‘Ah, you know about that, then?’
‘That much, yes. As I understand it, Remenham House devolves upon Melusine, in default of her mother, the actual heir.’
‘Melusine, did you say?’ Mrs Sindlesham sighed. ‘That would have grieved Jarvis. He wanted her named Mary. Of course Nicholas was bound to give her a French name.’
Gerald smiled. ‘I assure you it suits her as Mary would not. She is extremely lovely, but for her to have borne the name of the Blessed Virgin would have been nothing short of sacrilege.’
For the first time since she had heard the news, Mrs Sindlesham’s features relaxed and a tiny smile appeared. ‘Would it so? What sort of a girl is she, then?’
‘She’s a consummate devil,’ Gerald declared roundly. ‘But with more courage in her little finger than in many another female’s entire body. She’s naïve, and yet uncannily shrewd at times, and you daren’t rely on anything she says. She’s as stubborn as the proverbial mule, and—’ with a sigh that felt wrenched out of him ‘—utterly captivating.’
Mrs Sindlesham shook with laughter. ‘What a catalogue.’ She gestured at his hand, on which Roding’s makeshift bandage had been replaced by a more efficient one. ‘Dare I suppose that to be of her making?’
Gerald flushed. ‘Yes, but quite my own fault.’
‘Was it?’ Her lips twitched. ‘I take it that you like this great-niece of mine?’
‘One cannot help but do so.’ A reluctant laugh escaped him. ‘She gave me four separate identities for herself, you must know, including Prudence, before I managed to get at her real name.’
‘Ah, that explains your surprise. I may say she does not sound in the least like Mary,’ said Mrs Sindlesham bluntly. ‘Mary was indeed naïve, but there I should say the similarity ends. She was a merry creature, it is true, and quite beautiful. But a biddable girl.’ She drew a heavy breath. ‘Else she would not have married that ne’er-do-well only because Jarvis proposed him to her.’
She sagged a little suddenly, as if the painful memories in her mind had exhausted her body. Gerald instantly took her arm and guided her back to her chair. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion.
‘Poor Mary had no idea about the elopement Nicholas had undertaken,’ she told Gerald. ‘He had run away with a Frenchwoman, you see, but Everett Charvill—I refer to the general—took care to conceal the matter. Though, to be fair, he did not know of it until after the wedding. It would have been very well if she had been some common creature who might have been bought off. But this was a vicomte’s sister. How much Mary knew is a mystery. I suspect she knew something, for she came home to Remenham House when she was increasing, and report has it that she was very unhappy. Certainly, we—that is Jarvis and I—knew nothing of it until after Mary’s death.’ She stopped, her lips tightening.
‘What happened, ma’am?’ enquired Gerald gently.
The old lady’s face was stiff with anger. ‘The wretch said nothing to anyone. He left Remenham House immediately after his wife died, giving birth to their daughter. His absence was thought by the charitable to be from grief. He returned to attend the funeral. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief. Immediately after it, he was off again, and that, let me tell you, was the last anyone saw of him.’
‘What?’ gasped Gerald, shocked. ‘But he must have—’
‘Nicholas Charvill never did anything he must do,’ Mrs Sindlesham said evenly. ‘He lacked moral fibre, did Nicholas. Later Lord Charvill told Jarvis that it had been precisely the same at the outset. Nicholas had not dared to tell his father about the Valade girl. So he obeyed Everett and married Mary, and kept the woman as his mistress.’
‘Did no one know, then?’
‘No, for the vicomte, we learned later, wrote to General Lord Charvill in pursuit of his sister. Too late, alas, to stop the disastrous marriage. Naturally it all came out then. The general did what he might to hush it up, and paid handsomely to manage it, I daresay. What he told the vicomte I was not privileged to learn.’
‘How was it then that Nicholas Charvill was known to have gone to France. And with his daughter?’
‘He wrote to Jarvis from an inn in France, saying that he had married Mademoiselle Valade, and that his baby naturally belonged with her father. Until that moment, Jarvis had imagined the child to be safe in the wet-nurse’s cottage.’ Mrs Sindlesham sighed deeply. ‘I think that was what began his downfall. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. But he...simply lost all hope.’
She was silent for a space, and it was evident that this part of the story was still too painful to be recalled with ease. But it was of vital importance to Melusine, and Gerald felt he must pursue it.
‘Forgive me, Mrs Sindlesham, but do you tell me this inheritance that Melusine has fought so hard to recover is completely wasted?’
The old lady gave him a sharp look. ‘That is what she wants, is it?’
‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly. ‘The poor girl was thrust into a convent to become a nun. How she learned of her heritage I do not know, but you need not imagine that it is greed that drives her.’
‘Well, don’t bite my head off,’ protested Mrs Sindlesham, clearly amused. ‘I am far from imagining anything of the kind. I know nothing about the girl, save what you have told me.’
Gerald shrugged. ‘I know her, ma’am, but I know next to nothing of her story. She will not confide in me. But she has let fall enough for me to understand that she knows about her father’s misdeeds.’ He grinned. ‘Her purpose, if you will believe me, is to get herself a dowry so that she may marry an Englishman.’
Mrs Sindlesham laughed lightly, but her eyes quizzed him. ‘Does she need a dowry for that?’
‘Melusine believes so, and that is what counts.’
‘Melusine,’ repeated the old lady. ‘It is pretty. But it does not sound as if the girl that wears the name resembles either of her parents.’
Gerald frowned. ‘You don’t believe her?’
‘My dear Major Alderley, I do not know her,’ Mrs Sindlesham pointed out. ‘Bring her to me and we shall see.’
For a moment Gerald said nothing at all. His gaze remained steady on the old dame’s face, as he thought about it.
‘Is it worth it?’ he asked at last. ‘Assuming she can prove her identity, does Remenham House belong to her?’
Mrs Sindlesham shifted her shoulders. ‘That is a matter for the lawyers. Jarvis did not leave a will.’
‘What?’ Appalled, Gerald could only gaze at her. In the circles into which he had been born, the passing on of land was of vital importance. To die intestate was unforgiveably irresponsible.
‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. ‘Unheard of, ain’t it? To tell the truth, I half expected him to leave everything to one of his doxies.’ She grimaced. ‘They lived with him, one after the other, for all the world as his wife. My son went down after his death. To settle things, you know. He said the place had gone to wrack. The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Gerald put in with an irrepresssible chuckle. ‘Melusine was making herself mistress of them when we met.’
Mrs Sindlesham’s mouth dropped open. ‘She’s wearing a lightskirt’s clothing?’
‘Nothing obviously so, I assure you. A riding-habit is all I have seen.’
