Bar Sinister

by Sheila Simonson

  "But they are both handsome." Emily felt her resolution giving way. "Amy resembles you. Tommy will be a darkeyed Latin type, a devil with the ladies if he troubles to exert himself."

  "Lazy, is he? Powys was inclined to be lazy unless something"--she gave a wry smile--"or someone caught his interest."

  Emily was in over her head and knew it. "I'd say Tommy was placid rather than lazy. Amiable."

  The duchess gave a decisive nod of her head. "Like George."

  Emily hesitated, embarrassed. Tommy resembled himself. "They're at play in the garden, ma'am."

  The duchess frowned. "Don't weaken, Mrs. Foster. You are quite right. I ought not to confuse them."

  Oppressed by a sense of djea vu, Emily went on, "Perhaps not. But if you stood by the French doors in the dining room you could watch them and satisfy yourself as to their appearance and perhaps their state of mind."

  "My dear, I am too shortsighted."

  "Opera glasses," Lady Sarah interjected, inspired.

  Emily pulled the bell for Phillida. "The very thing."

  "You persuade me." The duchess had a charming laugh, like crystal bells.

  Thus the duchess, leaning on her silver-headed cane, walked into the dining room and sat by the windows for a time, perhaps half an hour, watching Amy and Matt squabble under the ancient apple tree. Tommy was plucking overblown dandelions and chasing the fuzz. From time to time all three children teased the latest batch of kittens. Peggy minded them whilst she pared potatoes.

  Emily could not help thinking how casual the scene must appear to ladies accustomed to ranks of nursemaids and governesses. The duchess said nothing, nor did Lady Sarah.

  Her grace and Sarah took their leave quietly, and Emily spent the balance of the afternoon feeling horrible guilt, but in what cause she was not certain.

  She worried the strange visit over in her mind until exasperation drove her to write a letter. She was not comfortable writing Colonel Falk--by Wilson's account he was still very ill--so she writ Wilson. She also writ the duchess a long epistle describing the children's regimen and their small foibles and talents. It seemed the least she could do, but she knew it was no substitute for receiving the children's homage. Finally she wrote Tom Conway, too, but that was merely a sop to her sanity. She and Tom were innocent bystanders, after all. He would understand her feelings.

  Perhaps homage was the chief satisfaction the duchess took in being a grandmother. Emily did not doubt her grace's grandchildren would pay her homage. The duchess had enough charm for ten grandmothers. A pity she had not been able to charm her own children.

  Richard Falk resembled his mother, but he did not have her charm. Emily thought that was a good thing. She liked him better without it. With charm he would have been a dangerous man.

  It was Sir Henry Mayne who provided the household with its first real distraction from worry. For Matt's seventh birthday Emily's father gave her son a pony, and Emily a shock.

  "Well, my dear?" Sir Henry beamed at Emily and smacked his breeches-clad leg with his crop. "Well?"

  They were standing in the stableyard. Sir Henry pointed the butt of his crop at Matt's gift. The spotted pony was somewhat leaner than Eustachio. Matt and Amy were already talking to it. Eustachio, brought out for comparison, watched them tolerantly.

  Emily kissed her father. "Papa, how splendid."

  "He's a good boy, is Matthew." Sir Henry harrumphed deep in his throat. "Made up my mind to buy him a mount when I saw how he took to Falk's gift horse."

  Emily suppressed a grin. Sir Henry had thought Eustachio a "demned imposition." "Now perhaps Matt and Amy will not quarrel so much. And Amy can use the sidesaddle."

  Sir Henry gave an indulgent snort. "Rides like a trooper, little minx."

  "Yes, indeed, which is all very well now, but it will not be at all the thing when she is Miss Falk."

  "Or Miss Ffouke."

  Stunned, Emily could not immediately speak.

  Sir Henry sighed. "I daresay it ain't my business, but I can put two and two together. Lady Sarah Ffouke-Wilson. The Duchess of Newsham. Young Falk is the duchess's by-blow, ain't he?"

  Emily's tongue thawed. "How did you know that?"

  Sir Henry's brows twitched. "Her grace's affaire du coeur with Powys was a great scandal the year I first sat for Mellings. Year William was born. Young whippersnapper's the right age."

  Emily swallowed. "I didn't like concealing anything from you, Papa."

  "Thought I'd kick up a dust." Slap went the crop against his dusty buckskins. "Might have, when the brats first came. Whole business smelled of fish."

  "I'd have told you, dust or no dust, Papa, but I could not betray a confidence." Emily took a breath and explained as briefly as she could the events of that spring and the peril in which the children had lain. Her father grasped the legal problem directly, but all the comings and goings required considerable elucidation. In the end he shook his head.

  "Never could see sense in that sort of intrigue. People making life complicated for themselves. Newsham was a bully boy. Mad as a hatter. Pity Powys didn't kill him in the duel. Better all round. Well, Emma you've taken on quite a tangle. You're sure you don't want to disengage?"

  Emily stared. "What do you mean?"

  "Give the children up," Sir Henry said without roundaboutation. "Not at once, but as soon as Falk recovers. I daresay this sister of his would see them comfortably established. Sir Robert Wilson is a man of means."

  "No! I couldn't." Panick rose in Emily's throat.

  "You may have to. If Falk is reconciled to his family--"

  "He wants nothing to do with them."

  "The more fool he," Sir Henry snapped. "Newsham is a magnate, always a power in the land, though the present duke's a lightweight. There's blood and wealth there, my dear. Even a left-handed connexion--"

  "I can't believe that would weigh with Richard Falk."

  "Come, come. You've seen the man thrice."

  Emily shook her head. She knew.

  "If you're fixed in your mind then there's no more to be said." Sir Henry heaved a sigh. "He writ me."

  "Who?"

  "Falk. Colonel now, eh?"

  Emily nodded.

  "Very proper. Wants to see more of his children. Asked me to find a house for him on a short lease."

  "Does he mean to set up his own nursery?"

  "No, no, calm yourself. Wanted a cottage in walking distance of Wellfield House. Didn't wish to compromise you. Don't like the inn at Mellings Parva."

  "Oh." Emily was baffled, but pleased and relieved. "I thought Lady Sarah and Wilson meant him to come to Knowlton."

  "They may. Ain't in his mind."

  "But a cottage."

  "I know. I don't like the idea either. Writ him to come to me at Mayne Hall."

  Emily blinked hard. "Oh, Papa, how kind of you."

  "Hrrmpb. Not at all. Honour to have a Water-loo man under my roof. At least, that's what Fanny says."

  Emily choked on a laugh. "Dear Aunt Fan. So military."

  Sir Henry grinned. "Something in what she says."

  "When does he come?"

  "Toward the end of August."

  "This month?" Emily beamed. "How splendid. He must be very much improved in health. Shall I tell the children?"

  "Unaccountable young man. Better wait till you know for sure. Daresay he'll write you."

  That was a grievance. "I wonder he did not write me in the first place. I could have helped him find a house."

  Sir Henry looked shocked. "Most improper. I must warn you, Emma--getting altogether too independent. Watch yourself, m'gel."

  Emily let that pass. She wrote Lady Sarah the news at once, not stopping to consider the consequences.

  24

  Sarah, dismayed by Emily's news, writ her husband, and Wilson, in his turn, was hurt and confused, for he had assumed his brother-in-law would come to Knowlton.

  Richard's recovery was slow, but he had got past the point of danger. He could not r
ead because of the head wound, nor write because of the shoulder injury. After three operations he was weak as a kitten, but no longer in much pain, except when one of the blinding headaches came on, and they were now infrequent. He was on the mend. Indeed he had reached that stage of itch and ennui in which his temper, never very biddable, was on a short fuse. Wilson had been tiptoeing about his brother-in-law's sensibilities for days, but Sarah's letter dispersed his caution.

  "Sarah informs me you've leased a house of Sir Henry Mayne," he said without preamble as he entered the sickroom.

  "Then she knows more than I," Richard said shortly. "I asked him to find me a cottage." He was lying, propped, on a chaise longue with the window open to a view of Bruxellois chimney pots, and he regarded Wilson without enthusiasm. The room was hot.

  "A cottage. Upon my word, Richard, what game are you playing at? You will come to Knowlton as soon as may be, and let us hear no more of cottages."

  Richard shut his eyes and did not reply.

  Wilson moderated his tone from wrath to exasperated patience. "I don't understand you. There's no danger in your coming to us. I assure you, Newsham has been muzzled. The duke is still sulking at Abbeymont and don't mean to show his face in Society before Michaelmas. If it's the dowager you don't want to meet, she is taking the waters at Bath."

  Richard frowned. When he spoke his voice was stiff. "I'm very much obliged to you, Wilson, and oppressively grateful, but I'm not going to sit in your pocket."

  "I don't require gratitude," Wilson roared. "And I don't see what that has to do with your letting a cottage in Mellings Parva."

  "I want to see my son and daughter."

  "It's no great distance from Knowlton to Wellfield House. Or you could bring them to Sarah. They'd enliven the nursery, I daresay."

  Richard gave a brief grin. "I daresay." The smile faded. "No. They're comfortable as they are."

  "They wouldn't be discomfortable at Knowlton."

  "Would they not?"

  Wilson stopped short in his nervous pacing of the chamber and glared at his brother-in-law. "You may be justified in pursuing an intransigent attitude toward the Ffouke family, Richard, but I'm damned if I see why you won't accept my hospitality."

  Richard gazed at the chimney pots. "Since I entered the army I've been poked, slashed, punctured, grazed, and on one occasion, blown arse over teakettle into a ditch lined with chevaux de frise. Nobody considered that cause for celebration. Not to mention cholera, dysentery, Guadiana fever, and yellow jack. All of a sudden I have offers of hospitality from you; from Henry Mayne, who considered his daughter had come down in the world to associate with my children; from Monsieur le comte; from madame; from Lord Dunarvon, for God's sake; and from half a dozen persons I'm not acquainted with. Am I transmogrified, I ask myself, by a mere whack on the noggin? Thank you all the same, Wilson. I prefer not to be exhibited like a two-headed calf."

  "Knowlton is not Bartholomew Fair," Wilson snapped, but he felt a twinge of guilt. There would be a certain social cachet in having a Hero of Water-loo under his roof-tree.

  "I'm not a freak of nature."

  "You're a damned perverse care-for-nobody with the manners of a...a..."

  "A bastard," Richard supplied helpfully.

  For the first time Wilson felt some sympathy for his late father-in-law.

  "Oh, go away, Wilson," Richard muttered. "I'm in a foul temper."

  "Evidently."

  Richard took a breath. "I want to see my children. I need a place to work. Hence the cottage. I didn't think much beyond that."

  Wilson was not placated, but his ears pricked at the word 'work.' "Do you mean to write another novel?"

  "I have the feeling I'm about to be put on half pay by a Grateful Nation," Richard said, wry. "I daresay I'll have to write another novel. That is, if I can still lift a pen."

  "I have an excellent bookroom. You're welcome to write in it."

  "I doubt that I could."

  That was a facer. Wilson's deepest, most cherished motive was to show Richard his book collection and enjoy a few intelligent words on the art of literature. He had even thought he might show Richard the reviews he contributed regularly to the South Briton. Sir Robert was diffident about his own literary talents, however. Rebuffed, he retreated into description. "I assure you my bookroom is pleasant and quiet." He cleared his throat. "I have an early edition of The Pilgrim's Progress I'd like to show you."

  Richard flushed. "My God, I'm a hack, Wilson, not an Author. I wouldn't know how to write without interruption. Be reasonable, man. The bust of Molière would intimidate me."

  "That's arrant nonsense. There is no bust of Molière."

  "You're quibbling."

  "I'll hide the engraving of Milton dictating to his daughters."

  Richard gave a crack of laughter, and clutched at his head with his good hand.

  That forced a reluctant smile from Wilson. "I don't see--"

  "No, you don't." Richard's tone was no longer hostile. "I'm damned if I can explain. It has something to do with the circumstances under which I writ the other books. I'll have to have McGrath parade the village children through the dooryard from time to time, firing off squibs and beating on pans, to set up the proper atmosphere... Habit is a wonderful thing." He cocked a friendlier eye at his brother-in-law. "You ought to go home to Sarah, Wilson. I'm in rude health."

  Wilson made an indignant noise of protest.

  "Well, at least you'll allow I'm rude. Go home. I mean to be in Hampshire by the end of the month, and I promise faithfully to call on you and my sister. There's no need for you to cool your heels in Brussels any longer."

  "The arrangements--"

  "There's nothing to arrange. When I can travel, McGrath will pack my traps and we'll be off. I must go up to London, in any case."

  "They can't expect you to report so soon."

  "They don't. I mean to settle things, however. The Horse Guards will be cutting down the establishment as quick as may be. They'll be delighted to rid themselves of another line officer on any pretext."

  "Then you won't make a push to stay in?"

  Richard said drily, "I think I've had enough."

  "I thought you might find it in your interest to remain with the army."

  "I've no wish to be shipped off to India."

  Wilson shuddered. "There's the Army of Occupation"

  "I believe my regiment are bound for the Indies. Even if they aren't, I shouldn't like France now"

  That shocked Wilson. "But Paris!"

  "What pleasure could anyone take in being loathed in Paris? You can't be imagining the French will welcome us."

  "They seem docile enough."

  "They're relieved and exhausted. In a sixmonth they'll spit on us. When we entered the south, you know, it was different. Many of those people were Royalists. Paris is another story. I hear Bonaparte has been captured."

  "Yes."

  "Will he be tried?"

  "Exiled, I think."

  Richard was silent for a long moment. "Let's hope they find a snugger prison this time."

  "Do you remember the battle, Richard?" Wilson ventured, hesitant to raise the subject.

  "Bits of it, early on." Richard's mouth twisted. "I shan't strain after the missing parts. I recall Quatre Bras very well."

  "They will be investing you with the French order soon." Richard closed his eyes. It was hot in the chamber and he was sweating--had been for some time.

  Wilson went to the window to seek out a breeze. "I'll stay for that. You shouldn't have refused the Bath."

  "If I meant to stay on in the army I wouldn't have refused. As it is, there's no point."

  "It is an honour."

  "'That I dream not of,'" Richard quoted inappropriately. "A political game, Wilson. You know that as well as I. The government mean to placate the Belgians."

  There was some truth in the observation, but only some. Wilson was troubled. Because he had never understood the military frame of mind, he ha
d listened to the harbingers of Richard's glory with baffled attention. Sir Walter Scott, it was said, wished to write a History of Water-loo. Wilson had supposed his brother-in-law to be something of a fire-eater, and it surprised him that Richard would spurn a place in Sir Walter's history. That kind of glory Wilson did understand. Very strange. Wilson turned back from the window.

  "I can't convince you to convalesce at Knowlton?"

  "No. But I thank you."

  Wilson sighed. "Very well. I'm sorry for it. I daresay you'll do as you wish, however. I'll stay for your bout with the French court Wednesday."

  "Thank you. You may prop me up."

  "With pleasure. I'll write Sally to expect me in a fortnight."

  Owing to a favourable wind, Sir Robert was home within ten days, and glad of it. That evening, when they were alone in Lady Sarah's withdrawing room, he sat on a satin-covered chair and faced her at last. "Well, Sal, your brother is now a chevalier of France. I must say he speaks the language very well."

  "French governesses," Sarah said tersely. She had been disappointed not to see Richard. "We all speak good French."

  Wilson hadn't thought of that. He was inclined to overlook the fact that Richard had spent his first twelve years in the late duke's household.

  "Why did he not come home with you?" Sarah, intent, worried.

  "He won't be fit to travel for another fortnight." Wilson evaded her eyes.

  Sarah waited, tapping her foot, for his explanation.

  "There was nothing to be gained from my staying on."

  "You might have persuaded him to come here."

  "That's out of the question."

  "Why?"

  Wilson sighed. "I'm not sure why, Sarah. I just know it is. I was angry with him when he first refused me."

  "After all your trouble in his behalf..."

  Wilson said, rueful, "You think he should be more grateful, is that it? I'd like to deal with Richard on an equal footing some day, but I'm afraid that won't be possible whilst he feels himself obliged to me. Let be, Sally. God knows he has reason to be prickly. And now I wish to hear no more of Richard. How are you, and how are my boys?" The right questions in the right order.