The Highwayman's Daughter Page 12

  He whistled for the dogs, who trotted back and looked shamefaced as he scolded them. ‘You are a daft pair,’ he told them, but he knew they found rabbits irresistible.

  As for Miss Mardell – Cora – he’d have to find some other way of convincing her.

  Chapter Ten

  Before he did anything else, Jack wanted to find out more about the name he’d seen on the grave marker: Duval – perhaps it would help him discover whether Cora really was related to Captain Blythe. He needed to talk to Mrs Bartlett, Lord Heston’s cook.

  Lord Heston was their nearest neighbour, and although the two families were not close, they maintained neighbourly relations. It was too early to call on his lordship when Jack arrived, so he rode around to the servants’ entrance. Bartlett was in the kitchen kneading dough in a bowl while a maid was scrubbing the floor and another tending a large oven beside the open kitchen hearth. When the cook saw Jack, she left her work and hugged him in a cloud of flour.

  ‘Well now, and if it ain’t my favourite young’un!’ she exclaimed and pinched his cheek.

  This was a blatant lie; anyone who took the trouble to visit Mrs Bartlett in her domain and sample her cooking was a favourite, except perhaps Lord Heston himself. She commanded Jack to step inside and made him sit down at the scrubbed kitchen table, where she poured him a tankard of ale. Then she proceeded to ply him with home-made biscuits and sweetmeats.

  ‘Just the ale, please, Bartlett,’ Jack said, holding up his hands. He added with a grin, ‘Or a glass of brandy if you have it.’

  Pretending to cuff him over the head, to the consternation of the maids who were watching, goggle-eyed, Mrs Bartlett harrumphed. ‘You horrid boy! Brandy? At this hour? And what would your father think? I bet the earl’d have a thing or two to say about that, you wastrel.’

  Coming from Mrs Bartlett, the words stung. As a boy Jack had often visited Bartlett, mainly because the irascible French chef in his father’s kitchens hated the sight of children. He had come to regard the Hestons’ cook as a friend. She was more astute than many others, and though she had always been pleased to see Jack, she was less welcoming to Rupert. Now, as she mock-scolded him, he had to remind himself that it was his own fault she thought the worst of his London exploits, but he had learned that Rupert seemed more able to control his excesses when Jack was around so it was a price he had to pay. He sincerely hoped Bartlett didn’t mean it.

  ‘It would be the cane for me, I’m afraid,’ he joked.

  Mrs Bartlett put her floury hands on her wide hips. ‘Oh, you are the devil!’ Then she turned serious. ‘I heard as how your carriage was held up. Are you all right, my lad?’

  ‘Was it a highwayman, sir?’ The scullery maid had stopped scrubbing the floor and was staring at Jack with large, round eyes. ‘Did ’e fire a pistol an’ all?’

  ‘Oh, hold your tongue, girl!’ Mrs Bartlett snapped but her gaze was on Jack.

  ‘He did indeed.’

  Both women gasped.

  ‘We came to no harm,’ Jack went on, reassuring them all. ‘This was a true gentleman of the road, so to speak, and he was kind enough to relieve us only of our valuables.’ He didn’t mention the rapier and the cold glint in Cora’s eyes. No need to upset Mrs Bartlett any further.

  Mrs Bartlett crossed her arms over her ample bosom and regarded him with small, piggy eyes in her broad face. Jack met her steely gaze, but was the first to look away.

  ‘Don’t you try pulling the wool over my eyes, young fellow,’ she said. ‘I’ve known you since you were a babe in arms. I also heard tell that the brigand cut off all your hair, although I can see with my own two eyes that it ain’t quite true. Still, you seem to be missing a fair bit.’

  Jack ran his hand through his hair to the nape of his neck, in a gesture which had almost become second nature. He’d tried tidying the hair up, but it still insisted on sticking out in all directions. ‘The scoundrel’s idea of a joke, I suspect.’

  The kitchen maid suppressed a giggle, and Mrs Bartlett glared at her. ‘Not very funny, was it, with him getting a knife out and all?’ She returned to her dough, kneading it angrily, as if she imagined pounding the robber’s face with her beefy fists. ‘Anyway, as long as you’re all right is what matters. The Lord willing, they’ll catch the miscreant soon, and the good folk around here can sleep soundly in their beds again.’

  ‘Let’s hope they do,’ Jack said, and hoped they didn’t.

  Bartlett would be horrified if she knew he was aware of the robber’s identity and wasn’t planning to hand her over to the authorities. He longed to explain, but realised that in this instance, and whatever desperation had driven Cora to her crimes, he didn’t think he and Bartlett would see eye to eye. And why should she, he conceded. As far as the cook was aware, this highway robber was dangerous, as most of them undoubtedly were. Therefore the fewer people who knew, the better, for Cora’s safety.

  The subject brought to a suitable close, for the time being at least, Jack considered broaching the other matter. It was after all the reason he was here. He would have to tread very carefully though if he was to avoid arousing Mrs Bartlett’s suspicions: he was willing to swear Lord Heston’s cook could read minds.

  He sipped some of his ale and stared out the window, putting on a pensive expression. ‘All this talk of highwaymen has put me in mind of that old story about the first Lady Heston. Her coach was found near the road, was it not? I wonder if she was held up by a gentleman of the road too.’

  Mrs Bartlett shook her head. ‘Now why would you be going and reminding me of that? What a tragic business, and no mistake.’

  ‘I was merely curious and thought it a possibility.’

  ‘Aye, it’s possible, and I’ve thought so myself many a time.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why the lady would put herself at risk in such a way? Was she not herself perhaps?’

  The cook eyed him sharply, and Jack schooled his features into a neutral expression. Then she shrugged. ‘Oh, well, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. It’s so long ago now, and at any rate most of it is already known in the neighbourhood. There was trouble in his lordship’s marriage, with the master occasionally insisting Lady Sophia weren’t allowed out of her room. He were away when Lady Sophia was confined. It was a difficult birth, but then they often are with the first one, or so I’ve heard. Lasted thirty-six hours and counting, with the babe being the wrong way around. There were fears both and mother and child would die. None of us were getting a wink of sleep, and I was called in the night to bring some chicken broth. Had to feed Lady Sophia like a child: God rest her soul, but she didn’t have the life left in her to hold the spoon.’

  She paused, and a shadow crossed her face. ‘I remember her whispering to me as I fed her, so I leaned closer, like, to hear. “Bartlett,” she said to me, “is my daughter very beautiful?” “Aye,” I said, “as beautiful as yourself and more, m’lady, with masses of dark hair and a right lustful pair of lungs on her.” I thought that would please her, you see, but she went even paler than before, although I’d never thought it possible. She was like a ghost already.’

  ‘So the baby was doing well?’ asked Jack. He experienced the familiar pang when he thought of little Henry as well as the tiny grave in the woods.

  Bartlett nodded. ‘Oh, I remember it as if it were yesterday. Not something you forget in a hurry, the way my lady screamed. Aye, the wee thing seemed to me like she was going to pull through all right, but never having had a babe meself who am I to say? I remember thinking that his lordship weren’t going to be pleased about it being a girl and would probably rather the babe died. Of course, he got his wish, didn’t he?’

  Mrs Bartlett lifted the dough of out the bowl, sprinkled some flour on the kitchen table, and pummelled it into the shape of a large loaf. Watching her knuckles making deep indentations in the dough, Jack could guess who the cook imagined she was clobbering now.

  ‘What happened then?’ he prodded gently, although he knew the g
ist of the story. Everyone around here did.

  ‘She took off, that’s what happened,’ came the terse reply, ‘but where she found the strength only God knows. Crazy as a coot, although it pains me to say it.’ Mrs Bartlett shook her head in disbelief and muttered something unintelligible. ‘She and the babe were found a couple of days later. His lordship said at first it couldn’t be his wife and refused to have the body in the house. But some of us, meself included, were asked to identify her on oath and he had to accept it. I always said he was too shocked to believe it, the poor man. Crazed with grief.’

  This was the opening Jack had been waiting for. ‘Didn’t she have help though? A maid went with her?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Sarah, her name was. Sarah Duval.’ Mrs Bartlett nodded, and then sent Jack a sharp look. ‘Terrible things they accused her of, but I said it back then and I’m saying it again now: ’tis all lies. That one wouldn’t hurt a fly. She was as gentle as they come, a slip of a girl, not much older than your cousin Alethea is now, and delicate with it. Almost like a lady herself, but with no airs and graces, mind. Not like the hoity-toity madam what’s looking after my Lady Heston now.’

  She launched into a tirade over the uppity maid. ‘… thinks herself better than the rest of us, with her going on about how working in a fine house will throw her into the path of a gentleman who’ll marry her and buy her fine clothes. I’ve never heard such foolishness in my life, when everyone knows there’s them and there’s us, and, begging your pardon, Master Jack, but the two don’t mix and that’s all there is to it.’

  Mrs Bartlett placed the dough on a bread paddle and pushed it in the oven; then she wiped her hands on her apron and sat down opposite Jack with a mug of ale.

  ‘Only this morning she said something to Jane here’—she nodded in the direction of the kitchen maid—‘about her having similar prospects, and I said to her she had no business filling Jane’s head with silly ideas, and that nothing will come of it except trouble.’

  ‘Quite right, Bartlett,’ Jack said non-committally. He let her words wash over him. He wasn’t interested in the maid and her misguided opinions. Instead he wondered how he was going to get Mrs Bartlett back on the subject of Sarah Duval. Then he remembered the last line on the makeshift headstone out in the woods: Reunited with her mistress.

  ‘Was the first Lady Heston’s maid very fond of her mistress?’

  Mrs Bartlett nodded. ‘What? Oh, her. Yes. Loved her with a passion, did Sarah. It was always, “Lady Heston says this, Lady Heston did that,” like there was no one else on earth whose good opinion mattered to her. I always thought …’ The cook paused and looked over Jack’s shoulder with a wistful expression in her eyes. ‘I always thought if I’d ever had a daughter of me own that she’d be a lovely one such as sweet little Sarah, but it’s more likely any children of mine would have been like me sister’s brood. Brazen hussies the lot of them, leaving her to fend for herself in her old age. Sarah wouldn’t have abandoned anyone. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘So can you explain why she wasn’t with Lady Heston when the carriage was found?’

  Mrs Bartlett shook her head. ‘Never made much sense to me. She wouldn’t have left her ladyship’s side unless she had a very good reason. Perhaps someone scared the poor girl away. Or abducted her.’ She shuddered. ‘You hear such horrible things. Shouldn’t wonder at it if she was raped and murdered even.’

  ‘Perhaps Sarah feared that she would be blamed for Lady Heston’s death,’ Jack suggested.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Mrs Bartlett’s face was grim. ‘Though I dare say she’d have stayed to look after the babe. I’ve always thought, with that little ’un seemingly in such good health, that she must have succumbed because Sarah weren’t there to look after her. When they found the carriage, it was plain to see the wee scrap had been dead for some time.’

  Jack sat up straighter as a thought struck him. Maybe the maid wasn’t the clue to the mystery after all, but the baby. ‘Did you see the infant yourself when they brought Lady Heston back?’

  ‘Aye, all cold and purple-skinned she was, and sort of faded at the same time, if that makes any sense.’

  Jack felt a shiver run down his back and he raised his eyebrows. ‘Faded?’

  ‘The baby’s hair had sort of lost its colour, if you like, but with the death hue on her skin it was hard to tell. One dead baby looks much like another, I suppose, and it were dark, weren’t it, when mother and child were laid out the next evening. I remember having to send out for extra candles.’

  Frowning, Jack stared at Mrs Bartlett, not quite willing to believe where his thoughts were taking him. Was it possible that the maid had switched Lord Heston’s baby girl for another? And if so, why?

  Mrs Bartlett cleared the cups away, but her gaze never left Jack’s face. Narrowing her eyes suspiciously, she said, ‘I don’t see you often, my boy, and today you only see fit to plague me with burdensome questions. Why? Have you any news?’

  ‘I have reason to believe that Sarah Duval is dead.’

  ‘Well, and haven’t we thought so for a long time?’ Mrs Bartlett wiped away a tear with her apron. ‘Still, ’tis sad to have it confirmed. The poor, misguided girl. How came you by this news?’

  ‘She died a wife and mother,’ Jack said in the hope of easing Mrs Bartlett’s distress. ‘I’ve seen her grave and it seems she was well loved.’

  Mrs Bartlett found a cotton handkerchief in the pocket of her apron and blew her nose with a spectacular trumpeting sound. ‘A small blessing, I suppose. The girl made something of her life, then. A lesson for you two feckless girls,’ she said to the maids, but there was no venom in her sting.

  ‘It still pains me that people said such terrible things about her,’ she continued. ‘Especially his lordship. It were like he blamed her for everything, and, like it or not, I’ve never quite forgiven ’im for that.’

  The kitchen maid patted the cook on the back awkwardly, and Jack said, ‘Now, now, Bartlett, I’m sure you have. Why else would you still be here? And you know that if you should ever tire of the Heston household, Lampton would welcome you with open arms.’

  Having dried her eyes, Mrs Bartlett shook her head. ‘Oh, aye, and I’d be fighting over me own kitchen with that Frenchie cook of your father’s. No, thank you kindly. His lordship may not be the kindest of masters, but I’m perfectly content here and that’s not likely to change.’

  He left Mrs Bartlett before lunch. Retrieving his horse from the stable lad, Jack tossed the boy a coin, and then left the way he had come, avoiding the main thoroughfare to the house. It wasn’t exactly befitting his station in life to go visiting the servants and not their masters, and as he had learned what he needed from Mrs Bartlett, he saw no reason to speak to Lord Heston about the matter. If there was a connection between Cora and Lady Heston’s baby, however unlikely that was, he didn’t want to discuss it with Lord Heston until he knew more. It was an old family tragedy of which he was certain his neighbour didn’t need reminding, and besides, it had been difficult enough to find a pretext for raising the subject with Mrs Bartlett.

  Lord Heston was nobody’s fool either. Quite the contrary.

  Unfortunately, skirting the edges of the estate wheat fields, he chanced upon Lord Heston and Kit. Jack swore inwardly.

  ‘Halliford? What brings you here?’ asked Lord Heston as he reigned in his horse and raised his hat in greeting. ‘Has the earl given proper thought to my proposal about the north field?’

  Clearing his throat to reply, Jack nodded a greeting at Kit, but the boy kept his face lowered. Jack frowned, and then noticed the purplish bruise extending from Kit’s temple to his cheekbone, covering the eye, which looked fused shut from the swelling. He opened his mouth to make a joke about youthful fisticuffs, but then shut it again immediately. Kit was trying to hide his injury, and Jack suddenly understood. Lord Heston was known for his tyrannical nature, but Jack had always taken the rumours that the man was brutish towards his own family with a pinch of salt. Perha
ps the rumours were true.

  Overcome by sudden outrage, Jack wondered how he could help Kit without souring his family’s relationship with their closest neighbour. He couldn’t just stand aside while this young man was beaten by his own father. He’d have to think of something. He tightened his grip on the reins and replied carefully, ‘I believe my father is still considering the matter.’

  ‘Really?’ Lord Heston gave him an indolent smile. ‘I’m surprised he can afford to hold on to it.’

  ‘I’m sure my father knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Lord Heston. ‘I shall wait until he comes to a decision. Pray, Halliford, to what do I owe the honour of your visit, then?’

  The question was delivered lazily, as though the answer was of minor importance, but there was no mistaking the command behind it. Irritation prickled between Jack’s shoulder blades at Lord Heston’s presumption. The man had a way of getting under his skin.

  ‘I sought you out, Lord Heston,’ he replied coolly, ‘on account of a private matter which I thought would be of some interest to you. Finding you away from home, I decided to call upon Mrs Bartlett, with whom, as you know, I have been acquainted for a number of years.’ The words sounded stilted even to his own ears, but Jack couldn’t help it. He always had trouble being polite when speaking to Lord Heston.

  ‘And did you find her as expected?’ enquired Lord Heston.

  ‘I found Mrs Bartlett in excellent health, thank you.’

  ‘My staff have no cause for complaint.’ Lord Heston gave a bloodless smile. ‘A private matter, you said?’