A Scheme for Love, page 2
Before she took Old Jerry’s hand, Mathilda swung her eyes over the swaybacked team, age showing in their every line. Managing a smile to show her appreciation of his efforts, she stepped into the moth-eaten interior.
Once luxurious and plush, the cloth that covered the seat was threadbare and frayed. The groom’s attempts to brush a semblance of neatness into it had caused further damage. Tuffs of horsehair stood through slits in the rotted elegance.
An old style, the Berlin was completely unsprung. The brief ride back to Bartone Hollows on the outskirts of Horley was enough to convince Mathilda that the coach must be forever consigned to storage. She had consented to its use this time only because Old Jerry’s rheumatism would have been unduly aggravated if he had had to change the team to the improvised landaulet she customarily drove herself.
Why the old groom had taken on the painful and strenuous task of readying the ancient Berlin for today’s visit she did not know. Mathilda attributed it to his wanting to show all that Sir Bartone’s widow was to receive due respect. The gesture warmed her heart and added weight to her thought that the major part of the five hundred pounds must go to the three who had served Bartone for most of their lives.
Back at Bartone Hollows, Dannon helped Mathilda from the coach. He scrutinized her closely.
“Old Jerry, please come to the library when you have finished with the horses. Dannon, I would appreciate it if you and Mrs. Bertie would come also. I shall be there as soon as I change.”
“As you wish, madam,” Dannon answered stiffly. He nodded meaningfully at Old Jerry.
“And, Old Jerry—thank you—for—the coach.” Mathilda turned quickly and dashed up the steps. Dannon would be most upset if she surrendered to the tears which threatened, she told herself. She could almost hear Bartone say, “One must always be an example to the servants.”
Once changed from the black silk, which Bartone had insisted she have made when her mother had died, to the black bombazine day dress she had made herself, Mathilda felt more in control. She was uncertain what to say to the three servants but determined to take the worst of this blow upon herself. Being young and more accustomed to frugality than to frippery, she would manage.
A slight cough turned her. The three stood before her. From their expressions Lady Bartone had the uneasy feeling they knew what the solicitor had told her.
“As you know,” she began weakly, “I saw Mr. Petersbye this morn.” Mathilda laughed shakily. “Of course, you know that.”
No smile from the three servants answered her.
“He told me that Sir Bartone had altered his will not more than six months past. A condition for my inheriting anything from his estate has been set and—” She tried to look them directly in the eye but failed. “And there is no mention in the will of any of you.”
As she had expected, no gasp, not a sound came from the three. Slowly she raised her gaze. They stood still, stiffly at attention, their faces blank.
“Provision has been made for a sum of money for my use during the next year. I mean to divide it—the greater part of it—between you. I will do what I can to see you suitably settled before I depart,” she hurried to add.
“You be leaving?” Old Jerry asked oddly.
“We can only take our due wages,” Dannon said coldly.
“Aren’t you even going to try for it?” Mrs. Bertie blurted.
“Mum, be still,” Dannon corrected her.
“No, wait,” Mathilda ordered. “Do you know about the stipulation of the will? Answer me.”
Guilt crept over all three. Dannon murmured ascent.
“How long have you known?”
“If truth must be told, madam, we’ve known it since the day the new will was drawn,” Dannon explained. “Mr. Petersbye called here on the day of the week that you make your rounds of the parish cases. I was sent for the portrait and happened to overhear a little. Knowing his lordship, I did not find it difficult to guess what he had done.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Perhaps I could have prevented all this.”
“His lordship was not known for altering his decisions, madam.”
“You must try and find her, miss,” urged Mrs. Bertie. “You must. For yourself as well as for us. His lordship would never have set such a condition on the inheritance if it didn’t mean more than it appears. He always had reasons for his doings.”
“I would not know where to begin. Why, the description of the doll is vague. I can’t even think what she must look like,” Mathilda protested.
“There’s a remedy for that,” the housekeeper said happily. “Dannon, go fetch the portrait.”
“Even if you do have a resemblance of her, where is the search to begin? We have been through most of the rooms of the house since I came, cleaning and setting them aright. I saw nothing that resembled a doll.”
“Here it is, madam,” Dannon said as he re-entered the library. “Where shall I set it?”
“There.” Mathilda pointed to a side table. “Lean it there, where the light from the window is good.”
Standing the portrait against the table, Dannon stepped back, keeping aloof as the other two crowded beside Mathilda to look at the portrait.
“Is this Sir Bartone’s family?” Mathilda asked as she gazed at the family setting. “Which is he?”
“I believe the one standing before his mother, Lady Bartone,” Dannon answered.
“But look, miss. Look at the little girl sitting on the carpet. See the doll she holds—with its fine red gown. Even a hat and a parasol it has. That is Doll in Red.”
CHAPTER THREE
Rotten Row was crowded with high-perch phaetons, barouches, and mounted riders. All enjoyed the afternoon promenade in the warmth of early April. Dandies, ladies, beaux, and the best of the demimonde vied with each other in elegance of dress and quality of horseflesh. The Duchess of Devonshire, the Dukes royal, Beau Brummel and his friends, Lords Avanley and Apsely were among those enjoying the warm sun and the hotter quips of their companions in judgment of the dress and style of those wishing to join the ton.
One figure they had noted and commented favourably upon was mounted atop a prime-blooded chestnut stallion. From boot to hat the soft fawn hues that graced the lean, young form of Viscount Bartone offset his dark locks and tanned complexion admirably. It was not only the social arbiters who smiled and nodded as he passed but also many of Harriet Wilson’s mould. They had become well acquainted with the young lord during his month in London. The ladies of the beau monde found the viscount’s evasive behaviour a challenge.
“Least you could do is nod,” Lord Potters muttered to his friend. “It’s beyond me why I must come with you when a scowl is all you deal anyone. Embarrassing it is and,” Potters ended abruptly when his mount shied at a carriage, nearly causing him to lose his seat.
“I cannot fathom why you are still such an abominable horseman,” Bartone drawled, the edge in his voice indicating his annoyance.
“You know the beasts dislike me,” snapped his bespectacled friend, shifting uneasily in the saddle. “I told you the only civilized way to do this was in my phaeton.”
“Risking my life against the French, against privateers, even against rebellious natives is more to my liking than riding in a phaeton you choose to drive,” the viscount said dryly.
Potters agitatedly adjusted his spectacles, a sure sign offence had been taken.
“I would ride in your landau,” Bartone offered.
“Only because I do not drive it,” Potters snapped. Pointedly looking away, he nodded at a pair of ladies passing close by. When the two men were again apart from the bustle, Potters continued. “What is it you wish of me, Will?
“Neither my riding nor my driving pleases you. I cannot begin to be even a two-bottle man. You are bored with anything that pleases me and insist upon dragging me to those gaming hells. Gambling, drinking—that is not enough. We have to squire those lightskirts about.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste.
Bartone gave a bark of laughter. “You must be the only man in England who has not succumbed to the pleasures of life. Are you becoming a Methodist?” the viscount asked sardonically. He glanced away, then looked back, regret playing over his features. “I do try you fretfully.”
“If only I knew what it is you are trying to find. What you hope to gain from this fast pace toward nothing?”
Bartone gave an indolent shrug.
“I am only good enough to see you safely home when you’re in your cups,” Potters said quietly.
“You know better than that. We’ve been friends since childhood.”
“I wonder. Sometimes I think I’m merely someone who amuses you. Someone it pleases you to lead about and make a fool of.”
“That is not what I mean to do. Who knows why I.... Something is missing and I can’t determine what. I’m bored with the whole bloody business.”
“Why don’t you get involved—take on some responsibility? I’d wager a hundred pounds that you have spent fewer than five hours with your man Lynn since you arrived.”
“I won’t become like y—”
“Like me? Yes. That is exactly what you need.”
“I need a hard gallop, not this lazy pace,” Bartone quipped, and laid his whip to his mount.
Potters shook his head as he watched riders and carriages swerve out of the viscount’s way. “I hope I survive until you find whatever it is you’re searching for,” he muttered.
* * * *
Smudges of dust and swatches of spider webs covered the four searchers working through the old trunks, wooden boxes, and heaps of discarded household goods in the far west attic of Bartone Hollows. One by one, with either a gesture or look of futility, they halted their rummaging. Mrs. Bertie was the last to quit and then only when urged to do so by the others.
“It is no use,” Mathilda said tiredly. “Unless there is some hidden chamber or secret vault, the doll cannot be in this house.”
“There are none of those, madam,” Dannon told her. “Sir Bartone and I were children when this house was built, and we came with his father whenever he inspected the builders’ progress. Why, we scampered and crawled over every inch.
“In later years, when Sir Bartone did renovations, I worked with him and viewed the house plans. No, we have searched every possibility here.”
“We did our best,” Mathilda noted, trying to put a cheery resolve into her voice for the sake of the others. “Now we must plan for the future, for we know what it brings. Let us go freshen up.” She led the way toward the door, halting by it when she realized none of the others had followed. Looking back in the dim light given off by the candles they had brought with them, she saw the three hunched over something. While Mathilda watched, they straightened, spoke briefly among themselves, and then turned to face her.
“What is it?” she asked. “Did you find it?”
“No, miss,” Mrs. Bertie answered, “but Dannon recalled that this chest,” she motioned to the smallish wooden box they had been bending over, “belonged to Miss Bartone—the Miss Bartone holding the doll in the family portrait.”
“I do not see what that can mean to us if the doll is not in the chest,” Mathilda stated brusquely. “Let us get into the light and out of this dusty place.”
“Of course, madam,” Dannon said before Mrs. Bertie could speak. “I shall see that some warm water is brought to your chamber.”
“Thank you, Dannon. I shall dine as usual.”
“Yes, madam.” He bowed and signalled the other two to be silent as the mistress left them.
“Now, why did you do that, Dannon?” scolded Mrs. Bertie.
“Ye could have let us ask. Ye agreed to it,” huffed Old Jerry.
“Madam was tired—could you not see that?” he defended himself.
The other two nodded, quieted by his words.
“When she is rested and has eaten, she will be much more inclined to agree to our plan,” Dannon continued with assurance.
“It does seem a shame to use the young miss so,” Mrs. Bertie murmured.
“Aye, she has been nothing but kindness to us and means to share the funds,” Old Jerry offered.
Dannon straightened and looked squarely at his wife. “It was you who said the master always had his reasons for his doings. He wanted madam to search for the doll, and our duty lies in seeing his will done. We cannot search elsewhere for it. Only madam can do that.
“It’s not as if she will not gain from it. Do you want to see Lady Bartone a parish case? I, for one, have served this proud name too long to see such happen if it can be helped,” he finished with an abrupt nod.
“Aye,” responded Old Jerry with renewed enthusiasm.
Mrs. Bertie patted her husband’s thin back. “I told me mum you would always be the best,” she said with a tear in her eye. “Let’s see to that water and a fitting meal for the mistress.”
* * * *
“Tell Mrs. Bertie that the meal was excellent,” Mathilda instructed Dannon as she rose from her solitary feast of roasted veal garnished with succulent carrots and scallops, spiced pears, and delicate sweets. “I shall retire now.”
“Madam, could we speak with you before you do so?” Dannon requested.
“Of course.” Mathilda brightened, happy to be spared another lonely eve in her room.
“I have had a fire laid in the morning room,” the butler said with a bow.
“That will be fine, Dannon. I will go there now.”
The morning room was one of the smaller rooms of the house, and the well-laid fire gave it cosy warmth. Mathilda took a seat and pondered the odd relationship that now existed between hers and the old retainers.
They were more friends than servants, and yet they refused to eat with her, or to visit—deemed it improper. Unknowingly, at least unthinkingly, they thus condemned her to unmitigated loneliness.
Mathilda had been proven sadly correct about the people of Horley. Many came to the funeral, but she did not know whether it was to pay respects to Sir Bartone or to deal her an outright snub. Not a soul had spoken to her then. None had called at Bartone Hollows since that day. March had ended and so had any hope Mathilda had cosseted for finding Doll in Red.
Dannon entered with his usual stateliness; the other two followed him.
Mathilda thought to ask them to sit but, knowing their usual reply, discarded it immediately. “What is it you wish?” she asked.
“There is an idea, miss, that we’ve come upon,” Mrs. Bertie began. “It’s about the doll.”
“You know we have searched every possible area,” interrupted Mathilda.
“Pardon, madam,” Dannon broke in. “We have searched every place here, at Bartone Hollows.”
“Here?”
“Yes, miss,” Mrs. Bertie went on excitedly. “Dannon has looked in the registry and found that Miss Bartone married a Squire Pellum and that they live near Farnham. Now, we was thinking you could go and call on Mrs. Pellum and ask about the doll.”
“What my wife means,” Dannon said, “is that it would be most fitting for you to travel to Farnham. You shall take the small chest of childhood mementos we discovered today. It would be quite natural for you to mention the portrait and to ask, indirectly of course, about the doll.”
“But I have never met Mrs. Pellum, nor have I ever travelled except as a young child,” objected Mathilda.
“I am somewhat knowledgeable in matters of travel,” said Dannon. “Lord Chatham frequently required Sir Bartone in London years ago and I always arranged matters. You would have to go on the mail coach, however, Sir Bartone’s team and equipage being rather—”
“That would not trouble me, I think,” Mathilda said hesitantly. “But would this be wise? No one knows of my predicament. I do not think any of Sir Bartone’s relatives would be inclined to aid me,” she told them matter-of-factly.
The three were forced to acknowledge the truth of her words.
“But you wouldn’t need to tell them you were searching for the doll—only ask questions, well, in... in a....”
“I think I know what you mean, Mrs. Bertie,” smiled Mathilda, “but there will be expenses involved in such an undertaking. Any amount used will only decrease what I have to give you.”
“We understand that,” Dannon said, “and still wish you to make the effort.”
Mathilda studied each one. Finally, she sighed. “As you wish, although I stress that I feel there is naught to be gained.”
“I will make the arrangements in the mom, madam. Perhaps there is a coach leaving then that you can take. Mrs. Bertie will pack for you. And—and thank you, madam,” Dannon finished stiffly.
The men bowed. Mrs. Bertie gave her impression of a curtsy. They left their mistress sitting alone once more.
“Now what have you got yourself into,” Mathilda murmured aloud. “A journey—no, an adventure.” She sat up.
“I do believe I understand why Bartone put that stipulation in the will. He wished to give me some adventure. Why, I recall how he once said it was sadly lacking for me here.” She settled back in the chair.
The doll is probably there awaiting me. Yes, that is it, she thought happily, now eagerly looking forward to the journey.
* * * *
A rough shake brought Lord Potters to awareness of the day. Lifting his nightcap off one eye, which he opened warily, he saw Viscount Bartone’s beaming smile.
“Oh, ‘tis you,” he muttered. He pulled the nightcap tightly down and tugged the pillow over his head.
“Come, Potts, arise. I am taking your advice.”
“My advice is for you to return home and go back to bed.”
“I was as late to mine as you, old man,” Bartone countered. “As a matter of fact, I tucked you in this tune.”
“Go away.”
“Here I am, come to reform, and all you can do is hide your head,” Bartone accused.
