The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster (42 page)

“Is Miss Stansbury in town, ma’am?”

The wig shivered to the suggestion of a nod. “She has to choose her bridals. Lucky girl. I vow all London’s ladies will envy her such a fine match. Well, I cannot stand here keeping you company. I wish you good day, Lieutenant. You might have done well to emulate dear Gervaise and spend a little time in sunny Italy. He did not look near as poorly as you, but—you
might
perhaps benefit from a rest.”

Her tone said clearly that he had one foot in the grave. She was in
alt
, of course, but he could not refrain from thinking she could at least have said something kind about his efforts to rescue her daughter. ‘Mean-spirited, Cranford,’ he thought. He bowed awkwardly over the hand that was thrust at him imperiously. It was a thin hand and it turned suddenly to grip his own in a claw-like clutch even as the lady uttered a faint squawk.

Fearing she had suffered some kind of seizure, he looked up.

Mrs. Stansbury was holding her large fur muff to her cheek. Shielded by it, she exclaimed,
“Disgusting!
It offends
every
sense of propriety!”

Bewildered, he stammered, “It—does? I mean—what does, ma’am?”

She glared at him. “Are you blind? Do you not see that I am hiding?”

The only person he could see nearby was an elderly lady. Wrapped in a voluminous cloak and followed by a servant, she led a small dog by means of a long scarlet riband.

“I see Lady Bottesdale and her footman,” he said softly. “Has she offended you, ma’am?”

She hissed, “Of course she offends me, as she offends every person with a modicum of refinement! Oh, how
can
you look so
stupid?
Do you not
see
it?”

Striving, he said, “It… Er, do you mean her little pug-dog, ma’am? It does stop frequently, but I promise you it has not behaved—er, improperly.”

Her muff flailed agitatedly and he had to jerk back to avoid being struck. “It
walks about!”
she declared with a fierce gesture of emphasis. “It offends by
being!
I might know that a man—a soldier, especially—would be blind to such vulgar conduct, but Elmira Bottesdale knows I am repulsed by the creature and I vow it delights her to distress a person of sensitivity and discrimination. Here we are, thank heaven! You may escort me up these steps. Hurry, before she comes up with us! You can walk quicker than that, surely?”

Lengthening his stride, he asked, “Do you disapprove of people walking their dogs in Town, Mrs. Stansbury?”

“I refuse to acknowledge that it is a dog!” she declared. “How
any
person of sensitivity could choose a pet that holds its tail curled up over its back so that all its—its
nether regions are
clear to see—Ugh! Tis beyond my comprehension! One wonders how Elmira was bred up. As a lady of culture and refinement, I cannot forgive such a deliberate offence to the eye! Ring the bell if you please, and so farewell, Lieutenant!”

Biting his lip hard and somehow suppressing the laughter that fought to escape him, Cranford bowed and made his way back down the steps.

The dowager Lady Bottesdale was level now, and as he drew aside and said a polite “Good day, my lady,” she looked up into his face. She replied as politely, but a pair of dark roguish eyes met his own; one of them winked.

It was all Cranford could do to control himself.

Bobby Peale tooled the coach around the corner and Peddars sprang down to assist his employer to climb inside. As the door closed, Cranford delighted his retainers by breaking into whoops of laughter. His mood was lightened and the day seemed less dark. Thank the good Lord for elderly ladies with a sense of humour! He could scarce wait to tell Aunt Jane of the shocking behaviour of the Dowager Lady Bottesdale.

As he had expected, when they reached Muse Manor he was in deep disgrace. His aunt was angry and really upset
because he had disobeyed all the doctor’s orders and gone racketing off to London.

“But I left you a note, dear,” he protested feebly.

“A note! Which I found after you had gone, having deceived me into believing you had just stepped out for a breath of air!”

His efforts to explain were ignored. The good lady had been terribly distressed and worried. Piers’ declarations of love were not to be heeded. He had demonstrated that he gave not a button for the feelings of those who
really
loved him, and he had to endure a royal raking down before he was able to tell her of Florian’s innocence. Her mood at once changed from martyrdom to joy, and when he described his encounter with Mrs. Regina Stansbury and the abandoned behaviour of Lady Elmira Bottesdale, Jane Guild laughed till she cried.

Her relief, however, was soon tempered by concern. She knew her nephew too well to be unaware that his brisk energy had faded. In the days that followed, he was almost unnaturally bright and cheerful but several times when he was unaware that she watched him, she thought to detect a deep sadness in his eyes. Convinced that he was grieving, she called in the local apothecary and an indignant Piers was advised he had overtaxed his strength and was ordered to rest for at least a week. He did not protest this edict too forcefully, but developed the habit of sitting on a chaise longue by the window in his room, reading. Peeping in on him from time to time, his aunt noted that his gaze was seldom on the printed page, but that he looked instead towards the north-east and Quail Hill.

Troubled, she decided to send off a note to Peregrine, wedding or not, but on that very afternoon Florian drove up in a fine coach, accompanied by a radiantly happy Laura Finchley and a hawk-faced older gentleman. It seemed to Miss Guild that from the moment the coach door swung open, the house came to life again. Piers came downstairs and was embraced by his young friend and by Miss Finchley. The older gentleman was introduced as Signor Gabriele San Sebastiano. He offered a
magnificent bow and smiled constantly, seeming a very cheerful individual although he spoke little English.

They all adjourned to the withdrawing-room and Miss Guild rang for tea, whereupon Miss Finchley suddenly burst into tears and threw herself into Piers arms, declaring her undying gratitude for all he had done in their behalf.

“And Valerian also,” put in Florian, seating himself on the sofa beside his love and dabbing tenderly at her tearful eyes.

“Gervaise?” said Piers, obeying his aunt’s militant gesture and occupying his favourite wing chair. “Is he back in England already?”

“Not so far as I’m aware,” replied Florian. “But he sent a servant to escort this gentleman, and—oh, how can I tell you? It is so wonderful!”

They waited eagerly and although rather incoherent at times, the handsome young man so many had taken for a foundling or a gypsy was able at last to control his emotion and tell his story. While in Italy, Valerian had chanced to meet a youth who so resembled Florian that the likeness astounded him. His new acquaintance was a member of a family of wealthy vintners and was only too pleased to invite his English friend to their large and charming villa. It had taken Valerian very little time to discover that while a small boy, the eldest son, who also was named Florian, had been taken to England on holiday and a summer boat ride had turned to disaster. They knew the child had been rescued, but despite all their efforts to trace the men who had snatched him from the river, they were never found. The little boy had been the pride of his house and the family had never given up hope that their prayers would be answered and the beloved lost one would be restored to them. Valerian, who knew some Italian, had told them as much as he knew of Florian’s history, and imbued with new hope, the patriarch had at once travelled to England accompanied by his priest and servants who were fluent in the language. No sooner had the old gentleman set eyes on Florian than he’d been sure of his
identity, and the youth’s faint recollections of a big bed and a dog and a white pony had confirmed that he was indeed the missing heir and that his true name was Fiorian Gabriele San Sebastiano.

Thus, the fortunes of Miss Laura Finchley and Fiorian Consett had been reversed; Miss Finchley was the daughter of an accused murderer who had fled the country leaving only debts and disgrace behind him, and the penniless
gypsy
lad was now the heir to a fortune and member of a large and loving family who were waiting eagerly to welcome him home.

The occupants of Muse Manor were overjoyed. The entire staff was assembled, Piers called for champagne and refreshments, toasts were drunk, and the rest of the day passed in celebration and congratulations. Unable to sue for the hand of his beloved in the usual way, Fiorian intended to approach Laura’s maternal grandmother. Once her permission was obtained, they would return to Italy in the company of his newfound grandfather where, in due course, Miss Laura Finchley would become Signora Fiorian San Sebastiano.

Dinner that night was a merry occasion; Mrs. Burrows summoned helpers from the village and outdid herself in providing a splendid five-course meal. The elderly Italian demanded Mrs. Burrows’ presence, kissed the blushing cook’s hand, and embarked on what was obviously a heartfelt appreciation of her skills at having created fare un banchetto-superbo!

It was an evening to be long remembered, and the participants went happily to their beds. The following morning farewells were said, promises of visits exchanged, and the guests drove off to share their glad tidings with Peregrine and the many friends of whom Fiorian was deeply fond, some of whom had constituted the only family he had known.

Standing with Piers’ arm about her as they watched the coach rumble down the drivepath, Miss Guild said sighfully, “What a blessing that they have found their happiness at last.
’Twill be a whole new life for Laura. She will lose many friends, but I suppose she will find new ones to replace them.”

“She did not lose the one she loves,” he said. “That is a loss that can never be replaced.”

I
t was a dull, grey afternoon, windy and chill, but Cranford paused to rest at the top of the bridge, gazing at the cottage, now deserted, where his beloved had dwelt with her eccentric but warm-hearted aunts.

His cloak billowed and he drew it closer with a guilty awareness that if Aunt Jane had already missed him she would be worrying again. He’d not intended to walk so far, but the house had become unendurable after Florian and his party had left. He flattered himself that he’d carried it off well enough, and heaven knows he was glad for their happiness. But he knew himself for an envious man, because that very happiness had brought a keener awareness of his own empty future. All this past week he had tried to tell himself that someday he would find another lady—and known it for a lie. Mary was in truth a
rara avis.
How could he hope ever to find someone with so bright and resolute a spirit? Who else would possess the same lilting little laugh? What other lips would curve so prettily into that mischievous but so sweet smile? He had found his true love at last and given her his heart, and although he had known
little of women, he knew he would never—could never—love again. And he had so hoped for children of his own…Still, not to despair! He had a brother he loved and who was soon to be wed. Hopefully he would at least be an uncle, and Perry would, he knew, allow him to have a part in the lives of his nieces and nephews.

The cottage had a desolate and abandoned air. Soon after his return home he had sent Sudbury down there to learn if any of the aunts were in residence and the groom had returned saying the cottage was empty. He had therefore sent off a letter to Mrs. Caroline Westerman at the London house, stating his desire to purchase the river parcel. The lady had responded with a prompt and cordial offer to negotiate with his solicitor, since she and her sisters were now in agreement to sell. He had instructed his own man of the law, Barnabas Evans, to represent him in the matter, and being acquainted with legal processes had been mildly surprised by the speed of the various transactions. It now appeared that with luck the sale would be finalized in time for his twin’s wedding. Peregrine and Zoe could live in the cottage while their new home was being built—just where Perry had so longed to see it, atop Quail Hill.

Mary was doubtless still in Town. He had learned that the choosing of bride clothes was a lengthy business. He had no least desire to visit the cottage and reawaken all the memories it held for him, and so turned his steps instead up the hill. This was where he first had met the lady he had not wanted, and had come to want with every fibre of his being. He wandered about, determined not to be tormented by memory, but surrendering at last when her lovely image persistently invaded his mind; feeling very close to her in these familiar surroundings; loving her; searching, out of habit, for one of her beads…