The Conqueror's Dilemma (31 page)

‘No
use asking me,’ her uncle protested. ‘I know little of fashion and care less.’
But at his wife’s minatory frown, he was moved hastily to add, ‘Not that even I
can’t see you look fit to swim with the nobs, lass. I’m glad to see my blunt
hasn’t been wasted.’

Tiffany
noted her aunt’s rolling eyes and laughed. ‘I’m afraid the gown is sadly
crushed by the journey, Uncle Matt, and for my part I would be far more comfortable
in something warmer than seersucker and cotton lawn.’

Her
attention having been drawn to the matter, she was struck, as Aunt Peggy set
about pouring tea, by the old-fashioned look of the familiar closed robe of
green kerseymere, despite the lace at her aunt’s bosom and wrists and the
expensive Norwich shawl. The round spectacles did not help, nor the little lace
cap partially concealing the greying and banded locks.

Tiffany
could not but throw a questioning glance at her uncle’s attire. He was looking
over the supply of delicacies laid down by the waiter, who pocketed a handsome
douceur and bowed himself out. Uncle Matt’s brown frock-coat looked decidedly
baggy against her inner image of a gentleman as fashionably turned out as the
Conqueror, for example. A realisation that threw Tiffany into defensive mode.

What
was fashion compared to kindliness and solid character? These beloved figures,
with their undoubtedly countrified air, counted far more with her than any of
the sleek fashionables with whom she had lately been consorting. These Felton
cits
were worth a dozen such.

Her
eyes were misty as Uncle Matt took up a plate for her and plied it with a huge
slice of cold chicken pie and several pieces of toast spread with potted beef.
Discontented with this largesse, he also threatened her with cake and
gingerbread to follow.

‘You’re
looking peaky, my pet. If I’m any judge, you’ve not been eating properly. Aye,
look at you. Thin as a stick.’

If
this was an exaggeration, Tiffany knew there was justice in his accusation. She
had been too unhappy lately to pay much attention to the needs of her body, and
her gowns had become a trifle loose. To please her uncle, she made a spirited
attempt to eat as much as she could of the food he set before her, managing
half the pie and a little of the toast, but merely toying with the plum cake.

While
the meal was in progress, she whiled the time by asking after the various
members of the family and the staff at the merchant and shipping offices. A
successful diversion, as it turned out, for her uncle had acquired a new ship
and had been much exercised in finding a suitable captain and sailors to man
it. To Aunt Peggy fell the task of relating the activities of her sons and the
antics of her young grandchildren, as well as the news pertaining to the wives
of the local seafaring folk whose welfare was her aunt’s particular concern.

Her
uncle, who had little interest in the distaff side of things, having finished
his own pie and a massive portion of plum cake, fidgeted impatiently for a
space, and at length intervened.

‘Now
then, that’ll do. Tiff’s had time enough to get her breath, and I won’t be put
off any longer.’

Tiffany’s
pulse thrummed unevenly as she waited for the inevitable question. Uncle Matt
might be gruff, but he was gentle in his treatment of her, and she knew she had
nothing to fear. Yet she shrank from the necessity to bare her soul.

‘What’s
been happening here, Tiff? No roundaboutation now. I’m a plain man, you know
that well enough, and I’ll have a plain answer.’

Aunt
Peggy jumped in. ‘Matt, don’t start your bullying.’

‘I’m
not bullying the girl. And don’t you sit there like butter wouldn’t melt in
your mouth neither, Peg. You’ve been as sick as a horse with worry, and bent my
ear I don’t know how many hours after you’ve had her letters.’

‘I
knew it,’ uttered Tiffany unguardedly.

Both
her guardians directed worried looks at her, and her aunt reached out to cover
one of her hands.

‘Knew
what, my lovey?’

‘The
letters.’ She looked from one to the other. ‘I didn’t know how to write to you.
Everything I might have said could only serve to make you anxious.’

‘So
you said nothing at all,’ concluded her uncle, nodding. ‘Aye, your aunt was
canny enough to read between the lines. But we’re here now, and it’s no use
trying to hide behind a mask. Haven’t I told you over and again it’s no manner
of use pretending in life? Be yourself, Tiff, that’s the way.’

‘Matt!
Leave the child alone. She’ll tell it in her own fashion.’

‘Well,
I’m not stopping her. Go on, Tiff, who is the fellow?’

The
question, coming out of nowhere, threw Tiffany into so frantic a panic she
buried her face in her hands.

‘Now
look what you’ve done! Matthew Felton, you’re a fool to yourself. Can’t you
keep a still tongue in your head?’

She
heard her uncle protest, and for a moment or two the subsequent argument
blurred in her ears. How had he guessed? Or no, it must have been Aunt Peggy
who made the connection.

‘Tiffy,
love. Tiffany!’

Becoming
aware her aunt was speaking to her, Tiffany dropped her hands, sighing a
little. ‘Yes, Aunt Peggy?’

A kind
smile was directed at her. ‘I was going to approach the thing much more subtly,
but now your uncle has let the cat out of the bag, there’s no point in that.’
She took hold of Tiffany’s hand and held it. ‘It’s that Conqueror fellow, isn’t
it?’

Shaken,
Tiffany stared at her. ‘How could you possibly guess? I hardly mentioned him.’

‘Well,
that’s why, lovey. He disappeared between one letter and the next, so I
couldn’t help but wonder. It seemed so odd you never spoke of him again. And
then, when your letters became disjointed—’

‘Disjointed?
Oh, dear heaven!’

‘Don’t
fret, Tiffy love. It’s easily done when you’re in the throes.’

Tiffany
bit her lip. ‘What—what do you mean?’

This
time Aunt Peggy threw a look at her husband. Uncle Matt shook his head. ‘No use
asking me, Tiff. I’m as wax in my wife’s hands, as you well know. If she says
you’re in the throes, who am I to say different?’

In the
throes, thought Tiffany dismally. Yes, you might say so. She tried to smile,
but it went awry. ‘It’s of no use. You can’t do anything. He does not want me.’

Neither
spoke, but Uncle Matt’s jaw clenched, and Aunt Peggy’s eye looked suspiciously
shiny. Tiffany’s head was filled with images of Will, and a certain burning
look she’d had from him now and then.

‘At
least, that is not quite true,’ she amended conscientiously, hardly aware of
the possible effect of what she would say. ‘He does want me, but he will not
have me to wife.’

A roar
of rage from her uncle startled her, and she jumped.

‘D’you
tell me the villain seeks to make a wanton of you?’

‘Matt,
how dare you say such things? I won’t have it. As if Tiffy would dream of—’

‘It’s
not what you think, Uncle Matt,’ Tiffany intervened hastily. ‘I didn’t mean—he
wouldn’t—’

She
stopped, unable to think how to make the matter-of-fact man who was her
surrogate father appreciate Will’s temperament and the dichotomy that drove
him. Nor was she at liberty to set out the underlying reasons for his attitude
and conduct.

‘All
right, all right,’ came grumpily from Uncle Matt, responding to a frantic
signal from his wife. ‘I’ll not say anything more. Go on, Tiff.’

Tiffany
shifted restlessly. ‘I can’t go on. I don’t know how. You wouldn’t understand.’

Aunt
Peggy laughed gently. ‘Each generation has said the same to the one that came
before. Why don’t you try us, my lovey?’

She
looked from one to the other expectant face, and drew a deep breath. ‘William
Westerham cannot afford to marry me, for he has no money. He is hunting for an
heiress.’

Instead
of the explosion she expected, Tiffany discovered her aunt and uncle were
looking at each other, brows up and questioning. She frowned.

‘What
is it? Why do you look like that?’

To her
amazement, her uncle’s broad features split into a slow smile. His eyes
twinkled as he turned to her.

‘It’s
not often I get it wrong, lass, but I can see I misjudged it, keeping it from
you.’

‘Keeping
what from me?’

‘And
from that creature who has you in charge. I’ve got her measure now. Could see
which way the wind would blow the moment I gave her a hint. Should have done it
at the outset.’

Mystified,
Tiffany turned to her aunt. ‘What is Uncle Matt talking of?’

Aunt
Peggy gave a grimace. ‘I’m still not sure your uncle’s in the right of it, but
it’s too late now. If that Lady Drumbeg knows, you’d best know too.’

Tiffany
found she was holding her breath. Eva’s strange change of attitude came back to
her, and a frantic and impossible thought crept into her mind. No, it could not
be. She was locked in suspense, and the suspicion could not go unanswered.

‘You
are not going to tell me I am an heiress, are you? Pray don’t tease me, for I
am on tenterhooks!’

‘I
wouldn’t call you an heiress,’ said her uncle in a judicious tone, ‘but you’ve
a tidy sum coming to you.’

‘A
tidy sum,’ exploded Aunt Peggy. ‘Go on with you, Matthew Felton.’

‘But—but
where does it come from?’ asked Tiffany, bewildered. ‘I mean, I know you said
you would see I had a dowry, but surely you must be leaving everything to Dick
and Joe?’

‘It’s
not my brass, Tiff. It’s your father’s.’

‘Papa? But he hadn’t any money. At least—’

Uncle
Matt let out his characteristic bark of laughter. ‘Hadn’t any money? He’d a share
of the business, lass. It’s been growing all these years, ready for you when
you come of age. But if you marry before then, I’ve the power to break the
trust.’

Awed,
and not a little frightened, Tiffany stared at him. ‘How—how much am I worth?’

‘Hard to say exactly, but—’

Here
Aunt Peggy interrupted, apparently out of reason cross. ‘It’s not at all hard
to say, and I wish you’d kept your tongue between your teeth. No, Tiffy love, I
don’t know just how much you’re worth, but one thing you may count on. It’s
more than enough to satisfy your fortune-hunting Conqueror.’

The
information, brought to William in the middle of his toilette on his first day
back in the metropolis, had an effect like a blow to the stomach. His breath
became tangled in his throat and a slow pumping started up in his chest. He
gazed at his valet as at a stranger from another world, and dredged up a voice
that even to his own ears sounded hoarse.

‘From
Yorkshire, Frocester? Are you certain you have that right?’

The
valet’s features took on concern, but William was beyond caring how he gave
himself away.

‘Quite,
sir. The gentleman was specific on that point.’ Frocester coughed delicately.
‘There was also the matter of his accent, sir. Fairly broad it is.’

 William’s
pulses quietened a trifle. Then it could not be his father. The Reverend Lionel
Westerham’s tones were impeccably genteel. A messenger then?

‘And
he would not give his name?’

‘No,
sir. I told him you were not in the habit of admitting unknown gentlemen, but
he was—insistent, shall we say? He states his business will be of immediate and
grave importance to you.’

The
inevitable conclusion entered William’s mind, and his stomach went hollow. Was
his sire then dead? Had he at last inherited whatever meagre pickings were
left? Not that he had any intention of benefiting from them. He would not
accept one farthing of the money that should have kept his mother in comfort to
the end of her days. Instead of which—

He
wrenched his mind from this path. There could be no thinking of that. With
difficulty, he forced his attention back upon the matter in hand. He would have
liked to deny himself, but he supposed there was no avoiding the confrontation.
And if it did concern his father, it was better to know of it sooner rather
than later.

‘Tell
this visitor I will be with him when I have completed my toilette.’

‘Shall
I say half an hour, sir?’

‘No.
Let him kick his heels and wait upon my pleasure.’

A
petty revenge to shoot the messenger, William acknowledged to himself as
Frocester left the bedchamber, but it afforded him a perverse satisfaction.
With the best will in the world to dawdle over his preparations, he found
himself spurred by a recalcitrant conscience into making more haste than he had
intended. It was consequently rather less than half an hour later when he
entered his parlour, suitably clad in his green coat and yellow pantaloons.

The
visitor had apparently been watching the to and fro of traffic in the street
below, for he turned from the window as the door clicked to. William was
surprised, both by the stranger’s appearance, and by the appraising look cast
upon him from a pair of shrewd blue eyes. He looked to be forty or fifty years
of age, a big man with a countrified style to his brown frock-coat and a grizzled
wig over a large and ruddy countenance. If William had met him in any other
circumstances, he would have put him down as a country squire or a prosperous
businessman. What in the world could he have to do with the Reverend Westerham?

William
cloaked his apprehensions in the cool manner habitual to his adopted persona.
‘You wished to see me, sir?’

‘Aye,
I did. You’re William Westerham, are you?’

There
was a belligerent undercurrent to his words, and William instinctively
stiffened. ‘I am.’

‘The one
they call the Conqueror?’

‘I
have been known by such a title, yes.’ William’s voice went cold. ‘Is it
pertinent to your business with me to check my social credentials?’