A Bachelor Establishment Read online

  He paused for a moment, lost in old memories and then pulled his attention back to the moment.

  ‘There was, if you will excuse the expression, madam, the devil to pay. His lordship got him out of the country. Master Jack really wasn’t fit to be moved, but the magistrates had been informed, so he had no choice. It nearly killed Master Jack, but his lordship was adamant.’

  ‘But surely, Sir Matthew was the guilty party?’

  Porlock’s slightly wheezy voice continued expressionlessly.

  ‘Yes, madam. But Lady Reeth and Master Jack – well, they had been caught in a very compromising situation – very compromising indeed, ma’am, if you understand me. Not open to any misinterpretation, you could say. So Sir Matthew was the wronged man and Master Jack was bundled off abroad.’

  ‘And never came back?’

  ‘And never came back, ma’am.’ He moved around the room straightening ornaments unnecessarily. ‘Some eighteen months later, Sir Matthew’s wife was found in a similar situation with yet another gentleman, and there were expectations that old Lord Reeth would relent and recall Master Jack, especially when Sir Matthew and his wife left the district, but he remained adamant. He wouldn’t have him back. His lordship felt that Master Jack had disgraced the name of Ryde. He made him a small allowance on condition he remained out of the country.’

  ‘It seems an excessive punishment. At the time, Lord Ryde – the present Lord Ryde – must have been a very young man.’

  ‘That was the general feeling, ma’am. Perhaps even Master Jack expected – but it didn’t happen. His old lordship was very stubborn and Master Jack hardly less so. And by then, of course …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, by then Master George had left Oxford and come to live with you and Mr Bascombe and as you know, the old lord took one of his fancies to him. I’m not saying any word of blame against Master George, madam. Possibly, he was not old enough to consider what Master Jack’s feelings must have been. I’ve often thought it was a good job for his present lordship that his estates were entailed to the male line, otherwise who knows what might have happened.’

  His perambulations around the room brought him to the fireplace and he busied himself with building up the fire. Straightening, he sighed.

  ‘And if the old lord hadn’t been so fond of Master George then perhaps … well, we all remember That Night, so I won’t speak of it now. Bless my soul, madam, here’s Lady Elliott.’

  Back at Ryde House, Sir William Elliott stretched one booted foot towards a hastily kindled and somewhat inadequate fire, shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and reflected that any establishment was always the better for having a few females around. The brandy, however, was excellent, so much could be forgiven. Lord Ryde, obviously, had decided that since this morning visitor was inevitable, the ordeal could be somewhat lessened by a good brandy. He refocused to find himself under scrutiny.

  ‘I think I remember you, Sir William. You had that high-perch phaeton. Dark green. Whatever became of it?’

  Sir William peered back down the tunnel of time and smiled into the fire. ‘Smashed to pieces on the Rushford road. Along with my collar bone. Lord, I haven’t thought of that in years. Between m’father scolding fit to burst and m’mother weeping as if I’d been carried in on a hurdle, which actually I had been, you never heard such a racket.’

  He then remembered he was addressing Lord Ryde, whose early years had consisted almost entirely of just such rackets, cleared his throat and wished to God he’d told his wife to go to the dev – that is, that he had remembered a previous engagement as soon as she first mentioned the idea of sending her husband to pay a morning visit to Lord Ryde, and ascertain his intentions.

  ‘And I, Sir William,’ she had continued, inexorably, ‘will visit dear Elinor, just to give her a gentle hint that while this man is in the neighbourhood she would be very wise to remain within her own grounds, or if she must go abroad, to take the carriage.’

  Sir William, amused, privately wished his wife good luck with that particular suggestion. He had been less amused when his wife insisted he escort her own carriage that morning, as if she and every other lady had not been safely driving around the district for years. In fact, he thought to himself, happily accepting another glass of excellent brandy, you would be hard put to find a safer or more sedate neighbourhood in all of England.

  A slight cough recalled him to the present. The cause of this reluctant excursion was regarding him with so much quiet understanding in his eyes that Sir William quite warmed to him. He was not sure what he had been expecting; the Devil in disguise perhaps, but what he saw was a tall, loose-limbed man, whose somewhat harsh, deeply lined features and tired eyes made him look older than his actual age. Which must be around forty-three or forty-five, thought Sir William, doing a quick calculation in his head. His hair, although still plentiful, was heavily thatched with grey. His lordship’s years did not lie lightly upon him.

  Recalled thus to the purpose of his mission, he enquired politely as to his lordship’s immediate plans.

  They were as he had hoped. Lord Ryde had no plans to remain in Rushfordshire, or even in England. The estate was simply to provide the wherewithal for his next adventure. The only difference was that this time, his lordship planned to collect his own rents before disappearing again for foreign shores.

  ‘I don’t know why I had a sudden fancy to see the place again,’ he said. ‘But I did.’

  Sir William suspected his lordship’s financial circumstances had rendered this temporary retreat to his ancient home not only desirable but necessary.

  ‘You won’t be here for long then, my lord?’

  His lordship did not miss the hopeful note in his voice, smiled sardonically, and returned an evasive answer.

  ‘Far too quiet, surely,’ pursued Sir William digging himself in deeper. ‘Why, I can’t believe the last time we had any excitement around here. Not for years. Not since …’ he broke off suddenly as he realised where this sentence was leading him. The last excitement in this particularly quiet corner of this particularly quiet county had been the occurrences of That Night.

  Lord Ryde, noting Sir William’s confusion, took pity upon him.

  ‘Actually, sir, you are mistaken. Only this morning I had occasion to leap for my life. I have to say,’ he continued thoughtfully, ‘I had forgotten I could move that quickly. But move I did. It’s a miracle you see me sitting before you this afternoon.’

  Sir William, gratefully clutching at his straw, enquired how this came about and listened with growing amusement to his lordship’s only slightly embellished tale.

  ‘You laugh, Sir William, but I fancy I frightened the lady. In the heat of the moment, I informed her that if I were her husband, I would beat her. In an instant, I could see I had said something wrong. It was unintentional, but I fear the lady was alarmed.’

  Sir William regarded him steadily for a moment, then put down his wine. Subtly, the atmosphere in the room changed. The genial, slightly foolish country squire disappeared and what Lord Ryde suspected was the real Sir William took his place. ‘That would be Mrs Bascombe.’

  Lord Ryde nodded. ‘I believe so, yes.’

  ‘That is unfortunate indeed.’ He glanced sharply at his lordship. ‘I wouldn’t normally gossip, of course, and especially about Mrs Bascombe, a lady who has endured more than her share of misfortune, but it occurs to me that, indirectly, this particular tragedy involves your family, if not you yourself.’

  His lordship put down his own glass.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Mrs Bascombe … Elinor Bascombe was old Wilmot’s daughter. You remember him, I expect. All to pieces and selling off his daughters to the highest bidders. Mr Bascombe senior favoured the match. Ned was always rather wild, of course, but she had breeding and character and it was hoped, I think, that she would steady him. And I think she did, for a time. Certainly while Ned’s father was alive. He was very fond of her, quite doted on her in fact. Well
, all that changed after his death. Ned went to the devil just as fast as he could go – drinking, gambling, you name it. And he wasn’t an amiable drunk, either, if you take my meaning.’

  Lord Ryde silently cursed himself and nodded.

  ‘Ned went up to London, which brought her some relief, but of course, the temptations there were much greater. Mrs Bascombe remained at home, and being a woman of intelligence, did what she could to stem the haemorrhage of money. It was useless, of course. The more she found from the estate, the more he demanded of it. In ten short years, he ran through nearly everything. I think, although I’ve never asked, that she and their agent, Masters – a very sound man, I’m happy to say – were able to squirrel away some small amounts out of his reach. Small enough not to be noticed. Illegal of course, but who could blame them? Ned, I’m sure, suspected something of the kind and employed every means to discover the truth. It was around this time that Mrs Bascombe suffered a number of – falls – that frequently prevented her appearing in public. I’m proud to say Lady Elliott made a point of calling at Westfield at least once a week to see her. And sometimes, I went too.’

  He paused to pick up his brandy again.

  Lord Ryde felt slightly ashamed of his earlier impatience with his visitor. That this apparently unexceptional, kindly, and undoubtedly overworked family man and his wife had found time, every week, to drive to Westfield … he could imagine Sir William and Lady Elliott, quietly but firmly insisting on seeing Mrs Bascombe. And her husband reined-in only because he knew that at least once a week, he would have to present his wife …

  Sir William continued. ‘Well, Ned was going to hell in a handcart and we thought things were about as bad as they could be – and then his younger brother, George Bascombe, arrived.’

  His lordship’s attentive expression shut down. He reached for his brandy, saying languidly, ‘I cannot believe the appearance of Mr George Bascombe could possibly improve any situation, far less this one.’

  Sir William regarded him steadily. ‘Well, you have your own reasons for saying that, my lord. I won’t deny there’s good and bad in the boy – well, he’s a man now, I suppose. I don’t know the ins and outs, so I won’t comment, if you don’t mind.’

  His lordship inclined his head.

  ‘Things did get worse. Very much worse, as you know. Georgie summed up the situation at a glance and immediately appointed himself his sister-in-law’s protector. There were some dreadful scenes apparently, and, I’m ashamed to say, I was several times on the point of instructing Lady Elliott to cease her visits. It seemed to me that we were heading towards a tragedy. And I was right.’

  ‘Allow me to refill your glass.’

  ‘Thank you. Just a little, if I may. Well, there was a frightful scene one night. You know the night I mean. Creditors besieging the house. Ned desperate for money. Any money. Obtained anyhow. He started on Elinor, of course. George was out that day, shooting, I believe. He arrived back at Westfield to find his brother shaking Mrs Bascombe by her hair and that’s putting it rather mildly. Blood was running down her face. George stepped in and Ned, who was, if you remember, bigger than both of them put together, gave George the thundering good thrashing he thought he deserved.

  ‘Georgie, to his credit, picked himself up and rattled in again, calling to Elinor to lock herself in her room. The poor girl could barely stand, however. Ned picked up George and bodily slung him out of the house. The lad had no coat, no hat, was in his shirtsleeves, in fact. He tried to get back inside, and Ned, seizing a pistol from somewhere, first threatened him and then fired at him as he ran down the avenue. He would have hit him, too, at that range, but Mrs Bascombe threw herself at him and spoiled his aim.’

  ‘At some risk to herself, surely?’ murmured Lord Ryde.

  ‘Indeed, yes. George escaped into the darkness and Ned, blind with rage, turned his attention to the one person still within his reach. She probably owes her life to Porlock and her maid, Tiller, who bravely intervened and tried to get her away. Porlock was knocked down and Tiller had her arm broken. It never mended properly. And later that night, Mrs Bascombe lost the child she’d been carrying.’

  He stopped and drank his brandy.

  Lord Ryde stared at him. ‘Good God, this is appalling. Frightful is not the word to describe it. How did he escape the consequences?’

  ‘Well, again as you know, my lord, George fled to your father at Ryde House and we all know what happened next. The events at Ryde House rather overshadowed those at Westfield. However, old William Crosby, who was alive then, Sir Timothy Relton, Mr Osborne from Whittington, and I all visited Ned Bascombe together and gave him to understand that such behaviour would not be tolerated in this neighbourhood. He was, I think, more than a little frightened at his actions and for two or three years we had no trouble from him. Mrs Bascombe recovered – although not completely, I suspect, and they lived reasonably peacefully until he took a bad toss out hunting one day, and was brought home dead. No great loss.’

  ‘And after he visited Ryde House that night,’ said Lord Ryde carefully, ‘Mr George Bascombe was never heard of again.’

  Sir William returned the hard glare. ‘Not by me, my lord. Nor anyone else that I know.’

  ‘What of Mrs Bascombe? If she and George were so close …?’

  ‘It was nearly twelve months before Mrs Bascombe was completely restored to health. And since then, her time – all her time – has been taken up with restoring and managing her husband’s estates. Considering what she was left with, my lord, her achievement has been remarkable. The first years were hard, but she got rid of all the useless short-term tenants milking the land for every penny. It’s taken a while, but she has finally pulled it all together and, I think, should Mr George Bascombe ever return, he will find himself in possession of a very snug little estate.’

  His lordship spoke harshly. ‘But he won’t return, will he? He won’t ever return. How can he after he murdered my father?’

  Chapter Two

  Back at Westfield, the ladies, having enjoyed a delightful luncheon, during which the conversation covered Miss Clara Elliott’s impending Season, the recalcitrance of tenants in general and the occupants of Northridge Farm in particular, the correct method of removing stains from silk, and a recipe for braised ham, were each wondering how to introduce the topic uppermost in both their minds – Lord Ryde.

  Eventually, a brief digression into a trifling accident by her second son, Gilbert, which had resulted in a sprained ankle, gave Lady Elliott the opportunity for which she had been waiting.

  Those who stigmatised Leonora, Lady Elliott, as a plump pigeon whose only interests lay in food and family, did her a grave disservice. True, as the devoted mother of an adventurous family, she was inclined to over-anxiety, but at heart, she was a sensible woman and very much aware of the way the world worked.

  ‘My dear,’ she said, casually, as Porlock helped her to a damson tartlet. ‘Oh, no, just one, I think, well, all right, possibly another, since they look so good, thank you, where was I? Yes. Elinor, my love, I have just a tiny thing to mention and I know you will not be alarmed and indeed, there is no need for you to … although I do think that in future, just until he departs, which should be quite soon for I don’t know what on earth could bring him here in the first place, but just until he does, Elinor, I do think you should, perhaps, curtail your excursions, just until – not that I wish to alarm you in any way, and let’s face it, he must be forty-five if he’s a day and his lifestyle cannot have been conducive to good health, can it? I mean, he can probably barely walk these days. Gout, you know, like old Sir Timothy, poor soul, and they do say that an intemperate lifestyle can disorder the intellect which must be true, because when I remember Sir William’s late father … I mean, he may not even be responsible for his actions, so you see, my love, it’s best for you to remain quietly at home for the next few weeks.’

  Fortunately, Lady Elliott was an old friend, and having met Lord Ryde only that morning
, Mrs Bascombe was able to disentangle this with ease. Watching Porlock smilingly present her ladyship with a third tartlet, she waited until her friend had taken a bite and then casually remarked, ‘Oh, if you mean Lord Ryde, I’m very sorry to have to mention this, Leonora, but I met Lord Ryde this morning, when I tried to kill him. I suspect that in future, Lord Ryde will be remaining indoors to avoid me. So you need have no worries at all,’ she concluded brightly, conveniently forgetting the sickening feelings she had experienced as his lordship had appeared, albeit fleetingly, directly beneath her horse’s hooves.

  Lady Elliott choked on a stray crumb. Porlock retreated to the sideboard from where he could unobtrusively observe events.

  ‘Well, not deliberately tried to kill him, of course,’ continued Mrs Bascombe, rather too quickly. ‘I took a hedge and there he was, right under Rufus’s hooves. Although not for long. And you don’t have to worry about gout. He seemed quite spry to me.’

  Lady Elliott regarded her friend in speechless shock.

  ‘Anyway, he pulled himself out of the ditch, cursed me soundly, and stamped off home,’ said Mrs Bascombe, abbreviating the morning’s events out of consideration for her friend. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he packed his bags and is gone again by this time tomorrow. With luck, never to return. Shall we have some tea? Oh, thank you, Porlock.’

  Lady Elliott was never speechless for long.

  ‘But my dear …? Elinor …?’

  Mrs Bascombe toyed briefly with the idea of changing the subject, just to tease her friend, but relented.

  ‘It really is all right, Leonora. His lordship and I parted on such terms as to preclude any possible future contact. And even if it were not so, how could I possibly pursue any acquaintanceship with the son of the man my husband’s brother is accused of murdering?’

  Lady Elliott paused to work this out and then plunged back into the conversation.