‘She was rather lovely, though,’ recalled Maitland, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes in reminiscence. ‘I can remember when she was about to make her come-out—her first drawing-room appearance, I believe, and Uncle Roger had invited us all to see her in her finery before they left. She looked like a princess in a fairytale—with her beautifully powdered hair, that white-and-silver crinoline and all those diamonds—I swear I fell in love with her on the spot!’
‘You were only six years old,’ his mother laughingly reminded him, ‘but it’s true, she was an exceedingly lovely girl. Unfortunately, she knew it and was terribly flirtatious, too. It’s always been my belief that Étienne never really stood a chance after he set eyes on her, poor man. I am convinced that their elopement must have been Melly’s idea—he wasn’t at all the sort of young man to suggest such a thing.’
‘He was only a miserable tutor,’ said Fenton scornfully. ‘Hardly top-drawer and not a penny to his name—his cuffs were always frayed, as I recall.’
He viewed his own pristine cuffs with pride and flicked a non-existent fleck from his coat sleeve.
‘No, Jeremy, you’re quite wrong there,’ said Mrs Maitland, shaking her head. ‘He came from a most aristocratic family. They had fled the Terrors, of course, and he was forced to make his own way in the world. I always found him to be a perfect gentleman and I was very surprised to learn that he had abandoned Melly.’
Jeremy Fenton leaned forwards impatiently.
‘Let’s get back to that,’ he said. ‘Uncle Roger presumably answered her cry for help?’
His mother nodded. ‘He went off into the wilds of Warwickshire somewhere,’ she explained. ‘Jane had persuaded him to fetch Melandra home—whatever situation he found her to be in—but he returned two days later and told us all that she was dead.’
She paused momentarily, her brow wrinkling in pensive remembrance of the stark, angry expression on her brother’s face as he had curtly informed his shocked family of their niece’s death. ‘He made no mention of a child, however, nor do I recall the whereabouts of his destination. He always refused to speak of it.’
‘His own recollection was merely that the building itself was reached by a long driveway with lime trees on either side,’ offered Hornsey, once more perusing his papers. ‘And, also he believed that the hotel he stayed in was a coaching inn in the market town of Dunchurch—I understand that this town is situated on the London Road, somewhere in the vicinity of Coventry.’
Maitland digested this information.
‘She must have been buried, you know,’ he observed. ‘There will be parish registers. It should not be too difficult to discover her last resting place—she had a most unusual name, remember. There can’t be many Melandra Billinghams recorded as having died in—when was it—1795, I suppose?’
‘You really intend to seek out this bastard, then?’ Fenton, rising, eyed Maitland curiously. ‘Said you weren’t interested in Billingham’s fortune—changed your tune now you know how much there is to gain, eh?’
Maitland also rose to his feet, facing his cousin squarely. The two were of equal height, but Maitland had the weight, his shoulders and limbs needing no tailor’s assistance to fill out his coats and trousers and his clear grey eyes were unspoiled by the reckless dissipation that marred the older man’s.
‘I shall do you the service of ignoring that remark, Jerry,’ he said carefully. ‘I gave Uncle Roger my promise and I intend to do my best to find out what became of Melandra’s child. If you wish to join me you will, of course, be welcome—but I advise you to keep such opinions to yourself, otherwise I may well forget that you are my kinsman!’
Jeremy Fenton’s handsome face flushed slightly as, with a self-conscious laugh, he lowered his eyes.
‘No offence, Will,’ he stammered. ‘Of course I shall accompany you—I bow to your military efficiency—I should hardly know where to begin! When are we to set off on this quest, may I ask? I shall require several days to settle certain—matters—and my man Pringle will need time to see to my wardrobe…’
Maitland burst out laughing and gave his cousin a friendly clap on the shoulder.
‘I don’t intend to drag about the countryside with carriage-loads of your finery, Jerry!’ he chuckled. ‘We can’t leave until after the funeral, of course, but then I mean to take off first thing and ride for Dunchurch—it can’t be more than sixty miles away. If you want to accompany me, you’ll need to keep your baggage to a minimum!’
‘You surely don’t expect me to travel all that way on horseback!’
The Honourable Jeremy was visibly horrified at the idea. Out of necessity he had learned to be a fairly competent rider, in as much as the daily canter in Hyde Park was concerned—for one had to be seen, of course—but the prospect of being in the saddle for several hours at a time appealed to him not in the slightest degree. His expensive riding coats and breeches were cut more for display than practicality and he shuddered to imagine what damage would be done to his new top-boots if he were to subject them to the rigours of country-lane mudbaths. Also, he had to have his man to help him into his jackets and see to his linen! He was no fool, however, and quickly realised that if there were to be any hope at all of maintaining his chosen way of life, he was going to have to make some sort of push to get hold of his share of old Billingham’s money as soon as possible. Recurring visions of the likely alternative helped him to make up his mind.
‘I’m not the cavalryman you are, coz,’ he said, in explanation for his outburst. ‘I’ll have to follow you up in my chaise—I’ll get Pringle to scrabble a few things together and we shan’t be much behind you, you’ll see. Will you order the rooms?’
‘Good man!’ Maitland gladly gave his hand to this arrangement then, turning to the man of law who had been sitting silently listening to this interchange, he asked, ‘Is there nothing else which might be of use to us, Mr Hornsey? There must be hundreds of villages in that area—each with its own church and graveyard, I shouldn’t wonder. No clues to that, I suppose?’
‘You are welcome to copies of the papers,’ Hornsey offered. ‘I was most careful to take down everything in Mr Billingham’s exact words but, of course, the event occurred a great many years ago and his memory was failing. I believe I have furnished you with all the relevant information…’ His eyes scanned the sheets in front of him. ‘He did leave a considerable sum of money for the young lady’s funeral but he said that when the nun questioned him—’
‘Nun! Are you sure?’
Maitland pulled the paper towards him and ran his eyes quickly down the close, spidery handwriting, finally giving an exclamation of triumph when he found the information for which he was seeking.
‘Yes! Uncle Roger quite definitely said “nun”!’ He spun round eagerly to face his puzzled family. ‘Do you see what this means? It must have been a convent, or a priory—Roman, in any event—that will surely be easier to trace!’
‘The young man Étienne,’ said his mother, in growing realisation, ‘he would have been a Roman Catholic.’ She turned to Lady Fenton. ‘What was his name, Eleanor? I’ve been racking my brains trying to recall it.’
The older woman’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Dela”—no—” du” something—or “Des” something…..?’
‘Doubly!’ cried Fenton, in sudden excitement. ‘His name was “Doubly”. You remember, Will—we used to call him “Bubbly Doubly”—after we saw him sobbing away behind the church, that time?’
‘You may have called him that,’ said Maitland shortly, still intent upon scrutinising the lawyer’s scribbled testimony. ‘I remember him only as monsieur. Doubly doesn’t sound very French to me—more likely to have been “D’Arblay” or “de Blaise”.