The wind came up while they were still in the coffee room, and by the time they were journeying up the last hill, Bolster was very depressed. He was fond of Moire Grange, his memories of the old place going back as far as memory served him. Harry seemed to be taking it well enough, but aware that his feelings must be harrowing at this moment, Bolster glanced at his friend uneasily.
Harry drew rein at the top of the hill and sat perfectly still. Why did one never really appreciate anything until it was lost? He let his eyes travel slowly along the winding path of the river, past the lodge gates, through the pleasant park, and around the foot of the low rise whereon stood the house itself. Even on this grey morning the spreading half-timbered old building looked warm and welcoming, with smoke drifting from several chimneys. The wind stirred the trees and riffled the surface of the river, and the ducks and mudhens darted busily about. The flower beds were bright with daffodil and hyacinth; the shrubs ablaze with yellow, pink, and white. His gaze lingered on the enormous and venerable oak shading the library and Mitchell's room, from whose branches so many impromptu swings had swung. How many tree houses it had supported… how many Redmonds had it seen come and go…
Bolster asked mildly, "Ain't that old Joseph?"
Harry blinked, and his jaw hardened. The butler's head was white now, but he was not too frail to put up a good struggle against the stocky man who sought to thrust him down the hill. Even as they watched, Joseph staggered and fell, and the other man tossed a valise after him, made a show of dusting off his hands, and started back toward the house.
"Jeremy," said Redmond. "D'you recall that fat damn Spaniard in Cadiz?"
"Yoicks!" cried Bolster joyfully.
Side by side, they thundered down the hill. In a blaze of speed the bay mare and the grey gelding raced up the rise and were upon the stocky man even as he turned a startled face to them. Two splendid horsemen leaned down. Two strong hands grasped.
'"Ey!" howled the stocky one, legs thrashing at the air.
"Put that man down!" bellowed an infuriated voice from the front door.
They obliged at once, and their burden soared, screeching, from their mutually relinquished hold, to splash into the river. Two laughing young faces turned to one another; two hats were doffed; two heads, one golden, one dark, bowed low.
"Wot the 'ell d'ye think you're blasted well a'doing of?" roared the individual in the doorway.
Harry dismounted and led Lace toward his butler, who had scrambled to his feet.
"Sir Harry…" gasped Joseph, eyes glistening suspiciously. "I am so very glad… to…" He broke off as Redmond's hand went out and, gripping it firmly, could not continue.
"I know, old friend," said Harry gently. "It don't look too bright just now. But you must not—"
"I said," yowled that irate voice, now almost upon them. "Wot the 'ell—"
"Be quiet!" frowned Lord Bolster. "Sir Harry is talking to his butler. Are you blind, fellow?"
"Fellow? 'Ere! 'Oo you callin' of a fellow?"
Harry turned, smiling faintly. A large individual wearing a much-too-tight jacket and a waistcoat that could not begin to cover his ample paunch regarded him balefully. "Bolster," he said curiously, "What d'ye suppose it is?"
The heavy features darkened, but into that small mind had crept a familiar name, and from crouching slightly as he made toward Harry he checked, straightened, and said a cautious, "Bolster… ?"
"It knows me!" cried Bolster, ecstatic. "I am f-famous, Harry!"
"I s'pose as you're Lord Bolster. In which case, you must be Sir 'Arry Redmond, wot useter own this old ruinated—"
"I have neither the desire nor the time to further our acquaintance." Harry's voice dripped ice. "Remove yourself and that person." He gestured toward the river bank up which the stocky man crawled with much spluttering.
"Can't do that, sir. Josiah Plum—Mr. Sanguinet's bailiff, I is. Come ter clean out the old broken down—"
A distant scream rose on the chill air. Harry returned to the saddle with a running leap that brought admiration to Mr. Plum and alarm to Bolster, who had just dismounted. Lace was whirled about and Harry was off at the gallop, Bolster rather tardily following.
A wagon was pulled up on the lane before Mrs. Norah Bacon's cottage, and two men were filling it with trunks, boxes, and articles of furniture while exhibiting a marked lack of either interest or care. They paused, looking up as the pretty bay mare flashed towards them across the velvet turf. "Cor…" breathed one. "Lookit him go!"
Harry continued to go, setting Lace at the picket fence without an instant's hesitation, effecting a sliding dismount while the mare yet ran, and leaping with hardly a check into the front hall of the pleasant old cottage.
A tiny woman, clad in a gown of black bombazine with a torn but snowy collar, her white lace cap sadly askew, her silver hair tumbling, clung defiantly to one sturdy beam from which a tall man attempted to dislodge her. Another shriek rent the air, cut off abruptly as Harry, the capes of his coat flying, exploded into the room, launched a right that sent her attacker soaring backwards, and had her in his arms in a whisper of time. "Norrie, dear," he began tenderly.
A strong hand grabbed his shoulder. He was wrenched around and staggered by a left to the jaw. Shaking his head, savage with delight at this opportunity to vent some of his frustrations, he plunged at the two who awaited him confidently. A few moments later, confidence gone, the second man, sprawled and groaning, was so unwise as to raise his head. Mrs. Bacon applied her frying pan to it with gusto, then, surveying the bent handle, murmured, "I never dreamed that wretched pan would be useful. The bottom was warped y'see, my dear Mister—er—Sir Harry. And…" Her lip began to tremble. She put down the pan, walked into his arms, and wept.
Lord Bolster rushed into the hall, surveyed the mayhem, scanned his somewhat battered friend, then went outside, closed the door and, leaning against the wall, folded his arms and waited.
Moments later a howl interrupted Harry's explanations to his nurse. He opened the front door hurriedly. His own travelling chaise stood behind the wagon. A new arrival was staggering about, bent double and clutching his middle. Bolster, pale with fury, strove mightily against two men who held his arms. Mr. Plum, reaching for the door handle, jumped back, threw up his hands, and leered, "No trouble, Sir Redmond. We don't want no trouble!"
Mrs. Bacon hurried onto the step and uttered a small cry, one hand flying to her chest. She had suffered a slight heart seizure some years earlier, and Harry knew he must get her out of this. He bit back a pithy response, therefore, and said sharply, "Bolster, don't mess about there! You know perfectly well the Marquis of Damon expects Mrs. Bacon!"
As he'd hoped, the dropping of Camille's famous name was effective. The bullies restraining Bolster let him go, then ducked as he swung on them, brandishing his riding crop furiously. The rest of Norrie's belongings would, Harry assured her, be carefully placed in the wagon, and he would soon deliver them, along with his own, to the Priory. Meanwhile, Lord Bolster would convey her to Cancrizans. There was a small dispute between himself and Mr. Plum as to his appropriation of the chaise, but since the vehicle was plainly marked with his initials, ownership was reluctantly conceded. When Plum triumphantly ordered Monsewer's horse freed from the poles, Jeremy just as triumphantly desired Joseph, who had now come up with them, to assist him in harnessing his fine grey gelding to the chaise. At length, Mrs. Bacon was ushered inside. Harry wrapped a warm travelling rug about her knees, quieted her anxieties with a kiss, sprang down, closed the door, and turned to Bolster.
"Harry," said that worthy in a troubled undervoice. "I don't like leaving you in this damned mess!"
"Get her the devil out of here!" Redmond murmured urgently. "I shall follow you with the wagon just as quickly as I can."
All afternoon Sir Harry strove doggedly against Mr. Plum and his leering sycophants. With the aid of the faithful Joseph, a footman, and a groom who had also refused to leave, the wagon was loaded with the belongi
ngs to which he was able to prove ownership. His progress through the house provided excellent entertainment for Plum and company, who did all possible to harass and impede him, nudging one another, shouting mockery, and howling their amusement. When Harry crossed to the drawing room sideboard to pour a glass of Madeira for himself and his three helpers, a swaggering lout snatched up and deliberately dropped the decanter. The lout was neatly floored for his insult, whereafter the rest of that uncouth crew took care to stay clear of Harry's deadly fists.
In the study, a hurried search through his father's desk brought forth a notepad carefully inscribed with their various birthdates, evoking a pang he could barely hide. A crude comment from one of his tormentors so infuriated him that he wrenched the next drawer too hard. The resultant cascade of papers, old quill pens, broken pencils, and all the litter that accumulates in desk drawers over a period of years added immeasureably to the amusement of his audience. Among the debris, he came upon a packet of letters half under the drawer lining, neatly tied and inscribed by a female hand. Curious, he stuffed them into his pocket.
Shortly after six o'clock, friends of M. Sanguinet began to arrive. An ill-assorted lot, clad in a miscellany of garments ranging from morning clothes to one magnificent fellow in full Ball dress, they prowled the house and engaged in furious altercations over various items of value. Choked with fury, Harry stalked through the uproar, head high, as they wrangled over his father's beloved clocks and miniatures, sterling, china, paintings, and rugs. Watching him with the eyes of love, Joseph fought to emulate that fiercely proud demeanour but stumbled along, barely able to see through his tears.
Sir Harry's intention to depart without further violence almost came to naught when he was forbidden to remove several fine old books Mitchell had purchased from a private library sale the previous summer. The more he argued with the adamant and insulting Plum, the louder and more hilarious grew the comments of the crowd, and he was urged to take his case "to ol' Parnell" at Sanguinet Towers. Through teeth gritted with fury he smiled, "I shall."
Joseph insisted upon driving the wagon, adding his few belongings to the contents, and they departed, profanely bidden adieu by Mr. Plum, his minions, and the guests.
At the top of the hill, Sir Harry drew rein. For a long, aching moment he looked back. Then, without a word, he rode on.
It was cold that evening, the wind moaning through the trees, a new moon peeping occasionally from behind racing clouds and casting shifting shadows across the narrow, deserted road. Lace was fidgety and, having seen Redmond twice glance back, Joseph turned also and voiced the fear that rank riders might be about. He had no sooner uttered the words than one of Harry's travelling pistols flashed into his hand as a horseman galloped after them.
An arm was waved vigorously. "It do be I, sir!"
The footman hove into sight, mounted on his old cob, a carpetbag slung behind the saddle. Thankfully, Harry restored the pistol to his deep pocket. Braggs announced his intention to go with them as far as the Priory, and although Harry was vehement in his protestations, the man said stubbornly, "Give me too much pay you done, sir, and well I knows it. I'll find myself another situation prompt-like with that letter you writ. I owes you more'n this, Sir Harry, so let me help, do!"
Harry was both touched and pleased. He'd had no intention of leaving Joseph alone on the roads with the wagon, but his need to confront the man who had so carelessly allowed his friends to plunder the Grange was a consuming flame. He gave one of his pistols to Braggs and insisted they should pass the night at "The Georgian" where he was well known. Promising the worried Joseph that he would travel to the Priory the following day, he funded them, waved a farewell, and was away at the gallop.
Looking after him, Braggs smiled admiringly, "A reg'lar out'n outer, our Sir Harry, eh Mr. Joseph?"
"Who's about to get his head blown off!" Joseph worried. "I know plenty about the Sanguinets, Braggs. Let me tell you… Poison, they are! Poison!"
Chapter IV
It began to drizzle shortly after nine o'clock, and by eleven was coming down in torrents. Lace was tired, Harry was cold, and the darkness had become so absolute that only his familiarity with the road enabled him to go on. To journey any farther tonight would be folly, but although he was well known in Tunbridge Wells, it appeared there was to be a large wedding on the morrow and that every available hostelry was filled to overflowing with those guests the bride's parents were unable to accommodate. Shivering after his third rejection, Harry made enquiries at the nearest stable, where an obliging ostler directed him " 'fust right, second left, dahn the lane. Missus Burnett's. Can't miss it, guv!" Harry had never been adept at recalling directions; he could and did miss it, and was drenched and half frozen when at last he came upon an inviting looking three-storey house set back from spreading lawns, before which a lantern illumined a swinging, rain-beaded sign that read "Mrs. Burnett's" and beneath this disclosure, "A Refined Boarding House for the Genteel Traveller."
Harry dismounted wearily and bestowed Lace and his instructions for her care, together with a shilling, upon a lad who ran up, poorly protected by a square of sacking. He strode up two steps, across a small porch, and opened the door into a warmly lamplit vestibule giving onto a parlour wherein several people sat about a leaping fire. They looked very genteel, indeed, but the thin and neat little lady behind the desk scrutinized the newcomer from sodden beaver to muddied boots and with folded arms and chilly mien informed him that regrettably she was "Full Up! And—what's more—"
Harry snatched off his hat as she spoke, and now, pushing wet locks back from his brow, said ruefully, "And what's more you run a respectable house and do not take in stray travellers with neither valise nor valet to recommend 'em, eh, ma'am?"
She eyed him warily, but the cut of the coat was awesome; his clumsy efforts had sent his dark hair into wet curls that made him show beguilingly youthful; the deep voice was gentle and cultured, and she liked his wide mouth and the set of his chin. A good deal of the starch had gone out of her voice, therefore, when she said, "S'right, sir!"
"Don't blame you at all, ma'am." He looked wistfully into the parlour, encountering the eyes of no less than six pretty young ladies who had been surveying his tall figure with interest. "My loss, for I can see your establishment is the kind we used to dream of in Spain. Oh, well…" He shrugged. "Best be on my way."
Hostility reeled before the full impact of his dazzling smile, and she said feebly, "You'll likely find… somewheres… sir."
"Not tonight, I'm afraid. Been just about everywhere. Though nowhere as home-like as this." He patted her hand. "Now take that worried look from your pretty eyes. I shall do."
His own green eyes were making Mrs. Burnett's heart beat faster than it had done for many a day and prompting the wish she was twenty years younger. "And—you was in Spain, sir? Oh, my! To send one of our fine young fighting men out on such a night . . ! It do seem downright cruel."
"I've slept under a hedge on many a worse night, I do assure you…"
"Hedge!" she cried indignantly. "For a gentleman such as yourself?" She pulled her register closer and, tearing her gaze from his hopeful face, peered at the close-written page. "We must have something …"
Half an hour later, sprawling before the fire that burned brightly in the parlour gate, Harry was almost too weary to pull off his boots. Accomplishing this he settled back, blinking drowsily at the flames and calling down blessings on Mrs. Burnett's head for having discovered that this small suite had just been vacated. A gust of wind sent smoke billowing down the chimney, and the waiter, entering with the tankard of ale he had ordered, observed it was a perishing night. Harry agreed, and expressed his relief that he had been able to find a room. "Did Mr. Burnett give you the suite, sir?" the waiter enquired curiously. "I doubt as they've changed the sheets yet." Harry assured him the suite had been allocated by the landlady herself, then desired that his riding coat be cleaned, his shirt and cravat washed and ironed, his beaver dried,
and his boots polished. "Better let me take your breeches, too, sir," said the waiter. "All mud, they is." Harry agreed, the waiter accepted his gratuity and, laden with clothing, took himself off.
Despite the fire, Harry's scanty remaining apparel soon reduced him to gooseflesh. He blew out the candle and tottered into the darkened bedroom. He felt no compulsion to search for fleas, but crawled between the sheets and stretched luxuriously. The bedding was adequate, the mattress a soft billow of feathers, the sheets almost perfumed…
He awoke with a start. The room was very dark, but he knew suddenly that he was no longer alone. His first thought was of the thieves that were known to haunt hostelries and boardinghouses these days, but then the blankets were pulled back. A sweet fragrance reached his nostrils, and a warm, soft form slid into the bed beside him. Mrs. Burnett's had more to recommend it than he'd dreamed! Delighted, he slipped an arm about her. "Hello, sweetheart," he said by way of welcome.
A smothered shriek rang out. The feminine form struggled frenziedly against his ardent embrace. "Come now," he laughed. "No need to play about, m'dear." Amusement became indignation as nails clawed at him. "I say, now! That's a bit much!" His arm tightened. "What's the difficulty? Wrong gentleman? Well, it's too late now. Here you are, and—"
"Oooh! Ooooh! Let me go! You horrid beast! You wicked ravisher! Let me go!"
"Let you go? I should jolly well think not! You came to me—I didn't drag you! How dare you call me a ravisher? Boot's more on t'other foot if you was to ask me!"
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette Page 5
