“Oh . . . well. . . .” Harrowby settled his ruffled feathers. “I don’t think he was. Not among my acquaintance, anyway.”
Hester had begun to worry that Mr. Henry had a particular person in mind, who could very well be St. Mars, so she was glad when his cousin failed to make the connection. She saw gratefully that his shoulders seemed to relax, as if his suspicions had been laid to rest.
He then asked if anyone could describe the man’s horse.
Hester remained nervously silent while Harrowby retailed his argument with the coachman, who had insisted that the horse
he
had described as a copper colour, had in fact been a bronze sort of a bay with two white fetlocks. Mrs. Mayfield did not remember seeing the two white boots, but she had been so terrified for her daughter, she claimed, that the last thing on her mind had been the colour of the villain’s horse. Isabella, who had long since lost interest in the conversation, had never seen it, since she had fainted soon after emerging from the vehicle.
Mr. Henry turned his stare on Hester and leaned towards her with a tenseness she understood.
The horse’s description could clearly reveal St. Mars’s identity. The beautiful mare he had ridden must have been a prize in the Hawkhurst stables. Anyone with a knowledge of horses would have noticed it and remembered it, and most men, and even most women, possessed that sort of knowledge.
She had begun to suspect that the coachman had recognized his master’s horse and, out of loyalty to him, had deliberately misled the authorities. There could be no other explanation, and she could have kissed the old man for it. Now, having been given the time to think about what she should say, she could always describe the robber’s horse as he had.
Then a slightly better plan came to her, and she answered, with as false and uneasy an air as she could muster, “If my lord believes the horse was a copper colour, then . . . why, of course, I must agree.”
As she had hoped, Mr. Henry gave an impatient frown. He leaned closer to her. “You agree that the horse had that appearance? Did you notice any marks?”
Hester ventured a glance at Harrowby. Then, with a guilty suppressed look, she gave a quick, shy shake of her head.
He frowned even more deeply. “You are certain you noticed nothing different, Mrs. Kean? A slightly bronzer tinge, perhaps? The two white boots old Peter noticed?”
She strove to appear as uncomfortable as possible, smiling nervously in Harrowby’s direction, lowering her gaze to her lap, and giving a fluttery laugh. “I cannot presume to have noticed something his lordship might have missed, Mr. Henry.”
“I see.” As he pushed back in his chair, James Henry tried to hide his disgust with a sigh.
“I shall need to have a new signet ring made,” Harrowby said, changing the subject again.
Hester smiled inwardly. Her tactics had worked. Mr. Henry clearly believed that Harrowby—fool that he was—had made a mistake in his description of the horse, and that she, as his dependent, had been afraid to contradict him.
St. Mars would have to more careful in future, or his beautiful horse would get him hanged. The thought of the danger he was in made the muscles in her back ache.
She had a need to meet him now, and she would—eagerly—and with a warning.
But she would also have to tell him that she was no nearer to solving his father’s murder.
Before she could meet him in the abbey ruins, she talked with James Henry again. He came across her the next morning in the housekeeper’s room near the kitchen as she was speaking to the woman about a receipt for some pills to purge the head. Mrs. Mayfield had complained of a nervous headache, which had been bothering her for days. The country air had not agreed with her. Her nose had been a constant source of discomfort.
Hester would have waited to give her orders to Mrs. Suggs—an excellent woman—until Mr. Henry had finished with his business, but he insisted that she should finish hers first. It was not until he dismissed Mrs. Suggs with a courteous remark that she realized he had come in search of her.
“If you have a moment, Mrs. Kean,” he said, detaining her with a light touch on the elbow, “I wonder if I might ask you a few questions about the men who held you up? Their description must be forwarded to the magistrates, but I could not get clear on the details last night.”
She signaled her willingness to be helpful, but felt a flutter inside. Mr. Henry was not the sort of person to be easily fooled.
“I was a bit confused yesterday,” he said, “by the conflicting opinions expressed by those who were there. But, now that my lord—and
yours
—is no longer within hearing, would you say that the younger highwayman’s horse was a copper or not?”
This was said with such a dry understanding—though she could not be certain that his intention had been humorous—that Hester could not suppress a flush and a guilty smile.
Fortunately, these were signs which could be interpreted to her advantage.
“I do not like to contradict—Lord Hawkhurst,” she said, nearly choking on his title. She fished around for a statement that would not be a total lie, but when nothing came to her, she took the plunge. “However, the horse the younger man rode—and upon which he carried me what seemed to be a terrible distance through those dark woods—
did
have some lighter markings. I should have called its colour bronze, rather than copper, too. I hate to say it, but I’m afraid I must agree with your coachman, Mr. Henry.”
For a moment, she was certain that her answer had affected him more profoundly than it would if his question had not been prompted by a suspicion of the highwayman’s being St. Mars. A shadow passed over his features. He quickly recovered, though, giving her a tight, formal smile.
“I have never known old Peter to be mistaken in the matter of a horse. Still, I had wondered if he . . . .”
He broke off in mid-sentence, as if only then aware that he had spoken this last bit aloud. She could see that he was troubled, and trying to hide the fact.
“Is there something about the robbers that disturbs you—aside from the obvious?” she asked. Given his evident confusion, it was a logical question, and she felt safer asking it than not.
He tried to shrug his interest off. “Oh, no. It was just the satin cape that engaged my curiosity. You will agree that a robber’s having such an expensive garment is out of the usual. And,
if
he stole it,” he said, slipping back into a pensive mood, “which is entirely possible, I wonder why he would not sell it. If the reason for stealing in the first place is to get money, then surely a robber would sell everything he stole.”
“I suppose that highwaymen have their vanities just like the rest of us,” was all Hester could think to say. She had to admire him for his reasoning. She only wished his intelligence could be turned to helping his brother solve the mystery of their father’s death instead of being used to unmask this fiction of a highwayman known as Blue Satan. She had heard the housemaids whispering about him only this morning, which told her that either the coachman or one of the footmen who had served them at dinner yesterday had regaled the other servants with the story.
She could not imagine that their exaggerations would do St. Mars any harm, but neither would she underestimate the cleverness of his brother. Something told her that it would be far better to have Mr. Henry on her side than to be opposed by him.
Her last remark had been intended to relax his preoccupation with the highwayman, and she was glad to see that it had had an ameliorating effect.
It had even struck a spark of humour in him. The sober lines of his face seemed to bend, and he and she turned, as if by consent, to walk towards the centre of the house.
“A vain highwayman,” he mused. “I will admit, that is a notion I had not considered. But it is possible. I believe they regard themselves as a better class of criminal than footpads. A certain obligation of manners seems conferred on them for the simple reason that they are mounted.”
“Is that why the populace so often gives them the title, ‘gentleman’?”
“That’s certainly one of the reasons. Being raised on tales of Robin Hood could well be another. Was your highwayman a ‘gentleman’ in that sense? Was he as ‘polished’ as my lord said?”
His reference to St. Mars as
her
highwayman unearthed a secret feeling she hadn’t even known she had. She had been thinking of him as her highwayman.
She had to fight a serious discomfort when she said, “I would say there was an effort on his part to
play
the gentleman, but he could not maintain the role indefinitely. The truth, I imagine, would be somewhere between my lord’s interpretation and my aunt’s. He was neither so polished nor so rough as they said.”
They had reached the Great Hall, and Hester used the opportunity to change the focus of their conversation. Looking up at the Fitzsimmons’ coat of arms and the aged weapons and suits of armor displayed against the walls, she said, “This room is magnificent. I have never seen a better collection of arms. It must give you great pride to be associated with such a noble family.”
She turned to witness his reaction, but James Henry had taught himself not to react to such comments. He must have heard similar ones all of his life.
“Yes, it does.”
“Has your time here been happy? Was the late Lord Hawkhurst a kind master?”
She watched him close up before her eyes.
“He was . . . .”
The proper words seemed to fail him. She thought she detected grief in his pause, but it could have been a different emotion. Guilt, perhaps, or even dismay at being asked.
“He was a good master, and a fair one, I suppose, in his own way. He placed a great deal of faith in me, for which I shall always be grateful.”
“It must have been a shock for you all to find he had been murdered.”
He regarded her coldly. “More than you can imagine,” he spoke, as if warning her off.
She flushed with shame this time. “I am sorry. I have trespassed on your feelings. But I was present at the ball when the magistrate carried the news to my Lord St. Mars, and I have naturally been curious. Is it so very certain that St. Mars murdered his father?”
She had hoped to be able to gauge his feelings about his brother, but his face revealed nothing, except that he had no wish to discuss Lord Hawkhurst’s death with her. Or, perhaps, with anyone.
“I would not like to venture an opinion,” he said. “If you are
curious
—” his emphasis on that word made her wince— “perhaps you should speak to Sir Joshua Tate. He is the magistrate who brought the charges.”
Hester could not help reaching out to touch his sleeve. “Forgive me. I can see that you were very attached to his lordship.”
Her sympathy disconcerted him. It did not seem to be unwelcome either, though he turned quite red. “I shall miss my lord very much.” He stepped away from her suddenly and bowed. “I will bid you a good afternoon, Mrs. Kean.”
As she watched him stride from the hall, she was reminded of St. Mars’s reaction when she had expressed her sympathy to him.
Neither of Lord Hawkhurst’s sons had, it appeared, been remembered in the scramble for their father’s estate.
Here in a grotto, sheltered close from air,
And screened in shades from day’s detested glare . . .
Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace
A two-edged weapon from her shining case:
So Ladies in Romance assist their Knight,
Present the spear, and arm him for the fight.
He takes the gift with reverence, and extends
The little engine on his fingers’ ends;
CHAPTER 18
On the night St. Mars had appointed, Hester excused herself from the withdrawing room just as the footmen were being called to light the candles.
Earlier in the day she had made references to a mild headache in the hopes that her absence, if prolonged, would be ascribed to her ailment. She had also taken opportunities to mention how glad she would be to take a walk down to see the ruins, in case she was caught coming back from her meeting with St. Mars.
She let herself out by a small side door, which led into the gardens, taking no torch to light her way. She did not want to run the risk of its being seen by anyone who might cast a glance out of a window. The illumination indoors had been dimmer than that outside, so it was still easy to make her way through the side gardens and across the lawn, past the lower remnants of the ancient abbey to the grander part of the ruins.
In the gathering dusk, she could understand why the servants said they were haunted. The uneven walls with their tall arched windows, and trees that had sprouted between the stones, some of them a hundred years old at least, cast indistinct shadows in the failing light. The sun had gone down nearly a half-hour before, and only a faint memory of it was left.
Lord St. Mars had not told her in which part of the old abbey he would wait, which made sense to her now, for she was unable to distinguish any of its buildings. When she was almost certain that a wall had been part of the sanctuary, she would find another behind it that seemed just as likely. She had visited the abbeys of Westminster and the city of York with their side aisles, and she tried to make sense of this one based on them. It was surprising, though, how easily one could be turned around.
Noting the rapidly approaching darkness, she hoped that St. Mars would show himself before she tripped over a stone and ended up lying in a sunken crypt like the one she had just passed. If he had not seen her coming, she feared she would never find him.
A strange, broken doorway, in the corner where two tall walls met, made itself visible to her in the dark. She stepped through it and nearly bumped her face on a curving wall of stone just inside it. As she gasped in surprise, a flutter came from her left. Starting at the sound, she saw the silhouette of her highwayman outlined by the faint light from an arched doorway on her right.