Mally : Signet Regency Romance (9781101568057) (11 page)

Chapter 16

“There!” Annabel arranged the ribbons at the throat of her gown and stepped back to admire the effect in the mirror. “I am ready to sally forth!”

Mally stared at her, from the velvet roses topping her jaunty emerald green hat, to the elegant frilled green pelisse and flounced muslin walking dress. The picture was completed by shiny patent slippers peeping from beneath the hem.

“You look fit for a drive in Hyde Park maybe, but not for a visit to Llanglyn on market day! You'll be like a butterfly in a bees' nest.”

“That, my dear Mally, is the intention. I have moldered in this house for more than a week. Positively
moldered!
It has rained ever since we arrived and now, at long last, it has stopped. And I intend stepping out looking my very best. All the clod-hoppers can gape, if they wish. Perhaps they know nothing of ladies of quality.”

“Your eyes will cross if you look down your nose much more, my lady.”

Annabel smiled quickly. “Well, I didn't come here to talk recipes, learn to crochet, or to help bottle jam!”

Mally burst out laughing. “And I am assured that you are proving quite excellent at such homely matters! Your crochet, I am told, is rather presentable.”

“Silence,
chienne!
What would the
haut ton
say should a whisper of this get out? I thought horsetails were attached to animals, but it seems they grow in ditches and you scour pans with them. I'll warrant it's one of the wonders of nature.” Annabel looked at her hands. “That Pattie of yours did it deliberately. Look at my hands, they're quite
pink!”

“Pattie did what?”

“Looked witheringly at me and said that I wouldn't be able to manage the roast-pan. It was a gauntlet, waved under my nose and tossed disdainfully to the ground!”

“You should have known better than to let her get under your skin like that.”

“She thinks I am disgustingly useless.”

“And so you are. But very,
very
decorative. You'll find some pattens in that cupboard, by the way.”

“Pattens?
I'm not wearing those clumsy things.”

“Then get muddy, wet feet.”

“Patent needs no pattens.”

“You will spoil those slippers, for Llanglyn's mud is master of spoiling anything, given the chance.”

“Pattens would not become this toggery.” Annabel admired her lovely reflection again.

“Very well, look ridiculous with muddy feet instead, but don't say you weren't warned.”

Annabel watched Mally strapping on pattens. “You aren't really going to go out with those on your feet are you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, well, perhaps I will as well, but it will look quite
desperate,
I just know it will. Still, at least no one who matters will see me.”

Mally looked up. “Meaning Chris, presumably.”

“Yes.
Is
there anyone else who matters? Oh, the Prince of Wales, perhaps. I can't call anyone else to mind.”

Mally laughed. “The Prince only
perhaps?
I'm sure he'd take to his bed for a month if he heard.”

“Do you think Chris will come soon? And Mr. Vallender? I so want to get up there.” Annabel looked from the tiny window and up the hills to the distant castle.

“Any day now, I should think. Chris's business was completed two days ago, I know, for he said that his last meeting was then. It could be that he will be here when we return, who can say?”

Annabel looked anew at the pattens. “Perhaps I
will
leave them off then—”

“Oh, for goodness' sake! Chris is more likely to think you ridiculous if you
don't
wear them, if his opinion is so very important to you. Now then, where are my gloves? Right. Are we ready?”

“I believe so.”

Down in the kitchen Mrs. Berrisford and Pattie were surveying a rather battered cookery book. Mrs. Berrisford put her spectacles away. “Well, I don't know, Pattie—the writing's faded so much I really cannot
begin
to guess what that fourth ingredient is. Perhaps it would be prudent to forget Grandmama's excellent dill cake and bake something we are sure of.”

“Yes,” agreed Pattie, “that would be best, I think.”

Mally smiled. “It's only the vicar's wife coming to tea, Mother, not the dreaded Mrs. Clevely.”

“Oh, heaven forbid!” Mrs. Berrisford put her hands to her cheeks. “Don't even
mention
that woman. Where is Lady Annabel?”

“Waiting in the barouche. I just came in to see if you wanted me to bring anything back from town.”

Mrs. Berrisford looked anxious. “What am I to say to Mrs. Jones this afternoon, Marigold? She is about to ask about Maria, and I do not know that I can lie to
her.”

“Then tell her the truth.”

“I cannot.”

“Then tell her a fib. You must do one or the other. Or look straight through her when she asks. Now then, what shall I purchase for you?”

“I—I made a list somewere. Oh, yes, here it is. Now you make sure George Cunningworth doesn't fob you off with poor quality—I don't know how much your soft London life has made you forget—”

“Nothing of importance, Mother, nothing of importance. Good-bye, then.”

“Good-bye, Marigold.”

***

The barouche rattled down toward the ford. The Afon Gwyn was full and swift after the rain, and the coachman teased his nervous team forward very slowly.

Annabel ran her fingers over the drab velvet upholstery. “I wondered that your mother kept
two
fine carriages, but perhaps this one is not so fine after all.”

“The landau comes out on high days and holy days. In between it is wrapped in sheets and put away in a corner of the stables. This old barouche is for general journeys around here, in and out of Llanglyn and so on.”

“But the dreaded Mrs. Clevely I have heard mentioned would rate the landau, no doubt?”

“Yes.”

“I understand your sister is to marry her son.”

“Yes.”

“Mally, whenever your sister's name is mentioned, I cannot help noticing how reticent everyone suddenly becomes. I have been listening and paying good attention, so there is no point, you know. Your mother's voice carries from one end of the gallery to the other—and back again sometimes. Maria has run away, hasn't she?”

“You
have
been busy listening, haven't you?”

“A week of rain—there had to be
something
beyond homely pursuits.” Annabel smiled.

“Maria has eloped, it would seem.”

“And not with her fiancé?”

“Not with him.”

“And now she is somewhere, you don't know where, with someone, you don't know who?”

“Yes.”

The barouche lurched out of the ford again and the team were brought up to a better pace, their hooves clattering smartly on the flat stones laid on this part of the road.

Annabel leaned out to survey the mud ahead. “Oh, my
Lord!
That isn't mud, it's molasses!”

“I told you.”

“I wonder you Llanglyners aren't born with webbed feet!”

The market square was crowded and the noise was tremendous as the stallkeepers shouted their wares. Plump country women carrying hen baskets and fruit baskets walked slowly between the rows of stalls or stopped to talk together in groups. The barouche came to a standstill by a pie stall, and Annabel gazed around. The Hell-fire stagecoach was just pulling out of the Three Feathers, team jingling and horn sounding.

“Last calling! Last calling for Hereford!”

Annabel shuddered. “Who could travel in that thing! And look at them? Piled inside like grapes to be pressed.”

“Not everyone has various carriages from which to choose, Annabel.”

Some loose chickens fluttered from the hooves of the coach's team, scattering in all directions as the horn sounded suddenly. Some penned goats set up a frantic bleating to add to the cacophony, pushing and straining against the hurdles restraining them. A dog began to bark, snapping at the hooves until the driver's whip lashed close to its tail, when it immediately retreated to the safety of a stall.

“Come on, Mally,” said Annabel briskly, “let's get down and inspect the stalls. I've never been to a market before.”

“Oh, yes you have. Almack's.”

They visited George Cunningworth's store, checking each item purchased with great care, including the close examination of the quality of the flour.

“That there flour
en't
'dulterated, there
en't nothing
in that bag 'ceptin' good grain.
Damn,
I'd swear it on a stack of Bibles, so help me I would!”

“You had better be being honest, Mr. Cunningworth.”

“As the day is long, Mrs. St. Aubrey. As the day is long.”

Annabel sniffed. “Mm—the evening's
are
drawing in, aren't they?”

“That flour is—”

“We know. Good, pure grain.” Annabel dipped her fingers in it. “It's
too
fine and white, isn't it? There's no mill yet that can get it like that. Come, Mr. Cunningworth, you bring the real wheat flour, and we'll forget this poor stuff.”

He scowled, snatching the offending bag from the counter and muttering beneath his breath.
“Gast Saesneg!”

Annabel raised a haughty eyebrow. “Well,
really!
If I am an English one of those, sir,
you
are a
cnaf Cymreig!”

Mally stared at her. “I had no idea you were so knowledgeable.”

“One of the interminable lessons learned this past week at Pattie's knee. When she recovered from the shock of a lady asking how to be rude in Welsh, she was more than obliging.”

George thumped a new bag on the counter without a word. Annabel smiled sweetly and put it in Mally's basket. “Thank you, my man.”

Outside Mally burst into helpless laughter. “His face! He expected me to maybe query the flour, but when
you
did, and when you then proceeded to be as rude to him as he was being to you! Standing there in your London toggery, sifting flour with your fingers in a manner born, and cursing as roundly as any fishwife!”

“Yes—and if any after-dinner chitchat ever comes to my ears concerning this episode, Marigold St. Aubrey, I'll put a ring through your nose!”

They spent an hour or so walking around the market, with Mally now and then stopping to speak with those she knew. Several of them asked after Maria, and she dutifully told them that her sister was staying with relatives. The bell of St. Crispin's rang out at midday and Mally stopped by the haberdashery stall to look at the church.

Annabel put back the braiding she had been examining.

“I married Daniel in that church at midday,” murmured Mally softly.

“Well, the next wedding won't be a quiet country affair, will it?” said Annabel briskly. “Chris Carlyon's
do
will be fashionable and attended by
everyone.”

“It won't, you know. We're marrying here, not in London. And we shall not be inviting
everyone.”

“What a waste of a good wedding. If
I
were marrying him, I'd wheedle St. Paul's itself! No—Westminster Abbey!”

“With the Prince of Wales as best man?”

“That
would be exquisite. But
you
must drag Chris to this backwood and sneak quite shiftily into the church. Are you afraid to marry him in an ostentatious blaze of showing-off, then?”

“No!”

“Don't look outraged and full of jostling protests. Oh, come now, Mally, since we've been here I've seen you time and time again deep in thought, staring at something or other. Beginning on our first evening here when you were gaping at the lily pond as if you expected a mermaid to appear at any moment. It's further back than Chris Carlyon that your thoughts are going still, isn't it?”

Mally knew that she was flushing, but could not help herself. “You are wrong,” was all she could think of to say.

“No, I'm not,” said Annabel softly, “and it's that one thing more than any other which makes Chris fair game still. I have not much time, Mally, but I shall use it, you may depend upon that.”

“I know.”

“I like you very much, Mally, but I
love
Chris.”

“I know that too.” Mally smiled. “And I have picked up that particular gauntlet.”

“I had noticed. Still, all is not yet lost, not by a long chalk.” Annabel picked up the braiding again and looked at it more closely. “What color would you say this is?”

“Puce.”

“No, it isn't—puce is the color of my father's face when he's overindulged the maraschino. This is a darkish sort of purple, I fancy.”

“It is still puce.”

“Then I shall not buy it, for that word is one I do not like, and if I have to say that I am wearing puce braiding, it will be more than I could bear.” She put it back, glancing at the woman behind the stall.

The woman was watching something over by the Three Feathers, and Annabel and Mally immediately turned to see what it was. Jasper Turney was deep in conversation with several other men, and they were gesticulating toward the church.

Annabel glanced around at the suddenly quiet market. “There is an
atmosphere,
is there not, Mally? And the good Mr. Turney is in the very thick of it again.”

Jasper turned then to shout back into the courtyard of the inn. “Brew?” he shouted clearly. “Brew? Get the others, that Jamaican's left his horse hidden in the churchyard. We reckon as he's gone to Towers! And hurry!”

Chapter 17

Mally gaped. “We must do something!”

“Such as? Mally, we are two mere women, we can hardly stop a mob such as the one now forming.” Annabel looked around apprehensively. “We would be better advised getting ourselves well and truly away before anything happens.”

“And leave them to hang that poor man? We can't!”

The men were moving away from the inn now, hurrying down the street toward the church.

“God Almighty, it isn't happening, it can't be—” Mally watched the faces of the people she had a moment before been speaking with. They wanted Abel dead, it was there in their eyes. Vindictive hatred.

There was shouting ahead by the church and the sound of a horse galloping up the street, the hooves echoing around the walls and windows of the houses.

The skewbald was swift, too swift for the outstretched hands of the nearest men as the Jamaican flicked the reins from side to side, urging the animal faster. His leather jerkin flapped wildly and his hat flew off, revealing a tight mass of black curls, and Mally saw how wide and frightened his eyes were as he glanced behind at the men.

“Annabel, get back, he'll ride us down—” Mally pressed back behind the stall, still watching the approaching horse. “Annabel!”

But Annabel remained where she was, staring at the oncoming rider and the shouting men behind him, running back toward the market square.

“Annabel!”
screamed Mally, beginning to step forward to snatch the other's arm.

But it was too late. The horse was upon them, dashing for the small gap between Annabel and the stall, and Mally was forced away again. Annabel was buffeted sideways and the horse swerved, throwing the Jamaican heavily against the base of the stall, where he lay winded. Annabel sprawled in the mud by the goats' hurdles, and the frightened horse galloped on, its stirrups swinging and its reins trailing.

The crowd were stunned by the swiftness with which it had happened, and for a moment they stood where they were, the only sound being that of the horse. And then even that dwindled away to nothing. Jasper Turney's voice rang out. “We got 'im! We got 'im at last!”

His shout jerked the crowd from its immobility and they began to close in on the half-conscious man who still lay by the stall, his face contorted with pain. Mally pushed around the stall and stood by the Jamaican.

“No!” she cried. “Don't—”

A pistol shot rang out and she turned blindly in the direction of the sound. A landau had turned into the square, its roans sweating, and the Carlyon arms clearly visible on its lacquered doors. The door swung open and Richard Vallender climbed down, standing with one foot on the iron steps and a pistol balanced over his forearm.

“One more step, for anyone, and it will be their last, I promise you.”

Annabel scrambled to her feet, wiping anxiously at the dark stains and splatters of mud which covered her; but the anxious wiping was a nervous reaction, for she only made the marks worse.

Chris stepped down from the other side of the landau, tossing his spent pistol back inside. He paused to fluff the lace at his cuffs, glancing around the square almost casually.

Mally felt that she would burst into tears, but she crouched beside the injured man. “It's all right, Abel, it's all right now. Mr. Vallender is here—”

“Mr. Vallender?” Abel made as if he would get to his feet, but she pushed him gently back.

Chris came through the crowd toward her, and the people melted back before him. “Are you all right, Mally?”

“Yes. But Abel's hurt.”

“You and Annabel go back to the landau, and quickly,” he said quietly. “Richard's pistol has but one bullet and there are rather more than that gathered around us.”

“But Abel—”

“He isn't heavy, I'll carry him.” He smiled at her, touching her cheek gently. “Go on now and let us ease ourselves out of this den.”

She straightened, catching Annabel's arm. “Leave the mud alone, Annabel, and come on—”

“But it's such a mess.” Annabel's voice was curiously flat and toneless.

Mally glanced swiftly at her and then pulled her toward the landau. She turned as she heard the sound of a pony and trap. Dr. Towers was bringing the chestnut pony up to a smart pace and he halted in surprise as he came into the square and saw what was happening.

“Abel's hurt, Dr. Towers,” explained Mally.

Chris picked up the injured man and carried him gently to the landau. The doctor nodded at him. “Take him to the courthouse, and I will see him there.”

Annabel climbed into the landau, still fussing about her ruined clothes, and Richard kept the pistol pointed over the crowd.

Abel reached out to him. “I had to come, Mr. Vallender.”

Richard smiled quickly, putting his hand over the other's. “I know, Abel, I know.”

The landau moved slowly around the square when Mally had climbed in, and the crowd remained stationary. Mally was shaking. What if the landau had not arrived at that moment? What might she and Annabel have witnessed? She glanced at Annabel again. The girl was staring at her soiled gloves. Chris put his arm around her worriedly.

“It's all right now, Annabel. Come on now.”

She raised her head. “I just stood there, Chris, I stood like a lump of stone, and I caused the accident. It was my fault.”

He squeezed her. “Don't be foolish.”

“If he'd been killed, I would never have forgiven myself.” Tears hung in her green eyes and she tried to blink them back, but they would not be denied. They meandered down her grimy cheeks.

Chris smiled fondly at her. “You're soft, Lady Annabel, do you know that?”

Abel lay across the other seat. He looked at Richard again. “Mr. Vallender, I came because—”

“All right, Abel!”

Mally's eyes went to Richard's face in surprise, and he patted the Jamaican's shoulder. “Tell me later.”

“Yes, Mr. Vallender.”

The landau slowed to enter the narrow gateway of the courthouse and inside the doctor's pony and trap had already arrived.

Annabel, Mally, and Chris climbed down, but Richard remained where he was as the doctor climbed in to examine Abel.

“Is he all right, Nathaniel?” he asked.

“Yes, I think so. In fact, I'm sure of it. He was badly winded, that's all.”

“Then we'll go on up to the castle.”

Mally leaned in. “But, Mr. Vallender, allow him a little time to recover.”

“No, Mrs. St. Aubrey, I would rather do as I said. With all due thanks to you, of course.”

She met his dark eyes. “As you wish, Mr. Vallender.”

“I would hardly wish to foist my company upon your lady mother, would I?” He smiled. “You still intend coming?”

“Of course.”

“I will see you then, whenever you wish to come.”

She stepped back and the doctor climbed down, turning to look back at Richard. “I was coming up there anyway, Richard,” he said. “Abel said that I was urgently needed. Damn, he wouldn't have dared come into Llanglyn for any other reason. You got my letter?”

“On the day I was leaving anyway.”

“I thought you should know how things were faring back here.”

Richard smiled. “You're a good friend, Nathaniel. Let's get on up there then. Chris, shall you come now or follow a little later?”

“Later, Richard. I'll use Mrs. Berrisford's barouche, which is already harnessed up.” As if to underline his words, they heard the empty barouche halting outside on the road, unable to enter the courtyard because of the landau.

Richard's eyes went to Mally again. What was the expression she could see in them? Dislike? Anxiety? Mistrust? It could be anything. She watched the landau maneuver around the courtyard, conscious yet again that Richard Vallender did not want her at the castle. The pony and trap followed and soon the courtyard was empty, until the barouche's team nosed slowly beneath the gatehouse.

Mally nodded at the coachman. “Wait, if you please, Harris, for Sir Christopher wishes to go up to the castle a little later.”

The coachman touched his hat, and Mally turned toward Chris and Annabel, noticing immediately that his arm was still around her shoulder in comfort. And Annabel was draining the last droplet of comfort she could from the prolonged moments. Mally's eyes flickered. “Still on the verge of the vapors, Annabel?”

“I feel quite distraught.”

“That's one of my mother's favorite words. I had not realized you liked it too.”

Chris raised his eyebrow. “Let's get inside, shall we?”

“Oh.” Mally closed her eyes briefly. “I've left Mother's shopping in the market.”

“Judging by the motley selection of persons gathered there today, that's the last you'll see of the shopping. Basket and all.”

They crossed toward the wood steps and climbed to the gallery where Pattie waited anxiously.

“Oh, Lady Annabel, whatever's been happening?”

“More Llanglyn merry-making,” said Annabel flatly, allowing Pattie to usher her away from Chris and into the great hall.

Chris caught Mally back gently. “What's going on here, Mally?”

“The people think Mr. Vallender's Abel killed Mrs. Harmon.”

“And did he? In your opinion?”

She considered. “No. I believe Dr. Towers when he says Abel did not.”

“It's strange, but Richard was anxious to get back here sooner. It was almost as if he sensed things were wrong.”

“Then why didn't he? Surely he could have returned had he really wished to.”

“I begin to think you are not impressed by Richard, Mally.”

“Oh, I'm impressed. Most impressed.”

Chris prudently left the matter, beginning to walk on, but she remained at the top of the steps. “Chris, why
didn't
he come back then?”

“He couldn't. He'd sold his horse and was depending upon me to bring him home.”

“He sold that horse? But why?”

Chris came back to her. “To pay Dr. Stiller. I know that to be so, for the last thing we did before leaving London was to call at Stiller's house.”

“Is Mr. Vallender ill then?”

“If he is, then he is keeping the fact to himself. He said nothing of Stiller and I did not ask him.” He smiled, slipping his arms around her waist. “I missed you.”

She kissed him, holding him tightly. But she felt guilty as she did so, for it was not of him that she was thinking at that moment. It was Richard Vallender's visit to Dr. Stiller. And who it was up at Castell Melyn who required Dr. Towers so urgently—urgently enough for Abel to risk his life coming into Llanglyn? Was it Maria? Was she up at Castell Melyn, and was she ill?

***

Chris closed the door of Mally's room quietly and she turned quickly from staring up at Castell Melyn.

“Your mother is working up to a fine pitch over this impending tea party. I came up here to escape.”

“Couldn't Annabel keep you in her clutches any longer then?”

He paused. “She
is
upset, Mally, and still shakes all over.”

“I'll warrant she does! Quivering like a doe each time you touch her, leaning winsomely against your manly shoulder and turning those great cow-eyes adoringly toward you all the time!
I
came up here to escape as well!”

He smiled. “I'll warrant she's making all the headway she can, which flatters me quite considerably. But that doesn't mean she is faking how she feels about what happened in Llanglyn earlier.”

“Headway can only be made under favorable conditions,” said Mally shortly, biting her lip and looking away.

“That wasn't called for. And I would be a poor friend to her if I snubbed her over such a thing, wouldn't I? Annabel's all right and I like her.”

“So I noticed.”

“I am her friend, not her lover. Come on now, Mally, stop this—” He put his hand to the nape of her neck and wound his fingers gently in her warm hair. “You're in a miff with me, aren't you? Mm?”

She looked at him immediately. “With you? No. With myself.”

“I'll pass over such a cryptic, entirely female remark.” He pulled her nearer and kissed her.

She closed her eyes and moved to hold him tightly. She was angry, angry and confused. Each tiny inch Annabel strove to creep nearer to him could have been halted.
I could have smacked her down in no uncertain way. But I did nothing, nothing at all
—

He drew his finger over her lips, softly and slowly. “You're in a stew over your sister still?”

She seized the straw. “There's been no word.”

“No news is good news, so they say.”

“Just a scribbled note would be all she need do.”

“An escape to Richard's ghost-ridden pile of stone will do you good. It will take your mind from Miss Maria Berrisford's misdemeanors for a while. Now that your mother has realized that Annabel knows about your sister, she has done nothing but rattle about it. And about the tea party. And about Mrs. Clevely. And about the gossips of Llanglyn. And about poor Richard, who is blacker than black in her eyes. She never stops. I think your father
threw
himself from that damned horse,
he
needed an escape as well.”

She smiled. “Mother cannot help it.”

“Anyone can help chattering quite so much. Anyway, I shall go up to Castell Melyn now, but I shall come back for you and Annabel tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Why not?”

“Mother—”

“Damn Mother. You and Annabel need rescuing, and in true white-knight fashion, I am doing my chivalrous act. Tonight.”

She nodded, kissing him for a last time. The afternoon sun was thin and watery as she looked up at Castell Melyn again. Tonight she would be there, and perhaps at long last she might begin to find some of the answers to the various puzzles and mysteries which surrounded Maria.