Sally James (16 page)

“Sir Henry, I – I have been unable to see you earlier,” she began uneasily, and he inclined his head.

“Naturally not, for I have been abroad,” he commented, a slight smile on his lips.

She breathed deeply. This was an inauspicious beginning, but she persevered doggedly. “The girl, Redruth, has disappeared from the island,” she stated baldly.

“I thought she must have.”

“You knew?” she asked, incredulous. “Who informed you of it?”

“I did not precisely know, but I had a strong suspicion. However, pray continue to inform me how you failed in your trust and allowed this to happen.”

“I cannot think I am to blame!” she defended herself, angry that he seemed to play with her. “I took all the normal precautions but a man was washed ashore after his boat was wrecked. I could not refuse him assistance, for he was hurt! I am convinced he had all to do with Redruth’s disappearance, for she went just a few days after he himself left the island.”

“A man?” Sir Henry decided she was telling the truth. “Who was he, or did you not discover that?”

“Sir Denzil Trewyn.”

“Trewyn!” She had startled him with that name. “Did he know to whom the island belongs?”

“I do not think so. I took care he should not discover it from me, but he might have learned it in the village. I sent Bob to make enquiries there and he was told that Trewyn stayed at the inn until the day the girl disappeared. Also that he had twice hired a boat.”

“I see. Bent on vengeance, I have no doubt.”

She refrained from comment. Although she knew of the quarrel with the Trewyns that had resulted in his disgrace so long before, she had never known any details.

“What else do you know?”

“I came to London and went to see Sir Denzil. He refused to admit anything.”

“I would hardly expect him to divulge the whole,” he said scathingly, and she flushed a dull red. “It might have been better had you awaited my return, before warning him he was suspected. Is he keeping her?”

“I do not think so. I have walked as frequently as possible in Mount Street, and never seen Redruth, although I did once catch sight of her driving in the Park. She is in London, but where she lives I have no notion.”

“Was she driving with Trewyn?”

“No, with another young man, but I could not discover his name.”

“Well, I shall soon no doubt remedy that! You had best return to the island, Miss Brockton, and await developments. I am not yet clear whether I shall send the girl back. It might suit my purposes better to keep her here.”

“I – I thought you might wish me to stay in London, Sir Henry,” she said in surprise. “What shall I do on the island?”

“Wait. You would be a devilish nuisance here.”

“But if you do not send her back?” she asked, fear in her voice.

“If I do not?”

“I – what shall I do then?”

“Oh, you mean your usefulness will have ended. Perhaps you should have considered that before allowing Redruth to elude you.”

“But I should have nowhere to go!”

He raised his eyebrows, then smiled, a thin humourless smile. “Let us concern ourselves about your future when that of Redruth’s is decided. I have some influence, and might be able to obtain a post for you in some institution, where your experience in caring for a deranged girl would be of use.”

She stared at him in dismay, horrific visions of becoming a wardress in a place like Bedlam crowding her mind.

“You could not! Indeed it was no fault of mine!”

“Good day to you, Miss Brockton. It was thoughtful of you to travel to London yourself to inform me of this. I will write with further instructions later.”

He stood up, rang the bell, and crossed to open the door for her. She tottered out into the hall, where she found the butler waiting to show her from the house. Dazed, she went without further protest and Sir Henry returned to his study to sit at his desk considering his next move.

So Trewyn was responsible. But it had been Tom Devoran who had been with the girl on the previous night. He recalled that it had been his wife who introduced them, and rang to ask her to come to the study.

“Oh, has Miss Brockton gone?” she said as she entered. “Was it of great importance?”

“A charity I am interested in, some problems concerning that, merely,” he replied. “No, I wished to ask you something else. That girl you presented to me last night, what was her name?”

“You mean Miss de Lisle?”

“Yes. Do you know her well?”

“I have met her but a few times. She stays with Lady Beverley, so naturally we have met on public occasions only. Why do you ask?”

He did not reply for a moment, piecing this part of the puzzle with those he already knew. She had not, then, been taken as Trewyn’s mistress. What else could he have in mind?

“I had wondered whether she was the latest of Devoran’s flirts. Was he not hanging after the Floode girl when I left town?”

“Yes, and rumour has it she refused him. Miranda seems to have captured Sir Denzil as well as the Earl of Devoran from Araminta Floode.”

“Trewyn is one of her suitors then?”

“She is his ward. I understand that her father was a French émigré who lived near his estates in Cornwall. It is possible you might have known him.”

Sir Henry had frowned over this latest piece of information. A French émigré? How much did Trewyn know or guess, and to what use did he intend to put his information?

“Have we any engagement for tonight?” he asked abruptly.

“Some of your Parliamentary friends are coming to dinner.”

“Yes, of course, I had forgot.”

He nodded, abstractedly, and Lady Carstairs departed. After some time of further deep thought, Sir Henry stirred himself and went out of the house, spending the rest of the day in his various clubs, catching up with the news and the gossip of town, and discreetly trying to learn all he could about Miranda, Denzil, and their circle of friends.

 There was little more than his wife had been able to tell him, though he did find that the betting on whether Trewyn would succumb to the charms of his ward was rather stronger than that which still gave Araminta the odds. He thoughtfully made his way home for his dinner engagement, wondering how best to contrive a meeting, and whether this should in the first instance be with Trewyn or with Miranda.

Chapter Twelve

The decision was not left to him, however. By the following morning Miranda, who had slept ill after the overwhelming excitement of the discovery of her parents, was too confused to wish to talk to Judith. She did not know whether or not to believe her mother’s story, and had come to the conclusion that the only way to resolve her difficulties was for her to hear the story of Sir Henry also. Accordingly she determined to pay him a visit and beg he tell her the truth. She did not stop to consider whether it was likely that he would, suddenly confronted with her story, be willing to divulge his version of the events to her.

She had been engaged to spend the morning with Mary Fellowes, and after breakfast set off there, accompanied by the maid that Judith insisted always went with her when she was alone. When she arrived at Mary’s she told the girl to go home, hoping thus to escape her vigilance, but Betty had received very strict instructions from Judith, and declined to go.

Miranda shrugged. It really made no difference that the girl should accompany her. She was shown into Mary’s sitting room, and after greeting her, Miranda asked her for Lady Carstairs’ direction.

“Will you forgive me if I leave you sooner than I had intended, for I find I have to visit her for a special reason,” she explained.

“My dear, of course I will forgive you, if it is so urgent. She lives in Curzon Street.”

After remaining for a short while with Mary, Miranda bade her farewell and was soon knocking on the door of Sir Henry’s house. She was shown immediately into his study, to find the man who was reputed to be her father standing waiting to receive her. He regarded her unsmilingly for a moment, a scrutiny she bore with as much composure as she could summon.

“Miss de Lisle, is it not? Pray be seated. How can I be of assistance to you?”

Miranda subsided onto a chair, her legs trembling, and he sat facing her.

“Oh dear, it is so difficult!” she exclaimed, and a faint smile crossed his face.

“Will it help you if I say I have been half expecting this visit?”

“You know?”

“I am not sure how much I know. I would prefer to hear what you have to say, child. I am no ogre, so do not be afraid.”

“No, for you have been kind to the climbing boys. That is what I cannot understand,” she said candidly.

“The beginning, shall we?” he prompted.

Miranda nodded, more composed now, and began.

“It seems impossible, but I am told you are my father. I – I wanted to know the truth, and I can only ask you!”

“Who told you this?”

“My mother. Oh, I did not know that either of you existed but a day since! Then utterly unexpectedly, I found my mother. I am so like her there can be no mistake. She told me that when she was very young, and an orphan, you married her, and I was born. Then you said the marriage was not valid because you had been under age and constrained by your father. You sent her away, promising to provide for me. Is it true? Am I really your daughter? Did it happen that way?”

“Did you believe her story?”

“I do not know what to believe! It is true that I have always lived on the island – is it your island?”

“It seems she has devised a story that lays all the blame on me, does it not? Come, my dear, you must tell me more than this. Of what else did she accuse me?”

Slowly, prompted by his skilful questioning, Miranda told him all she knew, and he listened carefully. As she ended, there was a silence while he gazed into the flames that flickered from the logs in the fire. Miranda watched him, unable to read from his expression what his reaction to her story was. Then he turned to her.

“I almost wish it could be true, if you want to believe it, child. But I fear that it was very different. Do you wish to hear my story?”

“That was why I came,” Miranda said quietly.

“Marie le Brun was a distant connection of ours, and we gave her and her parents a home when they escaped from France. That much of her tale is true, in any event. I was at home one summer when she was about your age. That also is true. But I neither seduced her nor married her. I fell wildly in love with her, and wished to be married, and she seemed to return my affection, but my father would not permit the marriage, saying we were both too young. He had other reasons which at the time he did not disclose to me. Then one night, she came secretly to my room. Oh, my dear child, it pains me grievously to tell you this of your mother, but you must know the truth in order to understand both her and me. She pleaded with me to elope with her, saying that surely my father would relent when he saw we were in earnest. I knew him better for a stern man, and when I said he would not, even then, she broke down and wept. I tried to comfort her, and – well, she spent the night with me. We were very young, and deep in love, but that was the only time we allowed our feelings to overwhelm us. Then, a few weeks later, she told me there was to be a child, and we tried again to change my father’s mind, but to no avail. It had a disastrous effect on Marie, for she became for a while insane. I thought it was a result of disappointment, but I was told afterwards by my father that the insanity had appeared in her family in nearly every generation. That was his real reason for refusing his consent to our marriage. However, while she was in that state, she boasted of her lovers, and how she had succeeded in fathering her bastard onto me. At first I was too shocked, and still too deeply in love to believe that, in her madness, she was telling the truth. I thought it but one more manifestation of the malady. But you were born, too early for you to have been my child, and I had to believe it at last. Later still I learned she had been with several of the young men in the neighbourhood, and even she could not be certain who the father was. It was a severe blow, for I still loved her and hoped her illness had been temporary. My father arranged for her to live quietly with the child on the island, and Miss Brockton, her governess, was to be in charge of them both. How cleverly indeed she had woven some of the truth into her own story! It was some months later, when you were just over a year, that she disappeared, and from the circumstance of her shoes being found near the edge of a cliff, it was feared she had, in one of the fits of madness that frequently overcame her, thrown herself into the sea. Her body was never found. Now, of course, I realise she left the island in some way, possibly as you did, my dear, with the aid of one of her lovers. Am I right in believing it was Denzil Trewyn who helped you?”

“Yes. But why did you leave me on the island? Why was I allowed to believe I was mad?”

He smiled at her, sadly. “You are fortunate if you have escaped the taint. But I must blame myself. Oh, not for directly causing your imprisonment, my dear, but it all happened together, her disappearance from the island, what I thought her death, and also the death of my father. I left you in Miss Brockton’s charge while matters were arranged. I discovered my father’s affairs were in considerable disarray. When I had leisure to consider what might be done with you, I heard from Miss Brockton that you were showing distinct signs of the unbalanced nature that had affected your mother. She maintained you tended to be exceedingly violent, and any excitement made your condition worse. She suggested that to leave you in isolation and absolute peace and quiet on the island would be the best and kindest way of treating you, and volunteered to stay there herself and care for you. Pray understand my feelings, child. I was wrong, I see that now, but I had deeply loved your mother, although I knew you could not be my child. I had made myself responsible for you, but could not bear to look on you because of the memories you brought back. I could not bring myself to visit the island, because I thought Marie had met her death there. I relied on Miss Brockton, giving her strict instructions she was to notify me of any improvement in your condition. I was remiss. I should have been strong enough to have seen for myself. I now know she abused her trust. It seems she cared only for providing herself with a secure home. She had always been somewhat of a recluse, and living in isolation would not frighten her. Will you forgive me for neglecting you so? If I had realised – but I was too trusting!”