‘Of course — of course,’ put in Tony, who didn’t at all. ‘Then he must and will be pardoned.’
Here, much to everyone’s astonishment and Aunt Agatha’s delight, the quiet voice of Cicely broke in upon the gentlemen. ‘Has it occurred to any of us that he may not want a pardon? For my part I do not think he does. Nor do I think he will come forward.’
But Major Faunce was inclined to agree with Cicely. ‘Though,’ he said, ‘I have a theory that my brother shares with me, that the Scarecrow is none other than the famous Captain Clegg, believed by some to have been hanged at Rye, and buried in the churchyard here.’
Cicely knew that she dared not move lest she betray herself. Nor did she trust herself to look at Christopher, but sat, her heart contracted in the grip of deadly fear, while Faunce beside her went on doggedly: ‘If this is true then it will be worth his while to stand as witness, for then his pardon would be doubled. But can they do it? Can they pardon a high-seas pirate?’
Sir Antony was emphatic on this point. ‘The Crown can pardon anyone it pleases — but they’ve got to prove he was Clegg and how would you set about that?’
The calculating voice of the soldier answered. ‘Because, me dear sir, the mark of Clegg is on his arm, an old tattoo mark. A picture on his right forearm of a man walking the plank with a shark beneath.’
Here Maria broke in excitedly: ‘But that was the picture on the arm of the man who rescued us from Paris and —’
There was a sudden sharp splintering of crash and Cicely’s glass shattered against the candelabra, spilling its red wine over the table. She was profuse in her apologies, but she had achieved her object, for by the time all was quiet again after the dabbings and the moppings-up, people were wondering what they had been talking about, and started afresh. All but Faunce, who sat silent and stubborn beside her.
Cicely was pale, but the set of her chin was determined and she now looked round as though challenging anyone to reopen the subject. Two people alone noted this and loved her the more. Aunt Agatha and Christopher Syn. But Maria would not be put off, and turning to her sister, continued: ‘You seem to forget what I saw in Hythe this morning, Cicely. I don’t think the Scarecrow is as wonderful as all that, since there is one spy he has not caught.’ Now everyone was all attention to Maria she glanced triumphantly at her sister and went on: ‘I know he is a spy and a very dangerous one, since it was he who forced my poor Jean to do all those terrible things, and then betrayed him. And then you know what happened.’ Here she became tearful and was about to tell Major Faunce how her young foolish husband had been denounced and guillotined when Doctor Syn, as though to change the painful subject, spoke to her across the table. ‘Dear me, I wish I had known you were going into Hythe, Maria, dear child. I would have asked you to do a little errand for me. To call in at Mr. Joyce the saddler for a pair of blinkers that I ordered for my churchyard pony. I fear she is getting beyond my control — she actually unseated me the other day — having caught sight of the Beadle.’ Cicely alone noticed the gleam in his eye and hurriedly looked away for fear of laughing outright. The Squire was about to say that he quite agreed with the pony — but the Vicar continued, ‘But there, I beg your pardon. You were telling us something interesting. What you saw in Hythe, was it not?’
Maria was delighted that the Vicar had for once deigned to notice her, and broke off, without so much as asking the Major’s pardon, to answer him: ‘Oh, dear Doctor Syn, did I not tell you? ’Twas while Mamma and Cicely were in the Bonnet Shop, and I was alone in the carriage, that I saw Monsieur Barsard. I know it was he. But I did not wish him to see me, so I hid and then I watched him through the window after he had passed. So I am quite sure it was the brute. But I don’t really see why you should all be so pleased with the Scarecrow since he has failed to catch the leader of Robespierre’s spies.’
It was at that moment that Lady Caroline, thinking that her daughters had taken too much license in the conversation, and seeing a restive look in Sir Antony’s eye, which meant one thing only — port — rose to her feet, and the other ladies followed suit and accompanied her to the drawing-room.
Aunt Agatha’s eagle eye had not missed any of Cicely’s reactions, and she felt strangely protective towards her now she knew what the girl was faced with. She applauded the deliberate action that Cicely had taken in silencing Maria, and vowed she would not rest until she had probed this disquieting problem further. For what at first had seemed to her the Overture to an ordinary though charming Romance, now took on an almost menacing air and her fey Scots instinct told her that something vital was unfolding before her very eyes.
So she waited opportunity to draw Cicely aside, and taking both her hands in a surprisingly firm grip told her to be of stout heart, and that she was with them whatever might befall. Her Highland home was at their disposal, and, if they had to take the journey hurriedly, why, then, Gretna Green could be taken on the way. From the strong fingers of the little old lady into Cicely’s hands, then through her very veins, there seemed to flow some of the virile fighting spirit of the Gordons, for her chin went up and her eyes lost the haunted look that had clouded them during that period at dinner. She smiled very sweetly, then leant over and kissed her little great-aunt.
Lady Caroline bustled back, and through the open door came the strains of an orchestra tuning up. She begged Cicely to hasten to the ballroom as the guests were already arriving in droves and that she could not see to it all by herself, Maria had vanished and that tiresome gentleman, your dear Papa, was not yet out of the dining-room. From the noise issuing from that room she strongly suspected that he had opened another bin. She would stay and rest awhile with Aunt Agatha, for she knew she was dangerously near a ‘fit of the flutters’.
So for the next hour Cicely, abandoned by the rest of the Cobtrees, played the hostess, launched the party, received and introduced so many people and danced with so many others that she had no time to think of herself.
It was during one of those duty dances that she had the leisure to glance around her, for it was a minuet, and her partner was as slow as the music. For some time she had been conscious of eyes upon her and searched the throng for a sign of him.
When she reached the top of the hall she found him looking down at her from the gallery, which had been thrown open to the villagers and was thronged with eager, shining faces. She was so relieved to see him and to find that he was not dancing with anyone else that her heart missed a beat and, missing a step, she had to do an undignified little hop to right herself. When she looked up again he had vanished. Her heart sank again, yet when the music finished she made her way to the door, and there he was, standing in the midst of a crowd. He saw her — indeed he had been waiting for her — and excusing himself he made his way towards her. ‘Why, Cicely, child,’ he said in his best parochial manner, ‘you must not overtire yourself. You have been dancing for the best part of an hour. I know you will find it hard to tear yourself away from all these young men, but I prescribe a rest and a glass of punch.’ He put his hand under her arm and led her swiftly through the hall. Not a word was spoken, but she seemed to understand, for she ran from him to return with a hooded cloak, and together they went out. In the muddy drive he stopped, picked her up and carried her in his arms through the lych-gate to the Church Tower.