"How dare you frown at me in that haughty fashion?" she demanded, and before he could answer said, "And I am not a fast lady!"
"I never said you was!" Flushing guiltily, Harry turned to Diccon who stood before the fire stretching, and appealed, "Now did I say anything of—"
"Well, you were thinking it," grumbled Miss Brown. She gave the fresh bandage a little pat and scowled at him. "Merely because I accepted the ride the poor old carter gentleman offered, you think—"
"Poor old—carter… ?" Harry interposed. "Yesterday you said you were brought here by a shy young clergyman who had 'calf eyes'! If you want to know what I think—it's a lot of slumgullion that you make up as you go along! Chances are you wasn't offered a ride at all but stole one! Dashed if I—"
Miss Brown set her hands upon her hips and, leaning over him, said furiously, "If I did not think you would bleed all over me again, I should tear my fine bandages from your evil brain! And scratch you, besides! You are a horrid man, Mr. Harry Allison! I shall go away and wash my hair, and you shall not have to thank me for all I have do, so bother yourself not!" And snapping her fingers under his dismayed nose, she turned and flounced off.
"Wait!" cried Harry, scrambling to his feet. "I do thank you. And I am sorry if I… was…" But she put her small nose into the air, snatched a towel and soap from the tent, and moved with her supple swinging step into the trees.
"Now you done it!" Diccon's voice shook suspiciously. He had collapsed into his customary sprawl, the hat shielding his eyes, and his shoulders propped against a tree trunk. Harry crossed to lift the brim of the old straw and discover a grin. "I c'n see why you're always getting y'self bashed about," the Trader went on. "You'd oughta learn a little taking ways."
"It would seem you've enough for both of us. Whatever are you about, man? She's a lady of Quality. You've a head full of maggots if you think—"
"But that's just it, y'see." Diccon raised the hat to scan Harry earnestly. "How could I leave her alone by the road? She'd only got tuppence in her purse when I come on her. And she'd been crying her eyes out, poor little thing, though she never would admit it. Running away from home, and—"
"Allow me!" groaned Harry. "Her papa is an evil monster who squandered his fortune and now seeks to bring himself about by forcing her into wedlock with some rich, lecherous old man, the very sight of whom sends her into a decline!"
Diccon regarded him with awe. "That there Oxford really puts a head on a fella's shoulders!"
"Cambridge! And I would hope I've enough in my head to spot a hoary old whisker like that! More likely it's that poor nun who ran away! You should properly have put Miss Brown on the first stagecoach, and—"
"Didn't have enough money. I spent near all the dibs on food. Likely it'll come in handy now but— Have you got any, Harry?"
"Only the two shillings you gave me. But, even so— Good God, man! She cannot stay with us! You surely must realize!"
Diccon eased the straw to its habitual slant. "Why? I wouldn't harm the lass. No more would you."
"Harm her? Of course I wouldn't harm her! But—dash it all… Harry peered around the clearing cautiously and murmured, "A single lady? Unchaperoned? Not so much as her abigail, and roaming about the countryside with two strange men? Blest if I ever heard of such a shocking thing!"
"I 'spect you're right," Diccon acknowledged slowly. "Well—what shall we do? She says as she wants to go to her aunty's house in Devonshire, which is along my way, so I thought—"
"Devonshire? You're going in the wrong direction."
"Had to make a turnabout on account of a good trade in Hawkhurst what I heard of. Just as well or I'd not have come up with you, so you could help me."
"The best way I can help you is to send her back to her papa!"
"I dunno." Diccon pursed his lips doubtfully. "I've heard o'poor young females being as good as sold to old men afore this. And— the lass is under age. If her papa's as bad as she says, he could easy force her to—"
"Under… age…" Harry echoed in failing accents. "Oh, my God! We'll land in Newgate, is what! You must face the fact that the girl has taken advantage… I mean—well, I doubt she was telling the truth. She does seem a bit—er…" He stumbled into silence as the hat was lifted and Diccon stared at him trustingly. Feeling a total villain, Harry stammered, "Don't you think she's — sort of… ?" He tapped his temple.
"Looby?" said Diccon, baldly. "Oh—is that it, y'reckon?"
"I don't really know, of course. But—sometimes she does look rather… ah—afflicted, wouldn't you say?"
"Poor little thing," Diccon sighed. "Well, you're the gent, a'course, and knows about things like chivalry. Sight more'n me. You saying we should kick her out, 'cause she's all about in her attic?"
His face hot, Harry said, "What? No! Of course not! Dreadful thing to do. But—oh, Lord! It just ain't proper! She's a girl, and—"
"And a fine one you are to talk of propriety, Mr.—er—Allison!" The scowling little face was at his ear, and when he turned to her, those big eyes were crossed again, her face so contorted that he barely repressed a shudder. "Or—whatever your name is," she added caustically as he all but jumped back.
"At least I gave Diccon my own name," he countered. "It would seem to me that if you are to trust us—"
"Do pray disabuse yourself of that notion! I trust no man! For all I know you may be acquainted with my papa and would at once deliver me up to him!" Her eyes were normal again, her demeanour regal.
Harry hardened his heart. "Be assured of it, ma'am! As any gentleman of honour would, if only to protect your good name."
"Gentleman of honour!" she mocked. "Is there such an animal, I wonder? Mr. Fox there possesses more honour than most 'gentlemen' I've met. Except—" Her eyes clouded suddenly, and her scornful mouth trembled. Harry, who had been on the verge of an angry rejoinder, checked, seized by the terror that she was about to cry once more. "Come now. Miss Brown," he began bracingly, then shook his head. "The devil! That just don't suit you!"
"I cannot think why it should not." She blinked rapidly and wiped at her eyes in her unaffected little-girl fashion. "But," she sniffed, "if that is all that disturbs you… How does 'Nanette' suit?"
"Much better," Diccon nodded.
"It is not all that disturbs me," Harry pointed out. "I am far more—"
"Though, I'll admit" went on Diccon, still considering the matter, "as I'm very partial to Diana'… "
Harry chuckled. "You and your Greeks! The goddess who hated men. Most apt!"
"But I am not a goddess," sighed the ex-Miss Brown, watching him from under her lashes. "Not like your golden Nerina."
"No," he agreed, with a wistful smile. "Still—"
"Oooh!" she gasped, at once livid with rage. "You are even horrider than I had thought! Had I a title, as she has, or was I an heiress, I collect—"
"Well, you ain't! I've no designs on your fortune which, from what Diccon tells me, consists of tuppence." Harry gave her his most engaging grin, uncomfortably aware he'd been clumsy and hurt the poor chit's feelings. "Now there's what I should call you — Tuppence!"
For a moment she continued to frown at him. Then she gave a sudden little gurgle of laughter, and when Diccon demurred that Tuppence' didn't sound very lady-like, she said pertly, "Then you may improve it to 'Lady Tuppence'."
"I think not." Harry fixed her with a suddenly stern gaze. "For a lady would not risk her reputation by jauntering about the country-side. Nor cause her loved ones to grieve and worry for her safety!"
At once her fists clenched and her eyes grew stormy as she thrust her chin at him. "Much you know if it! And at all events, you—Mr. Allison—have naught to say in the matter! The tent, the cart, and the donkey—all are Diccon's!"
He bit his lip, silent in the face of these home truths.
"Aye, lass," Diccon put in gently. "But Mr. Allison's got a say, 'cause he bought all our food." His eyes twinkled as he met Harry's grateful glance. " 'Sides, Mr. Fox likes
him."
"Oh…" She looked deflated, and to cement his position, Harry said firmly, "Yes, and that's my hat he's wearing."
Her scorching gaze passed from ex- to present owner. "Indeed? I had thought it created especially for—a donkey."
Harry threw up one hand and laughed a rueful, "Touché!"
A mischievous answering smile danced into her eyes but was swiftly banished. "I came back," she informed him sternly, "to take pity on you both and cook your breakfast. But since you are feeling so full of spirit this morning, Miss Nanette will defer to you the privilege of cooking." She curtseyed quite gracefully, and left them.
"Sounds t'me," murmured Diccon as he lay watching Harry wrestle with the frying pan, "like what your poor papa was drugged." The chef, looking very much the worse for wear with his bruised cheek, swollen jaw, and the bandage about his brow, shot a grim glance at his exhausted host. Diccon shrugged, "Only way. If all them fine gents said he played—he must've. Couldn't've all been Captain Sharps. And you said one of 'em was his best friend. Name of… who was it?"
"Sir Barnaby Schofield."
"Hmmmnnn…" Diccon sat up, accepted his plate, prodded at his eggs, and threw Harry a reproachful look. "I don't like me eggs cooked too much, and our coffee's boiling over!"
With a soldier's fluency Harry consigned his eggs to perdition and his coffee along with 'em. Diccon was unmoved. He waited for a break in the tirade then allowed as how the Captain had a rare gift o'language but that he never could abide grounds in his mug.
Harry covered Miss Nanette's breakfast with a saucepan lid, tended to the offending pot, and settled himself upon a convenient root with his own plate. For a while, he devoted himself to business, then enquired, "How did you know I was a Captain? And don't tell me I talked about it in my sleep."
"Got a funny sorta memory," Diccon nodded, cleaning his plate efficiently with a piece of bread. "Prob'ly heard it—or read it somewhere. Mentioned in dispatches, wasn't you?" He smiled at Harry's astonished expression. "I'm allus reading. Finds old newspapers along me road, and some of me friends saves 'em for me. Things tend t'stick in my head. Like that there Schofield. I read as his poor son come home blind after Waterloo. Terrible thing fer a young fella like that. Still—he done his duty for his country. It wasn't a waste. Not like that poor Lieutenant Carlson. Now that was a odd thing, and t'think your papa was caught right in the middle of— Hey! That ruddy bacon cost me ninepence-halfpenny!"
Harry managed to scoop the bacon back onto his plate. "You know about that Enquiry? Good God, man! Why didn't you tell me?"
"Didn't ask." Diccon set his plate aside and resuming his customary attitude, pulled his hat over his eyes, only to have it snatched away and a grim young face thrust within inches of his own. "I will take it kindly," breathed Harry, "do you tell me whatever you may recall of it."
In that moment he was all aristocrat, the humourous sparkle gone from the narrow eyes and a set to his jaw that brooked no evasions. A tentative bray arose from the direction of the tent. "That's my hat you're a'crushing off…" Diccon hauled himself to a sitting position. "And you're upsetting Mr. Fox."
Harry returned the wrecked straw and cast a glance at the donkey. Sure enough, Mr. Fox peered at them with an oddly apprehensive attitude. He sat back, therefore, seething with impatience but schooling himself to calmness.
"I dunno," Diccon began thoughtfully, "as I can remember it very clear. As I recollect, you papa had been visiting friends and started home later'n what he'd meant to. Suddenlike, his coachman turned a corner and they was a big carriage in front, coming up fast behind one o'them there fancy coaches the young Bucks drive nowadays — you know the kind; very fast, with the body slung right atop the front axle… ?"
"A high perch phaeton?"
"That's it. Anyway, the carriage and that there phaeton goes a'shooting off on a side road. Your papa was a sportsman, so natural enough, he looks back, thinking it's a race and hoping to see who'd win. But they're driving like they was on a pike road 'stead of a bumpy country lane, and they goes up into the hills—too wild and lonely for your papa. He thinks to hisself they're a couple of booberkins and goes on his way. Well, it's a bright moonlit night, and after a bit he looks back again and sees that there phaeton sail right off the top o' Satan's Perch!"
"Good… God!" gasped Harry. "I knew nothing of this! When did it happen?"
"Let's see… Musta been somewhere in early '13, I'd say… No! Come to think about it, it was in the summer time."
"While I was ill… " Harry breathed, half to himself. "So that's why he didn't tell me."
"Thought they brung you home in the summer of '12."
"Yes. I'd an accident later, but never mind about that. Please go on."
"Well, there was a flash young cove in that there phaeton, name of Frederick Carlson. Dead as a doornail when they found him. His sister would have it was murder. Proper heartbroke she were, and kept insisting as your papa knowed more'n he was telling—that he'd seen who was in the carriage."
"What fustian! I collect the poor woman must have been deranged by grief. If they were racing they probably came too close to the edge, is all. Had it looked like foul play, I do assure you my papa would never have rested 'til he came to the root of it." He was silent for a while, puzzling at this new and unexpected development, and thinking he must talk with Barnaby Schofield as soon as possible.
Diccon summoned all his forces and managed to saunter to the cart. He rummaged among the miscellany, muttering that he'd best have a look at his 'tradeables,' and Harry watched, curiously. The first item to be removed was the battered violin case.
Shocked, Harry expostulated, "You're never going to trade that?"
"So you heard." A half-smile touched that gaunt face. "Thought as how you was all wore out."
"You have a great gift," said Harry earnestly. "Why in the name of heaven do you live like this when you could play before the crowned heads of—"
"Thank you, sir," said Diccon, his face inscrutable.
"There's a story here," thought Harry. It was quite obvious, however, that Diccon did not wish to speak of it, and being much too well bred to pursue the matter, he said no more.
"Now, this here," Diccon announced, pulling out the oar, "I am going t'trade." He sighed and added despondently, "One o'these days."
"Where did you get it?"
"From a nun. On Salisbury Plain. Traded her a pistol for it."
Harry's jaw dropped. "A… nun . . ? What in the— Why would a nun—on Salisbury Plain… have an oar?"
Diccon looked at him pityingly. "All them years you was at Oxford…"
"Cambridge!"
"An' ye c'n ask such as foolish question. She had the oar for a boat, a'course. What else?"
Harry closed his sagging jaw. To verify his utter stupidity by venturing to enquire what a nun would want with a pistol was more than he dared do!
"Dead?" Sir Harry stared blankly at the magnificent being who stood in the open doorway of Sir Barnaby Schofield's big house. "B-But—when? How?"
"My late employer was killed when 'is curricle hoverturned two weeks ago," said the footman to some invisible giant who apparently towered behind the morning caller. "Hi should think has 'ow you'd know that hif you was hindeed acquainted wiv him. Good day, sir."
"Is there some difficulty here?" A soberly dressed man of vast dignity appeared in the doorway. His indifferent gaze abruptly resolved into horrified dismay, and Harry was urged to come inside at once. Closing the door and dismissing the pained footman with an impatient wave of the hand, the butler cried, "Sir Harry! Good gracious! Whatever has happened to you?"
"Bit awful, ain't it, Dyer?" said Harry ruefully. "D'you think I dare offer my condolences to Lady Barnaby—in all my dirt?"
"I am very sure she would rather have it thus, sir—than not at all. However, she's in Devonshire with Mrs. Manderville. I am instructed to close the house for the balance of the year and to dispose of as many of Sir Barnaby's effects as wou
ld cause his widow pain." The faded brown eyes that had been scanning Harry throughout this small speech had become more and more anguished, and now, forgetting protocol, he burst out, "Oh, sir! I heard you had closed your houses, but—I never dreamed . . ! And—your poor head!"
"A highwayman, I'm afraid. Blasted fellow got my mare, which is what really puts me into the boughs. And all my effects are in Dorsetshire, unfortunately. I'd not have stopped, but I chanced to be near Maidstone and knew Sir Barnaby was often here at this time of the year… Lord, but I cannot believe this! I must seek out Lady Barnaby."
"But, sir! You cannot step outside in that condition!" The well-kept hands wrung in agitation. "I shall instruct your groom to take your coach around to the stables and you can borrow some of Major Bertram's garments—you're much of a size, I think."
"Didn't come by coach. Dyer." Not having the heart to further distress the man by informing him that a donkey had drawn his conveyance as far as the end of the lane and that he'd walked the rest of the distance he said. "Since my mare was stolen, a friend was so kind as to drop me here."
It was odd, thought the worthy Dyer, that Sir Harry had not been given the loan of a mount and that the friend had not waited. His suspicions deepening, he said earnestly. "My late master and your papa was bosom bows all their lives, sir. And I know what Sir Barnaby would wish me to do. You come along with me. Sir Harry, and we'll have you neat as a pin in no time!"
Pride demanded he refuse. Necessity, and the burning need to discover what had happened to Schofield. prevailed.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette Page 9
