It was Mr. Thrace, arrayed in his riding dress; he strode towards us, bowed, and was made known to Cassandra, who alone of the party was yet a stranger to him.
“A ball!” Ann Prowting cried. “I am longing for a ball!”
“Then you must certainly come,” Mr. Thrace returned easily, as tho’ the office of inviting guests to Stonings was already his, “and as the distance between our homes is so great,” his gaze moved with warmth to Catherine Prowting, “you and all your family must certainly spend the night.”
“Julian,” Major Spence interposed gently, “we must leave the details of her party in Lady Imogen’s capable hands.”
“Does she plan to attend? I had not thought she would remain so long in the country.” Mr. Thrace bowed, a satiric expression about his lips. He lacked her ladyship’s high animal spirits this morning — the natural result, perhaps, of his losses at the faro table; but he appeared no less certain of himself than when I had first observed him. He was determined to display himself as the lord of Stonings. The battle, then, was well and truly joined.
But which of them —which of them? — had Lord Harold’s proof ranged on their side?
It seemed unlikely that Lady Imogen should have hired Old Philmore or his nephew to steal the chest; she was too little known in the country, and too high in the instep to condescend in Normandy Street or at Thatch Cottages. But necessity might work the cruellest alteration in a person’s habits, and necessity was Lady Imogen’s goad. She was distressed in her circumstances, and on the brink of losing her fortune. In such a case, might she avail herself of those same bonds of obligation and custom I had remarked in our servant Sally Mitchell? Lady Imogen’s maid might be familiar with every soul in Alton, and be despatched with certainty to the very man required to do the job.
In the case of Mr. Thrace, the matter was entirely easy. He came and went from Chawton and Alton as tho’ Hampshire born and bred. He was in the habit of dining at the Middletons’, and might have encountered Old Philmore any time these past several weeks; for a gentleman to engage the discreet services of a labourer was a simple matter of pounds and pence. And there was this that must arouse the deepest suspicion in my breast: Thrace had regaled our entire dinner party with the history of the Rubies of Chandernagar — a story which must be apocryphal, and employed for only one purpose: to explain the sudden appearance of strangers at Chawton Cottage, searching by stealth for a hidden treasure — or entering the house by force when its owners were absent.
“Pray come through to the terrace,” Lady Imogen commanded. She did not rebuke the upstart Beau for his pretensions, or throw down her gauntlet in public; indeed, she looked blithely unconscious. “It is in a dubious state of repair, but will serve charmingly for a nuncheon. See, Charles, how I have ordered Rangle to scatter the little tables about, and arrange the pyramids of fruit so delightfully? This is the only sort of picnic I will bear: with firm stone underfoot, and ample accommodation for every guest, and no fears of dirt or damp to tarnish one’s clothing.”
“An excellent arrangement,” he replied with playful courtesy, “but hardly so like a picnic.”
“Bah! You cavalry officers are never content unless you may bivouac on the hard ground, with a fire at your feet and a Spanish maiden to boil your coffee. I know how it is! Don’t attempt to beguile me, Charles — I know you for a blackguard of old!”
When the raspberry cordial and the Madeira wine had been drunk, and a quantity of cold meat and peaches eaten, there was nothing to do but watch the Middleton girls chase one another through the grass. Mr. Prowting, with all the beauty of the lake spread before him, expressed a regret that he had not thought to bring rods and tackle; and this began an exhaustive discussion of coarse fishing among the gentlemen, Mr. Thrace in particular being addicted to the sport. He and Mr. Prowting determined to walk down to the water itself, but could not tempt the ladies to join them. Mr. Middleton and Miss Beckford elected to rest in the shade before the arduous journey back to Alton; Cassandra was observing the little girls at play; Henry amused Lady Imogen with an anecdote regarding their mutual acquaintance in Town; Major Spence listened courteously to some effusion of Miss Benn’s. I guarded my privacy jealously, and cast about for the most effective means of searching the vast property.
It seemed a ridiculous hope, this idea that I might discover a single chest amidst all the objects of a noble household amassed over more than a century, and that house presently under repair. Even to attempt such a search was folly, and dangerously offensive to my hosts. I suspected Mr. Thrace and Lady Imogen equally, but I could not bring myself to steal away from the company, and lose my way in the passages of Stonings, where I might encounter any number of servants duly engaged in their proper affairs. How was I to discern which bedroom belonged to the principal parties, and how to justify my presence in either of them?
“Do you hunt with your brother, Miss Austen?”
Lady Imogen stood before me, her arm through Henry’s.
“As my brother will expose me to derision without remorse — I must confess I am a sad horsewoman.”
“But how is this!” she exclaimed. “Your brothers all mad for sport — intimates of Mr. Chute at the Vyne — and you will not undertake to ride? I have just such a little hunter in my stables even now as should tempt you, Miss Austen. You must walk down with me to visit Nutmeg.”
“With pleasure,” I assented, “provided you do not compel me to mount. I will stand outside the box and admire your Nutmeg all you wish.”
“That will do for a start. Take some of the sugar from the table — we must not arrive empty-handed.”
The scheme of a walk being generally broached, and the Prowting girls — no riders themselves — being eager to admire the cunning little hunter, a rather larger party set out for the stables than originally planned. Lady Imogen monopolised Henry with her desire to be made known to the Master of the Vyne, and admitted to all the revels of the local hunt; from her playful words it seemed she intended to be established at Stonings by autumn.
“I have long been allowed to hunt with the Quorn,” she informed Henry, “and must own that I prefer the Melton country; but what is that to the delights of one’s neighbours, and the intimacy of a local pack? I shall not disdain it. Perhaps my father may go so far as to look in once or twice. He is a punishing rider to hounds!”
Mr. Thrace placed himself beside Catherine Prowting, and talked to her of the Prince Regent. “It is a fearful crush at Carlton House, but nothing compared to the present scene in Brighton, where the Prince is established for the summer months. And the Pavilion itself is so exquisitely curious — it is a treat akin to Astley’s Amphitheatre, to be bidden in attendance!”
“I have never visited Astley’s Amphitheatre,” Catherine returned hesitantly, “and Papa is most adamant in his opposition to Brighton. Watering places he regards as insipid, and dens of vice.”
“As a man of the world, he must fear the effect of your beauty on the town,” Thrace observed with gallantry. “You should be carried off within a day of descending upon Brighton, Miss Prowting!”
There were half a dozen horses turned out in the loose boxes; among them I recognised the powerful grey Mr. Thrace had ridden in Chawton. Lady Imogen called for her groom — a spare figure with a weathered face and sharp eyes rather like a monkey’s — and said, “Lead out Nutmeg, Robley; I will have my girl admired.”
The groom entered the box, and led the mare into the stable yard, so that all the gentlemen might examine her lines and comment upon her excellence as a hunter.
“You paid all of six hundred guineas for her, Lady Imogen?”