Letter from a Dead Man Page 11

  ‘Very likely,’ Mr Reevers agreed, and addressing Mrs Upton, casually remarked, ‘I saw Mr Upton the other day riding through the woods with a rather pretty redhead. Is she a relative?’ Choking, I somehow turned it into a coughing fit. He looked at me, his eyes dancing. ‘Are you all right, ma’am?’

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, but Mrs Upton didn’t notice. She was staring at Mr Reevers. ‘There’s no redhead in our family, sir. Are you sure it was Mr Upton?’

  ‘Quite sure. No doubt it was all perfectly innocent, but that doesn’t stop people tittle-tattling, does it, ma’am.’

  This episode left me feeling very much in accord with him, but my happy mood suffered a severe setback later that day when Mr Arnold sent me a note expressing his regret that urgent and pressing commitments prevented him setting a watch on Smith for the next few weeks.

  I called on Julia the following day, riding the short distance unaccompanied, but she was out. From her hilltop property I could see Smith’s farm quite clearly. His pond was situated half way between the farmhouse and the fence separating the farm from the coastal area beyond. On a dark night it wouldn’t take long to move contraband off the beach and onto my land.

  As Mr Arnold couldn’t have the farm watched at present, I decided to call on Smith myself, ostensibly to ensure he was keeping my land in good order, as was my habit. Some inner instinct did urge me to stop and think it through first, but I ignored it. After all, what could possibly go wrong? If there was clearly contraband hidden in his pond, I could call in Thorpe, the Riding Officer. If there wasn’t, I would try again another time. The truth was, I wanted Smith under lock and key, and I’d waited long enough.

  Cliff farm was only a mile from Breighton House, and the dismay on Smith’s face when I rode into his farmyard led me to hope I had called at exactly the right moment.

  ‘You seem surprised to see me, Smith.’

  ‘Oh no, my lady. I just didn’t expect to see you alone. Not after that accident I heard about.’

  I fixed my gaze on him. ‘What do you know of that?’

  ‘Only what I was told,’ he said, affecting horror. ‘That you were set upon one night. It must have been a nasty shock.’ I didn’t answer, informing him instead that I’d come to see round the farm. ‘Shall I put Orlando in the stable, my lady?’

  ‘No, I shall ride. You can walk.’ The further away he was, the better I liked it. The wind was swirling round the courtyard, and the stink from his clothes and body was truly ghastly. I turned Orlando’s head towards the barn. ‘Let’s get on.’

  I inspected his stables and outbuildings, his sheep and cattle, and the few crops he grew. The pond, despite being in a dip, had recently overflowed onto the field, although the water level was now well below the top again, which told me it had been used to hide contraband very recently. I said nothing, pointing out instead that a nearby fence needed repairing.

  ‘I’ll see to it at once,’ he promised. As I was about to leave, he said, ‘Best keep out the way of those smugglers, my lady. Don’t want you falling foul of them again.’

  An unmistakable smirk settled on his features; and that, combined with the fact that I would have caught him red-handed if I’d called a day or two earlier, made me so angry I completely lost my temper. Furious at such barefaced insolence, I urged Orlando towards him, my riding whip raised in my hand. Fear swept away his smugness, and as he backed off, I turned Orlando sideways, pinning Smith up against the farmhouse wall.

  ‘You once informed me smugglers don’t like interference,’ I said, my voice shaking with rage. ‘Well, no-one meddles in the way I run my estate.’

  I rode off then, aware I had let my temper run away with me, but too angry to care. Smith considered all women to be weak, even one in my position. I had seen enough bruises on his wife to know the kind of bully he was. But when I calmed down, I had to admit I had not acted sensibly. For, he now knew the attack on the cliff had not frightened me, as he had believed. Nor had I caught him hiding contraband on my land, which had been the whole purpose of my visit.

  But that wasn’t the end of my troubles, for on arriving back at Westfleet, I found my aunt sitting in the blue room, some sewing on her lap, a threaded needle in her hand, staring out of the window, so deep in thought she wasn’t aware I had come into the room.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘Are you all right, Aunt?’ I asked in concern.

  Startled, she jumped. ‘Oh, Drusilla. I didn’t see you.’ Hastily she applied herself to her sewing again, but observing how her hands trembled, I sat beside her and asked what was wrong. She turned to me, the lines of anxiety etched more deeply than ever. ‘I’m so afraid I’ll never see Charles again,’ she burst out, choking back a sob.

  Horrified, I protested, ‘Oh no, you mustn’t think that. We would have heard----’

  She swallowed hard. ‘That’s what Lucie says, but I’m not so sure.’

  Lucie, who walked in at that moment, was so concerned about her mother she stayed at home the next day, instead of going to Ledstone. She sent Mudd with a note to Giles, explaining the situation, and received a reply, in which Giles promised to come over later.

  ‘Obviously, he can’t bear to be apart from you for even a day,’ I teased, bringing a rosy blush to her cheeks.

  ‘I do consider myself most fortunate,’ she murmured, her eyes shining. Frankly, so did I. Giles would make her the perfect husband; few men were as unselfish, kind and thoughtful as he was.

  That morning we spent a pleasant hour or so in the music room. Lucie played the piano and sang delightfully, and I often wished I had her skill, for while it was an occupation I enjoyed, my own efforts were rather indifferent. My aunt loved music, but there had been little time lately for such pleasures. Today, however, Lucie and I sang a duet, and I even persuaded my aunt, who had no voice at all, to join Lucie for a simple song. After which my aunt and I sat back listening to Lucie playing some of her mother’s favourite pieces. The effort was well worthwhile, for it cheered my aunt no end.

  But Giles didn’t ride over as promised, instead he sent a groom with a message telling us the exciting news that Vincent and Piers had arrived, and inviting us all to spend the following day at Ledstone for the purpose of meeting the visitors. Lucie, although disappointed that Giles had not come over, couldn’t wait to see the newcomers for herself.

  ‘After a whole year spent in America, they must be bursting with thrilling stories of every kind,’ she said, her eyes shining with excitement.

  My aunt, who still thought Giles should not entertain the black sheep of the family at Ledstone, indulged her daughter for once. ‘I’m sure it will be most agreeable.’

  I believed it would indeed be agreeable, provided Vincent did not have the same patronising manner towards women as his brother. I knew very little of America, except what I had read in the newspapers, and the occasional item of interest in John Delafield’s letters related to me by Mr Arnold. I had visited France and Italy, but couldn’t imagine travelling as far as America when it meant spending six weeks at sea, and often longer, just to reach New York. But I was as eager as Lucie to hear what it was like there.

  In his letter, Vincent had mentioned making a brief visit before returning to his home in Italy. Giles did not expect them to stay more than a week, which would certainly please my godmother, with her dislike of unwanted visitors.

  I dressed with great care for the occasion the following morning, lightening the bodice of my gown with a silver leaf-shaped brooch I was very fond of, which had belonged to my mother. Lucie always looked pretty whatever she wore, and my aunt settled for her favourite dove grey.

  The three of us set off for Ledstone at a sedate pace, with Mudd in attendance, for my aunt would never ride anywhere without a groom. There was an air of expectation in our small party, for although Aunt Thirza did not approve of the visit, even she was curious. As for Lucie, her eyes were round with excitement at the prospect of meeting the man who had, as she had put
it, given up everything for the woman he loved. ‘I can’t wait to meet him,’ she sighed, clearly expecting someone dashing and handsome.

  A notion my aunt swiftly rejected, telling her not to be so foolish. ‘Mr Saxborough must be well over fifty, and will very likely wear spectacles.’

  Lucie’s face fell, and I hid a smile. Evidently romantic heroes did not wear spectacles. I suggested that if Piers had inherited his father looks, she’d have an idea of Vincent’s appearance when young, which made her eyes light up again.

  But when Parker ushered us into the drawing room, we saw that Piers was several inches shorter than his father, and of a much stockier build. He had the blond hair of his Saxborough ancestors, whose portraits hung in the Long Gallery, although his eyes were gray rather than blue, and I remembered how Vincent had said, in one of his old letters, that Piers had inherited his mother’s eyes. As for his features, they could only be described as ordinary.

  Vincent, on the other hand, was of my own height, his grey hair dressed in a fashion that added to his elegant appearance. His face was lean, his eyes intelligent, and thankfully his manner bore no resemblance to his brother’s, being both distinguished and pleasant. And, I noted, he did not yet wear spectacles.

  Piers had a rather abrupt way of speaking, and while he responded civilly when Giles introduced him to us, he did not look as if making our acquaintance would add to the enjoyment of his day. His eyes too, held an expression I couldn’t quite fathom out at first. Then Vincent said something to Marguerite that made her laugh, and when Piers glanced at him, I realised what it was. Contempt. As if he strongly disapproved of Vincent being pleasant to the family who, in his opinion, had treated his father so badly.

  If Vincent was aware of this, he gave no sign of it. He appeared completely at ease, behaving as if he had remained within the bosom of his family for the past twenty-five years, and had merely returned from a long trip abroad.

  His clothes were of the finest quality, his bow was faultless, as were his manners. After the introductions had been made, I watched him escort my aunt to a comfortable chair and set it so that the sun, which had just come out, was not in her eyes.

  When introduced to Lucie, he held her hand longer than was strictly necessary, exclaiming, ‘Enchanting.’ In a way that made the child blush. He turned to Giles, saying, ‘You’re a very lucky fellow.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that, Uncle,’ he said, smiling at Lucie in a way that made her blush again.

  Vincent sighed. ‘Mind you, if I was twenty years younger…….’

  Marguerite chided in mock reproach, ‘Vincent you mustn’t tease Lucie so.’

  Her voice was both warm and coquettish, and I stared at her in disbelief, remembering how she had dreaded this visit. But Vincent possessed an effortless charm, especially with women. Even Aunt Thirza was not immune to it. And I wondered if this was how he had lived all these years. Captivating rich middle-aged women in his engaging fashion and perhaps relieving them of some of their wealth. Yet, his answer to a question Lucie put to him a little later, suggested this wasn’t so.

  Encouraged by Vincent’s comment that she was far prettier than any young lady he had seen in America, Lucie inquired in her musical voice, ‘Have you been travelling in America for pleasure, Mr Saxborough?’

  He inclined his head. ‘Fortunately I am able to indulge myself these days. It wasn’t always so, as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘Oh, I know very little….’ And she flushed in confusion at having uttered anything so brazen. Luckily my aunt failed to notice, being engaged in a one-sided conversation with Piers.

  ‘Well, I spent several years in a rather impoverished state, until I joined a friend in a business venture which became highly profitable.’

  When Lucie asked what kind of business it was, my aunt became aware of the conversation, and quietly admonished, ‘Lucie, it is rude to pry into a gentleman’s business affairs.’

  ‘I am obliged to you, ma’am,’ Vincent responded courteously. ‘But young people are naturally curious I find, and I am quite happy to answer. With your permission, of course.’ Which left my aunt no choice except to accede graciously. ‘I made my money from gambling. For many years I ran a gaming club in Paris.’ Lucie’s mouth fell open, and Vincent leaned back in his chair, quite unruffled by the stunned silence that followed. ‘I do not shock you, I trust?’ Lucie hastily assured him he had not, but her eyes said something quite different. ‘And I owe it all to Cuthbert.’

  ‘Cuthbert?’ Marguerite blurted out, astonished. As well she might, for he had not been in the habit of giving his money away.

  ‘Yes. If you remember, I wrote quite frequently when I first went abroad. Money was tight then, and he helped me out. I make no bones about it, you see. But when this business opportunity arose, I grabbed the chance to make a success of my life. I promised Cuthbert that if he funded me in this venture, I would never ask him for another penny.’

  Marguerite said happily, ‘So that’s why you stopped writing. But I still don’t understand why Cuthbert imagined you were dead.’

  He gazed at her, utterly stunned, then he began to laugh softly, as if it was a huge joke. ‘So he thought I was dead, did he?’ Removing an expensive enamelled snuff box from his pocket, he flicked it open, taking a pinch of the contents before remarking, quite unperturbed, ‘I didn’t know that. He gave me a large sum to invest in the business, and I promised never to bother him again. So I didn’t. That was the agreement.’ He glanced round at us all, admitting artlessly, ‘I imagine he didn’t expect me to keep my word. Understandable I suppose. I had made that particular promise before. Several times,’ he ended with a chuckle.

  My aunt stiffened visibly at this revelation, and I quickly changed the subject. ‘Do tell us what you thought of America, Mr Saxborough.’

  He looked across at me, his blue eyes twinkling merrily. In fact, far from being embarrassed at the situation he was in, I suspected he was enjoying himself hugely.

  ‘I liked it, Lady Drusilla. The Americans are a most friendly people. How many evenings did we dine alone, Piers?’

  ‘Very few, Papa,’ he said dutifully in his deep, rather monotonous voice.

  ‘All the English people we met wanted news of home, and when I said we were returning to Italy by way of London, you will not believe how many letters were entrusted to us. I saw to their safe delivery while Piers was recovering his strength, except for a letter from John Delafield to a Mr & Mrs Arnold, who--—’

  ‘Mr Arnold?’ Lucie interrupted, in surprise. ‘The Customs Collector?’

  Vincent turned his head to look at her. ‘You know the gentleman?’

  ‘A little, but Giles and Drusilla have known him for years.’

  Vincent glanced at Giles. ‘In that case, I should be most obliged if you would furnish me with directions to his house.’

  Giles nodded. ‘Certainly. Or you could give it to a groom to deliver.’

  ‘I could, yes. But John Delafield spoke of the Arnolds with such affection, I feel I almost know them, and to be truthful, I have a great curiosity to meet them for myself. It will also allow me to answer any concerns they have about Mr Delafield’s health, appearance, and family. All the little details one longs to hear about when separated for years from loved ones.’

  Just as he had been separated from his family, I thought. Yet I could detect no bitterness in his voice. Just a simple understanding of what it was like to be in that position. As if he could recall what it had once meant to him, but that its importance had faded over the years.

  Attempting to bring Piers into the conversation, I asked if he’d enjoyed his visit to America as much as his father. Before Piers could open his mouth, Vincent answered, ‘What young person wouldn’t - it is a young country, after all.’

  ‘Come, Mr Saxborough,’ Aunt Thirza broke in graciously, addressing Vincent. ‘Let your son speak for himself.’

  Vincent inclined his head. ‘I must warn you that he, like all young people
nowadays, has opinions I cannot agree with. Still, that is the way of the world, I suppose.’

  Piers did not seem particularly discomforted by this remark. In fact, he had shown very little emotion of any kind so far. Except boredom. I suspected he cared nothing for his ancestral home, and had only come to please his father.

  Nevertheless, on the subject of America, and their system of government, Piers was surprising eloquent. ‘Rank counts for nothing in America. Everyone is equal, and a man is judged by what he achieves, not by his title or------’

  Vincent cut in, ‘That’s true up to a point. What has taken the place of rank, is money. In America, if you have money, you can be as equal as you like.’

  Marguerite fingered the expensive brooch she was wearing. ‘Money has always been vitally important to my comfort.’

  Lucie and I exchanged speaking glances, and as I stifled a laugh, so the door opened, and Mr Reevers came in. He apologised for keeping everyone waiting, as he had been at Norton House, and hadn’t realised how late it was. With the gathering now complete, Parker announced nuncheon was served.

  All the best silver had been laid out, the chandeliers sparkled, and pretty arrangements of sweet peas and Marguerite’s favourite roses were placed on the table and around the room, filling the air with their soft summer fragrance. Smiling to myself, I recalled my godmother’s determination not to put herself out for these unwanted visitors. Of course, the servants had done the actual work, she had only given the order, yet the fact she had bothered to do even that much, told me that she liked her visitors. Or one of them at least.

  My godmother sat at one end of the table, with Giles at the other. So that she would not be obliged to talk to my aunt or Piers, she had placed them to the right of Giles. Conversation was of a lively but general nature while the servants were in the room, Vincent entertaining us with stories of their travels, proving himself to be, as Mr Delafield had described in his letter, an amusing raconteur.