Miss Jesmond's Heir. Paula Marshall

and had said something which might put off a prospective suitor, particularly one who had inherited Jesmond House, drawled languidly, ‘But you are recovering a little from the shock of your poor husband’s death, are you not, Caro dear? Your health was feared for then, but I gather that you are doing much more than you were.’

      He turned to Jess, smiling his crocodile smile. ‘Dear Georgie has been a real tower of strength—so strong and commanding—everyone takes heed of her. Such a boon while Caro has not been up to snuff.’

      Well, the strong and commanding bit was true enough, thought Jess, remembering Georgie’s reaction to his well-meant advice. It was plain that she lacked poor Caro’s sensibilities.

      Georgie did not return until supper was over and the rest of the party was seated again in the drawing room, waiting for the tea board to appear. She had had enough of watching Caro charm Jess and had decided that seated on poor Annie’s bed, reading her a fairy story, and occasionally comforting her, was a better way to spend the evening than in mouthing sweet nothings to persons she did not like.

      Unfortunately, in the middle of the second story Annie fell into a happy sleep, leaving Georgie with no choice than to return to the drawing room where she sat, mumchance, watching Caro and Jess try to charm one another.

      She soon realised, though, that Jess was not engaged in mouthing sweet nothings. His apparently idle remarks were intended to winkle information out of both Caro and Sir Garth without appearing to do so.

      Caro was discoursing animatedly about Banker Bowlby and his pretensions. ‘Had it not been for the untimely deaths of both my father-in-law and then my husband,’ she was declaiming pathetically, ‘Mr Bowlby would not be such a prominent person in Netherton. He quite sees himself as the Squire—which, of course, he is not. Even buying up Miss Jesmond’s unwanted land does not entitle him to be considered other than a business man who claims to belong to the gentry.’

      ‘The trouble is,’ said Sir Garth, ‘we have no notion of who old Bowlby—this man’s father—was. He came to Netherton with a bit of money and, it must be admitted, a great deal of drive, and ended up taking over the bank from old Gardiner who had no heir but wished to retire. He claims that his grandfather was Bowlby of Bowlby village near Worksop, but has never shown any evidence to prove it.’

      After that there was further gossip about the Wiltons and the Firths. It would be impolite to yawn, though Georgie had heard most of this before and wondered what Jesmond Fitzroy made of it.

      Jesmond Fitzroy! What an absurdly pompous name. Fitz! That’s what she would call him. It suited him better than his proper one. The thought made Georgie giggle inwardly. Her face flushed and her eyes shone. Yes, given the opportunity she would call him Fitz.

      Jess, all ears, being enlightened as well as entertained by Netherton gossip, looked across at her sitting quietly in her chair and recognised the message of the shining eyes, so at contrast with the unsmiling and silent mouth. He decided that he would like to know more about her, about her dead husband and how she came to be here, running Caro Pomfret’s errands and looking after her children.

      The unwelcome thought struck him that she might be the reason for Garth Manning’s presence. Why unwelcome? It was nothing to him if Manning might be after Mrs Herron’s small fortune. He was sure that it was small. Although, if Manning were desperate, small might be enough.

      Why did he think Manning desperate? Jess didn’t know. What he did know was that Manning was a poor thing to be a gentle and pretty woman’s brother and her hoyden of a sister-in-law’s suitor.

      Meanwhile he stayed talking until the proper time to leave, bending first over Mrs Herron’s hand, and then—a little longer over Caro Pomfret’s, watched by a benevolent Sir Garth Manning. He was suddenly sure that Manning would approve his suit if he decided that Caro was the wife for whom he had been looking.

      Back at Jesmond House Twells was waiting up for him, a slightly agitated expression on his old face.

      ‘You have a visitor, sir.’

      ‘What, at this hour?’

      ‘He arrived shortly after you left and said that he was sure that you would wish to see him. He was so insistent that I put him in the library. I didn’t think that the drawing room was suitable.’

      Jess was intrigued. Who, in the name of wonder, could his visitor be? He tossed his top coat and hat on to the medieval bench which stood in the hall and strode towards the library. Twells said agitatedly, ‘Shall I announce you, sir?’

      He sounded so tired and old that Jess turned to look at him. ‘Certainly not,’ he said. ‘You are ready for bed and I need no trumpeter to go before me. And, Twells—’ as the old man moved away ‘—you are not to wait up for me again. Surely there is a young footman about the house—Henry Craig, for example—who doesn’t need his rest so much and who could be trusted to open the door for me.’

      ‘I am butler here, sir.’ Twells’s tone was both dignified and rebuking.

      ‘I know that, but you could consider that you are training up a useful deputy—one who can stand in for you at any time. I shall not value you the less, you know—merely commend your good common-sense in agreeing with me. Now, go to bed. I can see myself there later.’

      He walked into the library, wondering whom he might find. A man was seated in a chair, reading a book by the light of a candle. He rose when Jess entered.

      ‘Kite!’ exclaimed Jess. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

      ‘A good demon to invoke,’ said Kite smoothly. He was a tall, slender man with a clever face, decently dressed, a cross between a clerk and a gentleman. His voice and accent were good, although Jess knew that he could speak London cant when he wished. ‘You might like to look at my letter, sir.’

      He handed it over to Jess who broke the seals and began to read it. It was from Ben Wolfe.

      ‘Dear Jess,’ it said, ‘I am sending you James Kite to be your lieutenant because I am tired of seeing his damned dismal face around the counting house since you left us. It was either him or Tozzy who had to go, seeing that they were both being glum together—I believe they thought that I had dismissed you, and I wasn’t prepared to tell them that you went of your own free will.

      ‘I chose him for you rather than Tozzy because I thought that he is smooth enough to fit into your new life as Lord of the Manor of Netherton. Pray don’t turn him away. He can do for you what you did for me—he made it plain that it was you he wished to serve, not me, so I have lost two good men at once. My only consolation is that he will keep you, as well as himself, out of trouble. Knowing him, you will take my meaning.

      ‘Susanna joins me in sending you our best wishes for your future.

      ‘Your humble servant, Ben Wolfe.’

      Jess looked at Kite. ‘You are aware of what is in this?’ he asked, waving the letter.

      ‘Not the exact words, no, but the gist of it.’

      ‘And it is what you wish?’

      ‘Yes—as Mr Wolfe understands.’

      ‘Mr Wolfe understands a damned sight too much,’ said Jess. ‘You must understand that being my lieutenant, my man of all work, will be very different here in the country from what it was in London.’

      ‘You need a man at your back anywhere in the world, begging your pardon, sir. Here as elsewhere.’

      ‘And will you, on occasion, be my valet—should I ask you? I don’t want a regular one.’

      ‘Anything you ask, sir.’

      ‘But I have already discovered that I may need your special skills as well—although practising them may not be as dangerous as in London.’

      ‘Only time will tell.’

      He should have remembered how brief and sardonic Kite was. A cross between himself and Ben Wolfe.