The Highwayman (13 page)

If he was going to divulge the truth about himself, she preferred to hear it from him rather than from someone else. But perhaps it was something else altogether...

CHAPTER TEN

By the time they arrived at the front entrance, Alice had already disappeared in the direction of the stables, and after handing Jane down from the curricle, St. Clair drove off in that direction, too. Jane watched, bemused, until he was out of sight, then turned towards the house.

With her thoughts wholly centred upon the proposed rendezvous with St. Clair later that night, she wondered how she would manage to get through the intervening hours. But all of that flew from her head when she stepped through the door to discover a state of near pandemonium.

Elsie stood near the bottom of the stairs, glaring at Melrose. At the sight of her mistress, she cried, “It weren’t my fault! Melrose weren’t nowhere about, and how was I to know the old cat— I mean the vicar’s wife—can’t abide the squire?”

Before Jane could enquire as to the meaning of this astounding speech, Melrose answered sharply, “If you had but waited a moment, instead of rushing to answer the door yourself—which you know well is no part of your duties— I should have been here. Now, if you know what is good for you, you will stop bothering Miss Jane and take yourself off to the kitchen to help Cook.”

The maid flounced away. Melrose turned to his mistress to offer his own apologies, but Jane scarcely heard him or registered his unusually harassed look.

Alice and St. Clair had just come in, but her attention was riveted on the sound of a booming male voice coming from the drawing-room. “Here now, woman, be careful with that foot. It hurts like the very devil!”

Agatha’s voice sounded unsympathetic. “Oh, stop your complaining, Alfred. You have only yourself to blame. If you were not forever attempting to behave as if you were still a young blade...”

“Papa!” shrieked Alice, and dashing past Jane, she flew into the drawing-room.

“Ah, there you are, puss. Come give your papa a kiss, but be careful of that foot.”

St. Clair raised his eyebrows at Jane and said, “I believe this is a case where retreat is the better part of valour. I shall be in the estate room should you need me.”

Jane merely nodded distractedly and went to the drawing-room. There she discovered Sir Alfred, sitting in a wing-chair beside the empty fireplace fondly greeting his daughter, while Agatha finished arranging his heavily bandaged left foot on a pillow-topped footstool.

“Sir Alfred!” Jane said, wondering if she sounded as stupid as she feared she did. “I thought you would be in Brighton, or on your way to the Continent by now.”

“Aye, and so I should have been, had it not been for this,” he growled, nodding at the offending appendage. “But I must have injured the damned toe somehow, for the confounded thing has swelled like a blasted balloon and is devilish painful.”

“In a pig’s eye!” said Agatha inelegantly. “Injured, indeed! It is the gout, and comes as a result of all that rich food and drink, not to mention other things which are better left unsaid. And I shall thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head while you are in this house, sir!”

Jane thought she heard Agatha add, “Old fool,” under her breath, but could not be certain.

After favouring Agatha with a blistering scowl, the squire looked sheepishly at Jane and apologized for his language, then said, “But what is this I hear about St. Clair?”

“Oh, Papa!” declared Alice. “Only think, I have been staying in the same house as a noted rake!” Then she added with a slight pout, “But he is not at all what I thought he would be. In fact, he treats me as though he were my uncle, or some such thing.”

Looking somewhat relieved. Sir Alfred said, “Well, well. Always liked the fellow myself, even if he is a bounder. Hear he has inherited everything from that old curmudgeon Caldwell, though, so I expect all that nasty business will soon be forgiven. Even so, can’t have him living in the same house as my young puss, here.”

For the briefest of moments, Jane was sorely tempted to tell him that he might take his daughter away with him, with her blessing. But of course she could not be so uncivil. Instead, thinking it time to take command of the situation, she sent a reluctant Alice off to change out of her riding habit, then told Sir Alfred, “Your daughter, sir, is being well chaperoned. And as for St. Clair, he has been recuperating here after an unfortunate accident. Ethridge Hall, as you know, is scarcely fit for occupancy.”

“Well, well,” said the squire again with a thoughtful frown. No doubt you are right. Might not be such a bad thing for my girl, after all. Hear he has hired workmen to set the Hall to rights, which makes me wonder if he is planning to mend his ways and settle down. By all accounts he is rich as a nabob now. Before we know it, all the matchmaking mamas will be throwing their eligible daughters in his path. No harm in my puss having a head start, is there?”

Jane had no notion of how to answer that remarkable speech.
So much for taking command of the situation,
she thought wryly.

She turned at the sound of someone clearing his throat and found Melrose still standing in the doorway. “Yes, Melrose?” she asked.

“I was wondering. Miss Jane, what you wished me to do about the lady.”

“The lady?”

“The vicar’s wife.”

“Good God!” Jane exclaimed. “Is she still here?”

“I am afraid so, Miss Jane. She was a trifle overset when the squire arrived, and—”

“Ha!” interpolated Sir Alfred. “That’s rich! ‘A trifle overset.’ Went into a spasm is what she did.”

“I had her removed to the morning-room,” finished Melrose rather faintly.

“Damned gossiping busybody,” muttered Sir Alfred.

“Great heavens!” declared Agatha. “I forgot all about her. You had better go to her, Jane. I could not get rid of her, for she is determined to speak to you, and I fear she won’t leave until she does. I have a fair notion of what it is she means to tell you.” Then she added rather cryptically, “Just remember that there is always more than one way to look at a thing.”

Squelching a pudding-hearted urge to feign illness, Jane said, “Very well,” and walked resolutely from the room.

As she mounted the stairs, she heard Sir Alfred saying, “Speaking of unfortunate accidents, did you hear that I was robbed by that devilish rogue of a highwayman? And the damned fellow is still on the loose. Don’t know what this world is coming to!”

Jane did not hear Agatha’s reply, nor did the thought of the highwayman bother her any longer. In any event, she had too many other things on her mind. A few moments later, she entered the morning-room with a determined smile pasted on her lips.

Mrs. Micklethorp was lying on the sofa, clutching a vinaigrette in her hand, but at Jane’s entrance, she sat up and looked at her accusingly. “Praise God, you have finally returned,” she said. “I don’t know how much longer I could bear to remain under the same roof as that man.”

“St. Clair?” Jane was surprised into asking. So far as she knew, the lady had not so much as laid eyes on St. Clair.

“No, no, not St. Clair—well, him, too, but I was referring, on this occasion, to Squire Brant. The man has an evil tongue in his head and not an ounce of civility in his body. As you know, my dear, a vicar’s wife must deal with a great many persons of the lower classes, but they, at least, know how to show a proper respect. Such language as he uses! Well! As I said, I could scarcely bear to remain in the same house with him.”

Suppressing a strong inclination to tell her persistent guest that no one had constrained her to do so, Jane said, “I’m sorry, but I had no notion that you would stay for such a lo—I mean I had not realized that you meant to wait for me, ma’am.”

“I know my duty, Jane, and as I told you earlier, I came to speak with you and I mean to do so before I go.”

As much as Jane had longed to avoid this, she now only wished for the woman to say her piece and leave. In any case, it appeared that nothing would stop her.

Deciding that it was better to hear the truth now, rather than indulge in speculation, Jane sat down wearily. “Very well, ma’am. Just what is it that St. Clair is supposed to have done?”

Mrs. Micklethorp assumed the classic pose of someone about to offer a choice morsel of gossip, while at the same time managing to appear reluctant.

Even as she wondered at such an ability, Jane resigned herself to hearing a long, involved tale.

However, the vicar’s wife told the whole in only two sentences. She said, not entirely unsympathetically, “I fear there is no supposing about it, for the story came from the most reliable source. In any event, not to wrap the matter in clean linen, my dear, he eloped with a young lady, got her with child, then abandoned her to her fate, refusing to marry her.”

Surprised by the brevity of that speech, and shocked by its content, Jane’s first inclination was to deny that it could be true. But something stopped her. She could not, however, think of any other response, and so she watched in a silent daze as her guest rose, saying, “There, I have done what I came to do. I shall go now, but I do hope that you will consider well all that I have said, and act accordingly.”

With that, Mrs. Micklethorp took her leave, but Jane scarcely registered that she was finally gone.

What she had heard was far worse than anything she had imagined. For him to have abandoned the girl after getting her with child... no, she could not believe that of him. And yet, even loving gossip as the vicar’s wife did, would she repeat such a vicious tale if it were completely unsubstantiated?

Jane hated the doubt which had insinuated itself into her mind, but could not rid herself of it.

Mrs. Micklethorp had said that the story came from the most reliable source, which could only be the girl or her family. But surely they would not have wished to broadcast such a disaster. They would be more likely to do all in their power to hush it up, would they not?

By now, Jane’s head was throbbing and she longed for nothing so much as the privacy of her own chamber, where she could try to come to terms with her confused feelings. For, even while she unhappily accepted the possible—probable?—truth of the story, she was desperately trying to find excuses for St. Clair.

But she could not do as she wished; she still had a guest to see to. It would be too uncivil to ignore the squire’s presence in such a way, and so she forced herself to return to the drawing-room.

On her way, a new concern occurred to her. She knew that Sir Alfred had given most of his staff leave, since he had expected to be away for some time. What if she were obliged to house him, too? Her financial resources were already considerably strained.

In the end, she was not obliged to house the squire. He did, however, accept her invitation to stay for dinner, which turned out to be both a blessing and a trial. It was a severe strain to sit at table with St. Clair and attempt to behave as if nothing had changed when, in fact, her heart was breaking. It was fortunate, therefore, that the squire was there, for he dominated the conversation, making her inability to meet St. Clair’s eyes, or to speak easily with him, less obvious.

Afterwards, as St. Clair said good-night, he gave her a meaningful look and, under his breath, murmured, “Until later.”

She knew he was referring to their proposed meeting in the garden, but she could not tell him that she would not be there. For one thing, they were not alone, and for another, she did not know what to say to him. More to the point, she feared she might burst into tears if she tried to speak.

In her chamber, as she slowly made ready for bed, she wondered dejectedly how long he would wait for her. Not long, she thought. During dinner, Mrs. Micklethorp’s extended visit had been mentioned, and St. Clair had looked at Jane sharply. His understanding was highly acute, so no doubt he already suspected that she now knew the truth about him and would not be surprised by her failure to appear.

Perhaps he would even be gone by the time she awakened in the morning. And she wondered, as she crawled into bed, why that thought should make her weep.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

St. Clair waited for Jane for scarcely a quarter of an hour. She knew this because she had frequently glanced at the clock by her bedside. So she knew exactly what time it was when her door opened and he strode into her chamber.

The sight of him filled her with such happiness that, just for a moment, she forgot all other considerations. Yet somehow this seemed much more improper than
her
visits to
his
chamber had ever been.

Sitting up, Jane clutched the sheet to her chest and hissed, “St. Clair! What are you doing here?”

He neither spoke nor stopped until he was standing beside her bed. Then, arms akimbo, he glared down at her and said, “If Mohammed will not come to the mountain... But I think I know why you failed to keep our appointment. It was the vicar’s wife, was it not? Mrs. Middlethrop?”

“Micklethorp,” she corrected as she turned her head away, not wishing him to see how reddened her eyes must be, and feeling unaccountably ashamed for having failed him.

But he took her chin in his hand and turned it back. “No, do not turn away from me. We are going to have this out now, though why I should care— In any event, the lady told you a most unsavoury tale about me, did she not? And you not only believed her, but have already judged me.”

“No, but—oh, I don’t know what to believe!” Jane cried in agitation.

“Hush,” he said, “or the entire household will hear us.”

Stung by his criticism, she nevertheless lowered her voice as she replied indignantly, “It seems very strange to find you so aware of propriety. Before I met you I would not have dreamed of being so indiscreet.”

Amusement leapt into his eyes at that, and he said,
“Mea culpa.
You see, I admit my fault.” Then, becoming sober once more, he added, “But this is the very height of indiscretion, and should we be discovered, we should certainly find ourselves in the suds. Your reputation would be as damaged as my own. And it was you who once told me that Society can be cruel to those who do not heed its rules, though God knows, I have reason enough of my own to know that.”