The womanly compassion dwindled to curiosity. “My uncle? What about your aunt? She is the one who had a lover!"
"Lover?” He looked confused. It darted into my head that he meant to deny it. “Are you referring to Mr. Jones?"
"Of course. And he is young enough to be her son."
"He was her son. That was her guilty secret. I don't know how McShane discovered it, but it is pretty clear he knew, and took advantage of it. There were letters, receipts, a deal of evidence that McShane had been extorting money from my aunt."
I snatched my hand back. “I don't believe it! You are making that up to hide her shame."
"An illegitimate child is hardly less shameful than having a lover,” he said crossly.
I did not really care if Lady Margaret had a whole platoon of illegitimate children. What vexed me was that he had turned Barry back into a scoundrel, just when I thought we had reclaimed him to relative respectability. “What did you find?"
Weylin put a little heap of papers on the table and began passing them to me, one at a time. The first was a letter from Ireland dated five years before, written during my uncle's short trip home, before coming to live at Hernefield. I read:
Dear Margaret: While in Dublin I chanced to meet Andrew Jones. The name, perhaps, will be familiar to you? He is twenty-five years old. He was teaching in a poor boys’ school here, and living in abominable conditions. I looked into his history, and know the truth, so do not try to deny it. He seems a very nice, modest lad. I am shocked that you should treat him so badly. Remember that, whatever of his papa, from his mama he carries noble Weylin blood in his veins.
I am bringing him to England. Something must be done to better his condition. I shall not embarrass you by making public what you have done, but I must insist on repairing the damage to the extent possible. There is no reason your family need be aware of it. I shall visit my sister, Mrs. Barron, who lives near Parham. You need not publicly recognize him or me, but we must meet and decide what is to be done about Andrew. I shall contact you when I arrive. I trust we can handle this matter amicably. Sincerely, B. J. Barron.
I wanted to take the letter and fling it into the grate, to hide from the world my uncle's despicable trick. He had ferreted out Lady Margaret's shameful secret and used it to put her under his power. Without a word, Weylin handed me another letter. It was addressed a week later. I read:
I cannot like your suggestion of meeting in London, where we might be recognized. An out-of-the-way place would serve our purpose better. I have found a cottage for sale at Lindfield, ten miles south of Tunbridge Wells. I understand that you are not wealthy, but Macintosh cannot have left you destitute. Have you not got a widow's allowance, or some jewelry you can sell?
There were other letters. I just glanced at them. They had to do with selling jewelry-a sapphire ring, a ruby brooch-the items Barry sold to Bradford. He wrote, too, of buying the house, and arranging meetings every four months at Lindfield. There was an undertone of menace. Barry did not come right out and say, “Do it, or I shall trumpet your shame to the world,” but the message was there, between the lines. But at least Barry was not after the money for himself; it was for Lady Margaret's illegitimate son.
When I had read the last letter, Weylin gathered them all up and set them aside. “There is no need to tell your mama about this,” he said. “McShane and Margaret are dead and gone. I shall track down this Andrew Jones, and see who he is."
"We know who he is. He is your aunt's by-blow. I see nothing amiss in my uncle helping him."
"That is what McShane led my aunt to believe,” he replied curtly. “Obviously Margaret did have a child out of wedlock. I cannot believe she abandoned him to shift for himself in the world. She was not a monster, after all."
It did seem a little odd that Barry had gone to such pains for a stranger. “If she knew where he was, then she would not have believed this Andrew Jones was him,” I said uncertainly.
"It is my belief he was sent to India, where such problem lads are often sent. Your uncle ran across him there, or heard the story, and decided to make gain on it. Very likely the lad is dead, and McShane hired a cohort. This plan of extortion would be risky if the real Andrew turned up. I plan to go to London tomorrow and begin investigating there. I shall try to keep your family out of the case when it comes to court. You said your uncle left no sizable estate?"
"Mama had to pay for his burial,” I said.
"Then it seems this Jones fellow got away with the lot. I'll see him behind bars before this is over,” he said angrily.
"That will hardly keep my uncle's name out of it."
"My hope is that Mr. Jones will knuckle under and return what he has stolen without going to court."
The whole story was so shocking and degrading that it took me a moment to come to terms with it. I unthinkingly poured myself a glass of the brandy and took a healthy swallow. It tasted like fire as it burned its way through me. I immediately fell into a coughing fit, but once that was over, I found the brandy invigorating.
"What makes you so sure Andrew Jones is not your aunt's son? They spent weeks together, over the space of five years. According to Mrs. Sangster, your aunt was extremely fond of him. Surely she would recognize her own son."
"After a quarter of a century? She had not seen him since birth-but that is not to say she simply abandoned him. I cannot and do not believe it. As she never had any other children, she probably wanted to believe he was her son. The pair of them preyed on her guilt and sentiment. It was a despicable thing to do-and it robs her real son of his rightful inheritance, too."
"I thought he was supposed to be dead, in India.” As I began assessing Weylin's story with a calmer mind, I discovered it was nothing but a tissue of unfounded statements and wild imaginings. “It seems much more likely to me that Andrew Jones is her son, and my uncle was only trying to shame your aunt into doing as she ought. Surely he had some proof of his identity. A birth certificate… something."
"What business was it of your uncle's?” he demanded, in no soft voice. “The fact is, McShane returned from India penniless, and saw his chance to live in luxury off my aunt for the rest of his life."
"My uncle did not return penniless! He had five thousand pounds, which vanished. And he lived on his pension. He did not live at Lindfield. Only your aunt and her son met there."
"And my aunt's male servant. The description I had from Mrs. Sangster sounds like McShane. I mean to take one of those sketches of McShane to show her. I daresay we shall discover the servant was no one else but your uncle."
"You will not take one of my sketches, sir. My uncle was not sunk to waiting on your aunt and her bastard, I assure you. As to his living in luxury at your aunt's expense, I would hardly call that little cottage the lap of luxury. You are quick to jump to conclusions that suit you, milord! Your only concern is that Jones diddled you out of your aunt's money."
"There is more than money at issue here. Two unscrupulous men were preying on a vulnerable old lady, feeding her lies, terrorizing her. They are worse than thieves."
"I will not sit here and listen to my uncle being traduced in this manner when he cannot defend himself. Talk about unscrupulous men preying on a vulnerable lady! You have no proof for any of this."
"I soon will have. I shall leave for London early tomorrow to find Mr. Jones and beat the truth out of the scoundrel."
"You had best be very sure of your facts, sir, for if you slander my uncle, you will hear from my solicitor."
I flounced out of the parlor in high dudgeon. No words followed me about sparing my family shame. So much for his fine claim! I ran upstairs to tell Mama what had happened. Her agitation was as great as my own. We enjoyed a quarter of an hour's heated tirade against Lord Weylin, then decided to send for a pot of tea, as it was clear we would not be getting any sleep that night.