Yvonne Goes to York (11 page)

‘He can’t marry his cousin,’ shouted Lady Wetherby. ‘Produce totty-headed brats if he marries his cousin, you old fool. Course I don’t give you any money. You’d just lose it like you did your own.’

‘Enough of this,’ said the marquis. ‘Where are Petit and Ashton?’

‘Beg pardon,’ said the butler, ‘but they aren’t in their rooms and their luggage has gone.’

The marquis gave an exclamation of disgust. ‘Now we may never find them.’ He turned to Hannah. ‘Take Miss Grenier to her room. She can sleep in her own room tonight.’ Lady Wetherby heard this,
misinterpreted
it, and let out an outraged squawk. The marquis ignored her.

‘Come along,’ said Hannah gently. ‘A good night’s sleep is what you need.’

She led Yvonne up the stairs and then stayed with her until she was safely in bed before retiring herself. Hannah fell almost instantly into a dreamless sleep.

Yvonne awoke an hour later. Someone was shaking her gently by the shoulder. ‘Miss Pym,’ she exclaimed, sitting up in bed.

‘No,’ said the voice she had come to hate and dread. ‘It is I, Petit. I have your father. If you want to see him alive, you had better get dressed and come quietly. One scream from you, and I will return to where he is hidden and kill him on the spot. If you come quietly, he will live to stand trial.’

Yvonne climbed slowly down from the high bed. He lit a candle on the mantelshelf and she saw he held a gun. ‘Was that you, shooting at us in the park?’ she whispered.

‘No, that fool Ashton. One of you winged him, and serves him right. He thought he would take matters into his own hands and kill Ware and so make matters easier. He was hiding in the park, waiting for me when he heard you return. Get dressed!’

Numbly, Yvonne did as she was told, using the bedcurtains as a screen. Monsieur Petit dropped a letter on her pillow. It was addressed to Miss Pym and the Marquis of Ware. ‘That should keep them quiet,’ he said.

Seeing that Yvonne was ready, he held open the door for her and then closed in behind her with the gun at her back. 

7

Sir George Clarence climbed down stiffly from the mail-coach outside the Bull. He stood in the sunlight of the inn yard and looked about him. The day was still and warm. He decided to reserve a room for himself at the inn before going in search of Miss Pym. Perhaps she might be resident at the inn herself. He had asked about her at all the stops on the road up, but there had been no news of any Miss Pym travelling in the opposite direction.

Inside the Bull, they told him that yes, he could have a room; but no, there was no Miss Pym.

Sir George followed his luggage upstairs, feeling
slightly flat. He had somehow imagined that Miss Pym would be there, waiting for him.

He was also beginning to be plagued by a nagging doubt about Miss Pym’s fantastic stories. Could she really have had so many amazing adventures? He himself had suffered a quiet but dull journey in the company of a highly respectable lawyer, his wife, and a Scottish lord of ancient years who took snuff for what seemed like the whole of the journey. But he had come to see her, and see her he would. He shaved and washed and changed and went down to the stage-coach booking office just to make sure that her name was not already down for the journey back; but again, there was no mention of Miss Pym.

After a good breakfast, he sallied forth in a light gig to call at the other hostelries in the town, drawing a blank at first one and then the other. He was just negotiating through the press of traffic outside the Minster when he let out an exclamation. He was sure he had just seen a familiar figure turning in at the door of the great cathedral.

After some difficulty, he found a place for his horse and gig, and then hurried off into the Minster.

He stood for a moment taken aback by the lightness and beauty of the interior, and then moved forward. All was calm and hushed and quiet. Great shafts of sunlight shone through the magnificent stained-glass windows, splashing patterns of colour across the nave.

And there, in the centre of the nave, stood that familiar slim figure. He found his heart was beating hard.

‘Lucinda,’ he said softly. ‘Lucy. Is that you?’

She turned to face him, her eyes widening in surprise, and he found himself looking at his sister-
in-law
, Mrs Clarence.

She was as beautiful as ever, although there were little lines etched around her eyes and mouth. She held out both hands to him, crying, ‘My dear George. Oh, my very dear George.’

‘Shhhh!’ hissed a verger waspishly.

‘Come outside,’ urged Sir George. ‘Let us find somewhere where we can talk.’

Arm in arm, they walked to a pastry cook’s near the Minster. ‘I will tell you why I am here when we are seated,’ said Sir George.

She was still graceful, still elegant, he thought in wonder, as she poured tea and smiled on him, her eyes sparkling with warmth.

‘Your news first,’ said Sir George, picking up his old-fashioned handle-less teacup. ‘Do you know Jeffrey is dead?’

Her eyes clouded over ‘Yes, I read the obituary in the newspaper.’

‘And are you still with …?’ He paused delicately.

‘John. John Hughes. We are to be married next week, very quietly of course. You must blame me …’

‘Not I,’ said Sir George stoutly. ‘You forget, my dear, I knew my brother very well, and he was always, even before his marriage to you, a moody and depressed man.’

Mrs Clarence looked wistful. ‘I thought before we were wed that his moodiness was a mixture of the lover and the poet.’

‘So how do you live, Lucy? What do you do?’

‘I am a farmer’s wife now. John did not want to live on my money, so we bought a tidy farm and he made it pay. Such work, such long hours.’

‘And children?’

Her fine eyes flashed. ‘Two,’ she said merrily. ‘Two little boys.’

‘And do you still have to work so very hard?’

‘Oh, now I have no end of servants. John made the farm very prosperous. He paid me back all the money he had borrowed to buy the farm. We are very grand. But what of your news, George? I heard you had retired. And why are you in York?’

He leaned back in his chair and smiled. ‘Do you remember Hannah Pym?’

‘My housekeeper! Of course!’

‘Well, it is a long story but I will try to make it as brief as possible. My brother left Miss Pym five thousand pounds in his will. I took a fancy to Miss Pym. I remember the morning after the reading of the will, seeing her standing by the window at Thornton Hall watching the stage-coach going by. She said she wanted to travel on the Flying Machines. And that was the start of her adventures.’

He told Mrs Clarence of some of Hannah’s
adventures
while she laughed and exclaimed. When he had finished, she asked, ‘And is that what brings you to York? To find some adventures of your own?’

‘No.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘The fact is that that footman of hers, Benjamin, the one I told you about, he … well … he decided that there might be a 
romance in the offing and so, I think, to prompt marriage or twist my arm in some way … anyway, he told London’s biggest gossip, Mrs Courtney, that I was keeping my brother’s ex-housekeeper as mistress. I scotched the rumour, I hope, by saying that the Miss Pym who was a friend of mine was not the housekeeper but someone from your side of the family. I also threatened to sue anyone who continued to talk libel. But I knew how very distressed Miss Pym must be. I came north on an impulse … to find her, to explain that true friends never paid any heed to malicious gossip.’

She gazed at him quizzically and he flushed a little and looked down. She opened her mouth to say something and then closed it again. She had been about to tease him but had decided against it. Hannah Pym. She remembered Hannah, the waif of a scullery maid who had risen up the ranks of the servants, indomitable Hannah with her square shoulders, odd eyes, and fierce loyalty. Instead she said, ‘And have you found her?’

‘I only arrived this morning, but so far have not been able to locate her.’

‘Where have you tried?’

He took out a notebook and began to reel off the names of the main coaching-inns.

‘Miss Pym appears to gravitate to grand company on her travels. It would do no harm to try the
posting-houses
, starting with the best.’

‘Which is?’

‘The Pelican. Not far from here. I will come with you if you like. It is within walking distance.’

They finished their tea and cakes and walked out into the sunlight together.

At the Pelican they were told to their delight that Miss Pym had been staying there but had left with the Marquis of Ware to go on a visit to Bradfield Park, home of Lord Wetherby.

‘What did I tell you,’ said Mrs Clarence with a surprisingly youthful giggle. ‘Miss Pym only moves in the
best
circles. I have my carriage. Stable your gig and come with me and meet my John, and then we will go together and surprise Miss Pym.’

Sir George found he was nervous at the prospect of meeting this ex-footman who had run off with his sister-in-law, fearing he would prove to be a boorish peasant of a fellow.

Rosewood Farm, Mrs Clarence’s home, turned out to be a fine building set among prosperous-looking fields. John Hughes was standing in the farmyard talking to some of the men when they drove up. He led them into the house and said he would change and join them presently.

Sir George was ushered into a sunny parlour. Mrs Clarence had not lost her touch, he noted. The furnishings were in exquisite taste; the latest in light and delicate chairs and tables, and great bowls of roses to scent the air. He complimented her on her home. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It was not like this when we first came here. Such a lot of work was needed to put it in good order. Oh, here is John.’ And what a world of love was in her eyes, marvelled Sir George, as she turned her face up to her husband.

He was a tall, well-built, quiet man, very shy but courteous. Sir George asked him about the farm and John grew animated as he described the improvements he had made and the bumper harvest he expected.

He then listened in amazement to the tale of Hannah Pym whom, he said ruefully, he remembered as a Tartar. ‘So will you come to Bradfield Park with us, John?’ asked Mrs Clarence.

He shook his head. ‘I must get changed and get back out in the fields again. You go, Lucy, with Sir George, and see if you can bring Miss Pym back with you this evening.’

As Sir George and Mrs Clarence drove towards Bradfield Park, Sir George said uneasily, ‘Do you think all Miss Pym’s stories can be true? I had a dreadfully dull journey, no fair maids, no highwaymen.’

‘Oh, I am sure they are.’ Mrs Clarence gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘I think there are people in the world like Miss Pym who make adventures happen. But she is staying at a highly respectable house, so I suppose she is finding it all rather dull after her recent hair-raising experiences and will be glad to see us!’

That morning, Hannah rose early and went through to Yvonne’s room. For a moment she stood very still, looking at the empty bed and then seeing the letter on the pillow. Her first thought was that Yvonne had run away.

She opened the letter and read it and then turned white with shock. It was unsigned but she was left in no doubt as to whom it was from. ‘We have Miss Grenier,’
she read. ‘She has a chance to stay Alive and Stand Trial with Her Father in France. If you alert The Authorities, then I shall kill her before you can reach her.’

Hannah stumbled along to the marquis’s room. He was awake and dressed and just putting on his coat as she erupted into his room.

He silently read the letter, his face grim.

‘Fools that we were,’ he said bitterly. ‘We should have brought in the militia to arrest them while we had the chance. Where can they have gone?’

‘We will ask the servants if they have seen anything,’ said Hannah.

‘We cannot do that. I think Petit would carry out the threat to kill her if we ask anyone for help. Rouse Benjamin. We will search the grounds and see if there is a clue to which way they went.’

Benjamin, his head aching from his libations of the night before, joined them in front of the house. They stared this way and that in the bright sunlight.

‘I do not know which way to go,’ mourned Hannah. ‘Oh, God, send us some sign.’

‘Look at that!’ Benjamin’s sharp eyes had seen something at the edge of the grass. He bent down and picked it up and then held it out to the marquis and Hannah. It was a small seed pearl.

‘She was wearing a necklace of seed pearls,’ said Hannah excitedly. ‘She hardly ever took it off.’ They bent down and searched the grass. A few yards farther on across the lawn, they found another. They searched, sometimes thinking they had lost the trail, but then
finding another, and another. And then the trail finally disappeared and they stood, wondering what to do.

‘Listen!’ The marquis held up his hand.

‘Water,’ said Benjamin. ‘There’s a river. Look, there’s a little path over there.’

The path twisted under overhanging trees, still muddy from the recent rain. The marquis silently pointed down at two sets of footprints in the mud, small footprints and large ones.

‘Quietly now,’ he whispered. ‘They may be close.’

In single file they edged along the path, which suddenly opened out into a small clearing at the water’s edge. A stream flowed languidly past. Tied to a small wooden jetty at the edge of the river were three rowing-boats. ‘And see the other rope,’ said the marquis. ‘There was another boat here. Miss Pym, you wait here and I will go on with Benjamin.’

‘No,’ said Hannah firmly. ‘Miss Grenier is in peril. I am not going back.’

In vain did the marquis remonstrate. Hannah stood firm.

Damning all pig-headed spinsters under his breath, the marquis gave in and helped Hannah aboard the rowing-boat while he took the oars. Benjamin crouched in the bow. ‘Now which way, I wonder?’ said the marquis.

‘There’s something there, on a branch, downstream,’ cried Benjamin. ‘Something white. Row there!’

The marquis rowed to where he had pointed, the boat sliding easily downstream. Caught in a branch at a bend in the river, hanging from a sapling like a small
brave flag, was a torn piece of sprig muslin. Benjamin snatched it and held it up triumphantly. ‘She kept ’er wits,’ he grinned. ‘Row on, me lord, and I’ll look out for anything more.’

Hannah, seated in the stern of the small boat, gazed about her with a sort of awe that both day and scenery should be so very beautiful.

Benjamin strained his eyes but could see no further markers left by Yvonne, but at least she had managed to leave that little bit of muslin to show them the direction in which she had been taken.

‘There’s some sort of building up ahead,’ called Benjamin. They slid towards it. It was a low square cottage with smoke rising from the chimney. A trim vegetable garden ran down to the river. A man was digging a row of cabbages.

The marquis rowed the boat into the soft mud at the riverbank and called to the man, who lumbered down slowly towards them.