Love and Money Page 5

  “Sir Richard himself will doubtless be glad to tell you all you wish to know.”

  The light eyes darkened, the rosebud mouth tightened, with malice, and Thomas saw that he had made an enemy.

  On their arrival at Bellomont Sir Richard, apparently roused from sleep, made a most courtly host. He showed consideration for Mistress Brownwood, concern for the captain; the finest apartments in the house were allotted to the lady, and a serving-man sent riding to Annotsfield for a surgeon for her husband. Sir Richard himself, with the aid of the trusted servant Simon whom Thomas had seen holding Rufus earlier that night, carried Captain Brownwood up to bed, stripped him and dressed his wound. His face when he left the wounded man was sober.

  “Will he recover, Sir Richard?” wept Mistress Brownwood. “Oh, say he will recover!”

  For some reason not clear to Thomas she had thrown herself on the ground at his uncle’s feet; to his disgust Sir Richard, assisting her to rise, seemed to find the touch of her smooth white arm, the excellent view which her posture afforded him of her well-rounded breasts, rather agreeable than otherwise.

  “Your husband is in danger, madam, it is useless to deny it,” he replied gravely. “But rest assured that everything possible will be done for him.”

  Mistress Brownwood, in a flood of tears, leaned heavily on Sir Richard’s arm and contrived to bury her head on his shoulder. Sir Richard’s hand strayed lightly over her golden tresses.

  “Weep not, my dear,” said he.

  “Oh, Sir Richard!” sobbed Mistress Brownwood.

  Notwithstanding all this solicitude and the ministrations of the surgeon, Captain Brownwood died the following evening.

  “A plague on it, Tom!” said Sir Richard to his nephew, pacing the room restlessly when the servant bringing this news had left them: “I had no thought of killing the man. He stumbled at his wife’s call. If only she had not cried out, poor woman, she had not now been left a widow.”

  “Exactly so,” said Thomas drily.

  “I must give her something in compensation,” continued Sir Richard.

  “You will not have benefited much from the robbery, when all is done,” said Thomas as before.

  “Take not that tone with me, Thomas,” said Sir Richard sharply.

  “Uncle Richard,” said Thomas, gazing at him very earnestly: “Though I shall anger you, I must beseech you to beware of this woman. I have not been to London or seen the court, like you, but yet I know an honest woman when I see one.”

  “Dost thou indeed?” said Sir Richard, laughing somewhat bitterly: “If so thou’rt clearer-sighted than most men, nephew.”

  “Mistress Joanna is as honest as the day.”

  “Not honest now, I fear,” said Sir Richard lightly.

  “She cares for your good more than for her own.”

  “Well, well,” said Sir Richard with impatience.

  “But Mistress Brownwood would sell her grandmother for a couple of gold pieces.”

  “Thou mayst be right, Tom,” said Sir Richard with a smile. “But Joanna, though a good little girl enough, is a simple weaver’s daughter and no beauty, while Mistress Rosamond—’’

  He laughed and kissed his fingers with a flourish.

  “I have no doubt she knows all the tricks of her trade,” said Thomas sourly.

  “Well, it is true, I am somewhat too susceptible to women, Tom,” said his uncle, laughing. “The beams from their bright eyes melt my heart, and when they weep, my resolution is washed away by their tears. Heark’ee—thou thyself shalt find out for me what present moneys Mistress Brownwood needs. Shalt ask her in a few days’ time, when the first violence of her grief has died down. Do this for me, Tom.”

  “Very well, uncle,” said Thomas, sighing.

  5

  “To be blunt, madam,” said Thomas to Mistress Brownwood: “You cannot remain here any longer.”

  Captain Brownwood had been dead and buried five days, but his widow showed no signs of removing from Bellomont. In a slashed gown of cream satin, rather dirty (but her skin showed all the whiter for that), she sat listening to Thomas with a frown on her forehead, tapping the finger which bore the false ruby angrily on the arm of Sir Richard’s handsomest chair.

  “Why not?” said she sharply.

  “Mistress Joanna,”— began Thomas, rather at a loss. “That strumpet!” said Rosamond.

  Thomas was angered and for a moment could not command himself to speak.

  “Listen to me, Master Thomas Bellomont,” began Mistress Brownwood in a clear cold tone: “If you think I do not know it was you and your uncle who robbed the trained bands of their pay money, you are wrong. Do you suppose your uncle could be concealed behind a vizard? For yourself, a plain country lad without much of note about you, it might be possible; but as to Sir Richard, with his handsome person and his grace of movement and his commanding voice, I should know him in any disguise. Besides, I sank my teeth in the robber’s wrist as he plucked out the bag of gold, and the marks are still to be seen on your uncle’s hand.”

  Thomas was silent, appalled.

  “Tell me; why did Sir Richard take only one of the bags? There were three in the box,” continued the woman curiously. “Nay, tell me, Thomas! Do not be afraid. I shall keep your secret—as long as I am here.”

  At this moment Sir Richard entered the room.

  “Uncle Richard,” said Thomas steadily, turning to him: “Mistress Brownwood here believes you to have been the robber of the coach. She will be silent as to this belief only so long as she is allowed to remain at Bellomont.”

  Sir Richard frowned.

  “Why did you bring the boy into this matter, Rosamond?” he said. “Have we not settled it between us?”

  Rosamond rose and flung herself into his arms. “He vexed me so, talking of my quitting Bellomont!” she cried. “He does not know how much I love you, Richard—I could not bear to leave you now.”

  Thomas perceived very clearly whither his uncle’s over-susceptibility to women had led him.

  “Then I will leave Bellomont,” he said in a cold even tone.

  He exchanged a glance with his uncle above the florid yellow curls which were spread over Sir Richard’s chest.

  “Aye—it will be best, Tom,” said Sir Richard, laughing a little. “But do not be troubled, lad—thine inheritance is safe. There will be no marriages.”

  Thomas lowered his eyes so that his uncle should not read the mingled shame and contempt in them, and left the house.

  6

  For the next few years Thomas saw nothing of his uncle or of Bellomont, but lived very soberly on his small estate at Mesburgh.

  So soberly indeed did he live that his widowed mother’s exhortations quite changed their tune. Whereas before his visit to Bellomont she had been wont to warn him against gaming, drinking and running after women, now that he showed no inclination towards these matters she scolded him for being old before his time, lacking in a young man’s spirit and taking no interest in girls. Indeed she continually urged him towards marriage, and was active in searching out suitable young cousins, though how she would like it if he really made a young wife mistress of the house, Thomas sometimes wondered rather grimly. She was eager to advise her son in a worldly fashion, telling him that he could not expect a great marriage in his present condition, but that so-and-so, some daughter like herself of a younger son, was of good birth and though not an heiress would have quite a useful jointure. To these urgings Thomas returned a temporising answer; would it not be better, he said with an air of shrewdness, to wait a little while? To see what befell his uncle? His mother’s lined, anxious face cleared at once; she perfectly understood that Thomas Bellomont of Bellomont Hall, owner of the manors of Whitland, South Crosley, Melton, Leptham and Annotsfield, would be able to make a much greater marriage than simple Tom Bellomont of little Mesburgh, whose revenues were not in very good condition in any case owing to the errors of her husband—a well-meaning but gloomy, obstinate, ill-advised and ai
ling man with whom she had had a hard life; the Lord be praised that Tom was so much kinder and warmer. Such an excellent son was dear Tom!

  Indeed this was true; since Tom’s visit to Bellomont he had become a man, no longer feared his mother and was therefore able to treat her small foibles with indulgent kindness. His mother was an honest woman, thought Thomas, a faithful wife, a loving mother, the careful mistress of a decent if narrow household. After his visit to Bellomont he set much stock on these qualities and treated his mother with the respect due to their possessor.

  Four years after his visit to Bellomont, exactly on his twenty-first birthday, Thomas was summoned into his little courtyard by his mother’s toothless old maid Martha, who had been his nurse. She was cackling and beaming with glee, and well she might be, thought Thomas when he came to the door, for there stood his uncle’s serving-man Simon, holding by the bridle a really magnificent roan mare, most handsomely caparisoned, a birthday gift from Sir Richard. Thomas’s joy was very keen; for once he forgot the sober demeanour he affected; he sprang on the mare and rode her round the paddock, dismounted, patted her neck and examined her every point, discussing each very seriously with Simon. He had made himself into a much better rider during the last four years, and was not averse to letting Simon see this. Busy with himself and the mare, it was not till she was safely in the modest stable, taking a feed of oats, that he gave Simon more than a passing look. He was perplexed and made uneasy by what he saw. The old man, four years ago so spruce and capable, had now a bent and shabby look. His livery was creased, his collar dirty; his nose red, his grey hair untidy; his air discouraged. He saw Thomas’s look of surprise and wagged his head in an embarrassed fashion.

  “How goes it at Bellomont then, Simon?” asked Thomas.

  “Ah, we have fine goings-on there, fine goings-on indeed,” said Simon mournfully. “Nowt but gleek all night and half the day.”

  “Gleek?”

  “ ’Tis a game of cards. And Mistress Brownwood——”

  “Oh? She is still at Bellomont?”

  “Aye, she and her brat. She encourages him to play. Now Mistress Joanna always tried to keep him from it. But this one plays herself, and having nothing of her own, of course she comes on Sir Richard to pay her debts.”

  “And Sir John Resmond—does he come often to Bellomont?” enquired Thomas drily.

  “A sight too often for my liking,” replied the old man. “Why do you not come to see your uncle, Master Thomas?”

  “How would he receive me?”

  The old man paused. “He sent you the mare,” he said in a grumbling tone.

  Accordingly next day Thomas rode back with Simon to Bellomont.

  It was just on dusk when they reached the house. No lights were visible in the windows as they approached. Thomas wished to see his new mare stabled himself, and went round with Simon to the courtyard. Here there were lanterns and talk, for though none of Sir Richard’s grooms seemed to be about, a couple of men in the Resmond livery were saddling three horses. In reply to Thomas’s question one of the men told him civilly enough that Sir John Resmond had been a-visiting Sir Richard and was just leaving. The man then fell to admiring Thomas’s fine mare. For a moment or two this seemed natural enough to Thomas, but then the fellow’s transports struck him as a trifle excessive, and the way they were renewed when Thomas made to leave showed that their aim was to detain him. He turned at once to the stable door.

  “There’s no need to hurry,” cried one of the Resmond men. “Black Dick’s out paying his debts.”

  “Of whom do you speak?” said Thomas stiffly.

  “Master Thomas here is Sir Richard’s nephew,” mumbled Simon.

  “Oh! Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure,” said the man. “I intended no wrong. Black Dick’s just a name, like, we give to your uncle, because of his black hair.”

  The other Resmond man turned away to hide a snigger.

  “His hair and his deeds,” he muttered.

  “Simon, where are my uncle’s serving-men?” demanded Thomas haughtily.

  “They’re sleeping it off, sir,” put in the sniggering man of the Resmond pair.

  “Sleeping what off?”

  “Last night’s entertainment, sir,” said the man. “Oh, there was hot work here last night, I warrant you.”

  His insolent air, old Simon’s silence and embarrassed look, told Thomas that the man only spoke the truth. He quitted the stable abruptly and entered the house by a side door.

  Here all was quiet and dark save for a distant sibilant hiss which Thomas presently defined as voices whispering. He made his way towards the sound, quietly opening a door here and there as he passed. One room held all too clear traces of last night’s “entertainment”; cards thrown down on the table face upwards, glasses overturned, a heavy smell of wine, a chair lying sideways on the floor. Thomas frowned and passed on. A dim light now appeared to shine feebly from his left; he turned a corner, and saw Sir John Resmond and Mistress Brownwood sitting together in a little closet under the stairs, a small table and a single candle between them.. Gold pieces lay on the table; it seemed as if they were striking some bargain of which the terms did not as yet satisfy the lady, for her left hand was stretched towards Sir John palm upwards, and on her face was a more impudent smile, a more naked look of greed, than Thomas could have thought possible.

  “He bribes her to make uncle Richard play cards, so that he may get his land,” thought Thomas in a flash.

  He stepped forward into the circle of light, bowed very low, smiled very coldly and said: “Madam! Sir John!” in a very stiff voice.

  He was pleased to see that they were startled. Mistress Brownwood5 s huge sleeves rustled sharply—she was wearing a fortune of good new carnation satin on her back, Thomas saw with anger, and the jewels in her rings were real enough now—while Sir John gave his thumb-nails an emphatic flip.

  “Ah! Sir Richard’s heir!” said he in his bland drawl.

  It was an utterance neatly contrived to vex both his hearers—Thomas by suggesting that he had come to Bellomont only from interest in his inheritance, and Mistress Brownwood by reminding her that she was not Sir Richard’s wife. Sir John Resmond’s utterances were usually contrived to vex someone, decided Thomas, and he kept his smile fixed on his face so as to conceal his vexation as far as he might.

  “You are unfortunate in the time of your visit; your uncle has but just gone out,” said Sir John smoothly.

  “He has ridden to Annotsfield and God knows when he will come back,” said the lady.

  “I will await his return,” said Thomas, smiling harder than before.

  A look passed between Sir John and Mistress Brownwood, then the lady rose, shook out her skirts, put on a smile as hard as Thomas’s own, and said with an attempt at gracious-ness:

  “But you are very welcome, Thomas. I will call the servants and bid them see to your comfort.”

  “There is no need—Simon will attend me,” said Thomas calmly.

  This was extremely rude on his part and he knew it, for it denied her position as mistress of the house. The pale blue eyes gleamed with malice as she stepped past him and called for Simon—in a loud nagging tone which Thomas felt was often heard in Bellomont nowadays. Simon, who had followed Thomas into the house, came up slowly and received her instructions with a good deal of bowing and nodding which cloaked, Thomas thought, a real indifference —the state of the house, which everywhere had a look of dust and tarnish, showed that Rosamond had not the gift of commanding genuine obedience in those who waited on her.

  “Simon,” said Thomas when the old servant had led him

  to the bedchamber he had occupied before: “Where is——”

  He stumbled, then brought out in a rush: “the little Isabella?”

  “Isabella?” exclaimed the old man. “Why, she is here.”

  “I wish to see her,” said Thomas stolidly.

  Simon appeared astonished, but wagging his head and muttering to himself as if in con
tempt of the inexplicable whims of the gentry, he nevertheless led the way to the room where Thomas had seen Joanna and her child before. A cradle lay in front of the fire; a plump slatternly maid rocked it with one foot, doubtless in the attempt to hush the thin wail which rose from its occupant.

  “But” began Thomas.

  “He wants to see the child,” said Simon. “Take her up.”

  The maid, with a pert smile up to Thomas, threw back some heavy dirty bedclothes from the cradle. To his horror a kind of steam seemed to rise from the child, which was a long thin pale infant lying slack and ailing and giving forth a persistent fretful mew.

  “But—” began Thomas again.

  “And what do you want with my daughter, Master Thomas?” cried Mistress Brownwood suddenly in his ear at the top of her voice.

  “Nothing, madam,” said Thomas, bowing. “There is some mistake. It was the little Isabella I sought to see.”

  “This is the only Isabella at Bellomont,” said Rosamond in a voice of triumph.

  “Why did you call your daughter Isabella, madam?” enquired Thomas. “It seems to me two Isabellas in one house might cause confusion.”

  The smile which spread over Rosamond’s face was so cruel and so triumphant that Thomas knew at once confusion was her aim. She meant her Isabella to blot out all remembrance in Sir Richard’s mind of the earlier Isabella, so that any benefits which might have accrued to his elder daughter should fall to the younger, her own. It was a clever trick.