Amberley Chronicles Boxset I: The Impostor Debutante My Last Marchioness the Sister Quest (Amberley Chronicles Boxsets Book 1) (26 page)

Chapter 17

Mr. Beecham must have been very tired indeed, for the ladies were all up long before him.

“The main thing is for you not to fall into your father’s hands yourself, and preferably not to be found at all,” Charlotte advised Celia as she poured tea into her guest’s cup.

Celia nodded distractedly. “I dreamed of the Marquis. He looked exhausted and was running and running after his little girl, but she kept receding into the distance.”

“Poor Alphonse, that is all too likely close to the real situation,” Minerva commented, putting a lump of sugar into her cup and stirring vigorously.

“If this wet-nurse came to his London residence by any chance, would the London staff understand her? Do they speak French?” Celia wondered.

Charlotte tried to remember. “His valet does, but he is here at the Hall. As for the other staff, I am not sure, but I believe they are all English.” 

“They should be alerted to the possibility, and requested to send the child down here to us, or at least to send an urgent message if she does turn up,” Celia suggested.

“A good idea,” Minerva concurred. “We can send a message to that effect with Mr. Beecham.”

“We never told Beecham about the disappearance of the child,” Charlotte realised. “He must keep an eye out for her in London. I would like to go up to town myself, not only for that, but to fetch supplies for the ball. Only, as matters stand I simply cannot leave.”

“Do you have the lists ready?” Minerva asked.

Charlotte drew two sheets of paper out of her pocket and held them out.

Minerva scanned her precise instructions for Charlotte’s London staff, and an even longer shopping list. “No need to buy new plates or cutlery, we have plenty in Amberley House.”

“Your mother would never consent to lend them to me.”

Minerva grinned. “I know, but Marianne would, and it is her house now.” She continued reading. “Eight silver trays? We can supply those too, as well as the extra drinking glasses.”

Charlotte hesitated. “We can easily afford to buy them, of course, but all these objects will forever take up storage space and need regular cleaning. I would prefer to borrow them, but I can hardly send instructions to your brother’s house, to send us their plate and glasses.”

“
I
can easily do so,” Minerva assured her, “as it is technically still my home. Give me the list. I can travel back to London with Mr. Beecham, look up Alphonse’s staff, have the Amberley servants pack up everything on your list, complete the shopping, and come back tomorrow in Amberley’s big berline – we will need it for all those supplies, including the wine bottles.”

“I confess it would be a great help. You would take your maid, of course.”

“Of course, let me tell her now to get ready.” Minerva left, nearly at a run, just missing Mr. Beecham’s appearance in the breakfast room, Sir Mortimer at his heels. She was back within minutes.

As the solicitor fortified himself for the return trip to town, Charlotte told him about the reason why James and Alphonse had departed so suddenly. He was shocked, and expressed his willingness to do whatever might help resolve the tragic situation. Apprised of the plan that he should escort Lady Minerva and her maid, he declared himself deeply honoured, and promised to personally escort them to the Marquis’ premises.

“The child and her wet-nurse might already have arrived there, and I can bring her back down in the berline with everything else,” Minerva said optimistically.

“Let us hope so. We did not finish the legal discussion last night,” Beecham addressed Sir Mortimer and Celia. “I believe I can stall Mr. Conway for a few weeks, possibly as long as six months, depending on the quality of his own legal advisers. However, it is three long years till Miss Conway comes of age. Until we can find some means to force him to desist, it is essential that Conway should not find her.”

“Just what I have been telling you,” Charlotte said, and Celia nodded.

“I could change my name and appearance, for this interval. Or travel to some remote country.”

“He still might get his hands on your fortune,” Beecham warned. “Probably not the securities, those are stored in a safe place where he could not possibly gain access. Unfortunately a brewery, or sixteen, cannot simply be hidden away.”

“Not the breweries themselves, but surely the cash reserves, and the profits,” Celia said thoughtfully. “My father has never shown much interest in business, or understanding of it. I could easily devise the means to keep the bulk of the income out of his grasp, and make him believe we are barely scraping by.”

“Now that you mention it, I daresay that so could I, and your manager,” Beecham said. “I will have to consult with him.”

“Pray do so. But he is to give you exact and truthful accounts, mind, for us to check later. It would not do to try and fool another, and end up being deceived ourselves.”

“As you say, Miss Conway.” Beecham bowed to the heiress with unfeigned respect. 

+++

Rook wearily closed his eyes, only partly because his faint headache still worsened each time he looked towards the window. Miss Conway’s soft melodious voice washed over him, and he marvelled that she could read the bone-dry text by Adam Smith with so much expression. Clearly she did not find it at all dry herself. A very odd girl. Since he had never heard of the Conway family, they obviously did not move in his elevated circles. Yet Charlotte and Minerva treated Miss Conway as an equal, despite her youth. Just who was she?

She turned a page.
“The whole industry of human life is employed not in procuring the supply of our three humble necessities, food, clothes and lodging, but in procuring the conveniences of it according to the nicety and delicacy of our tastes.”

“Do you agree with that last statement, Miss Conway?”

“Certainly,” she replied, putting the book down on her lap. “You do not?”

The maid darning in a corner looked up for a moment, before returning to her task.

“I find my aching head unequal to a discussion of the matter at this moment. Is this the only book you brought on this visit? Surely James Ellsworthy’s library holds some novels, too?”

“You read novels?” She looked at him with surprise. “Do you not think them frivolous?”

“It depends. I find that when my head has taken a strong knock, it becomes difficult to follow economic or political reasoning. You truly enjoy this book?”

“I cannot see that it is any harder to understand than a novel,” she said, frowning slightly, “and it offers more substantial food to the understanding. I have read all of Adam Smith at least twice before now, and this will hardly be the last time I do so.”

“You are not afraid to be labelled a bluestocking, Miss Conway?”

“Oh, I see.” She smiled briefly. “I have, once again, done something the average lady of fashion would not?”

“I can already see that you are far from average. Where did you acquire this taste for political economy?”

“Some years ago,” she said vaguely. “I like reading, but only on those occasions when circumstances prevent me from being active myself. “

“That is true of me as well. The best book cannot keep me from our stud, and riding our horses.”

Perceiving that he was no longer interested in the book, if he ever had been, Celia said, “I have heard your family’s studs are most impressive. Tell me more about them.”

To Rook’s amazement, she asked a number of pointed questions, to do with feeding, salaries, prize money, and stud fees. This latter was such an indelicate subject that he was shocked to find himself discussing it with a young female. Did she know exactly what the stud fees were paid for? From her placid countenance, he could not tell.

“No other lady has ever asked me about such things,” he said.

“I suppose it was another of those things a debutante is not supposed to talk about? I find I do not truly care. Being a lady is like an iceberg, it seems to me.”

“I beg your pardon? An iceberg? For being cold all the time?”

“No, but I have read that most of these icebergs’ bulk is submerged and invisible under water, is that not so?”

“So I have also been told, yes.”

“Well, it strikes me that a lady is like a real woman with eighty per cent of her personality, feelings, tastes, and thoughts submerged and invisible. Only the acceptable small part can be shown, like an interest in the weather or pouring tea. Is it not the same for a gentleman?”

“I have never looked at it that way. Obviously a gentleman does not wear his feelings on his sleeve, but I at least am not conscious of any great difference between the outward appearance and the real man. What you see is what you get.”

She looked at him gravely. “I’m sorry,” she said simply.

Rook sucked in his breath. “Don’t be,” he said harshly. “Tell me more about yourself, Miss Conway. You intrigue me strangely. How old are you?”

“Nearly eighteen.”

“How could a girl as young as you have read all of Adam Smith twice already? And why this interest in feeding costs, stud fees and the like?”

“I cannot help it,” she confessed. “My uncle probably would not want me to talk about it, but whenever I see a business, shop or household, or even hear about it, such as your stud, my brain automatically adds the expenses and tallies the probably income. If I look at a column of accounts, I can add them without thinking, and without mistake.”

He looked at her in fascination. One of his friends in school had had a similar facility with numbers, though Jack did not bother his mathematical mind about mundane business applications. How extraordinary and unexpected that a girl could also have such abilities.

“Do go on, Miss Conway.”

“From your description of the stud, I deduce that its profits will vary widely over the years, it sounds like a risky business to rely on for steady income. A sickness among your stock could compromise its viability for a long time.”

“That is not news to me, unfortunately. Why do you suppose only the rich play at breeding racehorses?”

“On the other hand, as long as there are other, more stable income sources, it does look like a fascinating endeavour. I hope your horses may win many more races.”

“I thank you for your good wishes, Miss Conway.” He looked at her broodingly. “I take it you are out, Miss Conway? Will you have a season in London?”

“I cannot say. From Lady Minerva’s descriptions it all sounds rather boring, especially if I have to mind my tongue the whole time. And if I am to be mocked for owning a number of breweries.” She said the last defiantly.

“Oho, breweries? How many?”

“Sixteen so far, but they want to build another in Carlisle next year.”

“I gather your business acumen is not an accident of nature?”

She raised her chin, meeting his quizzical gaze frankly. “My maternal grandfather came from a humble background, and built these breweries through hard work and brilliant business sense. If I have inherited even a small measure of the latter, I will not hide or blush for it.”

“I see.” Rook noticed the maid staring at Miss Conway. So he was not the only person who found her most unusual.

“Tell me more about your own business, since we have already dissected mine,” he invited, and closed his eyes again as she willingly talked of hops and malt, salaries, transport, and varying demand in different localities.

What a strange house this was. Who knew how many more oddities he might discover by the time of next week’s ball?

Chapter 18

“I was impressed how quickly you and your maid were ready to leave,” Mr. Beecham told Lady Minerva, as they were tooling along the road in the open barouche. A wide-brimmed hat protected her face from the dangerous rays of the sun. “Somehow I had the impression that ladies needed hours to pack before any departure.”

“We did not need to pack anything, since I still have some of my wardrobe in Amberley House,” Minerva said. “But I am ready to accept your apology on behalf of all ladies.”

“You have it – thank you,” he said in a humble tone. “By the way, it is most unlikely that you will meet with Mr. and Mrs. Peter Conway or any of their acquaintances while up in town so briefly, but just in case, I beg you not to mention Miss Conway’s presence at your brother’s estate to anybody.”

“Certainly,” Minerva agreed, and her maid, seated opposite them, also promised to be discreet. “Don’t you fear that she may be found through your own trips down to Sussex? Somebody could follow you there.”

“I have worked for your brother James for five years,” Beecham protested. “There is nothing suspicious in my visits to such a long-standing client. I used to go down to Sussex in previous years, too.”

“Does he have such frequent need of a solicitor, then? Does he change his will every month?”

Beecham chuckled. “Not at all, and you know that I cannot talk about a client’s affairs with others, even his own sister. You can ask him himself.”

“James once told me he had some interests in business, together with that friend in the city of whom mother disapproves so strongly,” Minerva recalled. “I did not pay much attention. I suppose that is what occasions your visits?”

He just shook his head, smiling. “Discretion is highly important for a solicitor, just as much as for a medical man, my lady. Let us talk instead of the Marquis de Ville-Deuxtours, I did not entirely gather the ins and outs of the story. Just why are we going to his apartments as soon as we arrive in town?”

Minerva repeated, in detail, everything they knew or had guessed from the time of the messenger’s arrival. “It is a long shot, I daresay,” she concluded, “but in such a case, no stone must remain unturned, do you not agree? And since the Marquis and James are in France, it falls on us to search for the child here in England.”

“Is that the child Lady Verena was talking about, the one that was going to come across the channel?” the maid asked, wide-eyed. “Poor little mite!”

Minerva nodded. “If our theory is correct, the woman may so easily get lost – imagine arriving in a strange country with a small sickly child of just over one year’s age, where you cannot speak the language, and quite possibly, do not have enough money. It does not bear thinking of.”

“Your feelings do your credit, Lady Minerva,” Beecham said, casting an admiring glance at her profile. “We must hope that the child and her father will soon be happily reunited. I am entirely at your service in this matter; not only because the Marquis has also been a client in some small matters, but because the situation of that poor woman cannot leave any Christian unmoved.”

“You are concerned for the wet-nurse?” Minerva said, surprised. “I am thinking mostly of the child, I confess.”

“At that young age, it cannot yet experience the full horrors and fears of which Mme Fourrier, the nurse, must be all too sensible.”

“Indeed,” the maid said. “The responsibility must be terrible. At that age children need fresh diapers every day. Has she enough clean ones? Is there space to change a baby on a boat? It will have been hard enough in a coach.”

“I admit,” Minerva said faintly, “I had not thought of those details.”

“Do you know if the child is weaned yet?” The maid went on, increasingly interested in the problems facing the French wet-nurse. “It could make a huge difference. If she is weaned, she will require proper nourishment suitable to a small child, and clean water. Will it be available at every stop? The danger of falling ill from the wrong kind of food will be much higher.”

“She never should have set out,” Minerva said vehemently. “Whatever can this woman have been thinking of, to take the child away from a presumably well-organised nursery!”

Nobody spoke again for several minutes.

“Will you be gracing the autumn season’s events, Lady Minerva?” Beecham asked presently. “I often saw your name in the society columns, long before I had the felicity of being presented to you by your brother.”

“I hardly know. It all depends on my brother Amberley’s schedule, and the last we heard, he and his wife were detained on a small Greek island by a self-important Turkish official. George’s letter described the experience as almost droll, but naturally we are worried.”

“When you say detained, what exactly do you mean, my lady? Not in prison, I should hope?”

“No, no, nothing of the kind. They are staying in a very picturesque villa, equipped with all the conveniences that you can expect in that part of the world, and with a wonderful view over the blue Aegean. Unfortunately that Turk got it into his head that George as a British citizen might be a spy, and refused to let my brother’s yacht depart again. “

“When Amberley was travelling openly, with his wife? Ridiculous. Why has this outrage not been reported in the London papers?”

“The Foreign Office advised us to keep it quiet, and they are working through our Embassy in Constantinople to solve this misunderstanding. We were told that any fuss might be unhealthy for George and Marianne, because in a wartime situation, unfortunate mistakes could happen. Since there
are
British volunteers among the Greeks fighting for their country’s liberation, the Turks are not too happy with us.”

“And why,” Beecham delicately enquired, “did your brother Amberley travel to this war zone in the first place?”

“He was relying on outdated information, that the smaller islands were safe, and the conflict still confined to the mainland. And in fact there is no war going on where they made land, the Greeks on the island are friendly and hospitable; but he reckoned without the mistrust of the Turkish headman.”

“When you next write to your brother, convey my best wishes for a speedy resolution,” Beecham said. “I have met him some years ago, and feel the greatest esteem for the earl and his countess.”

“For all I know, they are free already, and on their way back. I am hoping to find a letter with that happy news at Amberley House, since I omitted to arrange for my mail to be forwarded to Sussex in my hasty departure from London. One more thing I must deal with today.” She drew a thin pencil and the lists Charlotte had given her from her pocket, and made a note.

“A very long list, that, from the looks of it,” Beecham commented. “How soon will you be able to accomplish everything?”

“If I had to do it all myself, I would never finish. But the staff of Amberley House is at leisure, with the whole family gone without properly shutting up, and I expect them to do most of the actual work. A lady knows how to delegate.” Her maid grinned at hearing this.

“To come back to your question about my social engagements,” Minerva continued, tucking the pencil and lists back into the pocket of her redingote, “unless I should marry before then, I need a chaperon if I am to attend balls and similar engagements. Charlotte could do it, but she will be busy with her children, and dislikes late nights, inevitable in town. Nor does she have the enormous consequence my sister-in-law Marianne commands as one of the premier hostesses.”

“Lady Amberley is the daughter of the Marquis of Pell, isn’t she?”

“Yes, though her father died two years ago, so the current Marquis is her brother Anthony. Marianne actually enjoys fashionable events, unlike Charlotte.”

“What about yourself?”

Minerva considered. “I like them well enough, but when I am in the country, I do not miss them greatly. If necessary I could live very happily outside of fashionable society, but since I was born an Ellsworthy, such a contingency is unlikely to arise.”

“You will not always be an Ellsworthy,” Beecham said softly.

She met his brown eyes for a short moment and glanced away. ”No, it is only a question of time till I marry. But I will not be rushed into any decision.”

“What exactly are your requirements?”

Minerva glanced at the maid, who was listening with unconcealed interest. “I am still considering them. But let us not talk of such inconsequential matters. Since time is of greatest essence, do you recommend that we first repair to Amberley House, or drive straight to Alphonse’s place?”

“The latter,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “The extra distance is not great, but with the city streets so crowded, it could cost us upwards of an hour.”

“I concur. Though I have known Alphonse since I was a young child, I have never seen his lodgings,” Minerva observed.

“I should hope not, Milady!” the maid interjected, scandalized.

“By all accounts these days his life is blamelessly respectable,” Minerva said. “In his younger days it was not always so.”

“Nothing worse than other young men of his age and class,” Beecham protested. “Neither your brother nor the Marquis has ever been notorious, as so many other sprigs of the nobility of their generation have become. And your eldest brother, Lord Amberley, has always set a good example to his fellow peers.”

“You make him sound pompous and boring, which George is not, most fortunately. I think he just never felt particularly tempted by wilder excesses.”

“Even so, that would be to his credit, considering the manifold temptations facing a rich young earl in a city like London.”

“Many more than face the ladies of the family,” Minerva said a little sourly. “Our young men are admired if they refrain from excesses, while their sisters must take care to avoid even the slightest appearance of impropriety.”

“If you put it like that, it certainly sounds unfair; but bear in mind that the most zealous guardians of this inequitable system are other women.”

“Touché. Even I have not been slow in condemning unbecoming behaviour in other ladies. Perhaps I should be more tolerant,” Minerva said, fiddling with her gloves.

“I beg you will not change on the basis of anything I said, Lady Minerva. Any more perfection would be gilding the lily.”

Was he flirting with her? Well, they still had at least three more hours of driving before them, the sun was out, and – she peeped from under the brim of the big hat – he was, after all, a fine figure of a man.

Minerva smiled.