the simple three-cornered hat he wore his own hair, rather than a wig, dark hair tied back with a simple leather thong.
She had never met anyone quite like him, but she trusted him instinctively, could not have said why, just did.
One thing was certain in her mind: whatever was asked of her, she would do it. And if she never set eyes on that dreadful cottage, never saw her Uncle Walter again, she would be delighted, for she’d known nothing but unhappiness and humiliation since going to Newgarth.
“How long will it take us to get to Marymoor?” she asked her taciturn companion a little later.