Bar Sinister

by Sheila Simonson

  "Oh, Mama."

  "No!" Tommy was clutching her hand for balance but he seemed bent on jumping his way down. She grabbed the tail of his new blue coat.

  Matt grasped the bannister with both hands and compromised by leaping and slithering sidewise the rest of the way. He made a terrific clatter.

  By this time the commotion had stirred the servants to life, and the aged Treglyn butler creaked into the foyer bearing a branch of lit candles. He was followed by the gaping footman and the housekeeper.

  Dancing with impatience, Amy struggled with the latch of the huge oak door.

  "Now, Miss Amy..." The butler set his candles on the hall table.

  "It'th my papa! Open it, pleathe, Turvey." She gave him her famous gap-toothed smile. "Pleathe."

  "Amy, wait!" Emily called from the stairs. She'd got halfway down the last flight with Tommy jumping and shrieking beside her.

  Amy was far too agile for the ancient Turvey. He made the mistake of unlatching the door. Casting an impudent grin over her shoulder, she slipped out under his elbow into the night. Turvey peered after her, clucking.

  "Lord, she'll take her death. No, Matt. Oh, Turvey, I beg your pardon." Emily finally achieved the foyer, panting. "Thank you, Charles." This to the footman who had collared a red-faced Matt. "It's Amy's father, you see, come from London. She saw him from the schoolroom, and there was no holding her. The rest of us"--she gave Matt a Meaningful Look and tightened her grip on Tommy's hand--"will await him here in a civilised manner."

  The servants looked sympathetic, if bewildered. They knew of Richard, but hadn't met him. Matt squirmed.

  "It's Amy's birthday, Matt," Emily said gently.

  Matt made a face but subsided.

  "Will you be requiring another place for dinner, then, m'dear?" Mrs. Denning, the housekeeper, was a Cornishwoman with a strong sense of order. It had taken Emily a week to realise the woman enjoyed the challenge their visit represented.

  "Yes--ah, no. Colonel Falk may take Mrs. McGrath's place. She will want to greet her husband properly. If a chamber could be prepared for Colonel Falk, hot water, of course. And I daresay dinner ought to be put back half an hour. Yes."

  "Very good, missus." Mrs. Denning gave an approving nod. She liked a decisive manner, or so Aunt Fan said. Emily had been cultivating a decisive manner for a month. Smiling, Mrs. Denning vanished into the domestic nether-land.

  In the next minutes Emily's eagerness was undermined by the horrible conviction that something must have gone wrong with Tom Conway's scheme. Probably Richard was going to gather the children up and fly to the Antipodes. Emily wondered if her father would visit her in Van Dieman's Land, and banished the thought as unworthy. Probably Richard would spurn her, if she offered to come. Probably he would sail to Montevideo and marry a wealthy Spanish lady at once, and Emily would never see him or the children again.

  "Charles, do you assist Colonel Falk and his man." Turvey, quavering but authoritative. "I believe they have...yes, a portmanteau and saddlebags. At once, if you please."

  The footman leapt to obey. Voices could be heard but Turvey's bent back blocked the view.

  "If you will just step inside, sir. I am Turvey. Welcome to Treglyn." Turvey threw the door wide.

  Richard entered, dripping. "Thank you, Turvey. I seem to have acquired a very damp child." He was carrying Amy under his cloak. She stuck her head out and grinned.

  Turvey removed Richard's hat and cloak, shaking the water from them onto the black and white tiles of the entryway, and Richard set his daughter down. Wet and beaming, she clung to his side.

  "How do you do, Richard?" Emily croaked. She took a step forward.

  Blinking against the light, he looked over at her and smiled. "Very well and very wet. I'm glad to see you."

  Emily's knees quivered and her heart lurched, but she contrived to utter her most urgent. thought. "Has anything gone wrong?"

  "No, no. Everything's splendid. Amy, querida, dislodge yourself from my leg so I can move." Amy bounced a few feet away.

  Richard took Emily's hand. His was cold but his smile was warm. "It's all right. I didn't mean to alarm you. I thought McGrath and I should arrive as soon as a letter, so here we are."

  Emily heaved a sigh of pure relief and smiled at him shakily. "I'm so glad to see you. But you must be frozen, and McGrath, too. Did you walk from the village?"

  "From the coaching inn."

  "Good heavens, that's three miles!"

  "It felt like ten," he said ruefully. "Poor McGrath is half dead from dragging that portmanteau. We didn't realize Treglyn was so far."

  Peggy had spotted her wet spouse. She gave a screech and flung herself down the last stairs, uttering a barrage of greetings and predictions of imminent pneumonia. The baffled Turvey, who was not accustomed to admitting anyone's servants by the front door, freed McGrath from his greatcoat. The bâtman scowled round him and grunted.

  "Er, perhaps Charles could show McGrath down to the kitchen to dry off," Emily ventured. "It's warm there."

  Charles, the footman, damp and laden with portmanteau and saddlebags, had slipped in the door, too. Turvey shut it. Turvey regarded McGrath with a stern eye. "An excellent idea, madam."

  McGrath dripped and shivered.

  Turvey softened. "A small glass of brandy might be in order, if I may be so bold."

  "Faith, lead me to it," McGrath growled.

  Emily stared. She had not thought him capable of articulate speech.

  Richard laughed. "A large glass of brandy, I think, Turvey. Jerry, I'm obliged to you, as usual. Give over wailing, Pegeen, and see to your man's comfort." He gave Peg an affectionate squeeze of the shoulders and shoved his servants off in Charles's wake.

  All this time Aunt Fan had been descending the stairs with unimpaired dignity. Stately as a galleon, she gained the foyer and advanced, hand outstretched. "Colonel Falk, a welcome sight. Trust your mission was successful."

  Richard's eyes gleamed. He bowed over her hand. "It was, Miss Mayne. We rolled 'em up, foot, horse, and guns. And in short order, too."

  "Excellent. We shall await your account with great interest. And now, sir, I believe you should retire to your room to dry off. Wet to the bone."

  "In a minute." Richard looked round. "I think I see Matt over there by the hatrack. And who's that with him?"

  "Nankies!" Tommy shrieked and flew at his father like a whirlwind.

  Richard knelt in time to catch the little boy and hug him tightly. "So I see. All grown up, Tomkin? Like Matt." He smiled over Tommy's head at Matthew who, unaccountably shy, had hung back. "Hiding, Matt?"

  Matt grinned, shamefaced, and advanced to be hugged in his turn. Watching Richard disentangle himself gently from the two boys, Emily decided to propose marriage at the first opportune moment.

  The moment did not present itself that evening. Amy's dinner could not help turning out a smashing success, for all that the food was a trifle overdone. The guest of honour, having drenched her best gown, had been hastily towelled and stuffed into an ordinary blue wool, but nothing could quench her high spirits. Amy's doll--beside whom her other gifts faded into temporary insignificance--was seen to be a tiny, splendidly haughty English lady in the first stare of the mode.

  "What'th her name?" Amy demanded.

  Richard looked startled. "Er, I've forgot. Just a moment. It'll come to me."

  Emily smiled at him. So he didn't think of everything.

  "Whopstraw," he said firmly, avoiding Emily's eyes. "Lady Whopstraw. Yes, I'm sure that was it, but you'll have to christen her yourself, Amy. My acquaintance with her was so brief we never reached first-name intimacy."

  Amy's brow furrowed. "I know! Lady Tharah." She tested it on her tongue. "Lady Tharah Whopthtraw."

  Richard fell into the whoops.

  Everyone regarded him with sympathetic tolerance, even Amy. Emily was hard put not to laugh, too. So he had had further commerce with Sir Robert and Lady Sarah.

  "It's a good name, Amy
." Emily bestowed an approving nod on the puzzled child. "Doña Barbara and Doña Inez will be happy to receive Lady Sarah."

  Sheepish and still chuckling, Richard wiped his eyes. "Sorry."

  "That'th all right, Papa." Amy had already examined the fabric of the doll's gown. She gave a small satisfied nod and began to remove Lady Sarah's bonnet. She was very critical of her dolls' hair.

  Richard said out of the corner of his mouth, "Tell me her teeth will grow back thoon."

  "I trust they may. Matt's did." Emily choked on a laugh. Richard was certainly in tearing high spirits.

  "Show us your fangs, Matt."

  Matt grinned cheekily around a mouthful of cake.

  "My God, aren't they rather large?"

  "Matt's face will grow to accommodate his teeth in due time," Aunt Fan offered.

  "How old are you now, Matt?"

  "Seven and a quarter. On my birthday," Matt pronounced, "I want a few de joy, like the king."

  Richard winced. "Can you possibly mean a feu de joie?"

  Matt looked at Emily.

  "It is a French phrase," Emily said blandly. "We must defer to Colonel Falk's pronunciation, Matt. After all, he has the Order of Saint Lewis."

  Richard flushed and grinned. "I knew there had to be a use for it. I'll set myself up as a tutor. French and deportment at a shilling a week."

  Matt stared at him wide-eyed. Aunt Fan looked rather shocked. The sight of her aunt's disapproving face sent Emily into the whoops. It was plain that the gathering had begun to disintegrate. Tommy, worn out with glory, was half asleep in his plate.

  The children safely abed, Emily and Aunt Fan carried Richard bodily off to the withdrawing room for explanations. Aunt Fan deserved that courtesy, though Emily had begun to wish herself and Richard marooned on a desert isle.

  Would they never be alone together? Not that Richard seemed conscious of any such desire. Having spent two nights on the mail coach, he was by then nearly unconscious in the absolute sense of the word. A pot of strong tea and the intricacies of his narrative woke him up sufficiently for coherent speech, though he continued to suppress yawns at the most hair-raising points in the story.

  When it sank in at last that he had been using himself as bait to entrap Newsham's agents, Emily's temper flew out the window. Her denunciation was vivid and comprehensive. Richard bore it meekly. In the end Aunt Fan interrupted the tirade and sent him off to bed.

  As the door closed behind him, Emily came down out of the boughs with a thud. "What have I done?"

  Aunt Fan regarded her enigmatically.

  Emily held out her hands. "Look at me, Aunt. I'm shaking like a blancmange. I can't stand this much longer."

  Aunt Fan shook her head. "When I was a gel I fancied myself in love with one of your father's Oxford friends. Showed all the symptoms--fits of crying, poor appetite, daydreams, short temper. Threw a brush at my abigail. Gave me pause."

  "Oh, Aunt."

  "Fortunately I recovered. Take a dose of salts, Emma, and go to bed."

  Emily bored herself very much by bursting into tears.

  Resigned, Aunt Fan mopped the excess and administered halfhearted pats.

  "Why is it," Emily gasped between sobs, "that I'm only eloquent"--gasp--"when I'm furious with Richard?"

  Aunt Fan considered the problem. "Love," she pronounced after a moment. "Form of madness."

  "He's sent for Tom's carriage."

  "Yes."

  "And writ Papa we're coming home."

  "So he said."

  "Oh, Aunt, there's no time! We'll go back to Hampshire, and everything will be just as it was." Emily gulped. "I don't want that any more. It's not enough."

  Aunt Fan made a soothing noise but Emily was not comforted.

  The gale blew itself out before morning. Emily woke very early after a restless night. From the slant of light she decided it could not be eight o'clock. Scarcely dawn. Thanks to the wind, no morning mist hovered. The leaded casement of her bedchamber window framed the theatrical green-and-rust-streaked cliffs that bounded the manor. Beyond, the sea glimmered. The air was so clear she thought she could make out the French coast, but that was unlikely. It did not feel like the last week of October. The wind-whipped air fizzed like champagne.

  Pulling her thick winter robe about her shoulders and scuffing into her slippers, Emily took up her hairbrush and returned to the window. She stood there, brushing and gazing dreamily across the park and avoiding conscious thought, for perhaps five minutes. Then it dawned on her that Richard was walking along the meandering path that led to the cliffs. Alone. She froze, brush half raised. Her heart did its lurching and thumping trick. Now or never.

  She flung the brush at the dressing table and threw off her robe and night rail. A button popped. In a twinkling she was dressed in a serge walking dress and stout shoes. Clattering down the stairs, she startled one of the chambermaids.

  Emily slowed her pace, gritting her teeth with impatience. "Beautiful morning. Going for a walk." The girl gaped at her.

  Emily contrived to leave by the garden doors with the semblance of dignity. Then she ran. Richard was no longer in sight. Puffing, she gained the path--and came to her senses. She stopped dead. What business had she, Emily Foster--thirty, widow, mother, so to speak, of three--to be chasing a man in blatant, hoyden style across half a mile of Cornish cliff? He had given no sign of wishing to be chased.

  Gloom settled like a fog about Emily's shoulders, and she drifted aimlessly along the path, still gasping a bit from her run. As her breathing steadied, she began to think less erratically. She would find Richard, and they could talk about the children and the weather, and she could apologise for ripping up at him the night before. What harm in that? Alas, what good in that?

  The steady wind, warm for October, blew against her right cheek as she walked, whipping the strings of her bonnet. She stopped and retied the ribbons and started off again. There was a viewpoint beyond a small clump of wind-sculpted gorse.

  As she gained the bush she crashed into Richard. He had been walking in the opposite direction. They both jumped, startled.

  Richard made a swifter recover. "You're up early." He took her arm briefly to steady her.

  "It's a beautiful morning." A dim thing to say. Emily felt his hand on her elbow even after he dropped it.

  "Perfect for tripping along the edges of cliffs. That's quite a drop."

  "I know." She paced to the rim of the turf and looked down at the sea, boiling around the rocks so far below that the sound of crashing surf came to them as no more than a murmur. "When we first arrived I was terrified that one of the children would tumble over." Possibly I should tumble over and end it all, she reflected. The extravagance of her thought jolted her back to sanity and she laughed at herself.

  "What is it?" Richard smiled at her.

  Emily's pulse thumped. "Nothing. Richard?"

  "Yes?"

  "I didn't bump into you by accident. I saw you from my window and came to find you."

  "That's flattering," he said amiably. "If you're spoiling for another fight, however, I warn you I'm feeling peaceful."

  Emily blushed to the roots of her hair. "I ought to apologise for last evening."

  "Good God, what is this? I thought you were in earnest." He mimed astonishment, hazel eyes sparkling.

  "I was. Am. Oh, do stop teasing." Confusion tangled Emily's tongue. "When does Tom's carriage come?"

  "You may count on arriving in Hampshire in time for Guy Fawkes day."

  "It is a major family festival." They were drifting back the way he had come. The sea stretched before them, green and glittering in the morning sun. Two gulls hung almost motionless at the cliff edge.

  Emily stiffened her resolve. "May I ask you a question?"

  He cocked his head. "To be sure." His eyes were friendly but puzzled, and perfectly clear from a blissful night's sleep. He wore no hat and the wind had stung colour into his cheeks. The scar on his brow was fading. In another year or so
it would scarcely be noticeable. Emily thought he looked splendid.

  Her courage deserted her. "What do you mean to do? That is, now this business of your--the duke--is settled."

  He shrugged. "I thought of London. I like London. It would be convenient to publishers, but of course the distance to Hampshire is too great. My lease of the cottage runs through November, doesn't it? I might take rooms in Winchester. That's close enough so I could come to see the children every week, and it would be a good place to write. I've friends in the barracks." He bent to pick up a handful of loose pebbles and began tossing them sidearm over the edge of the cliff. Practicing left-handed pitching.

  Winchester sounded dreadful to Emily. "Why?" she wailed, despairing. "What's wrong with the cottage? Papa would give you a longer lease. I thought you liked it."

  "I do." He threw the last pebble in a long flat arc and admired the trajectory. "I daresay there would be talk."

  "So?"

  He turned, sober. "I've no wish to compromise you, Emily. I'm too much in your debt."

  Emily could have screamed. "You are the most exasperating man."

  He frowned.

  "I wish you may compromise me," she exploded.

  Richard stared.

  In for a lamb, in for a sheep. "I w-want to m-marry you." There. It was said. Emily gulped and turned away from him, her cowardice rushing back. "That is, not if you dislike it..." Her voice trailed off. She knew her cheeks were scarlet.

  "Why?" He sounded as if he had been whacked on the head.

  A great lump constricted Emily's throat. She shook her head, helpless to speak. She could not look at him. She had never done anything half so brass-faced in her life.

  "Why, Emily?" His obtuseness broke the spell.

  "Oh, good God, because I love you!" she cried, turning and facing him at last.

  He looked rather white.

  "I have loved you any time these two years." Really, this was remarkably difficult. Emily began to feel sick. She raised her chin, which was quivering. "However, if you do not return my regard--"

  "Hush. You must know I do, for all that I've never told you." His eyes were dark, his voice rough. "You cannot have thought it through, however--"