The Runaway McBride (13 page)

Faith was having a hard time taking it all in. Her mother was an explorer and had traveled extensively in Egypt. Now she was a writer and had made more than enough to support herself. Finally, she said, “She was a celebrated Egyptologist and she wrote for the newspapers? Wouldn’t my father have recognized her name? Wouldn’t I?”

Her ladyship’s voice gentled. “She was celebrated in our own little circle of female explorers. Only men become famous. And she wrote under a pen name, Madeline Wolf. I don’t think Madeline wanted to be recognized by any of her former friends.”

Faith tried not to take umbrage at this easy tolerance of an event that had affected her own life so drastically. “My father did not live long after my mother. Did you know?”

“No, I’m sorry, but I doubt he died from a broken heart.”

Faith’s annoyance surged then quickly evaporated. No insult was intended. It would never have occurred to Lady Cowdray to express herself tactfully. It had nothing to do with rank, in Faith’s opinion, and everything to do with how she had lived her life. Tact wouldn’t have got her very far in what had always been regarded as a masculine preserve.

They had wandered from the point, and Faith turned the conversation to what most interested her. Gathering her thoughts, she said, “Could a maid have packed the diary in the wrong box, your box, when you were leaving Cairo?”

“I don’t see how. Madeline and I didn’t share a room. And it was at the bottom of my box, wrapped in her scarf. No. I am convinced that someone must have put it there deliberately.”

Faith thought for a moment. “Who would do such a thing?”

“I have no idea. Madeline, perhaps? Anything is possible.”

Faith was reflecting on Lady Cowdray’s words, that though Madeline recognized someone, she’d had her reasons for keeping quiet about it when they were introduced. “Was there any clue in my mother’s diary to the identity of the person she thought she had recognized?”

“I never read the diary. It was in some sort of code; Malcolm’s code, she called it.”

“Malcolm’s code!”

Her ladyship’s brows rose. “You know it?”

Faith nodded. “My father invented it. Codes were his hobby. A schoolgirl with a smattering of Greek could break it.” She bit down on her lip. Now who was tactless?

Her ladyship didn’t take offense. “That’s what Madeline said. But I don’t know any Greek.” She got up. “I’ll fetch it for you.”

Faith was puzzled. “You never thought to have someone decode it? I mean, most educated men have some Greek.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was afraid that Madeline’s diary might stir up a hornets’ nest. She knew things about people that she ought not to have known, did things that she would not want others to know about.” She lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug. “I was afraid of what I might find in the diary. I can’t explain it better than that. But I know that the diary will be safe with her daughter.”

Faith could only stare as Lady Cowdray left the room.

Her ladyship was gone for only a moment or two, and when
she returned, she handed Faith a small parcel that was wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. If Faith had been alone, she would have torn the wrapping apart and made a beginning on decoding the diary, but this was not the time or place. It was evident that her ladyship wanted to talk. There were so many stories about her adventures with Madeline that she wanted to relate, and Faith was eager to hear them, so she set the parcel on her lap and gave Lady Cowdray her full attention.

One part of her couldn’t help admiring these intrepid ladies who had traveled on the Nile. They’d had adventures that would make most women’s hair stand on end. Another part of her felt let down. She could not get around the fact that Madeline had deserted her family without a backward glance, or so it seemed. Other questions were buzzing inside her head that only her father could have answered. What had he done to turn her mother against him, and why had he lied to her all these years?

Those questions were too personal to share, and Lady Cowdray never thought to raise them, a small mercy for which Faith was thankful. She was a grown woman. She shouldn’t,
wouldn’t
become maudlin over something that had happened years ago. It wasn’t as though she and her mother had been close. She had only vague recollections. Her memories came from what her father had told her.

Mindful of the time and that the train to London would soon be arriving at the station, she rose to go. Lady Cowdray got up as well.

“Can’t I persuade you to stay the night? I haven’t enjoyed myself this much in years.”

Faith shook her head. “My friend is expecting me and will be worried to death if I don’t turn up.” Her eyes strayed to the clock on the mantel. “I don’t want to miss my train.”

Her ladyship nodded. “I’ll have the footman arrange for Farr to drive you to the station.”

This was soon done, but hardly had the footman left to do her bidding when her ladyship whirled around and quickly crossed to a low oak dresser. A moment later, she returned with a photograph and handed it to Faith.

“This,” she said, “was taken on our last visit to Cairo. I’m sure you’ll find your mother very easily. She looks just like you.”

Faith’s eyes began to tear. She remembered her father’s words. “You’re the image of Mama, Faith,” and the sad look in his eyes when he said it.

Did she look like her mother? She couldn’t tell. The solemn-faced woman who stared out at her was only one face among many in the photograph. There must have been a dozen or more people there, obviously posed for the occasion.

She looked at the older woman. “Lady Cowdray, you said earlier, before you went to get my mother’s diary, that my mother knew too much about other people’s affairs. I got the sense that you felt she might have incurred someone’s anger or put herself in danger.”

Her ladyship’s smile slipped, and she heaved a sigh. “I would not put it quite like that, but I will say this: don’t broadcast the fact that you have Madeline’s diary, not until you transcribe it and learn its secrets. If it’s harmless, well and good. Just be careful, my dear.”

In the next instant, she was reeling off names as she pointed out various people in the photograph, and Faith reluctantly let the subject drop.

Lady Cowdray shook her head. “I’m giving you too much information, am I not? You’ll never remember all these names. Why don’t you come out to the next meeting of the Friends of the Egyptology Society? You’ll meet people there who knew Madeline, though a few of them, sad to say, are no longer with us.”

“No longer . . . ? ” prompted Faith.

“They died or moved away,” elaborated Lady Cowdray. She was staring thoughtfully at the photograph she had given Faith. “I have a card somewhere—”

She went back to the dresser and returned in a moment with a card. “Here you are. The next meeting of our little group is on Saturday next at the home of Mr. Hughes. It’s all there in the card. I’ll be there and would be happy to introduce you to people who had so much in common with Madeline. Come with a friend, if you like. The more the merrier.”

Faith glanced at the card then placed it, along with the two photographs, inside her reticule. Her mother’s diary was clutched securely under her arm.

Her ladyship went on, “The lecture is to be given by Professor Marsh.”

The name meant nothing to Faith, but she was pleased to be invited, pleased and curious. She might get some insight into the world that had evidently meant more to her mother than her own husband and child.

“Thank you. I would like that,” she said.

Next Saturday, she would be in Brighton, but she could always take the train to London in the morning and stay at St. Winnifred’s for the night.

The butler saw her out. At the bottom of the stone steps, the buggy, with its hood raised to protect her from the elements, was waiting. When she climbed into the gloomy interior, she could just make out the driver and knew that it was not Mr. Farr. This man was less bulky and had longer arms and legs, but he was just as uncommunicative as all Lady Cowdray’s servants appeared to be. His cap was pulled down over his brow, his collar was up, and he barely glanced at her. That suited her just fine. She wasn’t in a talkative mood either.

There was something about Lady Cowdray that disturbed her. Faith did not believe that her ladyship had lied about the circumstances surrounding her mother’s death. It was more a case of omission, not telling her the whole story. When she thought about it, she would have said that, in spite of her amiable and confident manner, Lady Cowdray was afraid.
Afraid
was too strong a word.
Anxious
was a better fit. But anxious about what?

They were moving at a sedate pace, too sedate for Faith’s peace of mind. She didn’t want to miss her train.

“I have a train to catch,” she told the driver politely.

“Arr,” was all he said in reply.

She hadn’t been aware of her surroundings, but as they passed through the great iron gates of the estate, she saw that the mist was much thicker than when she’d arrived. As a Londoner, she was used to pea soup fogs, but those fogs covered paved roads that were well-lit and easy to navigate. In the country, it was different. There were no streetlamps to light their way or well-marked roads. If the driver wasn’t careful, they could end up in a ditch.

“I’m going to miss my train, aren’t I?” She knew she had stayed too long, but she’d been totally absorbed in the stories Lady Cowdray had told about her mother.

The driver’s sudden response made her cower in the corner. He raised his whip, but it was only to crack it so that the horse harnessed to their buggy would pick up its hooves. He cracked it again, and the buggy took off, careening from side to side as it rattled over gravel. She had to clench her teeth to stop them from chattering. When she started bouncing, she’d had enough.

“I don’t care if I miss my train!” she yelled. “I wasn’t finding fault with you. Please, just stop—”

She screamed when the buggy hit a pothole and lurched to one side. Her parcel slid to the floor, and she quickly retrieved it. Panicked or not, she wasn’t going to lose her mother’s diary.

Her eyes flared. “That sounded like a gun going off!”

“Someone is shooting at us!” Her voice was shrill. “They must think we’re poachers.”

“Get down and hang on!” yelled a voice she recognized. “We’re going over the bridge.”

Her jaw dropped. James Burnett?
James Burnett
was driving the buggy? What was
he
doing here?

At the next bang she threw herself to the floor and curled into a ball. A plethora of thoughts chased themselves inside her head. Someone had made a terrible mistake. They weren’t poachers, or housebreakers, or thieves. They were law-abiding citizens. They should stop the buggy and give themselves up.

Where was Mr. Farr? What had the madman beside her done to him?

She braced for the shock of the buggy hitting the bridge, but it was the shock of a gun going off right by her ear that made her scream. She opened her eyes. James held the reins in one hand and a smoking revolver in the other. The acrid smell of powder made her stomach heave. It was his gun that had gone off.

The buggy slowed and finally stopped. “Bloody hell! I think our pony is lame.” He jumped out of the buggy. “Well, don’t just lie there like a sitting duck. Take my hand and jump. And don’t forget your parcel!”

Clutching her parcel and reticule to her bosom with one hand, she heaved herself up, grabbed for his hand, and jumped. As her feet landed on the gravel, her teeth jarred, bringing tears to her eyes. Before she could find words to berate him, he was hauling her off the road and into the thick of the mist. She stumbled a time or two, but he had the instincts of a cat and seemed to know where he was going.

He mouthed the words in her ear. “There’s a waterfall up ahead with a small cavern behind it. If you make yourself small you can crawl into it. Wait for me there.”

“Where are you going? ” she asked, alarmed.

“To even the odds.” And with that, he was gone.

She could hear the rush of water straight ahead of her. As she emerged from the mist, her heart sank.
Small
wasn’t the word for it. A pigmy would have trouble finding shelter under that fall of water. She wouldn’t dignify it with the tile of
waterfall
.

She balked. She was a teacher at a girls’ school, for heaven’s sake, not a spy or a murderess. No one had reason to hurt her. This was all a colossal misunderstanding, and James Burnett had a lot of explaining to do. He acted as though the men who had shot at them were villains. They could just as easily be gamekeepers on the hunt for poachers.

Did gamekeepers shoot first and ask questions later? None that she had ever heard of. Her mind was suddenly made up for her by a volley of shots coming from the direction of the bridge. She didn’t want to be mistaken for a poacher. After stuffing her reticule and parcel under the bodice of her coat, she edged her way under the waterfall and sank to her haunches.