Bar Sinister

by Sheila Simonson

  When he made no comment she said in careful, neutral tones, "The, er, person in the guard's box is the baby's wet nurse, I take it."

  "It would certainly seem so."

  Emily flushed. "I was not expecting to accommodate strange servants."

  "I presume you were also not expecting me to bring a suckling child without its nurse. Be reasonable, madam. Mrs. McGrath has her wages of me, and she is clean and a hard worker."

  "I shall be feeding her."

  "It would look odd indeed if you didn't."

  Unwillingly Emily grinned. "I starve my servants, of course. And beat them. Come, sir, let's not bicker."

  He shifted the sodden baby, on his left arm. "I'm peaceful by nature."

  "'As any sucking dove.'"

  His mouth twisted in an answering grin. "Your hit, Mrs. Foster."

  The farmer's wife had been listening to their exchange with interest. Now she snorted, and the captain gave her a wry glance.

  "The little girl has excellent manners," Emily interposed, tactful. Unlike her father. "Does she speak no English at all?"

  "A few phrases."

  "What can you have been thinking of?"

  "Spanish is her mother tongue," Captain Falk said coolly.

  Emily bit her lip. "Yes, I see. I'm sorry." She meant she was sorry his wife had died, but he misunderstood her.

  "She'll learn English quickly. She is forward for her age."

  "So I observed."

  "Mellings Parva," the coachman bawled, and the vehicle lurched to a stop.

  The farmer's wife bestowed a smile on Emily, a scowl on Captain Falk, and descended. Emily followed suit, handed down by the guard. When she stood on solid ground she turned back.

  "Has your daughter wakened? Yes, I see she has." Emily smiled into the sleepy hazel eyes. "Buenas dias, Emilia."

  The child's mouth formed an O and she turned to her father. A spate of treble Spanish followed. He translated drily, "She says it is buenos tardes, is it not, and the lady speaks strangely."

  Emily laughed. "Oh, dear, and I tried so hard. Ask her, please, if she will come down to me. You may tell her that my name is also Emilia."

  "Is it?"

  "It is Emily."

  Emily heard herself introduced as Doña Emily. The child slid from her seat, bobbed a creditable curtsey, and without further ado launched herself from the top step.

  Fortunately Emily caught her in midair. She gave her small namesake a hug and set her down, murmuring, "You're quite a handful, I see. Rather like Matt. Shall you come for a ride in my papa's carriage?"

  Emilia blinked up at her and gave a tentative smile.

  "Pegeen, where in the devil..." Captain Falk had extricated himself from the coach with a single lithe movement. "Lord, woman, you're blue as megrim."

  "It was that cold I like to fell off," the wet nurse agreed from behind Emily. The woman's teeth were chattering. "Is the great man not awake then?"

  "Asleep. Wet." Captain Falk's style was decidedly terse. "Change him, Peg, if you please. In the inn. This lady is Mrs. Foster. She assures me a carriage awaits us, but I daresay she's cutting a wheedle."

  Emily gave him an indignant look and led the parade into the inn. As she entered with her charges, the proprietor of the Rose and Crown bustled up, all attention.

  "No, thank you, Willis. I shan't require a private parlour today, but do show Mrs. McGrath where she may change young Thomas." That, according to the solicitor's letter, was the baby's name. "And roust Papa's coachman from the table beneath which he is no doubt sleeping. I shall require him to pole up the carriage at once."

  Willis, eyes bright with curiosity, complied. Emily did not enlighten him. Everyone would hear of her eccentric undertaking soon enough.

  The inn was uncrowded. The few old men by the hearth ignored the intrusion. Emily led her small companion to a vacant armchair. She sat, lifting the child to her lap. Although Emilia stiffened she did not resist. "What a pretty bonnet," Emily murmured. "And a pretty girl, too. I hope you like rabbits, because there are five already, and Matt says there are kittens in the barn."

  The child regarded her with large, unblinking eyes, hazel, flecked with colour, and thickfringed.

  "She doesn't understand you."

  "I know," Emily said calmly. "Children listen to the tone of one's voice as much as to the words."

  "Interesting if true." Captain Falk sat rather heavily on a nearby bench.

  "You played the trick yourself, in the coach."

  He looked up, eyes narrowed.

  "I don't speak Spanish at all well, so I couldn't follow the story you were telling young Emilia, but it very nearly put me to sleep."

  That startled a smile from him. "Very dull tale. It always seems to work."

  Emily smiled, too, and gave her charge a jiggle. The little girl bounced enthusiastically. "Aha, do you know that one? Here comes the lady--pace, pace, pace. Here comes the gentleman--trot, trot, trot. Here comes the trooper--gallop, gallop, gallop."

  Emilia leapt up and down to the verse with an energy that showed her to be unaffected by long travel in coaches. Her delighted laugh rippled like clear water.

  Emily laughed, too, rather breathless. "Whoa! Basta!"

  The child quietened after one more small bounce.

  "I have the feeling I may learn Spanish rather more rapidly than your daughter English."

  Captain Falk was watching with an unfathomable expression in his eyes, which were, Emily noted, not black after all, but hazel like his daughter's and also flecked with colour. In his case, green.

  He inclined his head in response to her remark but said nothing. Not a forthcoming man. No small talk, Emily thought critically. Her other critical thoughts she pushed to the back of her mind. After all, she told herself with conscious charity, he has been travelling all day and half the night and is probably tired. No doubt he is ordinarily civil and clean-shaven.

  She jounced the willing Emilia several more times and talked to her of Matt and rabbits and chickens. Presently she had the satisfaction of finding the little girl, quiet and boneless as a puppy, curled against her side and playing with the strings of her reticule.

  When Mrs. McGrath returned at last Captain Falk rose and gave her his seat on the bench. The baby was awake and fractious.

  Watching the nurse comfort him, Emily reflected ruefully that young Thomas was going to give her father a shock. He was a pretty child, but quite the most unEnglish-looking baby Emily had clapped eyes on. His hair was black and straight, his complexion olive, and his enormous eyes black as midnight. Every inch the foreigner and not yet in leading strings. He seemed to want to creep on the mucky floor. The wet nurse contained his wriggling as long as she could, then let him stand at her knee. He clutched one of her fingers and glared balefully about.

  "There's a wee gentleman," Mrs. McGrath said brightly in the tones of one who has reached the limit of endurance. "Will ye walk, Tommy? Show the lady your paces, there's a good babby."

  Tommy glowered and sat with a resounding thump on his draggled petticoats. He let out a screech of pure rage. Before he turned quite purple his father scooped him up and strode with him to the yard.

  Emily and Mrs. McGrath exchanged glances.

  "I hope he may not dump his son in the horse trough," Emily ventured.

  The wet nurse looked shocked. "No, now, missus, himself has a way with the bhoy. Ye've no need to fret. He'll show Tommy the horses and bring him back when he's stopped his screeching."

  "I daresay. You've had a tiring journey, Mrs. McGrath."

  "Me name's Peggy, missus. A long journey, aye. The coach wasn't a patch on the bluidy ship. Five days was all she took from Lisbon, like a bluidy yacht race it was, and the gale howling in the rigging all the way like the souls of the damned. Amy, there, was sick as a cat. Her da kept her on deck, thanks be to God, and didn't she bounce back when we made port like one of them India rubber balls, but we was that worried about her."

  As if in res
ponse Emilia gave a small bounce.

  "Do you call her Amy?"

  "I do, and the captain does most of the time. 'Twas her ma called her Emilia."

  "I see." That, at least, would simplify matters. "Er, is your husband also with the army, Peggy?"

  "His honour's bâtman." A shadow passed over the woman's face. "Left him in Belém, we did. He's a hot-tempered ould devil, is McGrath, but I'm homesick for him already, would ye credit it? He's me third."

  "Your third husband?"

  "Aye, since Vimeiro. Buried two of 'em, God rest their souls, and when Jerry--that's McGrath--popped the question I said yes like a shot, for don't it stand to reason a nofficer's servant'll last longer than a sojer?"

  "Er, I daresay."

  "I've no wish to be widowed again. Whisht, I'd no wish to be shipped off to England, missus, if it comes to that. It's a strange, hard place, to be sure, and what me da would be after saying if he found me plumped down in the midst of a lot of Sassenachs...well!" She heaved a sigh.

  Emily began to be amused. "What can't be cured must be endured," she intoned.

  Peggy gave her a doubtful look.

  "I believe that's my father's coachman. Will you fetch Captain Falk for me?"

  Peggy went without argument.

  Emily looked at the apparition before her and sighed, too. "At least you're still here, Dassett. Can you drive?"

  Dassett looked as virtuous as he could. His eyes and nose were red. "Certainly, Miss Emily. Stuck me head under th' pump. Carriage's poled up."

  When the carriage reached Wellfield House at last, the bells had rung eight in the village and it was quite black outside. Peggy McGrath was frankly snoring, Amy-Emilia was sound asleep, and Emily held the baby, upon whom the visit to the horse trough had apparently acted as a draught of opium. Captain Falk kept his own counsel. Emily did not think he slept, but he said nothing.

  "Ahem. We're here," she announced feebly. It was not at all the way she had meant to welcome the children to her home. Dassett threw open the carriage door and pulled down the steps with a flourish. At least he had not run them into a ditch.

  3

  Emily carried Thomas in, directing Dassett to bear the sea chest and portmanteau that constituted the Falk chattels to the nursery.

  "The portmanteau's mine," Captain Falk said shortly.

  "Where shall I put Amy?"

  By this time Emily's cook-housekeeper had bustled into the foyer with candles, curtseys, and tongue-cluckings. From behind Mrs. Harry peered the flushed face of Phillida, maid-of-all-work.

  "The nursery," Emily said with equal brevity. "Follow me. Mrs. Harry will lead the way. Is Matt asleep?"

  "I've just tucked him in, ma'am." Phillida, eager to oblige. "Shall I wake him?"

  "Lord, no! That is--no, certainly not. Miss Amy and Master Tommy must be put to bed at once. Warm the sheets, Phillida, if you please."

  Phillida darted Captain Falk a sidelong glance and scuttled to obey.

  "Has the old cradle been set out?" Emily called after her.

  "Yes, ma'am." Phillida vanished.

  They had reached the first-floor hallway and Emily was breathless from the swift climb. "The nursery is on this floor," she contrived to say between gasps. "I've given Matt one nook opening on the schoolroom and your daughter the other. Mrs. McGrath can have a bed in the nursery proper."

  Captain Falk made no comment. She glanced at his face but it was unrevealing.

  "I had not yet engaged a nursemaid," she continued, leading the way, "so perhaps it's fortunate that Mrs. McGrath will be staying. Ah, here we are." She lowered her voice. "Matt sleeps through that door, and you may lay Amy here, unless you think she should sleep with Mrs. McGrath tonight."

  "That might be wise."

  "I daresay. Well, let's go into the nursery, then." To her relief a fire of sea coal burnt in the nursery, and when Mrs. Harry had lit a pair of candles on the wide dressing table the room looked cheerful enough. Emily laid the sleeping Thomas on the low trundle and turned to face the others. Mrs. McGrath was staring about, jaw slightly agape. Captain Falk held his daughter.

  "The cradle is here, Mrs.--er, Peggy." Emily pointed. "If you'll make Tommy ready, perhaps I can undress Miss Amy. Captain Falk, I daresay you'll be wanting a glass of wine. Pray follow Mrs. Harry. I'll join you in the drawing room directly."

  Captain Falk laid his daughter on the trundle as directed. He stood looking down at both children for a moment. Then he turned on his heel and followed Mrs. Harry from the room.

  No sentimental outbursts there. Emily sighed and issued a spate of orders. Presently both children were snug abed without having been wakened. Matt hadn't stirred either. Emily tidied her hair in her own room and trudged back downstairs to the small withdrawing room.

  Captain Falk, his back to the door, leaned on the mantel.

  He was contemplating the fire, head bent, one foot on the fender. He looked as if he wanted to kick the coals.

  "They'll both do now," Emily said.

  He turned in one movement, like a cat. Emily was glad she was not a French outpost. He was certainly a wary man.

  "They're asleep, and Mrs. McGrath is settling in with a cup of tea. Will you not sit, sir?"

  "No, thank you," he said, curt. "I must return to the inn at once. If you'll direct your servant to find my gear."

  "The inn!"

  He said, in tones of repressed exasperation, "I can't remain here. It's nearly nine o'clock."

  Emily stared. "I daresay you're confusing me with some green maiden of your acquaintance. Of course you'll remain here. I've ordered a room prepared for you."

  Captain Falk scowled. "Upon my word, ma'am, are English villages so transmogrified that a single woman may entertain a man for the night without occasioning gossip? A new day is upon us."

  "I think my credit sufficient to pull through one evening in your company," Emily said sweetly. "Besides, I've sent Dassett for my Aunt Fan."

  Captain Falk's brows, really his most expressive feature, shot up.

  "My father's sister," Emily explained. "She'll be here very soon. Grumbling. I assure you she's a famous goose-berry."

  That seemed to throw him off balance. After a moment he said wryly, "Then I look forward to making her acquaintance."

  "Now will you sit?"

  "I'm standing, ma'am, because if I sit I shall fall asleep."

  "Oh."

  "I daresay I'd be in the same case," he said with rough kindness, as if such a sentiment were alien to his character, "even if I'd found the right Mellings to begin with. My children are not restful travelling companions."

  Emily, who always responded to the least sign of humanity in otherwise unredeemed villains, smiled. "Then I'll order up a supper for us, sir, whilst my housemaid makes your room ready. I'm sharp-set, I confess."

  He did not immediately reply.

  "Did you dine at Mellings Magna?"

  "No. I wasn't hungry."

  "Oh, dear, you must be starved."

  "I'm more in need of lint and hot water than food, Mrs. Foster. Do you run to such items?"

  "Lint," Emily repeated blankly.

  "I've bunged up my arm, and I should change the dressing."

  "You've been wounded! How dreadful. Is it a grave injury?"

  He looked embarrassed. "No. In fact it's just--"

  "Just a scratch," Emily snapped, annoyed.

  He smiled, this time in genuine amusement, and the effort certainly improved his looks. "As a matter of fact, it was rather nasty. I was going to say it's just about healed. Not quite, however."

  "Then by all means let us change the dressing."

  "Us?"

  "Your right arm?" He had held the children on his left.

  "Well, yes."

  "Then you must find it awkward to tie the bandage. I shall do so with ease."

  "I might be left-handed."

  Emily frowned. "Are you?"

  He laughed. A rusty sound. "No. And it is awkward."

/>   "Come along, then."

  Emily and Captain Falk, the latter in shirt-sleeves, were belowstairs in the Wellfield kitchen when Aunt Fan finally drove up in the carriage.

  The kitchen was warm and cheerful, and Mrs. Harry bustled in and out doing appetising things upon Emily's new patent range, which Captain Falk regarded with more interest than he exhibited in Emily's performance as Ministering Angel. He had used the scullery pump to good purpose and now looked less travel-stained and wider awake.

  "Remarkable piece of ironmongery."

  "I like it." Emily decided to cut the grimy bandage from his forearm and applied the scissors with precision. "It's convenient for heating water." Most of the linen strip came off easily enough, revealing what looked like a weal from the inner wrist toward the elbow. The chief injury, however, lay in the bunched muscle below the joint. The crusted cloth would require soaking. Emily set herself to the task. "Have you never seen a cookstove?"

  "Not of that size." He drew a sharp breath.

  "Did I hurt you?"

  "No. The water's rather hot, however. You'd better let me rip the remainder off."

  "Rip! I presume you mean it to heal at some point in the not too distant future. Have a little patience, if you please."

  He was silent but not, she perceived, in a mood of meek acquiescence. He watched her critically. Self-consciousness made her clumsy and in the end she ripped a bit of lint. That opened the injury and it bled. Not a great deal, but the wound was ugly--inflamed on the edges and not properly closed.

  "How was it caused?"

  "Half spent ball."

  "Half spent!"

  "If it hadn't been half spent you'd be admiring a very nice stump."

  Emily cast him a look of dislike and cleaned the area carefully, dusting it with basilicum powder. When she had tied a neat and considerably cleaner and less bulky bandage, she glanced at him, triumphant. "There! That should do until tomorrow."

  "I trust so." He rolled the sleeve down, adding with grudging generosity, "For an amateur you show up well."

  "'Praise from Lord Henry is praise indeed."

  "My Christian name is Richard."