Mademoiselle At Arms (26 page)

‘West Kent, yes.’

‘Dear me. And what took you to Remenham House?’

‘I shall come to that presently,’ said Gerald cautiously. ‘Am
I right in supposing you to have been a sister to the late Mr Jarvis Remenham?’

‘Quite right.’

She sipped at the liquid in her glass, but her eyes remained
fixed, rather unnervingly, on Gerald. Following her lead, he fortified himself
with a swallow of the excellent Madeira before responding.

‘I recall my father speaking of you as a Remenham.’

‘Perfectly correct, my boy. Prudence Remenham.’

‘Prudence,’ repeated Gerald unguardedly. ‘Why, that’s one of
the names with which she tried to fob me off.’

‘She again?’ enquired his hostess, her delicate brows rising

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. I spoke a thought aloud. So you
are Prudence Remenham.’

‘Was. Almost the last female to bear the name, too,’ muttered
the old lady. ‘There are no Remenhams left.’

‘But there is still Remenham House.’

‘Oh, a ruin,’ exclaimed Mrs Sindlesham, throwing up a hand. ‘Not
but what it was near that before Jarvis died. Half the rooms empty. Paintings
sold off the walls. And all to satisfy a succession of rapacious lightskirts.’

‘Lord,’ Gerald murmured, awed more by the outspokenness of
his hostess than by what she had said.

The old lady clearly read his state of mind, for the
apparently irrepressible dimple peeped out. ‘Shocked you, have I? We weren’t
mealy-mouthed in my day, my boy. You didn’t see me fall into a swoon when you
cursed just now, did you?’

‘I’m beginning to doubt if anything less than a sledgehammer
would send you into a swoon,’ Gerald retorted.

She let out a delighted laugh. ‘When you’re my age, you’ll be
just as hardheaded. I often wonder why the young always take us ancients for
namby-pamby creatures.’ She gave him a straight look. ‘So now you may safely
cease your roundaboutation, and tell me what took you to Remenham House.’

‘I was called in, ma’am, to catch a French spy—at least, that
is what Pottiswick thought.’

‘That old fool? Why my brother kept him on I shall never know.
Except he was the only idiot who would stay.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Went
to the dogs, did Jarvis, after Mary died.’

‘His daughter, ma’am?’ Gerald asked.

‘That’s right. Nothing anyone could say or do would change
him. I tried. Sindlesham tried. My late husband, I mean.’ All at once Mrs
Sindlesham looked across at him, a sharp question in her eyes. ‘How did you
know that Mary was his daughter?’

Gerald hesitated. Was this the right moment? After what she
had said about Jarvis Remenham’s habits, he could do with more information
before he revealed his purpose.

‘Come, come, ma’am,’ he said smiling. ‘I live in Kent. One is always familiar with the business of one’s neighbours.’

She set down her glass with a snap. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy. You
don’t know about Mary because you live in Kent. It was years before your time.’

Gerald capitulated. ‘You are too shrewd for me, ma’am. Very
well, then. I have a special interest in Mary Remenham because I believe I have
discovered her daughter.’

For a moment or two there was dead silence in the parlour. Mrs
Sindlesham’s wrinkled cheek had paled, and her eyes were fixed upon Gerald in a
look that wrung his heart. Distress, deep-rooted, and age old. He had thought
it might have that effect.

But then the features changed. The eyes left him, searching
beside the chair for her cane. Her hand grasped it firmly, and she pushed
herself forward. Gerald at once rid himself of his own glass and leapt to her
assistance.

‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a
moment. Then she slowly straightened, releasing him. ‘I can manage now.’

Gerald stood back, and watched her cross the room to the
closed French doors. She turned there and beckoned. He came to her and stood
before her, waiting, the morning light dazzling his eyes.

‘Now,’ she said, in an imperious manner that so much reminded
him of Melusine that he was obliged to suppress a grin, ‘I can see you properly.
Tell me that again.’

‘I have found Mary Remenham’s daughter,’ he repeated.

Slowly Prudence Sindlesham nodded her head, her eyes never
leaving his face. ‘You’re speaking the truth.’

‘As far as I know it, ma’am. Unfortunately, I have little
detail of the circumstances which surrounded the birth of the girl, and her
subsequent removal to France.’

‘Ah, you know about that, then?’

‘That much, yes. As I understand it, Remenham House devolves
upon Melusine, in default of her mother, the actual heir.’

‘Melusine, did you say?’ Mrs Sindlesham sighed. ‘That would
have grieved Jarvis. He wanted her named Mary. Of course Nicholas was bound to
give her a French name.’

Gerald smiled. ‘I assure you it suits her as Mary would not. She
is extremely lovely, but for her to have borne the name of the Blessed Virgin
would have been nothing short of sacrilege.’

For the first time since she had heard the news, Mrs
Sindlesham’s features relaxed and a tiny smile appeared. ‘Would it so? What
sort of a girl is she, then?’

‘She’s a consummate devil,’ Gerald declared roundly. ‘But
with more courage in her little finger than in many another female’s entire
body. She’s naïve, and yet uncannily shrewd at times, and you daren’t rely on
anything she says. She’s as stubborn as the proverbial mule, and—’ with a sigh
that felt wrenched out of him ‘—utterly captivating.’

Mrs Sindlesham shook with laughter. ‘What a catalogue.’ She
gestured at his hand, on which Roding’s makeshift bandage had been replaced by
a more efficient one. ‘Dare I suppose that to be of her making?’

Gerald flushed. ‘Yes, but quite my own fault.’

‘Was it?’ Her lips twitched. ‘I take it that you like this great-niece
of mine?’

‘One cannot help but do so.’ A reluctant laugh escaped him. ‘She
gave me four separate identities for herself, you must know, including
Prudence, before I managed to get at her real name.’

‘Ah, that explains your surprise. I may say she does not
sound in the least like Mary,’ said Mrs Sindlesham bluntly. ‘Mary was indeed naïve,
but there I should say the similarity ends. She was a merry creature, it is
true, and quite beautiful. But a biddable girl.’ She drew a heavy breath. ‘Else
she would not have married that ne’er-do-well only because Jarvis proposed him
to her.’

She sagged a little suddenly, as if the painful memories in
her mind had exhausted her body. Gerald instantly took her arm and guided her
back to her chair. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the
discussion.

‘Poor Mary had no idea about the elopement Nicholas had
undertaken,’ she told Gerald. ‘He had run away with a Frenchwoman, you see, but
Everett Charvill—I refer to the general—took care to conceal the matter. Though,
to be fair, he did not know of it until after the wedding. It would have been
very well if she had been some common creature who might have been bought off. But
this was a vicomte’s sister. How much Mary knew is a mystery. I suspect she
knew something, for she came home to Remenham House when she was increasing,
and report has it that she was very unhappy. Certainly, we—that is Jarvis and I—knew
nothing of it until after Mary’s death.’ She stopped, her lips tightening.

‘What happened, ma’am?’ enquired Gerald gently.

The old lady’s face was stiff with anger. ‘The wretch said
nothing to anyone. He left Remenham House immediately after his wife died,
giving birth to their daughter. His absence was thought by the charitable to be
from grief. He returned to attend the funeral. His demeanour then was sober
enough to lend colour to that belief. Immediately after it, he was off again,
and that, let me tell you, was the last anyone saw of him.’

‘What?’ gasped Gerald, shocked. ‘But he must have—’

‘Nicholas Charvill never did anything he must do,’ Mrs
Sindlesham said evenly. ‘He lacked moral fibre, did Nicholas. Later Lord
Charvill told Jarvis that it had been precisely the same at the outset. Nicholas
had not dared to tell his father about the Valade girl. So he obeyed Everett and married Mary, and kept the woman as his mistress.’

‘Did no one know, then?’

‘No, for the vicomte, we learned later, wrote to General Lord
Charvill in pursuit of his sister. Too late, alas, to stop the disastrous
marriage. Naturally it all came out then. The general did what he might to hush
it up, and paid handsomely to manage it, I daresay. What he told the vicomte I
was not privileged to learn.’

‘How was it then that Nicholas Charvill was known to have
gone to France. And with his daughter?’

‘He wrote to Jarvis from an inn in France, saying that he had
married Mademoiselle Valade, and that his baby naturally belonged with her
father. Until that moment, Jarvis had imagined the child to be safe in the
wet-nurse’s cottage.’ Mrs Sindlesham sighed deeply. ‘I think that was what
began his downfall. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered
from his grief at Mary’s death. But he...simply lost all hope.’

She was silent for a space, and it was evident that this part
of the story was still too painful to be recalled with ease. But it was of
vital importance to Melusine, and Gerald felt he must pursue it.

‘Forgive me, Mrs Sindlesham, but do you tell me this inheritance
that Melusine has fought so hard to recover is completely wasted?’

The old lady gave him a sharp look. ‘That is what she wants,
is it?’

‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly. ‘The poor girl was
thrust into a convent to become a nun. How she learned of her heritage I do not
know, but you need not imagine that it is greed that drives her.’

‘Well, don’t bite my head off,’ protested Mrs Sindlesham,
clearly amused. ‘I am far from imagining anything of the kind. I know nothing
about the girl, save what you have told me.’

Gerald shrugged. ‘I know her, ma’am, but I know next to
nothing of her story. She will not confide in me. But she has let fall enough
for me to understand that she knows about her father’s misdeeds.’ He grinned. ‘Her
purpose, if you will believe me, is to get herself a dowry so that she may
marry an Englishman.’

Mrs Sindlesham laughed lightly, but her eyes quizzed him. ‘Does
she need a dowry for that?’

‘Melusine believes so, and that is what counts.’

‘Melusine,’ repeated the old lady. ‘It is pretty. But it does
not sound as if the girl that wears the name resembles either of her parents.’

Gerald frowned. ‘You don’t believe her?’

‘My dear Major Alderley, I do not know her,’ Mrs Sindlesham
pointed out. ‘Bring her to me and we shall see.’

For a moment Gerald said nothing at all. His gaze remained
steady on the old dame’s face, as he thought about it.

‘Is it worth it?’ he asked at last. ‘Assuming she can prove
her identity, does Remenham House belong to her?’

Mrs Sindlesham shifted her shoulders. ‘That is a matter for
the lawyers. Jarvis did not leave a will.’

‘What?’ Appalled, Gerald could only gaze at her. In the
circles into which he had been born, the passing on of land was of vital
importance. To die intestate was unforgiveably irresponsible.

‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. ‘Unheard
of, ain’t it? To tell the truth, I half expected him to leave everything to one
of his doxies.’ She grimaced. ‘They lived with him, one after the other, for
all the world as his wife. My son went down after his death. To settle things,
you know. He said the place had gone to wrack. The last of Jarvis’s harlots
must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of
clothes.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Gerald put in with an irrepresssible chuckle. ‘Melusine
was making herself mistress of them when we met.’

Mrs Sindlesham’s mouth dropped open. ‘She’s wearing a
lightskirt’s clothing?’

‘Nothing obviously so, I assure you. A riding-habit is all I
have seen.’

‘Of course she could not have known to whom they belonged.’

‘Believe me, she wouldn’t have cared. I dare say anything
seemed better to her than the nun’s habit she had been obliged to use.’

He saw that Mrs Sindlesham, for all her vaunted freedom of
speech, was honestly shocked by this revelation. Whether it was the nun’s habit
or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess.
She would stare if she knew the full sum of Melusine’s activities.

‘It was your son who left the place empty then?’ he asked.

‘What else was there to do? He paid off the servants and left
old Pottiswick in charge, saying that the place would have to remain empty
until the heir was found.’

‘What heir?’

‘Exactly. There was none. Only the next of kin. That would be
myself, or if she lived, Mary’s daughter.’

‘Not, I trust, Nicholas Charvill?’

‘Hardly. That would be an unkind twist of fate.’