THE CHAMBERS OF LAWYER GEORGE SPINDLER,
TRURO, CORNWALL
George Spindler studied the letter before him, a deep frown of irritation creasing his brows. After a moment’s thought he reached across and pressed a button on the desk and heard the bell ring in the clerks’ office. Within moments a man entered the room.
His chief clerk, Amos Johnson was in his mid-forties; slight of figure and with an angular face. His dark eyes had the alertness of high intelligence. Amos was astute and George Spindler would trust him with anything.
‘Johnson,’ Spindler said irritably. ‘I have had another letter from that abominable woman Henrietta Swindale; the third in as many weeks. She is again demanding news of the heir to the Cragge estates. Do we have any news?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ Johnson said apologetically. ‘The man I sent to Nettlefield learned nothing. The villagers there are a reticent lot.’
‘It won’t do, Johnson,’ Spindler said. ‘More effort must be made to trace this Celia Clarkeson or her offspring.’
‘I’m surprised Mrs Swindale is so keen to have news of the heir,’ Johnson said.
‘The news Mrs Swindale craves is that there is no living heir,’ Spindler said flatly. ‘She’ll not let the matter rest until something is unearthed.’
He glanced down at the letter again. ‘She write from an address in London,’ he said. ‘Obviously the family are doing the Season. At least she cannot badger me here for another month or two. I want the matter settled before the families return to Truro.’
‘I’ll send another man...’ his chief clerk began.
'No, I want you to go yourself, Johnson,’ Spindler said firmly. ‘Get over to Nettlefield. Put up at the inn there. Spend a day or two – a week. See if you can get the trust of the villagers.’
‘Nettlefield is a small, quiet backwater, sir,’ Johnson said. ‘The villagers know everything there is to know of each other, in and out of each other’s pockets, so to speak, but when a stranger starts asking questions they clam up.’ He shook his head. ‘It’ll be a deuce of a job to loosen tongues, sir.’
‘Well, what is to be done?’
‘I think we must offer some incentive, sir, in a quite considerable way. Money talks and encourages talk.’
‘Hmmm! You may be right,’ Spindler agreed. ‘And the Cragge estate can stand the cost.’
‘There is another thing, sir,’ Johnson said. ‘The newspapers.’
‘What?’
‘We must advertise, sir, for information about this Celia Clarkeson and offer a reward. A good many years have passed, and life must go on. There maybe someone who has something to tell of her outside the village. She is certainly not in Nettlefield, at least...’
‘What?’
‘If Celia Clarkeson is in Nettlefield she is using another name.’
‘Why on earth would she?’
‘The scandal, sir,’ Johnson said. ‘A young unwed girl in the family way. That must have caused quite a furore in Nettlefield in those days. Folks, country folks, have long memories even if they are good at keeping secrets. She may be in hiding.’
'After thirty-seven years?’ Spindler was incredulous. ‘I think you’re stretching things, Johnson. Still...’
He glanced at the letter again.
‘Offering a reward for information is a good idea,’ Spindler agreed. ‘Get something written up, you know what’s needed. Get it out to provincial newspapers first. If nothing comes of it we will advertise nation-wide.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The chief clerk was about to withdraw.
‘Oh and Johnson,’ Spindler continued. ‘I think you should get an early train to Nettlefield straight after lunch.’
‘As you will, sir.’ He smiled wryly. ‘It’s a good thing I have no wife to complain, sir.’
‘Yes,’ Spindler agreed. ‘You’re a lucky man!’
GROSVENOR SQUARE, LONDON
Esther was in the morning-room writing to her father. She missed him greatly. It was a lovely morning and she imagined what she would be doing at this time back home; probably sitting under the apple tree reading.
Esther sighed and then applied herself to her letter. At that moment Phoebe entered the room looking glum. She flopped onto the window seat, staring out on to the square below and then sighed deeply, too, and then another sigh.
Esther looked up from her letter.
‘Is something amiss, Phoebe? You seem to be in low spirits.’
‘London is a great disappointment to me,’ Phoebe declared dolefully. ‘So far we have had no afternoon visitors and no invitations by post. I might as well be at home.’
‘This is only our second morning here,’ Esther said. ‘We have not had time to make acquaintances. The Maxworthy girls arrive soon. I’m sure they will cheer you up.’
‘Huh!’ Phoebe tossed her head. ‘Norah and Dorothy are not new acquaintances. I had expected so much more.’
‘The London Season will last another two months,’ Esther said. ‘You are too impatient.’
The door opened and Mrs Peacock entered. ‘Mrs Topping has arrived,’ she announced. ‘This will be the last time she will call here. After today we must attend her at her workrooms.’
‘I am sick of Mrs Topping,’ Phoebe announced. ‘She prattles on so about her titled clientele. I am certain she looks down on us.’
‘Don’t be absurd, Phoebe,’ her mother scolded. ‘She is being well paid. Our money – I mean Mr Martindale’s money is as good as anyone’s.’
‘Phoebe is out of sorts this morning,’ Esther explained gently. ‘She is a trifle bored with London.’
‘Nonsense!’ Mrs Peacock exclaimed. ‘Thursday next week will see your presentation. Mrs Topping is already working on your presentation dresses; white silk and satin. When we visit the workrooms tomorrow morning I am sure she will have the gowns well in advance.’
‘All is tomorrow, tomorrow, never today!’ Phoebe exclaimed crossly.
‘As soon as Mrs Topping leaves this morning,’ Mrs Peacock said. ‘We will visit Bond Street and shop for white gloves and white silk stoles to go with your presentation gowns, and we must choose some materials for the ball gowns I have ordered for you both.’
Phoebe jumped off the window seat. ‘Oh! Mama. That is so much better. I am stifled indoors.’
‘I have engaged a carriage and pair,’ Mrs Peacock went on. ‘And a groom to attend us. We will depart for Bond Street as soon as the dressmaker is gone.’
‘Oh, Esther,’ Phoebe crooned. ‘I know we will make a charming pair in our white gowns; you so dark and me so fair. I can’t wait to meet my cousin, Lady Gertrude. When will she arrive, Mama?’
For some reason Mrs Peacock looked uncomfortable. ‘Lady Gertrude will not visit us here,’ she said carefully. ‘We must attend her at her place in Portland Square tomorrow morning.’
‘But I understood that morning visits are considered bad manners,’ Esther said, wondering at Mrs Peacock’s discomfiture.
The older woman looked cross for a moment and then she regained her composure. ‘We are family,’ she said, lifting her chin almost in defiance. ‘Otherwise it would not be considered right.’ She sniffed. ‘Now cut along to Mrs Topping and no more chatter.’
CUMBERLAND SQUARE, LONDON
‘But how do we know this woman is who she says she is?’ Henrietta Swindale exclaimed. ‘It is an awful lot of money to pay for some imposter. If she is a fraud we will look fools.’
Steven Ashgrove sighed with impatience as he sat facing his relatives in the drawing room of the house they had all taken for the Season.
‘Do you really think I would take her at face value?’ he asked. ‘I made exhaustive enquiries. I tell you she is a genuine aristocrat, fallen on hard times.’
‘But why is she prepared to do it for money if she is so high-born? Isn’t it beneath her?’ Catherine Ashgrove asked peevishly. ‘Could we not find our own titled person?’
‘Catherine, don’t be such a fool,’ Henrietta snapped. ‘We hardly move in such circles. When was the last time you had a Duchess to tea?’
‘There is no need to be so rude, sister,’ Catherine snapped back. I am concerned for my daughter, Bernice.’
‘We are all concerned for our daughters,’ Percy Swindale said. ‘But it is such a lot of money.’
‘Lady Gertrude Perricord was the youngest daughter of the Earl of Cranchester. She married Viscount Perricord thirty years ago. When Perricord inherited his father’s title and estates the fool drank and gambled his estates away, then he up and died leaving Lady Gertrude rather short of income. She has been presenting the daughters of rich commoners ever since. It is a sort of business with her.’
‘But what exactly do we get for our money?’ Percy persisted.
‘Yes,’ Henrietta asked. ‘Will she make introductions for the girls in high society? Will she secure tickets to Almacks for instance?’
‘Almacks is the place for the girls to meet titled husbands,’ Catherine said. ‘I would insist on Almacks.’
‘No,’ Steven said tersely. ‘Lady Gertrude will make the presentation and that is all. The rest is up to us or just good luck.’
‘Highly unsatisfactory,’ Henrietta exclaimed.
‘I must agree,’ Catherine said, and then looked startled that she had agreed on anything concerning her sister.
‘Well, it is arranged,’ Steven said with some heat. ‘Lady Gertrude will present the girls to Her Majesty next Wednesday. That is an end to the discussion.’
He rose to his feet and crossed to the door.
‘Where are you going, Steven?’ Catherine asked petulantly.
‘I have some business in town,’
‘What business?’
‘I have to see my broker.’ With that he left.
Steven Ashgrove left the house and walked along the street to the corner where he stopped a passing hackney.
‘Paddington Station,’ he instructed the cabby. ‘And make it hasty. I have to meet the 12.50 from Oakhampton.’