Bar Sinister

by Sheila Simonson

  Your devoted and peripatetic husband,

  R. Wilson.

  Wilson sanded the missive, sealed it, and set it aside for the hotel servants to post. He had not told his wife the whole truth. The second surgery was being executed as he writ. Wilson hoped he was not squeamish, but he had no intention of stopping within five streets of the sickroom until the operation should be safely done with. His man, Kennet, felt even more strongly, and indeed threatened to quit when Wilson tentatively suggested he spell the weary McGrath at night. Fortunately Madame Duvalier was less fainthearted, and she commanded her servants' unqualified obedience. At least Richard would be well-attended.

  Wilson dined in solitary gloom in the now half deserted dining room of the hotel. When he had first come it had echoed with excited conversation in four or five languages, but most of the civilian employees of the various armies had gone on now toward Paris, and many of the curious had drunk their fill of sensation as well. Ordinarily a gregarious man, Wilson was glad to be alone. He needed to think. If his brother-in-law survived the second surgery, which was by no means a foregone conclusion, there was going to be a problem of another order altogether.

  In his first week in Brussels, Wilson had discovered that Richard Falk was being transformed into a mythic hero. He had distinguished himself. That much the formal reports made clear. Already certain names and certain deeds had caught the imagination of the body of English--mostly curiosity-seekers, wounded soldiers, and officers' families--still in the Belgian capital. The process of telling and retelling heightened the drama of what had happened on the eighteenth of June. Sometimes, indeed, fancy replaced fact. Wilson suspected that was the case with the charge of the Union Brigade. It might also be the case with his brother-in-law, although, as with the cavalry, some fact seemed to lie behind the fiction.

  Richard had been serving on General Barnes's staff as a liaison with the Dutch-Belgians, apparently because his French was fluent, the Dutch-Belgian troops were restive, and the general was desperate for experienced officers. That explained the otherwise mysterious brevet promotion to lieutenant colonel.

  At Quatre Bras Richard had stayed beside the Belgian regiment's colonel, a young count, and between them they had brought the untried recruits off without dishonour. That, Wilson was given to understand, was something of an achievement. It was at Quatre Bras that Richard had taken the shoulder wound.

  At Water-loo the count and a good number of his officers were killed in the cannonade that preceded Ney's first assault on the centre. The survivors of the regiment looked as if they must panick, as a young regiment of their compatriots had already done. Wilson was not sure what had transpired, but it appeared that his brother-in-law had rallied the frightened men, taken direct command of the regiment, and stayed with them, holding them firmly to their duty, until they--and he--lay in a blood-stained heap.

  The story grew daily in detail and interest. Everyone, it seemed, had a stake in it--the old Peninsulars because Richard was one of them, the rest of the English because he was English, and the Belgians because, on a day in which their countrymen had been uncertain, Falk had shown that Belgians fought very well when they were led with spirit.

  Considering that many of the Bruxellois had strong Bonapartist leanings--so, for that matter, had the troops--Wilson thought it odd that they should take such obvious satisfaction in what seemed to him simple self-slaughter. La gloire, in his strong if unspoken opinion, was an overrated commodity. It looked as if his brother-in-law had come by rather a lot of it. Falk's name was on everyone's lips. Wilson thought the Duke of Newsham was going to like that even less than his grace liked Wilson's own officious interference with the course of nature. Wilson had received a very stiff letter from Abbeymont.

  With Richard's name a byword, Wilson reflected, it was only a matter of time before some well-meaning soul pointed out that he was half brother to the Duke of Newsham and some other contributor tossed in a sentimental allusion to his motherless children, at which point God knew what mischief would be set afoot.

  There was only one solution. The dowager must be brought to a sense of her obligations.

  At the merchant's house next morning Wilson took in the straw spread on the cobbles and the general air of tiptoe in the foyer, and his heart sank. Madame appeared almost immediately.

  "How is he?" Wilson stepped resolutely inside.

  "Asleep, Monsieur Huilsong, thank the good God. Such a terrible night. Jeannot is watching now."

  "May I see him?"

  "He will not waken for some hours, God willing."

  "I'll not disturb his rest, madame. I wish merely to see for myself."

  "Very well, but no noise, if you please." Her stiff black silk rustling like leaves, madame led the way upstairs.

  The sickroom was shuttered and still as a tomb, except for Richard's slow breathing. Jeannot, a pert young woman in neat cap and bands, curtseyed to them silently. She had been knitting.

  Wilson stood for a long time looking down at his brother-in-law. Richard lay too still. The tropic tan which had made him black as a gypsy had begun to fade to an unpleasant grey-brown, and no natural healthy colour showed even in his lips, which were bitten. By now Wilson was used to the angry scar that slashed up from the right brow. The hair was beginning to cover the shaven area. He was used to his brother-in-law's near skeletal thinness, too, but the new stillness appalled him.

  Always before, even in sleep or delirium, a lively tension had informed Richard's rest. Now his hands lay as open and slack on the linen sheet as a dead beggar's. It was as if he had nothing more to ask.

  Abruptly Wilson turned and strode from the room. He took polite leave of madame, but his determination must have shown, for she eyed him curiously. When he reached his small sitting room at the hotel he sat at the secretary and commenced a very long, very blunt letter to the dowager duchess of Newsham.

  A week later he made a formal call on his brother-in-law. He thought of it that way. In the interim he had called every day but Falk was seldom awake. Twice Wilson found him in the grip of a low fever. There had been no grand crisis, merely days of drift. When Richard was awake he seemed disinclined to talk. Madame and the surgeon considered their patient stronger now. He could talk if he would. Wilson felt apprehensive, however. He dressed with particular care to give himself courage.

  Richard lay still and unresponsive under Wilson's first gentle essay at small talk. After the third vacant pause Wilson decided to move to the point. "The sawbones consider you may be moved in a fortnight."

  "Oh? Where?" Richard's tone was dull, indifferent.

  "You may wish to go to Monsieur le comte, of course." The comte was elder brother to the late Belgian colonel. "I believe you know the chateau, and he is anxious to extend his hospitality."

  Richard's brows drew together in a slight but definite frown.

  Emboldened, Wilson went on, "He considers you saved his brother's honour, and the regiment's."

  Richard did not reply.

  "I wonder if you realise you have become something of a celebrity, Richard." No response. "Your authorship of Don Alfonso is an open secret, thanks to a brother officer of the Fifty-second, who is hors de combat and has nothing better to talk of. One Captain Browne."

  Richard licked his lips. "Harry."

  Wilson drew a breath. "Monsieur le comte's wife's cousin is even now embarked on a translation, and a bookseller in the Rue Bois had fifty copies of the last novel shipped to him from London as soon as your friend spread the news. They were snapped up directly."

  "Hitchins had better stump up with the royalties."

  Wilson felt a vast relief. Not only conscious but recognisably Richard. He pushed on, gentle but inexorable. "Fame and fortune. Delightful, of course. Was this Captain Browne of the Fifty-second acquainted with your late wife?"

  "Harry? No." There was a long frowning silence. "Oh, God, he knew of her. Everyone did."

  "And of her children." Wilson rose and poured a glass o
f water from the carafe on the bedside table. "Please don't agitate yourself, Richard. I have some news for you and a request, but madame will throw me out if I drive you into a fever."

  "The devil..." Richard's head turned on the pillows. "I wish I could think."

  Wilson raised his head and helped him sip some of the water. Very little spilt. When Richard lay back again, staring at him, Wilson said sharply, "You are not to worry. Lie still. I wanted to be sure you would understand me."

  Richard blinked. "Have I been wandering? My head..."

  "A nasty knock. You have seemed somewhat disconnected."

  The hazel eyes closed. He did not at all like the idea. "I see. How long?"

  "Close on a month now. We have all been most concerned."

  After a pause Richard said with some of his wonted energy, "My wits are more or less gathered. Tell me your news." From the set of his mouth it was clear he expected nothing good.

  "I writ the dowager the afternoon of your second surgery. You were weak and I had begun to get the wind up. Your friend, Browne, was regaling everyone with Don Alfonso, there was already some talk of a knighthood, and my presence had been noted."

  "Go on."

  "I was very plain with the duchess. I don't think she'll forgive me easily. However, she has signed a witnessed statement. I have it here."

  Richard's brows drew together as if he were trying to puzzle out the meaning of this.

  Wilson drew the letter from his breast pocket. "I need your instructions. I can send this to your solicitor, or to Newsham's, with a covering letter. Either course seems reasonable."

  "Yes." Richard's voice came out in a croak.

  "There is another possibility. If you will entrust me with the statement, I shall go over to England immediately and take it to the duke myself. He is in residence at Abbeymont."

  Richard closed his eyes. A very slight flush tinged his cheekbones. "I should be very much obliged to you."

  Wilson sighed. "I'll do my possible, Richard. I failed you in May, because I hadn't the backbone to be plain with the dowager. I don't blame you for hesitating to trust my goodwill."

  "I can't very well deny your goodwill."

  "Madame has had to depute a squadron of her daughters to deal with your crowd of well-wishers. If you mean to thank me for your present surroundings, you need not suffocate in gratitude."

  Richard frowned.

  Wilson said gently, "Shall I leave tomorrow for Abbeymont? I have no gallant reservations about being plain with Newsham. I should consider myself your deputy."

  There was a long silence. Wilson thought his brother-in-law was groping for words. At last Richard said merely, "Thank you. I am obliged to you."

  "Good-bye, then." Wilson executed a bow. "I'll return as soon as may be."

  22

  Wilson enjoyed the prospect of bearding Newsham. Sarah's eldest brother always made him feel an encroaching mushroom. As Wilson's family had played a prominent role in Hampshire affairs since the reign of Henry VI, that was a trifle unfair.

  If Newsham had displayed some overweening talent to justify toploftiness--for tying a cravat, say, or backing Derby winners--Wilson thought he might have felt less resentment, but Newsham was chiefly gifted in pride of lineage. The duke was sarcastic but not witty. Educated at Eton and Oxford, he now read almost nothing. He was just another wealthy man who collected gold snuffboxes. Wilson considered him a dead bore.

  It gave Wilson some pleasure when he reached Abbeymont to find Lord George also in residence. Accordingly, when the ladies had retired for the evening and Lord George began to gather his cronies for a night of deep basset, Wilson interrupted him.

  "I wonder if you will join the duke and me, George. I've something private to say to both of you."

  George, impatient, excused himself to his friends, and the duke led the way to the study. When all three had been provided with sufficient snuff and brandy to sustain dialogue, the duke turned to Wilson, one brow raised.

  "We understand you have been busy in Brussels, Wilson."

  "Yes."

  "Sarah's doing."

  "Certainly Sarah's doing. My wife has excellent judgement."

  Lord George was heard to utter something about the cat's paw.

  Wilson said, bland, "You'll eventually have cause to learn the power of a woman, George."

  "No need for lessons." George took a pinch of snuff and sneezed. "Ladybird I took in tow last spring cost me a pretty penny. Damme if Jack don't have the right idea. Leave 'em all alone. Harpies."

  The duke looked bored, as well he might. "Very amusing, George, and, er, enlightening, but you intrude on Wilson's patience. Can't you see that he's pregnant with news?"

  This heavy-footed reference to his girth gave Wilson sufficient starch to proceed without scruple. "What a master of metaphor you are, Duke. I can't call what I have in my budget news, precisely. It's more like last week's mutton."

  Lord George guffawed. He was apt to do so without much cause.

  Wilson went on, "I have here a message from the dowager designed to gladden your existence. Perhaps you'll just read it, Newsham, and I can explicate later."

  "By all means." The duke reached out a hand. "Her grace has decided to kiss and make friends, eh? About time. Eight months..." His voice trailed off. "Upon my word." The statement was brief. It announced unequivocally that Lord Richard Ffouke, alias Richard Falk, was not a son of the fourth duke of Newsham.

  Newsham read the note almost at a glance, reread it, and handed it to Lord George without comment.

  George whistled through his teeth. "Oh, by Jove, that's something like!"

  "It will stand up in a court of law, I believe." Wilson took a luxurious sip of the duke's brandy.

  Lord George handed him the paper. "I say, good of you, Wilson. The old lady saw reason, eh?"

  The duke was less sanguine. "Odd timing, Wilson. Why now?"

  Wilson made his eyes wide. "What has the timing to do with anything? It saves you from a potentially embarrassing situation. Your half brother is no longer an obscure lieutenant buried in Portugal. Sooner or later the connexion will be generally known."

  "I collect you will see to that." The duke's lip curled.

  "Oh no, Duke, you mistake my motives."

  "I know Sarah's sentiments well enough."

  Wilson set the paper on the occasional table at his side. "Sarah's feelings are her affair. They are unchanged, of course." He picked up his drink and eyed the duke over the rim of the snifter. "What you may not yet know is that Falk has a son. Quite legitimate. A sturdy three-year-old named Thomas. There is a daughter, too, but that is less to the point. The children reside in Hampshire not twelve miles from Knowlton."

  Lord George goggled. For a long moment the duke, too, was mute with surprise. "These are news indeed." He rose and stood looking at Wilson without expression.

  The hair on Wilson's neck prickled, but he gave stare for stare.

  The duke shrugged, finally, and went to the decanter. "Who is the fortunate mother? Some camp follower, I collect."

  Wilson took a breath. "Mrs. Falk is deceased. She was the daughter of a Spanish hidalgo."

  "A foreigner? Pah." There was a silence and the clank of glass on glass. Lord George joined his brother and poured a stiff tot. Wilson began to enjoy himself.

  The duke resumed his seat. "Have you been busy in our interests, Wilson? Somehow I doubt it."

  "I wonder at you, Duke." Wilson took a reflective sip. "What more can you desire? You now have assurance that neither your half brother nor anyone acting in his children's behalf can make a claim on the estate. Nor will there be any doubts concerning the succession in the case of your demise without heirs male."

  "It's early days to be counting on that," the duke snapped.

  "I have no interest in the matter."

  Lord George was studying the amber depths of the brandy decanter as if his life depended on it.

  The duke cast his brother a sharp glance. "No.
You're altogether too disinterested, Wilson."

  Sir Robert maintained his silence.

  The duke slammed his glass down with controlled violence, rose again, and began pacing. "I wish I knew your reasons. You dash off to Brussels without a word to anyone, and I next hear of you succouring the dowager's by-blow. That's plain enough. You--or Sarah--mean to embarrass me. And now you bring me this." He flicked immaculately kept fingers at the paper Wilson had laid on the table. "On the face of it you've done me a service."

  Wilson inclined his head. "It's the dowager who has served you. I'm merely the bearer of glad tidings."

  "Does your friend, the prodigal, know of this document?"

  "If you mean your half brother, yes. I wonder why you can't refer to him by name."

  "Major Falk, then."

  "Colonel," Lord George interposed, startling both men.

  "Eh?" The duke glowered at his brother.

  George screwed up his face in an effort to remember. "Lieutenant colonel, Twenty-eighth Foot. Read it in the Gazette."

  "Colonel Falk, then," the duke snapped. "Falk. Pshaw."

  "It's his legal name," Wilson offered. "By deed poll."

  The duke stared at him, mouth tight.

  "Colonel Falk thought it would be best to bring the dowager's statement to you rather than place it with his solicitor."

  Lord George's face was clouded with the unaccustomed effort of thought. "I don't see it. Chap must be mad. He could sue."

  "I think not," Wilson interrupted. "Perhaps he could, but he won't. He wants nothing to do with any of you. Because of the gravity of his recent injuries, it seemed urgent that he take this step to protect his children's safety." Wilson watched both men closely as he spoke.

  The duke's eyes narrowed. Lord George gaped. Wilson thought George's surprise genuine.