‘That was well done and a good investment. You are showing signs of acumen, Tom, but I don’t want to destroy that by handing you money on a plate. As I told Harry, far better you work for your money and then you will appreciate it the more.’ David carried his coffee over to the table and sat down in the ornate chair at its head. Briefly Tom wondered whose house this was. Some rich Methodist friend, no doubt. David could never afford the rent even if he could have brought himself to part with the money. He scowled and turned away to pour himself some coffee before sitting down at the far end of the table from his brother. ‘There is a reason I need to buy myself out,’ he said. ‘I want to get married and we are being posted overseas. I could not bear to be parted from her for even a moment, never mind for months.’
If he hoped such an appeal would soften David’s heart he was disappointed. His brother sat up and studied his face. ‘Who is this lucky lady?’ He barely kept his sarcasm out of his voice.
‘Her name is Frances Moore. She is the daughter of the Member of Parliament for Great Marlow.’
‘And her father approves of the match?’
Tom looked down at his hands, clasped on the table. ‘I haven’t asked him yet.’
‘I see. And this young lady is the possessor of a considerable fortune I take it?’
Tom looked startled. He remembered now the remarks Mrs Moore had made to him. It had not occurred to him that his brother would be as interested in the couple’s potential income as her mother was. The matter of money was, it appeared, a matter of great importance when marriage was being discussed. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Then I suggest you make it your business to find out. If she’s an heiress, you needn’t worry.’
David made it clear the topic was closed, but as his brother stood up and bade him farewell, he put down his coffee cup and added: ‘One thing, Tom. Don’t forget that you’re not yet twenty-one. As a minor, you cannot get married without my permission as head of the family.’
Tom stopped in his tracks. ‘But you would give it if Frances turned out to be an heiress?’
David folded his arms as he considered the matter, his head on one side. ‘That would depend. If she were that much of an heiress I might decide to marry her myself.’
His brother’s laughter followed him down the front steps and along the street.
Thomas
My senses were overwhelmed by that, my first experience of love, and perhaps also by the noise and lights and crowds of London. I enjoyed walking the smart streets, looking in the shops and dreaming of the gifts I would buy for Fanny when I had the money – jewellery and silks and pretty ornaments – and for myself I enjoyed trawling the shops of Little Britain, that area between Smithfield and Aldersgate, where the booksellers and stationers and printers abounded, and of course I enjoyed the coffee houses where I found friends and gossip and talk of politics and of war. The latter interested me particularly, given that I was in the army and I didn’t fancy getting killed – though, like most young men my age, it didn’t occur to me that this was a real possibility.
It was an exciting time but, even though overwhelmed with thoughts of love, I was finally realising that all was not well with my planned courtship. David’s reaction had stunned me. He had refused me any kind of financial help and that last quip had shot home with unpleasant accuracy. I had always admired my eldest brother, but also been nervous of him. He was eight years my senior and had treated me with alternate absent-minded fondness as though I were some small pet animal, and with contempt. And yet I fawned on him, I wrote him endless letters, I craved his approval. And I was, I now realised, since the death of our father, totally in his power. Until I came of age I was his to command.
Luckily a healthy sense of rebellion began to rise in me within seconds of walking out of his door and I upbraided myself for not demanding whatever payment had been made to him by the St James’s Chronicle in which he had, without my permission, published my letter describing the lightning strike four years before. The very memory of it made my arm burn and I found myself rubbing the scar as I made my way down the street. I had known nothing of the article until Anne had shown it to me. She had clipped it from the paper and proudly stored it in her desk. My next thought, thoroughly rebellious in perfect harmony with the age, was that I was not prepared to wait on his pleasure for permission to marry. Somehow I would sidestep that technicality. The permission of Frances’s father was a far more pressing problem. Her parents had shown no inclination whatsoever to accept my tentative approaches. I was a man without fortune. Compared to that, my aristocratic blood was of no importance; my lack of money was enough reason to slam the door in my face.
By the time I reached the far corner of the street I had begun to work out a shocking and daring plan which filled me with excitement. The question was, would Frances agree to it.
34
Finlay’s agent Max had given them the address. ‘I couldn’t tell you without asking him first,’ he told Finlay, ‘but he’s happy to see you.’
Leaving the Old Mill House to the tender care of Fin’s cleaning lady for the morning, they left early for the hour’s drive south into the lowland hills. Making their way up a long winding drive, they parked and they sat staring at the building in front of them. ‘It’s a bloody castle!’ Finlay said. They looked at each other and smiled.
‘Come on.’ Ruth climbed out first. The garden appeared to be no more than an area of roughly mown grass holding back the surrounding woods and the only car in sight was an ancient mud-splashed four-by-four. The house was turreted, yes, and tall; it seemed to have about five storeys but it was comparatively small. A flight of steps led up to the front door which opened as they headed towards it. A man appeared to greet them. He was dressed in shabby jeans with a checked shirt beneath a lovat green sweater and two springer spaniels raced past him to meet them. He appeared at first glance to be between forty and fifty years old, of wiry build and looked anything but the stereotype of a mystic.
‘No shawls,’ Finlay whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
Ruth frowned at him but she knew what he meant. The man looked more like a TV gardening expert than a psychic. She went up the steps first and held out her hand. ‘Mr Douglas?’
‘Mal, please.’ He was of middle height with springy grey hair and hazel eyes. Shaking hands with them both he led the way inside. A small vestibule, littered with boots and walking sticks, led to a spiral stone staircase up which they followed him, the dogs scampering ahead.
‘What a wonderful building!’ Ruth exclaimed as they arrived in the first-floor sitting room. The windows were narrow but they looked out on all four sides of a room that was lined with books. A fire burned in the huge fireplace and the whole place smelled of apple smoke.
‘Please, make yourselves at home.’ Malcolm Douglas took the low chair by the fire for himself and the two dogs immediately lay down at his feet. ‘This is what they call a tower house. Fifteenth century. It belonged to my late mother’s family. Now,’ he leaned forward, ‘I gather from Max that you have need of spiritual disinfection.’
For a moment neither Ruth nor Finlay spoke.
Malcolm laughed. ‘Sorry! Too abrupt. It’s one of my faults. Shall I start by telling you a bit about myself?’ He looked from one to the other and took their continued silence as acquiescence. ‘I was for years pretty much self-taught at this stuff. From my childhood I had a certain facility which had always fascinated me and I read up on it. It became a hobby and then an obsession. Then I decided I wanted to meet other people who could talk about the same things and I began to go on courses. All helpful and interesting, but I was put off by the money side of things. If people need to earn a living that’s fair enough, but it’s very easy to start to improvise, and then the temptation is to form groups which have a tendency to become cultish. I didn’t like that side of it so I moved on, kept quiet and only confided in the occasional friend. Max is one of those. He has been my agent for quite a few years now
– in my other life, as he probably told you, I’m an author. As for my interest in spiritual matters, he thinks I’m completely dotty, but he keeps me in mind if ever he hears of people who have a house that needs a bit of attention. I don’t charge. I don’t give guarantees. I come over, I look round, do a bit of feely stuff and perhaps chat to the intruder. That generally does the trick. Oh, and I ask people to keep my involvement confidential.’ He felt in his pocket, extricated a biscuit, broke it in half and gave a piece to each of the dogs. ‘Questions?’
‘What are the dogs’ names?’ Ruth knew that wasn’t what he meant.
‘Castor and Pollux. The heavenly twins. Cas and Pol to their friends. But, I really meant questions about the way I go about things. Supposing you tell me the nature of the problem.’ Malcolm sat back and crossed his legs comfortably. He was younger than she had first thought. Early forties, perhaps, rather than fifties. A log shifted in the fireplace sending up a shower of sparks.
Ruth glanced at Finlay. ‘It’s a long story,’ she said. ‘But if you don’t mind, I’ll start right at the beginning.’
Malcolm leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, concentrating on Ruth as she told her tale, moving only once to throw another log onto the embers as the fire burned low. When at last she fell silent he thought for a few moments longer then he looked up. ‘Fascinating,’ he said.
Both dogs sat up and looked at him expectantly. He raised his hand and they lay down again, resigned. ‘I have heard of your friend Harriet. She is a competent biographer. Her involvement adds a certain piquancy to this whole scenario.’ He looked gleefully boyish. ‘But for now we’ll concentrate on you. If I have understood you correctly, there are many layers to this problem as well as many generations. You want to know if your Thomas Erskine is “real”.’ He emphasised the last word. ‘And, you want to be rid of this lustful uninvited drop-in. At the same time, you want to assure me that you don’t believe in any of it.’
Ruth looked down, abashed. ‘That’s about it.’
He smiled again. ‘An interesting conundrum. Do you think they might be connected in some way, Thomas and the drop-in?’
She hesitated long enough for him to nod. ‘I sense you do. Fascinating. Getting rid of a random passer-by should be relatively easy, but if he’s involved with the story of your ancestors he may be harder to dislodge.’
Ruth grimaced. ‘And I gather garlic was never going to work?’ Her tone was self-mocking.
‘On the contrary, it’s a lot better than nothing. Fortune’s book is a good primer for this sort of enterprise.’ Malcolm was thoughtful. ‘I’m fascinated by the way this all fits together. What an extraordinary tale.’
‘So, will you come to the Old Mill House?’ It was the first time Finlay had spoken.
‘Try and stop me!’ Malcolm said gravely. ‘I sense – and yes, I do mean that as a technical term – that there are huge complications in this story. When can I come?’
‘Now? This afternoon? Tomorrow?’ Ruth glanced at Finlay.
‘Why not tomorrow?’ Finlay put in. ‘I am out all day and that will give you plenty of time on your own. I take it you don’t need me there?’ He gave Malcolm a self-deprecating smile, his head on one side.
Malcolm narrowed his eyes, catlike. ‘No, Mr Macdermott, I don’t need you. Your aura is as clean as a whistle, and your thoughts are pure as the driven snow.’
Finlay let out a guffaw of laughter. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘I’ll arrive about ten tomorrow morning.’ Malcolm turned back to Ruth. ‘Don’t worry about it. Don’t expect claps of thunder and flashes of lightning. In fact, don’t expect too much. We may achieve nothing at first. This will be an exploratory visit, nothing more. The only thing I can promise you is that you have found someone to confide in.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Erskine, she’s not coming.’ It was Abi, at last. He had been waiting for hours, or so it seemed. He felt his spirits plummet. ‘Why?’
Abi looked away uncomfortably as though seeking inspiration from the trees. ‘She gave me a note, sir.’ She held it out to him. ‘Mrs Moore is going down to Marlow today, and she is taking the girls with her, sir. I’m sorry.’
And she was gone, running away from him towards the gates of the square.
I’m so sorry, Tom. Mama won’t tell me what is wrong but she has received a letter about you. Whoever wrote it seems to have known we’ve been meeting. Besides that, it told her something about your time in the West Indies which made her very angry. I have been forbidden to see you ever again, my dearest. F
It had been scribbled in haste and badly folded. He could almost feel her despair and anger coming off the paper. He ran a few steps after Abi but she was long gone. David? Would David do anything so unkind as to write to her parents? Surely not.
It was then he saw him, standing watching in full view some fifty yards away. It was Andrew Farquhar. Smartly dressed, his hands resting lightly on his cane, his hair combed and tied into a neat queue under his hat, he was smiling, not the smile of a friend, but a smile of utter triumph. He wanted to be recognised. When he saw Thomas had seen him he gave a small malicious bow and turned away.
Thomas stood utterly still. Why hadn’t he guessed? His suspicions that someone had been watching him had been correct. How could he have been so careless and so stupid as not to pay attention to his instincts? He could guess what Andrew had done. He had followed Frances home. He had found out who she was and he had written to her parents.
So, what had he told the Moores?
Too dejected to think clearly he walked around the streets for hours, nursing his hurt and disappointment, wearing her miniature on a ribbon next to his heart. Then at last he began to formulate a plan. He had to speak to Frances. He had to know what the letter said. Whatever it was it could not be that bad. She already knew he had no money. She had said she didn’t care. She had implied that she would be happy to be a soldier’s wife. They must have forced her to write that note; they would have had to drag her away to the country. But he would follow. It would be easy to find Mr Moore’s house in Marlow then somehow he would find a way to speak to her.
One of Lady Huntingdon’s grooms procured a horse for him and he was on his way the next morning. It was good to be in the saddle again and out of the fug of the London streets. There was no hurry, he kept reminding himself. When he arrived he would have to make contact with Abi and arrange a safe meeting place. He doubted if Andrew would be following him but, even so, from time to time he found himself turning to survey the road behind him.
It was a strong horse, a rangy roan cob, and they made good time towards Marlow through the beauties of the Thames Valley. He put himself and the horse up in the Bell, a coaching inn in a village only a couple of miles or so from Marlow, and the first person he asked knew exactly where their MP lived.
The Moores’ house was well cared for and there was smoke coming from the chimneys. Servants appeared from time to time but there was no sign of Abi or any of the ladies. Worried, he waylaid the boy he had seen several times coming and going on errands to the town and was pleased to find him quite prepared to deliver a covert letter to Abi for sixpence.
Excited at the thought of a secret assignation, she was quite willing to continue her role as go-between. ‘Miss Frances has been beside herself,’ she informed him. ‘She was so angry and upset when her mother told her we were coming back early, we all thought she would work herself into the megrims. Mrs Moore threatened to lock her in her room.’
‘But she hasn’t?’ Thomas was horrified.
‘No, of course not.’ Abi seemed shocked. ‘She threatens her with what will happen when Mr Moore joins them. He’s remaining in London until the House rises.’
‘Will you tell Frances I’m here. See if she can find a way to meet me. Please.’ Thomas caught her hand. ‘I’m lost without her.’
Abi was enchanted by the whole situation. ‘I’ll see she meets you. Leave it with me.’
It t
ook two days. Thomas walked up and down the towpath endlessly, wishing he had his paints with him, watching the birds and the river barges, relieved that he had the money from his army pay to put himself up in comfort at the inn until finally the message came.
He watched as Frances approached, his heart thudding frantically. She was dressed in a pale-blue day dress with a matching bonnet and holding a parasol to shield her face. Abi was walking a few demure steps behind her, carrying a basket, the perfect lady’s maid.
‘Abi must stay,’ were her first words. She glanced over her shoulder anxiously. ‘Mama has forbidden me to go out alone.’
‘Of course Abi must stay.’ He caught her hand. ‘My darling, I know your parents received a letter about me. But what did it say?’
‘Papa received the letter.’ She looked down suddenly, embarrassed. ‘He wouldn’t tell me what was in it, but Mama did.’ She took a deep breath and drew him a few yards along the path out of Abi’s hearing. ‘It told him you had a’ – she glanced round unhappily – ‘a disease.’
Thomas stared at her incredulously. This was beyond anything of which he could have imagined Andrew capable.
‘No. That’s a lie!’ He tried to calm himself. ‘Listen, my darling, I know who sent that letter. I saw him loitering near Charles Street. He was with me on the Tartar. He was my enemy then and seems to be my enemy still. I bore witness at a hearing on the ship, as a result of which he was flogged and demoted. Clearly, he hasn’t forgiven me. He means to have his revenge by spoiling our happiness.’
‘So you’re not ill?’
‘No, my darling, I’m not ill. I was, briefly, when we were based in Barbados. My lieutenant and I suspected someone had put some infected rags in my sea chest deliberately. We both guessed it was him but there was no proof. Lieutenant Murray took me ashore to see a doctor and I was completely cured. I swear, I would never put you in danger. That’s an outrageous slur.’