Page 83 of The Curious Story of the Missing Lady
Madeline righted herself. “We bid you farewell, Mr Herrick. We shall continue Papa’s task where fate so cruelly cut him off, and we shall see the magistrate post-haste.”
“I will show you out, sir,” said Foster.
Herrick bowed his head and left the room.
“Mama,” whispered Madeline, kneeling to her ear, “tell us what made you swoon so.”
“Dear ones, I have no wish to beguile you with matters that you are not able to handle at the moment. Suffice it to say that news of that letter’s forgery gladdens my heart.”
“Gladdens your heart?” Emily said with incredulity.
“Yes, child,” said Mama, a tear rolling down her cheek, “for it proves your father’s loyalty to me. I’ll say no more at this time.” With this, she lifted herself off the settee. “I’m off to rest. Trouble me no more with this matter today.”
Chapter 58
An officious-looking man in spectacles busied himself at a desk laden with papers, feverishly scribbling on one, then another, then back to the first, then to the second. This he did relentlessly until Lady Madeline cleared her throat.
The man’s head snapped up as if caught in some sinful act.
“Yes?” he said. “What do you want?”
“We are here to see the magistrate.”
“Oh, you are, are you?” he said. He was short in stature, clean-shaven, and bald on the top of his head. His face was pinched as if he’d spent the majority of his years squinting at the same tiny object. It seemed as if his lips had aided in the process, for they pursed tightly to a point when they were not engaged in the act of denying access to the magistrate.
“I shall tell you something,” he said, pointing with his quill. “The magistrate is a busy man. Terribly busy. And only those with an appointment to see him shall see him. And these eyes of mine, though yellowed from too little sunlight and too much dust, can spot a no-appointmenter from twenty miles if at an inch. You do not have appointments, any of you?”
Madeline looked at her mother and her sister. “No, we do not.”
The man smiled a weasel’s grin. “I thought as much. These eyes of mine, watery as they are from a’staring at small figures day in and day out, can tell that about you if they can tell anything.”
“Pardon me,” said Mama, “but you are not only the queerest man I have ever met, you are also the most ill-tempered and insolent fellow in all of England.”
“IF there was evidence to your having surveyed all of England, it would still make little difference to my nature. I am whom the Good Lord above hath made, and I shall not divert from the plan He hath set for me. As for seeing the magistrate, your countenances have softened my heart. Hence, I am willing to have you fill out this form here. It is a petition to see the magistrate athisearliest convenience and not a moment sooner.”
“Might I inform you,” said Mama, and here her tone was most dire, “that we are here at the behest of Lord Stamford himself. If the good name of Whitcombe does not grant us sufficient reason to push through your sodden petition, then nothing does.”
At the mention of Lord Stamford and the family surname, the man’s face unpinched slightly. His mouth moved as if trying to locate a crumb in his teeth. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and said, “Excuse me a moment.” He then rose from the desk and disappeared through a door at the far end of the office.”
“What a terrible man,” said Madeline. “I have a good mind to hurl the most unladylike epithets at him.”
“Patience, Madeline,” said Mama, a sly smile on her face.
There arose an uproar from the back room, which Madeline surmised was the court. A great, booming voice was chopping short, sharp syllables, and all had the unmistakable air of reprimanding.
A moment later, the pinch-faced man reappeared. He looked like a lamb with a headache, his eyes turned down, his spectacles sliding down to the bridge of his nose from perspiration.
“My Lady,” he said softly, “I am heartily sorry for the way I spoke to you. His Lordship is held in high esteem by this court, and for me to denigrate his good name by treating you the way I did is unforgiveable. If these eyes of mine, cloudy as they are from ten thousand sorrows, can see anything, they can turn inward and see a man poisoned by his own sense of self-importance. I beg your forgiveness.”
“Of course we forgive you,” said Mama, smiling gently.
“Then,” said the man, “right this way, My Lady.”
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“My dear Countess,” said Magistrate Harrington, “it has been too long since I last laid eyes upon your friendly face. What is it I can do for you?”
Mama stood rigid with hands folded before her. “Recently, you freed a woman being held for abducting and keeping my Lady Madeline.”
