Practice to Deceive

by Patricia Veryan

  His face unwontedly grave, Quentin stepped forward and took Penelope’s hands. He said softly, “If this should fail, there are still no words to thank you for all you’ve done. But if, by the grace of God, I come safely away, so long as I live do you ever need help you’ve only to call on me and I shall come.” He bent and kissed her gently on the brow.

  Penelope’s heart turned over, and the room swam and faded into a rosy haze.

  “Farewell, dearest of sisters,” said Quentin, drawing back.

  The room straightened, and Penelope’s rosy haze was dissipated.

  Corporal Killiam came over. “What the Major just said,” he mumbled. “Well, I feel the—the same, Miss Penelope. You and Miss Brooks. You—been so—so—”

  Penelope reached up, took his face between her hands and stood on tiptoe to press a kiss upon his cheek. The Corporal became beet-red and stood in bashful silence.

  Turning from pressing a similar salute upon Daffy’s blushing face, Quentin exclaimed an indignant, “Hi! I wasn’t given one of those!”

  “No. But then you are my brother,” said Penelope meekly. “Now—come, gentlemen. The coast should be clear, for the servants will be having their dinner or serving at my aunt’s table.” She opened the door cautiously.

  The hall stretched away, dim and quiet and cold. She stepped into it, beckoning the men to follow and, with a last meaningful look at Daffy, she led the way. Reaching the main stairwell, she motioned for a stop while she paced slowly past the descending flight. Quentin and the Corporal pressed against the wall, watching her tensely. There was no sign of anyone, only the distant sound of conversation interspersed by Lady Sybil’s occasional shrill giggle. Reaching the far side, Penelope beckoned urgently, then continued to the back stairs.

  This she judged the most hazardous part of their flight, for the stairs were almost constantly in use and terminated at the ground floor, perilously close to the kitchen and the servants’ hall. Had Quentin been stronger she would have judged it far safer for him to climb down the big oak at the rear of the house, as Gordon had done, but she was very aware that, for all his brave nonchalance, he was weaker than he seemed and the effort of coming downstairs would likely tax his strength to the utmost. She stopped again and peeped around the corner. And still luck was with them, for the narrow stairway was deserted.

  She started down. Behind her, the Corporal shifted the heavy valise to his left hand and gripped Quentin’s left arm. Quentin grinned at him insouciantly, but he did not pull away and went down with his right hand, now removed from the sling, resting on the banister rail.

  Her nerves quivering with tension, Penelope trod down the last step. From the servants’ hall came a mumble of conversation, with Hargrave’s strident tones predominating. It would seem that luck had deserted them. The door stood wide. Penelope could see Simmonds and Mrs. King seated with their backs to the hall. Her hopes plummetted as she heard Cole’s voice. The groom had been slavishly devoted to Geoffrey, and his loathing of the Jacobite cause had deepened since her brother’s death. Her hands gripped tight with indecision. Each instant they delayed built a greater threat of discovery, but to venture forth with that wretched door wide open would be fatal. Quentin and the Corporal waited on the stairs, watching her. She motioned to them to wait and walked sedately along the corridor. As she drew level with the servants’ hall, the door was flung wider open. Cole came out, remarking in a dour way that he would “ask ’em.” Looking back into the room, he added, “But if you was to ask my opinion they’re a pair of regular knock-in-the-cradles and about as much protection to us as any two choirboys would be.”

  Cole prided himself on being a well-read man. The butler, who had never been seen to read anything more complicated than a menu, responded sharply that the troopers were not at Highview for their intellectual abilities. “All as is wanted of them, is that they can shoot straight, or be quick with a bayonet. But if you care to take the matter up with her la’ship…”

  Cole grunted, started down the hall, but stopped as he saw Penelope. A fond light came into his faded blue eyes. “Evening, miss,” he said, touching his brow respectfully. “Was you wishing to see Mrs. King, I’ll call—”

  “No—pray do not disturb her,” said Penelope hastily. “I—er, had come down to be sure the soldiers were invited to take dinner, but it seems Hargrave has already attended to the matter. Do you know where they are at the moment?”

  He grinned. “Probably blowing a cloud in the shrubbery. They’ll not want to be too far from the house, miss. Just in case they was to be invited to eat, and couldn’t be found. ’Sides—they’re taking no chances of collecting any bounty that might come their way.”

  “Are there just the two of them?” she asked. “Is it allowed that they both come in at the same time?”

  “Just the two until nine, miss. Then another pair come on. And don’t you never be afeared, one on ’em will wait by the door till his mate’s through eating, and turn about.”

  She assured him she was much relieved, and turned back towards the stairs, her mind racing. What she’d at first fancied to be a blessing had become even more of a curse. With the troopers both safely ensconced in the servants’ hall, she could have whisked the two men outside with less fear of their being seen. As it was, with one trooper inside, and one waiting outside, they were likely to be delayed for upwards of two hours; the coach would arrive and leave with no chance of getting to it. The only hope was to get out now—before Cole returned with the guards.

  She heard the back door click shut and flew towards the servants’ hall again. Cole had swung the door a little more closed than it had been, but it was still too wide. Standing away from the opening, she reached for the handle, only to whip her hand back again.

  Mrs. King’s voice was very near. “… inconsiderate is not the word,” she said ingratiatingly. “Do you just sit there, poor Mr. H., and rest yourself. I shall go upstairs.”

  Penelope knew distractedly that she must somehow divert the wretched woman. But how could she hope to keep her from noticing the two men waiting on the stairs?

  The door opened wide. There came the swish of bombazine.

  “There is not the need,” Hargrave called in his oily fashion, “though much do I appreciate your kindness, dear Mrs. K. The chit and chat is flying heavy, and my lady bade me leave ’em to their cakes and ices. They’ll likely gabble for a hour yet, so I’ve set Forbes to wait outside of the dining room door. When milady rings her little bell, Forbes will run down and fetch me.”

  Murmuring tributes to Mr. H.’s sound common-sense, Mrs. King rustled away but she left the door wide open.

  Penelope bit frantically at one knuckle. Cole might come back with the soldiers at any second, especially if they had already started to the house. Alternatively, clumsy little Jenny Forbes might come galloping down the back stairs to fetch the omniscient butler.

  Quentin was peering around the corner at her, and she waved to him urgently. Leaning on his cane, either in his new character, or out of need, he trod swiftly towards her, Killiam tiptoeing after him.

  “I shall go in and close the door,” Penelope whispered. “Directly I do, you must go outside and make your way as quickly as possible to the west drivepath. The soldiers are on their way here to eat, but they have to do so one at a time, so that there is always a guard watching. Hurry—do hurry!”

  He nodded, eyes grim. “Go on then, brave girl. We shall do nicely, never—” He broke off with a startled gasp.

  Betty hurried down the back stairs and came lightly along the corridor, humming to herself. She glanced up, saw the three who stood in a frozen tableau, and halted abruptly.

  Penelope seemed quite numb. In a detached way she saw the girl’s big blue eyes grow bigger. Killiam made a grab for her. She whispered, “Ssshh!” and eluded him to slip into the servants’ hall, saying brightly as she closed the door, “I’m sorry to be late, ma’am. But if you’re still of a mind to it, I’ll sing for you now.…”<
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  Penelope’s knees were shaking. She thought distantly that her suspicions of Betty had evidently been correct, and she walked along unsteadily, scarcely able to credit this wondrous reprieve.

  The Corporal murmured in her ear, “If you could just see if the coast is clear, Miss Penelope,” and he opened the side door.

  Penelope was vaguely aware of cool evening air scented with blossoms; of a crimson-streaked dusky sky, and of brisk footsteps approaching from the direction of the stables. She whispered, “They’re coming! Quickly!” and plunged down the steps and into the bushes beside the house.

  Quentin growled a curse, but there was no chance for him to restrain her and he had perforce to follow. Surrounded by foliage, they stood motionless. Penelope scarcely dared to breathe and, with a branch poking in her ear and a cobweb an inch from her nose, heard Cole grumbling, “… sent here to guard the estate, not sit around making eyes at the maids.”

  A deep laugh rumbled out. “Is it shaking in yer shoes ye are, then? Never worrit, my cove. Me comrade’s got his peepers fixed on the road, and nought’ll get past him, I dare swear.”

  Cole wrenched open the door and grunted a profanity. The door slammed shut.

  ‘We did it!’ thought Penelope. ‘Oh, but we are almost away!’

  “Excelsior!” exclaimed Quentin. “You see, Gloom and Grim—did I not tell you that … it would go well.…”

  His voice was thready. Killiam asked anxiously, “You all right, sir?”

  “I am very well,” murmured Quentin. “But—just for a moment, perhaps, I think I shall … sit down.…” And he descended with a rush onto the valise the Corporal had dropped.

  Penelope fell to her knees beside him. “Mon pauvre! You are so weak still.”

  He peered blurrily at her and with a weary smile declared, “No such thing. Run you a—a race, my girl. And win, begad.”

  The Corporal, who had crept through the shrubs to the point at which the drivepath neared the mansion, now returned, hissing urgently, “Coach coming!” He pulled Quentin to his feet, and they all three repaired to the edge of the lawn. Penelope could neither hear nor see a vehicle. “Are you sure, Corporal?” she asked.

  “Never doubt old Rob, m’dear,” said Quentin. “He’s got the ears of a sparrow hawk.”

  For a moment they all stood listening. Then Quentin nodded, and Penelope heard the distant drumming of hooves, becoming gradually louder until she dreaded lest the servants hear the carriage. And then, from the house she heard a sweet soprano voice singing, “Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind as man’s ingratitude…”

  “Bless your heart, sweet songstress,” muttered Quentin, his gaze fixed on the rapidly moving carriage.

  “Is it your brother’s man, sir?” asked Killiam.

  “I cannot quite … tell.… Devil take it!”

  A shout rang out. A soldier strode onto the drivepath, musket gripped before him. With a gasp, Penelope shrank closer to Quentin, and his arm went around her. The Corporal swore under his breath. The coach slowed and stopped, and the soldier strolled to call up to the coachman.

  “Better there than in front of the house,” Quentin whispered. “But if we’re to pull this off, we’d best get around the corner while that trooper’s occupied.”

  Penelope glanced anxiously to the back door. Daffy had not yet come. If the girl was detained, their scheme might yet fail. And then, even as she turned away, she saw Daffy slip down the back steps, two cloaks over her arm, a valise in one hand and the bird cage in the other. ‘Jasper?’ thought Penelope, and then they were around the corner and creeping towards the main entrance.

  Good-humoured shouts rang out, and the team was moving again. The carriage came into view. Quentin murmured, “It is our Flying Dutchman, by thunder! Dear old Gordie’s come to the rescue, as always! God love the man!”

  “Now, sir?” asked the Corporal.

  Quentin nodded and strolled out onto the drivepath. At once, the coachman pulled up his team. The Corporal snatched up the valise and followed Quentin. Penelope glanced back. Daffy came around the corner of the house but stayed amongst the shrubs, waiting until the last moment. Penelope walked to the coach, praying that no zealous stableboy would come running.

  The creature that ran across the drive was no stableboy, but a sleek black cat, disturbed by Daffy, and voicing his displeasure as he darted under the heads of the leaders. Back went their high-bred ears, and snorting and squealing, they plunged on, the coachman snarling curses as he pulled at the reins. He brought his team under control within seconds, but they halted almost level with the front doors—the very spot they had all prayed to avoid. Penelope’s heart was racing. The Corporal groaned, “The wolf’s in with the sheep, now!” Quentin said coolly, “There was no horn sounded. We may still be safe,” and with the aid of the cane he led the way to the coach.

  The guard jumped down from the box, swung open the door, and let down the steps. Killiam handed over the valise. The coachman, a ruddy-faced squarely built individual, leaned over to grip Quentin’s upreaching hand and gulp, “Master Quentin! God be thanked!”

  “Be damned if you’ve changed a bit, Dutch,” said Quentin gladly. “I wonder you recognized me, though.” He glanced at the guard, who had thrown the valise onto the roof. “Up with you, man. Quickly! Inside, Rob!”

  The Corporal knew better than to argue, and he clambered into the vehicle. Quentin started up the steps, then turned about. Daffy gripped her burdens and prepared for the last-minute dash. Quentin reached out to touch Penelope’s pale cheek. “Bless you,” he said fervently.

  “Hurry, hurry!” cried Penelope, and as he stepped back, she jumped onto the step.

  “Hey!” said Quentin.

  “I go with you,” she cried, determined.

  “Penelope!” In strident and outraged accents, Lady Sybil demanded, “What on earth are you about?”

  VIII

  Gripped by despair as all her hopes crumbled, Penelope still had the presence of mind to back down the steps so that the coachman could whip up his team. She turned to face her aunt, grief like a knife in her breast, but her eyes flashing defiance. Quentin would be safe—that was all that really mattered.

  But the coachman was not whipping up his horses. A hand was upon her arm; a deep, courteous voice was saying, “There is not the need for introductions, my little Penelope. I have heard sufficient of the beauty of Lady Delavale to know who this ravishing creature must be.”

  Penelope gasped an instinctive, “No!” but Quentin stepped past her.

  “Do not be ridiculous, niece,” said Lady Sybil, looking with favour upon this discerning gentleman. A fine pair of shoulders, for all that he leaned so heavily upon that cane. And what mischievous green eyes. A rascal, if ever she’d met one! “I am unmasked,” she said, extending her white hand and smiling because the gentleman’s lips lingered a shade too long upon her fingers. “I think we have not met…?”

  “I am John Macauley Somerville,” said Quentin blandly. “You doubtless will have heard of my brother Andrew. A charming fellow, but—famous brothers can be so tiresome. He sent me forth to poke about in search of traitors. A most taxing endeavour, ma’am, which has resulted in a recurrence of gout. Since I found myself close to some relations, I decided to inflict myself upon you. But my grand-niece tells me that poor Hector has passed to his reward.”

  Penelope stared at him, marvelling at the ease with which his inventive mind had fabricated a new identity, wishing with all her heart that he had gone when he might have, yet foolishly grateful that he’d not abandoned her to face alone the nightmare that must have followed. In the carriage the Corporal waited, listening frowningly and with one large hand gripped about the pistol in his belt. Daffy had started her dash for the carriage, only to retreat even more precipitately when she heard Lady Sybil’s voice. Peeping through the leaves, she set Jasper’s cage down and watched breathlessly.

  “Do you say you are related to my husband?” asked
Lady Sybil. “I have not heard him mention a Somerville branch, I think.”

  “Likely not, dear lady,” Quentin acknowledged, his eyes travelling her with frank admiration. “My mother was aunt to the mother of the late Lady Hector. My wretched brother seldom stirs from his desk at Whitehall, and I have been much abroad of recent years, on affairs of State, you know.” He sighed. “Pray accept my condolences upon poor Hector’s passing. I had best be on my way now, and will leave you with—”

  “No such thing,” said my lady, taking his arm and smiling up at him coquettishly. “You must stay as our honoured guest. At least until my dear husband returns.”

  From the corner of his eye Quentin saw Penelope’s aghast expression. He had, he thought ruefully, overdone it again! “I wish I might, lovely lady.” He patted the small hand on his arm. “But—alas, my brother—” And Fate thwarted him, for as he drew back a wave of dizziness caused him to stagger.

  “You there!” shrilled my lady, considerably alarmed as she slipped a steadying arm about ‘John Macauley Somerville.’ “Come and help your poor master! His gout troubles him.”

  Recovering her scattered wits, Penelope said, “Aunt, really I think Lord Joseph would not wish to keep my great-uncle from his mission. Perhaps—”

  “For shame,” cried my lady with splendid vehemence. “Would you turn an ailing kinsman from our door, I assure you your sainted papa would never have done so! Whatever must Mr. Somerville—” She paused. “It is—Mr.?”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Quentin, not one to settle for half-measures, “it is Sir John.”

  Lady Sybil beamed. So much better to entertain a titled relative than a commoner. And besides, once her dinner guests left she would be bored again.

  She led the way up the steps, Quentin, very tired, following with Killiam’s assistance, and Penelope bringing up the rear, plagued by apprehension over what this unexpected development might lead to.

  About to cross the threshold, my lady halted, flinging up one white hand. From the shrubs beside the house had burst forth a silver ripple of song; a full-throated paean of praise.