The Imaginary Gentleman (12 page)

“Yes.”

Mr. Whichale seemed almost inclined to laugh. “You have been imposed upon, my good sirs. The scene you suggest is unlikely in the extreme.”

“Why so? Is it strange that your uncle would have wished to see a clergyman who was a stranger to him?”

Mr. Whichale shook his head sadly. “No, I meant that for my lamented relative to have called for any clergyman at all is next to impossible. Sadly, he was not a believer …”

“What?” cried Edward.

“I have shocked you by speaking of his lack of faith. Only long familiarity with my uncle's ways hardened me to his unorthodox opinions.”

He rose and rang the bell. “You must verify this with my man here.”

“Mr. Whichale, we do not doubt your word for a moment.”

Their host waved away their objections and the ancient servant entered.

“Moreley, you good fellow, can you help these two gentlemen with some information?”

“Yes, sirs?” The old man's voice quavered.

“There is no need to feel alarmed,” said Edward. “I wish merely to discover whether your previous master called for a clergyman in his last hours.”

“Bless you, sir. I were with my old master for many a year. He would not have wanted prayers said over him, or take Holy Sacraments or anything of the like. He could not abide clergymen, sir.”

“Tell the gentlemen about the sign, Moreley.”

The old retainer reddened slightly. “There were a sign, sir, on the gate, these last twenty years—writ big—NO PARSONS, it said. There were a parson once chose to ignore it and the dogs was set upon him.”

“Enough!” cried Mr. Whichale. “There is no need to tell every shameful detail, Moreley.”

He turned to the visitors. “Will you join us for dinner? Mrs. Whichale is always pleased to offer hospitality. We dine simply in memory of my uncle, but we would be most honoured.”

“I regret that we have ordered dinner at the inn,” said Edward.

“However, we would be delighted to pay our respects to Mrs. Whichale,” said Sir Richard.

The lady of the house was a genteel woman, but somewhat timorous, giving a little start when her husband introduced the visitors. Sir Richard did what he could to put her at her ease, until realising that perhaps she was all the more nervous for his attentions.

After a few pleasantries, the visitors were making their bows before departing, when a commotion broke out in the hall. The dogs were barking joyously and a friendly voice called out, “Where shall I find your mistress, Moreley? In the drawing room?” The voice was followed into the room by a young man.

“You are come, Benjamin!” cried Mrs. Whichale. “Give your aunt a kiss.” The young man saluted his aunt as requested, and greeted his uncle, who said, “Gentlemen, may I present my nephew, Benjamin Reece.”

The visitors were at once struck by the young man's open, friendly expression. He was somewhat less than middle height, and
while not striking in appearance, had pleasant features. His countenance was open and interested, while the expression in his hazel eyes shone with candour.

Edward and Sir Richard both took to young Mr. Reece, staying some minutes longer than intended.

The young man said, “I had the pleasure of speaking to a young lady named Miss Morrison, in Lyme a week or two since.”

“Why, that is my sister!”

“Is she? I was introduced to her at the Assembly and we enjoyed a lively conversation—she has an ironic wit, has she not? She was obliged to leave early due to the indisposition of her companion.”

“I hope you made a good impression upon the young lady,” said the uncle.

“I doubt if Miss Morrison noticed me particularly, for there were five or six of us, and she was enjoying sparring with that dreadful old fellow—you must know him, Aunt—he has such a mane of white hair, the biggest nose in the kingdom and the sharpest tongue!”

“That is not a polite way of recalling him to my memory, Benjamin!”

“She had him on the run! Lord, how we all laughed, and he too! Then the old lady was taken over faint and they went away.”

Sir Richard took the opportunity to ask if Mr. Reece was acquainted with Mr. Templeton.

“No, not at all,” he said.

Edward dismissed the thoughts crowding his mind to wish for the good health of Mr. Whichale's family in the county.

“As to my relations, there are none hereabouts,” he said.

As they turned out of the gate, Edward pointed out a square patch on the wall, cleaner than the rest. “The sign was just there,” he said.

“This is very mysterious, Cousin,” said Sir Richard.

T
HE LANDLORD AT THE INN
told them that the Whichale family was definitely the only one of that name in the county. Old Mr. Whichale had a younger brother, now deceased, who was the father of the new master and had moved away to Somerset years before. He also had a sister, with whom he had quarrelled after her marriage, as indeed he had with almost everyone he encountered. Nothing was heard of the sister again, until her grandson, Mr. Benjamin Reece, came to make himself known, about two months since.

“He is a personable young man,” said Sir Richard.

“That he be, sir. Old Mr. Whichale made out to hide him with his cane, or so they say, when first he saw this great-nephew, but in the end he come round.”

“You mentioned earlier that old Mr. Whichale was something of a hermit,” said Edward.

“There is many a tale told of him. He were very near and never parted with a farthing if he could avoid it.”

“I hope the old gentleman saw his error at the last, and called in the vicar to help him through his last moments.”

“Why bless you, sir,” the landlord said, chuckling. “I can't believe that. With him the parsons always were a'run down.”

He left the room and Sir Richard burst out with, “It's incomprehensible, Cousin! Mr. Templeton told Laura that he was called to the bedside of Mr. Whichale. Surely he would not be so ungentlemanlike as to tell a falsehood.”

The baronet waited for a reply, anxiously watching while Edward thought over the question. “I thought Whichale honest enough, yet I found something in his behaviour a little odd—too jocular.”

“Perhaps his inheritance has promoted him beyond a level of society in which he feels comfortable,” said Sir Richard. “I wondered if he has been engaged in trade, perhaps, and fears some will look down upon him now he is a gentleman.”

“You may well be right. That would fit with his lady's shyness.”

“I felt her to be rather timorous, too—perhaps of the entire male sex.”

“But the nephew?”

“Oh, there is no doubting the transparent honesty and well-meaning of Benjamin Reece!”

“And Laura had made his acquaintance,” said Edward. “I didn't know that before. I wonder if she heard of his old Uncle Whichale at the Assembly? It is usual for local people to mention such connections to those new to a district.”

“We don't know that anyone did—if so, she forgot.”

“I wonder if she heard some gossip about the young gentleman. Lyme is no great distance from Longpan. Perhaps people were whispering about his strange uncle, not long for this world.”

“That is it, then!” Sir Richard said. “She made a mistake, perhaps, about Mr. Templeton's destination.”

“It seems so,” said Edward.

“Do not sound so bleak, Cousin. We will get at the answer.”

“If you say.” Edward was gazing into the fire, with a sadness his cousin felt to be out of proportion to the setback they had received.

“Let us away to Charmouth, in the morning,” said Sir Richard. “I know you want to forget …”

“To Charmouth, certainly.”

“You agree?”

“I think we must.”

They parted for the night, each with his own view of their quest. Sir Richard, while puzzled over the circumstance of Laura's uncharacteristic forgetfulness, let go of the enigma and fell asleep. Edward, on the other hand, was wakeful long into the night.

 

Just beyond the crossroads, the coachman turned the carriage into another road, at the sign reading “Charmouth 8 Miles”. They arrived at the Charmouth Inn where the smell of a rich mutton ragout was permeating the air. They did not pause after finding no news of their quarry at the inn and headed in the direction of some lodgings nearby.

Here they found the mistress to be absent, but Edward questioned a maid. She twisted her hands in her apron, as she replied, “No, there wern't no gentleman a'lyin here then—not such as you say.”

“What, none?”

“There weren't no gentleman like that in Charmouth,” she said, fear in her eyes.

“Are you afraid of me, young woman?” he demanded. “You have nothing to fear for I am only trying to locate this gentleman.”

“He were not at this house.”

Sir Richard intervened. “Nay, Cousin, you are too abrupt and the girl fears you are angry with her.” He gestured for Edward to stand aside and began in his kindly way. “You must not be afraid of this gentleman. He's been at sea for too long, he's forgotten that young women don't like to brow-beat like a sailor.”

“They do not.” She pressed her hands onto her stomach and looked at him piteously. “I'm a'joppety-joppety.”

“Well, I am sorry for it.” He leant down as if in confidence. “The captain here is all ‘a-joppety-joppety' too, about Mr. Templeton.”

Edward scowled but Sir Richard ignored him, walking a few steps away.

She followed. “Perhaps the Dorset Drowners got 'im,” she ventured, with a wavering smile. “They pulls folks under the bog.”

“Perhaps he walked into the water meadows to prove they don't exist.”

She laughed. “They don' be true—not really—do you think, sir?”

“Well, I don't think that's what happened to him. I think he's simply gone off and forgotten to let his friends know where he is.”

“'Tis more likely than the Drowners got him.”

“So will you tell me now that Mr. Templeton was here?”

She shook her head, her eyes wandering from his face.

“Do you speak the truth?”

She turned back to him and raised her eyes to his, and said, “Yes, yes. There weren't no gentleman, no Mr. Templeton. He were not here.”

This was the result of all their enquiries, and indeed there were few enough places at which to ask.

They returned to the inn, where they found the ragout not up to their hopes.

“What shall we do now, Edward?” asked his cousin. “However shall we find him?”

“Do you not see, Richard, what stares you in the face?” Edward got up and paced across to the window and back.

“Mr. Templeton does not exist.”

Sir Richard was incredulous. “Nay, Edward, what mean you when you say the gentleman does not exist?”

“He is an illusion, a phantasm, a product of my sister's fancy. He is no more real than the Dorset Drowners.” He turned away from Sir Richard's expression of shock to repeat, “He does not exist.”

“He must exist, Edward, or your sister is lying. She would never do so—she is utterly truthful.”

“It is not a deliberate falsehood. She would never have sent us on this journey, if it were.”

He rose and walked to the small window, and, leaning against the frame he rested his head upon his arm, staring out into the waning light of the afternoon. He said, over his shoulder, “Laura believes him to be as real as you and me.”

“What of the lady who introduced Laura to him—Mrs. Gurdon?”

“We have been unable to speak to her since the
disappearance
of Mr. Templeton.”

Sir Richard could not see his cousin's face. “Laura cannot be blamed for the old lady's illness.”

“No, but it is interesting that the only remaining witness to Laura's story was too ill to confirm or deny it.”

Sir Richard felt a bleak, confused depression settle over his spirits. He sat with his hands hanging between his legs and his head bowed. At last he raised his eyes to see his cousin gazing darkly into a corner of the room.

“What of her maid, Sarah?” asked Sir Richard.

“Just like every one of Laura's witnesses, it is discovered that she was not so placed as to see him after all. The boy Tom, the ostler at the
stable, Sarah, the Whichales, the servants at the Lion in Lyme and at the lodging places in Charmouth—all deny knowledge of him.”

“It looks bad, yet …” Sir Richard's voice trailed away.

Edward raised his hands in frustration. “Yet what, Cousin? Always we have relied upon your cheerful view of the world to put us right when we are too gloomy. Tell me your
yet
,” he said, his voice full of bitterness.

“Laura is too clever to fall into some wild imagining.”

“I have been thinking about Laura's life—she has not had an easy time of it, Cousin.”

“No, she has known much grief.”

“Always when I saw her, Laura was full of humour. I see now I have not enquired sufficiently into her happiness, but thought too much of my own concerns.”

Sir Richard went over to the window and placed his hand on Edward's shoulder.

“You are as good a brother to her as might be; you were at sea most of the time since she was nine or ten years old.”

“It will not do, Sir Richard. I have not paid her sufficient care.”

Lost for words, Sir Richard dropped his hand from his cousin's shoulder and sank into an armchair, to gaze unseeing at the newspaper. In the lowering of the daylight, Edward sat at the table to write a letter.

Having sent off his letter, the captain sank into a reverie, his brow darkening. Sir Richard's senses were alive to his cousin's sad mood, which communicated itself to him, until he felt a turgid knot of anxious sorrow settle in him.

Edward stared sightlessly into a corner of the room. He felt so wearied of the struggle to maintain a semblance of confidence in the future. Dear, dear Laura, he thought. I know not how I could have recovered without your gentle care of me. He recalled only sensation from his weeks of illness. The heat that raged through his body threatened to consume him. That first instant when the wet cloth touched his forehead, cheeks, or neck remained a memory of joyous relief, lasting only seconds. The terrible thirst, quenched by water carefully dribbled into his mouth—by whom? The pain—he felt it to be in his left arm, not knowing that it raged chiefly at the site of amputation—deadened by the dose of opium. Another moment he could not forget—when he took the dose and the pain only receded, refused to die. He had reached out and seized the hand that denied it. “More!” he begged. And felt the splash of his sister's tears on his hand. He had felt the skin of her forehead hot on his arm—he remembered the strangeness of it feeling hotter than his own. The fever was broken.

She had put off his questions about Charlotte—why was she kept from him? Who kept her away? Could he not be vouchsafed a glimpse of her at the door? Of course she had come already, while he was still delirious—he knew that now. She had recoiled at the sight of him. It was Laura who did her best to soften the blow, Laura who had quelled all her anger and resentment to present the case in a light that give him least cause to feel himself repulsive.

He had offered Charlotte freedom from her promise by letter, and she accepted it in the same mode, with phrases of reluctance and words about her tears.

Had the pain and burden of that time weakened Laura's mind? He thought it might be so. Laura had been a treasured friend—her regular letters eagerly awaited through all his years working his way to captaincy. Laura had been his equal in mind and character, with a courage and sharpness to equal his own. Now she was brought low, her own bright wit and clarity of mind betrayed by her womanly weakness.

Well, he thought, I will care for her, in my own way, as assiduously as she has cared for me.