Maulever Hall (35 page)

“The child! What do you mean?” In her cold bewilderment she began a step forward, but a warning movement of the gun halted her.

“Please do not move, Miss Lamb. It would not suit me at all to have to shoot you.” His voice was as smooth as if it had been the most trivial of social remarks. “I need you—alive. It was—obliging of you both to come so quickly. I was afraid I might have to spend another day in those damned drafty bedrooms upstairs.”

“You were here all the time?” Instinct told Marianne to keep him talking.

“Of course. Waiting for my honored”—he paused—“guests.” And then. “I do beg, Mr. Mauleverer, that you will keep still. Of course, it will not make much difference in the long run, but the angle is not quite right for Miss Lamb to have shot you from here.” And he took another slow, careful step down the stairs toward them.

“You must be mad,” Mauleverer said again.

“Do you think so? Now I consider myself remarkably sane. It has taken, you know, a great deal of
pl
annin
g
to arrive at this satisfactory conclusion. With you and the child dead, my cousin—my dear cousin—will inherit, at last, the estates she should have had all the time.” There was something very strange about his tone as he spoke of Lady Heverdon.

“She is not your cousin at all.” Mauleverer’s voice was harsh.

“Of course not. You are there at last.” He made a little,
mocking bow of congratulation as he stood above them on the stairs, the gun steady in his hand.

But, he is vain, Marianne said to herself, and, keep him talking about how clever he has been. “Then you will marry her?” She managed to keep her tone one of simple amazement.

“Precisely, Miss Lamb. As I have always meant to do. But it will be quicker this way.” He came another step down the stairs and lifted the gun a little. “I am a very quick shot, Miss Lamb. I do not recommend your attempting anything. Or should I tie you up first? Or stun you perhaps?” He seemed to consider for a moment. “No, I do not believe it will be necessary. Besides, I shall need you to lead me to the child’s room.”

He meant every word of it. In a moment, he was going to shoot Mauleverer before her eyes. If that happened; nothing mattered. But—he had come very near her now, doubtless with the idea of turning on her as Mauleverer fell. She turned her head suddenly upward, to the head of the stairs behind him: “Martha!” she exclaimed, and then, as he turned almost involuntarily to look behind him, jumped for the hand that held the gun.

It went off with a roar as they struggled for it, and, in the same instant he had thrown her backward. She was aware, as she fell, of the gun, flying out of his hand, and of Mauleverer, leaping sideways to snatch something down from the wall, then her head struck the corner of the chest and the world exploded into nothingness.

She came to herself a few moments later, her thoughts a Catherine wheel of terror. Then, gradually, the dizzy kaleidoscope settled, past and present coalesced: she remembered everything. She was lying in the recessed corner at the foot of the stairs in Maulever Hall. Her head ached villainously, but through the pain she was aware of a strange shuffling sound punctuated by tortured breathing and the clash of metal on metal. With an effort, she opened her eyes. Mauleverer was backed against the big front door, defending himself with the sword he had snatched from the wall. She could see his face, white with strain and drawn with fatigue. Between her and him was the dark shadow of his attacker, pressing in relentlessly as if confident of victory.

But now, Mauleverer parried a blow, and spoke, panting: “This is all very well, my dear Urban.” Again a lunge and parry. “But if you should be so fortunate as to kill me, which”—a pause and a quick stroke—“I do not at all expect,
you may have a little difficulty in explaining how Miss Lamb there came to do such a thing.”

“Never fear, I shall think of something.” But for a moment, his guard had dropped and Mauleverer seized the chance for a quick stroke that seemed to flash along Urban’s sleeve.

“Your sword is blunt.” But now Urban’s calm was obviously a matter of fierce effort.

“Not too blunt, you will find.” Thrust, parry; thrust, parry. But Mauleverer was pressing the attack now, and then, suddenly: “Miss Lamb, I hope I see you better.”

It worked. Once more, for a vital instant, his attention was distracted, and in that moment, Mauleverer’s sword had caught his and sent it flying across the room.

“Now, Mr. Urban.” His voice grated with fatigue, but the hand that held the sword at his opponent’s breast was steady as a rock. “It is your turn to stand very still. Do not think I shall have the slightest hesitation in
killing
you as you stand there.” And then, still concentrating on his antagonist: “Marianne, the gun.”

Swaying on her feet, she contrived to get across the room to where it lay, and pick it up. “I have it.” She knew that he had not taken his eyes off Ralph Urban.

“Good. Can you use it?”

How strange it was to remember. “Yes. My father taught me.”

“Then do so, if he moves. I do not recommend it, Urban. You cannot see her, I know, but Miss Lamb means business as much as I do.”

“Not Miss Lamb.” Leaning against the wall to steady herself, she held the gun pointed at Urban’s back. “Miss Urban.”

“He is
your
cousin?” Very slowly, still keeping his sword at the ready, Mauleverer was maneuvering his way around his defeated adversary to join her. “You have remembered?” He was at her side now.

“Yes—everything.” She let him take the gun. “What are we going to do with him?” From their tone, Urban might already have ceased to exist.

“For the moment, tie him up. Urban, I have the gun now. Your hands behind your back, if you please. Hurry! I should be delighted to have a reason for killing you.”

“You will pay for this!” But, slowly, reluctantly, his hands crept to join themselves behind his back.

“
Do you know, I rather think that it is you who will. What
we have to determine is, how. Marianne, the cords from the
curtains, I should think.”

The room was full of silence and hatred as she fetched the heavy golden cords that looped back the curtains from the front windows. The candles were burning low in their sockets. One of them guttered and went out, leaving a strong smell of tallow.

“
Thank you.” Mauleverer took the cord with his left hand, then passed her the gun. “Your cousin has the gun now, Urban. I am going to tie you up. Do not delude yourself that I shall come between you and it.”

“God damn you both,” said Urban, but he stood still while Mauleverer tied his hands and then allowed himself to be drawn backward into one of the big wooden armchairs that stood on each side of the hall.

“There.” Mauleverer tied him to it securely. “I am sorry if I hurt you.” He did not sound to mean it. “You are bleeding?”

“A scratch!”

He carried himself well in defeat, this cousin of hers about whom she could remember little else that was good. For the memories were sorting themselves out now, into a pattern of villainy that she still found it hard, in spite of all the evidence, quite to believe.

“He really is your cousin?” Mauleverer’s question tied in with her thoughts.

“Oh, yes. We grew up together, he and I. It is no wonder, when he came to me and told me we were married, that I was deluded by a feeling of familiarity. No wonder he knew so much about me either. But what a chance you took—” For the first time she spoke to the man who sat so still in the chair. “Were you not afraid I might remember you?”

He shrugged. “I have taken chances at every step in this game. It’s half the fun of it, my dear cousin. But, tell me, now I have played and lost, what do you intend to do with me?”

“I wish I knew.” It was Mauleverer who answered. “If we go by intentions, hanging is too good for you, but in actual fact you have not contrived to do much harm after all—except to yourself and, I suppose, Lady Heverdon.”

He spoke the name so calmly that Marianne flashed him a quick, surprised look. Could he really be so unmoved by the discovery of Lady Heverdon’s treachery? Or had he not, perhaps, realized the full implications of what Urban had said about her.

His next words showed that he had. “For some curious reason,” he said, “I continue to have a certain regard for Lady Heverdon’s feelings. Besides, she bears my family’s title. For her sake, I should be sorry for an open scandal. But I am not to be the judge in the matter.” He turned to Marianne. “It is for you to decide. But, before you do, I must confess I should be glad to understand just what has been going on.”

“I am only now beginning to understand it myself.” She spoke slowly, ordering her thoughts as she went along. “To begin with—how odd it seems—I am—may be something of an heiress.” She hated herself for coloring as she spoke. But it was impossible not to remember that Mauleverer had lost a fortune by the discovery that little Thomas was Lord Heverdon. And she had, perhaps, found one. She knew him well enough to be horribly certain that this was the end of any faint hope there might have been of a reconciliation between them. She hurried on, afraid that he might misinterpret her pause. “My uncle—and Ralph Urban’s—is Lord of one of the Channel Islands—quite a small one, Barsley, perhaps you may not have heard of it. He is an old man, and childless. I am his younger brother’s child, and Ralph the youngest sister’s. We were both orphaned as children and my uncle brought us up. He always said that Ralph should be his heir, rightly, I think. They’re a rough lot, the islanders, and, besides, Barsley is the nearest of the islands to France. Its lord needs to be a fighter—certainly did in Bonaparte’s time. My own mother was a refugee from France.”

“Of course,” Mauleverer said. “Your name; your perfect French. Why did we never think of the Channel Islands? But what happened to change your uncle’s mind? Is he still alive, by the way?”

“I—I suppose so. He was, when I left home. He—he was angry with Ralph and said I would prove the better man of the two. He wanted me to come to England and earn my keep for a year—to prove myself a man, he said, without help from him. If I did that, he would make a new will in my favor. But I thought he would have forgiven Ralph long before that. Truly, I did, Ralph.” Her voice had an odd note of appeal in it. “I never wanted to be Dame of Barsley. Oh, it’s a beautiful island, if you care for wild scenery, but there’s no one to talk to in the length and breadth of it. I was glad to come away. My cousin Ralph helped me to find a position with his friend, Lady Heverdon. He said we had best not tell her about being cousins. Were you planning all this already, Ralph?”

“Of course I was. What an obliging little fool you were, to be sure! I never enjoyed anything so much in my life as to see the future Dame of Barsley, with all her airs and graces, meekly acting the part of a nursemaid.” His face darkened. “It should all have been so easy. With you and that wretched little boy burned in your beds, I’d have been heir to Barsley, and Lady Heverdon”—his voice softened on the name—“we thought she would be free at last to enjoy the fortune she had earned by marrying that worthless cousin of yours.” This, angrily, to Mauleverer. “The lawyers had not thought fit to tell her how he had tied up his estate against her.”

“I begin to suspect that he had his reasons,” said Mauleverer.

“What did he expect? A dirty, decrepit old man marrying a young beauty like her? He should have been grateful for the patience she showed him. But we’ve had the devil’s own luck, she and I. Tell me”—he turned his head to glare angrily at Marianne, who had sunk down in the chair across the hall from his—“how did you and the child come to escape that night when I set fire to your wing?”

She looked at him, almost with pity. “Do you remember that Lady Heverdon pleaded the headache as an excuse to send Thomas and me away early? I felt sorry for her—she was kind to me, you know, in her way. When I had got Thomas to bed, I came back to her rooms to ask if I should try and massage the pain away for her. The door of her room was not shut fast. I heard you talking as I came down the hall—and what I heard made me stay to listen. I don’t think I quite believed my ears at first, but then, do you remember, you laughed, and kissed her, and told her not to worry: ‘You’ll be in mourning tomorrow.’ That was enough. I went back to our wing and packed my box. It was very early still. I knew you would not dare act till all the servants were in bed. I told one of the footmen I was running away to join my lover—they had always thought there was something havey cavey about me in the servants’ hall but he was ready enough to do what I asked—for a bribe. He took my box to the coaching inn for me—I suppose he did not dare speak up in the morning. Anyway, why should he risk his place for anyone so unimportant as I was? I took good care that he had no idea I was going to
take the child with me; that’s why I dared pack so few of his clothes. I waited till the house was quite dark and quiet—except for a light in Lady Heverdon’s wing. Then I woke little Thomas—goodness, how cross he was—put bundles of clothes in our beds and stole away with
him
to the coaching inn. I was coming to you, of course.”

Marianne turned to Mauleverer. “I knew you were the child’s guardian. You seemed the only hope of safety for either of us. What a journey it was! And terror all the way. I had no means of knowing whether our escape had been discovered or whether we were thought dead in the fire. Every time a horseman caught up with the coach, my heart was in my mouth for fear it was my cousin. Of course, if he had caught me, I should not have had a leg to stand on. I could prove nothing against him—and, so far as the world could see, I was an absconding nursemaid who had abducted her charge. I never want to go through such a time again. The child was exhausted and cried most of the way; the other passengers complained; but what could I do? We reached London in the middle of the night and, to my relief, found that a coach was starting almost at once for Exton. I hardly remember how I got across London to the inn it started from, but at least by then poor Thomas was so worn out that he slept for a great part of the next journey, and, indeed, so did I, merely waking, in terror, once or twice, at the sound of hoofs behind us. But we got safe to Exton and changed coaches there; I began to think our flight could not have been discovered, for anyone traveling post would have caught us long before. I drowsed off, I remember, into a more restful dream of Maulever Hall, and safety—and was waked by screams, the coach tipping over, then blackness. How odd it is,” she went on thoughtfully, “to remember both lives now—and what a miracle that I did, in fact, reach Maulever Hall at last, and find shelter there. But, tell me”—oddly, she found herself slipping into the old tone of irritated affection when she addressed her cousin—“was it you who came after the coach at Pennington Cross?” She shivered, remembering terror, with gorse sharp at the back of her neck, and the horse’s hoofs thundering by.

He had been lying carelessly back in his chair, simulating ease, but now straightened up to stare at her blackly: “God damn you, yes. Do you mean to tell me you were there all the time?”