Eleanor

‘Mrs Anstey has agreed, at my urgent request, to talk to you, Eleanor. I am very obliged to her—the matter is a painful one, as you will see, and I would not have asked her to speak of it had I not been so anxious for you. I am sure you will give her your earnest attention—it concerns Mr Guthrie and his behaviour towards the Anstey family.’

‘Surely this isn’t necessary, Aunt Hetty—’

‘In view of your refusal to accept my word for Mr Guthrie’s character, and especially in view of your behaviour last night…’

‘I wanted to explain—’

‘Forgive me, Eleanor, but Mrs Anstey’s time is precious. We must not waste it.’

Good manners silenced Eleanor. She sat chafing under her aunt’s disapproval, convinced that this whole visit was an unnecessary exercise. Lady Walcot said, ‘Mrs Anstey, would you mind telling my niece how well you know Mr Guthrie?’

‘Jonas and I were brought up together, Miss Southeran. His mother was a Vereker, too. That is to say…I mean his mother was a Vereker before she was married. As I was.’

‘You were sisters?’

‘No, no! Oh, dear, how stupid of me…Caroline, his mother, was my cousin.’

‘From what you have told me,’ said Lady Walcot, casting a glance at Eleanor, ‘you practically brought him up?’

‘Well…yes, I suppose so,’ said Mrs Anstey uncertainly. ‘I was so much older than he was, and he had no mother…He was a dear little boy when he came to us.’

‘Came to you? In America?’ asked Eleanor, somewhat puzzled.

‘No, no. This was over thirty years ago—Jonas was a baby…I was a girl and still living in England then.’ She looked anxiously at Lady Walcot, then said nervously, ‘Perhaps I had better explain. You see, Richard Guthrie, Jonas’s father, abandoned poor Caroline before Jonas was born. She came back home to have the child, and died soon after. I think it must have been of a broken heart, don’t you? Jonas and I…we were both orphans living with relatives. We were very close, though I was ten years older.’

‘But what happened to his father?’ asked Eleanor.

‘He was a bad lot, I’m afraid. I think he eventually went into the army and was killed. But Jonas never really knew him. It is surprising…’ Her voice drifted away.

‘He must have felt very alone in the world.’

‘Oh, no! He knew he always had me to turn to—until I left England and went to live in America…’ Mrs Anstey’s voice trailed away weakly again, and Eleanor felt a sudden impatience with her. The woman is a born martyr, she thought, and then reproached herself for her lack of charity.

Lady Walcot said, ‘And later, I believe, your husband took Mr Guthrie as a business partner on your recommendation?’

‘Well, partly. Jonas left England for India when he was still quite young. I’m not sure how, but he made a fortune out there. Then he came to see me in Boston. He was looking for a suitable investment, and my husband happened to need some new capital for his family concern and…and they helped each other. It worked very well to start with. I was delighted to see him again, and Henry and the girls were all devoted to him. For a while Henry and I even thought that we would be more closely related to Jonas. But then the engagement was broken off…’

‘Engagement? Mr Guthrie has been engaged? To Marianne?’ asked Eleanor, growing pale.

‘No, no. Jonas was engaged to my other daughter. But then it was broken off. And things went wrong after that.’

‘What went wrong?’

‘Miss Southeran, I am not precisely sure what went amiss. I took no part in the business, of course. But Henry—my husband—and Jonas suddenly seemed to disagree a great deal, and though Mr Oliver did his best to keep the peace there were frequent arguments.’

‘Mr Oliver?’

‘My husband’s other partner. He is now married to Evadne.’ Mrs Anstey’s hands were twisting in her lap. She said suddenly, ‘Oh, Miss Southeran, if you only knew how wicked Jonas Guthrie has been, how like his father!’

The sudden passion in this timid little woman’s voice was startling. Eleanor was impressed, and, dreading what more was to come, she asked slowly, ‘Why do you say that?’

Mrs Anstey looked uncertainly at Lady Walcot, who leaned forward and said softly, ‘Please, if you can, tell her! I give you my word that it will go no further.’

‘I…I…am ashamed to tell you that Jonas Guthrie is the father of my daughter’s child!’ This was said in a low voice, and at first Eleanor thought she had not heard correctly. She looked blankly at Mrs Anstey, who added in a clearer, louder tone, ‘He seduced my daughter Evadne, and gave her a child.’

Chapter Three

Eleanor found herself without a word. The morning’s revelations had been a shock and she was experiencing great difficulty in retaining her outward appearance of calm. She wanted to leave that neat little room, to refuse to listen to the ugly story which was being unfolded in it. But this was impossible. She must stay.

Mrs Anstey mistook her silence for embarrassment and said nervously, ‘I’m sorry—your aunt did ask—’

‘In her own words, my niece is not a child, Mrs Anstey! And I wish her to hear everything,’ said Lady Walcot grimly.

Eleanor rallied and found her voice. ‘But she is married to Mr Oliver?’

Mrs Anstey lowered her head and said, ‘Yes. It is shameful, is it not? He…he agreed to marry her in return for a sum of money—paid by Guthrie.’

‘Why didn’t Mr Guthrie marry her himself? Why didn’t your husband insist?’

‘By the time her condition was discovered my husband was dead, and we were on the verge of bankruptcy.’ Mrs Anstey’s voice faded again and Lady Walcot took over the story.

‘Mrs Anstey found herself without anyone to advise or help her and the one man who might have been her support proved to be her worst enemy. He refused to marry Miss Anstey—at first he even denied that the child was his! Then, when he was forced to admit the truth, he paid another man to shoulder his responsibilities.’

‘How did Mr Oliver come to agree to this dreadful scheme? He was a partner in the firm, too. Why did he not take up your defence?’

‘Jonas was…was more masterful. He knows how to get people to do as he wishes—I can’t explain how,’ said Mrs Anstey, ‘and Mr Oliver was in severe financial difficulties himself. He had always been fond of Evadne and he was happy to marry her—but without the money it would have been out of the question.’

‘It has proved impossible to find out why the firm foundered, Eleanor,’ said Lady Walcot. ‘The books disappeared after Henry Anstey shot himself. But Mrs Anstey saw them in Guthrie’s possession the day before they vanished and she believes he still has them—or has destroyed them. And is it not significant that he seems to have survived the firm’s collapse with his own fortune intact?’

‘Conscience money,’ said Mrs Anstey sadly. ‘He paid conscience money. He made a fool of my husband, and a paramour of my daughter, and he thinks that he has solved everything when he buys a husband for Evadne. But how could he do it to us—to Evadne, to me? We loved him! We trusted him!’ She shook her head mournfully. ‘He was such a dear little boy!’

‘Are you absolutely certain that Mr Guthrie is the villain?’ Eleanor heard the slightly desperate note in her own voice and tried to speak more calmly. ‘It seems so strange. Is there no one else?’

‘It was strange, Miss Southeran! At first I refused to believe that he had cheated us, I refused to believe that he could be so wicked—so like his father! I begged, I pleaded with him to explain what had happened.’ Mrs Anstey dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief and continued, ‘But he pushed me away. He said we could think what we liked, that he had found a husband for Evadne, and enough money to pay for a passage to England for Marianne and me. That should be enough. His manner was so…so hard! It was as if he couldn’t bear to look at us…’ She paused, then added, ‘The only other person involved was Mr Oliver, who was as poor as we were until Guthrie paid him to…to marry Evadne.’ She shook her head obstinately. ‘In the end he was just like his father. No, Miss Southeran, Jonas Guthrie is the cause of all our troubles. What else can I think?’

‘Indeed, what else can anyone think, Eleanor?’ said her aunt sternly.

‘I…I’m not sure…He left you entirely without resources?’

‘He must have had some vestige of feeling. He paid for our passage to England, he arranged for someone to meet us when we landed and take us to our Vereker cousins in Berkeley Square. They have been very good to us. But we have not spoken to Jonas since we arrived in England. Indeed, we have avoided meeting each other since we came to London, and, though I understand he was a frequent visitor at Berkeley Square before Marianne and I came from America, he has not been there since.’ Mrs Anstey blinked down at her hands. ‘I…I still find it difficult to believe…’

She stood up. ‘I’m afraid you will have to excuse me. I must go and fetch Marianne from her lesson; she will wonder where I am.’ She hesitated and then said timidly, ‘Miss Southeran, I agreed to talk to you today because Lady Walcot has been so very good to Marianne and me. I do not know what I would have done without her. Thanks to the help from my cousins and your aunt’s kindness in sponsoring Marianne in London, I now have hope that one of my daughters at least will make the marriage she deserves. Lord Morrissey has been so very attentive. But any scandal…I know I can be sure of your discretion.’

‘Of course,’ said poor Eleanor, pulling herself together. ‘And I see now why my aunt wished me to hear your story. I am grateful to you for being so frank with me, Mrs Anstey.’

‘I saw it as my duty,’ said Mrs Anstey simply.

As they got into the carriage again Eleanor was conscious that her aunt was waiting for her to say something. But what was there to say? Mr Guthrie was a complete villain, it appeared—there was no mistaking the sincerity of Mrs Anstey’s feelings. Before talking to her Eleanor had thought, hoped even, that the woman might be a charlatan—it wouldn’t be the first time that a poor widow with a beautiful daughter had tricked her way into society. But unless Mrs Anstey was a consummate actress, which Eleanor very much doubted, she had been telling the truth. This was no scandalmonger, no vindictive gorgon—this was a woman patently sincere in her distress and shame. Mrs Anstey was completely convinced of Guthrie’s guilt, and very unhappy that it was so.