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Chapter 8 ~ A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew
The guests had gone. Horses carrying riders and drawing carriages or barouches were making their weary way home by assorted roads and routes, leaving Auldbridge behind. The village now sat quiet and deflated in the late summer sunshine, bereft of its temporary importance, perhaps, but more at ease. In some few corners, the dust was allowed to slowly settle once more, the spiders allowed to spin their fragile webs anew.
Auldbury was emptied of the crowds that had filled it - pushing into every corner and overflowing into every garden, field and wood. The Hall, like the village, was almost silent, but its silence was filled with complacent satisfaction, as if the very walls knew they had met every possible expectation. The servants were quietly busy, putting to rights the last rooms, returning house and grounds to their former peace - a more cheerful, purposeful, forward-looking peace, though, without the shadow of grief that had hung over all for the past twenty years.
The morning after the final departure, Lord Auldbury and John Blevins were conferring a last time in the study. Each man had reason to look back on the past fortnight with pleasure. The older gentleman was delighted with the effects of his hospitality. Friendships had been renewed and established; conversation, music and laughter had been shared; a worthy endeavour had been fairly launched. In the company of his guests he had been - alternately, though sometimes all at once - touched, amused or saddened, disappointed, intrigued, or pleased - the last quite often in the company of his 'nephew' - or so he had almost come to look upon the young man. Said nephew found himself surprisingly content after an enjoyable and edifying time - not at all as difficult as he had feared in some aspects, and sufficiently amusing in others. More gratifying still, he would be leaving this house with the trust and regard of the man now facing him. After Sir John Murdock, there was no other man among his acquaintance thus far whose good opinion he would rather have.
Beyond the mere pleasure afforded by the agreeable joining of generally good company and universally pleasant diversions, the greatest satisfaction for both gentlemen - unlike as they were in age and station, unlike as they had come to this affair - resulted from the hoped-for but unforeseen revelations regarding their mutual interest.
Lord Auldbury paced the length and breadth of the room as he mused aloud over several conversations he had taken part in, endeavouring to understand them justly as well as rightly. "He could, I suppose, have learned many of these matters and details through reading, or in speaking with others; it is possible there is some explanation other than that he is the man we are seeking and, as such, has deceived us intentionally. Yet... his reactions, his opinions, his very words seemed to come from personal experience - from what he had himself seen and heard, and not from second-hand accounts - as if he had heard Mozart and his sister performing as children, as if he had witnessed the duel with Clementi - neither of which, if his history is to be believed, could be possible."
John Blevins looked up from perusing the papers upon which - each evening before retiring at Auldbury - he had methodically written his own observations and speculations. "Or those details may simply reveal a fanatical devotion to music. I have heard of such persons - devoted to one or another musician or artist, able to recite every work, every performance, every detail of private lives and affairs from childhood onward - spending money for travel to the person's birthplace or home as a pilgrimage of sorts. It would seem excessive to my mind, although I suppose, for some, it may be their only amusement - perhaps in place of things their own lives are lacking - fame, family, fortune, stimulation, accomplishment..." John's voice trailed off in embarrassment as he realized his words might be understood to include his host. He looked up hesitantly to find the Earl grinning at him good-naturedly.
"You need not scruple at saying such things in my presence, John. The description fits me well enough; I freely admit that my life has been slavishly, excessively, devoted to music for the past twenty years. There are those who drown sorrows and troubles in drink; I attempted - just as wrongly - to do so with the sounds of music, by running after those who created those sounds, and running away from my duties. I hope to remedy that situation, not by giving up my love for music, but by spending on it a more reasonable amount of time, money and energy. Even proper passions must be kept in good regulation - in balance and harmony."
Lord Auldbury's diffident tone and wry smile allowed John to put his own discomfiture behind him. "Whatever the reason for his devotion to matters musical, sir, what I overheard of the man's conversation with your Mr Grahame is reason enough to consider him more seriously. I daresay your vicar might be mistaken; perhaps it is even likely - after all, it has been some fourteen years, or so he said. Nonetheless, I should like to hear more of this earlier meeting. If it was the same man, then he has been less than honest in what he gives forth - or allows to be spread abroad - concerning his past. It may have nothing to do with what we are seeking, but it would be just as well to clear it away or confirm it. It is the most promising hint we have, since we neither of us found or heard of anything regarding the others."
"No, I very much doubt that any of my old friends has had a hand in this despicable business, despite any troubles or foolishness they may have fallen prey to in other ways. Of the new members I have now met, only this one seems to be hiding anything. If the man had an honest reason for his presence in Antwerp that year, why conceal it? It would seem such a small thing, and so innocent a presence." Lord Auldbury stopped his pacing to face John across his desk. "There is a saying: 'He that is faithful in the least is faithful also in much, and he who is dishonest in the least is dishonest also in much.' I have seen the truth of this again and again, and have found honesty or dishonesty in just such small things to be a generally reliable measure of a man's character - regardless of his wealth, education or family connections." The older man's pacing resumed; his tone became reflective again. "I must say, regardless of these other matters, I was not altogether easy with his conduct. He showed a certain lack of respect for some of the company; he appeared to harbour undue, secret amusement at weaknesses and eccentricities. I suppose it was not very noticeable, or perhaps I simply misunderstood his manner... He certainly had no interest in philanthropy, no interest in my plans, but I have no right to judge him merely on such a choice, either." The hint of distaste on his face was replaced by calm resignation as he shrugged and gave up puzzling over these things - for the time being. His musing gave way to decisiveness. "I share your suspicions of him, my boy. Perhaps we may be able to determine more after hearing what Mr Grahame can tell us." The two gentlemen had not long to wait 'til their eagerly awaited visitor was announced.
Mr Grahame had been surprised at being summoned so early this morning - he had scarce finished his breakfast when the footman from the Hall had arrived - and by a note brusquely peremptory in its urgency. Such a tone from Lord Auldbury was most rare in the clergyman's five years' experience with the gentleman. It could have something to do with further plans and preparations for their school, yet... such a subject could surely not account for this degree of insistence. Perhaps something to do with a parishioner. Heaven forfend that it be an unexpected death or misfortune! As he walked briskly up the well-trodden path, his mind canvassed the folk in his care but found nothing to account for this summons. He arrived at the great house, therefore, a little curious and more than a little anxious. His curiosity was heightened - even as his anxiety was eased - as he found himself confronted and greeted not only by the Earl, whom he had expected, but also by Mr Brownleigh, whom he had not. He accepted the seat offered, looked inquiringly at his host, and waited patiently for enlightenment. Queries as to health were exchanged; tea was poured out; Lord Auldbury began.
"I have asked you here not on any affair of the parish, Mr Grahame, but on a more personal affair. You seem to be in a unique position to help us. My nephew, as you may know, has been assisting me with business matters that have accumulated during my latest absence from England." (Although Lord Auldbury had done little more than introduce Mr Brownleigh to the vicar, the Earl was quite sure that Mr Grahame would, by now, have heard every possible rumour regarding Jonathan Brownleigh. The humble apparatus for news dissemination in this neighbourhood, with all exemplary speed and efficiency, had never ceased to amaze him. Even those who had no interest in hearing gossip could not help but be informed - even, at times, against their will.) "At the ball, he chanced to overhear your encounter with a guest you seemed to recognize - due to a previous meeting, I believe - though the man himself disavowed the possibility of any such meeting. As I am contemplating some dealings with this gentleman, I should like to know more of him - in particular, if he is honest, and if his word is to be trusted. I do not ask you to break any sort of confidence, but I would very much like to hear more of your encounter those years ago and whatever else you may know of that man - whether he is, in fact, the gentleman you met here or not."
Though clearly surprised that this was the matter of importance for which he had been called, the clergyman obligingly wrinkled his brow in concentrated thought; he took several moments before replying. "I was much taken aback, my lord, as much by the man's demeanor as by his denial. I had thought myself to be right - and still do think so - though I can not swear an oath that he is the man I took him for. I will gladly tell you of that meeting; I am certainly bound by no vows of secrecy or silence concerning it - and fourteen years have now passed."
Mr Grahame seemed to withdraw from his present surroundings and company, to retreat to a very different place and time. He sipped absentmindedly from the cup in his hand. "That period here on land sticks very much in my memory, as it was near the end of my first long sea voyage, serving aboard a merchant ship. It was in May of '96. I was sixteen years old and just finishing two years' duty on the 'East Wind' - returning from India. We carried a large and varied cargo, to be unloaded at several ports - on the continent and in England. We had just seen delivery of a quantity of silks and spices in Antwerp, and were waiting there for orders concerning the disposition of some artworks and porcelains. This gentleman - a skilled artist himself, it was said - came as the representative of the prospective buyer. I remember how carefully he examined the goods; he seemed well versed in scrutinizing and evaluating the minutest details of each piece. I had been ordered to accompany him, and to fetch and carry or generally do whatever it was he required. I was in his company fully a day." Mr Grahame returned his attention to the gentlemen facing him, looking at each of them in turn; both were listening intently. "It was the only time I ever laid eyes on him; it was a long time ago, yet I still feel sure that the gentleman I met here was the very same man."
At a nod from the Earl, John addressed the vicar with cautious courtesy. "How can you be so sure this is the same man, sir? He is of average looks - are there not scores of men similar to him, both on the continent and in England? After so many years, could you not possibly be mistaken?"
The vicar chose his words carefully. "It is, of course, possible; I am as likely as any man to be mistaken. There were, however, several curious things about him that have persisted in my memory. The gentleman with whom I spent those hours tended to stroke his cheek with his forefinger, very slowly, from the top of his cheekbone almost to his chin, as he contemplated each piece of merchandise. Your guest did the same while listening intently to music or gazing at your artworks."
"That might be a habit unique to only few persons, but it would be difficult to prove it is the same man on such evidence alone." Doubt remained evident in John's voice.
"Perhaps if you add to it that the man I met those years ago was left-handed - as I believe your guest was - and wore a seal ring of a peculiar pattern - or, at least, I have never seen another like it. I thought to have glimpsed the same ring at the ball."
Lord Auldbury and John exchanged glances; the older man spoke. "Yes, I had noticed the ring - a valuable one, and very unusual, just as you say. I had observed him favoring his left hand, as well; very careful of both hands he seemed to be." The Earl's last remark seemed merely an afterthought, but it caught the notice of Mr Blevins. John's gaze narrowed, as if he had had his attention suddenly drawn to some delicate particulars - easily overlooked - of an intricate tapestry, whose multi-layered stitchings and features formed diverse designs, the design perceived depending on how the whole was viewed, and in what light.
Mr Grahame drew in his breath and, with a fleeting grin, confirmed a mischievous penchant for the dramatic in his character, together with an absolute mastery of catching the interest of an audience, piquing it stepwise higher, and ending in a climax sure to leave its mark. With the flawless timing of a magician throwing aside his cloak to expose what had been cleverly concealed in plain sight, with the matter-of-fact tones of a comedian delivering the last words of a jest, he presented his final proof. "The two men I met - one fourteen years ago, the other only days ago - share one other feature. How many men of even your acquaintance, sir - which is without a doubt more extensive than mine - have one eye of blue and the other of brown?"
The thunderbolt had been quietly and unerringly hurled; Mr Grahame had torn asunder the remaining clouds of doubt in his listeners. Soon after his final revelation, the vicar quitted the Hall, taking with him the fervent thanks of both the Earl and his 'nephew' - which fervour doubtless mystified him. He left, however, with unquestioned faith in Lord Auldbury, whatever the older man's vagaries or whims - or more serious business - might be.
Mr Grahame's tale, together with Lord Auldbury's observations, could be spun into a tenuous thread of suspicion against one particular man. With this suspicion provisionally stretched as the warp over a sturdy frame of fact, a weft of proof was needed - proof that could be plaited and woven to match the pattern of forgery, proof strong enough to withstand the demands of law and justice. Now that it was known where a search would prove most useful, such proof would surely be found - most probably in London, not fifteen miles away. To London, therefore, in pursuit of firm evidence, Mr John Blevins would go.
After little further discussion, with sincere thanks and congratulations offered and accepted, John made ready to leave the Hall. His things had been packed by Simmons; nothing remained but to load them onto the carriage and to bid Auldbury farewell. Valet and master were sorry to be leaving this household, but both recognized the time here as having been, perforce, only an idyllic interlude - albeit a very welcome one - inserted into a more ordinary routine.
Mr Blevins returned to a London still sticky with summer's heat, still choked with dust, but with the slightest of freshening breezes lifting, a harbinger of the autumn days soon to come. John made an early start the next morning to resume his customary rounds: traversing the more important sections of town - collecting news as he went - strolling down particular streets and passing certain corners. Soon after one such corner had been passed, he met with Tim Scoggins. Both men had come to this meeting, apparently, with success to report. They greeted one another with equally ebullient spirits, though repressing any overt display of such, unwilling to show too much eagerness and thereby a lack of dignity. After the greetings, a silence ensued. They eyed each other expectantly; each clearly wanted to speak, yet each privately longed for his secret moment of triumph to stretch out as long as possible before laying it open to the scrutiny of the other.
Tim's patience proved the first to fall; his voice was the one to break the silence. "You look like the cat that's been among the canaries an' now has his sights on a particular plump an' promisin' one, eh, Guv'nor?"
John eyed his cocky companion closely. "I must say you look the same, Tim. Perhaps you have found a bird of your own here in town? Shall we compare notes? If the results of your fortnight's work are as promising as you seem to think, let's hope there will be proof enough to have our two birds sing their way to the gallows. Let's have your story first, then I'll tell mine."
Mr Scoggins, sure enough of his own tale's worth, settled himself more comfortably, feet stretched out before him. "Well, it seems our gentleman friend took the time of your Society gatherin' to send along some more of his work. Just five nights ago, a friend o' mine tipped me off to another forged bill, passed in a tavern. It was a stroke o' luck for us, Guv'nor - this time I got to know where it came from: the winnin's from a gamin' night at Watier's."
John started a little as he recognized the name; he ruefully shrugged his shoulders a fraction of an inch. Perhaps I should have listened to that shallow conversation over quadrille a little longer after all. But, no matter. "Do you know who brought in this 'stroke of luck' for us?"
Tim gave a name, adding, "Not a reg'lar customer there, Guv'nor;" John made note of it - a name he did not recognize. He nodded for Tim to continue.
"I've been collectin' information 'bout the club - an' got lucky in that, too, by way of a poor little scullery maid. Seems she gets loaded with all the work after business is done, an' is cleanin' there all hours o' the night. She's only too willin' to pour out her troubles into a commiseratin' ear. An' seein' as she was so pleased to talk, I made myself pleased to listen. 'Twas no hardship to me - lookin' at her was no hardship neither," he added under his breath, grinning appreciatively as he recalled every appealing feature of the plump, prettily pouting young girl. "There's a manager o' sorts at this club - name o' Harris Egerton - no pleasant chap, nothin' to speak of in most other ways neither, but good with numbers and the dealin's o' the place. Stays late at his work, too."
John looked blank at the mention of this name as well; Tim hastened to continue, "Oh, he's not the one who leads the chorus - not likely your Society bird, sir. But we may have that one, too - or leastwise someone who sounds the part. Every few weeks since last winter, real late at night, while this here girl's been hard at work, another gentleman's come 'round - a real, well-dressed gentleman. He always comes quiet-like, an' through the back door. She lets 'im in, an' he goes straight to this Egerton chap. Birds of a feather, you might say - maybe our two chirpin' away, Guv'nor? - the two of 'em gettin' along real well. Sometimes he's come carryin' a package but left without it. From what she's been able to hear, now 'n then - not listenin', says she - no, o' course not, says I - this man's the one who makes the decisions an' calls the tune."
"Does the girl have a name for this mysterious gentleman, or can she describe him?"
"No name was ever said - he hardly says much of anythin' for her to hear - but she did say that the man seemed to have a sort o' foreign accent. An' she noticed one other funny thing - he had the most peculiar eyes: one blue an' the other brown."
Only days ago, John's mystery had seemed a hopelessly tangled skein of strands forever becoming more snarled with every additional clue. After Tim's revelations - dovetailing so perfectly with those of Mr Grahame - this frustrating skein seemed disposed to leave one leading thread hanging - temptingly loose. That thread fairly begged to be teased out, gently and carefully, 'til it could be lain straight and neat, ready for use. Firm and incontrovertible evidence - of a more tangible sort now than mere words - was lacking. With it, this single, slender strand would be woven into a net to ensnare the guilty and free the innocent. Proof positive was required, with every 't' crossed and every 'i' dotted - a task, in other words, perfectly suited to other of Timothy Scoggins' particular talents.
John had sent Tim back to Watier's, to follow Mr Egerton and determine how much assistance - willing or reluctant - could be expected from that gentleman. Mr Scoggins had also been charged with other duties eminently fitting his innate artistry. A thorough yet discreet search of the premises of both the gaming club and Mr Egerton's lodgings would be carried out - likewise, a cautious search of their chief suspect's property. With more luck, certain items may have been carelessly and conveniently left lying for Tim to notice. As all this gathering of proof would take time - some days at the very least - Mr Blevins had determined to use the interval for a brief trip that he hoped would result in as much success as he now anticipated in this case of forgery.
Mr Blevins and Lord Auldbury had come to so good an understanding during the time of John's stay at the Hall that the young man had been bold to make, and his lordship gracious to approve, a request. Now, during these first days of September, on a day sunny and bright, John set off once again on the road to Bath with a very simple errand in mind - not that its execution would be so very simple. While there, he would also see if there were, by some strange, unlikely chance, any news of Miss Eliza Williams - though he doubted it very much. Thoughts of her and of her long-suffering uncle invaded his mind, unbidden, at irregular and inconvenient intervals, disturbing his recent, hard-won optimism.
By the time John reached Bath, the weather - in September caprice, not knowing its own mind - had turned to dark, lowering clouds above, with some first fat drops falling to the ground. He left his carriage near the Abbey. With umbrella in hand and at the ready, he began to walk, canvassing the streets, ever on the lookout for a small, shabbily clothed figure with sharp blue eyes, freckled face, and pale orange hair. An hour of careful watching, however - through rain thickening from single droplets to wind-driven sheets of water - produced no sightings of Samuel T. Pickens. There was no sign of a cocky, soggy lad - no sign of a bright-eyed, sodden dog obeying a sharp whistle - no sign of any innocent, wet, muddy passersby having been hurled to the ground by the unexpected rush of a small body between their legs, those unfortunate passersby to be 'assisted' to their feet once again by Master Pickens. The Abbey stables. 'They lets me stay there some, 'n I does work fer 'em w'en they need 'elp.' John retraced his steps. An inquiry after Samuel resulted in a surly nod from an older stableboy towards the farthest corner of the darkest building.
The youngster was sitting glumly on a hay bale, evidently having just cleaned out a particularly dirty stall. He was kicking his heels idly and gnawing at the remains of an apple. The garments of diverse origins, styles and sizes hanging about the boy's frame were spattered into a uniformity of sorts, covered and permeated by the grime and odor of the most recent occupant of this particular stall. He looked rather thinner, if that were possible, than when John had seen him in March, and he had lost some of his jauntiness, seeming almost forlorn. Harry was nowhere to be seen. The lad turned sharply at the sound of approaching feet. His eyes lit in pleased recognition, though he greeted John indifferently, as if they had parted but yesterday.
"Mornin', Mr Blevins!"
"Good morning, Samuel. But it's not a good one for being out of doors. I'm glad to see you found a roof for yourself and Harry today."
"Yeah - least 'hit's dry." The boy shrugged and scowled, averting his eyes and kicking at a solitary clod still lying in the stall. He looked up again, eyes brightening with curiosity. "Were yoo lookin' fer me, er fer Miss Robertson? Didja find the girl yoo were lookin' fer? 'His she safe wit' 'er uncle agin?"
"No, I'm afraid I haven't found her," John admitted. He frowned as he realized anew precisely how long it had been since Eliza Williams had gone missing: over six months. Her prospects, wherever she was - if, heaven help her, she were still alive - were surely bleak. He racked his brain once again, briefly, for anything he might have left undone in his search but could think of nothing with which to berate himself, save a singular and bitterly disappointing lack of success. "As a matter of fact, I was looking for you, Samuel. But you can tell me anything you know about Miss Robertson. Are she and her father still here? Has she come and gone often? I don't suppose her friend has been here again, has she?" John spoke as one not expecting a positive answer. He was not disappointed.
"Naw - 'er friend 'hain't ben 'ere. Miss Robertson 'hain't ben 'ere much neither, lately; tho' the ol' man's still 'ere. 'Bout to move on 'fore the winter, tho', 'e is. Sorry I 'hain't 'eard anythin' ta 'elp ya. I 'ope the girl's alright." Samuel's expression did indeed register a brief, sincere concern for this girl he had but barely seen, despite his own scarcely less grim circumstances. He contemplated the skeletal apple core in his grubby hand for a moment before tossing it into a dark corner and wiping both hands on the hem of his topmost layer. "Wot didja want wit' me?"
"Well, I came to see how you were. Where's Harry, by the way?"
Samuel looked down again and swallowed hard. " 'E's dead. Got too close ter a 'huppity 'orse, 'n got kicked 'hin 'is 'ead." He shrugged his shoulders and dug a heel viciously into the dirt before him, but did not meet John's eyes. "I dug a 'ole near 'is fav'rite place by the river, where we first met, 'n buried 'im."
"I'm sorry, Samuel. It's sad to lose a friend." John fell silent, knowing that any further condolence or show of pity would be shrugged off and scorned by this stubbornly independent urchin. Mr Blevins found a seemingly clean bale of hay near Samuel's and seated himself on it rather gingerly, wondering whether the loss of the dog would make his purposed plan any easier. He was still uncertain whether tearing this boy away from the only home he had, in truth, ever known would be for the best. But Bath was no real home, holding no friends for him - especially now Harry was gone - no family of any sort, and offering only uncertain and illegal work as a means of support, and very irregular support at that by the looks of him. Could this scrap of a boy, a rough patchwork of eleven coarse years, be matched with the quiet, settled fabric of another place? Would such a settled place willingly open its arms to a newcomer of doubtful antecedents and dubious accomplishments? On John's word alone, Lord Auldbury had consented to have a look at this pitiable yet enterprising young rogue, if Samuel could be persuaded to go to Auldbridge. Few conditions had been laid down by the Earl but that the lad should clearly understand what would be expected of him. If he came, he would be given work fitting his talents with dogs and other animals - though in a more orthodox and accepted fashion - and not too much demanded, at first, in the way of civilized manners or book-learning. Surely another place - one where his independence might be curbed a little, yet in exchange for a roof, a dry bed, regular meals, and enough care and training to give him an honest living should he decide to take the offer - surely that could only be better. Surely...
John sighed and set about arranging his words in such a way so as to make the case as attractive and advantageous in the eyes of one Samuel T. Pickens as it so clearly appeared in the eyes of one John Thomas Barrow.
Chapter 8, Part 2 ~ A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew
"My dear, I am afraid this simply will not do." A breathless Mrs Taylor, struggling to help Beth finish dressing, fell back and looked at the girl helplessly. Beth herself was forced, however reluctantly, to admit the truth of the kind woman's words. It would not do. Even Mrs Taylor's clothes, capacious as they were and generously lent, were no longer sufficient for the young woman's changing form. Only a fortnight had passed since the merry gathering at the Burns' home, but it seemed she had grown a remarkable amount in that remarkably short time. "We shall have to see about one or two new gowns for you, Beth. Miss Goldsmith may be able to help - with the festivities at the Hall behind us and all the visitors gone - and I am sure the Hobarts could find some material that is not too expensive."
"But I have no money at all, not even for one gown - I have given you all I had! I can not pay for anything - and certainly not for Miss Goldsmith!" As the older woman prepared to speak, Beth forestalled her words. "No, I can not allow you to do more for me, Mrs Taylor - you have done so much already! I must find something to sell or some way to earn money - but what, or how? There is nothing I have, nothing I can do!" Her words wailed as she looked down again and saw how impossible it would be for her to wear this gown for many more days, to say nothing of another two or three months. Her spirits fell even further at a long-dreaded prospect finally becoming all too real - her true situation would be exposed. The cloak of respectability she had worn since her arrival here in the village - conferred by her residence with Mrs Taylor and the frequent company of Miss Ross and Miss Rose - would be roughly stripped away. The added veil of approval and admiration she had won by her service to Mr Burns would be torn off as well, as she faced the neighbourhood with her shame for all to see. Would that it were winter and that a real, disguising cloak could be worn, but it was still much too warm for that. More's the pity! For the briefest of moments Beth considered running away once more. She quickly thought better of such a rash scheme, realizing that her plight would only be worse now, not better, among strangers.
Mrs Taylor sighed as she sank onto a nearby chair. She looked thoughtfully at the tearful young girl, weighing the possibilities of success if she insisted on making a gift of a new gown, acknowledging at last that Beth's pride would allow only so much. As she struggled with what her next words should be, the months-old memory of a sheaf of papers filled with sketches came suddenly to mind, and with it, another possibility. "My dear, I hesitate to say this - I do not want you to think I have been spying on you - but I have seen, on one occasion only, your collection of drawings." Beth flushed as she looked Mrs Taylor in the face, then dropped her gaze in uncertain embarrassment as the woman continued. "They are very well done. You know - this might be a way for you to earn some money. It would likely not be much, but enough for the time being. I know many here in the village and in the surrounding neighbourhood who would be glad to have renderings of their children or of their families, but who can not go to town or afford to commission such things here. Silhouettes, especially, are all the fashion - if you would be willing to try your hand at them. There is no one here who does such work now... What do you think?"
"You mean that I should make drawings, to sell? But... why? Who would want my drawings? They are not very good!"
"They may be better than you think. From what little I saw, you take likenesses excellently well. That is a gift, my dear, and you must have had fine drawing teachers who helped to develop it. Will you show me all your work some time - this evening, perhaps? If you do not trust my judgment, I will be glad to show them to someone who, I promise, will judge impartially."
After some further discussion, with Mrs Taylor using all her most sincere powers of persuasion to convince Beth of the practicalities of such a scheme, the young girl agreed. As soon as possible - even today - Mrs Taylor would send some of Beth's sketches to town, to a drawing master there - an old acquaintance of Miss Rose's parents. On his approval - Beth would not hear of continuing without it - the postmistress would speak to all who came into the post office, allowing them to avail themselves of this opportunity to capture their children in drawings or silhouettes. Knowing her neighbours well - their love for and pride in their children, their desire to be fashionable to the extent of their limited financial resources - Mrs Taylor thought privately that many would jump at such an offer and be willing to pay modest sums to this gifted though inexperienced girl. It was understood, though unspoken between them, that nothing of the motive for this sudden industrious spurt would be mentioned. Both were only too sadly aware that the reason would soon become obvious. Beth quaked at this thought, but Mrs Taylor, though mindful that some of her neighbours would judge the girl harshly, knew that others would be sympathetic - if at first shocked - especially in view of the well-known service Beth had been faithfully rendering Mr Burns.
With a reasonable prospect of some means to repay a loan, Beth was now willing to accept help from Mrs Taylor in purchasing material for one new gown. Intending to quickly search out the cheapest material possible, Beth stopped at Hobarts' before going on to sit with Mr Burns.
As she entered the shop, Miss Goldsmith and Mrs Gilbert were standing over a table together, ostensibly looking over the goods laid out in tempting array while silently despairing of the supply of interesting tidings - a pitifully meager supply since the departure of the guests from the Hall. Both were becoming desperate for some new story to canvass; they looked up eagerly as the young girl came near to look among the bolts of cloth.
Miss Goldsmith expertly and accurately measured Beth's figure in one swift glance - and found it tailor-made for Narratable News. She turned to her companion with a smug gleam in her eye. "My dear Mrs Gilbert, if I were you, I would take great care with that handsome boy of yours. Several girls in our neighbourhood have become terribly forward of late - with shameful consequences! The youngest Miss Peckham - have you not noticed how very stout she has grown? Mark my words, she has ruined herself and her family. I shouldn't wonder if she should be sent away for a visit to some other part of the country soon."
After her own more leisurely survey of the newcomer's appearance, Mrs Gilbert returned her companion's arch look. "I had noticed the very same thing, Miss Goldsmith! I assure you that my Ralph knows exactly what to do in such cases and what it is we expect of him. Of course, the same can not be said of many another innocent young man, taken in by a pleasing countenance and a few paltry arts and wiles."
Although often at odds - and in competition with one another even more - as they studied the figure standing nervously only a few feet away, Mrs Gilbert and Miss Goldsmith recognized a common bond. The good name of this quiet village was about to be sullied. The sharpest of eyes had today confirmed suspicions harboured for months about this young girl, come from nowhere, with no family to vouch for her, no name of worth, no connections of note. For the good of the village, these two worthy women closed ranks. For the good of her son (though she might once have found compassion and commiseration for a friend in similarly awkward circumstances) Mrs Gilbert raised her defenses. For the good name of virtuous spinsters everywhere - whether virtuous by choice and effort or by happenstance - Miss Goldsmith felt herself obliged to raise the alarm and set the example.
"Paltry arts and wiles are all that most common girls have - no real beauty, no accomplishments, no sense of duty or pride, no standards of behaviour. I could never lower my standards - not one bit! I would not dream of being so... so forward with a man as I have witnessed time and again. Is it not a disgrace, what some girls put their families, their connections, their acquaintances through, by yielding to - nay, seeking out - temptations? Why, it reflects badly on the entire neighbourhood! Absolutely shocking it is! I declare, I would not show my face in public if I were to come to such an end." The seamstress sniffed as she glanced meaningfully at Beth. "There is no excuse for intemperate behaviour - none at all!" Though this speech was self-righteousness itself, the tone - to the insightful listener - had something in it of envy, perhaps, that no man had found her worth tempting, that her exceptionally high standards had never been in any real danger of falling.
While the two women continued in this vein - "so thoughtless!" - "should be turned out" - "shunned by all decent Christian folk" - "abandoned by family" - "a menace among us" - speaking fully loud enough to be overheard by anyone in the shop, Mrs Hobart was speaking quietly with Beth. The older woman's face was nearly as flushed and unhappy as the poor girl's; she spoke hurriedly and eagerly to distract them both from the disagreeable conversation taking place so near. Beth began to move uneasily from one foot to the other, throwing longing glances at the door, ready to escape the very moment her business was concluded.
Mr Hobart, busily unpacking a large crate in one corner of the room, chanced to look up and notice the growing distress of both his wife and their customer. The reason for their distress and for his neighbours' remarks became clear as he looked at Beth more closely. His first shock was replaced by great sadness and then pity for the girl, even as anger kindled in him for his neighbours' deliberate malice. He advanced on the two women much like a sturdy watchdog advancing on questionable visitors to its domain. In a coolly civil tone - a reproach in itself - he inquired if he might be of any assistance. He was sure they must be very busy, so any way he could help them to finish their purchases quickly, allowing them to be about their own no-doubt pressing business, he would be most happy to oblige. He would not like to think that anything in his shop might tempt them to neglect any duty at home, any errand of mercy about the village...
The seamstress and her recently acquired ally-at-arms flushed with indignation at the implied reproof, but both recognized the angry glint in the shopkeeper's eye - though it was but rarely seen - knowing it boded no good for those under its censure. The two women grudgingly acknowledged the completion of their errands for the morning and quitted the shop. Whispering with floppy-bonneted heads close together, they kept company for some few minutes longer on the street before parting, each zealous to share this urgent news within the bounds of her acquaintance as soon as possible.
Beth was near tears, as was Mrs Hobart, who regarded the girl with awkward, silent compassion - as quick to understand the meaning of all that had passed as her husband. Ignoring her own discomfort, she attempted to draw the girl's attention to a bolt of material she had found: dark blue with a delicate pattern of small white flowers. Her attention was rewarded with a tremulous smile. Cheered by the kindliness, pleased with the pattern and feeling more composed, Beth made ready to leave after agreeing that the cloth should be delivered to Mrs Taylor's cottage.
Having watched his two gossipy neighbours out of sight from the open doorway, the draper came to the counter. After a wordless glance at his wife, he offered a plump arm to the girl. "Miss Beth, if you are on your way to Mr Burns, I would be honoured if you would allow me the pleasure of your company. I had promised to visit him this morning; now is an especially good time, seeing as the shop is finally quiet."
"Oh yes, Sydney, do go with Miss Beth - and please tell Mr Burns I shall be sure to come by tomorrow and bring him some raspberry tart and... and the other things I told him of." The smile Mrs Hobart gave her husband was filled with love, pride and approval, and was almost as tremulous as Beth's had been just moments before.
Chapter 8, Part 2 continued ~ A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew
Mrs Taylor had experienced several hours of growing anxiety about her young guest, for Beth had been wan and listless since coming home in the afternoon, turning away all questions hinted at or outright asked by the older woman. Nothing - not Mrs Taylor's kind concern, not the pretty design of the material sent over by the Hobarts, not even all Jenny's cheerful chatter and plans for a new doll's dress from the cloth remnants - had served to raise Beth's spirits. The two women now sat in the parlour, Jenny having gone to her room soon after supper. A request by Mrs Taylor to look at Beth's drawings had been turned away. As the postmistress tried, with an equal lack of success, to interest Beth in a dress pattern she thought would suit the girl well, they heard a knock at the door. Both started, for no one was expected at this late hour, but Mrs Taylor quickly lay aside the pattern and quitted the room. She reappeared shortly, ushering Mr and Mrs Hobart before her. The latter, with a decidedness unusual to her, eagerly accepted the offer of tea, and accompanied Mrs Taylor to the kitchen. She returned after only a few moments, however, and took a place next her husband on the sofa.
After exchanging glances with his wife and clearing his throat, Mr Hobart addressed himself to the young girl. "Miss Beth, please forgive our intrusion tonight. We realize that you may not be feeling well today; you are surely tired after sitting so many hours with Mr Burns. We have come not to weary or distress you but to help and encourage you. May we stay and speak a little with you? If you truly do not wish it, we will leave."
Beth's heart sank and her eyes dropped. What she had feared - the discovery of her situation - was clearly making itself known. But, recalling the kindness attributed to the Hobarts by everyone in the village and the evidences of it she had herself witnessed, she forced herself to look up at the affable gentleman and his wife. Encouraged by her slight, silent nod, the shopkeeper continued.
"We believe you may be in some difficulties, or perhaps, should we say, that you have had some difficulty, have experienced a difficulty, which will be becoming even more difficult--"
Laying a hand on her husband's arm, his wife interrupted this unusual tongue-twistedness, "This should be for me to say, Sidney." Looking at her pale but determined countenance, Mr Hobart settled back in his seat. "Very well, my dear."
Mrs Hobart drew a deep breath. With her usual frown of worry creasing her brow, she rushed uncertainly into speech. "Miss Beth, I think I am right in saying you are with child, are you not? Please, please do not think us forward! It must be a dreadful time for you. I... I think I may speak to you so, for I can well imagine how you must feel and the difficulties you are facing."
Beth drew back a little resentfully. "What could you possibly know about it, Mrs Hobart? It is nothing so easy to imagine!"
"I do know, for I was with child myself and..." she drew a deep breath. The next words came out hastily, "and was not married."
Beth's retort - that being with child after marriage was not at all the same thing - died on her lips; she was startled into shocked silence. Such words were the last she would ever have expected to hear from Mrs Hobart. Beth looked from wife, sitting flushed and miserable, to husband, as one explanation presented itself. The other woman forestalled any remark, however, speaking as if she divined Beth's thoughts.
"Oh, no! Mr Hobart would never have done such a thing!"
"Now, Martha, do not credit me with such a saintly character. I can not say what I might not have done; I certainly can not say I was never tempted. I was simply never given the opportunity to act on such a temptation." The shopkeeper's light tone was an attempt to lessen the distressing gravity of the conversation - as distressing for his wife as for their listener.
Mrs Hobart countered firmly, "No, Sydney, I am sure there were occasions, but you resisted temptation. You always acted honourably with me, and with every other girl and woman in the village." Turning back to Beth, she explained. "Although Mr Hobart has been the best of fathers to Stephen, Stephen is not his son."
Beth stared from one face to the other, still unwilling to believe this story. Sensing the determination mixed with agitation in Mrs Hobart, seeing the simple openness of Mr Hobart's countenance, she was convinced. It must be true! She felt a wave of pity for the anxious, absent-minded woman and a new rush of affection and esteem for the stout shopkeeper.
When Mrs Hobart spoke again, her voice was low but steady, she being willing to revisit her own disgrace in order to ease the despair she felt in the girl. "I was a parlourmaid at the Hall many years ago, before the Lady Anne died. It was a very gay house then, constantly filled with guests. Two and twenty years ago, there was a particularly large gathering, a ball - the first at which I had much to do with the guests themselves, among them one very handsome young man - a Baronet. He flattered me, telling me often how pretty he thought me. I had never been called pretty before - certainly not by someone of such importance in Society and such obvious experience of the world. I was foolish, and I believed him when he said he would like to marry me and make me a lady. He said I deserved better than to live in a lowly village, that I deserved better than to be a servant. He said... he said he wanted to see me dressed in beautiful gowns and jewels." She turned her head briefly into her husband's shoulder; he reached for the hand in her lap and pressed it gently. As if his touch strengthened her, she straightened again. "He left directly after the ball, with no further word to me. Some months later it became apparent what I had been left with. I was frightened and ashamed, and I did not know where to turn. I spoke with Mrs Johnson at last, Lord Auldbury's housekeeper. She spoke to his lordship on my behalf. I was terrified that he would have me dismissed out of hand, but he was kinder than I had a right to expect. After speaking with me himself - he did not berate, but asked only for the truth - he arranged for me to bear the child, to continue working at the Hall afterwards, and to keep Stephen with me."
Mr Hobart now took up the tale. "I had always loved Martha, from the time we were both old enough to notice one another as more than neighbours, but had had little to offer her and been afraid to speak. When I learned of this, I was angry with Martha at first, then angry with myself - for having kept silent and not having watched over her and protected her somehow. To my own surprise, I found that I still loved her, even after Stephen was born, though I was jealous of this handsome man, who had given nothing but grief out of all his great fortune and high position. When I was no longer angry or jealous, it then took a great deal of persuasion to make Martha understand that she could still be loved - that I could love her, and that I could accept and love the boy as well. She finally accepted me - when Stephen was almost one year old - and did me the honour of becoming my wife." The look he turned on Mrs Hobart was so filled with tender feeling that no reproach or sarcasm could possibly be attached to his words.
Mrs Hobart spoke again, her voice steady now that the worst had been told. "Please don't think Mr Hobart too forgiving towards me. I felt guilt the whole time, and little pleasure, even before the dreadful consequence became clear. I had been so flattered and tempted by that man's words - I do not think I really felt attached to him - that I was willing to do anything he asked, even something I knew to be very wrong. I blamed no one but myself, and resigned myself to live alone with Stephen for the rest of my life. I have received far better than I deserved." Mrs Hobart turned on her husband the most loving smile Beth thought she had ever seen, though it was but briefly evident. "Even once we were married, though, all was not as perfect as I had almost come to believe. We both wanted Stephen to have brothers and sisters. After having become with a first child so easily, I thought surely there would come one child after another. But it was not so. Two, four, and then eight years went by; I felt sure that it was a punishment for my earlier sin. Then Julia finally came, and Phoebe, and we felt very much blessed. I feel the most fortunate of women, Miss Beth, in my husband and all three children. Despite the temptation I allowed myself to fall into, I was shown mercy by so many." By this time, Mrs Hobart had tears of joy coursing down her face as she turned once again to her husband and leaned into his embracing arm.
"You have been a most devoted wife, my dear, and the best of mothers." From the loving smile given his wife, the draper's face changed to compassion as he turned to Beth. "We could not help but notice this morning, Miss Beth, and, of course, we understood your need for new clothes. We also could not help but hear what Miss Goldsmith and Mrs Gilbert said, and we are sorry for it. What you have done is not for them to judge - I am sure you have already judged your own conduct. Please know that, if at any time you have need of anything, we would be pleased to help you."
Mrs Hobart leaned forward eagerly, drying her tears with the large handkerchief her husband had given her, "Oh, yes! You may need help with sewing your dress, Miss Beth. I do not think you would care to go to Miss Goldsmith now, but I would be glad to help, though I do not sew as well as she."
Mrs Taylor, bearing a tea tray dangerously crowded with teapot and teacups, plates and cake - as if the good lady had divined that strong refreshment would be needed - entered the room in time to hear her friend's last words. "Nonsense! All of your needlework is exquisite, Martha - you are simply far too modest!" At a glance she had taken in the situation: The crisis was past. Mrs Hobart and Beth, though clearly overwrought, were becoming calmer. Mr Hobart sat as a pillar of affable strength, as was his wont in any crisis, whether within his family or within his large circle of acquaintances. Mrs Taylor had been forewarned of the coming conversation by Mrs Hobart's hurried words at their arrival and had then understood the reason for Beth's distress throughout the evening. She had left the three alone long enough to ensure time for the needed revelation and for some measure of recovery.
Mrs Hobart flushed in inarticulate pleasure as her husband seconded their friend's praise. "Joanna is quite right, my dear. Your sewing would compare favorably with Miss Goldsmith's at any time, should there be a competition for such an accomplishment."
"I think, between us, and perhaps with Miss Rose's help, if you will allow it - she is very deft at sewing buttonholes and hems, my dear, though you might not credit it - we will be able to finish this gown very quickly." With these words, Mrs Taylor once again pulled out the pattern in which she had tried to interest Beth earlier. Tea and biscuits disappeared rapidly amidst the animated discussion that ensued, to which Mr Hobart - much to Beth's surprise and amusement - contributed some of the most practical suggestions.
Chapter 8, Part 3 ~ A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew
John Blevins had returned from his excursion to Bath by way of Auldbridge and was sanguine, indeed, at the promising outcome of his mission. Young Samuel was now ensconced at Auldbury Hall. His former lowly circumstances notwithstanding, he had been awed neither by the imposing house nor by its seemingly endless grounds. Outwardly indifferent - the boy was unwilling to allow that he might find his new situation an improvement over the old one - his eyes unwittingly betrayed his pleasure at his surroundings. Wherever he looked, he found scenes to pique his interest. In fact, young Master Pickens seemed inclined, at the earliest opportunity, to disappear - to explore the delightful new setting in which he now found himself. Despite his recent habit of upsetting and assisting wealthy gentlemen - relieving them of their valuables in the process - he was not daunted at his first meeting with Lord Auldbury. Despite Samuel's answering to no one in recent memory, Stephen Hobart's casual yet firm manner as teacher and overseer appeared to suit Samuel. By the time John left the Hall, the boy was evidently resigned to obedience to these two men. Whether he would learn to obey and respect other persons and to become part of the fabric of life in this bucolic corner of Surrey was yet to be seen.
Upon Mr Blevins' return to London, messages had been waiting from both Tim and Mr Scribney. Surprised at the latter's request for a visit at his earliest convenience - couched in terms suggesting some urgency - John had nevertheless chosen to meet with the younger man first, as Tim's news - if he had been successful in his forays - might in any case require a meeting with Mr Scribney. Today, John was once again on his way to the glass-enclosed eyrie of the artist. As he entered the building on Tupenny Alley and began his ascent, the noxious odors seemed somehow less objectionable than at his previous visits. That may have been due more to John's mood of optimism, resulting largely from the contents of his pockets, than to any actual change in the fumes themselves. As if anticipating Mr Blevins' arrival at that very moment, the old gentleman greeted his guest at the top of the stairs. He inquired after John's health and that of Lord Auldbury with his customary calm, though there seemed to be an air of agitation underlying it. As soon as both men were comfortably seated, Mr Scribney astonished John with his directness, speaking immediately and to the point.
"Perhaps you may remember, Mr Blevins, that I recognized something about the forged notes you and Mr Scoggins brought on your last visit. Something about the crafting of them seemed familiar, but I could not place my memories. While at Auldbury, the same familiarity nagged at me, especially in connection with one particular guest. I will not bore you with the details of how - in my mind - I revisited all my past travels and associations, trying to recall the precise circumstances to fit my vague feelings. You may also recall that I had met all the gentlemen on the list you brought me - save one. Seeing that man at last, I realized I had seen him before, but not by way of any formal meeting or introduction; he most likely did not recognize me. Suffice it to say that I do indeed know the man, but not as I had heard of him by name here in England and as he was made known to me at Auldbury Hall. This gentleman had been pointed out to me in France - some years ago - as a brilliant young artist, a prodigy, in fact - a native of that country. The name mentioned at the time was Louis Chasson, but here, I believe, he is known as Mr Lewis Chase."
In a deep, soundless sigh, John let out the breath he had been holding. Another piece of the puzzle had now fallen into place, joining seamlessly with Mr Grahame's tale and that of Tim's comely young girl at Watier's. Though John and Mr Scribney had not thought to find the artist himself among their suspects, it seemed that, contrary to their expectations, he was indeed one of those nine men.
Mr Scribney looked searchingly at John. "Is this information of any assistance to you? Does it fit with what you have been learning? Is it what you had expected or hoped for? You had sent me word that you had found something of interest as well - I hope I have not spoiled your news or any case that you may have been piecing together." The queries were become anxious, as his guest remained motionless and silent. Touched and amused by this unwonted eagerness, John hastened to reassure the old gentleman.
"No - not at all, sir. If I did not answer immediately, it is only because of my great relief. What you have told me fits perfectly into the pattern that is now coming together - and coming together very satisfactorily, I must say. I do have with me several things of especial interest to you and of which I would be most grateful to have your opinion. I am now certain that among them will be proof of a sort we may act on." John pulled out a collection of papers on which were notes, sketches and drawings of various sorts - mostly those he had gathered during his time at Auldbury, from guests who had given him - however unwittingly - a sample of their artistic talent or, at the least, of their writing hands. He ordered them in a particular way, then gave them over to Mr Scribney.
That gentleman - in conspicuous contrast to the maddeningly methodical manner in which he had previously looked over John's offerings - rapidly leafed through the assortment, frowning or smiling at some few. With the last piece, he stopped short. Returning the rest to John and bringing out his glass, he scrutinized the small scrap of paper carefully, from one frayed edge, clearly torn, to the other, thin and browned. He glanced up to find Mr Blevins looking at him questioningly, yet with a tentative smile. The young man was confident that this small exemplar would not contradict the assumptions and facts now being tightly woven together to his own satisfaction.
"I see. You are quite right, Mr Blevins. If this is by the hand of Mr Chase, it will do quite nicely as proof. I am sure not one expert in one hundred would deny that the hand responsible for this was the same one that created the plates for the forged notes." The mild eyes twinkled at John. "This was not personally or freely given, was it? I would hazard a guess that the man did not intend it to be seen at all; it would seem he neglected to ensure that his fire burned completely. A great negligence on his part, or on the part of a servant. I would not wish to be in the shoes of that servant, should such carelessness be traced to him."
John's smile threatened to split his face. "Carelessness that may send the man to the gallows and save others from the same fate. Shall we call it criminal carelessness?"
"Providential carelessness, rather," Mr Scribney smiled thoughtfully, as he returned the scrap of paper.
John pocketed it with deliberation. "It must have been a great exception to his habitual care. This piece was exceedingly difficult to secure, sir. Mr Chase left absolutely nothing at Auldbury; his rooms, his wastebaskets, his grates yielded nothing larger than the head of a pin. And in other ways - excepting one - he was just as cautious. He guarded his speech with scrupulous attention to each word. What his true opinions or interests might be, I could not tell you - he changed them to suit his company, as I am sure you yourself must have noticed. As for a sample from his hand, no matter the circumstances or the inducement, he could not be persuaded to render the smallest trifle on paper - not even his own name. His great interest in music may have been his undoing; only then did he speak at all unguardedly - and so did he raise Lord Auldbury's suspicions. Another circumstance drew our attention to him as well, but if it were not for what Tim found here in London, we would have nothing material to connect him with our investigation. Tim is very proud of his find, though it took him a fortnight to secure, as well as this companion piece." Reaching a hand to his pocket, John triumphantly retrieved a piece of metal.
The metal was examined as thoroughly as the paper had been. "Well done, Mr Blevins - well done, indeed. My highest compliments to Mr Scoggins - he can justly be proud of his work. This is ample proof, not only of artistic ability but of criminal intent, unless the gentleman can somehow explain why he has had in his possession - I assume it was in his possession? - a worn engraving plate for a five pound note of the Bank of England - a plate, moreover, not officially commissioned or sanctioned by said Bank."
"You are sure it is the work of the man you knew as Louis Chasson?"
"Yes, quite sure. Work such as his is unique. Msr Chasson has always been known for the meticulous detail of his engravings and paintings. It is a pity that he has also a reputation for selling his considerable talents to whoever will pay the most for them. His is not immorality of conscience but rather complete amorality. The object or subject of his work - whether laudable or reprehensible - is never of any consequence to him. He has done magnificent legitimate work whenever it has paid him to do so. Perfection of art, of technique, is his sole consideration, to the exclusion of all else; once the work has left his hands, it no longer interests him. But I have never heard of him attempting an ongoing fraud of this sort. That is why his name did not even enter my mind when first you came to me - and he was rumoured to be living on the continent. I am most curious as to whether, in this venture, he is working independently, or at the behest of another. One can only wonder what it is he would feel sufficient compensation for the threat of the gallows."
"From what Tim has told me, it would seem that the gentleman is working alone, but we are not yet certain. There is little reason to believe that any other - among this group of men at least - is involved. However, I will not turn a blind eye to any reasonable evidence that may still come to light. Mr Chase - as I can not help but think of him - and his house have been under constant watch for several weeks now, as well as the gaming club through which he has distributed his most recent artistic efforts. If he meets with anyone else to whom he is answerable, or with whom he is an equal partner in this perfidy, I expect we shall soon find out."
Passing a particular corner later that same day, John's brows rose the tiniest fraction at the sight that met his eyes. A few minutes later, having walked a few hundred yards farther, John was able to express a more vociferous reaction. "What on earth has happened, Tim? You look as though you'd been dragged behind a horse down the Oxford road!" He eyed with great concern Tim's bedraggled and torn clothing, the dirt ground into face and hands, the swollen nose, and the purplish bruises forming around both eyes.
"Oh, I'm all right, Guv'nor. Nothin' a few days an' some water won't cure." Tim had lost none of his cocky assurance; he seemed even more pleased with himself than usual, though his grin was rather lopsided, due to a swelling and tear at one corner of his mouth. "All I can say is, lucky it was today an' not the other day, when I gave you those little trophies! I hope they were satisfactory, Guv'nor?"
Mr Blevins gave the briefest of summaries of his meeting with Mr Scribney, touching on that man's admiration for Tim's persistence and enterprise.
"That's all right then." Sensing the disturbed impatience mounting in his employer, Tim hastened to explain. "Seems Mr Egerton's gettin' a little edgy, tho' I thought I'd been careful enough. Or maybe somethin' or someone else has him nervous. Anyway, I was comin' out of the club this mornin' - not usin' the reg'lar way o' leavin', o' course - an' it bein' not much after four or five - just afore sunrise. Some fellows were waitin' to talk with me, as it were, askin' why I was there an' what it was I was wantin'. They looked me over an' found some papers in my pockets, or what used to be my pockets," glancing down ruefully at the tattered remains of his coat. "No elegance or delicacy at all in their way o' workin', I'm afraid." Looking up again, he added quickly, "my own papers, that is, sir, with my own notes. We had a little chat about what it was I was doin' there, an' what it was I'd written."
"And?" John prompted, as Tim stopped to shift position, grimacing slightly as he attempted a crooked wink, but grinning all the more widely nonetheless.
"Oh, I told 'em exactly what it was: the shoppin' list the missus'd given me. Right there, I says - plain's the nose on my face, just what she'd told me to write: two loaves o' bread, a dozen eggs, some fish - fresh mind, nothin' old an' smelly, she said - potatoes, onions, an' some cheese if it weren't too dear. The men took some convincin' - I had to tell 'em I'd never hear the end of it if I didn't bring home exactly what was wanted - made out like the missus had me proper terrified. Seein' as they couldn't read otherwise, they let me go after I told 'em I always came by this way - pokin' my head in here an' there - to see what the more privileged folk might have left for a poor bugger like me. Tisn't my fault if folks leave their doors or windows open. A proper invitation I call that. Anyways, I haven't seen hide not hair of 'em since - an' you can be sure I was double careful after that sort o' surprise." Tim's smirk of complacent satisfaction in the outcome of the encounter was not in the least disguised or diminished by his battered looks.
Despite the discomforts John was sure his friend was suffering, he could not help but be relieved that nothing worse had happened. His worried frown slowly gave way to a grin of his own at the thought of Tim explaining the content of his papers. Considering the complete indecipherability of Tim's scribbles, it was not surprising that the men had had no choice but to believe him, as they certainly would have had no means of contradicting him. "Were you able to find anything to add to our collection, Tim, before your adventures began?"
"Yes, sir - quite a lot! Most all of it's in my head. There was nothin' that important in my own notes today. Just give me some paper an' someplace quiet, an' I'll get down to it."
John took Tim at his word. A clean room, provision for hot water, bandages, fresh clothes and a plentiful quantity of food and drink were followed by an equally liberal supply of paper and ink, with pens and nibs to spare. By the end of the day, Tim's boast was handsomely born out, and not a figure or letter had been lost despite his morning's misadventure. Mr Blevins found himself in possession of several lists: the entire membership roster of Watier's, detailed lists of persons - whether members or guests - in attendance on any given night during the past year, and a final paper with the names of gentlemen who had a share in ownership of the club. Among these last, a name that John had expected - that of Mr Lewis Chase - did not appear. Listed as one of the more generous investors, however, was a name John had not expected to see: Sir Daniel Eckington. In light of the gentleman's financial troubles - and despite Lord Auldbury's belief to the contrary - Mr Blevins' suspicions regarding this man were once again aroused.
The attendance records - in addition to names, dates and figures - contained curious symbols next some of the names. Together with Tim's earlier information about the appearances of forged bills, the figures and symbols revealed - or so it seemed to Mr Blevins - a most interesting pattern: winners and losers at the gaming tables and, among the former, those to whom forged notes had been given as part or all of their winnings.
The membership list, complete with residences in town and directions for other properties, made for another bit of interesting reading - especially when reduced to those who, at some time or another, had left with notes not distributed by any official bank. A few of the gentlemen were known to him, Sir Isaac Feldridge among them. John read through these particular names once, then, unconsciously imitating Mr Scribney, read through them again more slowly, silently mouthing each name. Most of the names meant nothing to him. He would consult with Sir John Murdock and old case files to see if some history, good or bad, could be attached to any.
Towards the end of the list, he stopped. This was one name he would personally investigate, one person he would see face-to-face, one gentleman he would take great pains to have speech with. Of course, it was likely he would turn out not to be between five and twenty and thirty years old, well-looking, with pleasing manners. Most likely he would be nearing sixty, stout, balding and rude. Nevertheless, the coincidences remained: the coincidence of the residence, the coincidence of the date, the coincidence of the name. "Positively providential, as Mr Scribney is so fond of saying," murmured John. With Eliza Williams never long absent from his thoughts, John Blevins was looking forward to making the acquaintance of this man with an estate in the south of England. Whether he was currently to be found in London, or whether Mr Blevins would be obliged to travel again - to Somersetshire - Mr John Thomas Barrow would take great care to meet Mr John Willoughby, of Combe Magna.
Chapter 8, Part 4
At one end of Auldbridge, a venerable old oak spread its branches over a goodly space. As sturdy as a boulder and as broad as a wagon, the massive trunk amply supported wide-arching, leafy boughs offering safe nests on high, for living things with wings to fly or claws to cling, and a cool place of respite beneath, for creatures of more earthbound cast. Its size testified to its history and age. It had lived many score years - had seen many score persons come and go - had provided shade for even a passing king or two. On this particular day, however, the benches placed round this aged giant were deserted, save for one person.
Miss Rose was growing impatient. Near the baker's shop but hidden from the High Street traffic, the bench on which she sat was quietly and pleasantly situated. Agreeable as she found it, she had been there more than an hour already, and she was become exceedingly tired of sitting so long on one spot. She and Miss Ross had walked through the village together on several errands. Towards the end of these, Miss Ross had been urgently called to a farmhouse, just along a lane nearby, to attend an old man. She had been so certain that she would not be long that her friend had decided to wait on the High Street rather than accompany her. Either the old man had been more gravely ill than the nurse had anticipated or she had lost track of the time in exchanging courtesies with others at home. There was hardly a family in Auldbridge with whom Miss Ross could not talk for hours, so well as she knew them all, and there was hardly a family who would not press her to stay and enjoy their hospitality after she had performed her services. These services, the cheer and competence with which she rendered them, and her readiness to enter into each family's interests had made her a favorite with all in the parish.
"I should have known better," sighed Miss Rose. "She will likely be pressed to stay for dinner and then for tea and supper, and she will never notice the time going by." She stood to stretch cramped muscles, shaking her head over this particular absentmindedness of her friend, which seemed never to annoy anyone but the woman with whom she shared a house. "I daresay she will have completely forgotten that I am sitting here, with no way home now." She sighed again and felt beside her for the two baskets loaded with purchases they had made together. Reassured as to their presence, and deciding there was nothing for it, she resumed her seat behind the great bole that shielded her from the notice of most passersby. She soon heard two very familiar voices.
"...why he's even older than Papa!"
"How can he be so old? He has not one gray hair yet, though even Papa has a few, and Mr Gilbert has more than a few. And such nice, thick hair he has, too, not thinning on top like Mr Jones."
"Well, you may moon about him as much as you like - you'll not catch me looking at any such man, not now or ever. He is such a stick in the mud. He's never jolly; he never jokes. He's just polite and quiet. If I ever marry, my husband will at least laugh and be livelier than an undertaker."
"You have absolutely no taste, Phoebe Hobart! Mr Burke is kind and clever, not a stick in the mud at all! He is a simply perfect gentleman. And that is the kind of man I intend to marry - maybe not Mr Burke, maybe someone even better and kinder and handsomer, if I have the chance."
"And what chance do you have here in Auldbridge? It's no use hoping for some Prince or Knight to come by, like in a fairy story. And no matter what airs you give yourself, Julia, or however much you wish, Mr Burke would never have the likes of you. Besides, I heard Mama say he would never marry, something about his past, someone who broke his heart--"
Phoebe's comments - heartless and artless - were interrupted by a scathing retort from her sister. As Julia proceeded to remonstrate - with her most righteous elder-sister air - for Phoebe's listening to private conversations, the girls' voices dwindled to an unintelligible murmur.
Miss Rose, the colour rather higher in her face than could be accounted for by the heat or by her recent exertions, turned her head in the direction of the girls' footsteps. When they had faded entirely away, she stood again restlessly. Carefully keeping within reach of the benches, walking slowly, she began to circle the great tree.
Samuel T. Pickens was walking along the High Street in Auldbridge, enjoying a temporary freedom from oversight. Though outwardly calm and easy, inwardly he was elated. He had received permission to wander about the village a full hour after completing a commission to the blacksmith. It was the first such responsibility and the first such liberty he had been given since his arrival at Auldbury Hall. He had inferred - while accepting his instructions from Stephen - that prompt obedience in this instance might win him more such opportunities in the future.
Although the discipline of sleeping and rising at given times and answering to someone other than himself was not yet much to his liking, Samuel was developing a partiality for his new circumstances. Despite what it cost him in independence, there was something to be said for regular meals, for clean, well-fitting clothes and for a clean, dry bed. There was even something to be said for being part of an establishment of some sort, where one was looked after.
The boy was eagerly absorbing everything to do with equine and canine creatures at the Hall, and his learning had been rewarded with praise. His respect for Lord Auldbury and Stephen had increased greatly after seeing the enviable ease and elegance with which they commanded the well-bred animals in the well-kept stables. For other persons, whether in the stables, the fields or the great house itself, he had come to show a grudging courtesy when it was made clear to him that nothing less would be deemed acceptable. On the whole, he preferred to be and to work alone. Habits of solitude and self-sufficiency, formed during impressionable years, were not easily abandoned. In his daily tasks, no matter the difficulty - whether cleaning out stalls, whether moving heavy bales of hay, sacks of oats or pails of water, whether polishing stiff leather or grooming horses that dwarfed his own thin, fifty inches - he worked most willingly when working alone. This simple errand of running to the village and back was unexpected - and especially to his liking.
His errand completed, he sauntered along whistling tunelessly; his quick eyes darted here and there, noticing everything about him: persons hurrying or ambling about their business, a small woman walking slowly 'round a tree nearby, neat buildings and houses, and signs indicating crafts or services of various sorts, signs which, though he could not read, he could guess the meaning of.
Passing the bow window of the baker's shop, he stopped a moment to stare and sniff at the sweets there arrayed. So engrossed was he in contemplating these toothsome delights (never a part of his former meager diet unless rescued from a trash heap or tossed from a passing carriage), so engrossed was Miss Rose in her own thoughts nearby, that neither boy nor woman noticed the small body streaking down the street - until it was too late. Each in midstride, dog and woman collided with some force, the dog having run determinedly, with a long rope trailing from his collar. The animal, close to the ground by nature, survived the collision tolerably well and suffered only the loss of his freedom as the rope became entangled with Miss Rose's skirts. Miss Rose came off much the worse of the pair. Caught unprepared, off balance, she fell heavily to the ground and sat stunned.
Samuel, alerted at last by the near sound of pounding paws, turned in time to see the collision and darted over to render what help he could. He reached under Miss Rose's arms and, as she was neither very tall nor very stout, was able to help her quite well. However, despite his now-honourable intentions, these particular circumstances were too familiar. As the lady regained her feet, Samuel's hands - unbidden and from instinct alone - reached in the direction of reticule and pockets. He snatched his hands back at the last moment, but found one already in the woman's small but unexpectedly firm grasp.
"I thank you for your assistance - of one sort - young man, but I do not in the slightest appreciate your taking advantage of my misfortune. What is it you were looking for?" she demanded. The lad struggled to free himself, but found his wrist as firmly trapped by the delicate hand as a fly in a deceptively fragile web. "That's no way to behave," continued the woman. "I expect you to remember that, or your parents shall hear of it."
Samuel looked up through his fringe of orange hair into a stern face looking down - a face no longer young, but alert and clever, with clear hazel eyes that seemed to look through rather than at him. How astonishing! For only the second time in his successful career, he had been caught. Mr Blevins finding him out so quickly might have been expected, especially when once one knew his work, but this woman... He felt some faint stirrings of respect, even as he rebelled against the assumed authority in her tone and against the prison of her grip. "T'ain't none o' yer business wot I does! Lemme go!"
As she heard the voice, Miss Rose spoke in surprise, "But I do not recognize you at all! Who are you? You must be new in Auldbridge - but no matter. Your parents will not be best pleased if I must tell them of your bad conduct and your rudeness. Now then, some answers - if you please."
Before the boy could reply to his unusual captor, to repeat that who he was was none of her concern, another voice was heard: one long familiar to Miss Rose and becoming so to Samuel.
"Good day, Miss Rose. I see you have met our newcomer." Stephen came closer and took in the teacher's twisted and dusty skirts. "Why, what has happened, Miss Rose? Have you met with a mishap? May I assist you in some way?" Noticing the boy's hand being so firmly held, he added more sharply, "Is something amiss? Has Samuel been misbehaving?"
"I in't done nuthin'! Trooly I in't!" Unfamiliar feelings of guilt and shame welled up in the lad - unfairly so, for neither had he succeeded in mischief nor had he intended mischief when he had run to help the lady. Fear was added to these feelings, as he fully expected to be sent away from the Hall at the first bad report of him - and this woman showed no inclination to mercy or understanding.
"So this is Samuel." Having heard a little about the new stableboy at the Hall, Miss Rose felt her interest quickening. Trusting to Stephen for any needed discipline or pursuit, she let Samuel's hand go and intervened before Stephen had time to question the lad further. "It is quite all right, Stephen. He has done nothing but help me to my feet again when this rascal upset me," indicating the animal crouched silently behind her, still caught fast by the tangled line. She addressed the now-astonished but wary lad. "Perhaps you could untangle this pup, Samuel, before he takes it into his head to drag me through the village. I hope this dog is not one of your charges, Stephen. I could not say he is much of a credit to you at present."
Recognizing the culprit all too well, Stephen frowned. "He is not one of my charges at the Hall, but I can not disclaim all responsibility, I am afraid. This is Puck, the girls' dog. I am very sorry this has happened, Miss Rose. I promise you it will not happen again, though my solution will likely not please Phoebe and Julia. Perhaps it is a good thing I came along just now. Samuel, mind you hold onto him tightly. I don't want him running about loose again."
"Yes, sir. But yer din't 'ave ter foller me, sir," Samuel's tone was reproachful, hurt. "I weren't goin' ter be late. I promised."
"So you did. I was not following you, Samuel. After you had already gone, his lordship asked me to come to the village on another errand. Although you have not had your full hour, you might do me a personal service. Will you take this scoundrel to the stables and lock him in an empty stall?" The boy, mollified by the explanation, honored by the request, and rather eager to be gone from the presence of this formidable woman, nodded his assent. He had already judged the dog to be a fine young example of his kind and just the lively sort he most liked. Having freed both Miss Rose and Puck, he began winding the long rope into a more manageable length, rubbing at the animal's head and ears from time to time.
About to continue on his own way, Stephen looked around once more, surprised. "Are you here alone, Miss Rose?"
"It would seem so. I came with Miss Ross earlier, but she was called away. If I might impose on a few minutes of your time, Stephen, I would greatly appreciate it if you would see me home."
"Of course I will, Miss Rose. Are these baskets yours, here on the bench?" On receiving an affirmative reply, he picked them up in one hand and with the other gently grasped the teacher's arm.
Before they could take a single step, Stephen's attention was drawn some distance ahead. He called suddenly to Samuel, who had turned toward a side path - the shortest way to the Hall. "Wait a bit, Samuel. I am afraid we will have a storm to weather, and rather earlier than I had thought. I see Phoebe and Julia coming," he added, for Miss Rose's benefit.
Samuel turned back to see two small girls hurrying towards them, with a stout man following behind. He heard Stephen sigh, "Well, at least I shall have some support from Papa," and saw him square his shoulders and brace himself as if for battle. The boy noticed that Miss Rose - having taken her two baskets back from Stephen - had withdrawn to the nearest bench, a mere yard behind them. Despite his remaining wariness of her, he moved to stand near her, leading the dog beside him.
Julia and Phoebe had found Puck gone when they went out to take him some scraps of food and had frantically begun searching for him. Both girls knew well how thin everyone's forbearance was wearing with the mischievous antics of their beloved dog; they had hoped to search him out before much damage could be done. Not having been able to find the animal in their yard or in its immediate vicinity, their father had reluctantly joined in the hunt through the village. They had seen the small group under the oak and were going to see if some information might be forthcoming, going, at the same time, with the unwelcome thought that the truant himself might be responsible for the gathering. As they neared, they noticed Miss Rose, sitting quietly, and the strange boy standing next her, firmly holding their dog. Their curiosity over the circumstances bringing these persons together waned in the face of their brother's stern expression, and their last footsteps lagged. Their father caught them up as they stood before their brother with heads bowed and with hands twisting apprehensively in their skirts. Mr Hobart greeted Stephen and Miss Rose with his customary cheer while the girls mumbled nervous how-d'ye-dos and awaited their brother's first words. The dreaded words were not long in coming.
"Girls, what did I tell you about this rope?" pointing out the frayed end.
"That it must be tightly tied," whispered the older girl, not daring to look up, her hands twisting ever more tightly in her apron, so tightly that a rent appeared in the thin fabric.
"And was it?"
"We thought it was - honestly we did!" Phoebe looked up as she answered, ready to add an explanation, but the words died in her throat at what she read in her brother's countenance. "We're so very sorry..." was all she managed to whisper before her eyes dropped earthward once more.
"Apparently it was not tied well enough. Puck was able to escape. I do not know where else he might have been, but he just now ran straight into Miss Rose, throwing her to the ground."
"Oh, no! Are you all right, ma'am?"
"Miss Rose! Are you hurt?"
As the teacher reassured her young students - "I am quite all right, girls, though probably a little dirty" - the girls rushed to her and fussed about her, brushing off her skirts as best they could and rescuing hairpins that had been loosened in the fall. After being thanked and assured once more of no great damage done, Julia and Phoebe returned to stand before their brother, whose lecture was clearly not yet finished.
"Miss Rose assures us that she is well, but she might have been badly hurt. This must not happen again. I am afraid you will be obliged to give the dog up, girls. Perhaps Mr Grahame might still take him - then you would see him and perhaps be able to play with him. You would know he is well taken care of."
Outcries from both girls were quickly hushed as their father concurred. "We agreed on your responsibilities. Stephen has been generous with his time, and he has been very patient - as have not a few of our neighbours and friends. The dog might have caused Miss Rose a grave injury, or he might have frightened a horse and caused a wagon or carriage to be upset. I am very sorry for your disappointment, but Stephen is quite right. There is no other choice."
Stephen, though grateful for this support, felt that his father had rather the easier time of it, as he stood behind the girls and did not - as Stephen himself did - look down into two faces, imploring eyes brimming with tears. He was torn between keeping his word in a matter of discipline, as was expected of him with the boys under him at the Hall, and bitterly disappointing the two sisters who were so dear to him. A movement by the culprit himself, quickly checked by Samuel, caught Stephen's eye. He thoughtfully eyed the two young vagabonds, boy and dog, at this moment looking very much alike.
"Perhaps there might yet be one other choice. I have asked Samuel to take Puck to the stables at the Hall. I still think it best he do so. But," and at the sound of this most hopeful of words, the girls' faces lifted, "we will not find him a new home - on one condition, mind you. Samuel will begin to teach this scalawag the manners he ought to have learned by now. You will come for half an hour each day, to learn from Samuel how you are to manage the dog - and how to tie a knot so he can not loosen it. In one month, if you can show that you have learned to restrain him properly, he may return to you - providing that Papa and Mama agree. If not, he goes elsewhere."
Phoebe and Julia looked mistrustfully at the boy holding their dog. They did not like the thought of relinquishing their beloved Puck to anyone, but if the only alternative would be to give him up altogether... They turned as one to look up at their father.
The draper, looking over the boy, had some private doubts about the suitability of his daughters' associating with a lad unknown to him, one who looked as mischievous as the dog itself. Yet, if Stephen put such trust in him, and if Lord Auldbury had accepted him... Before the day was out, this father would make it his business to find out more about the lad. A visit to Mr Johnson and Mr Carter - who, between them, knew everything about every person and every doing on the estate - would be in order. Finally, he nodded. "I think your mother will agree, as will I, if you keep faithfully to the bargain. You must pay close attention to Samuel, girls. Perhaps we may accompany him now as he returns to the Hall, so that you may become already a little acquainted."
Stephen, realizing that Samuel was not yet formally known to any person present, made the necessary introductions. He was relieved to see that the lad was, for the moment, behaving as well as might be wished.
Samuel had listened to the entire proceedings with some interest, curious to see what type of punishment would be meted out to the girls on account of the dog's mischief. He was not so sure he would like the result for himself - he would have much preferred to have full charge of the dog without the responsibility of dealing with anyone else, to say nothing of two girls - but he wisely refrained from voicing his opinion.
After final apologies and farewells to Miss Rose, the two girls and their father took their leave and quitted the High Street with Samuel and Puck.
The four-person and one-dog procession slowly made its way to the Hall stables. Mr Hobart and Samuel walked ahead, the boy leading Puck as easily as if he had trained the dog from its birth. The draper made several overtures to the lad, but answers to his questions were discouragingly short.
The girls followed at a small distance, unenthusiastic in manner, uneasy in spirit. Though chastened and subdued at the unpleasant turn events had taken, Phoebe, after a time of conscience-stricken thought, was emboldened to put a question to her father. "Papa, do you think Miss Rose was much hurt?"
Julia, too, had had the same thought. "I couldn't bear to think it was Puck's fault if she should be badly hurt!"
Glad to see what was uppermost in his daughters' minds, Mr Hobart was most willing to reassure them but was himself not certain of the truth of the matter. He turned to Samuel, who, he gathered, had been a witness to the whole incident.
"What do you think, Samuel? Did Miss Rose fall very badly? Did she recover quickly?"
Samuel shook his head in answer to the draper's second question and gave a longer reply than to any question posed thus far. "Naw - she sat stunned-like, but got up quick 'n steady 'has I 'elped 'er. Coulda ben worse. Yer dog coulda 'hupset someone old er sickly er lame."
"It couldn't have been worse than Miss Rose! She was all alone today." Phoebe turned on the boy with resentment at his seeming to take the matter so lightly.
"Wot d'yer mean? So she was alone. She 'hain't old ner sick. She's spry 'n steady on 'er feet, 'n strong!" thinking of the hand that had so firmly captured and held his. "She prob'ly din't need my 'elp."
"That's all you know - 'course she needed your help. She's blind! Even if she had gotten up all right, she wouldn't have been able to go anywhere, not even far enough to sit on a bench or ask for help."
Samuel halted so suddenly that the dog was pulled back onto its haunches and gave a yelp in protest. " 'Ow can she be blind? She was standin', 'n walkin' by 'erself! She 'heven-- er, talked wit' me!"
"Just because she's blind doesn't mean she's lame, too! If she was walking, she was probably near something she could feel. She can walk really well then, like in her house or in her garden, or in our shop. But she's not deaf and dumb, or stupid. She doesn't need her eyes to talk, and she can do lots of things well. She's very clever - she's our schoolteacher--"
"She does sums in her head--"
"And can recite long passages from history, or from poetry or plays--"
"You should see her sew a buttonhole, or make biscuits and tea--"
"Or even ride a horse. She rides so well," added Phoebe enviously. "Some day I shall ride well, too."
" 'Hif she's blind, 'ow can she do anythin'? She must be 'hable ter see, least a little," insisted the amazed lad. With stark disbelief on his face he had listened to the girls interrupting one another in eager boast of the woman. A blind woman - able to do such things? A blind woman - a teacher? How was this to be believed? Samuel was sure that the girls saw him as an ignorant boy, new to the village, and therefore a person to be teased and misled. He looked up at Mr Hobart, sure of seeing a sign in that face to confirm his suspicions of a trick or, at the very least, gross exaggeration on the part of such small girls. Instead, the man soberly confirmed his younger daughter's assertion.
"Miss Rose is completely blind, Samuel. She can not see anything at all."
"Well 'ow can she ride, then? 'Ow can she teach? 'Hits impossible!"
"It's not impossible! She hasn't always been blind, silly!" retorted Phoebe. "She was already all grown and educated when she went blind. How old was she, Papa?"
"About twenty, I should think. But there's no need to call Samuel - or anyone else - silly, Phoebe, especially if you would like his help with your dog. How should Samuel know Miss Rose is blind simply by looking at her or speaking with her? You have known her all your lives, and she is the only blind person you have ever met, so you may think all who can not see are as capable as she, but she does far more than most can - even things that we who see can not do, some that you and Julia mentioned, for example. She is a remarkable, accomplished woman, but she has also been blessed by her circumstances, in knowing so much before she lost her sight, and in the friendship and help of Miss Ross, the woman with whom she shares a cottage."
Samuel, recognizing the sincerity of this testimony and tribute, was silenced. Stunned and unable, yet, to grasp that a small, helpless woman without the use of her eyes had caught him at his tricks where scores of strong, well-seeing persons had not so much as noticed his thievery, he could only shake his head as they resumed walking.
Chapter 8, Part 4 Continued ~ A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew
The anything-but-helpless object of Samuel's incredulous thoughts had been duly escorted to her cottage by Stephen. Although respecting his new station in life, Miss Rose still felt a special fondness for the tall young man who had once been a small boy, just such a one as Samuel with regards to a great liking for and a way with animals. Vividly remembering frequent escapades with assorted animals ten and more years ago - some with as disastrous results as the girls' dog - she was at times surprised when confronted by the maturity and gravity of this former pupil, who took his responsibilities seriously and sought to discharge them faithfully and well.
"Tell me truthfully, Miss Rose. What happened with Samuel? Your expression as I came upon you leads me to believe there was something more that you did not tell me. You need not fear that he will be treated overharshly, or be turned out except for some great transgression."
The teacher turned the questioning back on her questioner. "Tell me what you know of the lad, Stephen. I knew little more than that there was a new boy at the Hall and that his name was Samuel."
"Mr Brownleigh - Lord Auldbury's nephew who was here in August - brought him to us almost one month ago. I don't quite understand myself how his lordship's nephew made the acquaintance of such a boy - and in Bath of all places - but, however it happened, Mr Brownleigh seems to have taken a great liking to him, and developed an interest in his welfare. Samuel had been living in Bath - by his wits alone, apparently - for the last six years, ever since his mother died; I take it he never knew his father and has no other family. He is very fond of animals - fonder than of people, as far as I can judge. According to Mr Brownleigh, he trained at least one dog in Bath to do some very clever things. Lord Auldbury consented to have the boy brought here, so that he might live in a better situation and learn something useful. Since we know so little about him, his lordship was most particular that we watch him, and watch over him, carefully these first months. That is why I must know what really happened, Miss Rose. When I came upon the two of you, you had the very same expression on your face as I remember seeing after one of us had done something naughty."
"I might have guessed at some of his history. I will tell you, Stephen, but you must not punish the boy, for I believe he only did what - over many years - had become an instinct with him. I very much doubt he will do it again. He stopped himself, even before I caught him - and he did begin by coming to help me, with no intention of anything else, I am sure." As she briefly described the encounter, Stephen smiled suddenly, as humour at the lad's predicament replaced his concern about any terrible misconduct.
"Dear Miss Rose - our misdeeds rarely escaped your notice, did they? I should have warned Samuel before ever he set foot in the village." Stephen's voice was full of affectionate teasing. "Very well, I will trust your judgement. The boy has made good progress, so much so that I allowed him to come into the village alone today. I hope I shall not come to regret my decision, as I hope his lordship will not come to regret allowing the boy to come to Auldbury.
Several hours later, Miss Rose wearily left her parlour in response to a knock. It was the fourth time in the last hour she had been summoned from a comfortable chair - a chair, moreover, she was ever more loath to leave as she was now feeling the painful aftereffects of her intimate, unwelcome meeting with Puck. Even when refreshed and in health, she was not overly fond of answering a knock at the door; after twenty years she still felt all the disadvantage in not seeing who a visitor might be. This visitor was likely calling for Miss Ross - as all the others had been - and she was not yet returned from her morning's errand of mercy. With so many ailing folk come to seek the nurse out in the last few days, this was certainly the sickliest September in Auldbridge that Miss Rose could recall.
She opened the door. "Yes?" she asked, more impatiently than was her wont. "Who is it?"
The young boy standing on the doorstep reached up quickly to doff his cap, revealing a head freshly scrubbed and neatly combed. " 'Hit's me, Miss Rose - Samuel Pickens."
"Samuel? What has brought you here?"
"I came ter 'pologize. 'Hi'd no right ter be so disrespekful ter yoo."
The teacher was touched. Although she could not see the face, the tone was all deference and honest repentance. "You did no harm, Samuel - you stopped yourself before you did wrong. It was very kind of you to come to my rescue at all. After all, you did not know me. I did not thank you properly, either. But tell me - does Stephen know you are here? I would not like to think your apology to me will cause you a scolding or worse punishment later."
"Oh, yes'm. 'E knows. 'E as't me mos' partic'lar ter come. I came wit' Mr Burke."
"With-- Oh. Where--"
" 'E came ridin' Lyta, and I rode Minerva." The pride in the boy's voice at his part in this mission was unmistakable. " 'E's jus' fixin' 'er 'hup fer yoo."
"For me? Oh. But..."
The teacher's question was answered moments later by a voice rather deeper and from a good deal higher up than Samuel's had been. "Good day, Miss Rose. Please forgive us for coming without notice or leave, but his lordship asked particularly if you would be so good as to ride Minerva - today, if it suits you, or perhaps another day soon. It seems she has not been behaving well of late. Stephen suggested she might profit by a lesson from her favorite teacher, and Lord Auldbury requested that I accompany you, as Stephen can not be spared again today. The horses are ready; Samuel is holding them for us."
"Oh." Miss Rose was aware that she was rather over-using this one syllable, but she could not for the life of her bring loftier words or expressions to mind.
"Are you able to come now, or shall we leave you and come another time?"
"No! Rather - I... I should be very glad of an outing today. If you would but wait a few minutes more, I will make myself ready."
In a shorter time than seemed humanly possible, Miss Rose reappeared. As well as exchanging her gown for clothing more suitable for riding, she had laid aside her weariness. She came forward eagerly on Mr Burke's arm and greeted the small bay mare with a loving stroke along the glossy, arched neck. Samuel, still in doubt as to the complete truth of Phoebe's praise of Miss Rose's riding skills, watched in awe as the lady sprang lightly to the horse's back, with only the slightest assistance from the valet. He continued to watch wide-eyed as she gathered up the reins and settled herself, seeming not at all put out with this unanticipated interruption of her afternoon. A few words between valet and teacher, and the two horses moved off side by side, flanks close together.
Had she known of such interesting events - involving not only her especial friends, the Hobarts, and the newcomer she had yet to meet, but also two persons in whom she felt a keen romantic, proprietary interest - Beth would have been bitterly disappointed in having missed witnessing these happenings herself. Almost all had taken place too far away from Mr Burns' parlour window for her or Mr Burns to have noticed. Having been in the kitchen preparing tea as Puck raced by, Beth was in complete ignorance that a something with certain consequences had happened - a something, moreover, that would have been a most welcome distraction today.
Though her ignorance was complete, it was far from being blissful. Beth had begun the day in a reasonable frame of mind, but was now, in spirit, sunk low. She had met with some very cutting glances while on her noontime walk, though no one had dared turn glances into words in Miss Ross' respectable, formidable presence. The girl was returned to the Burns' home in two minds whether to continue walking about the village at all - and in one mind as to the dismal nature of all her future social prospects.
One outraged glare united with a number of contemptuous stares had provoked in the girl a brief anger. Anger had given way to a gloomy misery. She could have much better borne such a trial, such slights, were she being unjustly accused and condemned. There might be something redeeming or ennobling - even romantic - in such a circumstance, but just condemnation and judgement held in them nothing of romantic suffering. Despite the best complexion that could be put on her actions, they were entirely her own fault - she could lay the blame nowhere but at her own doorstep, at her own weak conscience, made weak by neglect. She had not been forced against her will; she had not been ignorant of what was expected of her, of what proper behaviour was.
If only she had it to do over again! Stolen in secret, a week in the company of her John, against all that her upbringing had taught her, could never make up for the months of uncertainty now behind her and the long years of dull drudgery looming before her. Why had she not suspected something lacking of true and proper feeling for her in John's insistence upon secrecy, in plans furtively made and carried out?
It had all started innocently enough. A meeting in the rain, on a lane rarely frequented by others, so removed from all dwellings as it was and on the way to nowhere of consequence or interest - her own private escape from the smothering oversight of Mrs Howell and the nonsensical twitterings of the several other girls boarding with her. Beth and John had literally run into one another under a great tree, each having dashed madly to seek shelter from a sudden cloudburst. He had put his arms about her to keep them both from tumbling to the ground.
The twenty minutes or so that it had rained had sufficed to exchange views on a multitude of topics: music, art, literature, their favorite dishes, their favorite diversions. He had then accompanied her most of the way home, taking his leave of her just out of sight of the rambling house where she and the others lived quiet, uneventful lives under the watchful care of this Mrs Howell, a woman whose own many children had grown and gone away.
Their first meeting had proved their tastes and interests the same; the next had served to convince Beth that this was a man worth knowing, a man for whom she could form an attachment without the least difficulty. He made himself agreeable, was able to converse upon any subject, and, not the least, paid her such marked and flattering attentions! Added to these were items most essential: he was handsome, with pleasing manners and a large fortune - or so it must be, for he spoke of an estate. Meeting such a man, in such a manner - Beth was sure it was a sign, one she was determined not to overlook or ignore. They met several times more along the forest paths she so enjoyed - meeting without intent, it seemed, on his part; for hers, Beth had soon begun keeping watch for him whenever she was walking. Never did they meet, however, where another soul could observe them - though Beth had not noticed this at the time and would have given it no thought if she had noticed. Only now, with time hanging heavily on her hands and stretching out daily as Mr Burns spent ever more time in sleep, had this inconsequential detail come to the forefront of her memories.
It had not been long before he broached the subject of an outing together - some travel, some pleasant diversion. The impropriety of such a plan - with no other person to accompany them, no permission sought from those who cared for her, no request by the gentleman to meet her family - never entered her mind, though a niggling, tiny thought, buried deep and sternly repressed when it struggled timidly for notice, told her that all was not quite as it should be. She had been ignorant of the true nature of a proper attachment.
All these months later, she saw how Hannah and Stephen did not sneak about, but were openly acknowledged lovers, approved by all their family and friends... That was one mark of a proper attachment, Beth thought with a new, refined clarity, brought to the surface by the fiery trial she was enduring. A proper attachment - one born of more than the mere attraction of good looks and a mutual admiration of Cowper's poetry and Scott's tales. A proper attachment - whether ending in a prosperous marriage, or even in tragedy...
Through conversations with Mr Burns, and from small bits of conversations overheard and remembered, Beth had pieced together a romance between Miss Rose and Mr Burke. How sad a story it was - or, at least, the one Beth had imagined was certainly sad. Whether denial of an attachment and a long separation had been for ultimate good or evil, Beth could not judge, but at least there had been no foolishness done, no such consequences as in Beth's own sorry situation. There had been no mysterious absence from the village by Miss Rose, nor any gossip at all to the disadvantage of either the teacher or the valet. For her, as for him, there was only praise of upright character - and vague hints at pity. If the two of them now chose to reacquaint themselves and form a new attachment, it might be all well and good - delightful to witness - but perhaps it would be better if they progressed on their own. With the poor judgement shown in the choices Beth had made for herself, she was hardly the best person to advise or assist in such delicate circumstances! No, she had much better not attempt any promotion of speech, any manipulation of social meetings. She had much better retire into the shadows as befitted her station now, behaving with suitable propriety herself, an onlooker, only, at the progressing lives and loves of others...
Beth was gazing out at the street as she sipped her tea absentmindedly, engrossed in her enlightened meditations and resolutions, hardly noticing what passed before her. Suddenly, she leaned forward; her teacup clattered in its saucer. She glanced quickly at Mr Burns, dozing in his chair nearby, but he had not awakened. Looking out the window again, her mouth dropped open as she confirmed what she thought to have seen, a scene as if conjured by her very thoughts: Miss Rose and Mr Burke riding side by side down the High Street. Keeping to the window's side, half-hidden by the curtains, she moved nearer so as to be able to observe as closely as possible.
"No conversation! There they sit, both like sticks, not speaking a word!" she said under her breath, mindful of Mr Burns. "I cannot believe how any two people, so well known to one another, can remain so silent together - after so many years apart! After our evening of dancing and music, I should think they would have at least some topic to canvass - the history of the gentleman's adventures abroad, stories of his mother and grandmother, at the very least. They can not possibly have exhausted all subjects already!" Her former gloomy thoughts fled; fast on their heels followed the good resolution just made. "Well, something might yet be attempted, must indeed be attempted - if another opportunity presents itself." Sighing at the thought of these two persons - so obviously well suited in education and experience, in station and rank, so romantically reunited - not taking advantage of the wonderful possibilities of a perfectly proper attachment, one sure to find approbation in the most critical of observers - she finished her tea as she watched the riders out of sight.
Except for the brief time at Jenny's birthday celebration, Miss Rose had not ridden since her illness twenty years before. Her attention was at first fully occupied in the many sensations - familiar and yet new - of this once-favorite diversion: the near creak of leather, the gentle clink of metal, the scents of leather oil and of horse, the swishing of tails warding off the last persistent flies of summer, muscles of the powerful animal rippling with each stride. These had always been a part of riding, but she had paid them scant attention during the years when she had had her eyes to tell her all. She was especially conscious of the nearness of Lyta and Mr Burke. Though it was a disconcerting nearness, she was willing to endure it in order to be spared the humiliation of being led like a child. As she became accustomed to the things nearest her, she became sensible of other sounds and smells.
After riding through the village, Mr Burke had turned off to pass through fields and forests belonging to the Auldbury estate. Miss Rose had had neither occasion nor opportunity to pass this way in recent years, and she felt the awkwardness of not knowing where she was, though she did not wish to betray herself by asking. As she heard the sudden babbling of a brook beside them and the sound of metal-shod hooves striking on a small wooden bridge, closely followed, on her right, by the heady scent of a hedge of late roses crowding together, she felt more at ease, for here were familiar sounds and scents indeed.
With ease of body came agitation of mind, however, and the uncomfortable recollection of what she had overheard just hours earlier. She was uncertain as to what she should say, how to begin a discourse on something or other, for something surely must be said. A complete absence of conversation would never do. Considering the past, it was clear that she should be the one to begin, as it was so clearly her fault that such a silence between them existed at all. Speech would have yet another compensation: it would tell her what her other senses failed to tell, what she most desired to know - something of Mr Burke's mood. She could not, as in former times, glance at his face or look into his eyes to seek out the hidden truth dancing there behind his always measured words. Had he come willingly to this duty, or had he come reluctantly? Unless he were brought to break his determined silence, she could not begin to judge.
She cleared her throat diffidently. "You are very silent, Mr Burke. It-- It is such a beautiful day; are you determined to keep your own counsel about even such a subject as the weather? Or of enjoying excellent mounts such as ours? Or-- or of the delights of riding out to enjoy ones' self, free for a short time of greater responsibilities and cares?"
"What would you have me say, then? I am yours to command, to speak or to keep silent - and I know very well how to keep silent, how to keep my vows of secrecy. After all, did not you ask me to keep silent, so many years ago?"
Miss Rose was taken aback by such a swift, open reminder of painful events, and could not find equally quick words to answer. As she heard a low chuckle beside her, her face registered indignant disbelief.
"You... you find it comical?" she asked, hurt and confused by his reaction.
"I remember it as very comical, as did you after a time. It is almost three and twenty years ago, is it not?"
"Three and twenty-- Whatever are you talking about?"
"Why, not long after you had come to Auldbury. You had asked to ride out alone - a spirited animal, I seem to recall you asking for - and had been given Minerva. She was not so well behaved then - a young thing, accustomed to having her own way, I expect. She took exception to an especially muddy piece of ground by the brook, did she not? She expressed her displeasure quite violently at having to dirty her dainty feet, wishing to ensure that you fully shared her discomfort. As I came upon the two of you, she seemed wholly satisfied with the results of her efforts. She was not far off - calmly cropping grass, as I recall. You, on the other hand, were quite a sight - and quite furious."
Mr Burke was grinning widely now, his eyes gleaming with amusement at what was so clearly a well-preserved and cherished memory.
Miss Rose, her face a bright pink, slowly began to smile as well. "I suppose I must have looked dreadful: mud-splattered, with my gown torn - and I was furious, just as you say. You were very kind; you did your best to help me make myself fit to be seen again. You were surprisingly well prepared, supplied with handkerchiefs, combs and clothes brushes, even pins, needle and thread - all that was needed to prevent my becoming an object of amused gossip - the perfect gentleman's gentleman." He had, in fact, behaved with great delicacy and care that day - the perfect gentleman - and had restored her humour as well as her appearance. It had been the beginning of their close friendship and their mutual attachment. When they had finished their work, she had been presentable - at least to the extent that was necessary to quietly return to the Hall without attracting undue notice; no one would have guessed at her mishap. She had sworn him to secrecy about her fall, as she had not wanted anyone - least of all Lord Auldbury - to think less of her riding abilities, of which she had been very proud. In the days and weeks following, she and Minerva had come to a better understanding about the degree of decorum appropriate to each of them in whatever circumstances they found themselves. During the same time, she and Mr Burke had become better acquainted, being given leave to exercise whichever horses were most in need of it in the Auldbury stables, finding a common love of the beauties of nature to be found in this part of the country, whether explored on horseback or on foot. Miss Rose's countenance, which had brightened at these half-forgotten memories, clouded over again. "I had not thought of that day in many years."
"Nor had I. Perhaps hearing that you had taken a tumble today, then soon after seeing you on Minerva once more, brought it to remembrance. I do hope you spoke truly to Stephen that you were not hurt - you are certain? What was it that made you fall?"
The teacher hastened to answer such kind concern. "I am well - truly. I was not paying attention - wool-gathering, I suppose, while waiting for Tabitha to return." Her face flushed again as she recalled the thoughts leading to her restlessness of the morning. "I should perhaps have known better than to attempt moving about alone - even such a little way. The girls' dog had run away from them again, and he was not so dexterous in avoiding me as he has been in avoiding capture so often. It was not a hard fall; it simply took me by surprise. I suppose I should be grateful there was no mud." Her lips curved again briefly in remembrance. "It must have been a spectacular collision, though I am glad it went unnoticed, except by Samuel. It is no matter; I shall be more careful in future."
"I am glad you were not hurt. I remember how much you enjoyed your walks - and know how you must miss them. I know, too, how much you value your independence, but please give me your word you will not wander about alone. You have many neighbours and friends about - call on them. Call upon me if you must."
Had there been a hint of unsteadiness in his voice? Was he intending to class himself as a neighbour or as a friend - or as a someone above or below those degrees of acquaintance? As she murmured a non-committal agreement, Miss Rose's heart leapt with the hope that they might yet be reconciled. Could the large rent between them, which her arrogance had created and which her stubborn pride had widened, be mended? That it would be more difficult than mending the rent in her skirt had been those three and twenty years ago, she fully acknowledged - and that it might be she who would be pricked by the needle in the attempt. Dare she attempt it? Dare she hope?
She recalled more particulars of her own dreadful behaviour, however, and felt that such a hope was not reasonable. It was more than she deserved. She should not expect it. She had rebuffed repeatedly - not simply once or twice, but many times - his attempts to assure her of the constancy of his affections even after the illness had robbed her of her sight, his attempts to convince her that he was not only capable but willing - eager - to care for her in such difficulties as were caused by her blindness. She had rebuffed him - rudely, with a rudeness born of fear and anger at her fate. After such rebuffs, such rudeness, no one could expect forgiveness on the part of any man, be he ever so kind and gallant, with a genuine concern for the welfare of all about him. Perhaps she was reading her own wishes into his common courtesy. Perhaps a peaceful friendship was all that he wished for between them. She would determine, then, to give him the cordiality his kindnesses deserved.
They rode on in silence. Neither seemed able to find words to sustain further conversation - she, from sudden confusion, he from reasons known only to himself. A few words on the beauty of the day, the changing season - on the prospects for rain, for colder weather - on Samuel's astonishingly swift progress in learning to ride - then silence reigned once more. They continued so for the hour it took to return, by a circuitous route, to Miss Rose's cottage.
Samuel had been watching for them. He slipped down from the fence where he had been perched and was beside Minerva in a flash, assisting Miss Rose to alight before Mr Burke could reach her. While close to the teacher, the boy whispered, "Thank yer agin, ma'am, fer not givin' me away. I'm trooly sorry fer wot I done."
Recognizing the repentance as genuine, understanding that the boy did not want attention drawn to his lapse of the morning, Miss Rose simply smiled at him, mentally saluting Lord Auldbury's judgement, and his nephew's faith, in this boy. "Thank you for your help, Samuel, and thank you for bringing Minerva this afternoon. I hope you can come to visit me another time - for tea, perhaps - when you have leave from Lord Auldbury and Stephen, of course." The hand she offered the boy was awkwardly taken and quickly released. She turned resolutely toward the taller presence she felt beside her and strove to speak evenly.
"Thank you, Mr Burke, for such an enjoyable afternoon, and for taking the time to accompany me. It was very good of you."
"It was my pleasure, Miss Rose. Shall I tell his lordship that you would be willing to ride Minerva again, should she be in need of it?"
"Please do."
The hand timidly held out, now trembling slightly, was quickly and gracefully taken. Mr Burke hesitated the merest fraction of a moment before lifting it to his lips. After releasing it, he and Samuel waited to see Miss Rose safely in her door before mounting the horses once more.
The boy sat awkwardly astride the saddle meant for the woman they had just taken leave of, but he barely noticed it in the preoccupation of his thoughts. Although the proof of it was now before his eyes, although he had had the girls' stories of Miss Rose's skills confirmed by Mr Hobart and later by Stephen, the boy still found belief difficult. To him, blindness was personified in the beggar brought each day to the steps of the Pumproom in Bath. The man sat there helpless, day after day, asking for alms, not able to move from his spot without help. What a far cry he was from this woman who cared for herself, who could cook without setting herself or her cottage on fire, who could walk about her house, who could ride a horse almost unassisted, who had taught a generation of village children (and taught them well), who had even noticed hands she could not see, reaching for a purpose she could not have guessed.
His form small and negligible next to the man riding silently beside him, Samuel was filled with wonder, admiration and the beginnings of hero (or in this case, heroine) worship.
Chapter 8, Part 5 ~ A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew
To persons of deep sensibilities inevitably come times of deep introspection - a looking back, a questioning of ways traveled, of roads not taken. Although such introspections may attempt an intrusion into the well-regulated minds of others - persons with more sense, and no apparent feeling - those other persons know full well that thoughts of 'what if...' and regrets of 'if only...' soon become futile exercises, best indulged in small quantities. John Thomas Barrow, with the prospect of a particular interview before him, and while exercising his person towards a particular destination, was exercising his mind in precisely this sensible if futile manner. As he walked among the crowds along Fleet Street, two choices from his past were thrust upon his attention: What if he had not left Eton, fleeing intolerable circumstances, more than six years ago? What if he had toiled for years in the study of law - as certainly he had done under the watchful eye and exacting standards of Sir John Murdock - but to a more conventional end?
Opposite the imposing edifice partly responsible for such weighty reflections - Middle Temple Gate and its striking Gatehouse - he stood for a time, contemplating the collection of buildings, streets and alleyways behind: home for more than three hundred years to a large proportion of the 'The Law' in England. A rhyme, pinned on the gate some four and thirty years before - quoted to John Barrow by his mentor during a brief rest from intensive studies - prompted sobering thoughts, whether the words had been so intended, or intended in sarcastic jest.
As by the Templars' holds you go the Horse and Lamb displayed,
In emblematic figures show the merits of their trade.
That clients may infer from thence, how just is their profession,
The Lamb sets forth their innocence, the Horse their expedition.
Oh Happy Britons! Happy Isle! Let foreign nations say -
Where you get justice without guile, and Law without delay.
Ah, here it is: Middle Temple Lane, 28 Brick Court. I wonder... Looking at the note in his hand and thinking once more, as he had upon receipt of it, Mr Phillip Gaston - surely it could not be the same...
"A Mr Blevins to see you, Mr Gaston."
"Thank you, Thompkins - show him in." The slight, pleasant-looking young man spoke absentmindedly as he shuffled papers on his desk. He stood to meet his visitor while clearing a space on his blotter, as if anticipating that such a space would soon be wanted. A man was ushered through the door; Phillip Gaston looked up with a ready, "Good day, sir--" then stopped short. Several silent moments passed during which he scrutinized his visitor's face.
"But-- I say-- surely-- that is, you are John Barrow, are you not? You must be-- you are! How good it is to see you once more! How many years has it been? Five? Six? Seven? A few more and I might not have recognized you at all, so tall a fellow as you've become. You dropped completely out of sight, you know, as if you had disappeared from the face of the earth. Bingley and I wondered greatly about your leaving so suddenly, with hardly a word - just a short note; I do believe he was a little hurt at not knowing more. We imagined all kinds of horrid or wonderful things that might have caused you to leave. Whatever happened? Oh - do forgive my appalling lack of manners! Credit it to the great surprise you've given me. Sit down, sit down, do! Tea?"
Having his hand heartily pumped during the latter part of this speech and, for once, declining the offer of refreshment, John took the chair indicated, touched by the reception from this old schoolfellow after such a number of years, but wary of telling the true reasons for his leaving Eton. Those reasons had indirectly involved the young man now sitting opposite him. After an accusation of theft of this same Phillip Gaston's property had been laid at John's feet (a theft engineered, in fact, by an old adversary), Phillip, with the truth coming to his ears, had insisted on John's innocence being proved and on having his name publicly cleared. It was no surprise, then, to see that this young man, intent on having justice done even at the tender age of thirteen or so, was now clerk to a solicitor and training for a barrister himself - as Mr Blevins had been given to understand when he had sought a meeting in these chambers. John was unexpectedly warmed by the thought that he had been missed at school, and he felt some belated guilt at the abrupt and perhaps ungracious manner of his departure. He returned the greeting, ignoring the last query. "How are you, Gaston? Yes, it has been quite some time. I was given your name when I requested an interview, but was not sure it would be you - I thought, perhaps, another Phillip Gaston..."
"So you were not looking for me particularly? A pity! This is quite a bit of luck, then. You must tell me what you have been doing all these years. Do you live in London, now? Family connections, perhaps, or business of some sort? Oh, of course - I understand you have called here on business - but tell me, did Thompkins mistake your name? He introduced you as Mr Blevins, did he not?"
"Yes, and quite correctly - Blevins is my professional name. I am sorry that this is not a social call; I am here on business, of a rather pressing nature, in fact."
"I see." Phillip Gaston fell silent. Sitting back, elbows on the armrests of his sturdy oaken chair, he eyed his former schoolmate thoughtfully - and as if from a much different perspective than he had expected. "My uncle has often mentioned a Mr Blevins, to do with certain legal matters, but surely he was speaking of a much older man. Uncle Thomas has a great respect for that Mr Blevins, for his experience, his reputation, and, by no means the least, for his various professional services." The last words were given a quiet emphasis John could not overlook. "Would you happen to have some connection with him, and with his work?"
"I am glad to hear that your uncle thought highly of Mr Blevins; it may make my queries - and my explanations - so much the simpler." John launched into the oft-repeated story - a little changed in light of a former relationship with this man - of his association with the first Mr Blevins, of that gentleman's retirement, of his own assumption of the name as well as the profession.
"My goodness, what a tale! I can see you have certainly not wasted these years. Well done, well done, indeed! Your work must lead to all manner of adventures. I would be eager to hear of them - or of as many as you are at liberty to tell, of course. Though I can imagine that your time is much engaged, I hope you will have enough to spare me a little - why not call in for dinner somewhere nearby when we have finished with this business of yours? But now, since you say your matters are pressing, let me hear how I may assist you."
"Though I could wish it otherwise, I am afraid my schedule will not allow for your invitation today. Perhaps another time. As to my business: I have questions for you on two matters; I have been given to understand that you may be able - and, I hope, willing - to part with information regarding them both. In the first matter I am acting in behalf of a client who is concerned with possible illegal activity at a certain gentleman's club, although it might be more correct to call it a gaming establishment, by the name of Watier's. I am interested in the legal ownership of this club. I have seen one listing of its purported owners, but it does not ring true. I should like to have it verified."
"Ah, yes - I have heard of it; it is acquiring something of a dubious reputation, or should I say - notorious? I shouldn't wonder if it does not remain in business much longer. The ownership, did you say? Easily found out." He called for Thompkins and gave an order. Turning back to his guest, he glanced at papers forming a pyramid on one corner of his desk. "I wonder, now, if your interest in Watier's might not in turn be of some help to me or, rather, to my father and to my uncle." John's brows rose in mute query. "As your own position relies on the utmost discretion," a smile flickered in Phillip's eyes, "I believe I may tell you of what it is that has caused them growing unease, and what has just come to their notice. Who knows? Perhaps it will somehow lead to a mutual benefit." He sat forward now, with carriage erect, hands folded loosely in the empty space on his blotter, eyes intent on his visitor's face. "I don't know how much you know of my family. My father is connected with the Bank of England; Uncle Thomas is a judge, now sitting at Old Bailey. Both of them studied law, as did their father before them, so you might say it has become a family tradition - one which I very much hope to carry on. Over the past year they have both become concerned about the great increase in forged notes circulating in town, some even making their way into the country. They are of high quality and are being produced in large quantities, making them all the more dangerous."
"I am sure I need not explain my father's interest; my uncle's, perhaps, is not as evident. As a judge, it is his duty to carry out the law justly - or with as much justice as it is in his power to ensure. The sight of ever more persons being hanged on suspicion of forgery is becoming of especial repugnance to him, and to a growing number in the general populace. There have been public outcries, most recently late in the summer when a young woman - little more than a girl, really - was hanged. More often than not the poor souls are guilty of nothing worse than not being able to recognize forged notes from true, or of being desperately poor and not able to afford to throw away the smallest coin, to say nothing of a suspicious-looking banknote. My uncle and father have been quietly searching for evidence that could lead to the man or men behind the entire scheme, to put a stop to it." His eyes twinkled briefly at his friend. "I believe there was even mention of calling on a certain Mr Blevins in one of their more recent discussions. Their efforts had been unsuccessful - until a few days ago, when a rumour came to their attention that Watier's was being used to distribute the notes." While speaking, Phillip had searched his friend's face for a sign of any kind; he was disappointed but not surprised to find none. John Barrow had been renowned for hiding his thoughts and feelings as a boy. It was too much to hope for that the man he had become would betray himself any more easily.
After the first few sentences, John had anticipated what Phillip would tell. He, too, had followed news of the hangings, afraid he might learn that Eliza Williams, or even a John somebody-or-other, had been caught with illegal notes and charged with forgery; relief came when the names and faces were unknown to him. Relief on another account coursed through him now. This meeting might offer the solution to a dilemma he had been pondering ever since the identity of Mr Chase had been confirmed: what to do with the information. Mr Blevins had been called to this work in the very beginning with a view to preventing scandal and gossip. With the forger actually among the ten men who had engaged him, scandal would be difficult, if not impossible, to avoid - if the knowledge were made public by any one of the directors, or even by Mr Blevins. On the other hand, there could be no question of allowing Mr Chase's artistic venture to continue. This re-acquaintance between John Blevins and Phillip Gaston might provide a way to bring the guilty party to justice without bringing the other men, or the name of the board itself, into the matter at all. It could be done from without instead of within. Mr Blevins swiftly came to a decision.
"You are quite right. Our interests are one and the same. I have found reliable proof of the forger's identity, but am now in a difficult position, since revealing the forger through my services will also serve to injure the reputations of the men who retained me in this endeavour - most of them honorable men, all of them, at the least, undeserving of the disgrace and financial ruin that might follow this revelation. With the authority of your father and uncle, we may be able see that justice is done without betraying my clients, who had hoped for a discreet outcome to the affair." John told of his search for Mr Chase, omitting details that could betray the names either of his employers or of his colleague Timothy Scoggins - with the latter's invaluable though dubious methods - and ending with the information and items recently obtained. "I must again consult with one gentleman, but I am sure he would allow me to give these proofs over to your father or to your uncle. I can not give you the names of any of these gentlemen without their permission. However, I think I can promise you at least one name, a man of unimpeachable honesty who would be free to publicly corroborate the proofs I have, since he is unconnected with the others and is a well-regarded expert in this field."
John and Phillip conferred a little longer as to a time of meeting between Mr John Blevins and Mr Michael Gaston and Mr Justice Thomas Gaston. With this much being settled, Phillip recalled that his friend had mentioned a second business matter.
"Having disposed of one problem - and while we are still waiting for the papers concerning Watier's - perhaps we may turn to the second matter you spoke of."
"I must warn you that it is an even more delicate affair, and of no possible help or interest to you or your family. I can only assure you that I do not wish the information for nefarious schemes or purposes of my own."
"You have certainly succeeded in arousing my curiosity, but your assurances are quite unnecessary. If from no other experience than Eton..." Phillip smiled. "Having been entrusted with the legacy of the first Mr Blevins - who, I am told, was another man of unimpeachable honesty - you now bring integrity with your name alone, my friend. What do you require that is of so delicate a nature?"
"It in fact does have some connection with the matter at Watier's, but is probably of greater importance in a private way - having to do with the welfare, and possibly the very life, of a young lady. I am looking into the affairs of one John Willoughby. He has a residence in London, I believe, and an estate in Somersetshire: Combe Magna. In coming here, I had hoped for financial information - to learn whether his property is under any sort of lien, if he is in debt in any way. However, I would be interested in anything else you happen to know, as I am only now beginning my inquiries."
At that moment Thompkins entered the room and laid some papers on Gaston's desk. As the man turned to leave, Phillip gave another order. Before embarking on the subject of John Willoughby, he looked quickly through the documents just brought. He wrote names and notes on a clean sheet of paper, which he gave over to his friend. "There is the answer in your first matter." Noting the obvious expression of satisfaction on his guest's countenance, he leaned back once more. "It is what you expected, is it not?"
"Yes, it is. It confirms my suspicions - another piece added to an already complex pattern, but I did not think this man to have hidden himself beneath so many layers, behind so many others - one, in particular."
At the name of Sir Daniel Eckington, Phillip nodded. "Father says it is not at all unusual for someone with a known title, one who has fallen into financial difficulties, to exchange his good name, his standing in Society, or both, for a monetary consideration. I would not be surprised to hear that the gentleman in question had offered himself in various ways - since I hear he is in desperate need. The world then sees his name and his title, but it is someone else who profits by it."
"I had heard as much, in at least one other area, and have had my own suspicions as to how many ways and in how many circumstances that good name has been used. This most likely exonerates Sir Daniel of criminal wrongdoing in the forgery business, and that will greatly relieve the mind of an old friend of his. Although I can not help thinking of him as a fool, at least he is not a villain."
"Speaking of villains," Phillip grinned, "may I take it you have suspicions of wrongdoing by Mr Willoughby? Criminal, moral or ethical?"
"Most probably all three. If he has anything to do with the forgeries, then it is a matter of criminal behaviour. More likely, he has simply been stupid enough to put himself at risk for the gallows, and not only himself, but at least one other person: a young lady. That in itself I would consider criminal - and morally reprehensible. As to other moral or ethical wrongdoing, there is a matter of ungentlemanlike behaviour - to put on it the very mildest complexion possible - towards the same young lady. The question is, how to bring such misconduct to justice?"
"Laws governing morality are a tricky business, since forcing a man's heart or thoughts to change is not within the realm of human law. As to what does stand before law, I can tell you, even before reviewing the written records, that John Willoughby of Combe Magna is, indeed, in financial straits, and has been for several years, though the urgency varies. There are times when he is able to pay off some debts; at other times, he has been forced to sell some small parcel of land or some family treasure. He is a man fonder of indulging expensive habits than of pursuing diligence in the oversight of his property, and he does not seem amenable to retrenchment or advice of any sort. He is said to inherit a considerable fortune from a distant relation; perhaps it is because he feels himself safe in that regard that he is unwilling to put forth any present effort. There is also gossip that he is looking for an heiress to marry to ensure his security apart from this inheritance. Is the young lady you speak of rich?"
"She has a guardian who is not poor, but as to how much she may have to her own name, or how much she may receive from him, I can not say. I do not know if it would be sufficient for the man's greeds."
"If she is rich and tolerable to look at, she might do worse, for he is said to value a pretty face, although I would not wish him as a husband for any of my sisters. A vain, self-indulgent scoundrel, I would call him. However, as you are making further inquiries, you will likely find greatly varying opinions about him - with some being quite the opposite of mine."
Notes: The rhyme near the beginning of this part was actually posted to the gates of Middle Temple in 1776, according to "The Lawyers" by Timothy Tyndale Daniell.
The quotation a few sentences later is from Shakespeare's King Henry VI, Part II: Act IV, Scene ii.
Chapter 8, Part 5 ~ A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew
Truer words than Philip Gaston's had rarely been spoken. John Willoughby proved to be a man of spectacular breadth of accomplishment - in that no two reports agreed precisely as to his character. Each account simply added to previous accounts to form an ever more variegated, many-textured patchwork. Having completed his errand in Middle Temple Lane, Mr Blevins plunged into researching the character of Mr John Willoughby, determined to leave no stone unturned. He visited shops and tradesmen, taverns and tea rooms, concert rooms and public houses, while Simmons and other members of Mr Blevins' household were dispatched to find some opportunity of speaking with the gentleman's tailor, valet and other servants. Using pretexts of one sort or another to introduce Mr Willoughby's name into conversation, and calling on many an acquaintance made during the years with his mentor, John Blevins collected stories enough to stitch together an illuminating likeness of this elusive man. Always some days behind the gentleman in his whereabouts, Mr Blevins never quite caught sight of him. The tales left in Willoughby's wake, however, lingered in ever-widening ripples, to be eagerly recounted by most:
"Certainly a young man - not above thirty years at most, nearer five and twenty, I should say - a good-natured man, generous, gallant, never an unkind word for anyone..."
"A cruel tongue 'e 'as - 'urtful it is! An' to a soul 'oo's never done 'im an 'arm. So wot if I ain't as young an' pretty as I used ter be, as others is? That's no reason ter call me an old 'ag! Even if 'e's 'andsome as the devil 'isself!"
"Handsome? Oh my, yes! And entertaining with his looks and his voice - renders a song or a poem uncommonly well - so expressive - so heartfelt - could listen to him for hours - surely able to make a fine living on the stage, if he had a mind to, or by dancing, perhaps..."
"...most lively and graceful on the dance floor, elegant - unflagging energy - seen him dance all night; then, after scarce an hour's sleep, off to the country - and on horseback himself, no less..."
"Excellent rider, courage enough for the rawest mount or the highest hedge - good judge of horseflesh - anything bred at his stable worth getting, whether gentle, for a lady, or with a bit more spirit, for hunting..."
"...quite a decent shot - got a nice double-barrel that I wouldn't mind having a go with ... well-breeding bitches, good stock, knows his business - always a pleasure drinking to a bargain well-struck..."
"He likes a good whiskey and has an excellent taste in wine, sir. One could wish he would be more regular in settling his bills, but I do not suppose there is any harm in extending such a gentleman's credit. After all, one is assured of payment at some time or another, since he is to inherit a goodly amount..."
"...great expectations, though well-enough off now, I expect - lodgings here, in a good part of town, estate in Somersetshire - estate of a certain Mrs Smith to come to him - yes, yes - well fixed - a good prospect for any young lady..."
"- would hesitate for my daughter - that is, not like to cast aspersions - wouldn't want it generally known that I - but - reputation not quite sound - not always the best judge of propriety - sometimes a lack of respect - have my doubts..."
"...much disappointed in him. He has not been as attentive as I had been led to expect - too easily distracted by any pretty face passing by, though perhaps that is small wonder, as his own face is pretty enough. He probably trades on it, and on his charm, for a goodly number of things..."
"Aye, alus' pays event'ally, but 'is money seems ta come 'n go, if ya know wot I mean. Likes a good pint - buys rounds fer evr'yone wen 'e's flush, an' takes other offers ready enuff when 'e's down on 'is luck..."
"Games of chance? No, indeed, sir - none of our gentleman would dare take part in such diversions - oh, no, no, no - no gaming at all. That would be quite frowned upon - we are very particular in whom we welcome to membership, sir. And not Watier's, of all places - none of our gentlemen would so much as sully the soles of their shoes by crossing that threshold. I am quite sure he would not then have been admitted here - only the best of references..."
"...and passionately fond he is of Scott." "You must be mistaken, my dear - Scott he despises - it is Burns and Cowper he so dearly likes, that are his favorites. Why, he recited enough to fill a whole book of their verses to me not one month ago." "Well, he did the same for me, reading three whole chapters together, and declared Scott to be his absolute favorite, with no one else to compare." "You must have misunderstood him, or perhaps he was simply saying what he thought you would prefer to hear." "He would not do such a thing! He is honest above all else - and how could he be otherwise with an open, good-looking face such as his?"
"...and of course, his looks - so handsome! Uncommon handsome! And quick-witted - why, just last week he saved me from crossing the road in front of a great coach. I would surely have been run over, crushed, but for him - so gallant, heedless for his own safety - quite the hero! A heroic, well-mannered, well-spoken gentleman..."
"Gentleman, indeed!" the young woman sniffed while gently soothing the whimpering babe in her arms, " 'Tis the very last thing I would call him - not that there's so many who would agree with me. He charms them all, and they're all eager to be charmed - 'til he leaves them in difficulties of one sort or another. I have my own story, but I daresay I'm not alone in my condition. The others wouldn't likely be willing to speak out with accusations, though - too well-liked he is. There, there now, child, hush..."
"Oh, yes, sir, a very fine taste in his wardrobe, sir. Only the best of fabrics, and very fond he is of being in style - even in his linens." The man allowed himself a small smile. "Then again, he carries all the fashions off so well. Not every gentleman can wear the current trend in neckcloths and waistcoats as he can, though many attempt it, much to my chagrin - it pains me to see a gentleman wearing something that suits him so ill, whether it be the height of fashion or no. But Mr Willoughby is very fortunate in that respect. A fine upright figure, neither too stout nor too thin - it is indeed a pleasure to dress such a man." "Oh, well - I hesitate to say, sir, but he is at times tardy, a little tardy, a very little tardy in his payments, but then, at other times, he comes and pays a goodly sum all at once, joking that he has had a streak of luck." "Oh, no, sir! I would highly doubt that - I would not think him to be a gambling sort of man at all. It is more likely his investments do not always pay off regularly - quite understandable." "Why, yes, sir, I think this would suit your master just as well as it suits Mr Willoughby. They are of much the same height and measurements, of similar colouring, too - both such fine figures, such fine young gentlemen. With the likes of them, the future of England is in good hands, indeed, sir."
These last two accounts had been imparted to cook and to Simmons, who faithfully relayed them to their master with other like tales.
On the point of requesting an interview with the man himself, Mr Blevins was informed that Mr Willoughby had left London for his estate in Somersetshire, with the date of his return being uncertain. Thither John chose to follow, deeming the matter of sufficient urgency that it should not be put off for yet another fortnight, or longer still.
The weather was fine; the roads were good; the horses trotted briskly, setting a fine pace, their hooves beating out a steady refrain: what if, what if, what if, what if...
From London to Camberley, in Surrey - What if Samuel did not adapt well to his new life? What if he tired of its disciplines? John Blevins devoutly hoped that the boy had not already run afoul of some stern, strict village marm, who might not approve of the lad's coarse and casual manners. Heaven forfend that he would lapse into his former independent, enterprising ways! John would make it a point to stop in Auldbridge as soon as this business of Mr Willoughby and Miss Williams was settled, for good or ill. Although Lord Auldbury had promised to apprise Mr Blevins of Samuel's progress, John thought it best he should see for himself, to speak with the boy from time to time. He would not like Samuel to think that Mr Blevins had left him in Surrey with no further thought - as such was so far removed from the truth.
From Camberley to Andover - What if Eliza Williams were never found? Could Col Brandon live with lifelong uncertainty as to his ward's fate? What if she were found, but in some terrible circumstance - perhaps ill, near death, as her mother had been found? Would the colonel recover from such a blow?
From Andover to Warminster, in Wiltshire - What if Lord Auldbury had not returned to England at this particular time, had not returned to an active interest in the board? What if John Blevins had never met him, or if the gentleman had not agreed to Lord Cantering's plan? What if John had not become - for a time - Jonathan Brownleigh of the Wiltshire Brownleighs, had not met Mr Grahame, had not learned of the clues leading to Mr Chase? It might be amusing, someday, to meet the real young Brownleigh.
From Warminster to Frome - Somersetshire at last! An end to idle thoughts and a beginning of deeds.
In the neighbourhood of Combe Magna, Mr Blevins heard more of the same of Mr Willoughby as he had already heard in London, though with less of Society's politic flattery and more of blunt country manners. Altogether, the likeness drawn thus far fit quite well with Eliza Williams' particular friend of the common name. Mr Blevins now had fears for more than merely her whereabouts; he feared that her person and her soul had been, at best, placed in danger and, at worst, damaged beyond repair. Fitting with Willoughby's character, too, was the short span of attention the man had paid Eliza, before abandoning her. Whether he had knowingly left her with the forged notes could not be certain, but his conduct otherwise was so unbecoming a gentleman as to make the addition of one more offense of very little consequence. Armed with these many reports, Mr Blevins' intentions to challenge the man were frustrated anew as he found that Willoughby had been in this county but briefly before removing himself once more, this time to Devonshire, to a village called Allenham. "Does the fellow never stay still? How he manages to find the time to get into scrapes at all is the great wonder," he grumbled to himself as he stepped into his own carriage yet again.
Castel Cary, Ilminster, Honiton, Exeter...
Within a half-day of leaving Somersetshire, John Thomas Barrow arrived in yet another county new to him. Though his mind was engaged with questions and conjectures regarding his quarry, he spared some small notice for the countryside through which he was driving - pleasant woody hills, fertile cultivated spots, rich pastures now a drying, late-September gold in anticipation of the coming winter. From the summits of high open downs, flashing between trees and hills farther below, tantalizing glimpses of a shimmering sea could be seen as he neared his destination.
Arriving late in the day, John sought and found convenient lodgings, not in Allenham itself, but in the neighbouring village of Barton. He slept but fitfully after this most recent journey, his mind plagued with a growing unease over Miss Williams' fate. Though ill-rested, the next day found him soon possessed of local news and gossip. To his great surprise, one of the first persons to be spoken of was, not Willoughby, but Col Brandon. Had Brandon heard of Willoughby's possible connection with his niece, or was this sheer chance? The presence of the colonel was soon explained and confirmed - by a quite voluble, and persuasive, source.
Taking an early walk in a quiet wood soon after breakfast to familiarize himself with the area and to muse over this latest coincidence, he was hailed at a small distance, as if he were an old friend, by a stout, bluff man, accompanied by a pack of dogs, all young and boisterous. As the men came face-to-face, the older man bowed, apologizing and introducing himself all in one breath.
"Well now, sir, I do beg your pardon. From a distance I had thought you to be a neighbour of ours - you really are quite remarkably alike, but, of course, my eyes an't what they used to be. Do forgive me. Sir John Middleton, at your service, sir, of Barton Park." Leaving John barely enough time for a greeting, the gentleman forged ahead with his own communications, his voice modulating as needed to make himself heard above the dogs. "Mr Browning, do you say? Glad to meet you, very glad indeed! - and come from London? - you don't say so! Well now, the gentleman I thought you to be is also recently from town. You must come along and meet him - meet all the folk 'round here, if you're to stay a while. Come and meet my family as well; my wife will be delighted! We have new neighbours just settled in Barton Cottage since the beginning of the month - cousins of mine they are, distant cousins, but cousins nonetheless, and such charming neighbours: the Dashwoods, come here from Sussex - perhaps you know them, sir? - a fine family of young ladies - just the thing for a lone fellow like yourself, eh? No better company - and so accomplished - such singing and playing as you've likely not heard. If I can get enough young folk in, we can surely persuade them all to some dancing, too. What say you, sir - will you join with us? To be sure you'll find good company among the men - such splendid sport we have here. My good friend Col Brandon is paying us a visit - not quite as young as you, nor as gay - his spirits seem to be in some need of cheer - but still young and spry enough, I'd say - not put on as much weight over the years as I have! He has lodgings in town, like you, sir, and his own fine estate in a neighbouring county. Mr Willoughby is arrived as well - the very man I mistook you for, sir - he comes into the county now and again, keeping an eye on his prospects, don't you know - a better-humoured fellow you'll not meet - not so long among us and already making conquests among the ladies. Best come along and get your oar in before they're all spoke for! Mind you - Miss Marianne, the younger Miss Dashwood, could bewitch any man that meets her - and reason good, as pretty as she is. Both Willoughby and Brandon are more than half-smitten with her already, though, just between the two of us, sir, I'd say the colonel would be better off with Miss Elinor - Miss Dashwood, that is - not quite all the beauty, but more sense than Miss Marianne - a much better match for Brandon, more suited to 'im, a better mistress for his house. Miss Dashwood is said to have left a beau in Sussex, but we begin to doubt it, doubt it very much indeed, for he has not yet put in an appearance - and how could any man stay so long away from such a lady! - but, be there a man or not, he must now risk having her snatched away since he has neglected her so shamefully. Do come - there will be other young folk, too, I promise you. Nothing like a house full of youth, I always say - the more the merrier! Can't abide silence - always tends to gloom..."
After hearing much more on the topics of most of Sir John Middleton's neighbours ('John' must surely be the most common name in all England - with or without title!), with as many intimate details as could be introduced in the space of three quarters of an hour and on such short acquaintance - the man was truly a fount of information - John Blevins was able to tear himself away, having received only ten invitations for this evening, six for the following and a mere three mentions of shooting parties planned. Walking on, marveling at the loquaciousness of this man (a quality not entirely confined to women, it would seem!) he suddenly remembered why the names Sir John Middleton and Barton Park should sound so familiar. They were the very ones given him by Col Brandon at their last meeting. The colonel had said he would be staying with this gentleman, between visits to his own estate and that of his sister. His being here, therefore, had in all probability nothing at all to do with Willoughby or Miss Eliza.
Of one thing John Blevins was certain. If Eliza Williams had already been found, Col Brandon would not now be here, without her - and Sir John Middleton would doubtless have broadcast such sensational news - the recovery of a lost niece - far and wide.