At once a smile lit the flushed face across the room. "Yes, my good man. Mr. Mitchell Redmond fought a duel with a gentleman named Sanguinet a few days back."
Harry's heart seemed to stop. He clutched at the table and could feel the blood draining from his face.
The poet peered at him curiously. "Loyal fella, ain't ya? Don't worry. Your Captain was not involved. Still—pity it—" He was interrupted, encircled, and swept away by his friends. All talking at once, laughing uproariously, they reeled toward the door. Cold with dread, Harry snatched up his parcel and followed them into the pale morning sunshine. Mitchell could not have called out Sanguinet! Pray God, not! He didn't know one end of a pistol from t'other!
He was so consumed by apprehension that all thoughts of either Nerina or the little shrew were swept from his mind. He dogged the erratic steps of the rowdy group past whitewashed shops and half-timbered cottages, so intent upon them that he failed to note a closed carriage sweep past, slow, pull to the side of the cobbled street, and stop. The inebriated gentlemen ahead were turning into the smithy. Harry was almost to the open door when a small boy overtook him, thrust a folded paper into his hand, then ran off.
Bewildered, Harry stared from the departing urchin to the letter he held. The inscription was to himself and the familiar scrawl that of his brother. Apprehension gripping him, he broke the seal, spread the page, and read:
My Dear Sauvage —
Since you read this, I can only beg your forgiveness, for I have deserted you in time of trouble, and you must now be the last, and undoubtedly the most worthy, of our noble line.
Harry's throat seemed to close, and for an instant the words before him blurred. He was unaware that the parcel had slipped from beneath his arm, or that across the street a window of the carriage had been let down and pale eyes, lit with sly laughter, watched him. He fought away the terror that was making him shake, and blinked his eyes into focus once more.
… our noble line.
Reflection convinced me, best and most honoured of brothers, that you were not only scorched but had deemed me not quite up to the rig. And so I left my 'little schoolhouse' and came home. You had already departed, and I discovered my suspicions to have been correct. I shook the truth from old Frye (what a beastly little worm he is!) and bullied Andy into accompanying me to Brittany. (Incidentally, Harry, your old campaigner has become quite a bookworm. You may have to watch his selections, though. Frightfully racy stuff!)
I have just met Sanguinet. I cannot say I like him. Nor can I say, however, that I believe he cheated my father: for him to have done so lacks all reason, and I honestly do not think him capable of such perfidious conduct. He has an unfortunate mouth withal, and I find my temper shorter than I had supposed. I challenged the fellow, and I write this as we prepare to face one another at twenty paces.
With the knowledge that you will be given this letter only in the event of my death, I am emboldened to say what under other circumstances I would not dare,
I have always loved and respected you—far more than you know. I am aware you love me also and cannot wish you will not mourn me. But I beg that you will seek no redress from Sanguinet. He has behaved quite properly and with scrupulous honour. Live for both of us, Harry. Make it a good life, and be happy. You deserve happiness. If you have a son, and I pray you will, you might perhaps keep in mind the name of a silly chap who let you down, but counted himself extreme fortunate to have been,
Your devoted brother— Mitchell
Mitchell was dead… He had always thought somehow that he would sense it if something happened to his brother, that their closeness would warn him if Mitch was hurt or in trouble. But it hadn't warned him—and Mitchell… was dead…
Harry's steps slowed, and he realized with dull surprise that he was in the country again, and wandering dazedly along a lane whose hedgerows blazed with a glory of wildflowers. He had a vague recollection of a small girl picking up his parcel and handing it to him and then running back to her mother, calling, "The poor man! See, Mama—he's crying!" But he did not remember leaving Alfriston, and had no notion of where he was now…
He heard the clip-clop of hooves on the lane behind him, a rattle of wheels turning slowly on the uneven surface. But it was not these sounds that brought the frown into his stricken eyes but the laugh that, soft and merciless, wound through them.
He knew. Even as he whirled about—he knew!
Parnell Sanguinet leaned from the open window of the luxurious carriage. "Good morrow, mon ami! En effet I had no thought when into my hands that letter came that I should be so fortunate as to deliver it in the person! Such a pleasure to be of service… On a walking tour are you?" With a dance of enjoyment in his bizarre eyes, he leaned back, taunting, "What a pity your brother cannot be here… with you…"
And before the enraged Harry could move, the coachman whipped up the team and the four magnificent white horses plunged straight at him. He made a desperate dive for the ditch, was half-stunned by a violent impact, and hurled aside. The rear wheel missed him by a hairsbreadth as he rolled helplessly in the dust. Sprawling, the breath knocked out of him, he heard the sounds of the wheels and the pounding of sixteen polished hooves fade… until all that was left was the echo of a sneering laugh.
"Get ye gone! Gert horrid hound that ye be… get ye gone!"
The quavering tones were very familiar. Harry lifted his head and as the whirling landscape gradually righted itself, was able to discern the erratic approach of a very tiny man and a very large dog. The man was extremely old and frail, and retreated so often that he tottered almost as much to the rear as he advanced. But the dog seemed quite pleased with this slow progress and leapt and pranced about him, barking joyfully.
The old man halted and turned to stand almost eye to eye with the dog—a well-cared-for animal, having a thick and glossy coat and a waving plume of a tail. One trembling arm was brought forth from behind the man's back. Clutched in his hand was a piece of wood that might once have been a hammer but was now headless, and he brandished this potential weapon threateningly. The dog, however, very obviously placed a different interpretation upon this demonstration and, uttering a bark of joy, turned around three times so as to be ready.
Finding his voice, Harry came to one elbow and called, "Mr. Chatham…"
The dog gave a bark of pleased recognition, bounced over, and proceeded to jump about on this good friend, delighted with the game. The ancient one, however, had given a small and startled leap at Harry's call, and thus launched, he tottered back the way he had come, gasping out, "What be ye a'doing of—a'wallerin' in the dirt, S'Harry… ? the last words fading with distance.
Roused by necessity, Harry restrained the exuberance of Lord Lucian St. Clair's hound with a stern, "Homer! Down, sir!" He then managed to regain his feet and gladly accompanied by Homer, pursued the departing figure, coming up wih him a scant instant before Chatham toppled into the ditch. Having flung one arm about that frail form, Harry guided the old gentleman to the low wall that replaced the hedgerow nearby, eased him onto it, and sat beside him.
For a few moments there was silence between them. A comparative silence, that is, broken by the gasps and wheezings of the venerable Mr. Samuel Chatham, whose faded blue gaze was fixed upon his companion's drawn face. "Ye been… piping yer eye," he observed at length.
"Yes," said Harry simply.
"Ain't nothing t'be ashamed of," comforted Chatham. "Me father done it when me ma went to her reward, God rest her soul." He pondered for a moment, then added a reinforcing, "I done it meself a time or two." He thought again and, leaning closer, lost his balance and all but fell into Harry's arms so that it was necessary that he be tilted to a less precarious angle. He ignored these procedures while continuing, "Told a lie about 'ee 's marnin'. If anyone in these here parts knows as who's here and who ain't—it do be I. An' I said as how you wasn't. But that," he added with a disappointed glance at Harry, "was a'cause it never would've occurred to I to go a
'looking under hedges for a barrernet o'this here realm!" He shook his head chidingly. "Never would've thought it of'ee, S'Harry. Ain't in keeping with your position. Not atall!"
"No, I don't expect it is," Harry apologized and, striving to be rational, sighed, "I didn't have much say in the matter. Was someone asking for me?"
"Ar. 'S marnin'. Could'a goed to Jarge Brown, 'ee could. Jarge were a'standing there, an' Jarge allus thinks as how 'ee knows all there is t'know. But yer man com t'me, and asked if ye be up to the Hall, or over to Greenwings. I allus allowed as how your Sergeant had a good head on his shoulders. Though I'm powerful disappinted in him. Powerful disappinted! Snails be bad enough. But—live worms… ?" He shuddered. "It don't bear thinking on!"
Allowing the incomprehensibilities to sift past, Harry seized upon the one pertinent fact. "Sergeant Anderson was here! Looking for me?"
"Ar. Rushing about like a headless duck, he were. Turble upset. Still, 'twarn't no excuse fer 'ee t'tell a trusting old man such a horrid tale!" He placed one near-transparent hand on his middle. "Fair turned me stummick!"
There could be little doubt as to why poor Andy had been so 'turble upset'. Or why he was so desperately trying to find him. Harry stood and said dully, "If you will excuse me, sir. I'd best seek him out."
"Ar." Chatham floundered about but with little success until Harry leaned down to slip a gentle hand under his arm and assist him to his feet. " 'Ee do have goed t'see yer friend what has them funny-coloured eyes—that there Markwiss of Damon. 'Course, they folk in Dorset be a strange lot altogether. And so I told'un. Your gentleman'll have goed to Lunnon, says I. Wouldn't listen, a'course. Dicked in the nob 'ee do be, I fancy. Poor chap."
It was borne in upon the stricken Harry that the old fellow was deeply disturbed, wherefore he put his own sorrow aside and enquired, "Whatever did my Sergeant say to so upset you? Something about Spain, was it?"
"Ar. He says… as they Spanishers eat… " He glanced around furtively. "Eat—live worms'. Ugh! Horrid! Why should 'ee tell me such a ugly whisker?"
"I rather fancy Sergeant Anderson meant eels. And some of our customs seem just as odd to them, y'know, Mr. Chatham."
An awed countenance was upraised, and horrified eyes searched his face. "Ye bean't saying as it's true?" Harry nodded. "Oh… my Lor'! I wish as how ye hadn't of told me! Live… eels! Wait'll I tell that'n to Jarge Brown!" He gave a whooping cackle of anticipation, slapped his knee, then cherished it repentantly. "Good day t'ye, sir. And if your Sergeant comes up wi' Mr. Redmond afore—"
Harry, who had started drearily away, tensed and swung about. " What did you say?"
"Dang me gizzard!" Chatham quavered wrathfully. "Y'don't got no call t'beller an' roar an' make me jump nigh outta me skin! Ain't I been a'telling and a'telling of 'ee all this time as how your Sergeant's lost his gentleman?"
"Y-Yes… but—I heard… there was a duel."
"Ar. Well there was. That's what comes o' all that book leaning d'ye see? As I says to your Sergeant, y'can't hardly blame they Frenchies fer bein' a mite put out and running your brother outta Brittany that way! I'd be—" He stopped, cringing back with a cry of fear as Harry ran to grasp his arm, his face convulsed. "Mr. Chatham—what are you saying? Sergeant Anderson was looking for—my brother? Today? Mitchell is—is safely home?"
Well—glory! Ain't I been a'telling and a'telling—" The old man checked and said incredulously, "S" Harry! Ye're a'piping o' yer eye again!"
"Yes!" gulped Harry, dragging a muddy hand across his glistening but joyous eyes. "I am, by God!"
"How do you do?" Lady Nerina Tawnish, clad in a gown of ivory jaconet muslin, her golden curls clustering delightfully beside each shell-like ear, a trace of shock in eyes as blue as Spanish skies in summertime, extended one hand. Shaking those slender fingers gingerly, Harry was horribly aware of Mr. Hawthorne's frayed old coat and shabby shoes. "I am honoured to meet you, my lady," he said uneasily and flashing a glance at Nanette, saw her brows raised and dimples lurking about her mouth. "Good gracious, Harry," she laughed. "Whatever happened to your clothes? You look dreadful!"
"I fear I do," he said wryly. "And you are most kind to receive me in my—er, tatters, ma'am."
"No, but I think it splendid," the Beauty said earnestly. She disposed herself upon the sofa in this cozy parlour and motioned to Harry to sit down. "Nanette told me how gallantly you volunteered to escort her. I collect you purchased old clothes lest you attract attention. And, indeed, a Dandy would call notice to my poor friend in her—her desperate flight."
Nanette went into a squeal of laughter. "Dandy?"
Evaluating the benefits of strangulation, Harry smiled tautly and admitted he had seldom been farther from that species. "Indeed, I wonder the proprietor allowed me to enter. Had it not been for his good wife, I doubt I'd have been shown his boot, rather!"
"Another victim of your charm?" Nanette shook her head at him and, noting the glint in his eyes, added roguishly, " 'Ware our Captain, dearest! He's a rascal with the ladies… when he's not boxing their ears!"
Lady Nerina's lovely mouth dropped open. Her eyes became like saucers, and in pretty dismay she gasped, "He… he never did? Your ears, love?"
"Oh… gad . . !" groaned Harry.
"Hard!" his tormentor confirmed, sparkling with mirth. "And threw me in the river, then made me take off my clothes, and—"
"Aaah…" moaned Nerina. One hand lifted to her temple, her eyes half-closed and her handkerchief flapped feebly.
"Pay her no heed, ma'am!" Harry leapt to take up that scrap of fine cambric and lace and fan her with it frenziedly. "She is a naughty scamp, and—"
"A naughty… scamp…" echoed my lady faintly. And having scanned the pleasant face above her with eyes that, hidden behind her lashes, were yet keen enough to discern the familiar look of adoration, she relented sufficiently to acknowledge that it was a great comfort to her to know her dearest friend was guarded by an officer and a gentleman. "Although—" she went on, struck by an afterthought, "Papa has always held that fighting is wicked…"
"Yes, I know," Nanette put in. "But—Sir Harry fought with Wellington."
This observation carried little weight with the Beauty, who shook her lovely head and remarked primly that Papa held Wellington "to be a—Rake!"
Harry's attempts to vindicate his commander were to no avail; my Lady embarked upon a softly spoken but lengthily confused denunciation of wars, military men in general, and the Duke in particular, that brought a gleam of mirth to Nanette's mischievous eyes and only concluded when Harry was able to insert a gentle, "I doubt we could have prevailed upon Bonaparte with reason, ma'am, and had we lost the war—"
"Oh, I should not have liked that!" Nerina exclaimed, "For then we would have even more Frenchmen in England than we have now. And I do so dislike French food!"
Harry did not comment on this scintillating observation, perfectly content to look at her, and managing to ignore the twitch beside Nanette's lips.
Warming to her subject, Nerina resumed, "There are those, you know, who hold it superior to our own, which I think downright treasonable when you think that they eat the legs of slimy frogs! And put intoxicating spirits into their sauces! I—" She stopped, her eyes widening and one hand flying to her paling cheek. "Oh! what a ninnyhammer I am! And you—half-French! Nanette, I do beg your pardon!"
With a twinkling glance at Harry, her friend leaned to hug her, but Nerina refused to be comforted. "You see how it is! I say silly things sometimes." She spread her hands and, proceeding from frying pan to fire, said regretfully, "I wish I could be more like you, Nannette. It is only that I am unaccustomed to being deceitful."
As hopelessly dazzled as he was, Harry could not resist turning a speaking look on the indignant Nanette. Then he murmured consolingly, "Of course you are, dear Lady. Who could expect you to be experienced at such tricks?"
Nanette gasped audibly. Nerina, however, bestowed a heart-stopping smile upon Harry, then turned to her friend. "Dear
est— please come back with me! I know how miserable your life was, but only think—if ever the truth should leak out, you would be ruined… Ruined!"
"Well, it shall not leak out," said Nanette firmly. "Who would recognize me in this frightful gown? And—" she smiled sweetly at Harry. "In such unsavoury company."
He acknowledged the hit with a grin and a slight lift of the hand. Nerina, however, apparently found nothing unwarranted in the remark and sighed, "I suppose you are right. But—what if your papa should ask me questions? Oh! I should faint dead away! I know I should!"
"You wouldn't give me away?" Nanette asked anxiously. "But you are so brave, Nerina. Did you not come and warn me?"
"Yes, that is true." Those breathtaking eyes returned to Harry. "It was so difficult, sir, to overcome my moral scruples and come here, for I have been properly instructed from my cradle, though you might not think so to see me thus—practically alone. Whatever Papa would say, I dare not guess!"
Papa, thought Harry dreamily, could only say that her voice was music; her face and figure sublime; that she was beyond words adorable… She should be guarded like some national treasure or perfect work of art… He was shocked to realize he was sighing like a callow youth and said hurriedly, "Why, my lady, I am sure you could do nothing to cause your papa aught but joy. Do not worry about—"
"But I am worried," she mourned, her eyes still plaintively fixed upon him. "Everything has gone wrong! Indeed, my life is become—quite a… shambles!" Those long, curling lashes became beaded with glistening drops, so shattering a sight that Harry took an instinctive step closer and begged to be apprised of any way in which he might be of service. With a pathetic quiver in her soft, sweet voice, Nerina lifted one white hand to her brow and confided with fearful apprehension that she had been so overset of late she dreaded lest the result be—Lines! He assured her that nothing could be farther from the truth, and encouraged by his charming smile, my lady launched into a long and tragic exposition of her woes. At the end of a rather baffling ten minutes, Harry was able to deduce that her come-out had been intended for last autumn, but her brother had been feared lost at Quatre Bras and then sent home so gravely wounded it had been delayed. And now, when her Ball was arranged, even to the invitation list, her grandpapa had fallen victim to some kind of seizure, which might well lead to a further postponement. "I cannot think," she mourned, with a tragic little moue Harry found enchanting, "why he must become ill now— when he has managed to go on quite nicely for ninety years."
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette Page 15
