The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster (8 page)

‘Horrid
cat!’
thought Mrs. Stansbury. Her temper was seldom far from the surface and betrayed her into saying with a snap, “Cared for him
deeply?
Why, the sweet child
adores
him! She always has. When he offered she was in alt. I promise you, ma’am, that through all these months he has been enshrined in her heart.”

“Oh, the poor
dear!”
Mrs. Coffey held a tiny handkerchief to her tearless eyes and enquired brokenly, “How
ever
shall you… comfort her, Regina?”

Yearning to slap her, Mrs. Stansbury uttered a shrill titter. “But why should I feel obliged to
comfort
her, dearest Evaline? Although the gossips among us whisper their wicked lies and insinuations, my Cordelia is as innocent and—
untouched
as the day she was born. Gervaise Valerian would not dare to cry off, for he would certainly be held in contempt by all London if he did so dishonourable a thing!”

“Untouched?”
Mrs. Coffey blinked. “But—my love! Surely… all those months… alone on an island with only savages for company… and no one to protect the child…?”

“Ah.” Mrs. Stansbury gripped her teacup so hard that it was remarkable the handle did not break. “But you have been listening to a lot of fustian. You should not do so, naughty girl. The savages
worshipped
my lovely Cordelia! They’d never before seen a lady with fair hair. Quite logically, they thought she
was a goddess and laid not a finger on her. Not one!” Her rather large teeth were bared in a smile, but a hard stare challenged her guest.

Undeterred, Mrs. Coffey drew a deep breath and fired off her next volley. “How splendid, my love! You will, I am assured, have explained matters to poor Gervaise, and all those unkind rumours about his crying off are—”

“So much jealously! Valerian
adores
my Cordelia, and knowing of her unswerving devotion, has uttered not a hint of drawing back.” (Which was no lie, she thought, since the graceless wretch had not had the common decency to call upon Cordelia since her return!)

“I am
so
glad! Then—may we look forward to bridals in the near future? I fancy Gervaise will be anxious to make Cordelia his own. Now she is so—ah—famous, she will have awoken the—um—the interest of other young rascals, I am very sure.”

“Much chance they will have. Cordelia is as loyal as she can stare, and nothing would induce her to settle for another!” Mrs. Stansbury sank her teeth into a macaroon and thought, ‘He had
better
wed the stupid chit, or he’ll rue the day!’

Mrs. Coffey was quite aware of the frustration simmering behind that awful travesty of a smile. Gratified, she soon took her leave, eager to advise her friends that poor Cordelia Stansbury was hopelessly on the shelf and that her mama might very well strangle her.

As she was leaving the entrance hall, another caller arrived. He bowed politely and stood aside to let her pass. A tall, good-looking young fellow with a hint of the military about his bearing. It was a simple matter to claim to have mislaid her glove, and while a lackey was searching about for it, she heard the newcomer answer the butler in a pleasant voice, “I am Piers Cranford. Would you be so good as to take my card up to Mrs. Stansbury and say I beg a private word with her?”

Mrs. Coffey’s ears tingled. “A
private
word!” It was a word she longed to overhear, but the glove having been discovered
with irritating promptness under the credenza where she had kicked it, she was obliged to depart. Walking out to her waiting carriage, she was titillated by the knowledge that she had another fascinating
on-dit
to impart to her cronies. The name “Cranford” was familiar, though for the life of her she could not place it just now. Still, someone would know who he was, and all they’d have to learn then would be why he was calling on Regina Stansbury. Was it possible this young gallant cried friends with the dashing Valerian and had come to convey the rascal’s regrets and end the betrothal? She gave an involuntary little squeak of excitement. That was the root of it, no doubt. Poor dear Regina must have known it was inevitable. Still, she would be enraged, and, shrew that she was, one could only feel sorry for her unfortunate daughter.

“I am well aware of your connection to the Valerian family.” Mrs. Stansbury’s tone was acid.

Cranford, who tended to be shy in the presence of unknown females, felt transfixed by her piercing glare, and noting the two spots of colour high on her cheeks, dreaded lest this volatile lady fly into one of her famous rages and succumb to strong hysterics.

“I collect you are here in behalf of dear Gervaise,” she went on, “to arrange the terms of the marriage settlement.”

Her fierce stare dared him to deny this, but he said quietly, “No, ma’am. It was my understanding that you had been advised of the termination of the betrothal between Valerian and your—”

“What?”

Deafened by her screech, he shrank back in his chair.

In full cry, Mrs. Stansbury left no doubt as to her opinion of Gervaise Valerian, his ancestors and all his relations. Shrill sobs and wailings followed.

Desperate, Cranford sprang up and snatched for the bell-pull.

“Do not dare!” hissed the outraged matron.

“But—but you are clearly overset, ma’am. Surely, you will need your maid to—”

“Sit—
down!
”

The words were a snarl; almost, she crouched in her chair, the thin hands crooked as though preparatory to attacking him. Obeying, Cranford thought, ‘Dear heaven, what a dragon!’ But he managed to gather his wits and say, “My deepest regrets if I have brought you grief, ma’am. I’ll go and leave you in—”

“Oh, no, you don’t!” She leaned forward, teeth bared and eyes glaring fury even as she wiped savagely at tears of frustration. “I do not hesitate to say I am appalled to find that a well-bred gentleman, such as you appear to be, would stoop to come here with so—so
despicable
a betrayal!
Appalled
, I say! And you may be sure the
ton
will sympathize with the shock and grief of a mother whose—whose precious child has been abandoned… Cast off like—like an unwanted—” She disappeared into her handkerchief once more, her words muffled.

The uproar had not gone unnoticed, and Cranford drew a breath of relief as the door was flung open and a young lady hurried in, followed by a maid and a footman. His hope that a rescue party had arrived was short-lived, however. The maid, clearly frightened, hurried to the side of her mistress; the footman paused just inside the door, eyeing Cranford truculently.

Turning from Mrs. Stansbury’s wilting form, the young lady demanded, “What has this—person—said to so upset you, Mama?”

Cranford thought numbly, ‘So this must be the shipwrecked spinster,’ and his heart sank. He had stayed at his club in London these past two days, avoiding his friends while struggling to decide whether to accede to his great-uncle’s demands. Having arrived at a most reluctant decision, it had been all he could do to summon the fortitude to act upon it. En route
here he had tried hard to be comforted by the knowledge that his self-sacrifice would rescue an unfortunate girl from social ruin, besides ensuring that Muse Manor would not be wrest from his family.

He’d not been sufficiently noble to be comforted, but he had thought himself prepared. Valerian had described his erstwhile fiancée as being “fat and spotty.” Not an inspiring picture, but preferable in his opinion to the young female who now faced him. She was not at all fat, being actually very slender, and in spite of the fact that she was taller than the height deemed desirable in a female, her extremely elaborate wig, of the latest French style, was very high. She wore a great deal of paint for so youthful a lady (perhaps to conceal the spots), and although her features were not unattractive, both mouth and eyelids drooped disdainfully and her expression was so haughty that he feared she must have inherited her mother’s disposition. All in all, Miss Cordelia Stansbury was a far cry from the shamed and humble girl he had expected to meet. She looked, in fact, more likely to strike him than to be grateful for the rescue he meant to offer. Considerably unnerved, he bowed, and said, “’Twas not my intent to upset—”

Mrs. Stansbury interrupted rudely, “Was it not, indeed! Then what
was
your intent, pray? Why are you here, Mr. Cranford?”

It was a home question. He glanced uneasily at the younger lady. “I had hoped to discuss the matter with you in private, ma’am.”

Miss Cordelia fluttered her fan and uttered a shrill laugh. “Fie, but you need not coat your words with sugar on my account, sir. I know well enough what people say of me.”

Her mother cast her an irritated glance, and having dismissed the servants, performed curt introductions.

Miss Cordelia selected a chaise and sat down; no mean feat considering that her pink velvet skirts were not worn over rounded hoops, English fashion, but were spread instead over
the great flattened panniers now in vogue in France.

“Mr. Cranford is cousin to Gervaise Valerian,” barked her mother. “You had best leave us, my love, for you will not like to hear what he has come to say.”

“I should very much like to hear what he has to say, if you please, Mama,” argued the girl. “Is it an apology, perhaps, for Mr. Valerian’s failure to call upon me?”

“More likely an offer of recompense for—what do those sly solicitors call it nowadays?—breach of promise?” Mrs. Stansbury tucked in her chin and added malevolently, “It had best be a
large
amount! He can certainly afford it!”

Astonished by such vulgar presumption, Cranford glanced again at the notorious spinster. She sat very still and did not comment, and with the windows behind her it was difficult for him to see her expression. “Scarcely, madam,” he responded drily.

“Indeed
, sir?
Indeed?”
Mrs. Stansbury’s enraged screech made him wince. “And how will he justify such stark cruelty to a stricken and innocent maiden, I should like to know? I wonder Lord Nugent Cranford allows any kinsman of his to display such a rampant lack of honour and responsibility! Well, all Society will hear of it, I promise you, sir! And your name will be—”

Cranford stood and lifted one hand. This loud-voiced, hard-eyed woman appalled him but he managed to gather his courage, and in a cold voice that cut off the tirade, he said, “Have done, madam! I am indeed sorry that Miss Stansbury has suffered such a sad—accident. But you know as well as I why Valerian has drawn back. And—No! Pray hear me out. You know also that while the
ton
may not approve of his action, neither would they condemn it. However—” He had to raise his voice to override her spluttering indignation. “However, my great-uncle is indeed aware of our family responsibility, and I am here today, ma’am, to ask if I might be permitted to—to call upon your daughter. In my own behalf.”

It was done. The die was cast and his fate sealed. He could
feel perspiration starting on his brow and had to restrain the impulse to wipe it away.

After a breathless pause, Mrs. Stansbury said incredulously,
“You?
But, but—We don’t even know you! Or,” she added in a rush, “what your prospects may be.”

“I can furnish you with any information you may wish, ma’am. I am not a rich man, but I have no need to apologize for my name or my home. If I may be permitted to call and take Miss Stansbury for a drive tomorrow, perhaps we can learn more about one another, and—” He stopped, staring.

The ruined and disgraced young spinster was laughing hilariously.

“Unkind!” Miss Laura Finchley pulled away from the strong arm that held her close against a muscular chest and turned fiercely on the man she loved. “You use too gentle a term, Florian! I hold it to be nothing less than disgraceful! Cordelia is a living, breathing, lovely human being, yet is being placed on the auction block just as if she were a—a cow or a sheep! Much her mama cares whether she knows or even likes the man she will wed! Her only concern is that he must be rich!”

At nineteen, Laura Finchley was a quiet damsel whose only claim to beauty was a pale complexion that appeared almost translucent and was the envy of her friends. Slightly below average height, she did not indulge herself at table, but no amount of tugging and lacing could create a satisfactory waistline, and her bosom was too slight to compensate for this defect. The velvet gown she wore on this windy day, although of the latest fashion, did not become her, the pale green giving her a washed-out appearance. Her hair, of an indeterminate brown, was inclined to frizz, her face was more square than the oval she so admired, and she described her looks, ruefully, as “humdrum.” The sweetness of her nature was evidenced by the kindness in her soft brown eyes and gentle voice, but despite
her timidity, she had a firm chin and on occasion would exhibit a determination that startled her relatives. On this chill afternoon, when she was believed to be reading in the luxurious parlour of her suite, she was instead deep in her father’s woods, sitting on a fallen tree-trunk improperly close to her most “unsuitable” suitor, Mr. Florian Consett.