A Particular Circumstance (11 page)

Charlotte remained silent, her head bent over her
needlework, 
wondering if she could find a nice piece of wide ribbon in Mama’s sewing box to make a sash for Lucy’s dress, while her Uncle Bertram continued to pontificate about the funeral. And so the evening passed pleasantly enough, with Jane and her daughters, as if by mutual consent, giving minimum encouragement to Uncle Bertram’s speculations.

Charlotte was not the world’s best needlewoman, being too impatient, untidy and not remotely interested in sewing, but she was determined to make the dress a success.

As it happened, it was finished well in time and she took it round to the Bakers’ cottage before the Sunday school.

‘Oh, look, Ma, at what Miss Grayson’s brought for me!’ Lucy flew across the room to hug Charlotte, watched
smilingly
by Mrs Baker, and she said excitedly, ‘Oh, thank you, Miss Grayson. And look! Ma’s bought some ribbons from the gypsy woman.’

Charlotte looked at the small, heart-shaped face, the
smiling
lips and bright eyes. Even the gold curls bobbing about on the smooth, babyish forehead seemed to quiver with the excitement of it all and Charlotte was glad that she’d made the effort to finish the dress.

At three o’clock, Lucy was outside the church, hopping excitedly from one foot to the other when Hugo Westbury arrived. After the formal greetings, the groom held the horse’s head and Hugo lifted Lucy up on to the huge black hunter. Charlotte had decided to have Nell to accompany her, rather than Phoebe, and they set off in silence.

Not so Lucy Baker. She kept up a constant stream of
chatter
, mainly directed at Hugo. ‘I love this horse, Mr Wessb’ry,’ she said, ‘and I love my new dress what Miss Grayson has made for me.’

‘It is very pretty and smart,’ Hugo Westbury murmured. There was no hint of patronage in his tone.

‘Yes, she’m kind, Miss Grayson is.’

For some reason, Charlotte looked across at him and was disconcerted to find that he was looking at her. His eyes were
smiling, full of humour in the brilliant afternoon sunshine, and with the well-remembered fine lines radiating from the corners.

‘I had not thought of Miss Grayson as merely kind,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Difficult, argumentative, impossible,
perhaps
…’ he said softly, looking at Charlotte all the while, until she blushed and looked away.

But Lucy was now feeling more confident and sat up higher in the saddle to say imperiously, ‘And over yonder is the stream. Gypsy could have a drink and I could get down for a minute, I could.’

Hugo immediately slowed the horse and lifted her down. The groom led Gypsy towards the stream and Lucy began to dance and pirouette in the little grassy clearing. ‘And look at me, Miss Grayson,’ she cried. ‘I can dance in my new dress, I can.’

She danced and skipped and twirled and then at last went to lean against a tree. ‘But I can’t dance like grand ladies do, Miss Grayson. Show me how to do it proper, miss. I want to do the waltz, Miss Grayson.’

Charlotte laughed and, taking both Lucy’s hands in hers, showed her the basic steps and the rhythm, pulling her gently along.

‘Well, it is like this, Lucy. Forward side, together. Forward, side, together. And if you dance with a gentleman, you must go backwards and still keep in step.’

‘Mr Wessb’ry’s a gennelman. Dance with Mr Wessbr’y then. Show me. Show me!’ she cried.

Charlotte stood silent and a little nonplussed, not quite sure how to deal with this request, but Hugo stepped forward and echoed Charlotte’s words smoothly, saying, ‘Well, Lucy, it is like this. The gentleman bows to the lady and says, “May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Grayson?” and the lady puts her hand on his.’

Charlotte looked up at him, startled, but as if in a dream, she obediently put her hand on his. ‘Then,’ Hugo said, ‘he
puts his arm about her waist and when the music starts, they dance, forward, side, together, forward, side, together.’

Still in a dream, Charlotte gathered up the folds of her gown and then looked ruefully down at her feet. She had on her sturdy half boots, just right for a walk in the country. ‘I fear I am not wearing my dancing slippers,’ she said, smiling.

‘Nor I,’ Hugo whispered. ‘I must take care not to step on your toes.’

He continued to murmur, ‘Forward, side, together,’ a few more times and then as they became more confident in each other’s steps, he began to hum a waltz, very softly and in a pleasant baritone voice. Soon, their steps matched perfectly and at the edge of the little clearing, Hugo led her perfectly to execute a graceful turn and, still humming, brought her back to Lucy, who clapped her hands in delight.

‘That were wunnerful, Miss Grayson,’ Lucy squealed
excitedly
. ‘Oh, do some twirls again, Mr Wessb’ry. Please.’

‘Very well, but only one more,’ he said. ‘Miss Grayson has had enough of dancing for one day.’

But Miss Grayson hadn’t. Her eyes were closed as she listened to his soft humming, allowing him to guide her and, after the final twirl, bring her gently to a full stop. His hand moved from her waist and he held both her hands in his.

They stood facing each other for a long moment, and he didn’t release her hands. Charlotte had opened her eyes, but her head had fallen back and she was looking up at him as though in a trance. He bent his head towards her and for one heart-stopping moment Charlotte thought he was about to kiss her and, rather belatedly, she attempted to break free.

Even Lucy was quiet now and Charlotte became aware of Nell, standing still and silent on the edge of the grassy
clearing
, and of the groom leading Gypsy from the stream, ready for the journey back. She turned her head and stepped away and, reluctantly, Hugo was obliged to let her go.

Before completing the formal funeral arrangements, Hugo decided he would visit Cromer himself and try to find Ted Rudkin, the most promising survivor of the tragic shipwreck, who had been a young sailor on board the
Golden Maiden
at the time of the disaster. For some reason, he felt restless and ill at ease after his outing with Lucy Baker and Charlotte Grayson. Lucy Baker was always a delight and one half of him had been charmed by the whole spontaneous experience of dancing in the open air with a beautiful young woman like Charlotte Grayson. He was unable to forget the touch of her cool hand, her grey eyes, large and clear in the sunlight, at first smiling up at him and then closed in concentration as he hummed the waltz. Most of all, he couldn’t forget his urgent overwhelming desire to kiss her when he’d had his arm around her slender, lissom waist.

Schoolboy stuff, he told himself cynically, and yet he’d sensed that Charlotte would not have objected. He thought of his earlier resolution to have nothing to do with the
troublesome
Miss Grayson and decided once more that he must be sensible and keep away from her. Besides, he told himself, if Aurelia Casterton were to be believed, Charlotte Grayson was practically engaged to young Matthew King. He shook himself mentally and went to find Sir Benjamin.

The old gentleman was in the library, looking through some papers, his thin white hair made into a halo by the sun
streaming through the window.

‘Hugo,’ he said, his eyes alight with pleasure and affection. The cards have arrived from the printers in King’s Lynn, so this evening perhaps we could draw up a list of people we wish to attend the burial service.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Hugo said. ‘And tomorrow, if you agree, I plan to travel to Cromer to see if I can trace Ted Rudkin.’

Sir Benjamin looked a little startled. ‘But Harry Bunfield….’ he said.

‘Yes, I have spoken to him, sir, and he will come with me. At present he is pursuing enquiries round here and he hopes to be able to interview relevant people at the funeral.’

‘I see.’ Sir Benjamin looked alarmed at this, but then sighed and said bravely, ‘Well, I have no objection to what you propose. I expect you find the Bow Street Runner’s
investigation
a little slow?’

‘A little, sir,’ Hugo said and grinned.

‘Well, take care, my boy.’

‘I will and I am pleased to take Bunfield with me. I think he would be a good man if there is trouble.’

Sir Benjamin looked even more alarmed but said merely, ‘Well done, my boy. Come and see me in the morning, before you set off.’

And he returned to his papers.

Hugo was up betimes in the morning and visited his
great-uncle
in his bedchamber to wish him farewell. His man, Latimer, had packed the minimum of clothes, toiletries and neckcloths, suitable for a young gentleman who wished to spend two or three days from home, and Martin brought round the curricle promptly at nine. Hugo Westbury’s
curricle
was modern, lightweight and speedy and they reached Cromer well in time for lunch. Bunfield, who knew the place, suggested a decent but modest inn called The Royal Oak. ‘It bein’ a place where we could find out where to seek for Mr Rudkin, sir,’ he explained.

He took the horses into the yard and got chatting
immediately 
with two of the ostlers who strongly recommended the landlady’s steak and ale pie and also her tap room as a comfortable and friendly place in which to eat it. Neither of them had heard of Ted Rudkin, but suggested The Jolly Sailor as being a promising place to ask after a seafaring gent.

Hugo did no better. The landlord’s wife ushered him to a private parlour and spread a snow-white cloth on the table, before telling him of a slow-cooked lamb shank, the topside of beef and a large ham done with creamed onions. She poured out a large glass of red wine for him, while he was still making up his mind, and then disappeared swiftly to the kitchen to oversee the cooking. Neither she nor her husband had ever heard of Ted Rudkin, but they had both heard of the sinking of the
Golden Maiden
.

‘My pa were one o’ them as were drowned,’ the landlord said. ‘And most of the town come out to try and rescue ’em, but t’were useless. Most poor souls had tried to get to the shore, but there was no survivors as I knowed to.’

‘What about Ted Rudkin?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I were but a little lad of six years when my ma told me as the angels had come for my pa. You could ask at The Jolly Sailor, sir. A lot of old tars gathers there.’

There were indeed, a lot of old tars gathered in the The Jolly Sailor; in fact, fact, business was much brisker than at The Royal Oak. Hugo had the forethought to remove his smart jacket and elaborately tied cravat and he had rolled back his shirt cuffs. This in no way constituted a disguise. He was obviously a toff and recognized as such, but still, the customers of the ale house appreciated his effort to leave class distinction at the door. He left a young lad to stand by the horses’ heads and guard the curricle and sauntered into the inn with Bunfield. It was not to be supposed that a tall,
handsome
member of the
ton
and his stocky companion would be able to sidle unobserved into such a close-knit group and Hugo knew that, in spite of the adjustments he’d made to his dress, he was still conspicuous. He made no attempt to
mingle with the crowd round the bar and having secured two tankards of best home-brewed ale, he looked round the room ready to catch the first friendly eye. He hadn’t far to seek. A very old fisherman sitting alone in a corner drained his glass very pointedly and made room for Hugo and Bunfield on the pine settle.

‘Aye, young man, my name is Enoch Benton and I’ll join you in a pint if you be offerin’, sir.’

Hugo smiled and immediately procured him a drink before sitting down beside him. The buzz of talk in the tap room, which had lessened and almost died, started up again as Enoch Benton began to quaff his ale. His astute old eyes were fixed on Hugo’s face.

‘You two b’ain’t from round here, sir. Be you lookin’ for someone, sir?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Hugo said simply. ‘I am hoping to find Ted Rudkin, a sailor from these parts who survived the wreck of the
Golden Maiden
.’

‘Ted Rudkin, you say? Why he’m getting on now and he don’t live here no more. Ten year back, he went to live Brancaster way, wi’ his sister, Nancy.’

‘Brancaster, you say?’ Hugo sighed, slightly exasperated.

There seemed nothing for it but to travel the thirty-odd miles back along the road to Brancaster. There they had better luck and found good lodgings at the The Queen’s Head. It was already getting dark by the time Hugo had got a
stable-hand
to see to the horses and they had been shown to their rooms.

Later, Bunfield said diffidently, ‘What do you say to
me
trying to find Ted Rudkin, sir? Then you could think a bit afore you goes to see him,’ he pointed out.

‘I think that is an excellent idea,’ Hugo said warmly. ‘And you may be able to find out more about him by not speaking to him directly. For now, let us have some supper and you can try to find him tomorrow.’ 

The next day, Bunfield asked no directions of anyone, but sauntered round the village and drifted towards the beach, where fishermen mended their nets and crab baskets were brought in on fishing smacks to be unloaded on the quay.

To all intents and purposes, he was just another drifter, perhaps looking for work, perhaps just idling his time away. No one knew who he was and although they were guarded, the men were not unfriendly. He took out a pipe and offered his tobacco pouch to an old salt in a thin, worn jersey, who was threading up his fishing line. His gesture of friendship was received very civilly and they puffed for a few moments in silence. A young fisher lad ran by, his trousers rolled up and his feet bare. He called a cheerful greeting to the old man, who merely waved his pipe at him. This was the opening Bunfield wanted.

‘I expect you knows most folk round here,’ he said.

‘That’s right. I’ve lived here, man and boy, for sixty year.’

‘A long time. Would you perhaps know a fellow name of Ted Rudkin?’

‘Aye, that I do. Lives wi’ his sister, Nancy. Up the old beach road and on to Field Cottages. He tapped his pipe on the heel of his shoe and looked up with a smile. ‘And who wants to know, then?’

‘My master’s interested in the sinking of the
Golden Maiden
. Seems as one of his distant family died in the storm, is all.’

‘Well, I knows as Ted were lucky, but so many perished. I knows no more’n that.’

‘So, where might I come across Ted Rudkin?’

He grinned. ‘Well, I knows he goes in The Black Lion. A famous place for some of the old salts, is that.’

Bunfield slipped him some coins. ‘You have been more than helpful,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

He reported back to Hugo and that evening they set off for The Black Lion. It was easy enough to find. The shutters were open and light spilled from the windows on to the village street. It was a much rougher and more low-lived place than
The Jolly Sailor, being a flash tavern where the local criminal life were wont to meet and mingle with more respectable customers, so this time the adjustment that Hugo made to his dress was more radical. He borrowed clothes from Bunfield and combed the expensive Brutus styling from his hair,
leaving
it tousled and
au naturel
. He took care to rub his hands in the dirt in the yard so that his nails no longer looked so
pristine
and well cared for.

The landlord was an enormous man, as fat as a bacon pig, with great jowls and a bloated, mottled nose. He carried a huge belly.

‘Welcome, gents. What would be your pleasure?’ he asked them. His small eyes, set in pouchy lids, darted shrewdly between the two of them.

‘Two tankards of your best home brewed, landlord, and whatever you would like yourself.’

The landlord relaxed visibly. ‘Why, thank’ee, sir, that’s uncommon civil of you.’

There was silence for a time and in spite of the number of rough seafaring types in the tavern, the bar was not so busy. Bunfield swigged his ale appreciatively and said, ‘Does Ted Rudkin come in ’ere of an evenin’, landlord?’

The publican paused and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand to gain extra thinking time. Then he said, ‘He might do, sir. Who wants to know?’

‘Oh, friends,’ Harry Bunfield assured him. ‘If we could meet him, he might hear something to his advantage.’

Intrigued, the landlord leaned nearer. ‘He ain’t in this evenin’, but I could give you the nod if he was to appear, like.’

Hugo smiled and slipped him some coins. ‘Much obliged,’ he said softly and the two men drifted across the room to stand by the window, where they could observe both the tavern regulars and the street outside.

They hadn’t long to wait. Asmall, thin man rushed into the tavern and ordered a drink with obvious impatience.

‘Hold yer ’orses, Ted,’ the landlord said. ‘It won’t come any
quicker by frettin’.’

He laid the foaming tankard on the bar and turned his head towards Hugo and Bunfield, giving them a meaningful stare and imperceptibly jerking his head towards Rudkin.

The two of them watched as Ted Rudkin carried his tankard to a comparatively quiet corner near the door to the kitchen. Then by mutual consent, they drifted casually towards him.

‘Good evening, sir. Are you by any chance Ted Rudkin?’ Hugo’s voice was soothingly soft and he gave the man a pleasant smile. Even so, the small skinny Rudkin started as if he’d been shot.

His head jerked up suddenly and he said aggressively, ‘Who wants to know?’

‘My name is Hugo Westbury and I’m making enquiries of a kinsman of mine, who it is thought may have perished in the wreck of the
Golden Maiden
.’

Rudkin’s small piggy eyes almost became crossed with his repressed anger; he pursed his thin lips and turned his
shoulder
away from the two men. ‘It’s in the past,’ he muttered. ‘All over and forgotten.’

‘But there could be a decent reward for information as to the whereabouts of my kinsman.’

‘Dead, I expect, after all these years.’ The words were wrung out of him as though he could hardly talk.

‘Yes, more than likely,’ Hugo said softly. ‘But still, a decent reward is worth having.’

Rudkin’s eyes now swivelled towards him. ‘A kinsman, you say? He must be cold meat by now.’ He thought for a moment, pinching his bony chin between a grimy thumb and forefinger. ‘How much you say were the purse?’

‘You would have to name your price,’ Hugo said, smiling. ‘But for definite news of him, two guineas would be on the table.’

Ted Rudkin still pondered, rubbing his filthy stubble with an almost obsessive stroking. His whole body expressed his
indecision as he rocked on first one foot, then the other. ‘Two, you say? Suppose I axed five?’ His small cunning eyes looked upwards and sideways at the tall young man opposite to him.

Hugo knew intuitively that Rudkin didn’t wish to talk about the shipwreck and had named the impossibly high price just so they would walk away.

‘Well, suppose you did name five. It would still be worth my while, but it would have to be on the basis of reliable information.’

Whatever the reason for Rudkin’s reluctance, this was an offer he couldn’t refuse. He pulled out a couple of rickety chairs. ‘Let’s sit then, gents,’ he said, and Bunfield went to get him more ale.

‘My grandfather was Charles Westbury and his body was never recovered,’ Hugo said. ‘But his poor wife was definitely drowned.’

Rudkin was thoughtful. ‘Aye, I mind the lady and gent you be meanin’. They was on the way to Holland to sell diamonds.’

‘How do you know that?’ Hugo said, intrigued.

Rudkin tapped the side of his nose. ‘There was Dutch diamond merchants aboard and I ’eard the gent talkin’ to ’em. Sailors allus ’ears a lot on account of not bein’ noticed by the nobs.’

Hugo was silent, hoping Ted Rudkin would reveal more.

The man’s eyes seemed almost to have disappeared as he relived the wreck once more in his imagination. He spoke slowly and haltingly, as though he had not been used to recalling his terrible experience for many years. As Bunfield placed another foaming tankard in front of him, Rudkin said, ‘The
Golden Maiden
were a brigantine, see, one o’ the smallest o’ the two-masted ships and she were Captain Woodford’s pride and joy. She weren’t too big, see, and was easy managed under sail. She ’ad a good turn o’ speed, sir, and the voyage to Holland should a’ been plain sailin’. John Woodford were from Yarmouth and ’e weren’t expectin’ no trouble, but that
night over a ’undred fishin’ smacks an’ coasters was wrecked between Cromer and Southwold and nary a man saved….’