The House at Bell Orchard (10 page)

“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.

Much harder to believe was Miles’s assertion that Charmian was a heartless coquette, ready to conceal her betrothal and embark upon a flirtation within weeks of her father’s death. His first impulse had been to call Miles a liar, to tell him he knew less than nothing of the woman he was to marry, but then the memory of his own meeting with Charmian the day before had come to restrain him. Against his will, it convinced him that Miles was speaking the truth. He recalled her pretty air of confusion, her confession of loneliness, her shy, hesitant response to his veiled declaration of his feelings for her. He had not ventured to speak more plainly for fear of shocking one so recently bereaved, yet all the while she had been playing a part, deceiving him for her own amusement, careless of the hurt she inflicted and intent only upon making a fresh conquest.

He stood with his hands clenched hard on the
window ledge
, and stared through the latticed panes at the peaceful scene beyond while a fierce tide of bitterness and pain washed over him. For the first time in his life he had come to care deeply for a woman, had dared to believe that marriage could be founded upon love as well as upon material and practical considerations. He had made a fool of himself—no, she had made a fool of him. That was where the deepest hurt lay, in the discovery of her worthlessness, and it had dealt a wound which would be long in healing.

10

Miss Wychwood Intervenes

Charmian’s fear that Miles’s presence at Bell Orchard would mean the curtailing of such freedom as she had hitherto enjoyed soon proved to be well-founded. By the second day after his arrival the weather had considerably improved; the pall of cloud which for three days had obscured the sky broke at last, and sunshine began to dapple the sodden landscape. Charmian thought it likely that Dorothy and Piers would come to Bell Orchard again that morning as they had done each day before the bad weather set in, but she could not curb her impatience sufficiently to wait for them. Knowing that if they came, it would be by way of the ford, and the bridle-path through the woods, she resolved to go to meet them, and sent word to the stables that she desired a mount, and a groom to attend her.

She changed into her black velvet riding-habit and went downstairs, fully prepared to find Lavinia waiting to challenge her decision, but to her surprise Mrs. Fenshawe was nowhere to be seen. When she emerged from the house, however, she found not only the groom and two horses awaiting her, but also Mr. Miles Fenshawe, elegant in a riding-coat of his favourite scarlet. She endeavoured to dissuade him from accompanying her, but he swept all her protests aside, declaring himself entirely at her service, and she was obliged to give in with as good a grace as she could. Perhaps, she thought, she could somehow enlist Dorothy’s aid in diverting his attention while she talked to Piers.

Before they reached the edge of the woods, they saw Miss Wychwood coming towards them, but to Charmian’s intense disappointment only a groom accompanied her. Dorothy greeted them with her usual liveliness and agreed without hesitation to Miles’s suggestion that they should all ride together, but Charmian thought to detect a faintly puzzled expression in her eyes. She inquired after Lady Wychwood, and then, more diffidently, after Piers, and was assured that both were well.

“Piers could not come with me today,” Dorothy added. “There was some business demanding his attention, which he insisted could not wait.”

“Piers’ devotion to duty is admirable,” Miles commented mockingly. “I fear
I
could not emulate it, particularly if it meant depriving myself of such charming company as this.”

Neither lady made any response to this, Charmian being fully occupied by the effort of concealing her disappointment, and Dorothy wondering, a shade uneasily, why her brother’s refusal to accompany her had been so curt. Miles smiled lazily to himself and changed the subject, chatting entertainingly upon a dozen different topics as they went on their way. He was fully aware that each of his fair companions was wishing him elsewhere, and was considerably amused by the knowledge.

On the three succeeding days the same pattern was repeated. Dorothy came alone to Bell Orchard, and she and Charmian rode out with Miles as their unwanted escort, an escort who skilfully thwarted every attempt at private conversation. Charmian, certain now that Miles’s only purpose in coming to Sussex was to make certain that she had no opportunity to betray his family’s political conspiracies, and made even more uneasy by Piers’ continued absence, was driven almost to desperation, while Dorothy’s misgivings increased as the days went by. Piers no longer made any excuse for not accompanying her to Bell Orchard; he simply refused to do so, and even hinted that he would prefer it if her own visits there became less regular. She began to fear that he and Miss Tarrant had quarrelled, though when such a disagreement could have occurred she could not imagine.

By the fourth day Charmian had been made reckless by this continuous frustration, and by an unhappiness which had very little to do with Jacobite plots. She made up her mind to go to Wychwood Chase, arriving there before Dorothy had time to set out. She ordered her horse half an hour earlier than usual, but if by doing this she had hoped to get the better of Miles, she was disappointed. He was waiting for her, lazy and immaculate as ever, when she emerged from the house.

She had learned by now that it was useless to try to evade him, and accepted his presence without protest, paying little heed to his conversation and searching her mind for some excuse to talk to Piers, or even Dorothy or her mother, without his knowledge.

When they arrived at Wychwood Chase, they found Dorothy and Piers standing on the steps which led up to the main entrance of the house. On the broad expanse of gravel below, a groom was holding the bridles of two saddle-horses, but the attitude of brother and sister suggested that a dispute of some kind was taking place between them. Both looked round when they heard the riders approaching, and then Dorothy came quickly down the steps to meet them. Charmian, allowing Miles to help her from the saddle, answered the greeting somewhat at random, and cast a shy yet eager glance at Piers, who stood, silent and unsmiling, on the steps. The mere sight of that tall, broad-shouldered figure had the power, she found, to lift her spirits and dispel the fears that plagued her.

“This
is
a fortunate chance,” Dorothy exclaimed brightly. “I was just about to set out for Bell Orchard, but my brother has to ride over to Bannerford, and did not think he had time to accompany me. We were just debating what to do when you arrived so opportunely. Now we can all go to Bannerford together.”

Charmian’s spirits soared still higher. Bannerford lay some four miles inland from Wychwood, and during the ride she would surely be able to contrive the opportunity she was seeking. She opened her lips to assent to the plan, but Piers’ voice forestalled her.

“You will refrain, if you please, Dorothy, from making my decisions for me!” He spoke coldly, with no softening of his expression. “My purpose in visiting Bannerford is to inspect some farm buildings which my bailiff assures me stand in need of repair, and I am sure that neither Miss Tarrant nor Miles has the smallest interest in such a matter. You will do much better to take your ride through the woods or along the shore.” He came down the steps as he spoke, and bowed briefly to Charmian. “Madam, your servant!”

He clapped his hat on his head, nodded curtly to Miles, and took his horse’s rein from the groom. Mounting, he wheeled the animal about and rode off without another glance at any of them. Dorothy stared after him openmouthed, and Miles smiled thoughtfully as he drew the lash of his whip through his fingers, but Charmian turned blindly towards her horse again. She was trembling and close to tears, for as Piers bowed before her she had seen unmistakable contempt in his eyes. It had struck her like a blow, and if there had been hurt there also it had lain deep, and she had been too shocked to discover it. She said in a shaking voice to the groom:

“Help me to mount, if you please!”

He stared, but obeyed. Dorothy turned quickly.

“Miss Tarrant, wait! Charmian!”

“I do not feel well!” Charmian could scarcely control her voice, and said the first thing that came into her head; her eyes were brimming with tears. “I must go home!”

She paid no heed to Miles, but urged her horse forward along the avenue. Miles turned to Dorothy, lifted shoulders and hands in an expressive gesture, and then bowed to her with a murmur of farewell. Charmian was already some distance away and he was obliged to spur his horse to a canter to overtake her, but when he did so he reined in a few paces behind her and made no comment, giving her time to dry her eyes and regain some measure of control. He had achieved his purpose, and it was not his intention—yet—to twist the knife in the wound.

Dorothy, thus deserted by brother and guests alike, signed to the groom to take her horse back to the stables, and went slowly and dispiritedly indoors. Something: was plainly very wrong indeed. The affair, which had prospered so greatly at first, had met with an inexplicable setback, and since she did not know the cause she was at a loss how to remedy it. She might have consulted her mother, but Lady Wychwood had gone to visit a sick friend, and by the time she returned Dorothy had recalled how discouraging about the whole affair she had been at the outset. She decided instead to take Piers to task, even if it meant his further displeasure.

In this intention also she was frustrated, for Piers did not return home until late that evening, when Dorothy and her mother were about to retire for the night. He informed them curtly that he had been to call upon his old friend Tom Merrill, and was now going straight to bed. Since Mr. Merrill’s home lay seventeen miles beyond Bannerford, this plea of weariness was understandable, but Dorothy felt certain that he was deliberately avoiding her.

He continued to do so the following morning, and with mounting exasperation she decided to visit Bell Orchard again and make one more attempt to discover from Charmian what was amiss. She sent a message to the stables, and was in the act of putting on her riding-habit when Lady Wychwood came into the room.

“Dorothy, my love,” she said, “you cannot go out today. I forgot to inform you that we are expecting company.”

Dorothy paused with her coat half on, and stared at her mother. “Mercy on us, Mama! how could you forget such a thing? Who is it?”

Her ladyship did not reply at once, but paused to send Dorothy’s maid out of the room. When the door had closed behind the woman she glanced dubiously at her daughter, who was regarding her with growing suspicion, and said reluctantly.

“It is General Grey and his daughter-in-law, and Selina.”

“Oh, no!” Dorothy’s exclamation was tragic. “Mama, how could you
do
such a thing, and at this time above all others?”

Lady Wychwood sighed and sat down. “It was at your brother’s request, Dorothy,” she said reprovingly. “He came to me three, or was it four days ago? At all events, it was the day Miles Fenshawe called upon us. As I say, Piers came to me and particularly desired me to issue the invitation.”

Dorothy slowly took off her coat and dropped it on to a chair. “He means to offer for Selina!” she said in a voice dark with foreboding. “Oh, how can he be such a blockhead? Just because he has quarrelled with Charmian—”

“Quarrelled with Miss Tarrant?” her mother repeated in astonishment. “When, Dorothy, and why?”

“I have not the smallest idea,” Dorothy replied, “but he must have done so, for when she came here yesterday with Miles, and I suggested that we should all ride to Bannerford together, he was downright uncivil to her.”

“I cannot credit that,” Lady Wychwood said severely. “Piers would not be uncivil to a lady, particularly if she were a guest in his house.”

“Well, we were not
in
the house, as it happens, though that makes no difference. I own it is not like Piers, Mama, and that is what makes me so certain that something is very wrong. It wounded Charmian dreadfully. She rode away at once, and she was weeping. I saw her!”

Lady Wychwood sighed again. She was very much afraid that Dorothy had guessed correctly her brother’s intentions where Miss Grey was concerned, and the thought filled her with dismay. She had observed his preoccupation with Charmian Tarrant, and come to the conclusion that one of her own dearest wishes had been granted, and her son found a woman who, besides being a suitable bride in every worldly sense, could also command his affection. Her disappointment was therefore profound, but Piers was a grown man and she felt that she had no right to interfere. A widow held the position of mistress of her son’s house in trust only, and must be prepared to give place without rancour to the woman of his choice. If only, her ladyship thought wistfully, Piers’ choice had fallen upon Charmian Tarrant rather than Selina Grey.

“I am exceedingly sorry if that is so,” she said after a pause, “for I like Miss Tarrant very well, and from what your Aunt Elizabeth has told me, it would seem that there could be no practical objections to such a match. But you know, Dorothy, such a thought may never have entered Piers’ head. A man may admire a pretty face, but he does not choose his wife for such a reason.”

“But, Mama, Piers knows as well as we do that it would be an excellent match, and surely it is a good thing if there is mutual regard as well as worldly advantages? Oh, he is the most exasperating creature alive! I did so much want Charmian to be my sister!”

Lady Wychwood smiled affectionately and patted her hand. “Yes, my love, I know you did, but remember, Dorothy, you will yourself many before very long, and leave Wychwood for a home of your own. Until then, you must be as pleasant as possible to Selina, and remind yourself that she is the woman your brother chose to be his wife.”

“Well, if it comes to that in the end, I will do my best,” Dorothy promised with a grimace, “but I am not going to fold my hands and wait for it to happen.” She picked up her coat again and put it on, buttoning it with a determined air. “At least I am going to find out why Piers has turned so suddenly against Charmian.”

She did not wait for the protest she knew her mother would make, but whisked out of the room and hurried along the corridor and down the stairs. From a servant she learned that Sir Piers was in his study, but when she reached the door, the sound of voices within made her pause. She recognized the bailiffs deep tones, and knew that Piers would not welcome an interruption of business. So she waited, walking restlessly up and down, until at last the door of the study opened, the bailiff came out and, seeing Miss Wychwood, stood aside with a respectful bow for her to enter. She went past him with a smile and a friendly word, and heard him shut the door quietly behind her.

Piers, seated at his desk, glanced up as she entered, and it struck her suddenly that he looked older. In repose his face was always serious, but now there was an unaccustomed sternness in it, a faint frown between the brows, a certain grimness about the firm mouth. She felt a pang of loving sympathy, and spoke more gently than she had intended, though no less bluntly.

“Piers,” she asked quietly, “have you quarrelled with Charmian Tarrant?”

A blankness descended upon his face, as though some intangible shutter had been drawn between them. He said curtly: “That is no concern of yours!”

“But it is!” Dorothy went forward and rested her hands on the edge of the desk. “Miss Tarrant is my friend, and I have a right to know why you behaved as you did yesterday.”

“Very well, then! I have not quarrelled with Miss Tarrant. As for your friendship with her, that is an association which I would prefer to see ended.”