Mademoiselle At Arms (25 page)

‘Do not speak any more for you give yourself pain,’ said
Melusine fearfully.

‘I must. Something to tell you.’

‘And do not say you made a mull. I find you were excessively
brave,
mon pauvre
.’ Then she frowned. ‘You wish to tell me something?
Parbleu
,
I have nearly forgot once more. Me, I have a question for you first. The sword,
Jacques.’

Jack blinked at her. ‘Just what I was going to tell you, miss.
It’s on the horse.’

‘The horse?’ echoed Melusine. ‘But it is not on the horse at
all, Jacques. That is why I ask you. I have forgot all about the sword until
the
capitaine
has come. But I have remembered the horse and have asked
this sergeant that a soldier fetch him. I told the soldier how he must go by
the passage, and he found it and brought it here. But he did not find the sword
of
monsieur le major
, for this sergeant would have recognised it and
told me that I am arrested again.’ She stopped, for Jack was feebly laughing. ‘But
what is it that amuses you, Jacques?’

Kimble’s grin spread wider. ‘I’ll wager that militiaman never
rode the animal, then.’

‘I do not think so,’ Melusine agreed, still puzzled.

‘If he had, he’d have found the sword, see. Or felt it. It’s
well hidden, miss. Wasn’t easy, I can tell you. But I wrapped it in that nun’s
gear you give me. Then I tucked it nice and snug under the saddle-bag. Couldn’t
fit it inside, but the horse’s blanket lay over it, and, like I said, as long
as no one rides him and don’t remove the blanket, I think it’ll stay hid.’

‘But you are excessively clever, Jacques,’ cried Melusine,
relief flooding her. ‘Certainly no one will find it. I must have this beast
brought to London with me, that is seen. He must be tied behind the carriage.’

She put in her request for this requirement immediately on
returning to the little parlour downstairs, and instantly fell foul of Captain
Roding again.

‘Tie a horse behind the carriage?’ he echoed incredulously. ‘What
the devil for? I’ll have one of the men ride the creature up tomorrow.’

‘But, no,’ cried Melusine anxiously. ‘It is excessively
important that the horse comes with us.’

She saw suspicion darken his gaze. ‘Why?’

Melusine eyed him dubiously. ‘Pray you, do me this one little
service, and do not ask me why.’

‘Are you off your head? Think I don’t know you’re up to some
mischief or other?’

Melusine feigned innocence. ‘What mischief?’

‘I don’t know, but I’ll go bail you’re at something. I’m not
Gerald, remember.’

‘It is well seen you are not Gérard,’ Melusine said, but
thankful now that he was not. Gerald would certainly have demanded back his
sword. Captain Roding either did not know, or did not remember that she had it.
She turned to Lucilla, a plea in her face. ‘Pray you, mademoiselle, can you not—’

‘No use trying to enlist Lucilla’s aid,’ snapped Roding. ‘Either
you tell me why you want the wretched animal, or it stays here.’

‘But, Hilary—’

‘Don’t you begin, Lucilla, for I won’t stand for it.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Miss Froxfield frostily.

‘Do not beg his pardon,’ intervened Melusine quickly, coming
between them. ‘
Eh bien
, I will tell you. You see, the horse it does not
belong to me, nor to the nuns. It is the horse of the priest, you understand,
and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it.’

Captain Roding stared at her, his jaw dropping, while Lucilla
hastily turned away, although Melusine caught the laughter in her face.

‘Do you mean to tell me,’ enquired the captain at length, ‘that
you have had the infernal audacity, the—the gall, the—the— Gad, it’s an
outrage! You’ve stolen a horse from a
priest
?’

‘I did not steal it,’ protested Melusine hotly. ‘I have only
borrowed it.’

‘Without permission.’

‘
Oui, mais
—’

‘You are, without exception, the most unprincipled, the most
unscrupulous, the most shameless, immoral, devious—’

‘Pardon me, sir,’ burst in Mrs Ibstock suddenly, her tone
belligerent, bringing the captain’s tirade to an abrupt halt as he turned to
glare at her. ‘Ain’t my place, I know that. But stand by and hear such things
said about my late mistress’s daughter, I won’t.’

‘Bravo,’ applauded Lucilla, clapping her hands.

‘
Merci
, Joan,’ cried Melusine, moving to her and
seizing her hand which she clasped between both her own for a moment, as she
turned to the others. ‘Now you see why it is I no longer require the proof of
which I have spoken.’

‘What is all this about your proof?’ demanded Roding,
diverted.

‘This was a picture of Mary Remenham that I have found today.
I thought it was a mirror at the first, for it was so very like myself.’

‘So that was it. Couldn’t make head nor tail of that note of
yours. Barring that the Valade fellow had sneaked back. And I’ll have that
story off you as we journey back to town. How the devil did you break a
picture?’

‘Don’t be obtuse, Hilary. She hit the villain with it. She
said that in the note.’

‘It’s no use you being superior,’ said Roding severely. ‘You
didn’t understand it any better than I.’

‘Well, I do now,’ Lucilla said firmly, and turned back to
Melusine. ‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is
much use any longer. Was it ruined?’

‘But yes, it was entirely ruined. And I think also that Gosse—I
mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. Only now it does not matter at
all because Joan has come and has seen me.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Lucilla excitedly, ‘and she has been telling us
how much of a friend she was to your mother. How fortunate that she recognises
the resemblance.’

‘Couldn’t help but do so, ma’am,’ said Mrs Ibstock. ‘Knowed
it the instant I set eyes on her. Miss Mary to the life, I said, and so she is.’

‘I suppose you want to take her along as well as that
infernal stolen horse?’ said Hilary sarcastically.

‘I have said it is not stolen,’ snapped Melusine indignantly.
‘And certainly I wish that Joan will come with us.’

Miss Froxfield intervened quickly as her betrothed showed
signs of erupting again. ‘I don’t think you need do that, Melusine—if I may
call you so. After all, you may easily come to fetch Mrs Ibstock when you need
her. It must be some days before you can arrange for her to make an
identification.’

‘Yes, that is reasonable,’ agreed Melusine, nodding.

Lucilla shoved Roding out of the way so that she could take
hold of Melusine’s hands again. ‘And you know, my dear, I do think you must
make up your mind to beard this wretched grandfather of yours. After all, if
Valade—or no, what did you say was the villain’s name?’

‘Gosse,’ Melusine supplied.

‘Well, if the fellow Gosse is still at large, there’s no
saying what he will be at next, is there? I see nothing for it but for you to
see General Lord Charvill at once. After all—’

‘Yes, but I do not wish to see him,’ Melusine protested. ‘And
it is perhaps not so necessary that I do so, because Joan has told me of
another who may like to say I am the daughter of Mary Remenham.’

‘Who is that?’ demanded Lucilla eagerly.

‘I do not remember the name,’ Melusine said, turning to Mrs
Ibstock. ‘You said?’

‘Mrs Sindlesham, your great-aunt, miss.’

Roding started. ‘Sindlesham? But Gerald has gone out of town
to visit that very person.’

‘I am come on a mission of some
delicacy, ma’am,’ Gerald said calmly to the old lady.

‘Oh, you may come to me on any mission you like,’ uttered Mrs
Sindlesham roguishly. ‘It is seldom enough I am visited by anyone at all, let
alone a personable young redcoat.’

Gerald could not suppress a grin. ‘Is that why you allowed me
in, ma’am?’

A dimple appeared in the faded cheek. ‘I allow anyone in. I
am quite indiscriminate, I assure you.’

Mrs Prudence Sindlesham, a widow of several years’ standing,
so she told Gerald, was a scarecrow of a female, long and lank of limb in a
figure that had once been willowy. She looked more than her sixty odd years, in
spite of a still lush head of black hair, streaked with a little grey, which
was visible under her cap and of immediate interest to Gerald.

‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a
claw-like hand. ‘I have an arthritic complaint, which is why you find me
retired from fashionable life. I rarely set foot in London these days.’

If she suffered from dragging pain in her joints, Gerald
thought it explained why her features were prematurely lined. He noted an ebony
cane laid close to hand, which suggested she was able to get about. He bowed
over her hand, venturing to drop a kiss on it’s leathery surface.

‘It is London’s loss, ma’am.’

Her features broke apart in a laugh. ‘Oh, I do love a
flatterer. But you must not imagine me wrapped in melancholy.’ The sharp eyes
twinkled. ‘I have an excellent excuse to remain comfortably ensconced in my
parlour here, able to indulge in my favourite pastime.’

She waved towards a handy table to one side which was piled
high with so many volumes, it looked in imminent danger of crashing to the
floor. Gerald raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘You are an avid reader, I take it.’

‘Voracious. And not a worthy tome in sight. My poor son
despairs of me, for I have primed every member of the family to bring me the
latest novels whenever they choose to visit.’

Gerald laughed. ‘No doubt accompanied by the latest
crim
con
tales.’

Mrs Sindlesham’s lips twitched. ‘But of course. Do sit down,
dear boy. I have no intention of allowing you to depart in a hurry.’

Taking the chair she had indicated with a careless wave of
one stiff-fingered hand, Gerald felt hope burgeoning. He had not thought to
find a lady so ready of humour and willing to give him a hearing.

‘You give me an excellent excuse to have in the Madeira,’ said his hostess, reaching for a silver hand bell and setting it pealing.

‘Do you need an excuse?’

‘Oh, you know what doctors are. They will insist upon a
catalogue of things one must not do, which does nothing but fill one with the
greatest desire to do them.’

Gerald laughed. ‘You are a born rebel, ma’am, and I can see
now where she gets it from.’

Mrs Sindlesham’s alert glance found his. ‘She?’

‘Damnation!’ He saw her frown, and added at once, ‘I beg your
pardon, ma’am. It slipped out—as did that “she”.’

‘Well, sir? Who is “she”? Not my granddaughter, I take it. Much
too young for you.’

‘I don’t even know your granddaughter, ma’am.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ agreed Mrs Sindlesham. ‘She’s little more
than a schoolgirl, just out. But come, sir. You intrigue me.’

To Gerald’s relief, the entrance of the butler interrupted
them, relieving him of the necessity to explain himself. He had meant to come at
his business in a roundabout way, but for that little slip.

It was evident the lady’s servant knew his mistress, for he
had come equipped with a tray upon which reposed a decanter and two glasses. The
business of serving gave Gerald a few moment’s grace, for he was dubious about
the effect on an elderly female, not in the best of health, of raking up old
memories.

She lived, he noted, very carelessly. The parlour was
cluttered but cosy. Mrs Sindlesham occupied a large padded armchair to one side
of a corner fireplace, which gave out a heat more than adequate for September
to one of the major’s robust constitution. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered
with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded
tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. Besides
the table close by loaded with books, there was a central table with upright
chairs around, covered in a multitude of papers, inks and quills, and assorted
unrelated items such as playing cards. There were sidetables and a writing
table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could
hardly be seen for blankets.

Accepting his glass from the butler, Gerald glanced at Mrs
Sindlesham and saw a dimple peep out. ‘Dreadfully untidy, is it not? Can’t
abide bare rooms.’

A trifle discomposed at being caught examining his
surroundings, Gerald was provoked into retort. ‘Then I don’t advise you to
visit Remenham House.’

Too late he saw his error. A swift frown brought the still
dark brows together for a moment.

‘So now we come to it.’

Her gaze followed the butler, who was moving towards the door.
She waited for him to leave the room, and turned back to Gerald. Abruptly the
sterner look vanished and she twinkled.

‘Tell me, my boy. You are not with the Kent militia, are you?’