He raised the flap of the oilcloth Diccon had tossed him and eyed her curiously. "You were looking for me?"
Miss Nanette's attempt to reply evidently imposed a severe strain, for her eyes slid into the crossed position once more, and Harry turned quickly away, feeling sorry for the poor little chit that so simple a question should overwhelm her. "Not… exactly," she managed at length. "But Diccon plans to go through Chichester, so we—that is, Diccon, thought—"
"Does he? Oh, but that is famous! We can all go on together!" His exuberance faded and he finished humbly, "At least, if he don't mind… "
"How should he mind?" she said, her pertness restored. "The time it hang heavily on his hands when he has nor to occupy himself tending to your cuts and scrapes."
Harry laughed, and she laughed with him. Diccon turned and grinned back at them, and Mr. Fox emitted a small bray for pure companionship's sake.
And if the rain pattered down as dismally as before, and the breath of the wind was as cold, Harry noticed neither and thought only how much brighter was the world than it had been these past two days.
"Oh, my lor'… Oh, let me die! Quick!" Trappped in the small cabin of a packet that wallowed in heavy seas, Sergeant Albert Anderson, who had uttered not a whimper when his leg was amputated, now clung to the rail of the bunk and moaned cravenly.
Mitchell, sitting on the other bunk, feet braced against the side, scarcely heard the heartfelt wails, his full attention upon the unfinished letter he had purloined from Sprague Cobb's deserted house in Hampstead.
"My Dear Old Coot," (this read)
"I scarce know how to tell you what I learned yesterday by purest chance. If it is truth, then you and I—" This half-sentence was lined through heavily, and the letter went on: "You have by now heard of poor Barney Schofield's tragic death. I wonder if your thoughts, like my own, have—But perhaps it is best that I do not set my fears onto paper. I leave today for Dinan. I will come to see you as soon as I return. If I find—"
Here, the disjointed missive had been abandoned, and an echo of the Sergeant's anguish penetrating his consciousness at last, Mitchell looked up. "Poor sailor, are you, Andy?" he asked sympathetically.
"Ain't… sailor… 'tall!" gulped the unhappy sergeant. "And what in the name of… What I'm a'doing of in this lot… I dunno . . !"
"I told you," Mitchell explained patiently. "It is quite typical of Sir Harry to go charging off to Brittany like this, but—"
"Don't know as… he has…"
"I think it highly probable. And when you went round to Lord Bolster's flat they said his lordship feared Harry might've gone after Sanguinet, don't you remember?"
"Don't remember… me own… name!" Anderson groaned, looking wretchedly away from the porthole and the grey seas that heaved upward until they blotted out the sky.
"Poor fellow. It is Anderson, and you—" Here the Sergeant's baleful glare deterred him. "I'm sorry," he smiled. "But you surely know how hot at hand Sir Harry can be. I must stop him before he gets into trouble. But there was no need for you to— Oh, dear!" He crossed swiftly to hand the sufferer a bowl. "You need this, I fear," That he was right was unhappily evident, and a short time later, wiping the Sergeant's pallid features with a wet rag, he said, "Think I'll take a turn about the deck. Always did love a storm at sea."
"Yus," moaned Anderson, eyeing him without delight. "You would. Sir."
Mitchell turned back and pointed out that he should have stayed in England, a sentiment Anderson fervently echoed, but then observed he'd not dared to let Mitchell come alone. "Not once I found what a horrid streak… y'got in yer, sir."
"Me?" blinked Redmond, injured. "But I am a very quiet individual. I love my books and my music, and to commune with nature. I would never—"
"Never have the Bow Street Runners and the Watch arter us in one day? Wouldn't dream of it! Oh, no! I'm sure!"
"I cannot imagine whatever gave you the idea that the Runners were—"
"Oh, can't yer! That there little wisp of a clerk of Mr. Frye's goes—" Anderson groaned and tightened his clutch on the bunk as the room tilted slowly to one side. "Goes shooting orf like a… scared rabbit. And we hop it, just as the Runners comes tearing past! The next thing I knows you've took to milling kens… breaking and entering! Robbing houses what's got the knocker orf the door! And we're running like hell with half of Hampstead's Watch, popylation, and dogs howling arter us! And I'll tellya what else I think, Mr. Redmond! Oh, Gawd—oh, fer dry land!… I think… as you hurt yer hand picking up that greasy little Crosby Frye! I think… as you took him by the neck and shook him… like a rat. And that's why there's prob'ly warrants out fer us, right this here… minute!"
"Well, there you really do mistake it!" Mitchell's tone was grave, but his eyes danced, nonetheless; and as Anderson watched that sparkle suspiciously, he clarified, "Crosby Frye is a weasel. Not a rat." Here, Anderson uttering another groan, he said, "You really do have my sympathy. My brother's not a good sailor, either. Must be awful. You know, Sergeant, what you should do is lose yourself in a good book." He crossed to the small wall bookcase, opened one of the glass doors, and threw up an arm to ward off the catapulting volumes. He picked up The Corsair and glanced at the rugged, if greenish features that were turned toward him. Lord Byron and Anderson could have little in common. The next book, happily a small one, was entitled, The Treacherous Custom of Bathing. Intrigued, he turned the first pages and beheld the subtitle: 'Being a Learned Humanitarian's Discourse on the Dangers and Frequent Fatalities Resulting from the Ill-Advised Practice of Dabbling in Water.' He grinned but set it aside. The third volume was entitled, The Mysteries of Udolpho. He considered it thoughtfully. Ann Radcliffe. Not the book he'd have chosen but undoubtedly the likeliest of the three. He carried it to the sufferer and placed it within reach of his palsied hand. The scornful snort that greeted this gesture was a pitiful echo of the usually bull-like rebuff. "Try it," Mitchell urged gravely. "It might take your mind off the—ah—heaving pitch and roll of the seas."
Anderson informed him faintly that he was a vicious young gentleman. Mitchell chuckled, fought his way to the door and, having assured the Sergeant he would not be buried at sea, left him. The door closed and drifted nauseatingly to where the ceiling had been. Outside, the wind howled through the rigging, and spray splattered against the port. His insides quaking, Anderson recalled Mr. Mitchell's sadistic words, "… might take your mind off the heaving…" Desperate, he snatched up the book. A romance! As if he wanted that tripe! He cast it aside with loathing. The packet hung atop a giant wave, then slid down a green wall into the trough. Shuddering, Anderson groped for Mrs. Radcliffe. Anything, he thought, would be better than this!
The dark clouds were beginning to thin out, adding drama to a magnificent sunset when Diccon announced they would stop for the night. His choice of a campsite was excellent. They were sheltered by great oak trees, a stream ran close by, and the rain having stopped at last, their fire was soon bringing warmth and cheer to dispel the cold dampness of the evening. Miss Nanette had become quiet and withdrawn, and by the time Harry went to help Diccon put up the tent, her crossed eyes and dull-witted expression had so repelled him that he was glad to escape her. The exertion, however, brought on a recurrence of the occasional blinding headaches he suffered since Dice had shot him, and although he believed he was concealing his discomfort, Diccon's shrewd eyes were quick to detect his deathly pallor. "That's done," he said cheerily. "You go and rest a bit, Mr. Allison." Harry's opposition was of a token nature only; but not until he stretched out beside the fire did he realize how very weary he was, and he raised few objections when he was refused permission to help with preparations for dinner.
His philosophical musings on how terrible a thing was loneliness were banished by amusement as he watched the girl. She approached each task with an eager intensity—as though it were all very new and exciting. Teasing her because she cubed the meat while holding the tip of her tongue on her upper lip, he was flashe
d a sparkling glance but begged not to disturb her until "this beef is subdued." Her encounter with onions had her in tears which she found both uncomfortable and hilarious, and her watery-eyed resolve that "this beast of a bulb will be dealt with!" led to a spirited exchange that left all three weak with laughter. Harry was convinced Miss Nanette knew little of cooking, but her movements were graceful, her step swift and light, and she had a way of coming abruptly from gravity to total merriment that was really quite taking. Her affliction, together with her belligerence, seemed less evident, so that he began to wonder if both were not largely caused by nerves.
Dinner was a jolly meal. Harry's headache had abated, and Miss Nanette joined eagerly in the conversation which turned often to Moire Grange and the Redmonds. The subject seemed to enthrall her, and she bombarded Harry with questions that he found rather pathetic by their eagerness, leading him to suspect that her own unhappy childhood must provoke this rampant curiosity regarding the lives of others. When the meal ended, he insisted upon helping to wash and put away the dishes but, claiming a reward for these noble efforts, asked that Diccon play for them. The Trader hesitated, but Miss Nanette also pleaded until the old fiddle was brought forth. When Diccon began to play, she exchanged an astonished glance with Harry, then leaned forward, hands clasped, listening with breathless concentration. Diccon played superbly and for a moment, when he finished, neither of his audience moved. Then Miss Nanette jumped up and ran to hug him. He was clearly taken aback by this impulsive gesture, but if it was improper, Harry also felt it an apt tribute, and said so.
It had been agreed between them that for so long as they travelled together, Miss Nanette would occupy the tent. Tonight she left them when Diccon's battered old watch indicated the hour of ten, and the two men wrapped themselves in their blankets and settled down beside the fire. For a little while they engaged in desultory conversation, but Harry was too tired to be rational and fell asleep listening to the girl singing softly to herself in her funny little voice.
Some hours later a small but dismal sound awoke him. Diccon snored softly, the wind had died down, and save for the occasional hoot of an owl, or the rustling progress of some small creature through the wet bracken, the night was quiet. Harry rolled over and glanced to the tent. Miss Nanette's candle was extinguished, but his keen hearing had not misled him, for soon he heard another muffled sob. He pulled himself to one elbow and frowned at the tent uneasily. She was an odd little thing, but he felt a kinship with her—perhaps because they both faced so uncertain a future. She was undoubtedly of gentle birth, yet there was not an ounce of affectation to her, and even in the brief time of their acquaintanceship he'd come to fee! as comfortably at ease with her as though she were a younger, and rather naughty, sister. There was little wonder that she should weep. She had certainly led a sheltered life up to now, and her present circumstances must evoke fears that would be nigh crushing. If she were to be discovered before Diccon could convey her to her aunt, or if the gossips learned of her flight, she would be totally ruined and must consider herself fortunate if the suitor she so disdained consented to wed her.
At this point, a shuddering sob so wrought upon Harry that he started up, resolved to try and comfort her; but despite his happy-go-lucky demeanor, he was not without sensitivity. Miss Nanette was, he knew, trying very hard to be brave and resourceful. To reveal that her weeping had been overheard might but add to her distress. He lay back, torn between sympathy for her despair and vexation with her foolishness. Frowning into the darkness, he could not but wonder how many sheltered girls would have possessed the courage to take so gigantic a step, however ill-advised. He wondered also if her father was wakeful tonight, plagued with fears perhaps, and his heart breaking for his errant daughter, poor old fellow… Determined that he would make every effort to restore her as quickly as possible to the bosom of her family, Harry fell asleep.
His resolve was heightened the next morning when he discovered the eggs to be like nothing so much as rubber, the toast charred, and the coffee boiled over. He ate lightly and, keeping a cynical eye on Diccon's plate, saw it wiped clean, while not so much as a murmur was raised over coffee in which grounds floated murkily. He was startled when the Trader said they would rest today, and protested the waste of time with vehemence. Diccon waited patiently through this tirade and then pointed out that it was Sunday, and he never travelled on Sundays. Harry felt like a clod and looked guiltily toward Miss Nanette. She was staring at him with what he had come to think of as her witless look. They had, she then remembered, passed an old church a mile or so back, and perhaps Diccon would escort her there, since Mr. Allison was quite obviously not a God-fearing type. This snide attack brought an immediate protest from Harry, and he proceeded to recount how he and his father and brother had rarely missed Sunday services. At once all interest, Miss Nanette was full of questions which he answered willingly enough for a while. Inevitably, however, such memories engendered sad thoughts of his father and of the task in which he appeared to be making very little progress. He fell silent and was gazing despondently at the fire when he heard the mellow call of a cuckoo.
"Listen!" Nanette tilted her head to one side. "How very pretty it is."
"A bit early in the season, isn't it?" Harry glanced to Diccon, but the big man no longer sprawled in his customary fashion against an obliging tree. Instead, wearing a fairly presentable hat and carrying a gnarled walking stick, he pronounced himself ready to escort Miss Nanette to church. If, he added, she felt it wise. The girl, who had started up brightly, hesitated, drew back, and shook her head.
"In that case, I'll be back soon. Keep a sharp eye on Mr. Fox, Harry." A twinkle crept into the light eyes. "And I hopes as how you'll both remember it's Sunday and a day of peace and rest. Let's not have no trouble."
Not a little astounded by Diccon's purposeful stride, Harry walked a little way with him and returned to discover the girl industriously folding the blankets. His offer to help was rebuffed and he was urged to instead shave himself because "your chin looks like my hairbrush!" Amused, he began to gather his borrowed shaving impedimenta but paused when Miss Nanette got into a terrible muddle with the blanket. His chuckles set her cheeks aflame with mortification, but again disdaining assistance she swept past him, her nose in the air, only to trip over a trailing end. He sprang quickly to restore her. Part of her bun had fallen over her eyes, and she knelt on hands and knees amid a welter of blanket. She scowled up at him, but her chagrin faded before his gallant attempts to restrain his mirth, and her own lilting laugh joined his as he helped her to her feet.
Harry then retreated to a secluded spot beside the stream, but shaving proved difficult. Attempting to maneouvre around the half-healed cut on his lip, he raised his arm in such a way as to wrench his bruised ribs, and swore.
"Would you wish me to help you?" enquired a sweet, feminine voice.
Stiffening at this blatant invasion of his privacy, he turned away and buttoned his shirt hastily while informing her in no uncertain terms that she wanted for conduct. At once, her swift temper flared. "I helped my brother once when he broke his arm and his valet was ill," she said hotly. "And as for conduct, your own is atrocious! Did you perhaps imagine I creep down to the stream to view your body?"
He tried to picture Dorothy Haines-Curtis uttering such a forthright remark and, a quirk tugging at his lips, admitted he had indulged in no such flight of fancy.
"I came," she went on, "only because you are taking all day and I thought perhaps you had difficulties. And instead I hear your frightful swearing."
He pointed out that she would have heard a lot worse on the Peninsula. At once sadness filled her eyes, and he probed curiously, "Why did you want to go? An affaire de coeur?"
"Affaire de coeur, indeed! Love! Is that all you men ever think of?"
He grinned. "Don't like us much, do you?"
"I hate men!" Her eyes flashed fiercely. "They are all the same! Animals!"
Harry blinked before such veh
emence and said with dry logic that in that event he'd have thought the Peninsula the last place she'd have wanted to be.
Her anger vanishing as swiftly as it had come, she knelt close by and gazed down at a lupin she had plucked from the bank of the stream. "My brother was there," she sighed. "Had I only been with him, we could have had a little more time together."
"What was his regiment? Perhaps I knew him."
She made no answer, her sad gaze fixed on the lupin. She looked very small suddenly, and very helpless, and with a pang of sympathy, he asked, "Did you lose him, Tuppence?"
The bowed head nodded. "Yes," she whispered huskily. "I—lost him. And he… he was…" She turned away, her voice breaking, "so very . . dear."
Touched, he said softly, "My sympathy ma'am. But—were he alive, do you think he would countenance this? No—" he lifted one hand in a graceful fencing gesture and smiled, "don't eat me! But do think on it. Surely, he could only be horrified to see you here. Alone, with two strange men, and—"
"Strange, indeed," she frowned. "A Trader who is too lazy to work. And a rich young man who pretends to be penniless!"
Harry's kindly concern vanished. "Pretends!" he ejaculated. "D'ye think I am in this sorry case because—"
"I think," she interrupted, "that you are engaged in some silly dare. One of those stupid bets you men so enjoy and that are such childish folly."
Infuriated, he spluttered, "Well! If that don't beat the Dutch! Can you seriously imagine that for the sake of some idiotic wager I would allow myself to be shot and beaten and starved, and half-frozen? Why, you wretched girl, do you suppose I enjoy tramping about in the rain with blisters on my heels? I collect you fancy it all a hum and that I've not swallowed a spider, nor—"
A horrified expression coming over her face, she intervened breathlessly, "You have not… what… ?"
"Swallowed a spider. But—"
"Harry Allison! You never did!"
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette Page 11
