The Runaway McBride (15 page)

Lust.
He must be right, because she could never,
never
love anyone as insensitive as James Burnett.

She turned her head and looked out the window. The mist was lifting, the sun was beginning to set, and she could see the lush English countryside in all its glory.

“Faith?”

She did not look at him. “What is it you want to know?”

Now his voice was soft and gentle. “Start from the beginning,” he said. “Tell me what prompted you to put that advertisement in the paper.”

She stared out the window so that he would not see how furi
ous she was. She was a woman scorned not once but twice. James Burnett, of all people! How could she have melted for him like that? If she looked at him now, she’d reduce him to a cinder.

She gazed steadfastly out the window as though she were gathering her thoughts. “It began,” she said, “in Ran-some’s bank about a month ago. Long before that, when I left Lady Beale’s employ, I deposited a trunk in their vault with the idea of retrieving it when I was settled. With one thing and another, I never got around to it.”

She turned from the window to look at him. “I didn’t forget about it, but it contained nothing of interest as far as I was aware. The trunk belonged to my father, and most of the contents were his—deeds, business papers, mementos from his university days, a package of old photographs, that sort of thing. The only reason I wanted to look through it was because I knew it contained my father’s commentary on Herodotus. Speech Day was coming up, and I thought it would help me prepare my girls with their translation.”

James knew of the custom of depositing trunks in Ransome’s vault. The clients who did this usually moved around a great deal: soldiers who were shipping out or debtors who were on the run from creditors. The thing about Ransome’s was that they never threw anything away. A man could return years later, and his trunk would still be waiting for him.

She looked out the window again. “To cut a long story short, I spilled the package of photographs, and when I picked them up, I saw an inscription on the back of one. I didn’t remember seeing this photograph before. It must have been stuck to the back of another one. At any rate, I’d missed it. ‘Madeline Maynard,’ it said. That was all.”

When she paused, he said softly, “And Madeline Maynard was your mother’s maiden name?”

“Clever you. With your psychic talents, I suppose you know why I was shocked?”

She was needling him, and he thought that perhaps he deserved it. The trouble was, Faith didn’t know when to stop, though this time she’d certainly brought him to his senses with the icy splash of her words. He lusted after her. She lusted after life. Is that all he was? A new experience?

She was waiting for his response.

“Why were you shocked, Faith?”

“Because the woman in the photograph looked about forty. My mother died when she was twenty-six; leastways, that was what I was told. She died in a boating accident on Lake Windermere, my father told me, and her body was never recovered.”

“You’re sure the woman in the photograph was your mother?”

“Yes, I was sure. There were other photographs of my mother, but they were of a much younger woman, and they were grainy and faded. This photograph was a portrait, only head and shoulders. There was no doubt in my mind that it was of Madeline.”

“What happened to your father’s trunk?”

“I cleaned it out. It was mainly packed with books I couldn’t bear to part with and old deeds and papers.”

“So you put your advertisement in the paper, hoping, I suppose, that your mother would reply to it?”

Her voice had a brittle edge. “I was curious, that’s all. I wanted to find out where she was and what she was doing. I thought that maybe she had lost her memory or . . . I don’t know what I thought.” She shook her head. “That’s not true. Don’t ask me how, but I knew she was dead.”

He said softly, “Where is the photograph now?”

She raised her reticule. “Right here. I had to send it to Lady Cowdray to establish my connection to Madeline Maynard. She returned it to me today when I went to see her.”

After all she’d been through, he wasn’t sure that this was the best time to question her. On the other hand, the optimum moment might never arrive. There was too much history between them to overcome.

Keeping his voice neutral, he said, “Tell me what happened at Lady Cowdray’s, Faith. Help me understand why you are at the center of this storm that has suddenly exploded around you.”

“I only wish I knew! As I said, it started when I put that advertisement in the paper.” Slowly, haltingly, she related most of what she had learned at Lady Cowdray’s, but there were many gaps. Finally, she said, “I don’t think I’m at the center of the storm. I think my mother is.” She patted the brown paper parcel that was on the seat beside her. “And when I’ve read her diary, I’ll know why.”

“We could read it now. I could light the lamp—”

“No! It’s not that easy. It’s in shorthand, a code, and I’ll need time to decipher it.”

“Tell me about your mother,” he said. “What was she like? ”

“My mother,” she said, “was the kind of woman St. Winnifred’s would be proud to claim as its own. She was an adventurer and an explorer, as was Lady Cowdray. They traveled by mule mostly, and visited areas that were accessible only to intrepid travelers like themselves.” She turned her head on the banquette to look at him. “So you see, a husband and child would only get in my mother’s way. That’s why she left us and, as far as I can tell, she never looked back.” She looked away. “She was buried out there, you know, in Egypt. There’s a Coptic church. I don’t suppose I shall ever visit her grave.”

When she became lost in her own thoughts, he sighed inaudibly, but he did not prompt her to go on.
Patience,
he told himself.

At last she said, “Do you know, I’ve lived in England all my life except for one short jaunt to . . . to Wales? My mother was what is known as an Egyptologist. She wrote articles for newspapers on the places she had visited. That was how she supported herself. She had a pen name, Madeline Wolf. Obviously, she didn’t want to be found.”

He stretched out his legs and waited for her to go on.

“I have no idea why my father didn’t tell me the truth.”

“Maybe,” said James, testing the thought gingerly, “he was afraid that he would lose you, too. You know, that when you were older, you might find her and join her.”

“I doubt if she would have had me. I don’t possess the kind of focus and direction that she had, or of the adventurous women who can be found at St. Winnifred’s on Speech Day.”

There was something challenging in the way she looked at him, and he decided not to pursue the subject. He nodded in a noncommittal way before continuing. “Didn’t Lady Cowdray give you some clue as to why these villains would be lying in wait for you and why they would want your mother’s diary? ”

“I’m not sure.” Her brows knitted together as she focused her thoughts. “She seemed to think that my mother died in mysterious circumstances.”

“What?” He was astonished. “And you’ve waited until now before telling me this? ”

Her lips flattened, and she sat up straighter. “It’s just a vague feeling that Lady Cowdray had.”

“Well, I’m a great believer in feelings. So what did she tell you? ”

She seemed to be holding her breath. Releasing it slowly, she went on to describe what had happened the night her mother died and how Lady Cowdray had found Madeline’s diary in her box after she returned to England.

“And she doesn’t know how it got into her box? ” James asked.

“Apparently not.”

“What happened to your mother’s box? ”

“Oh, I never thought to ask,” she said in a dismayed voice.

He thought for a moment and said finally, “Lady Cowdray never thought to have someone transcribe your mother’s diary? ”

“So she said.”

“Mmm.” He sank back against the banquette, crossed one booted foot over the other, and steepled his fingers. “Sounds to me as though Lady Cowdray knows more than she is telling.”

“That’s what I thought, too, but I could hardly come out and say it.”

They sat in silence as each became preoccupied with their own thoughts. Finally, Faith said, “What did you say to the stationmaster? ”

He came to himself slowly. “The stationmaster? ”

“Before we boarded the train.”

“Oh.” He straightened. “I told him that I’d heard gunshots coming from Lady Cowdray’s estate and that you had appeared out of the mist screaming murder. I advised him to telephone her ladyship to warn her that there were ruffians on the prowl. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have a telephone, nor does anyone in Chalbourne, but he said that he would get the police right onto it.”

She shook her head in wonder.

“What? ”

“Chalbourne is a small country town. I’m not surprised there are no telephones there. You can get where you want to go in five or ten minutes. Everyone is practically within hailing distance.”

“Not if you live in London and want to speak to the police in Chalbourne.”

Something else occurred to her. “And Mr. Farr? What is going to happen when he tells the authorities that you stole his buggy? ”

He spoke to her as though she were a slow-witted child. “Mr. Farr isn’t going to say anything about me. I have more sense than to let my face be seen when I commit a criminal act. No. As I see it, they’ll suspect the same people who shot at us.”

She gazed at him for several long moments with unseeing eyes. Nodding imperceptibly, she said, “Am I in a lot of trouble, James? ”

He shrugged. “I don’t think there is any doubt of that. You have the book the villains want. Whoever is directing them must be wondering whether you have read it or not and whether there is something in it that he doesn’t want anyone to know.”

“If he is willing to kill to get it, that means . . .”

“He must have something serious to hide, something that could discredit him completely or, perhaps, take him straight to the gallows.”

She was silent for a long time, then whispered, “But how did he know about my mother’s diary? I didn’t know of its existence until Lady Cowdray gave it to me.”

“Maybe she told someone about it?” His eyes narrowed as he sifted through various impressions. He turned his head to look at her. “I think someone read Lady Cowdray’s last note to you and put two and two together. She said that she had something of Madeline’s that she thought might interest you.”

She stared at him in horror. “Do you know how that makes me feel? I could have been murdered in my bed. Who would do such a thing? ” Her teeth snapped together. “What am I saying? It’s what you did, isn’t it? ”

He leaned forward and patted her hand. “Yes, but I’m on your side. You’re not alone. We’re in this together.” He put a finger to her lips to stay the spate of words. “The stationmaster knows my name, and you can bet that it won’t be long before our mutual enemy knows that I’m involved, too.”

He got up and lit the lamp. “I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. Let’s see what is here to take the edge off our appetite.”

She watched as he lifted a basket done up in a checked cover from the rack above their heads. Opening the cover, he looked inside. “Cold chicken, cheese, fruitcake,” he enumerated, “and—oh—a bottle of claret to wash them down.” He smiled into her eyes. “Why don’t you use the facilities to freshen up while I set out our meal? ”

She tried not to be impressed. “You do yourself proud, don’t you? ” she said and sniffed.

“Oh, this isn’t for me especially. We treat all our first-class passengers like this.”

If she hadn’t been hungry
and
desperate to use the facilities, she might have said more. Maintaining her dignity, she left the compartment. When she returned, she wasn’t merely impressed; she was amazed at such luxury.

“What are you thinking? ” he said softly. He handed her a glass of claret.

“I was wondering,” she said, “whether I could learn to shoot a gun.”

Oddly enough, her words pleased him immensely.

 

 

They went back to the beginning, from the moment Faith had
found her mother’s photograph in her father’s trunk in Ransome’s bank, to the events of that night when a band of ruffians had waited for her to leave Lady Cowdray’s house. Small things she missed occurred to her, and she was inwardly damning herself for not asking her ladyship more questions.

At one point, she said, “She invited me to the next meeting of the Egyptology Society. I have a card here somewhere.” She felt in her reticule and produced not only the card in question but also the photograph of her mother and the photograph that her ladyship had given her.

“This is the photograph I had to send Lady Cowdray,” she said, “and this is the invitation to the Egyptology Society meeting.”