Joy V. Sheridan writes

Charity Amour

CHAPTER THIRTEEN part 2

Lord Seyton Clover paced up and down, impatiently angry, in the deserted mosaic room of number thirty-four Orchard Street. There came a discreet but firm knock on the door. “Enter!” The door swung to with a smoothly-oiled speed. The young woman who had assisted ’Hélène de Noir’, à la Miss Charity Cottrell on the evening of her last performance, stood, somewhat abashed, before His Lordship. John Fibbins, Lord Seyton Clover’s valet and man extraordinaire, stood beside his sister. “Good day, Your Lordship.” “Is it?” Fibbins coloured slightly. “No need, I think, to mention why I have summoned you here from Cheniston Mansion?” “Indeed not, me Lord. I understand that a certain party – err humm I mean a certain lady, did not return here as she should have some nights ago.” “Do you indeed! And who, might I be so bold to enquire, gave you this information? For I am only just aware of the situation myself, albeit I have been out of town for a few days. Still,” his voice drawled a little, “I am curious as to how one of my servants is in receipt of such knowledge.” 

John Fibbins cleared his throat, looking nervously towards his silent sister. “Well, Your Lordship: sometimes there are rumours which break out and those rumours run faster than a Bow Street Runner. Especially if there is more than a grain of truth to spice up their passage.” “Oh really?” “Your Lordship, I heard this from Sarah Browning, who got it off Beavis, who himself got it from Jenkins. Before he left that is.” “Jenkins? Jenkins! Surely not my man, my trusted, loyal servant, who had such rare faith built up in me of his integral vassalage, that I brought him here myself?” “He is your cousin, Lord Fitzroy Rispian's man, Your Lordship.” With the delivery of these words, Fibbins looked down uneasily, whilst Lord Seyton Clover, first visibly blanched whiter than snow then flamed crimson about the jowls. “I see! Tell me more, for I daresay there is more. Has she,” he pointed in Molly Fibbin’s direction, “anything to do with this unsavoury business?” 

The girl was able to lip read and she blushed deeply and vehemently. Emphatically she shook her head from left to right. 

John Fibbins turned toward his sister and with deft movements of his fingers and thumbs had soon relayed the question Lord Seyton Clover shot across from him. Every time with this barrage of questionings there was an emphatic, pronounced “No!” 

Satisfied that the girl had performed none other than her duties, Lord Seyton Clover turned back to John Fibbins. There was growing agitation discernable in his face, for now a small, nervous tic buckled beneath his left eye, betraying - despite the iron hold he kept over his emotions - just how distraught he was. He nodded towards Fibbins: “Perhaps you had better continue with what you know, Fibbins.” “I shall gladly continue, Your Lordship, though it seems to me it might be best if you found a chair before I let the information I have to impart leave from my lips.” 

Giving him an odd look, Lord Seyton Clover not only took a seat himself, but indicated that brother and sister be seated likewise. Declining the offer, meanwhile adopting a somewhat histrionic pose, Fibbins continued: “It would seem, Your Lordship, that poor Miss Charity is kidnapped and en route for a place of evil repute in France. In all probability, the poor innocent is on French soil as I speak now!” 

“ FRANCE!! ” 

Lord Seyton Clover all but exploded. Reaching towards his sword, he leapt to his feet, the silver periwig he had adopted imitating his shaking frenzy. 

“What devilment is this? Say to the heavens, it cannot be true!” Lord Seyton Clover’s eyes looked wild, aflame and volcanic with unspeakable thoughts. “France, you say? Let me think. Now I have it,” his teeth almost chewed the words over the clenched knuckle he held in front of his mouth, “And the villain of this script makes himself read very clearly. What, I wonder,” he muttered lowly, “Does my dear cousin Rispian intend doing with the girl?” “Me Lord, seemed ‘tis like this: Jenkins says that it is by way of a jape against your good self for not disclosing the lady’s true identity on an earlier opportunity and acquaintanceship, Though if you ask my opinion, there is something more sinister afoot. For why else, apart from deeds of the darkest ilk, has he had her conveyed towards the Château des Amourettes? No, no, surely ‘tis more than a mere jape, Your Lordship.” 

“By Gad, sirrah, you are right I He has gone too far this time! I take it as a hand across the face! Why, if he were not of my own kith and kin, I should call Fitzroy, Lord Rispian of Andover, out immediately!” “What’s to be done, Your Lordship?” “Done! Done! man! Why, we must endeavour to get Miss Cottrell back. And as soon as possible. Why even now, I have the most important message to convey to her! Something which comes from nearly the highest in the land! I am commandeering your assistance in this matter, Fibbins!” 

Fibbins shuffled uneasily on the carpet, his hand turning over the cap he held, in fair imitation of a merry-go-round. Noticing his agitation, Lord Seyton Clover continued: “Do not fret, man. You shall be handsomely rewarded for the help you can give. To show you a measure of goodwill, I shall settle fifty pounds on you before we as much as set off on this mission.” 

Fibbins looked appeased. He had no real stomach for travel and of late, he had been courting a pretty girl down in his home neighbourhood of Cheapside. Still, money was money, and after all, Lord Seyton Clover had always treated him well. Now, seeing as His Lordship was in such high dudgeon, it seemed the least he could do to accompany him. He coaxed a smile upon his lips: “Whenever Your Lordship is ready.” “Tonight,” he barked. 

With deft movements, John Fibbins conveyed this knowledge to his seated sister, who had, as it was, been able to pick up much of the conversation by watching the men’s lips in turn. Lord Seyton Clover was eyeing the girl speculatively, chewing over in his mind if she could be of any use. As though of a sudden he had made his mind up. He turned to converse with his manservant. 

"Fibbins, methinks I shall have need of your good sister’s services on this jaunt. Is she willing to help us try and recover Miss Cottrell, not forgetting, she maybe would know her more keenly, as Hélène de Noir - artiste!” 

It was apparent that the girl understood him and she threw her chin up and down rapidly, indicating a pronounced “Yes”. “Good. Oh,” he turned from them, “do you perchance speak any of the Frenchman’s language?” Lord Seyton Clover was not overall confident that the reply would be in the affirmative: but Fibbins replied: “Aye, Your Lordship, I do, as it happens, have more than a smattering of the Frenchies’ tongue; an’ what I can’t make understood wif me tongue, I do with these!” 

He adopted a fighting stance, his fists placed up to fend off attack, his knees apart and slightly buckled. Lord Seyton Clover suppressed a wry smile. “Good. Good. Then you should have yourself clothed for travelling by say, eight of the clock this evening. No need to be fancy, nor to look too untidy. It might be an idea, though, to bring something more flamboyant, let us say ‘loud’, with you in the eventuality of us having to do an amount of play-acting ourselves. As for Miss Fibbins,” he turned and looked at her appraisingly, “Perhaps she should travel as ‘Me Lady’s maid’ on the way out to meet up with her employer. Will you make sure that she understands to bring some extra clothing with her. Just in case we shall all have to disguise ourselves?" He directed the question towards Fibbins, who translated very rapidly, again using sign language.

“Also,” intoned His Lordship, “I shall want Miss Fibbins to be in charge of some apparel belonging to Miss Cottrell. It seems an extra burden to carry, but,” and he peered closely towards Molly Fibbins’ flat chest, “it seems not likely that Miss Cottrell’s measurements would be the same as your sister’s.” Thinking upon her mammary endowments was enough to send Lord Seyton Clover into a blue-tinted reverie. 

With reference to that part of the missing young woman’s anatomy, John Fibbins’s eyes glowed like any hot-blooded male’s, for Charity’s unusual endowments had been the treasure chests she had displayed to prince and pauper upon the Aldwych boards. 

“You may leave me now. But mark my words and by ready by eight of the clock.” 

The pair made ready to depart. Before they had a chance to perform their bows and curtseys Lord Seyton Clover waved them away impatiently. He heard the door close tightly behind him as, sighing, he reclined upon the brocaded coolness of the chaise longue, one arm flung wistfully along its length. He was thinking upon the last time that he had sat in this room with Charity and how close he had come, to taking her in his arms. Fool that he had been not to have summoned all the courage he possessed. 

He shivered slightly as he envisaged whose arms she might be forced into in the near future. That was, if something more terrible had not happened by this time. He reached for his silver snuff box, as though the rituals of pinching, snuffing and sneezing should clear his mind of these tormenting notions! 

Attishoo! He sneezed loudly into the silk of his handkerchief. Straightening his waistcoats, he got off the chaise and loitered towards where a decanter of brandy nestled on a table top. Taking up a tumbler, he hissed with frustration between his teeth and poured himself a hefty measure.

He had best make plans to close down the house whilst Miss Cottrell was absent. He should send the staff back to his own home, for they were part of his retinue anyway. 

He would ensure - with sums of money if he had to - that they should all be vowed to absolute silence about his movements. And about what had taken place in the last few days. 

Walking over to the desk, he extracted a sheet of paper, found a quill pen and some ink, and proceeded to order his thoughts onto the blank vellum. How, he earnestly wondered, did his darling girl, Charity, fare? As for Rispian! The exposition of his ignoble self he had completed with this last act of vandalism, abduction, and - Lord Seyton Clover groaned audibly - God knows what else! 

He scratched behind his ear with the tip of the quill. 

“Methinks,” he mused, “that there is more to the root of these happenings than I can now ascertain.’ With a heavy sigh, he picked up his drink and knocked it back in one heated gulp.