Lord Hadleigh's Rebellion, page 18
So far all the portraits had been those of men, but now a hidden cache of women appeared. These, too, had been carefully stored in chronological order so that it was not until almost at the end when they were presented with a young blonde girl with a pretty eager face.
‘Why, I do believe that that is your mother, Margaret Russell, done by Romney, as she was when I was a girl,’ said Aunt Beauregard. ‘I had thought that that had long gone south with your father. It was a pity that she died so young. I told you that you are very like her, Russell, and that painting proves me right.’
So it did. Mary looked from the pretty girl on the canvas to Russell, and allowed that the likeness was remarkable, even given the difference between their sex.
‘Downstairs, at once,’ said Russell, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘It must go on show immediately. I have never seen a portrait of my mother before. One of my cousins told me that I was very like her, particularly when I was younger, but I could not have guessed how great the resemblance is.’
He wondered why it had been left behind and not taken south—although he was now beginning to recognise that nothing had been taken from Eddington which might remind his father of the family into which he had married.
It was the next painting, though, which was the real surprise. Turned around, it showed a girl who was as dark as Margaret Russell had been fair. She had a thin clever face and glossy black hair dressed in the fashion of the late 1780s. It was another Romney and in many ways was superior to the previous one as though the painter had fallen in love with his subject.
Its effect on Russell, Mary saw, was immediate and surprising. He turned white, his mouth thinned and he said nothing, although previously he had been free with his comments. It was left to Aunt Beauregard to speak.
‘So that’s where that painting ended up. I wondered what had happened to it. The painter did it as a favour to Serena Cheyney and her brother Ralph. They were as poor as church mice at that time and couldn’t afford to pay him. They were Margaret Russell’s cousins, but took after their father, not their mother. I remember that your father, Russell, was very taken with her. We thought that they might make a match of it, but when he came back, a year later, it was to marry your mother.
‘Of course, by then your mother was the Russell heiress. Serena married Courtney Lascelles a year later. This was after her brother, Ralph, suddenly inherited. Lascelles died when quite young. She never had any children and lives not far from here.’
Russell’s face had recovered its normal colour. ‘Is this portrait as good a likeness as the one of my mother?’ he asked, apparently casually, but Mary could see that something about it had disturbed him.
‘Very like.’
Russell said, trying not to sound too moved, although what he was seeing, had affected him powerfully.
‘I asked you that because, although I resemble my mother, Ritchie, my twin, by some freak, is a male version of Serena Cheyney when young. We are, after all, blood relatives of hers, but it is still an odd thing that my twin should take after our second cousin, even if we are not identical ones.’
He turned to Aunt Beauregard. ‘I hope that this question does not offend you, madam, but was it really true that my father loved Serena Cheyney?’
‘Yes, it was really true. In fact, when he returned north we all thought that it was to propose to Serena, but after a few months it was Margaret whom he asked to be his wife. By then, of course, his father had become the Earl of Bretford and your father was no longer poor as he was when we were all young together. It was an odd coincidence that both your father and Ralph Cheyney should suddenly inherit titles and wealth.
‘My George Russell was one of our little group of friends: it was because of his death, shortly before your father returned, that Margaret became the Russell heiress and the Eddington estate passed to the Chancellors by her marriage to him.’
She did not add that she had been unfortunate and lost, not only her own true love, but the chance of becoming the mistress of Eddington House. Russell, for his part, was privately beginning to suspect that his father had lost his true love when he became the heir to the Bretford Earldom. Mary, who had been listening carefully to this interchange, was thinking the same thing. Russell was also beginning to see the reason why his father had always favoured Ritchie, the son who looked like his lost love.
They continued to clear the attics, finding one room full of books from the dismantled library and another where fine copper pans, covered with verdigris, lay quite abandoned among the large kitchen furniture. All three of them were pondering on the mysterious workings of fate which had brought Eddington House down to near ruin, as well as the strange behaviour of its owner whose carelessness had allowed it to reach this sorry pass.
‘I never thought I should enjoy myself so much,’ Mary confessed. ‘I’m not sure whether it was finding that fine Meissen porcelain which excited me the most or that lacquered cabinet from Japan. It will be quite wonderful to see them restored to where they can be freely admired when you have finished transforming the house.’
‘Which might be some time yet,’ lamented Russell. ‘But never fear, I intend that, in time, everything will be restored to its proper place—we cannot let such treasures rot beneath the leads.’
‘Talking of leads,’ remarked Aunt Beauregard, ‘when the Russells owned Eddington they used to give tea-parties on the leads—there is a staircase up on to the roof near the servants’ quarters. The view from it is magnificent.’
‘Excellent,’ exclaimed Russell. ‘As soon as we have finished all the improvements we shall christen them by inviting half the neighbourhood to one, eh, Mary?’
‘What a splendid notion,’ she exclaimed, her face rosy with pleasure.
‘Agreed, then,’ he said, taking her hand and bowing over it, ‘and now let us go downstairs and find out whether my cook can rival Aunt Beauregard’s in the tea-and-crumpets line!’
Their excursion to the attics set the tone for their whole happy summer. Never mind that it was one of the wettest in recent history—Russell and Mary’s burgeoning love cast a golden glow over it. There were only two flies in the ointment: one was that the rain ruined the harvest, but fortunately Russell had spent most of the estate’s surplus from its rents in buying sheep on Lord Chard’s advice; and the second was Pickering’s desertion.
Russell knew that Pickering was unhappy in the north, ‘so far from civilisation’ as he once glumly put it, but all the same it came as a surprise when one morning, after laying out Russell’s country clothes for the day, he said, his face grave, ‘I would have a serious word with you, m’lord.’
Russell, tying a large cream-coloured handkerchief around his neck, riposted idly, ‘I thought that you were always serious, Pickering. It is one of your many virtues.’
‘Even more serious than usual, then,’ said Pickering who liked to bandy words with his master. ‘It is this, m’lord. I would ask you to release me from my contract of service with you before quarter-day to allow me to return to London as soon as possible.’
M’lord was so surprised that he dropped his handkerchief. Pickering lifted it from the floor and handed it to him with a bow.
‘Really, Pickering, you really wish to leave me? Why?’
‘Truth to tell, m’lord, I am not happy here. My home has always been in London and I miss it very much. All my family and friends are there, and besides, you do not need me any more. You live and work in country clothing and the services I have always done for you are not required. I have been privately training one of the under-footmen to do for you all the necessaries of your new life, for, forgive me for saying so, I think that you intend to remain here—which is why I am asking you to allow me to leave.
‘I have always been happy to work for you—as, indeed, have all the servants here and in London. We could not have a kinder or more considerate master, but the city lights beckon, if you will allow me to be poetic.’
‘I will allow you anything—even to leave before quarter-day arrives, for I could not have had a more efficient or faithful valet. You will require me to write a reference for you, I suppose, and I shall do so gladly—although I do not gladly lose you. When would you like to leave?’
‘By the end of next week, if that is suitable to you, m’lord.’
‘Of course it’s not suitable, but if you must, you must. I shall miss you greatly, but all the same, I wish you well in the future.’
‘Thank you, m’lord, I knew that I could trust you to be kind.’
Kind! thought Russell when Pickering had gone. Ritchie would be sure to say I was too kind in letting Shaw stay on and in allowing Pickering to go when he pleases and not work out his time. The devil of it is, though, the fellow is right: he needs some fine gentleman to look after, not a country fellow dressed in flyaway clothing. For someone London born and bred, the country must seem a dull place.
He was not to know that Pickering’s going would make the countryside seem far less dull, if not positively dangerous.
‘Leaving us, Mr Pickering, are you?’ commented Shaw that night when the valet broke the news to him. ‘Can’t say that I’m surprised—you’re a right regular cockney, aren’t you, if you don’t mind me saying so. We’ll give you a good send-off, though, be sure of that.’
The send-off took place two days before Pickering was due to leave. Privately Shaw had always thought that Pickering acted as though he were superior to them all because he served m’lord directly: to make him drunk thus became a kind of revenge. It also provided for Shaw a bonus which he didn’t expect.
They were seated in the servants’ hall, the debris of revelry about them. Most of the servants, other than Shaw’s crony, Briggs, had already retired. Shaw had rightly judged that m’lord would not object to his faithful valet being given a right royal send-off. Pickering was already halfway to being maudlin when once he and Briggs were alone with him, Shaw began to question him about his life with Russell in London and out of it.
‘Bet you were a bit surprised when the Earl sent him up here,’ commented Shaw. It was an idle remark with no hidden meaning in it, other than to set Pickering talking in the hope that he might give something damaging away about his master.
Pickering, his senses awry, looked earnestly at his interrogator. ‘That’s just it,’ he said, the drink making him careless—indeed, come morning he had no memory of what his loose tongue had given away. ‘The Earl didn’t send him here. The talk was that when m’lord asked his father if he could visit Eddington he was expressly told that he would never give him permission to do any such thing. It was the first time m’lord ever disobeyed his dad. The Earl don’t know that he’s here—my master just came.’
Shaw’s jaw dropped. He almost asked Pickering to say all that again so that he was sure that he had not misheard, but Pickering was already near to point non plus so far as consciousness was concerned.
‘That right?’ he managed.
‘Jus’ said so, din’ I? The Earl’s no idea he’s here, no idea at all.’
Rage consumed Shaw, who had been careful not to drink level with Pickering while he pumped him. So, the damned upstart had no business to be present, had not been sent by the Earl, but had come to Eddington to make trouble for them all on his own initiative. What’s more, the bastard had always spoken as though he were his father’s emissary!
Shaw’s busy and devious brain, honed by a lifetime of dishonesty, was beginning to grasp that he might be able to make use of what Pickering had just told him so that he could regain his one-time virtual lordship here.
‘Any idea why he came?’ he ventured.
‘The gossip in the servants’ hall was that he thought that there might be something going wrong here.’
‘Such as?’ was Shaw’s next venture—but he was too late, Pickering slipped sideways from his chair, dead to the world, with no notion that he had betrayed his master and had given his enemy a means of revenge on the man who had spoiled his little gallop at Eddington.
Shaw looked across at Briggs. ‘Help me to get him to bed, Briggs, and then you and I will have a little talk.’
They lifted the unconscious Pickering so that he hung between them.
‘What did you make of all that about m’lord being here, unknown and against his father’s wishes?’ asked Briggs once they had deposited Pickering on his bed and had returned to the scene of his recent downfall.
‘Hush!’ said Shaw, putting his finger beside his nose. ‘That’s for you and me to know, and not the rest of the fools around Eddington. I’ve got a right handy notion that we might be able to make good use of Pickering’s loose tongue, but the less that others might know about it, the better. If you keep quiet we might both be made for life—best avoid drinking too much from now on or you could give away any little game you and me might care to play when the time is right.’
Briggs nodded agreement and put down his tankard, the ale in it half-drunk. ‘Anything you say, Arthur, anything you say, you always did right for us both before that popinjay arrived and spoiled things.’
‘Not for much longer,’ said Shaw, laughing, ‘not for much longer.’
Chapter Ten
September had arrived. Around Eddington and Ancoates the countryside was turning golden and scarlet—when it wasn’t raining, that was. In London the Earl of Bretford sat in his study, fuming. It was well over three months since he had heard anything from his son and heir.
He had learned, to his great annoyance, that Angelica Markham had first been betrothed to old Horsham and had then run off with young Tom Bertram. All of which went to show that Hadleigh had disobeyed him once again by not making an offer for the silly chit. It was natural that she didn’t want to tie herself to that old roué Horsham, but if she had to run off with someone why couldn’t it have been Russell Hadleigh? Not that she would have needed to run anywhere if Hadleigh had had the sense to propose to her.
None of this was worth worrying about while Hadleigh was still missing. What was he doing for money and where was he spending it? Had he been set on by robbers and been done away with? Who was harbouring him? Was he travelling from one country house to another?
The only thing the Earl could be sure of was that Hadleigh was disobeying him. He should have returned to London, after his failed attempt with Angelica Markham, so that he might be told which suitable heiress to propose to next. A more unsatisfactory son and heir than Hadleigh he could not imagine.
He chose for a moment to think of his more satisfactory son, Richard—or Ritchie, as he preferred to be called. Richard, who had already provided the family with an heir if Hadleigh failed, as usual, to do his duty. It was a great pity that he was not the older twin, then he would not be sitting here worrying about what Hadleigh was up to.
An idea struck him. Was it not possible that Richard knew where Hadleigh was? If he did, a visit to him at Liscombe might save a deal of time and worry about the wretch. Besides, it would be pleasant to see young Pandora again and his grandson: better to do that than sit here fretting about Hadleigh.
Ritchie Chancellor was sitting in his study going over his last month’s accounts which his bailiff had left on his desk earlier that day when the door opened and his wife, Pandora, burst in. Pandora was given to bursting in: it was one of the things which he loved about her since it contrasted so well with his own complete calm.
‘Yes, my love,’ he said, smiling. ‘What is it this time?’
‘It’s your father. He’s just arrived. Why? How very odd that he should not write to us to inform us that he proposed a visit. He’s always so punctilious about such matters. Can anything be wrong?’
Another thing about Pandora which Ritchie liked was her total common sense beneath her apparently flighty exterior. She was also able to detect the false notes in people’s behaviour and certainly his father’s completely unexpected and unannounced appearance was very odd.
‘Perhaps,’ he said, hedging his bets as usual. Pandora was to think later that it was one of the things for which she loved him. ‘I take it that his unexpected arrival will not strain our hospitality overmuch.’
‘Oh, no. I always have the spare room ready for use and plenty of food and the stables are—’ She stopped. ‘Ritchie, you are bamming me, are you not?’
‘True,’ he told her with a grin. ‘I know what a splendid housekeeper you are. Now add to your splendour by going to greet Father and put him in a good humour by showing him Will while I finish these books.’
‘Done,’ she exclaimed and bounced out.
She must have exercised her charms on the Earl with great success, Ritchie thought later, since his father looked very much at ease both that afternoon and later during and after dinner. Particularly since it soon became apparent to him that his father must have had some important purpose behind this impromptu visit. Important because impromptu was usually the last word to apply to any of his father’s actions.
Pandora gone, he pushed the bottle of port over to him, saying, ‘Now, sir, perhaps you will do me the goodness to explain why you have come here in this ramshackle fashion without giving us warning and in as little state as possible.’
His father laughed and then grunted, ‘You should go to Greenwich Fair, Richard, and set up as a mind-reader—much easier than toiling here turning this place into a money spinner.’
‘True,’ said his son, ‘but you haven’t answered my question which, I admit, wasn’t really one.’
The Earl took a great swig of port, set his glass down carefully and said, ‘It’s Hadleigh. I haven’t heard a word from him since early spring—it’s as though he’s vanished off the face of the earth. I know he visited you about that time—have you any notion where he might be? If you have, I should be greatly pleased if you would inform me of it.’
‘Suppose I told you that he might not wish me to inform you of his whereabouts, what then?’
‘Why ever not? And may I remind you it’s your duty, as my son, to honour my wishes, and to tell me the truth.’
