The Guinea Stamp (5 page)

The writing desk was situated away from the fireplace, on the wall adjacent to the glass doors: it would be no hardship to be sitting away from the fire, for the room was very warm. She crossed over, and made herself comfortable at the desk, drawing the materials for her task from their various pigeon holes.

She saw at once that the quill required mending, and searched for a penknife. Having found one, she began patiently to shape the nib.

It seemed very quiet in the room. The scraping of the knife and the gentle tick of a clock upon the mantel shelf were the only sounds to break the silence. Possibly that was why it was so easy for her to detect the faint noise of a footfall on the path outside the doors—or had she imagined the sound, after all?

She remained perfectly still for a moment, her long white fingers poised above the pen on which she was working.

No, she had not imagined it, for now there was another sound, an unmistakable thud, as of some heavy object falling to the ground. She started to her feet, her heart beating a shade faster than usual.

No doubt some young ladies might have called for the servants, gone into a fit of hysterics, or even swooned. Joanna Feniton had not been reared by her grandmother in this tradition.

She boldly approached the French windows. Then, in one swift movement, she drew aside the curtains, unfastened the door, and threw it open. A rush of cold, damp air swept into the cosy room.

“Who is there?” she demanded, in admirably level tones, stepping a little way out of the door.

Then she noticed the man who was just picking himself up from the ground. Evidently he had been walking close to the house, and in the dark had failed to notice the steps, stumbling over them.

Captain Jackson stood erect when she spoke and faced her. There seemed nothing else to do, but he cursed his luck inwardly. Everything seemed doomed to go awry on this contrary night. To make a run for it now would only bring the whole house about his ears. There was a faint hope that he might be able to fob off this young woman with some plausible story, if he stood his ground. He must think fast, though.

She surveyed him curiously in the light which escaped from the open door, and decided that she had never seen him before.

“I observe that you are not one of the servants,” she said, after a long scrutiny. “Who are you, and what do you want here?”

Her voice was clear and cold, the voice of one accustomed to asking questions, and to being supplied with satisfactory answers. No doubt under other circumstances, it could be a pleasant voice, and he noticed automatically that it would certainly carry well. This latter observation urged him to caution in his dealings with the lady.

“Beggin’ y’r pardon for disturbin’ ye, ma’am,” he began, in rich Devon tones, “but I do’ve lost my way in the dark, the servants’ entrance I be seekin’.”

“Indeed?” The temperature of the voice dropped a degree or two. “May I ask by what gate you entered the Manor?”

“Why, the back gate, ma’am. You see—”

“What I fail to see,” she interrupted, acidly, “is how you managed to arrive at this point, it you did indeed enter at the back gate. There is a well-defined path from there which leads straight through the orchard and kitchen gardens to the servants’ door.”

“‘Twas the dark, ma’am—can’t barely see a ’and afore ye. If ye’ll but ‘ave the goodness, ma’am, to direct me—beggin’ y’r pardon for the trouble, I’m sure I’ll be—”

“You are about to say, no doubt, that you would be vastly obliged to me if I should do so. The prospect of giving so much pleasure tempts me, I must confess, but I shall contrive to resist it. In short, my man, I find your story singularly unconvincing. So, I am certain, will Sir George.”

The man came a step nearer, then checked as he saw her fall back a little.

“I swear to you, ma’am, that I mean no harm here,” he said, in a low, earnest voice. “I came but to seek work, if I can find it—I’m an honest man, not such as you need be afeared on—”

Miss Feniton studied him again. His face, though tanned and healthy, did not seem to accord with his manner of speech. There was intelligence, almost sensitivity, in the features: but his voice was rough, his words those of the slow-thinking yokel. She was intrigued: here might be matter for passing an otherwise dull hour.

“Very well. Before handing you over to the owner of the house, I myself will hear what you have to say. However, it is too cold out here for conversation. We will go indoors.”

She gestured towards the open window. The man stood still, obviously waiting for her to precede him into the room. She shook her head, smiling ironically.

“Oh, no! On this occasion, you will go first—and no tricks, mind! I may be only a female, but I am not entirely without resources, as you may find to your cost if you should attempt anything rash.”

He shook his head wordlessly, and walked slowly up the steps, and into the room. She stood aside so that he might enter. His mind was racing furiously. Here was the devil of a tangle, and no mistake! What tale could he possibly tell that would prevent this girl from handing him over to Sir George Lodge, whom he knew to be a magistrate? Nothing sentimental would serve, that much was evident: she was by far too calm and collected a young woman to be taken in by any hard luck story. She seemed to have a devilish dry sense of humour, though. Could he perchance make any capital of that?

She followed him into the room, taking up a stance by the writing desk.

“Close the door,” she ordered, sharply.

He turned to obey. The thought crossed his mind that now he might perhaps make a run for it, slamming the door shut against her. There would be a short interval before she could summon aid, during which he might possibly win clear of the Manor grounds. The recollection of the mysterious shot outside “The Waterman” gave him pause, however. He could not afford to be the quarry of two sets of hunters in so small an area. Besides, he had other reasons for wishing to avoid a hue and cry here.

He closed the windows, and pulled the curtains into place, as she had bidden him. Then he turned to face his captor.

He saw a slender young lady in a dress of white muslin, fashioned in the prevailing classical style, with high waist and flowing skirt. Her black hair was dressed
a
la
Psyche
, in a tapering cone bound with pink ribbons; a cluster of loose ringlets fell to the nape of her neck. In the glitter of the candlelight, her hair showed unexpected auburn tints. He thought that her eyes were her finest features, hazel, deep and luminous. At present, their expression was cold and withdrawn.

“So you came here to seek work?” she asked him, in a tone of amused incredulity. “Do you generally interview prospective employers after dark?”

This was a tricky question, and he feared that it was only the beginning. From her expression, she was evidently shrewd and intelligent. He would have need, he thought wryly, of all that spontaneity for which he was noted.

“I’ve but just arrived in the parish, ma’am,” he protested. “‘Twas impossible to come here earlier.”

She nodded, considering him with a calculating eye. “From the sea, I should imagine, judging by your dress,” she said. “Are you a fisherman?”

“I have been, ma’am.” He kept his face expressionless.

She surveyed him again for a moment, a slow smile playing about her mouth.

“I have always understood that a man, once trained to the sea, cannot give it up. It would seem that you are an exception, then?”

He broke off as she drew a quick breath, her eyes widening in horror. Automatically, he followed the direction of her gaze: it was fixed upon his left hand. Then he noticed that blood was oozing from the graze on his arm, soaking into the sleeve of his jersey, and running down his fingers in slow drips on to the carpet.

“Why—you are injured!”

He shrugged. “It is nothing—a scratch.”

He rolled back his sleeve, revealing a forearm smeared in blood. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and tried to cleanse the stain.

“You must have that seen to,” she said, in a firm voice. “I will ring—”

“No!”

He dropped the handkerchief, and strode towards her, grabbing her wrist with his right, uninjured arm. Her chin went up, and her eyes narrowed. Now their expression was as hard as flint.

“Release me at once!”

He shook his head. “Only if you undertake not to ring that bell.”

“I shall do no such thing! Your attitude makes evident what I suspected from the first—that you have been telling me a pack of lies. Unhand me at once, I say!”

“Let me explain,” he pleaded, relaxing his grip a little. “There are reasons—urgent reasons—why I must be seen by no one at present. I swear that I mean you no harm—”

“I observe,” she said, disdainfully, “that your hand is still upon my arm.”

“I beg your pardon.”

He released her, and stood back a little, poised for instant action, should she decide to make any move to betray him.

There was a moment’s pause, while each weighed the other.

“Take this,” she said, at last, handing him a flimsy scarf of pink muslin which hung over the chair on which she had been sitting. “Bind up that wound.”

He hesitated, shrugged, then took the scarf and made a clumsy attempt to deal with the bandaging. She watched his efforts for a moment without speaking, then moved towards him.

“Here, let me do it.”

She wound the scarf about his arm with deft fingers. Then she stooped and picked up the fallen handkerchief.

“I believe that may suffice to stay the flow. It is, as you say, only a surface graze. Perhaps you had best attempt to cleanse your arm with this, since you will not allow me to procure a basin of water for your use.”

“Thank you,” he said, gravely, taking the handkerchief from her outstretched hand.

He made some attempt to wipe the blood from the arm, but gave it up at last, and pulled his sleeve down over the bandage. Then he stooped, trying to remove the bloodstains from the carpet with the aid of the handkerchief. She stopped him with a gesture.

“That is useless. I myself will attend to it later.” He gave her a curious look.

“Allow me to say that your coolness has my admiration, madam. I notice that you do not faint at the sight of blood.”

“I have not the trick of fainting,” she replied, contemptuously. “But I am waiting: you may remember that you promised me an explanation of all this.”

He took a pace or two about the room without speaking. At his first movement, she surreptitiously lifted the penknife from the table, and held it in her hand against the skirt of her gown, so that it was partly concealed by the folds of cloth.

Suddenly, he stood still, and swung round upon her. He found himself confronted by the weapon, held menacingly in a steady, white hand. He lifted an eyebrow, and laughed softly.

“So you believe in taking precautions? Well, I don’t blame you for that. For all you can tell, you could be in danger of your life.”

He paused, to study the effect of his words. The firm line of her chin did not alter, her expression was still one of cold disdain. He gave a little crooked smile:
“You must allow me to say that you are a remarkable young lady, Miss Lodge.”

The fine brows drew together, and the hazel eyes were shrewd.

“So you know my name?”

“I know that Sir George Lodge is the owner of Teignton Manor; I imagine that you must be his daughter? You could not be his wife!”

She ignored this remark. “Imagination is an invaluable possession. You seem to be particularly gifted in that respect.”

“Then I am wrong—you are not Miss Lodge?”

“I did not say so. Furthermore, I cannot conceive how my identity can possibly concern you.”

“No.” He shrugged, ruefully. “No, of course not.”

“I am still waiting,” she said, pointedly, “for that explanation.”

He hesitated a second or two longer.

“You shall have it.” He spoke impetuously. “I believe I can trust you.”

“I am honoured.” She inclined her head ironically. “Do you know I was labouring under a total misapprehension? I had the notion—you will laugh at it, I feel sure—that I was the one who was showing a certain amount of trust in you?”

“Yes, you are,” he agreed, cordially. “Why is that, I wonder?”

She appraised him thoughtfully, her expression still cold and disdainful.

“You see,” she answered, with a frosty smile, “I like oddities. And—you must forgive my plain speaking—I find you most odd.”

“Your speaking is the only plain thing about you, Miss Lodge—if you will permit me to say so. But tell me, why do you find me odd?”

“I do not like flattery at any time,” she replied coldly. “From one in your position, it is ludicrous. You might say that was one of many things which I find odd about you.”

He grimaced. “The compliment was sincerely meant. If I have offended, I ask pardon. What are the other things?”

She sat down upon the chair which stood by the writing desk. He noticed that she placed the penknife close by her hand upon the open leaf of the desk.