The Fugitive Queen (20 page)

I recovered myself. “I can't possibly give you an answer now. I must ask you, meanwhile, to keep a polite distance from Pen. No more stealing kisses, if you please, Master Littleton. If . . . if for any reason I felt I couldn't agree to this match, I don't want her to be hurt. If you steal kisses, you might also steal her heart, too soon.”

“I do realize,” said Tobias, “that there may be others in the field. I believe that the Thwaites are considering her as a match for Andrew.”

“How on earth did you know that?” I was jolted out of my caution.

“Magnus told me. He knows everyone for miles.”

“You and he aren't related to them as well, are you?”

“No. But people in this district have close bonds, Mistress Stannard.”

“I've noticed,” I said caustically. I thought of my party arriving at the Grimsdales' farm one evening, and being the targets of a kidnapping the very next morning. I was beginning to wonder if everyone in the vicinity of Tyesdale communicated with everyone else at dead of night by means of crystal balls, or possibly coven meetings, reached with the help of flying broomsticks.

“Have I your word, Master Littleton, that you will hold back until I finally make up my mind? I am coming to Bolton with you tomorrow. I shall speak to Sir Francis Knollys regarding your character and family. You realize that I am bound to do that?”

“Certainly, Mistress Stannard.”

“Thank you.” I moved toward the door. “I won't be too long in coming to a decision.”

And how much difference, I wondered as I went upstairs to bed, would the fact that we were about to dismiss Magnus Whitely make to Tobias? I longed for Hugh's advice. Then I realized that I knew what he would say, and that I agreed with him.

Hugh would say: “Whitely is dishonest and there is no question of keeping him on. If that causes Tobias to take against Penelope, then it would be better to find that out now rather than later.”

Quite. Added to which, I thought, as I reached the top of the stairs, a cousin as dishonest as Magnus Whitely must make one look twice, or even three times, at Tobias, and judging from Ann Mason's letter, the fact that George approved of Tobias as a match for Pen was another point against him. Implicit in that letter, to anyone who knew the Mason family, had been a hint that George was something of a Catholic hothead who would choose a similar husband for his sister if he could. Ann, wisely discreet, hadn't said so in so many words, but her insistence on finding a loyal and law-abiding match for Pen had made the point clear. She did not want Pen to marry into a family of potential traitors. Was Tobias really a harmless individual who looked on his Catholic faith as a private matter, or was he likely to let it lead him—and any wife of his—into trouble?

I needed to know a great deal more about Tobias. And his proposal could make no difference to Whitely's fate. I must find a replacement steward and get the dismissal of Whitely over. It was urgent.

The next day was fresh and bright. My headache had subsided during the night. Rain had fallen, cooling the air, and even the stagnant moat looked less repulsive than usual. Meg, intrigued by the sound of quacking, found a couple of ducks
preening their plumage on the narrow ledge between the moat and the house wall and regretted that they were too big for Joy to tackle. Those of us who were going to Bolton were relieved that the rain had cleared and hoped that the day would stay fine.

I thought it likely that we would stay at least one night at the castle and must therefore take a change of clothes and some night gear. We were just assembling the hampers in the hall when a cheerful clatter of hooves and a halloo in a female voice as loud as a bugle announced that Mistress Cecily Moss had arrived. She was accompanied by one of her sons, and when they had dismounted and come inside, she announced that this one was Clem. “T'younger lad; I daresay you could hardly tell t'difference between 'em!” boomed Cecily.

“We haven't had time to get to know them yet,” I said. “Come into the parlor.”

“Makin' ready to go off somewhere, are you?” inquired Cecily, looking at the hampers. “I was at church in Fritton early this morning and saw you weren't there.”

“Not this Sunday, no. We're going to Bolton and may hear the evening service there. Agnes, wine and some of your oatcakes, please.”

“Kind of you and welcome enough, I admit, but I'm here on business,” Cecily announced as I led the visitors into the parlor. “So is Clem. Now, you're looking for a steward . . .”

“I must tell you, Mistress Moss,” I said hastily, “that our present steward still doesn't know that . . . well . . . that we wish to replace him. Please keep your voice down.” I thanked heaven that by this time we were safely in the parlor and that I had shut the door. Whitely was in his office at the opposite end of the hall and even Cecily's voice couldn't carry all the length of the hall and through two closed doors.

“Well, if thee's agreeable to what I propose, thee needn't hide it much longer,” said Cecily, though to my relief, she dropped her voice to a normal level. She pushed Clem forward. “Here's your answer! Not permanent, maybe, and he'll have a wife before long, but t'arrangement ought to last long enough to do
for t'time being. Peter's my heir and there's nowt spare for Clem here. He's got to make his way and he'd best set about it quick, now that he's betrothed to Mabel Holme. You'll not mind Mabel comin' with him? She can help Mistress Appletree and there's room here for when t'babes come along. No need for wages for her beyond all found. Hope that'll suit. Clem knows what's what in house or farm. Speak up, lad!”

“I reckon I could do t'job,” said Clem calmly, and, to my relief, in a voice which didn't rattle the fire irons. “I can steward the house and I can oversee t'land as well. I'd save, as best I could, and with t'little dowry that Mabel's got, and whatever I can put together, I daresay after a few years I might rent a smallholding for her and me, but meanwhile, I'll serve thee as well as I can, Mistress Stannard. Would it do, mistress? With Mabel in t'bargain with me, like?”

“It's Mistress Mason you'd be serving,” I said mildly. “Tyesdale belongs to her. She may live here with her husband when she's married—that isn't settled yet.”

I recalled that when the Moss family paid us their first visit, they had thought of abandoning Mabel Holme in favor of Pen. I wondered if Clem would mind working for the young woman he might once have been asked to consider as a wife.

Clem, however, merely smiled. “I'll work for my wages honestly, for whoever's t'owner here. Don't matter about that.”

“I've no objection to Mabel and I don't suppose Mistress Mason will have, either. Nor will Agnes, I think. She'll welcome the help. Can you keep reliable accounts?”

He nodded. “Aye, I can that. Peter and I have done t'accounting for our own place together these last few years.”

“I've no patience with stewing over ledgers,” boomed his mother. “I was right glad to pass them over to t'boys. But they can do more than that. Both my lads know a bit of Latin and they've read verse and books of travel, too. They're gentlemen, for all they've been reared to be practical on the land.”

“I think,” I said, “I really think—that we might do business.”

I parted Clem from his mother by calling Sybil and asking Cecily to advise her on a local supplier for some new wall hangings. Then I fetched Pen and let her ask Clem a few questions herself. It was the kind of thing she needed to learn.

She pleased me. The young are adaptable and willy-nilly, Pen, who had hated Tyesdale so much to begin with, was now developing the feelings of an owner. She asked sensible things, such as what Clem, as steward, would do if this or that should happen and what kinds of decisions he would be prepared to take on his own responsibility.

Clem in turn made sensible replies. In his mother's presence, both he and his brother seemed tongue-tied but probably they just couldn't be bothered to shout for a hearing. Away from Cecily, Clem was both forthcoming and shrewd. Of his own accord, he remarked that he'd see that old plows weren't left rusting in the fields. “Did tha know there was one in t'barley field? That field's due to be left fallow next year and have cattle grazing in't. They'll fall over that old plow and hurt theirselves.”

“You mean it's still there?” I said. “I told Whitely to have it removed.”

“I saw't on t'way in,” said Clem simply. “And if t'coffers'll run to't, I'd have that moat drained and refilled and stocked with fish. I saw a pair o' ducks there as we came in. No reason why you
shouldn't have ducks in plenty and duckling for dinner whenever you fancy, but t'moat's too dirty as it is. There's a stream feeds it that's choked with weed and wants clearing but likely thee'd have to hire men in for t'job.”

I exchanged small nods with Pen. After that, it was only a matter of settling when Clem should come. He wanted to go home, put his belongings together, and talk to his betrothed. “I can settle a date for t'wedding now. Peter'll be pleased. He's got a fancy for us two to get wed on t'same day. No reason why I shouldn't move in here beforehand, though. I can come in a week if that suits.”

We all shook hands on the bargain. I went to tell Cecily and when she and Clem had gone, I explained to Pen that although one day dismissing unsatisfactory servants was another thing she must be prepared to face, I thought I'd better deal with Whitely on her behalf. Then I went to give that gentleman his marching orders. I sent Tobias out of earshot, saying that a domestic matter had delayed our departure for Bolton, and asking him to take Mary Seton for a walk outdoors. I also asked both Sybil and Brockley to attend me at the interview. At home I could have dealt with Whitely alone, but in the north I was permanently nervous.

It was unpleasant. Whitely first of all stared at me in disbelief, and then embarked on a stream of self-justification. He had been left to carry Tyesdale on his own for
years
on end. He had had to take
all
the decisions. He had never known how much of the profits he was expected to put back into the house and farm; he had never had
anyone
to give him orders, tell him when he'd gone wrong, or give him a word of praise—or a rise in wages—when he had done right. He'd lost heart, frankly. Men do when no one takes an interest in their work . . .

I asked him to bring me the box that he kept under his bed. At this point, the protests, which up to then had been expressed in a kind of whine, became a resentful shout. The box was private. If we'd been poking and prying in it, we ought to be
ashamed
of ourselves. It was no more than one might expect from a pack
of women, peeping and sneaking, but it was a scandal and a
disgrace
and . . .

I sent Sybil for the box. When she brought it, Brockley invited Whitely to open it. He refused, so I opened it myself, with my lockpicks, while Whitely watched with amazement and fury struggling for supremacy in his face. When the bills and receipts were out on his desk, I myself took from its shelf the ledger which we had studied, and then let Sybil point out the discrepancies in the figures. Whitely began to bluster that women couldn't be expected to understand accounts. Sybil calmly produced the notes she and Meg had made, picked out a few specific cases of discrepancy, and asked him to explain them.

Whitely refused to answer. Brockley went to the door and called, which brought Ryder to join us. Brockley and Ryder then shoved the Tyesdale steward up against the wall and told him he'd better answer or else. Frightened and sulky, he admitted that yes, he'd paid himself a rise when he thought he'd earned it. Who else was there to authorize it? What if he
had
taken a bit of commission for haggling to get good prices for the wool clip and so on? Didn't most stewards do the same?

“While a plow rusts in a field and even when you're told to have it removed, you don't do so,” said Sybil.

“You had better leave at once,” I said. “I haven't yet written to the Earl of Leicester about you, and if you go quietly, I won't.”

“Leave? Just like that? I've been here ten years and more! I've . . .”

“Don't worry, madam,” said Brockley grimly. “I'll stand over him while he packs. The mule belongs to him as well as the gray cob, I gather. Whitely, you'll saddle the one and load your things on the other and go.”

I will not repeat the language and the curses with which Whitely took his leave. Eventually, he shouted for Jamie Appletree to catch his animals and saddle up, and Brockley escorted him (still muttering imprecations) to his room, where we heard him banging about in a rage, throwing his belongings together.

Pen, in the hall, had watched wide-eyed as Whitely was marshaled
upstairs. I sent her to her own room “to make sure you've packed everything you need for Bolton” and went in search of Tobias and Mary Seton. They and Agnes were looking at the vegetable plot and the scanty array of herbs at the side of the courtyard.

“I have to tell you,” I said, “that I have just dismissed Magnus Whitely for cheating the estate. A new man is coming. Master Littleton, Pen doesn't know that Whitely is your kinsman. If this changes your feelings for her, please tell me now, before this matter goes any further.”

“You've dismissed Magnus?” Tobias looked startled. “Well, I know he'd rather lost heart about his work. I don't know what to say.”

“What has happened?” asked Mary Seton. I explained, and she smiled at Tobias. “So you have your eyes on Mistress Pen. Dear Master Littleton, don't let your cousin stand in your way. If you have touched Pen's heart, don't make her suffer.”

At that moment, Whitely came down into the courtyard, where Jamie had the cob and the mule ready. He grabbed the cob's reins, mounted, and seized the mule's halter rope. Both cob and mule, sensing their owner's temper, laid back their ears and showed the whites of their eyes. At the sight of Tobias, staring at him from the vegetable patch, he scowled.