High Spirits at Harroweby (18 page)

“
How can you doubt me?” Selinda murmured, caught up in her fantasy world.

“
Lady Selinda?” came Lord Waverly’s voice.

She looked up with a blushing start. Her book, now that she had it back, had so stolen the focus from her worries that she had not even realized that the coach had come to a stop. Surely, she told herself, she could not have spoken aloud!

“We shall be changing horses at this inn,” Lord Waverly was saying. “The Laughing Lion, it is called. I think you must wish to refresh yourself. I shall bespeak a private parlor, of course, but...”

“
Yes?”

“
There is,” he went on hesitantly, “the matter of the proprietor’s customary curiosity. I own I had forgotten that small matter, but my driver has reminded me that it is always so. You would not mind if I identified you as my wife?”

Selinda sighed. How similar, yet how different from the declaration she had just read in her little book.
“Of course. I am sure that is most wise,” was all she said, however. What a fool she was to allow herself to dream.

Lord Waverly escorted her into the inn bearing a heavy heart. He had hoped a little wildly that she might honor his suggestion with at least a smile of encouragement, but she had only sighed. What had he expected? Even she must know that, for all his wealth, his connections, and, yes, his thoroughly engaged heart, he was considered an odd case by all and sundry. True, she had returned his kiss in the church—well, he
had
surprised her— and allowed herself to be comforted in the park when she felt herself to be assailed at all sides. And last night? Something had perhaps
almost
happened, but what of it? It was clear she knew no more of the world than that little orange kitten. He, who should have known better, ought not to read more into her smiles and veiled glances than was there. Life, after all, was not a book.

Since Mrs. Bunche had left in a flurry some few minutes before their arrival. Lord Waverly and Lady Selinda stood in the entry of The Laughing Lion waiting for someone to notice their arrival. Each was occupied with his or her own gloomy thoughts and concerns, the corners of their mouths turned decidedly down, and each started with surprise when they heard a familiar voice from above cry out,
“It
is
you! Famous!”

The Marquess of Bastion was thoroughly lost. Even though it was Miss Snypish who held the map and she who had given directions, he did not feel at all equal to telling her that this countryside looked nothing like any corner of England he had ever visited on purpose. They had, he recalled now, taken a number of odd turns. It seemed to him that they were traveling south along the road rather than due north as they should have been. He had for most of the morning been rather preoccupied with the oddity he was sure they must present to all observers: a smart perch phaeton with dashing yellow wheels all besmirched with dirt and peopled by a desperate-looking couple. He hoped that no one mistook them for a pair of elopers. Of course, he reminded himself, if they were heading south, no one must think that.

The marquess sighed and stole a glance at his companion. She did not seem disconcerted in the least. He could not have explained to anyone—certainly not his friend, the Earl of Slaverington— the creeping fascination he felt stealing over him like a rash. As he looked at Miss Snypish
’s resolute profile, something in him stirred profoundly.

“
Turn right at the crossroads,” the lady directed him.

“
Maidstone?” he inquired blankly, looking at the sign. “What? Are we in Kent, then?”

Miss Snypish nodded and commanded him to drive on. They had indeed turned south earlier in the day and executed a number of circuitous turns, but she had been relying on the marquess’s ignorance—which seemed to be vast—and a natural want of curiosity to prevent his questioning her on the route she had elected.

She and the marquess had begun their journey full of rancor and dire vows of vengeance, but it had presently occurred to Miss Snypish that, while vengeance was sweet, it could profit her not at all. As the day progressed, she had guided the marquess farther and farther away from their quarry and deeper into territory she knew quite well: the rambling countryside of Kent.

It was only a short distance from the crossroads to Maidstone. A short distance, too, she hoped, from the drudgery of her life as a poor spinster companion to the splendor of becoming the Marchioness of Bastion. As they drove into the center of the town, Miss Snypish requested that the marquess pull up in front of a respectable-looking house. Taking his whip from the Marquess, she leaned out over the edge of the phaeton and snapped it resolutely against what appeared to be a parlor window. It was not long before a homely woman in a mobcap appeared in the doorway. A look of unmitigated terror appeared on the servant’s face. Her mouth opened into a small o, and she gasped in a low tone, “The Stone Maid of Maidstone!”

“
What’s that she says?” the marquess inquired, turning a little pale.

“
Where is the magistrate, Lizzie?” Miss Snypish demanded quickly, ignoring his question. “Summon him at once!”

Reacting immediately to this strident command, the woman bobbed and scurried back into the house. In just a few moments a sour-faced man appeared in the midst of polishing his spectacles. When at last he adjusted them on the end of his long, pointy nose, he gasped,
“Letitia! Can that be you? What the devil brings you back to Maidstone?”

“
Yes, Papa, it is I,” she returned grimly. “This gentleman”—and here she tapped the marquess with the whip she still held—”has abducted me.”

Bastion, the dawn of understanding rising at last in his eyes, turned and stared at her with a mixture of terror and admiration.

* * * *

Lucy scurried down the stairs and threw her arms first around Selinda and then Lord Waverly. Although she had maintained a brave front for the past day, she now gave way to a flood of tears. Her sister knelt beside her and comforted the little girl as best she could while Lord Waverly looked on from a discreet distance.

As Lady Sybil hovered above, watching this scene, she could not help feeling a little disconcerted. She had cherished high hopes—and not without reason, she told herself—that Selinda and Waverly might by now have evinced some affection for each other. But they had entered the inn seemingly aloof and cold toward one another. Whatever could have happened? She knew quite well that nature had not bestowed more than a modicum of intelligence on her, but in matters of love she was never mistaken. These two were meant for each other and were, for some reason, fighting their attraction. Why must people in love always be so stupid? she wondered. As the party made their way up the stairs to Lucy’s rooms, the ghost floated behind, puzzling over what must be done to set the matter right.

“
It is a good thing,” Lucy noted when they had shut the door, “that good Mrs. Bunche thinks that children eat as much as armies, for I believe there is enough for all of us.”

As Lucy reported the events since their last meeting, they were able to make a satisfactory meal of steak soup, sliced ham, pigeon pie, iced cakes, cherry tartlet, and steamy chocolate, even though they were forced to share the same table service.
“And so,” Lucy concluded, “if that is not Rupert and Prudence in the town pillory, I am very much mistaken.”

“
It seems,” said Lord Waverly after a thoughtful pause, “that all that remains to be done is to inform my man of business of this sudden turn of events.”

“
Oh, yes,” Lucy said in matter-of-fact tones, “I forgot to mention that I have already sent a short note off to Mr. Noon.”

Selinda stared in no small dismay at her little sister.
“How do you come to be acquainted with Lord Waverly’s man of business?”

“
Well, I’m not formally,” Lucy told her, “but I did happen to remember his direction. What’s more, he should have received his message before now, for that messenger left at the same time as the one I dispatched to you.”

Now it was Selinda and Waverly
’s turn to explain that it had not been Lucy’s note but a completely different collection of circumstances which had set them on her trail that morning.

“
And so, I suppose my poor message waits all alone on some table or other for you to return, Lord Waverly,” Lucy sighed, “only I pray you will burn it before you read it, for I would not have you guess how much a-tremble I was as I wrote it.”

At this moment, Mrs. Bunche entered the room, still in her cloak and bonnet. She eyed Selinda and Lord Waverly with some glaring suspicion before Lucy assured her that these two were of a different cut of cloth than the last pair the good woman had encountered.

“Well, I hope so indeed, for I’ll not countenance this poor child pulling squashed rats from the teeth of iron machines of the devil’s invention! Howsomever, Miss Lucy,” she went on before they could solicit an explanation of this odd declaration, “there is a gray, rabbity sort of gentleman waiting for you in the downstairs parlor who says you’ve sent for him.”

“
That, I suppose, would be Mr. Noon,” Lucy ventured.

“
From the description,” Waverly told her, “I imagine you suppose correctly. Prepare yourself, ladies, to meet the most capable, competent, practical—and, therefore, terrifying—human on the face of the earth.”

The little party found their way forthwith to a private parlor on the main floor. Mr. Noon was indeed a
“rabbity sort of gentleman,” just as Mrs. Bunche had informed them, and Lucy decided after she had looked him over that what he lacked in long ears he made up for in whiskers and twitches. So vivid was this image in her mind that she would swear ever afterward that she caught a glimpse of a white tuft from between his coattails.

Even though Lucy had explained only her own predicament (and that rather awkwardly, she supposed) in her hastily scrawled missive, Mr. Noon looked up unperturbed when the group entered the parlor. He had spread out in front of him what appeared to be a number of official documents and was giving instructions to an ancient clerk who was so bent as to resemble a question mark more than anything else.

“That will be all for the moment, Smythe,” Mr. Noon told him with a brief twitch. “Good afternoon, my lord. I see you have arrived in a timely manner. Excellent. Quite excellent. Now we have several matters of business which must be attended to, but I assure you I shall ask for very little of your valuable time.”

“
I am at your disposal, Noon,” his Lordship nodded.

“
First, we have the matter of the miscreants. Basham, alias Shambeigh, was arrested in the early hours of this morning and has, I understand, given ready evidence against one Prudence Mordent, aliases too numerous to list, and her son, Rupert.”

“
They are now in the pillory in the village square,” Lucy told him helpfully. Mr. Noon did not look up but merely leaned across to a list and, dipping his quill in ink, made a large checkmark next to an item.

“
This quite naturally leaves Lady Selinda Harroweby and her sister, Lady Lucy Harroweby, without a legal guardian. Most distressing! Goes against the natural order of things! I have begun procedures to make them wards of the crown— which I think it wise they remain until each is twenty-five years of age. And so I have requested in my petition, my lord. We should have that matter completed within a fortnight. Then such guardians as the crown deems fit shall be appointed. In the meantime, I have arranged for a genteel lady of advanced years, Miss Hortensia Walleye, to serve as their companion and chaperon. She began her journey this morning and awaits you at Darrowdean,” he said with a perfunctory nod to the girls.

At this an
nouncement, Lucy and Selinda exchanged worried glances. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Noon,” Selinda began. “My sister and I are most appreciative of your kind attention, you may be sure, but we have been sufficient company to one another for many years now.”

“
Yes,” the gentleman returned dryly, “and we now see how effective that arrangement has been.”

“
Really, Noon,” Lord Waverly protested, “is all this necessary?”

Mr. Noon paused a moment and twitched his whiskers before continuing in ironic tones,
“I beg your Lordship will grant my superior, er, experience in matters of correctness. I have not yet met Miss Walleye, but I have been assured that she is
all
that is correct.”

Lady Sybil, who had been pacing about in frustration, now froze in her tracks and shuddered. She could not recall when she had heard a more distressing pronouncement on a woman.

“Now, as to Darrowdean,” Mr. Noon continued, pointedly oblivious to the consternation to which his arrangements had given rise, “all is much better than we had imagined. When I arrived, it appeared that the house had been entirely stripped of its contents, but most of these were found to be crated up in several of the outbuildings awaiting shipment to various auction houses. Miss Walleye will see to their unpacking and the reappointing of rooms.”

“
I see you have been very busy indeed. Noon,” Lord Waverly smiled grimly.

Mr. Noon bowed. As he did so, he spotted the golden pomander hanging around Lucy
’s neck. “That, surely, is a family piece. Pray tell, just how did you come by it, Missy?”

Lucy gave him a highly abbreviated version of the adventure in the coach, not mentioning, of course, the role Lady Sybil had played.

“Well, I see that it is quite damaged,” Mr. Noon pronounced, pursing his lips into a thin, condescending smile. “Children are
not
ideal trustees of heirlooms, you will all agree. Now, give it here, child, and I shall see that it is repaired and deposited in my vault for the present.”

At this, Lady Sybil cried out in extreme agitation.
“You cannot allow it, Lucy! I vow, I shall not spend eternity in this man’s wretched offices!”

This urgent complaint reminded Lucy rather forcibly of the gravity of Mr. Noon’s suggestion, and she backed away from his outstretched hand, her face set in a threatening frown.
“Come, come,” Mr. Noon admonished as he approached her. “Recalcitrance is not attractive in a child. Miss Walleye will be shocked to see it in you. Now, then, give it here.”

Lucy answered by retreating farther into a corner.
“Come, Lucy,” Lord Waverly intervened. “I shall take it and claim the honor of having it repaired for you. What’s more,” he continued in a low whisper, “I shall send it back direct to you when I have the chance.”

Lucy glanced over at Lady Sybil. She was looking at Lord Waverly appraisingly.
“It’s all right, Lucy,” she said after a moment. “I think Lord Waverly and I shall rub along famously.”

As Lucy slowly handed the pomander to Lord Waverly, Mr. Noon broke in,
“Very well, then, we must be on our way. I have a coach awaiting us outside, so we should arrive at Darrowdean before nightfall. I have bespoken rooms for you at The Golden Hour, my lord, unless you wish to return to London at once.
That
course I would strongly suggest, for you will allow that the propriety of this arrangement is questionable at best.”

Lord Waverly did not, however, agree. A shadow of distress had shown itself in Selinda
’s eyes, he felt sure, at the mention of his leaving. It was a slim hope, but hope nonetheless.

Lucy, still on the lookout for Lady Sybil
’s best interests, cried out, “Oh, Lord Waverly, pray do not leave us so quickly. Please understand, Mr. Noon, we are all alone in the world. Do not give us over to complete strangers so quickly.”