The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster (14 page)

“He whistled Tassels to him. I’ll walk with you, if I may.”

“Thank you, but you have a long ride before you. Had you to come all the way up here to use this bridge? Is the one near your farm impassable?”

“It is unsafe for any but a single rider. My tenant farmer cannot get his waggons and supplies across until we have turned the river to its proper course. Actually, I rode this way to see the fence and the signs your family has put up.”

She frowned. “Not so, Mr. Cranford! The fence and that horrid sign were put up by the gentleman who desires to buy our property. To my mind it was a great piece of impertinence since the sale is not yet finalized.”

“It sounds unlawful as well as impertinent.” And sure of her answer, he enquired, “A local individual, ma’am?”

“Yes. He is called Major Finchley.”

The Westerman cottage was larger than Cranford had supposed. He was too angry to pay much heed to the half-timbered exterior or the wainscoted entrance hall, and when Miss Westerman left him he stamped, glowering, after the neat footman. He was ushered to the withdrawing-room, and advised that Mrs. Westerman would be with him “in a moment.” He snapped, “I wish to see
Mr.
Westerman!” The footman bowed,
smiled in an irritatingly supercilious manner, and withdrew.

Several “moments” slipped past. Pacing up and down, seething with impatience, Cranford had to acknowledge that this was a charming room, furnished for comfort rather than elegance. The sofa was large and covered in a red velvet that bore the marks of use. He decided to see if it was as soft as it looked. He sat down and at once had to spring up as Mary Westerman came in. She had tidied her curls and wore a simple primrose-yellow gown that became her very well. Accompanying her was a matron whose age he guessed to be in the neighbourhood of fifty.

He was presented to Mrs. Caroline Westerman. Inherently shy, he usually found older women less intimidating than young damsels, but this lady was truly formidable. She stood half a head taller than he, and without being stout, was built on a grand scale that put him in mind of Horatio Glendenning’s stepmother, Lady Bowers-Maiden. Unlike the countess, however, Mrs. Caroline Westerman could not be described as a handsome woman: her nose was too large, her mouth a thin line above an up-curving chin, and the light hazel eyes that might have been a redeeming feature held a fierce and belligerent glint. Moreover, she presented a very untidy appearance. Wisps of greying hair escaped a cap that sagged crookedly on her head. Her gown of purple velvet, worn over very large hoops, was not enhanced by an outsize multi-coloured shawl that appeared to have been crocheted without the aid of any pattern or design. Bowing before her, he caught a glimpse of muddy riding boots and was almost undone. With an effort he collected his wits, and began, “I have come, ma’am, to—”

Her arm flew up and he had to step back quickly to avoid the flying shawl. “We are not blind,” she said in a deep booming voice, and wrenching the shawl about her as if she subdued a determined enemy, she added, “We will wait, if you can contain yourself, for our sister. Ah, Lucretia, this impatient young fellow
is Lieutenant Piers Cranford. You may make your bow, sir, to Mrs. Lucretia Westerman.”

Cranford turned to face a very stout lady who smiled at him as she extended her hand. Bowing over it, he scarcely dared look up. Mrs. Lucretia was probably a year or two younger than Mrs. Caroline, and there could be no doubt but that she had once been very pretty. Her powdered curls were neatly dressed under a lace-trimmed cap, she had a small up-tilted nose, and eyes of china blue; unfortunately, they, together with her mouth, were almost lost in the swell of her cheeks, and as for a chin, she now had four of them. She wore a green gown trimmed with swansdown that would have been becoming save for the fact that it had been made for a lady of far less ample proportions. Cranford could all but hear the seams straining, and wondered in awe how her abigail had ever managed to fasten the buttons. Her bosom was generous, much too generous for the very
décolleté
bodice that struggled to contain it, and fearing that at any second the struggle would be lost, he averted his eyes, and said rather hoarsely, “I am here to—”

“How droll.” Mrs. Lucretia lowered herself cautiously into a wing chair beside her sister and panted, “But it is quite correct, Caroline. He
is
here.”

“Yes, and keeps telling us of it, as if we did not know. I wonder why,” said Mrs. Caroline, regarding Cranford with suspicion.

“To find—” he began.

“Oh! A game! But how droll!” Mrs. Lucretia clapped her plump hands. “I love games! He has lost something!”

“Try not to be so foolish, sister.”

Cranford, who had sat down, sprang up again, beginning to feel surrounded as a new voice was heard.

The lady now entering was tall and graceful, beautifully gowned, and at least ten years younger than her sisters. Her
hair was powdered and dressed in the latest style, and her features were delicate. She wielded a large feathery fan as she advanced with a faintly sinuous sway into the room, her fine hazel eyes fixed admiringly on Cranford.

Mrs. Caroline flung her shawl about her shoulders so violently that she then had to fight her way out of it, and emerged growling irritably, “This is—”

The latest arrival raised a delaying hand. “I
know
who he is, Caro.”

“If you have met him before, you should have told us.” Mrs. Lucretia put her fan over her lips concealingly, but did not trouble to lower her voice as she said to her elder sister, “Is it not just like her to keep him all to herself? He is very handsome, of course.”

Mrs. Caroline’s fan was also brought into play while above it her eyes fixed the embarrassed Cranford with a hard stare. She said quite audibly, “We do not judge him especially handsome. And she likely has never met him.”

“I am—” began the latest arrival.

“Miss Celeste Westerman,” her sisters-in-law chorused triumphantly.

She sighed, and from behind her fan said to Cranford, “Poor dears. They like to think they know everything.” She extended her hand, her eyes flirting with him in exaggerated roguishness, and as he touched her fingers to his lips, murmured, “You will think it foolish, Lieutenant, the way they fancy they cannot be heard if they hide behind their fans.”

Since she was doing precisely the same, he merely smiled and asked evasively, “Forgive, but did we meet in Town, Miss Celeste?”

Seating herself on the red sofa, she said archly, “I will forgive you—if you sit here beside me.”

“Aha!” cried Mrs. Caroline, her shawl agitated, “she has
not
met him! We knew it!”

“They think I don’t know why you have come,” purred Miss
Celeste, patting the cushion beside her. “But I do.”

“To pay a courtesy call, of course,” declared Mrs. Caroline.

“And long overdue,” agreed Mrs. Lucretia, tugging at her bodice in a way that terrified Cranford. “But he wants to know about the fence; that is his true reason for calling.” Up went the fan as she leaned to her sister and confided loudly, “Only see how she flirts with him, Caro! I declare it is most droll!”

“I am
not
flirting with him,” argued Miss Celeste, pouting, and then adding provocatively, “But I’ll own I’ve ever had a soft spot in my heart for gentlemen with curling hair and such very blue eyes.”

“Or with no hair,” appended Mrs. Caroline waspishly.

“And a squint,” tittered Mrs. Lucretia.

They put their fans together and, “safely hidden,” laughed hilariously.

Miss Celeste shrugged and said with disdain, “Pay no heed to them, Lieutenant Cranford. They are silly and jealous, is all.”

Sure that his face was scarlet, and considerably off-stride, Cranford stammered, “No, but—but Mrs. Lucretia is quite right, ma’am. I—”

Miss Celeste rapped her fan across his knuckles and uttered a piercing shriek. “Oh! You horrid thing! I am
not
flirting with you! How dare you presume so!”

Aghast, Cranford looked about helplessly for Miss Mary and saw that she stood just inside the open door, watching him, her eyes alight with mischief. Realizing that rescue from that quarter was unlikely, he said, “No, no, ma’am! I did not mean—What I meant was—I—er, I came hoping to have a few words with Mr. Westerman.”

Three fans were lowered, three pairs of eyes regarded him wonderingly.

“Now this is
very
droll,” murmured Mrs. Lucretia.

Mrs. Caroline said with a snigger, “Is that so? We wish you well of it, sir!”

“Why?” demanded Miss Celeste.

“Because he don’t wish to deal with
tes
, you ninny,” said Mrs. Caroline. “He fancies us too foolish.”

Miss Celeste fluttered her lashes at Cranford, and again patting the sofa cushion beside her, said wistfully, “Is that why he will not sit here?”

Cranford sat down gingerly, and said in a nervous rush of words, “I feel sure you all are very capable, ma’am. But I want—”

“What, you dear man?” gushed Miss Celeste, leaning towards him. “You shall have anything you ask.
Anything!”

‘Dear God!’ thought Cranford. “It is a—a legal matter concerning the sale of this property and that confoun——”

Mrs. Caroline howled and threw her shawl over her head. “No swearings! No cursings! Remember you are in a ladies’ withdrawing-room, sir!”

“Yes. Yes, indeed! I apologize,” he gasped. “What I mean to say is, it’s that—er, revoltingly ugly fence and—and the sign. I understand they were put up by Major Finchley, and I want to know by what right—”

Mrs. Caroline’s shawl flapped wildly. Emerging from it, she struggled to restore her cap, which had fallen over both eyes. “Oh, there you are!” she said breathlessly. “How should we know about Major Finchley? What a foolish question! Waste of time! Waste of time!”

“Why would he come here to waste our time?” asked Miss Celeste, bewildered.

Mrs. Lucretia suggested, “He is a spy, perhaps.”

“Or a revolutionary,” contributed Mrs. Caroline, adding solemnly, “Lots of young fellows are these days. Too much time on their hands, so they occupy themselves with mischief and mayhem, fighting for lost causes they know little about and that no one else gives a fig for.”

“It is too
droll”
remarked Mrs. Lucretia, clearly washing her hands of the issue. “Speaking of which, it is time for tea.”

With an emphatic nod Miss Celeste declared, “He will want brandy in his.”

“Good gracious me,” exclaimed Mrs. Lucretia. “Well, I suppose there must be some in the house, though he should have warned us ahead of time. Are you sure, dear?”

Miss Celeste said, “Well, of course I am sure. He is a gentleman, and they
all
do.”

“No—please,” gulped Cranford, yearning to be elsewhere. “I thank you, but—”

“Here is dear Mary come with the tray,” said Mrs. Caroline, beaming.

Mary Westerman came into the room, followed by a maid bearing a laden tea-tray.

“Our guest demands brandy also,” panted Mrs. Lucretia, sitting up straighter and then making a frantic grab for her wilting bodice.

With an anguished glance at Mary, Cranford said, “You are very good, but I must be on my way; if you could just—”

“You see?” exclaimed Miss Celeste. “Because we did not bring the brandy at once, he will go off in a huff!”

“Men!” snorted Mrs. Caroline.

The maid gave the culprit a censuring look, set the tray on a table before the sofa and hurried out.

Mary Westerman murmured dulcetly, “But of course he shall have some brandy, and Lieutenant Cranford would never be so ill-mannered as to go off in a huff.” She slanted a twinkling glance at him. “Would you, sir?”

Mopping his brow, he summoned a smile. “Certainly not, ma’am. It will be my pleasure to drink tea with you—but without brandy, if you please.”

“I declare,” said Mrs. Lucretia, eyeing him curiously, “How very…”

Cranford waited, although he was sure of the final adjective.

Mrs. Lucretia did not disappoint him. “… droll,” she said.

“It would have been kind in you to give me a little warning!” Walking to the stables beside Miss Mary, Cranford was glad of the chill breath of the wind. After the arrival of the tea-tray, another hour had passed before he could decently escape, and he still felt considerably shaken.