Mademoiselle At Arms, Elizabeth Bailey [bearly read books txt] 📗

ma’am, and I can see now where she gets it from.’

Mrs Sindlesham’s alert glance found his. ‘She?’

‘Damnation!’ He saw her frown, and added at once, ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. It slipped out—as did that “she”.’

‘Well, sir? Who is “she”? Not my granddaughter, I take it. Much too young for you.’

‘I don’t even know your granddaughter, ma’am.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ agreed Mrs Sindlesham. ‘She’s little more than a schoolgirl, just out. But come, sir. You intrigue me.’

To Gerald’s relief, the entrance of the butler interrupted them, relieving him of the necessity to explain himself. He had meant to come at his business in a roundabout way, but for that little slip.

It was evident the lady’s servant knew his mistress, for he had come equipped with a tray upon which reposed a decanter and two glasses. The business of serving gave Gerald a few moment’s grace, for he was dubious about the effect on an elderly female, not in the best of health, of raking up old memories.

She lived, he noted, very carelessly. The parlour was cluttered but cosy. Mrs Sindlesham occupied a large padded armchair to one side of a corner fireplace, which gave out a heat more than adequate for September to one of the major’s robust constitution. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. Besides the table close by loaded with books, there was a central table with upright chairs around, covered in a multitude of papers, inks and quills, and assorted unrelated items such as playing cards. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets.

Accepting his glass from the butler, Gerald glanced at Mrs Sindlesham and saw a dimple peep out. ‘Dreadfully untidy, is it not? Can’t abide bare rooms.’

A trifle discomposed at being caught examining his surroundings, Gerald was provoked into retort. ‘Then I don’t advise you to visit Remenham House.’

Too late he saw his error. A swift frown brought the still dark brows together for a moment.

‘So now we come to it.’

Her gaze followed the butler, who was moving towards the door. She waited for him to leave the room, and turned back to Gerald. Abruptly the sterner look vanished and she twinkled.

‘Tell me, my boy. You are not with the Kent militia, are you?’

‘West Kent, yes.’

‘Dear me. And what took you to Remenham House?’

‘I shall come to that presently,’ said Gerald cautiously. ‘Am I right in supposing you to have been a sister to the late Mr Jarvis Remenham?’

‘Quite right.’

She sipped at the liquid in her glass, but her eyes remained fixed, rather unnervingly, on Gerald. Following her lead, he fortified himself with a swallow of the excellent Madeira before responding.

‘I recall my father speaking of you as a Remenham.’

‘Perfectly correct, my boy. Prudence Remenham.’

‘Prudence,’ repeated Gerald unguardedly. ‘Why, that’s one of the names with which she tried to fob me off.’

‘She again?’ enquired his hostess, her delicate brows rising

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. I spoke a thought aloud. So you are Prudence Remenham.’

‘Was. Almost the last female to bear the name, too,’ muttered the old lady. ‘There are no Remenhams left.’

‘But there is still Remenham House.’

‘Oh, a ruin,’ exclaimed Mrs Sindlesham, throwing up a hand. ‘Not but what it was near that before Jarvis died. Half the rooms empty. Paintings sold off the walls. And all to satisfy a succession of rapacious lightskirts.’

‘Lord,’ Gerald murmured, awed more by the outspokenness of his hostess than by what she had said.

The old lady clearly read his state of mind, for the apparently irrepressible dimple peeped out. ‘Shocked you, have I? We weren’t mealy-mouthed in my day, my boy. You didn’t see me fall into a swoon when you cursed just now, did you?’

‘I’m beginning to doubt if anything less than a sledgehammer would send you into a swoon,’ Gerald retorted.

She let out a delighted laugh. ‘When you’re my age, you’ll be just as hardheaded. I often wonder why the young always take us ancients for namby-pamby creatures.’ She gave him a straight look. ‘So now you may safely cease your roundaboutation, and tell me what took you to Remenham House.’

‘I was called in, ma’am, to catch a French spy—at least, that is what Pottiswick thought.’

‘That old fool? Why my brother kept him on I shall never know. Except he was the only idiot who would stay.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Went to the dogs, did Jarvis, after Mary died.’

‘His daughter, ma’am?’ Gerald asked.

‘That’s right. Nothing anyone could say or do would change him. I tried. Sindlesham tried. My late husband, I mean.’ All at once Mrs Sindlesham looked across at him, a sharp question in her eyes. ‘How did you know that Mary was his daughter?’

Gerald hesitated. Was this the right moment? After what she had said about Jarvis Remenham’s habits, he could do with more information before he revealed his purpose.

‘Come, come, ma’am,’ he said smiling. ‘I live in Kent. One is always familiar with the business of one’s neighbours.’

She set down her glass with a snap. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy. You don’t know about Mary because you live in Kent. It was years before your time.’

Gerald capitulated. ‘You are too shrewd for me, ma’am. Very well, then. I have a special interest in Mary Remenham because I believe I have discovered her daughter.’

For a moment or two there was dead silence in the parlour. Mrs Sindlesham’s wrinkled cheek had paled, and her eyes were fixed upon Gerald in a look that wrung his heart. Distress, deep-rooted, and age old. He had thought it might have that effect.

But then the features changed. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane. Her hand grasped it firmly, and she pushed herself forward. Gerald at once rid himself of his own glass and leapt to her assistance.

‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. Then she slowly straightened, releasing him. ‘I can manage now.’

Gerald stood back, and watched her cross the room to the closed French doors. She turned there and beckoned. He came to her and stood before her, waiting, the morning light dazzling his eyes.

‘Now,’ she said, in an imperious manner that so much reminded him of Melusine that he was obliged to suppress a grin, ‘I can see you properly. Tell me that again.’

‘I have found Mary Remenham’s daughter,’ he repeated.

Slowly Prudence Sindlesham nodded her head, her eyes never leaving his face. ‘You’re speaking the truth.’

‘As far as I know it, ma’am. Unfortunately, I have little detail of the circumstances which surrounded the birth of the girl, and her subsequent removal to France.’

‘Ah, you know about that, then?’

‘That much, yes. As I understand it, Remenham House devolves upon Melusine, in default of her mother, the actual heir.’

‘Melusine, did you say?’ Mrs Sindlesham sighed. ‘That would have grieved Jarvis. He wanted her named Mary. Of course Nicholas was bound to give her a French name.’

Gerald smiled. ‘I assure you it suits her as Mary would not. She is extremely lovely, but for her to have borne the name of the Blessed Virgin would have been nothing short of sacrilege.’

For the first time since she had heard the news, Mrs Sindlesham’s features relaxed and a tiny smile appeared. ‘Would it so? What sort of a girl is she, then?’

‘She’s a consummate devil,’ Gerald declared roundly. ‘But with more courage in her little finger than in many another female’s entire body. She’s naïve, and yet uncannily shrewd at times, and you daren’t rely on anything she says. She’s as stubborn as the proverbial mule, and—’ with a sigh that felt wrenched out of him ‘—utterly captivating.’

Mrs Sindlesham shook with laughter. ‘What a catalogue.’ She gestured at his hand, on which Roding’s makeshift bandage had been replaced by a more efficient one. ‘Dare I suppose that to be of her making?’

Gerald flushed. ‘Yes, but quite my own fault.’

‘Was it?’ Her lips twitched. ‘I take it that you like this great-niece of mine?’

‘One cannot help but do so.’ A reluctant laugh escaped him. ‘She gave me four separate identities for herself, you must know, including Prudence, before I managed to get at her real name.’

‘Ah, that explains your surprise. I may say she does not sound in the least like Mary,’ said Mrs Sindlesham bluntly. ‘Mary was indeed naïve, but there I should say the similarity ends. She was a merry creature, it is true, and quite beautiful. But a biddable girl.’ She drew a heavy breath. ‘Else she would not have married that ne’er-do-well only because Jarvis proposed him to her.’

She sagged a little suddenly, as if the painful memories in her mind had exhausted her body. Gerald instantly took her arm and guided her back to her chair. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion.

‘Poor Mary had no idea about the elopement Nicholas had undertaken,’ she told Gerald. ‘He had run away with a Frenchwoman, you see, but Everett Charvill—I refer to the general—took care to conceal the matter. Though, to be fair, he did not know of it until after the wedding. It would have been very well if she had been some common creature who might have been bought off. But this was a vicomte’s sister. How much Mary knew is a mystery. I suspect she knew something, for she came home to Remenham House when she was increasing, and report has it that she was very unhappy. Certainly, we—that is Jarvis and I—knew nothing of it until after Mary’s death.’ She stopped, her lips tightening.

‘What happened, ma’am?’ enquired Gerald gently.

The old lady’s face was stiff with anger. ‘The wretch said nothing to anyone. He left Remenham House immediately after his wife died, giving birth to their daughter. His absence was thought by the charitable to be from grief. He returned to attend the funeral. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief. Immediately after it, he was off again, and that, let me tell you, was the last anyone saw of him.’

‘What?’ gasped Gerald, shocked. ‘But he must have—’

‘Nicholas Charvill never did anything he must do,’ Mrs Sindlesham said evenly. ‘He lacked moral fibre, did Nicholas. Later Lord Charvill told Jarvis that it had been precisely the same at the outset. Nicholas had not dared to tell his father about the Valade girl. So he obeyed Everett and married Mary, and kept the woman as his mistress.’

‘Did no one know, then?’

‘No, for the vicomte, we learned later, wrote to General Lord Charvill in pursuit of his sister. Too late, alas, to stop the disastrous marriage. Naturally it all came out then. The general did what he might to hush it up, and paid handsomely to manage it, I daresay. What he told the vicomte I was not privileged to learn.’

‘How was it then that Nicholas Charvill was known to have gone to France. And with his daughter?’

‘He wrote to Jarvis from an inn in France, saying that he had married Mademoiselle Valade, and that his baby naturally belonged with her father. Until that moment, Jarvis had imagined the child to be safe in the wet-nurse’s cottage.’ Mrs Sindlesham sighed deeply. ‘I think that was what began his downfall. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. But he...simply lost all hope.’

She was silent for a space, and it was evident that this part of the story was still too painful to be recalled with ease. But it was of vital importance to Melusine, and Gerald felt he must pursue it.

‘Forgive me, Mrs Sindlesham, but do you tell me this inheritance that Melusine has fought so hard to recover is completely wasted?’

The old lady gave him a sharp look. ‘That