The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster (31 page)

“Not deserve a brazen hussy who cavorted about with cannibals for nigh to a year, and shows not a whit of shame for her wanton behaviour?”

“Mary is neither brazen nor a hussy, and has nothing to be ashamed of! If anyone should feel shame, it is Valerian!”

Staring at him, the General said, “Only listen to the heated defence! And in what cause? You may disabuse your mind of any hope if you’ve now changed your mind about offering for the gel. She won’t have you.”

“But you said only a few days ago that—”

“Perhaps I did. But that was before Valerian threw his hat in the ring, so to speak. Now hear me, young man. You are to back off at once! On
no
account think of courting the chit yourself. It will be much better for us if Valerian keeps his word and weds her. And of one thing you may be sure: That harpy mother of hers will stop at nothing to get her greedy claws on his fortune. On that count alone you’d be properly bowled out! You’re a good-looking young fellow, I grant you, but he takes
the prize for looks, and fortune. And all London knows Miss Stansbury has adored the rascal since she was in the nursery. He has but to crook his little finger and shell run to him. Never doubt it!”

Lying in bed that night, sleep eluding him, Cranford knew at last that he had more than “taken a fancy” to Miss Mary. Tool!’ he thought, seething with frustration. ‘I’ve loved her for weeks and never had the sense to know it!’

It was some time before he began to doze off, comforted by the determination that, fool or not, and whatever his great-uncle threatened, he would fight to win the girl he loved and do all he might to prevent her falling, dazzled, into the arms of… so worthless an individual as… Gervaise Valerian…

He slept the sleep of near exhaustion, and waking could not at first think what had disturbed him. He lay blinking into the darkness and decided drowsily that a rising wind was rattling the shutters.

The rattling persisted and grew louder. He tried to ignore it until it was augmented by a soft squealing sound that he at length realized was a voice; a woman’s voice calling his name.

“Piers!… Lieutenant Cranford! Oh,
do
wake up! Please,
please
wake up!”

Mary! With a gasp he was fully awake, throwing back the blankets and snatching up his dressing-gown. It was pitch-dark, there was not so much as a glow from the fire on his hearth. It must be the middle of the night. She wouldn’t come to his room at such an hour unless she was sleep-walking or there was some dire emergency. “Coming!” he called, and not stopping to put on his slippers, crossed swiftly to open the door, barely noticing the icy floor-boards under his bare feet.

Light flooded in from the candle Mary held high. She was clad in her night-rail, with a pretty beribboned cap tied under her chin, and a panicked look on her pale face. “Let me in!” she demanded, pushing past him.

“Whatever’s wrong?” he asked anxiously. “It’s not—”

“Ifs the shocking spinster,” she said in a half-whisper. “And I know this is past forgiveness, so do pray close the door before the remnants of my reputation are in shreds.”

“They will truly be in shreds if I do so,” he said, hesitating. “You’d best tell me so I can—”

“It is—Florian!”

He closed the door.

“Something’s happened to him?”

“Laura’s abigail brought me a letter. Here.” She thrust a rumpled paper at him. “Try if you can read it. She must have been in a dreadful state.”

He lit his bedside candle from hers and unfolded the note. “She certainly must,” he muttered, striving to decipher the blotched and ill-formed words. “Something about Helen and… her—
love
—is it? Who is Helen?”

“Not ‘Helen’—
Heaven!
Standing beside him, Mary held her candle closer, and translated, “’For the love of Heaven, find lieutenant Piers Cranford and send him home! The most ghastly thing has chanced, Mary, and my father is raging and I dread lest he whips the people into—may God forbid!—into taking the law into their own hands. Our head groom, Sidney Grover—you know how he has always hated Florian—has been found beaten to death! Murdered! And my dearest love stands accused! He is innocent! I know it! But he was here and knocked Grover down this morning and Papa says he is a gypsy and has bad blood and—oh, Mary! Feeling is running very high. Please,
please
get word to Mr. Cranford before something dreadful happens! If I lose Florian I shall die of grief! The Lieutenant is our only hope! For pity’s sake, help us. Your desolate friend, Laura.”

Folding the letter mechanically, Cranford thought, ‘Lord above! It would have be Grover!’

A small hand tugged at his arm; a sweet and anxious and beloved face peered up at him. “Will you go?”

“Of course. And you must go, Miss Mary. Quickly.” Opening
the door, he looked up and down the passage. Aside from the bluster of the wind, all was quiet, and only one room showed a glow of light under the door. “Hurry,” he whispered.

“Yes, but—you will let me know—”

Light flooded out as the other door swung open.

“Nobody will ask—” Stepping out, dressed for travel and pulling on his gauntlets, Gervaise Valerian’s words were cut off abruptly. Halting as if briefly stunned, he then sauntered forward, his spurs jingling softly.

“Well, well, well,” he sneered. “And what have I interrupted? A—um—tryst, perchance?”

Cranford said curtly, “Good night, ma’am,” and hissed, “Go, dammit! Go!”

Mary hesitated. “Gervaise—’tis not what you think—”

He spread his hands, and purred, “But why should I think evil merely because I chance upon a chit leaving a fellow’s bedchamber—in the wee hours of the morning?”

Mary stared at him, then, with a helpless little shrug, hurried away.

Watching her, Valerian chuckled and murmured, “Truly, coz, you are a dark horse! I’d not have thought you had it in you to add the appellation ‘strumpet’ to the Stansbury’s lurid repu——”

Cranford sprang forward and decked him.

D
espite drifting clouds of fog, Cranford left word for Sudbury to return home as soon as the weather cleared, and rode out himself as the first hint of dawn glowed dimly in the veiled sky. The fog so altered the landscape that it was difficult to find his way. Twice, he took a wrong turn, and had all he could do to get back onto the Farnborough road. Fuming at these setbacks, he persisted stubbornly, but at length the vapours became so thick that he was forced to rein Tassels to a walk. Hours dragged past maddeningly before he came upon a small hedge tavern set back from the road and so wreathed in vapours as to be almost invisible. The air was penetratingly damp and chill, he was hungry and felt half frozen, and Tassels was shivering. He gave up and turned into the tavern yard. A solitary ostler ran out to him and as usual, Tassels was exclaimed over and made much of. Cranford left her in the hands of her admirer and went into the tavern.

It was a quaint little place, the beamed ceilings so low that they were but a few inches above his head. Copper bowls, kettles and plates set on shallow racks about the walls glowed in
the light of the fire that crackled on the deep hearth. Several branches of candles sent out their soft radiance and the delectable aroma of freshly baked bread filled the air. There were only a few customers, most being obviously local people who were acquainted with one another. The host came forward to greet the new arrival. Shown to a settle in the ingle-nook, Cranford warmed his cold hands and ordered a tankard of homebrewed ale and the roast pork that was “almost ready.”

The host, a round-faced, jolly little man, advised him to bespeak one of their two bedchambers. “This here fog has settled in, I can tell you, sir,” he said cheerily. “Lived in this county man and boy for one and fifty year, I has, and I knows these here fogs, I do. Slide up the river from the sea, they does. Why, I’ve seen ’em set in so thick that folks has to wait days, sir,
days
, ’fore they can drive on.” Cranford nodded but did not hire a room nor encourage more conversation, and after a shrewd glance at the stern young face, the host went off and advised his rosy-cheeked spouse that “the young gent in the ingle-nook has got Old Nick riding on his shoulders.” He returned with the ale and set it before his troubled guest with a smile but without comment.

The ale was excellent and the fire warm. Cranford stretched out his legs gratefully and hoped that the host’s meteorological predictions were not infallible. His heart sank when he drew out his timepiece and found that it was already past one o’clock. It was no use fretting against the fog, he had no choice but to wait, but the instant the beastly stuff thinned to the point that he could see his way, he would ride out and try to make up for lost time. He prayed that the fog was sufficiently widespread to keep his own people close to their hearths until he reached the village.

A plump serving maid came to announce with a shy and dimpling smile that dinner was ready and was set out on a table, “if y’worship would be so good as to come now, ’fore it gets cold.”

Cranford followed her to a table set with a checkered cloth, a branch of candles, and a plate of fragrant roast pork with side dishes of roast potatoes, green beans, a loaf of still-warm bread, and a board of cheeses. He said it was a feast fit for a king, and found he had not exaggerated. While he ate, however, his thoughts inevitably turned to Florian. It was hard to believe that the gentle villagers would resort to violence, but he had witnessed the contagion of mass hysteria in the past, and knew the havoc a few cunning rabble-rousers could wreak. Constable Bragg would do his best to preserve law and order, he could count on that phlegmatic individual, and Bill Franck, also; the blacksmith liked Florian and would help. And if Oliver Dixon heard of the likelihood of mob violence, there was no doubt but that he’d leave the farm and go to the village, probably taking his sons and a couple of his men with him.

But it could not be denied that Gresford Finchley was a powerful landowner, accustomed to getting his own way, not above resorting to bullying or brutality if he deemed it necessary, and with only contempt for those he considered beneath his touch. Loathing the young steward, he would seize this opportunity to be rid of him forever, whether or not he was the murderer. And he was not! Of that Cranford was certain. There had been bad blood between the two men, admittedly, but at worst Florian would have acted only in self-defense. Grover had not been much liked and certainly not admired; even so, there had been a few rumblings of discontent when Florian had been appointed to the much-coveted position of Muse Manor steward. Those prejudices would be exacerbated by this unhappy development and played upon by the hostile Finchley.

He finished his dinner and was about to order coffee and a slice of sponge-cake when smoke billowed from the hearth. The wind must be getting up.

He strode quickly to the window, and his spirits lifted. The fog was indeed swirling about.

The host joined him. “Looks to be blowing clear, sir. But it
might be local only, and thick again a few miles down the road. There’s a cosy room with a nice soft bed above-stairs, and a warming pan ’twixt the sheets if you decide to stay.”

“I wish I could,” said Cranford briskly, “but I’ve urgent business. Be so good as to order up my mare at once, and my compliments to your cook for a most excellent meal. I’ve not enjoyed better in London.”

Overcoming his disappointment, the host beamed with gratification and the serving maid beamed when she received a generous tip. Moments later, Cranford guided Tassels from the yard and they were off once more.

For some half-hour it was necessary to ride at a cautious speed, but gradually the fog dispersed, and at length he was able to give the mare her head. The miles slipped away and the fog was replaced by grey low-hanging clouds. The skies did not get much brighter; the air was cold, and occasional gusts of a bitter north-east wind deepened the chill.

More travellers were to be seen now, and soon a wooden belfry loomed against the sky. That would be the Parish Church of Farnborough, which meant he was nearly half-way home. If all went well, he would be in the village before dusk. But even as that optimistic thought crossed his mind, it was negated.

For years the authorities had ignored the advice of surveyors and had undertaken only token repairs on the rustic bridge that was a favourite route for local people. He himself had crossed it countless times rather than riding downstream to the new bridge; not to avoid the toll charge, but because the old structure was hump-backed and quaint, and situated where it offered sweeping views of the surrounding countryside. It had evidently succumbed at last to the ravages of wind and weather and fallen down, only some jagged planks remaining. It was a forlorn sight and a large sign warned redundantly that this bridge had collapsed and those wishing to cross the river should proceed to the new bridge some three miles to the west.

Cranford swore. The toll bridge was inexpertly run and he
had yet to cross it without encountering a long wait. The gatekeepers were notoriously slow in the best of weathers; on such an afternoon as this they were quite likely to have closed the gates when the fog was too thick for travel and might now be far behind in collecting the tolls. It could only mean another delay, delay neither he nor poor Florian could afford.