Wayward Winds (33 page)

 63 
New Shock

After a restless night, Amanda returned to the Pankhursts' not knowing what to expect when she arrived. Ramsay drove her once or twice past the house, surveying the neighborhood for police activity. As there seemed to be none, he stopped to let her out.

“If anything comes up,” he said, “if there is any trouble or if you need help, call me at the paper.” He reached across the seat and took her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Don't worry about a thing,” said Ramsay. “Remember what I told you before—I'll take care of you.”

Amanda nodded and got out.

“In the meantime, I'll get started on the article,” added Ramsay, then smiled and drove off.

Amanda watched the car disappear. She turned and walked nervously toward the house she had called home for three years, unaware that the newspaper article destined dramatically to change her future was not the one Ramsay planned to write about her, but rather the one planted about
him
which had made its appearance in the
Sun
only a few hours earlier.

At least Emmeline wouldn't be home, thought Amanda as she approached. Maybe no one would be here who had witnessed her outburst yesterday evening.

Amanda let herself cautiously in through the front door, then glanced about. The house was quiet. There was no sign even of the
housekeeper. She walked through the entry hallway and began to ascend the stairs to her room.

“Amanda!” she heard behind her.

Startled, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Amanda spun around to see Sylvia entering from the drawing room, a newspaper in her hand.

“I didn't know what had become of you! I never saw you after the museum.”

“I slipped out when the guards came in,” said Amanda. “But how did you and Christabel—”

“There were two carloads of women waiting outside. As soon as they saw our trouble, they distracted the guards with a volley of stones at the museum windows. We ran for it, and managed to get out of sight before the police arrived. But now Mother's in jail.”

“I heard. And Christabel?”

“She is hiding at a friend's house. I decided to sneak home to see if it was safe. I arrived in the middle of the night. The place was deserted, except for Edna, who's upstairs in her room.”

“Everyone must have thought the police would be watching. That's what I assumed. I was afraid to come back too.”

“We've got to get in touch with everyone,” said Sylvia. “We have a big demonstration planned for Parliament Square the day after tomorrow.”

“More . . . after what happened yesterday!”

“We have to seize the initiative.”

“Well I am here to pick up my things. I just don't know if I can be part of it anymore.”

“Amanda, what are you saying?”

“I don't want to get into it now, Sylvia,” replied Amanda. “I already had an argument with your mother last night. I just need some time to think.”

A peculiar expression came over Sylvia's face, but she seemed to realize it would not be a good time to press their differences.

“I assume your being upset has something to do with this,” she said, holding up the newspaper.

Amanda stared back at her with a blank expression.

“The article about Ramsay Halifax.”

Momentarily confused, Amanda did not stop to consider the impossibility of it so soon, but replied, “You mean
by
Ramsay Halifax . . . about me?”

“It's got nothing to do with
you
—it's an article about Ramsay Halifax. And none too favorable.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” said Amanda.

“I was looking for the news about us and yesterday's events. Then I saw this about your friend. It insinuates that he might be a spy.”

“What! That's the most absurd—”

Already Amanda had grabbed the newspaper from Sylvia's hand and had begun to read the account under the heading:
MAIL
REPORTER
IMPLICATED
IN
PHONY
MOROCCAN
STORY
.

She had only read half the article when she was out the door, all thought of retrieving her belongings and moving in to the Halifax home instantly gone.

 64 
Denial

Amanda hurried up to Ramsay's office in the
Daily Mail
building, this time not pausing for an interview with the receptionist. Her confusion and disbelief had hardly cooled during the ten-minute cab ride.

Ramsay, who had only been shown a copy of the libelous account not more than ten minutes earlier, was still reeling from the blow when he saw Amanda, red-faced, walking toward him. That she carried in her hand a crumpled copy of the same issue which had been handed to him indicated clearly enough what was on her mind.

Before she managed to say anything, he quickly ushered her into one of the small editorial offices and closed the door behind them.

“What is this all about!” she demanded, nearly throwing the paper in his face.

“Amanda, believe me,” he replied, “I know as little about it as you do. I only saw it myself a few minutes ago.”

“Falsified stories . . . that you were seen on the
Panther
, that you—”

Amanda stopped and glanced away.
That
part of the article was too painful.

“It's not true, Amanda,” said Ramsay softly.

Amanda turned back toward him, determined not to cry.

“I thought we—” she began, but she could not bring herself to say it.

“We do, Amanda—we have something very special. Please believe me, I know nothing about her.”

“But it says you and she . . . that you were seen . . .”

Ramsay looked down at the floor, shaking his head. “It was as painful for me to read as it was for you, Amanda. My first thought was for you—how it would hurt you if you saw it, and then for my mother, and what pain this would cause her as well.”

A heavy silence filled the small room.

“Oh, Ramsay,” Amanda exclaimed at length, “I just don't know what to think. What good will your article be able to do me now? Who will believe it if you say I am innocent? I might as well march down to Cannon Row and put the handcuffs on myself!”

Ramsay sensed from her tone that the moment had arrived when her fury could be turned to sympathy.

“Aren't you being just a little selfish, Amanda,” he said. “I could go to jail too—and not for a day or two, but for treason, for the rest of my life . . . that is if I'm not shot! Not to mention the fact that I will be fired before today is out and my career ruined unless I am able to disprove this ridiculous report. They accuse me of being a spy.”

His words had a calming, even a sobering effect on Amanda. She glanced away.

“Amanda, I tell you,” Ramsay went on, “not a word of this is true.”

“Where did it come from, then?” she asked. “Allegations like this don't just appear out of thin air.”

“I haven't an idea. Go out there on the floor,” he said, gesturing toward the door, “and ask the men I work with. We all just found out about it a few minutes ago. We're on it already, trying to find where it originated. There's not a grain of truth in it.”

“What about the woman?”

“I tell you, Amanda, there was no such incident. I haven't the slightest idea who they're talking about.”

“
Were
you in Morocco?”

Ramsay nodded. “You remember, when I was away last October—right after the weekend up in Cambridge. My editor sent me down to Africa to report on the situation, and I filed a story which ran in November. Believe me, I had nothing to do with the Germans there . . . or any woman named Adriane Grünsfeld.”

Amanda shook her head in frustration.

“I just don't know what to believe.”

Ramsay approached to embrace her. Amanda stiffened slightly, then backed away. She could not so easily forget the words about Ramsay she had read, true or not. She didn't want his arms around her right now.

She turned and left the office. As she walked through the editorial room, she was aware of every eye upon her. The walls of the room were not so thick as to prevent a good deal of the conversation from reaching the ears of Ramsay's colleagues. She half expected to hear footsteps behind her and for Ramsay's voice to make one final appeal. But no sound attempted to stop her.

A few minutes later she was back on the street, tears now flowing in earnest.

Why hadn't Ramsay's repeated denials helped? She was confused and didn't know what to do.

The police were probably looking for her. She had burned her bridges with the Pankhursts. Ramsay was her only hope. Yet suddenly she didn't know whether or not she could trust him.

What could she do . . . where could she go?

 65 
Geoffrey

The house on Curzon Street had lost much of its luster in Amanda's eyes during the winter months since the end of last year's season. There had been no parties, no balls, no new dresses, no invitations. Only a few months had passed. But all that now seemed so long ago.

She was in trouble and she knew it. At a time like this, the mere fact of familial relation was somehow comforting. Who else did she have to turn to other than Cousin Martha?

She walked up the steps onto the porch and rang the bell. A moment or two later the housekeeper opened it.

“Hello, Louisa,” said Amanda.

“Come in, Miss Amanda,” said Louisa, then turned and disappeared upstairs. Amanda walked into the nearby drawing room to wait, as she had many times before.

Two or three minutes later Geoffrey appeared. Amanda heard his step and turned around in surprise.

“Is your mother here?” she asked.

“I'm sorry, she's not,” replied Geoffrey with a smile. His tone was pleasant, but something about his expression reminded Amanda of the old Geoffrey.

“I need to talk to her,” she said.

“You may talk to me.”

“Thank you, Geoffrey, but I am in some trouble and I really need to talk to her.”

“Trouble?”
he repeated with significance, drawing out the word.

“Yes, trouble,” Amanda returned with a slight edge to her voice.

“Perhaps
I
could help,” he said, moving closer and reaching out toward her.

“Get away, Geoffrey!” she snapped, taking a step back. “I don't need
that
kind of help.”

“What kind, then?”

“Oh, never mind! When is your mother going to be back?”

“I really couldn't say. How do you know I couldn't help, Amanda?” he said. “You never give me a chance. I'm not really such a bad person.”

Amanda glanced away. His voice reminded her of when he used to whine as a boy.

“Your trouble, I take it,” Geoffrey continued, an annoying tone creeping into his voice that indicated he was in on some secret, “might have something to do with your friend Halifax?”

“What do
you
know about Ramsay Halifax?” returned Amanda.

“Just that he is in a lot of hot water at the minute. As I hear it, his arrest might not be far away.”

“His arrest—don't be ridiculous. The story in the
Sun
is pure fiction. It is being investigated.”

“That's not the way I hear it.”

Amanda looked up, suddenly alert to the implication of his statement. She tried to find his eyes.

“
What
have you heard, Geoffrey?” she asked pointedly.

“Oh . . . nothing,” he replied evasively, “—just what the paper reported, that's all.” Geoffrey realized he had been careless.

But Amanda detected something more in his voice. She might not like her second cousin, but she
knew
him. And right now she was sure he knew more than he was telling.

“What do you know, Geoffrey?” she demanded.

“Nothing, I tell you!”

“I don't believe it. You know something more about this than you're letting on.”

“No I don't,” he retorted. “Even if I did, I wouldn't tell you.”

Forgetting that she had come here to seek refuge, Amanda was quickly getting angry. She sighed and glanced briefly away. Geoffrey always had been capable of arousing the most profound irritation within her. Now he was at it again!

Misreading her hesitation as a sign she was weakening, again Geoffrey stepped forward. This time he attempted to take her in his arms.

“Geoffrey, what are you doing!” cried Amanda, half stepping, half leaping backward as if she had touched a snake.

“Just trying to comfort you in your time of distress.” He did his best to make his voice sound smooth and suave, as he perceived was called for by the situation. He succeeded, however, only in making himself seem all the more oily and conniving.

“Comfort me!” repeated Amanda, almost laughing. “Since when have you ever tried to comfort me?”

“I have always cared about you, Amanda. Why won't you let me help you?”

“Why should I?”

“Because . . . because we are—”

“Because we are
what
, Geoffrey?” Even as the words came out of her mouth, Amanda wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer.

“Can't you let me offer you a moment's consolation—”

Geoffrey paused and removed something from his pocket.

“—for old times' sake, Amanda dear,” he said, now jingling a small set of old-fashioned keys in front of her.

Amanda's eyes narrowed as she gazed forward. Suddenly recognition dawned.

“Those are the keys from the tower room at Heathersleigh!” she cried. “How did
you
get them?”

“Don't you remember the day a long time ago when a very naughty little girl locked her cousin in that tower?”

“I can't believe . . . do you mean—”

Amanda could hardly get the words out for her renewed rage at her weasel of a cousin. Whatever Geoffrey's motives for showing her the keys at this precise moment, if he thought doing so would win her sympathy or endear her affections, he was seriously mistaken.

“No wonder they've been missing all these years,” she cried. “Give them back, Geoffrey! They're mine!”

She reached forward. But Geoffrey was too quick for her and jumped back. A look of glee spread over his face. Quickly he repocketed the keys.

“We'll see whose they are in the end!”

“Give them to me!”

“I might consider doing so . . .
after
you and I are married.”

“Ugh!” Amanda shrieked. “That's disgusting. Never!”

“You think you'll do better?”

“
Anything
would be better!”

“Ha—no one would marry you!”

Amanda turned and ran from the room. Behind her she could hear Geoffrey's voice laughing. The mischievous boy had briefly gained the upper hand over the wealthy financier, the debonair suitor, and as he viewed himself, the handsome winner of women's hearts.

As soon as Amanda was out the front door, however, her cousin calmed. The smirk on his face disappeared. He stole to the window and probed at the edge of the curtain with his fingers, opening a crack to peep at her as she walked down the street away from the house and out of sight.

It was a good thing his father wasn't home, Geoffrey reflected, or he would be furious. He may have just loused the whole thing up.

Well, one thing was certain. Amanda would never tell anyone what had just happened. And he still had the keys. And now that Halifax had shown himself the cad Geoffrey had always known him to be, Amanda was certain to come to her senses eventually.

Maybe it wouldn't turn out so bad after all.

Having no idea that Geoffrey's eyes were glued on her back, before Amanda was half a block down Curzon Street her eyes burned with tears. What was happening to her? It seemed that in just a few hours all her life had crumbled at her feet.

What should she do? Now she really had no place to go! In a few short hours she had succeeded in alienating herself from every possible source of refuge.