Wyrde and Wayward

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Contrary, perhaps, to appearances, Lord Bedgberry was not an unfeeling man. If asked, he would not hesitate to declare himself fond of his family; yes, even of thunderous Aunt Wheldrake.

However, in his general view, relatives were best enjoyed from a comfortable distance; and no circle of hell could be considered deep enough to receive those who interrupted his reading.

All of this being the case, the appearance of Great-Aunt Honoria in his quiet tower-room could fill him with nothing but a mild wrath.

‘And I have but just got rid of Gussie!’ he said, snapping shut his book.

‘But that’s just it!’ gasped Great-Aunt Honoria’s head. ‘We have got rid of Gussie! And in a shocking fashion, too! I have been trying to tell you.’

It distantly filtered through to Theo — his head full of J. Barber’s treatise on the nature of the constellations — that Great-Aunt Honoria did not ordinarily manifest in the east tower. Nor was she normally observed to be screaming at such unladylike volume, nor pouring quantities of ethereal blood from the stump of her (apparently) severed neck.

‘Something has upset you,’ he observed.

This silenced Honoria altogether, though only briefly. ‘Theodore,’ she said severely. ‘I tremble to think what is to become of Werth when your poor father dies.’

‘Nothing in particular, I should think?’ said Theo. ‘Why, is something likely to happen?’

‘Something has happened,’ said Honoria. ‘Your cousin! She—’

‘Which cousin?’ enquired Theodore politely.

‘Augusta. As I have just told you — really, did you not hear a word of it? — your unoffending cousin Gussie has this moment been snatched from the very doors of Werth! By a pair of unscrupulous villains!’

Theodore, his thoughts and his gaze having wandered back to his book, looked up. ‘What?’

‘Snatched!’ proclaimed Great-Aunt Honoria.

‘Gussie?’

‘Carried off! Overpowered and borne away!’

‘Abducted?’ Theo said. ‘Gussie? Are you sure you’ve got it right, Aunt?’

‘I saw it with my own eyes!’

‘Perhaps you mean Nell,’ said Theo helpfully. ‘Or m’father. Really, who could want Gussie?’

Great-Aunt Honoria swelled with the sort of rage that could only presage another explosion, and Theo had suffered quite enough unscheduled noise already. He held up a pacifying hand. ‘All right, I can see you are serious about it. But what can it possibly have to do with me?’

‘Why, you must instantly go after her! She must be retrieved!’

A notion wandered through Theo’s thoughts. The notion was this: in the general way of things, he was not the person to whom crises were brought.

It also occurred to him that he ought vigorously to object to such treatment of his family. Indeed, if Great-Aunt Honoria’s report were not a mere nothing, why then he would.

Regretfully, Theo set down his book.

‘Did you chance to observe who these blackguards were?’ he asked.

Great-Aunt Honoria had not. But she had noticed a coat of arms emblazoned on the side of the coach which had carried off his cousin; and when Theo heard her description of this symbol, and discovered that he recognised it, he did not pause to listen to the rest of Honoria’s diatribe. He was out the door and halfway down the stairs in an instant, his feet pounding heavily upon stone, a slow fury burning in his heart.

He found his father and mother lingering over the breakfast table. ‘That cur,’ he announced, ‘has made off with my cousin.’

Lady Werth looked up from her plate of eggs. ‘Which cur?’ she enquired.

‘Which cousin?’ said Lord Werth.

‘Gussie, and the cur is Charles Selwyn! I always knew he was no good, and now he has taken Gussie!’ Theo said this with the feelings of one vindicated, for had he not always detested the Selwyn boy at school?

‘Selwyn?’ said Lady Werth, setting down her knife and fork. ‘You cannot mean—’

‘Lord Maundevyle’s younger brother,’ supplied Lord Werth. ‘But there must be some mistake, Theo. How could Charles Selwyn come upon Gussie at all, and what cause could he have to carry her off?’

‘He is brazen enough for anything!’ said Theo grimly. ‘He has come right up to our own door, if you please, and snatched her off the doorstep. And there is no mistake, for I have just had it from Great-Aunt Honoria, who was there.’

Lord Werth exchanged a look with his wife. ‘My dear?’ said he. ‘Perhaps you can shed some light upon this?’

Lady Werth had more than once behaved mysteriously regarding Gussie, intervening in her life in ways she did not seem minded to do with Theo’s. But she had been close-lipped about why that might be, and Theo had not the smallest idea what might motivate such treatment.

Nor was he destined to find out, for Lady Werth appeared to be in the grip of some strong emotion. Her eyes stared; her mouth opened in shock, or perhaps fright; and she swelled with… rage? Indignation?

‘My dear,’ said Lord Werth, laying a hand over hers. ‘Calm yourself. I am sure this is all a mistake, and will soon be resolved—'

Ice-crystals formed in her ladyship’s hair, and frost bloomed in her horrified eyes. A flurry of freezing snow burst into the air, liberally covering the table, her husband and her son in a small blizzard.

‘Mother,’ said Theo, wiping snow from his face. ‘Pray remember to breathe—’

But with a crack and an unpromising splintering sound, Lady Werth succumbed. In her chair sat a statue of her ladyship, worked in icy glass, still clutching her silver knife. The detail was truly extraordinary.

Lord Werth sighed.

‘Any chance she’ll recover inside of an hour or two?’ said Theo, without much hope.

‘I should think there is almost no chance of it,’ said his father. ‘I have never known her to reanimate under two days.’

‘Last time it was above a week,’ said Theo gloomily.

‘Do you think there is anything in this absurd tale of Honoria’s?’ said his lordship.

‘If there is I won’t have it. I mean to find out what has become of that coach.’

‘I imagine Gussie has the matter well in hand,’ said Lord Werth, returning, unruffled, to his breakfast. ‘But if you are going, you had better do so without further loss of time.’

His hopes dashed as to the likelihood of his father’s preparing to wade into the fray, Theo was very ready to obey this parental edict. The sooner he left the Towers, the sooner he could come back again; and if he was prompt in pursuit of the coach, no doubt he could overtake it upon the road, at only a little distance away. He and Gussie might be home in time for tea.

But having given orders for the horses to be put to and the carriage brought round (in a clipped tone expressive of his general feelings), every pleasant prospect of the kind was done away with.

‘All the wheels?’ Theo repeated in disbelief. ‘All? From every vehicle?’

Jem Coachman, clad in his driving-coat ready to depart, gave a miserable nod. ‘All four, sir, quite off his lordship’s coach, and the barouche, and my lady’s phaeton as well. Ned came to tell it to me hisself. I can’t think how it came about, only if I weren’t to be thought fanciful, sir, I’d say as it looks like—’

‘Sabotage,’ said Theo grimly.

‘Aye, sir. But who could have done it, ‘round here?’

Theo did not trouble to enlighten him. Later, he would enquire (through Nell) of the Towers’ various spectral inhabitants, if anyone had observed the sabotage being done. No one had; except for Cornelia, who swore to seeing a gentleman saunter into the coach-house as casual as you please. But since poor Corny had died before she had reached her eleventh year, she was not much attended to at any time.

Obliged to await the coach’s repair, Theo consoled himself with a fresh rabbit — just the one, it would not do to over-indulge before a journey — and waited.

In the end, there was a delay of some six and a half hours before he could at last follow the cooling trail left by the Selwyns’ equipage. At such a distance of time, word of the occurrence, and of Theo’s meditated response to it, had spread across the Towers. And the end of that was, that Theo found himself with an unwelcome but persistent travelling companion.

‘I am afraid it is of no use to remonstrate with me,’ Miss Frostell declared, climbing resolutely into the carriage. ‘You cannot imagine I shall sit at my ease when Miss Werth is in trouble, and we shall have Honoria, you know, by way of companion.’

‘Honoria…!’ stuttered Theo, appalled at the twin vision of Miss Frostell ensconced within the very carriage he meant to drive, and the severed head of his great-aunt opposite to her. Both ladies considered it unnecessary to say any more, but only looked at him, calmly certain of his acquiescence.

Theo was left with a choice: to haul both women out by the hair and hurl them into the dust, before driving off as fast as he could without them. Or to submit to the inevitable, and hope that the presence of Miss Frostell in particular did not cause him more difficulties than might be acceptable, in consideration of the cause.

Fool, Theo thought, and savagely slammed the door upon them both. Very well, if they would have it so. On their own heads be it.

***

Sense and feeling returned in an unwelcome rush, for Gussie’s head ached fit to burst. She sat slumped upon the plump, upholstered seat of a swaying coach; straightening, she risked opening her eyes, and at the fresh stab of pain thus provoked, quickly shut them again.

A brief glance had revealed to her the figure of the chestnut-haired gentleman, seated opposite her, and by his side a second person. This additional creature had swept off the tall hat she had worn, and let down the auburn hair previously concealed beneath it. The hat lay on the seat beside Gussie, a mute reproach for having been so easily taken in. The woman’s features were by far too feminine ever to be taken for male; in fact she was ravishingly pretty. No mere hat ought to have so lulled her good sense, Gussie thought; but then, for all the oddities one expected to encounter at the Towers, a woman clad in the garb of a man was not typically to be counted among them.

‘You would be the Selwyns, I suppose?’ said Gussie, without opening her eyes. ‘I have just been hearing about a Charles Selwyn. Quite detestable, I am told, and since you, sir, are both detestable and a Charles, I cannot think it a coincidence.’

She heard amusement in the rich voice that answered her. ‘And what have you to say of my sister’s conduct? I assure you, it was all her idea.’

Gussie half-opened one eye, and regarded the sister in question sourly. She received in response a winning smile. ‘A diabolical pair,’ she pronounced. ‘And when my head has finished aching quite so badly, I assure you I shall do everything in my power to escape.’

‘Oh, please don’t!’ begged the lady. ‘When we have gone to so much trouble to rescue you!’

Gussie’s eyes opened all the way. ‘Rescue me?’ she repeated. ‘From what?’

‘Why, from the tyranny of your uncle and aunt! We knew they would refuse to let you visit us. They did, didn’t they?’

‘That can hardly be termed tyranny,’ Gussie retorted. ‘And I do not remember mentioning any opposition from Lord and Lady Werth, when I declined your mother’s invitation. Not that you can possibly have received my letter yet.’

‘Well, but why else would you decline?’ said Miss Selwyn.

Since they had, by accident or shrewdness, hit upon the exact truth, Gussie gave up arguing the point. ‘You must take me back,’ she said coolly. ‘It would present so very odd an appearance, you know, if you were to make a habit of abducting your house-guests by force.’

‘Then we shan’t make a habit of it,’ said Miss Selwyn. ‘Just this once, I cross my heart.’ She did so, marking the outlines of a sacred cross over the black expanse of her coat.

Gussie said nothing for a moment, engaged in listening. Was that a scraping upon the roof, perhaps a half-caught glimpse of a flickering shadow beyond the window? She could not convince herself of it.

‘Besides,’ said Gussie next. ‘My family will be frantic with worry when they find me missing, and that is unkind.’

‘They won’t notice for some time yet,’ said Miss Selwyn airily, rather to Gussie’s indignation.

‘And we have sent a letter,’ put in Charles, who hitherto had watched the play between his sister and Miss Werth with a gleam of silent amusement, and said nothing.

‘Yes, so they will know where you are, and shall not be concerned for you at all.’

A terrible suspicion struck Gussie. ‘Did I write this letter?’

‘You dictated it to my brother’s secretary,’ said Miss Selwyn with aplomb. ‘He has particularly fine handwriting.’

Gussie looked at Charles.

‘Her other brother,’ he supplied.

Gussie’s heart sank. Was the whole family complicit in this bizarre scheme? What manner of woman was she to find in Lady Maundevyle?

Resolved upon one last-ditch attempt at reason, she sought desperately for another rational objection (all the self-evident ones having failed to move the Selwyns), and at last fixed upon saying: ‘Had you really to whisk me off alone? If I had accepted your invitation, I was to have brought Miss Frostell with me.’

‘And who is Miss Frostell?’ said Miss Selwyn. ‘Is she amusing?’

‘She was my governess.’

‘Not amusing, I collect,’ said Miss Selwyn, wrinkling her perfect nose. Her eyes widened in realisation. ‘Oh! But you shall have no need of a chaperon, Miss Werth. You will have me.’ A seraphic smile punctuated this statement, and Gussie began to wonder, with a distant flicker of alarm, whether there was any madness in the Selwyn family.

She did not really believe herself to be in any danger, despite appearances. Neither of the Selwyns had offered any direct harm; the blow she had taken from the door had been an accident of her own causing. Nor did the siblings have the air of ruffians, or dangerous villains. They had more the manner of overgrown children, spoiled and wilful, unable to comprehend why their mother’s chosen toy — or perhaps, their own? — had not chosen to come and play with them. She ought, she thought, to be equal to such a situation: peculiar, but in no real way threatening.

Still, they proved resistant to her sensible objections, and with every passing minute the coach barrelled farther away from Werth Towers.

And if Great-Uncle Silvester had heard her plea, he was being awfully quiet about it.

By the time the coach finally drew to a stop at a wayside inn, several hours had dragged joltingly by. Gussie had given up hope of Great-Uncle Silvester, or of drumming any sense into her new bosom-friend either (as Miss Selwyn insisted on calling herself, before kindly offering her the gift of her Christian name: Clarissa).

Gussie’s attempts at persuading the Selwyns to turn the coach around, and deliver her back to her home, had universally failed. So had her enquiries as to the reason for her abduction; ‘Word of my wit and vivacity has spread as far as Somerset, I suppose, and naturally engendered in you a burning desire to enjoy my company?’

‘You have hit upon the very truth of it, Miss Werth,’ drawled Charles, a sardonic glitter in his eye. ‘We have never known anything half so entertaining at Starminster, I assure you.’

Clarissa delivered her brother a thumping blow upon the shoulder, which he swatted away, muttering, ‘Really, Clara, if you will not be more feminine we will never be rid of you.’

‘That is a good thought,’ said Clarissa, arrested in the middle of whatever she had been going to say. ‘I shall marry the first man I see.’

‘John Coachman, I collect.’

‘Except John Coachman.’

‘Ahem?’ said Gussie.

‘Oh! Charles is quite right,’ said Clarissa hurriedly. ‘We were anxious to make your acquaintance, and really, what with Mama and your aunt being so thick with one another, we are practically family. Are not we?’

Gussie had longed to observe that family were not ordinarily inclined to abduct one another, not even among the peculiar Werths. But she had seen enough of the Selwyns to realise that theirs were different rules of conduct altogether, and held her peace. She was not to receive an explanation en route, it appeared.

By the time the inn was reached, she had abandoned thoughts of escape. Partly because she was road-weary and sore, and eager to seek her bed. And partly because, though the manner of her journey was somewhat… unorthodox, and she felt some apprehension at the prospect of making so odd an appearance at Starminster, she could not feel an absolute disinclination to go along with it. For to go there coincided exactly with her wishes, however the means.

And her curiosity was piqued. Whatever reason the Selwyns had for forcing her compliance, it could have nothing to do with anything so absurdly simple as a desire of making her acquaintance. And though she prided herself a little upon her wit, she could not for a moment believe that fame of it had spread as far as her aunt’s old connections in faraway Somerset.

No, the Selwyns must have another reason for bringing her to Starminster. And Gussie, alive with curiosity, was determined to find out what it might be.