The Riddle of the Deplorable Dandy (7 page)

How simple it would be if she just accepted her long-lost uncle's offer of assistance. And how willing he had seemed. Yet she could not dismiss the memory of how Papa had disliked him, and how even Mama had seemed to find it difficult to defend her brother on several occasions. Elspeth had never known exactly how her uncle had offended, but she had overheard some sharp quarrels and had later seen the very grim expression that so seldom darkened her father's face. She had not dared to ask questions, but that the offence was so serious as to be past forgiving had been quite clear, even to someone of her tender years. Yet Sir Brian
was
family. And if she turned her back on his offer, who else was there? Joel, to whom she would normally appeal without hesitation, could no longer be approached; at least, not in good conscience. Nicholas, on whose strength she had counted, was now hurt and would be incapacitated for at least a week. She felt crushed and despairing, her beleaguered mind searching in vain for an answer.

“… the owner of the vehicle will wait no longer than the 7th inst.…”

She thought wretchedly, ‘Three days only! Each time I try to help my poor brother I fail, and I
cannot
fail the dear soul! He would risk everything were I in difficulties! Lord above, show me what I must do, please guide me to—'

“And I dare swear you've heard not a single word I said!” Madame was leaning forward and watching her searchingly. “Elspeth! Wake up, child! Where are your wits gone a'begging?”

“I ask your pardon, Godmama,” said Elspeth agitatedly. “I—I fear I have the headache.”

“Poor creature.” Madame, who had often remarked that she could not understand people who complained of such afflictions, declared, “I am sure I have never suffered a headache in my life. Indeed, I would likely not recognize one if it should descend upon me. But I have to admit you are pale, my love. I hope you will feel able to join us at the theatre this evening. The Wisters are to take us up at a quarter to eight o'clock. You'll remember them from the Bottesdale party. Such lovely people, and spoke of you most highly.”

“I do indeed remember them,” replied Elspeth, with more tact than truthfulness. “Although I have to own, Godmama, that my memory for faces does not always serve me well. For instance, only yesterday when I was walking in the park with Lieutenant Skye he was telling me of a friend of his, a clergyman whom he judges to be a most worthy young gentleman. You very likely would know him if I could tell you his name, but all I can recall is that he is tall and has an uncle who is a famous peer. Lord … um—now whatever was the name…? It began with a ‘G,' I think. I feel so stupid when I forget someone's name!”

“Lord ‘G,'” murmured Madame, toying with her cheese puff. “I love puzzles! Now let me think … a famous peer with a tall clerical nephew. So many younger sons enter the clergy … Hmm … There is Garland, you know—his nephew is a vicar somewhere—oh, but he is short and stout, as I recall, and Thomas Garland is a baronet, not a peer.” After several more abortive attempts, she said with a sigh that she could only call to mind Lord Geoffrey Boudreaux. “He has a young relative who is chaplain to somebody or other, but he is Geoffrey Boudreaux's grandnephew, not—”

“That sounds right,” said Elspeth eagerly. “Do you know what is the clergyman's name, ma'am?”

“He's a Fitz, I believe … FitzMorley or—no! FitzWilliam! And, my goodness, yes! A tall, and very shy young man. Can that be the one?”

“It is! Oh, it is!” Elspeth clapped her hands, and feeling very devious she trilled, “How clever you are, my dearest godmama! The Reverend Mr. FitzWilliam Boudreaux. I should have wracked my brains forever and never called it to mind!” And, astonished, she thought, ‘And now I even know what he looks like, for he must be the very bashful individual who was with that horrid Dandy in the park! What a coincidence that I have already been introduced to the gentleman!'

“You are looking much better,” said Madame smilingly. “I am so glad, for I've heard the play is delightful and the Pirate is handsome as can be, so you will surely enjoy it.”

As she went up to bed later that evening, however, it would have been difficult for Elspeth to call to mind either the actors or the plot of
The Pirate and the Princess.
She had managed to respond appropriately to the flattering kindness shown her by Mr. and Mrs. Wister as they drove to the theatre together, but throughout the performance her concentration had been upon the problem of how she was to get to the tavern in Fleetwell Village.

Madame scanned her rather anxiously as she took up her candle at the foot of the stairs. “I think the Wisters were charmed, my love,” she said. “You were very quiet, which they thought was a becoming shyness. But I suspected your headache had returned. Does it still distress you? Or is it that you are anxious for Mr. Drew?”

Elspeth, having formed a daring plan, said with a smile that she did have a touch of the headache still, probably because she had been for so long away from the noise and bustle of life in the great City. And with Madame's fond assurances that a good night's sleep would put things to rights, she climbed to her bedchamber.

Her nightdress and wrapper were laid ready on the bed and Freda was nodding in the fireside chair. Elspeth crept over to the dainty escritoire and, having verified that stationery, ink and a quill pen were available, woke her maid and was readied for the night. She did not get into bed, however, but sent Freda off, saying that she was “much too excited” by the events of the evening to be able to sleep and would instead sit by the fire and read for a little while.

The moment the door closed behind the yawning abigail, Elspeth hurried to the escritoire and took up the pen. Having spent most of the evening mentally composing this letter, there was no need for several efforts, the biggest obstacle being to disguise her own neat handwriting. She accomplished this by resorting to a rather flourishing printing and within half an hour had finished and sealed her letter. The direction presented a larger challenge, but by the time she had applied and blurred a “frank” and then creased the vital letter, she was quite pleased with her first attempt at forgery. An afterthought, calling for the application of the sole of her shoe, produced a grubby look that inspired a squeak of triumph, and having hidden her effort under the other stationery in the escritoire she was able to climb into bed with the satisfaction, however guilty, of a job well done.

Freda found that her young mistress looked rather wan the next morning, and on learning that last night's headache persisted, and that Miss Elspeth felt “a little stuffy,” she concluded that she had caught a nasty cold. Several sneezes and deep sighs confirmed this, and Elspeth went down to breakfast confident that the awareness of her “nasty cold” would be shared by every member of the staff before the meal ended.

Madame Colbert had not yet come downstairs, but the postman had made his first delivery of the day and a small pile of correspondence lay beside her plate. Elspeth told the butler that she would wait a little while for Madame, and if he would just pour her coffee she might wander over to the buffet in a few minutes and serve herself. Geroux eyed her uneasily, but she sneezed, then gave him a brave smile, and he took his elegant self off, clearly thinking that poor Miss Elspeth was indeed a trifle down-pin this morning.

The concerned gentleman would have been astonished had he witnessed the remarkable speed with which “poor Miss Elspeth” sprang up and raced around the table. The all-important forgery was slipped in amongst the other letters awaiting Madame's attention and Elspeth retraced her steps at even greater speed as she heard her godmother approaching.

She had barely sat down before the footman came in to stand behind Madame's chair. Shocked to realize how narrowly she had succeeded in this first step of her plan, Elspeth stood once more, with a mental “Phew!”

Madame accepted her good-morning kiss but, as she took her seat, remarked that her godchild seemed “a little flushed” and asked if she was still feeling poorly.

It would not do to feel too “poorly,” so Elspeth declared that she was sure she would feel better after breakfast, and that at worst she might have contracted a slight cold. “The change of air, perhaps, ma'am,” she said, planting another seed.

Madame looked relieved and entered at once into a rather one-sided discussion of
The Pirate and the Princess
while she enjoyed an egg on toast and two slices of cold ham. Elspeth settled for some haddock and bread and butter, and she strove to contain her impatience, but her godmother had listed her plans for the day and was drinking her third cup of tea before she excused herself. “Just for a moment, love, while I glance through all these silly letters.” She sorted through the pile and exclaimed, “Oh, here is one for you, Ellie. 'Tis franked by Lord somebody or other, I cannot read this dreadful scrawl.” She passed the letter to her godchild, saying with a guilty twinkle that perhaps she should not do so. “For it may very well be a love letter, in which case I must desire that you allow me to read it, dear.”

Elspeth took the letter eagerly, immensely relieved that no trickery had as yet been detected, and with a mental plea for heavenly forgiveness she exclaimed, “Oh, Godmama! It is from my dearest friend Millicent Crossland! Her family used to spend the summers at their country seat, which was near to ours, as you know, and we swore eternal friendship.”

“How nice, dear,” murmured Madame, engrossed in her own letter. “What has she to say?”

“That she is betrothed, and longs to see me, and—oh, gracious! I am invited down to Worthing where they are spending several weeks! How lovely! Only—oh, dear! This letter must have been delayed! I was to have driven down yesterday, and Millicent begs that I be allowed to stay for several days. And tonight there is to be a betrothal party which she especially wishes me to attend! Oh—
Godmama!
What a disappointment!”

Glancing up and meeting tragic blue eyes, Madame was touched, and since her own letter contained an enticing invitation which did not include her protégé, she asked to see the letter. Having struggled through it, she said kindly, “My poor sweet! It is a pretty letter, but Miss Crossland should have given us more time, and I should really have first corresponded with her mama.”

“Yes,” said Elspeth, with a forlorn little sniff. “But you will remember my father always held that Lady Crossland was something of a widgeon, however well bred.”

Madame could not even remember Lady Crossland, but since the late Mr. Clayton had frequently advised her that she herself was similarly afflicted, she felt an affinity with the lady and said, “True. But—never look so sad, love. You do seem to have taken a little cold, and it might be as well for you to escape the city air for a space.”

Elspeth gazed at her hopefully. “Do you say I may go, ma'am? Is there time?”

“'Tis rather a scrambling business, and I doubt your dear mama would approve … Still, with your cold … Let me see. Miss Crossland says that if our coachman could bring you as far as this posting house in Fleetwell Village one of their ostlers would guide you to the estate her papa has hired. I wonder why on earth he would hire an estate in Worthing with the London Season hovering on the horizon.”

Improvising desperately, Elspeth declared that
Millicent
had always loved the seaside, and that the young lady was extremely pretty and very petted and indulged by her doting parents.

“So they allowed that she have her betrothal ball in Worthing … Hmm. They are eccentric, to say the least. But—then, who isn't? Well, where are we? It is early yet and I have reason to be proud of my bay team. If you were to leave within the hour, Abraham Coachman could drive you down in the new coach and tomorrow bring back word of when you will return. You will take your woman, of course, if she can get you packed up quickly…”

There was no doubt, declared Elspeth joyously, that Freda would be as quick as winking!

Forty minutes later, Abraham Hines, Madame Colbert's coachman, was less joyous as he loaded Miss Elspeth's portmanteau into the boot of the coach. “If ever I heard of such a scramblement,” he grumbled to Freda. “With less'n a hour's warning I'm to go galloping fer a posting house as I never heard tell on and get the young lady there afore dark! I grant yer madame's bays is sixteen mile a hour tits, but I'll have to change teams twice at least, seeing as Madame don't keep changes along any post roads, so no one can't blame me if we end up with two slugs what won't move fer figs!”

“As if you'd be took in by slugs,” said Freda. “If ever a coachman knows his horses, it's Mr. Abraham Hines!”

Only slightly mollified, he grumbled, “It ain't decent, it ain't. Does the missus
know
these here Crosslands, even?”

Freda smiled into his narrow, glum countenance and allowed as how the missus wouldn't never do nothing she thought was havey-cavey. Handing him her own valise, she added, “Fairly dotes on my young lady, she do, and likely thinks the sea air will do her good, since she's come down with this nasty cold.”

“More likely since Colonel Ritchie's come back from France,” observed Coachman Hines with a cynical sniff.

“Ooh!” Freda squealed, and dug him in the ribs. “You
are
naughty!”

“
I
ain't,” he argued. “But I wouldn't put it past the missus to kick up her heels with the Colonel whilst the coast is clear!”

Shocked, Freda pursed her lips and said righteously, “It not being my place to criticize me betters, I will say nought.”

The coachman grunted and scowled after her as she hurried back into the house. “Say nought, indeed,” he grumbled. “She'll have plenty to say if I can't find the blasted place!” He glanced up at the pale sky. Not sunny, exactly, but at least there was no sign of ugly weather. It would be a drive of at least six hours, and by the time he got Miss Elspeth to her friend's house it would likely be dusk. Not much doubt but that he'd be given dinner and a bed, of course. With luck, this here Lord Crossland would have a good cook and on the way back to the City tomorrow there'd be no call to race his cattle.