“Ciel, what a to-do! What is it that it is?” demanded Madame Reynard in astonishment.
“It is—how amazing!—it is, they are, all Papa’s books that he left behind in France!” said Juliana.
Twelve
Juliana retired to her couch that night with her mind in a whirl. Three questions perplexed her, of which sometimes one came uppermost, sometimes another: What was Sir Groby doing in Petworth House, and had he caught sight of her that morning? If so, had he recognized her? What was Herr Welcker doing with the gypsies? She had no doubt at all as to whether he had recognized her; in spite of her altered hair color and boy’s clothes, she was perfectly certain that he had known her instantly. And the third question was: By what agency had her father’s books been brought to England? Or rather: Who had thought to bring them? It seemed plain enough that the smugglers were the agency that had ferried them over from France.
Somebody must be my friend, she thought—and who could it be but Herr Welcker? For he was the only one who knew about Papa’s books. Yet how did he know that I was here? And how can I be sure that it is indeed an act of friendship, and not simply a shrewd means of winning my regard? For it must have been Herr Welcker who told my mother of my interest in Charles the First, and gave her the notion of employing Captain Davenport to beguile me—only, if that was the case, why did Herr Welcker propose to me himself? I fear his motives must be as base as everybody else’s.
It was long, long before she fell asleep, and her slumbers were disturbed by miserable dreams.
Next day at noon, when the Morning Chronicle was delivered off the mail coach, Madame Reynard, scanning its columns, exclaimed, “Why, child! Here is an advertisement regarding you!”
“Me, ma’am? You cannot be serious?”
Nonetheless, Juliana’s heart leapt. It is Grandfather, she thought; he has forgiven me and wishes me to come home.
“Never more serious,” said Madame Reynard. “Regard for yourself.”
With trembling hands, Juliana took the paper and read: “If Miss J— P—, surviving daughter of the late C— E— T— P— Esq., of Hampshire and Florence, will communicate with Box 10, Poste Restante, Chancery Lane, London, she will receive Information Greatly to her Advantage.”
“That must be you, must it not?” demanded Madame Reynard. “Without doubt, my dear, this will be something relating to your unknown wealth of which we spoke the other day. You had best reply without delay.”
“You do not think, ma’am, that it is some fiendish device of my mother to entice me into a trap?” Juliana said. The moment the words had left her mouth she thought how timid and foolish they sounded, but Madame Reynard took them with due gravity.
“To be sure we shall have to reflect on how it will be best for you to answer,” said she. “You should certainly not give this address for your direction—rather give that of Milord Egg; Georges will be happy to frank your letter for you, I am sure. Yes, that will be best. Write as from Petworth House, giving particulars as to yourself, and requesting more information; then I will take your letter round to Georges, and he will send it to you.”
The note was written and rewritten several times, until Madame Reynard was satisfied that no dangerous information had been divulged; and she then bore it off to receive Lord Egremont’s frank.
Three days later a footman came round from Pet-worth House with a packet for Madame Reynard. Inside was a note addressed to Miss J— P— at Petworth House, requesting Juliana to present herself at an office in Chancery Lane.
“Now what is to do, ma’am?”
“You must on no account go up to London,” said Madame Reynard. “Why, for all we know it is a plot, and long before you had arrived in Chancery Lane you would have been decoyed away to your doom. No, no; I say, and Georges quite agrees, that whoever it is must come down here to see you. You had best write to that effect.”
So Juliana wrote, “Miss J— P— presents her Compliments & will be pleased to interview X— Esquire in Petworth at a time suitable to his Convenience.”
Back came a reply, some days later, naming a time and day the following week and suggesting a meeting in Petworth House.
“Impossible!” said Juliana. “For who knows but Sir Groby may still be there.”
Regrettably, Sir Groby had hitherto proved impervious to all Lord Egremont’s not very strongly worded hints that his chamber might soon be required for other guests; since there were at all times some twenty or thirty chambers available, this argument was certainly not a very strong one.
Juliana wrote back suggesting a meeting in a private parlor in the White Hart Inn.
“I suppose that will have to do,” said Madame Reynard, not wholly satisfied. “I shall, of course, accompany you, and I think it best that Georges does, also.”
“Oh, ma’am, no! I cannot expect Lord Egremont to do that! Besides, I think I should be embarrassed to have him at this interview, which is probably very stupid; I daresay some old great-aunt has left me her teapot.”
The following day Rosine came back from market with dramatic news: “Un vieux monsieur—a guest of Milord Egg—had been attacked and left for dead! What a horror! It is as bad as France—soon we shall all be garroted in our beds!”
“Which guest?” inquired Madame Reynard. “I do hope it is not that delightful Monsieur Blake. I find his poetry entirely sympathetic.” And she recited dramatically, “Tigre, tout en incendie, Dans les forêts de la nuit!”
“No, madame, it was not Monsieur Blake, but an old nobleman, le Sieur Groby Fièvre. And it is thought that les gentilshommes must have attacked him, for he was found lying where he had no business to be, in the underground way leading to this house!”
“Heavens! What next! At all events, he is justly served,” said Madame, “and whoever attacked him did us a good turn. Is he dead?”
“No, madame, but they say he is close to death. Monsieur Barrett told me.”
“I daresay I had better take him some of my cucumber lotion,” said Madame Reynard, “wicked though he is. Mrs. Garland probably knows no better than to clap a wasps’ nest onto his wound, as I found her doing for poor Socket when the bull gored him.”
Juliana was half relieved, half frightened, to hear of Sir Groby’s fate. For who could have struck him down so brutally? She hardly liked to speculate. And what had Sir Groby been doing in the underground passage? Could he have observed her emerging from it before she was aware of his presence in Petworth House? Or had he merely been exploring at random?
On the day of Juliana’s interview, Madame obliged her to dress very handsomely in a gown of cinnamon-brown Lyons silk (smuggled) adorned with cream-colored lace and ribbons, and she lent one of her own hats, a ravishing broad-brimmed Dunstable straw. “So! Now if you are an heiress, at least you look the part. Let us be off!”
They were, of course, too early in their eagerness, and stood for a moment or two outside the White Hart, in the town square, where, despite Lord Egremont’s stated disapproval, a cock-throwing was taking place.
Three or four handsome cocks stood in a circle crudely marked out with chalk, and, from outside the boundary of a larger circle, men in the crowd were throwing short staffs at them. The cocks had been carefully trained, and they succeeded in avoiding the staffs with considerable skill and agility by leaping into the air. One of them, however, had had its leg broken, but continued to jump, despite the objections of the man whose staff had done the mischief.
“Do ’is leg be broke, Bowyer’s cocky be my fair winnings,” he bawled angrily.
“Not so, Jarge Pullin. Don’t ’ee be so tournate, now! Bowyer’s cocky mun be stunned proper, ’fore ’e belongs to be anybody’s winnings.”
“So shut thy gob!” shouted a loud cheerful voice which had a familiar ring about it.
“What a cruel game,” said Juliana in disgust. “Let us go into the inn.”
&nb
sp; As they turned to do so, she saw Lieutenant Cox’s yellow head among the crowd, and swiftly tilted the brim of her hat so that he should not get a glimpse of her face.
In the entrance hall of the inn they met the lawyer whom Madame Reynard had consulted about her title deeds.
“What, are you back in Petvurrt again so soon, Monsieur Trockmorton?” she said. “We keep you busy, Milord Egg and I! Have you brought me news of the Glebe Path, enfin?”
“No, no, it is not on Lord Egremont’s business that I am here, nor on yours, ma’am,” he said fussily—he was a short, self-important little man, with pince-nez and an old-fashioned brown wig. “I am here on account of some young lady who, I fear, has more hair than wit. I only hope she arrives to the appointment and does not keep me waiting. But, forgive me, I am upon my hour, and must leave you.”
Away he bustled and when, two minutes later, they entered the appointed private parlor, they found him there before them.
“Eh bien, alors!” cried Madame Reynard. “Here is a fine comedy! We are all on the same errand, it seems, Monsieur Trockmorton. Permit me to introduce to you Mademoiselle J— P—!”
“Why, what is this?” he said crossly. “Are you joking me, ma’am? I understand that you are frequently of a sportive nature.”
“Mais, au contraire, altogether serious! This is the young lady for whom you have been searching, monsieur. She has been residing under my care because her friends forsook her; and Lord Egremont has taken a great fondness for her, and is prepared to vouch for her in every way possible, so quick, to your business, monsieur le Notaire!”
“Well, this is all highly irregular,” said he, frowning.
“First of all, do you have with you any proofs, miss, that you are whom you claim to be?”
Juliana had anticipated this. Fortunately she had her certificate of birth, which her father had entrusted to her at the commencement of their journey. She had taken it in her reticule on the elopement with Captain Davenport, believing that it might be needed for a marriage ceremony, even one at Gretna Green.
Mr. Throgmorton scanned this document, pursing his lips together disapprovingly. “This seems to be in order,” he said in a grudging manner. “But this is not to say that you are the person named in it. You might have acquired it anywhere.”
“Well, I daresay Lady Lambourn would speak for me—if she had not turned me out of her house,” said Juliana in a dispirited voice. “Or my grandfather, General Paget, if I had not angered him by running away from Flintwood to be married.”
“You are not married, however?” said Mr. Throgmorton sharply. “You wrote to me as Miss Paget?”
“Yes, sir, I am still Miss Paget.”
“Your father is not living, miss?”
Juliana shook her head. “He died upon his arrival in England.”
Mr. Throgmorton nodded; he was obviously already informed of this fact.
“You were his only child?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded again, and then asked, “Is there any person of standing and repute who was acquainted with you when you were residing with your father, who would be prepared to swear to your identity?”
Juliana reflected for a few moments. Then she said, “I daresay Mr. William Wyndham the British Representative in Tuscany, would verify that I am Miss Paget. He knew both me and Papa.”
“Monsieur Guillaume Wyndham?” cried Madame Reynard. “But this is formidable! He is the younger brother of Milord Egg! Only imagine! You have been acquainted with him all this time, and we never knew it? Oh, Georges will be so delighted!”
“Well, well, there are various formalities that will have to be gone through before the business is completed,” said Mr. Throgmorton, obviously favorably impressed, however, by this connection. “It may be necessary to summon Mr. William Wyndham to England, failing other witnesses. But perhaps your grandfather may prove more accommodating than you expect, Miss Paget. There is, after all, a very considerable sum of money involved.”
“Eh bien, monsieur, come to the point!” cried Madame Reynard impatiently. “This sum of money, how large is it? And from whom does it come? And when is Mademoiselle Paget entitled to it?”
Mr. Throgmorton did not like to be hurried. He set his fingertips together and looked over them in an admonishing manner at the impatient females before him.
“General Paget, as you may be aware, had a younger brother, Henry Paget, who also entered the Army, according to family habit, and pursued a successful military career.”
“No, that I did not know,” Juliana replied. “My grandfather never mentioned him to me.” But then, she thought, Grandfather never mentioned anything, if he could avoid it.
“The brothers were estranged,” Mr. Throgmorton said primly. “General Henry Paget—for he, too, rose to be a general—Henry Paget did not attempt to conceal his disapproval and indignation at the time of his brother’s action in severing relations with his son, Mr. Charles Paget. His protest took the form of making a will in which he left his entire fortune to his nephew.”
“In my opinion it would have been more to the purpose if he had helped his poor nephew during his lifetime, instead of leaving him to a life of penury in Florence,” said Madame Reynard tartly. “However, continue, monsieur.”
“General Henry Paget had very little money in his lifetime,” said Mr. Throgmorton, directing a quelling look at Madame over his pince-nez. “However, shortly before his retirement last year he had the good fortune to be of service to an Indian potentate, whose life he was able to preserve during a period of civil war and insurrection. (I should perhaps have mentioned that General Henry passed most of his military career in India, serving under Lord Cornwallis.) This potentate, the Gaikwar of Baroda (I understand, a small but affluent state on the borders of Kashmir), was so obliged to your great-uncle, Miss Paget, that he made him a gift of money, jewels, and estates, the values of which, when realized, amounts to some five hundred thousand pounds.”
“What?” exclaimed Madame Reynard, dropping her parasol. “He gave him half a million?”
“The sum would seem to approximate to that, certainly,” said Mr. Throgmorton with ill-concealed disapproval. “Unfortunately General Henry did not long survive to benefit by the Gaikwar’s handsome gift, news of which had followed him to England. He had returned here last autumn, but contracted a putrid sore throat, which he was unable to shake off, and which finally brought about his decease in May this year.”
“Then,” put in the irrepressible Madame Reynard—Juliana sat stunned and silent—“ce cher enfant-lá is liable to inherit—”
“One moment, madam, if you please,” said Mr. Throgmorton irritably. “General Henry’s will was simple enough. He left his entire fortune—as I say, a small one at the time when he made the will—to his nephew, should his nephew survive him. Should his nephew predecease him—or die while the nephew’s daughter was still a child—the money was then left in trust for the said daughter, she to receive it on arriving at the age of eighteen years.” He bent his gaze on Juliana’s birth certificate. “Ah—I understand that your eighteenth birthday falls on June the twenty-fourth this year, that is to say, in eight days’ time. However, the will also provided that, if Miss Paget should have married before reaching the age of eighteen—”
“Which she has not,” said Madame Reynard.
“Then the legacy would pass into the hands of her husband, to be administered for her by him. General Henry Paget had no very high opinion as to the abilities of females to take care of themselves or their property,” said Mr. Throgmorton, for the first time allowing a note of approval to creep into his voice. “Or, should Miss Paget have the misfortune to decease before her eighteenth birthday, then the money would pass to her next of kin.”
“Her next of kin?”
“Probably her mother, if still living.”
“Mon d
ieu!” breathed Madame. “So: who knew about this will, monsieur?”
“Before General Henry’s death, very few persons,” said Mr. Throgmorton, thin-lipped. “And of those, even fewer were aware of the Gaikwar’s gift. Regrettably, in my opinion, General Henry had seen fit to write to his brother, informing him of the legacy. Consequently, I understand that Sir Horace Paget, realizing that once the news was out his niece was likely to become the prey of fortune hunters, instructed his daughter, Lady Lambourn, to find some respectable husband for the young lady before her expectations became public knowledge, so that by the time this occurred she would be in the care of some worthy and disinterested person. However, this plan proved unsuccessful.”
“Did Lady Lambourn know about the will?” faintly inquired Juliana.
“No, she did not,” shortly replied Mr. Throgmorton. “General Sir Horace, having no very high opinion of her intelligence, did not see fit to inform her. Of course, she learned about it at the time of General Henry’s death, last month, when I understand she went into a fit of hysterics which lasted four days.”
“Who did know about it?” asked Madame Reynard.
Mr. Throgmorton frowned. “Most regrettably,” he answered, “I had an untrustworthy clerk whom I was obliged to dismiss last year for embezzlement. I have some reason to believe that this person, Francis Jenkins, in return for payment, may, at the time of the Gaikwar’s gift, have passed information as to General Henry’s will on to another of my clients.” He set his lips, as if no persuasion would extract this person’s name from him, but Juliana instantly thought of Sir Groby. She remembered her cousin saying, “Mr. Throgmorton, his man-of-business, sent Pa a note about a marriage contract.”
“What became of Jenkins?” inquired Madame Reynard.
“I have no idea,” replied Mr. Throgmorton shortly. “As I say, he left my employ last summer and, I believe, went abroad. He was a most unsatisfactory clerk. He had left the acting profession to try his hand at the law, and I should not be surprised if he returned to the stage… Have you any questions to ask me, Miss Paget?”