An Impossible Confession (6 page)

Colonel Gregory Bourne, late of the Berkshire Regiment and now commander of the local militia, was bending by his telescope, watching the progress of some of his racehorses. He was tall and fair-haired, wearing a pine-green riding coat and buckskin breeches. His top hat, gloves, and riding crop lay on a nearby table, and he remained totally unaware of his wife’s entrance with her sister.

Margaret surveyed him fondly, winking at Helen before
speaking
to him. ‘Sirrah, where are your manners?’

‘Mm?’

‘Lexicon’s coming on reasonably, I suppose, but Musket appears to possess only three legs and doesn’t stand an earthly in the Maisemore.’

‘Eh?’ He straightened immediately, turning crossly to face her. ‘What was that you said?’

‘I said it’s a lovely day, made lovelier by the unexpected arrival of my only dear sister.’ Margaret smiled at him.

He blinked and then noticed Helen for the first time. ‘Helen! Where have you sprung from?’

‘Cheltenham,’ she replied dryly.

He grinned, crossing to embrace her. The only outward signs now of the dreadful injuries he’d sustained at Vimiero were his limp, the awkward set of his right arm, and the rather romantic white saber scar on his cheek. He hugged her warmly, kissing her cheek. ‘Welcome to Bourne End, Helen.’

‘Thank you, Gregory, it’s lovely to be here at last.’

He ushered her to one of the sofas, and then escorted Margaret to one of the chairs, standing behind her with one hand
protectively
on her shoulder. ‘Margaret, I trust you haven’t been doing anything too strenuous,’ he said, looking down anxiously into his wife’s green eyes.

‘I don’t think anyone could possibly describe flower arranging as strenuous, Gregory,’ she replied.

‘I know, but you’re quite capable of doing things the doctor has strictly forbidden.’

Helen was instantly alarmed. ‘The doctor? Surely you’re not ill, Margaret.’

‘No, I’m just in an, er, interesting condition.’

Helen stared at her, her face breaking into a delighted smile. ‘A baby? At last? Oh, I’m so pleased for you both.’

‘We’re quite pleased with ourselves,’ Gregory observed, ‘for we were beginning to think we’d remain childless.’

‘When is my niece or nephew due?’ asked Helen.

‘Oh, another seven months yet,’ replied Margaret, ‘it’s very early days, and I’m afraid I feel positively green in the mornings, but I’m assured that soon I’ll be glowing and disgustingly healthy.’

Gregory looked a little anxious. ‘I still say we should cancel the dinner party.’

‘I won’t hear of it!’

‘Then at least promise to forgo the Farrish House ball this year.’

‘I won’t hear of that, either, Gregory Bourne, I only feel ill in the mornings; apart from that I’m quite all right, and you
wouldn’t
really deny Helen her first two important social events, would you?’

‘Well….’

‘Shame on you, sir. I notice you don’t think I should avoid the four days of the race meeting.’

‘That’s different.’

‘You, sirrah, have a selective conscience.’

‘And you are too given to wrapping your waspish tongue around me,’ he grumbled, grinning.

‘You deserve it.’

Helen was impatient to know about the ball. ‘There’s to be a ball?’

‘Yes,’ said Margaret immediately, ‘at Farrish House in Windsor on the eve of the race meeting, in about two weeks’ time. It’s a masked ball, and everyone who’s anyone attends.’

‘And I will, too?’

‘Of course. I’m taking you to Windsor very shortly to choose a costume from a couturière there who specializes in such things. She’s promised to keep several costumes aside just for you.’

Gregory smiled. ‘All you have to remember, little sister, is that you wear the fancy dress to Farrish House, not to the Prince Regent’s dinner party.’

‘I think Miss Figgis taught me just about enough to get that right, thank you,’ responded Helen.

The Pekoe and sweet almond biscuits were brought, and as Helen accepted her cup, the conversation suddenly took a very different turn.

Gregory leaned forward to select a biscuit. ‘Tell me, Helen, at what on earth time did you leave Cheltenham this morning to reach here in the middle of the afternoon?’

‘An age ago, it seems,’ she replied vaguely.

‘It must have been.’ He didn’t pursue the point.

‘Helen tells me there are still highwaymen to be found
terrorizing
the king’s highway,’ said Margaret.

Gregory was immediately interested. ‘Not Lord Swag, by any chance?’

‘Why, yes,’ replied Helen. ‘You’ve obviously heard of him.’

‘He’s struck in the neighborhood of Windsor on two occasions recently. I hope you didn’t encounter him.’

‘No. I – I did have an alarming encounter of another sort, though. There was nearly a very nasty accident, and I might have been killed if someone’s quick thinking hadn’t saved me in the very nick of time.’

Margaret was alarmed. ‘Oh, Helen, what on earth happened?’

Helen hesitated, but she had to mention Adam at some point in the proceedings, and now was as good a time as any. ‘We’d stopped at an inn to, er, change the horses. A dog frightened the team of a stagecoach, and I was almost trampled, because I chose that of
all
moments to alight. Lord Drummond pulled me to safety in time.’

The room was suddenly so quiet, the proverbial pin could have been heard to drop. Helen looked quickly from Margaret to Gregory. Their faces were very still. ‘Have I said something wrong?’ she asked at last, knowing full well that she had.

Gregory put down his cup. ‘Are you referring to
Adam
Drummond?’ he asked stiffly.

‘Yes.’

Margaret drew a long breath. ‘Oh, no. Of all the men in England, it had to be him!’

Gregory looked at Helen. ‘I realize you have every reason to be grateful to him, and if he saved your life, then we’re grateful to him as well, but apart from that, I won’t have his name mentioned in this house.’

Helen was taken aback. ‘But….’

‘Have I made myself clear, Helen?’

She had to nod. ‘Yes. Perfectly clear.’

‘Good. And now, if you will both excuse me, I have much to do.’ Snatching up his hat, gloves, and riding crop, he walked out past his telescope to the veranda, his limp emphasized by his anger.

Stunned, Helen stared after him. Whatever she’d been
expecting
from a mention of Adam, it hadn’t been this. She’d never seen
Gregory so angry, He was usually so placid and amiable, but it seemed that she’d certainly found a way of touching him on a raw nerve. She looked askance at Margaret. ‘Will you explain all this to me?’

‘As I said earlier, it’s all best left, and now that you’ve seen how it affects Gregory, perhaps you’ll accept that I’m right. It nearly resulted in Gregory’s being unfairly banned from racing, and it
did
result in Adam’s withdrawing from the turf because he was shunned.’

As she’d said earlier? So, Adam’s
cause célèbre
and the ‘
behind-the
-scenes trouble’ were one and the same. Helen sat back. ‘Margaret you also said earlier that it was all ancient history, which it quite patently isn’t.’

‘Perhaps I was guilty of wishful thinking. Helen, Adam Drummond may be a paragon to you, but to us he’s a low,
dishonorable
blackguard who betrayed our friendship and brought Bourne End’s good name into disrepute. He’s anathema to us now, and no matter how high he may stand in your personal esteem, I expect you, while under our roof, to observe our wishes in this. Don’t mention him again.’ Margaret picked up the teapot, the expression on her face indicating that the subject was most
definitely
closed. ‘Some more tea?’ she asked.

Helen longed to press her for the full story; indeed, she
desperately
wanted to find out what had happened, but she knew that this wasn’t the time. With a sigh she nodded and held out her cup. ‘Yes. Thank you.’ 

H
elen rose early on her first morning at Bourne End, stepping out onto the balcony of her bedroom and gazing down at the park, which was bathed in spring sunshine. The rhododendrons seemed even more magnificent and colorful than the day before, and already the drumming of hooves signified activity in the stables. A string of racehorses, their jockeys riding short in the new American style, moved swiftly over the dewy grass, vanishing from sight among the trees.

As she stood there in her light blue robe, she wondered if this new day would bring any more information about what had
shattered
the friendship with Adam.

At dinner the night before, both Gregory and Margaret had been at pains to behave as if the awkwardness of earlier hadn’t happened. Indeed, they couldn’t have been warmer or more full of the exciting things they had planned for her first Season, but not by so much as a word did they mention Adam, or what he was supposed to have done. They had mentioned another gentleman, though, and very frequently. A certain Mr Ralph St John occupied a very special place in their esteem, and they seemed to be firmly of the opinion that he would soon occupy a similar place in Helen’s. He was spoken of with much approval, even his monumental gambling debts were blithely discounted, and Helen was informed that she’d soon make his highly desirable acquaintance, for he had been engaged to escort her to the dinner in a day or so’s time. But she wasn’t in the least bit interested in the wonderful Mr Ralph St John, her thoughts were all of Adam, Lord Drummond.

Today must surely prove more productive of information, for not only had Gregory already gone to the stables, which meant
that Margaret would be alone at breakfast, but Mary had been primed to find out all she could in the servants’ quarters.

She went back into her room, a handsome oval chamber with rich shell-pink Chinese silk on the walls. The bed was an elegant four-poster hung with ruched white muslin, and the chairs on either side of the marble fireplace were upholstered in rose velvet. The Axminster carpet had been specially woven in a floral design in pink, gold, and white, and the same design was picked out on the ceiling from which a crystal chandelier was suspended. Wardrobes were cunningly concealed in the walls, and their doors alternated with tall mirrors that made the room seem very light and airy.

She sat at the muslin-draped dressing table, and drew her
hairbrush
slowly through her hair as she waited for Mary to arrive.

At last there was a discreet knock at the door, and as the glass domed clock on the mantlepiece chimed nine, the maid came in. She looked very fresh and tidy in a gray gingham dress, white apron, and starched mob cap, and her dark hair was pinned up into a very precise knot. ‘Good morning, Miss Fairmead,’ she said, hurrying to take the brush and commence her morning duties.

‘Good morning, Mary. Are you comfortable in your new room?’

‘Oh, yes, miss. I’ve never had a room all to myself before, it’s very grand.’

‘Do you think you’ll like it here?’

‘Yes, miss.’

Looking at the maid’s reflection in the dressing table mirror, Helen detected a certain telling flush. ‘What’s his name, Mary Caldwell?’ she inquired in a teasing tone.

‘Miss?’

‘Don’t look all innocence, I can read you like a book. Who is he?’

Mary colored. ‘His name’s Peter, miss, and he’s the colonel’s under-coachman.’

‘And you’re smitten?’

‘A bit.’ Mary smiled at her in the mirror before going on with her brushing.

Helen closed her eyes as the soft crackling sound filled the room, but at last she opened them again to watch Mary. ‘Did you
find anything out for me?’

The brush hesitated. ‘Yes, Miss Fairmead.’

‘And?’

‘You won’t like it, miss.’

‘No, I don’t suppose I will, since everyone here seems to think Lord Drummond is the devil incarnate, but I still have to know.’

Mary didn’t really want to say what she’d been told about the seemingly dashing and gallant lord, but knew by the look in her mistress’s green eyes that she had to. ‘Well, miss, Peter told me that Lord Drummond and a gentleman named Mr Ralph St John were very good friends of Colonel and Mrs Bourne, often staying here. Mr St John still does stay here a great deal.’

Helen lowered her glance quickly. Adam had stayed here, in this very house?

‘Mr St John is so close a friend, miss, that Peter says he seems like one of the family.’

‘Yes, from what I was told at the dinner table last night, that’s quite true. I’m expected to like him very much indeed; neither Colonel nor Mrs Bourne think there’s any doubt that I will.’

‘He’s a racing man, miss, like the colonel, and like Lord Drummond was before last year, but he likes to wager on the horses, not own them.’

‘I hope you’re soon going to get around to telling me what happened last year,’ declared Helen with feeling, ‘because I think I shall scream if you don’t.’

Avoiding her eyes in the mirror, Mary went slowly on with her work, drawing the brush gently through the long honey-colored hair. ‘Last year one of the colonel’s best racehorses was one called Prince Agamemnon, and it was due to run in the Maisemore Stakes, with odds as short as possible, because it was reckoned a certainty to win. Then, a week before Royal Ascot, the horse ran unexpectedly at an unimportant race at another meeting. The colonel said it was because he wanted to keep it up to the highest pitch, and another race was needed. Well, it ran very badly indeed, and its jockey, a man called Sam Edney, said the horse was off color and wouldn’t win the Maisemore. This naturally meant that the odds for the Maisemore lengthened very much indeed, and so there was a great deal of whispering when the horse romped home
by a distance. The colonel’s honesty was called into question, for it was thought that he’d deliberately tampered with Prince Agamemnon to change the odds and thus make a great deal of money.

There was a Jockey Club inquiry, and while it was actually in progress the truth came out and the colonel’s name was cleared. Mr St John had happened to be in Windsor and he saw Sam Edney, Prince Agamemnon’s jockey, deep in conversation with Lord Drummond. Money changed hands and in a flash Mr St John
realized
that the racehorse had indeed been tampered with, and by whom. It seems that Lord Drummond had mysteriously come into quite a large sum of money at the time of Royal Ascot last year, and although he said it was an inheritance, Mr St John now knew it was definitely not, it was money obtained by arranging for Prince Agamemnon’s odds to lengthen. Naturally, Mr St John hurried here to Bourne End, where he knew the colonel and Mrs Bourne were very worried indeed about what might come from the Jockey Club inquiry. The colonel could have been forbidden from having anything more to do with racing, Miss Fairmead,’ explained the maid.

‘I realize that, Mary, please go on,’ replied Helen quietly, shocked by the story of trickery she was hearing.

‘The colonel sent for Sam Edney, pretending he wished to discuss a forthcoming race with him, but when the jockey arrived he was immediately faced with what Mr St John had seen. At first he denied everything, but at last admitted he’d conspired with Lord Drummond to lengthen Prince Agamemnon’s odds. The horse had simply been given a bucket of water before the minor race, it was as easy to do as that.’

‘Lord Drummond wouldn’t do such a thing, Mary,’ declared Helen firmly.

‘He didn’t deny it when accused, Miss Fairmead, and he did come into a great deal of extra money,’ pointed out the maid. ‘Naturally, the Jockey Club inquiry was told everything, but before Sam Edney could be barred from riding in this country, he vanished. It seems he went to America, where he’s doing very well for himself. Lord Drummond sold his own racehorses and withdrew from the turf, but he’d have been barred anyway for what he did.’

Helen gazed at the clutter on the dressing table. Adam’s words sounded clearly in her head.
My name was involved in an
unpleasant
cause célèbre
last summer, and the experience was enough to persuade me to withdraw. My presence at Royal Ascot this year will undoubtedly raise a great many eyebrows, and if it hadn’t been for my sister, I’d have stayed away, but she persuaded me that
nonattendance
would be construed in some quarters as proof of a guilty conscience
. But if he didn’t have a guilty conscience, why hadn’t he protested his innocence when accused?

Helen drew a long breath. ‘Please continue, Mary. What happened after that?’

‘Well, the colonel was anxious to put it all behind him. He felt that his reputation had already been damaged enough, and since the newspapers hadn’t printed anything, he thought it best to let the dust settle. He’s never forgiven Lord Drummond, though, for not only was his lordship guilty of behaving very dishonorably, he also acted without any thought of the colonel at all. Lord Drummond must have known that any wild differences in the horse’s running would inevitably lead to a Jockey Club inquiry for the colonel. It was a very low thing to do, miss.’

‘
If
he did it.’

‘But, Miss Fairmead, the evidence is all there,’ protested the maid.

‘I still don’t believe it of him.’

‘No, miss.’

‘Well, you saw him at the Cat and Fiddle, Mary, do you think he’d do all that?’

Mary said nothing, but the look on her face spoke volumes of her doubts.

Helen saw the maid’s expression and sighed inwardly. Maybe Mary was right to be so mistrusting, maybe it was the height of gullibility to have faith in him simply because his smiles and kisses had kindled a fire within her. She was a green girl, fresh from school and without experience of the world, so how could she expect to judge such a man? Maybe she couldn’t, but she had a very firm conviction that he was innocent. She trusted her instinct where he was concerned, and above all, she trusted her heart.

A little later, dressed in a lemon-and-white-striped lawn gown,
Helen went down to join her sister for breakfast. Her hair was dressed in a pretty knot, with ringlets falling to the nape of her neck, and the ribbons of her tiny white lace day bonnet were untied, fluttering as she moved.

Margaret was alone in the sunny peach-colored breakfast room, the French windows of which stood open toward the stables. The view was clear to the archway beneath the clocktower, and Gregory could be seen in the yard beyond, deep in conversation with his head groom. In the room the smell of coffee, warm bread, and bacon hung in the warm air, together with the sweet perfume of carnations from the bowl in the center of the white-clothed table. Margaret was reading the morning newspaper, and there was a silver coffee pot, a blue-and-gold porcelain cup and saucer, and a little jug of cream on the table immediately before her. She wore a coral seersucker wrap trimmed with many little frills, and her hair was brushed loose about her shoulders. She looked pale and fragile, and Helen didn’t need to be told she was suffering from the effects of morning sickness.

‘Good morning, Margaret, I won’t ask you how you feel.’

‘Am I that ghastly?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you.’ Margaret managed a smile. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Excellently, thank you. Would it be too much for you if I had some bacon?’

‘I’ve managed to watch Gregory devour kedgeree, and if I can do that, I can do anything.’

Helen helped herself from one of the silver-domed dishes on the sideboard, and then sat down as Margaret poured her a cup of coffee. Through the French windows came the sound of hooves, as several racehorses emerged from beneath the clocktower archway. Their jockeys gathered them, and then urged them away across the park. Helen watched them pass from sight. ‘Are Gregory’s horses all champing at the bit in readiness for the big day?’

‘Most of them are.’

‘But some aren’t?’

‘Perhaps I should say they all are, bar one. Musket’s giving cause for concern. After running like the wind for months, earning himself a very short price for the Maisemore, he’s suddenly losing
his edge. The last thing poor Gregory needs is another
well-fancied
horse suddenly losing form, especially for the Maisemore.’

‘After last year, you mean?’

Margaret lowered her cup. ‘From which remark I perceive you’ve been making it your business to find out all you can?’

‘In the absence of any explanation from you or Gregory, yes, I have. I’ve resorted to servants’ gossip.’

‘Is that what you’ve been taught over the past five years?’ inquired Margaret dryly.

‘No, Miss Figgis wouldn’t dream of such a thing. You’d better put it down to my prying nature.’

‘I already have. So, you now know all about the Prince Agamemnon affair?’

‘I know of it, yes.’

‘I trust that that means you now accept Adam Drummond’s guilt.’

‘It means that I now know what he’s supposed to have done,’ qualified Helen carefully.

‘
Supposed
to have done? My dear Helen, he didn’t deny it when confronted, and he suddenly acquired an “inheritance,” and Sam Edney’s evidence was conclusive. Of
course
he’s guilty; he’s a crimper of the meanest order.’

‘Crimper?’

‘Someone who deliberately meddles to affect the outcome of a race, or to rearrange the odds. That’s what your precious Adam Drummond is, sister mine, and it ill becomes you to question incontrovertible facts, when on your own admission you met him only briefly while your chaise team was changed. Oh, he saved your life, but I doubt if that took him more than a moment, since he’s such a valiant hero!’ Crossly, Margaret poured herself some more coffee.

‘I realize you’re angry with me….’ began Helen.

‘That’s putting it mildly.’

‘It’s just that….’

‘It’s just that you’ve gazed into his incredibly blue eyes and been swept off your foolish feet,’ interrupted Margaret again. ‘Oh, I grant you he’s very handsome, and that he could charm the birds down from the trees with one of his engaging smiles, but for all his
elegant and attractive exterior,
inside
he’s a toad of the first water.’