Chapter Twenty-Eight
…In vino veritas, If they had drunke wine, they would have tolde the truth.
When Benjamin Ellsworth alighted from the coach roof at the Angel Inn, it was more of a plummet than a controlled descent, his limbs being so stiff with cold.
No one in his right mind would travel in such weather if he could avoid it, and no one in his right mind would submit to an outside seat if he could possibly afford an inside one, but Benjamin had done both.
“Why not wait one more day?” his mother had urged, when he insisted on setting out from the White Hart in Winchester. “It may be warmer tomorrow.”
“It will be warmer tomorrow,” his father observed. “The glass was falling yesterday, but today it is steady.”
“I told Maria I would return in a few days, and I have already been gone for three.” Seeing the eagerness in his eyes, they made no more entreaties, though Charles and Jeanne smiled at each other. Young love, the smile said, and they were glad for it.
He could have paid for an inside seat for both legs of the journey, Winchester to London and London to Oxford—after all, soon their money cares would be no more—but the habits of economy were too engrained in him, and he had a more important use for the money in town.
“You!” cried a voice, as Benjamin bent to pick up his portmanteau from where the coachman flung it.
Straightening, he came face to face with a stranger, but one whose burly, jowly appearance stirred faint recognition.
To judge by his ruddiness and the loudness with which he had accosted Benjamin, the man must have come from the Angel Inn’s bar-room, and Benjamin would have gone on after according him a polite nod, but he was the next instant (literally) taken by the button.
“I beg your pardon,” said Benjamin.
“And I youse. Yaws. Yours,” slurred the man, bowing and knocking his hat brim against Benjamin’s chest. “Bodge.”
“What?” With a grimace of impatience, he made to free himself, but the man clung harder.
“I’m Bodge,” the man said again, pointing at his own chest with his thumb. “Porter at St. John’s. Where’ve ye put her?”
“My good man, I have not the honor of understanding you and time presses. Please release me.”
“Miss Allen,” bellowed Bodge. “Eloped with her, and now where’ve ye put her?”
Eloped with Miss Allen? That had been intelligible enough, unfortunately. By this point heads were turning, but Benjamin was too impatient to ask questions. Laying hold of Bodge’s hand, he detached it roughly, growling, “I’ve done nothing of the kind, so shog off!”
Overbalanced, Bodge twirled comically away across the innyard, before he collapsed on a bench and sunk into a stupor.
Heaving his portmanteau onto his back, Benjamin made a swift exit into the High Street, forgetting Bodge and his accusations by the time he passed St. Mary Hall.
The walk warmed him, restoring his circulation to its usual rate and more.
Not only the walk. Because in minutes he would see Maria again, whose company he had missed.
Anticipation of their reunion would have sped his steps even if he did not have his news to share with her.
Wanting no delays from Chop and Co, Benjamin fitted his key in the door and hurtled up the two sets of stairs before Rundell could do more than come flying from the kitchen and Mrs. Chop from the parlor.
“You gave us no warning of your return, Mr. Ellsworth!” called up Mrs. Chop.
“I’ll be right up to light the fires!” shouted Rundell.
To light the fires? Why were they not already lit?
Trepidation clutching his heart like a fist, he flung open the door to find an apartment cold as an icehouse. Unlit, unfired.
“Maria?” he ventured.
No response came, though he could hear Chop and Co scurrying about two floors below. The apartment was echoing. Empty.
Where was she?
Apart from tossing his portmanteau into the passage, he went no farther. He couldn’t bear to, as it was dark within, the shutters and curtains closed.
Where was she?
Breathlessly, Rundell ran up the stairs, lamp in hand. “With our apologies, Mr. Ellsworth. If you had let us know you would be returning, we would have made things ready. Have you had any supper? Mrs. Chop is warming something for you.”
“I had something in Uxbridge,” he muttered.
Never mind that he had been looking forward to a sandwich and a hot cup of tea by the fireside with Maria beside him.
His appetite had vanished, along with his chill.
If anything, he felt hot now. Hot with concern—bordering on panic—and with…
awareness that he must swallow his pride and beg for information.
He didn’t hesitate.
“Where is Mrs. Ellsworth?”
Rundell gaped at him, from where she was lighting the hall sconce.
“You don’t know, sir?”
“If I knew, would I have asked?”
“Well, she’s not here.”
Benjamin briefly imagined throttling the unhelpful maid, but explaining the act to Mrs. Chop and being hauled away by the parish watchman would waste time.
“I see that, Rundell,” he answered in clipped tones. “I am asking if you know her whereabouts because I do not.”
“No, sir! I mean, she sent a note to Mrs. Chop, but it only said that she would be gone some time, and she enclosed four shillings which she hoped would pay a fortnight’s rent, though you know his lordship paid the first six months, but Mrs. Chop entered it in her ledger—”
Maria paid a fortnight’s rent? (Or what she imagined would be a fortnight’s rent?) He knew it had come out of her precious sofa money, and he felt even worse.
“I’m going out again,” he said shortly.
“But—but—what about the fires?” poor Rundell asked, rushing back now to peer downward at him over the rail.
“Never mind them. Or do as you please.”
Not two minutes later he was pounding on the door at Keele’s School, ignoring the sign which read in neat lettering: “Measles. No visitors, please.”
Had Benjamin been illiterate, all would have been plain soon enough because when he left off knocking, his impatient ears caught the sound of footsteps, and a muffled voice called, “Measles. No visitors, please. You may leave a note in the box.”
“I know,” he answered, putting his mouth as close to the door as possible so he need not shout.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, but I must speak with Mrs. Weatherill at once.
Or Mr. Weatherill, if Mrs. Weatherill cannot come.
I am her brother-in-law Mr. Ellsworth. And I’ve had the measles!
” he added, anxious to avoid being turned away.
To his great relief, the voice of Paulsen the maid said, “Wait there, please.”
Had he not been so frantic to learn his wife’s whereabouts, Benjamin might have felt guilty for pulling Mrs. Weatherill from her duties, as it was some time before the door opened.
When it did, light spilling out, it was only to the width of a foot, revealing Adela Weatherill in cap and apron, shadows beneath her eyes.
She was a smaller woman than Maria and her hair darker, but the candor and honesty of her expression reminded him of her younger sister, and he felt his throat constrict.
“Mr. Ellsworth,” Adela greeted him. “What can be the matter?”
“May I come inside? It’s no danger—I’ve had the measles.”
She hesitated and then said, “Yes. All right. But don’t come too near or touch anything. And I hope no parents see you. They have been clamoring for entrance.”
Retreating several yards, she allowed him into the entry, where they were joined by her husband Gerard, as pale and weary as his wife. He nodded at Benjamin. “Ellsworth. What is it? Something with Ranulph and Bonkers?”
Adela inhaled sharply, but Benjamin was quick to reassure her. “No, no—nothing about your children.”
“Is it Maria then?” Della asked. “Is she unwell?”
His own face fell. “Then, you haven’t seen her?”
“Seen her?”
“Is she not at home?” frowned Weatherill, a hand to his wife’s shoulder.
“No.” Benjamin swallowed. “I’ve been—away—myself for several days, as I told her, but when I returned this evening, she was not there, and the landlady—the maid, rather—told me she wrote to them to say she would be away for some time, with no direction or date given.
I thought she might have come here or written to you about it. ”
“She couldn’t come here,” Adela reminded him. “It wouldn’t be safe for her because she’s never had the measles—”
“And I haven’t gone for the post for days,” added Gerard.
“—But she’s surely with one of my sisters or my mother,” continued Adela, “and it must be my mother because how would Maria get to St. Lawrence or Abingdon without hiring someone to take her there?”
“In any event, Ellsworth, if she is not in Iffley, Mrs. Barstow will know where she is.”
“Yes,” agreed his wife. “Maria would never go off without telling somebody, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred it would be Mama or Frances.”
“Could you—tell me how to find my way to Iffley Cottage?” Benjamin asked. “I can walk there, can’t I?”
“Mr. Ellsworth, you surely don’t mean to walk there now,” Adela marveled. “It’s quite dark once you cross the Pettypont.”
“I’ll carry a lantern.” (If he had to beg, borrow or steal one.) “How far is it?”
“A little over two miles. You might be there by nine o’clock, perhaps. But why not wait until morning? I am certain she is there and safe.”
“That may be, but I’m sorry. I can’t explain now, but I can’t rest until I know where she is.
We’ve had a little…not a misunderstanding, but a mystery, which I would like to clear up.
” He could hardly explain the reason for his urgency, not when he had still to put it into words himself.
Benjamin only knew he must find Maria for the words to be spoken.
“Dear me. I would go with you, if I could, or Gerard would, but we cannot leave the children.”
“I understand. I’m not asking you to, Mrs. Weatherill—”