Practice to Deceive

by Patricia Veryan

  I

  Cattle sleep at night

  Walls of darkness round them.

  Songs of owls affright, but

  Cannot confound them.

  Break of day will brighten.

  Stiff and chill the wind,

  Zealously to waft away

  Bat and elfin-kind.

  Banish every fear, my dear.

  Summer’s almost here.

  “Good heavens,” she muttered, bewildered. “Who on earth could make any sense of that?”

  “Someone evidently. It makes no sense to me, I grant you. Unless perhaps it refers to an estate having walled pastures, and Lord knows there are plenty of those, particularly in the North.”

  “Hmmnnn,” she said dubiously. “But what about the bats and the elfin-kind?”

  He chuckled, took back the parchment and replaced it in its holder. “It wasn’t written so as to be easily deciphered, that’s certain. Perhaps the key is in the other stanzas—who knows? At all events, we must be on our way. It seems to have stopped raining and we dare travel a few miles farther, I think.” He scanned her features keenly. She looked tired, despite that valiant smile, and there were shadows beneath her trusting eyes. She had lived a nightmare since he had re-entered her life. The insidious whisper of danger warned that she would be so much safer if he left her here.… “Penelope Anne,” he said softly, taking her face between his long sensitive hands and gazing down at her, “how much do you love me?”

  She took in every line of the beloved face and, her eyes soft with love, whispered, “Oh, my dear. Do not you know?”

  “Then—for my sake, do as I ask.” He sat beside her and holding the hand that at once came out to him, went on, “This is taking too long. I cannot wait for the coach. I can cut across country if I ride.”

  Fear rested its cold and now familiar touch upon her heart. She said with resolution, “I ride very well across country.”

  “Darling girl—be reasonable. Only see how tired you are. Penny, I must leave you.”

  Her grip on his hand tightened. “You are far more tired than I. And if you go, I shall follow.”

  “Dear heaven! Must I tie you to the bed, woman?”

  She said demurely, “For what purpose, dear sir?” But when he frowned, she put up her hand to smooth away the furrows in his brow. “‘Whither thou goest…’” She tilted her head. “Listen…”

  He heard a soft pattering as of many tiny feet rushing across the windows. “Oh, no!” he groaned, and strode to fling open the casement.

  Running to his side, Penelope looked gladly into the rainy darkness, sniffed the sweet clean air, and leaned to him as his arm slipped so naturally around her waist. “Admit you are thrown in the close,” she said.

  He was silent, knowing that he should go on, rain or no rain.

  Reading his thoughts, she twined her arm about him. “Dearest, you cannot. We’d have you ill again. Your arm was more inflamed after that awful duel with Otton. It would be the height of folly to ride any more tonight, especially in the rain. And you are so very tired.”

  He was tired, and it was true that his arm was a bit of a nuisance. He glanced down at her face, so full of concern and love, and was lost. “Delilah,” he murmured huskily, pulling her to him. “Very well, but we must be up with the dawn, so—early to bed for both of us.”

  Her face upraised, she said with a small sigh, “Whatever you wish. Whatever.”

  Whatever he wished … He kissed her gently and then not so gently, her eager response so sweetly passionate that he fled like a craven, closing the door hard and leaning back against it, eyes closed, breathing hard, the flame of desire fighting his nobler impulses.

  Left alone, Penelope tottered to the window and flung the casement wide, allowing the night air to cool her blazing cheeks. Leaning there, feeling the rain now and then splash on to her skin, she whispered a heartfelt prayer of thanks for her brother’s survival and begged that this valiant and honourable gentleman who had won her heart not be taken from her; that his so precious life not be sacrificed and she left alone in a void of grief and loneliness.

  She was a good deal more tired than she had realized, and almost fell asleep while bending over the washbowl to clean her teeth. And yet, once her head touched the pillow, she could not sleep and lay there, staring into the darkness, battling the intrusive images of horrors that might be, attempting instead to concentrate upon the dear vision Quentin had pictured: the pretty French cottage with its vegetable garden; the dog and cat, and perhaps, God willing, other companions in the fullness of time … a little boy, maybe, with his father’s laughing eyes and indomitable courage. But always the fear crept back, and the yearning, until she could stand it no longer and, throwing back the covers, sat on the edge of the feather bed. She gazed at the connecting door, feeling wretchedly lonely, knowing that he was so short a distance away. Only a few yards separated her from the solace of his nearness; the blessed comfort of his strong arms about her.…

  Scarcely noticing that the wooden floor was icy against her bare feet, she wandered over to the door and laid one hand on the panel. There was no sound from within. If he was sleeping he was being very quiet about it. Perhaps he was as wakeful as she. Perhaps he, too, was lying staring into the dark, longing to hold her.

  With trembling fingers she reached for the latch, but in that moment it lifted of its own accord. The door swung open. Wearing Geoff’s black dressing gown, Quentin gasped as he saw her.

  They faced each other across the threshold, neither moving, their earnest faces lighted faintly by the glow of a single candle beside his bed.

  “You, too?” he murmured at length.

  “I needed you so.”

  His hands clenched. “I know. I seem to have not as much willpower as—as—” He groaned and held out his arms. Penelope melted into them, and he held her close and stroked her long hair and whispered huskily, “Can it truly be sinful and wrong, I wonder, to love so much?”

  She could feel the hurried beating of his heart and knew her own heart was answering that passionate summons. And yet … She lifted her head and by the dim light he saw the look in her eyes.

  “What is it, my darling? Are you afraid of me?”

  She shivered, and held him tighter. “No. But—sometimes, I am so very scared. Oh, Quentin—hold me. Hold me!”

  He held her very close, trying to soothe her, wondering as she had wondered earlier if this would prove to be all the time they had. Only tonight. Over her silken hair he saw a gleam from the bedside table. He put her aside and went over to pick up the dragon ring. He stared down at it, his eyes troubled, then looked up at her. She waited, where he had left her, standing there, patient and trusting, like some pure and shining angel, the long hair framing her expressive face, the white nightgown with its dainty little pink satin bows seeming to him to accent her purity … her vulnerability.

  Feeling humble and unworthy, he stretched out his hand. “Come, my dear Delilah.”

  At once she hastened to rest her soft warm hand in his. He led her to the window and opened the casement. The rain had stopped again, and the moon was emerging from behind a shredding cloud mass, painting silver edges on trees and cottages, making the lane into a ribbon of light.

  Quentin turned Penelope to face him squarely. With grave and unknowing dignity he said, “I can offer you no great cathedral, Penelope Anne. No other church than this little room; no other witness than our Creator. But—will you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?”

  “You know I will, my dearest,” she answered fervently.

  “Now?”

  She looked up at him wonderingly, and he took her hands and sank to his knees, drawing her down with him. Still holding her hands, his eyes fixed on her face, he said in a hushed, reverent voice, “Here before God, I, Quentin Frome Chandler, take thee, Penelope Anne Montgomery, for my lawful wedded wife. And I do swear to love and to cherish you for so long as I may live.”

  Penelope’s t
hroat tightened so that for a second she could not speak, then she murmured, “Here, in the sight of God, I, Penelope Anne Montgomery, take thee, Quentin Frome Chandler, to be my lawful wedded husband. To love, honour, and obey. For as long as I may live.”

  He slipped the dragon ring onto her finger, then bent to kiss it. With his head still bowed low, he said haltingly, “Lord, thou knowest how deep and reverent is my love for this gentle lady. Grant that—that I may never give her cause to regret this true and holy marriage. Amen.”

  Quite unable to speak, Penelope blinked at him through a blur of happy tears. He lifted his head and looked rather shyly into her radiant face. With ineffable tenderness he said, “In the eyes of God we are now man and wife, my dearest girl. And I swear to you that, so soon as may be, I will wed you again, so that the laws of man may be satisfied.”

  He helped her to her feet and asked with a slow smile, “May I kiss the bride?”

  With a joyous sob, she yielded to him. He kissed her thoroughly, closed the casement, then walked with her to the feather bed.

  Trembling, adoring, trusting, Penelope took him to herself as a woman takes the man she loves. She knew no sense of shame or regret, only an initial shyness soon banished by Quentin’s expertise. He handled her very gently, but was soon able to bring her to excitement and thence to a quivering passion. Briefly, she experienced a frightening pain, soothed by his loving whispers of explanation, and then she was caught by a soaring ecstasy, a wondrous binding of hearts and minds and bodies. Returning dizzily to earth, she lay curled snugly in his arm, her hot cheek against his bare chest, her body pressed close against his. And, imbued with a sense of completeness such as she had never known, she sighed purringly.

  Drowsily content, Quentin planted a kiss rather erratically on her eyebrow. “I can hear your mind spinning,” he murmured. “Go to sleep, love.” But then, a thought striking him, he asked anxiously, “Of what are you thinking?”

  Her voice came to him, soft and sweet out of the darkness.

  “I was thinking that—surely, there was never a more holy marriage than mine.”

  Another brief silence. Then he said, just as softly, “Mrs. Chandler … have I chanced to mention that—I love you?”

  “And I you. Quentin—oh, my darling, I love you so very—”

  But what with one thing and another, she never did finish that sentence.

  XVII

  Penelope awoke to sunlight and a sense of great excitement; a bewildered knowledge that something wonderful had come about, and that this day was supremely important. For a minute or two she could not recall the cause, but then she became aware that something was digging into her shoulder. She retrieved the dragon ring and memory returned with a rush. She knew an awed disbelief as she returned the big ring to her finger, and her cheeks felt hot as she remembered the events of the night. Her wedding night.…

  She heard a muffled rumble and darted a laughing glance to the connecting door that Quentin had considerately closed when he left her. She stretched, smiling happily at the faded bedcurtains, the garish floral stripes of the wallpaper, able to find fault with nothing. She was Mrs. Quentin Chandler, and whether or not the laws of man would acknowledge that fact, she knew beyond doubting that her beloved was as irrevocably bound by the vows he had spoken upon his knees in a wayside inn as though they had been spoken in the greatest cathedral in the land, with an archbishop officiating and hundreds of guests to bear witness.

  Her joyous eyes roamed the little room, alighting by chance on her treasured clock. She gave a gasp of dismay. A quarter to nine! And Quentin had wished to leave at dawn! She sprang up in bed, throwing back the blankets and pushing her feet into her threadbare carpet slippers. Running to open the connecting door, she was greeted by the stentorian evidence that her beloved slept soundly. She thought, with a giggle, ‘Very soundly!’ and she ran to kiss his cheek, not caring that it was flushed with sleep and stubbled by a growth of beard.

  He opened one eye, stared in momentary shock, then gave a great grin of delight. “Mrs.… Chandler…” he said, yawning and reaching for her.

  Penelope danced clear, then leaned to ruffle his tousled hair. “Wake up, sleepy-head! It is near nine o’clock!”

  “Good God!” He leapt up, begging her to ring for hot water. She did so and left him cursing under his breath because the maid had neglected to wake him.

  By the time he had washed, shaved, and dressed, Penelope was ready, a fact that stupefied him. Coming into her bedchamber and crossing to the window seat where she sat waiting, he pulled her into his arms. “Is there no end to your perfection, wife?” he asked, kissing his way from her brow to her throat. “Who’d have dreamed I would find beauty, courage, and promptitude all in one delicious package?”

  Surrendering to his tantalizing kisses, Penelope wondered dreamily if he really thought her beautiful, and drifted in a golden haze until he regained sufficient of his wits to remember the time.

  They ate a hasty breakfast in the coffee room, and Quentin went to the front desk to pay their charges. Penelope, who had paused in the hall to stroke a large and handsome collie basking in a patch of sunlight, straightened to find Lady Epps turning disdainful eyes from her. Smiling a greeting, Penelope started forward, but the woman pointedly snubbed her, and Sir Leonard, his face a study in outrage, looked at her grimly, shook his head, and marched on. Blushing, Penelope thought, ‘I suppose they must think us a shameless pair,’ and wondered what they would say if they suspected in what unorthodox fashion she had been married last evening. Her eager eyes sought out her husband. There seemed to be some problem with the host, and Quentin’s handsome features were flushed. Hastening to his side, Penelope became the recipient of a shocked stare from the host, and a gasped “Well, I never!” from his plump spouse.

  Quentin gripped Penelope’s arm and hurried her outside. “God help us all,” he moaned, under his breath. “Of all the ghastly things!”

  Dutch Coachman was supervising the loading of the luggage into the boot. Their groom, a family man, having been once more warned of the ever-present danger, had reluctantly declined to go on with them, so that Dutch now had to manage alone, but Penelope doubted Quentin’s distress was by reason of this circumstance.

  “What is it?” she asked anxiously. “Did someone recognize you?”

  He handed her up the steps, then sprang in to sit beside her, throwing his tricorne onto the seat and running a hand through his hair in exasperation. Glancing out of the window, he came eye to eye with the host, standing arms akimbo on the front steps, truculence written all over his stalwart self. Quentin turned his scarlet face away and breathed a sigh of relief as the coach lurched and started off into the sunlit morning. “Thank the Lord for that!” He pulled Penelope’s hand through his arm and smiled wanly at her. “What a pair we are! Do you know, my mind was so full of my adorable bride that when the host asked to be reminded of my name, like a perfect gudgeon I started to answer truthfully! Luckily, I stopped when I realized what I had done, but then I couldn’t remember our present alias!”

  “Oh, heavens! Whatever did you say?”

  “The host snarled at me, ‘Quentin—is it? I thought as how you’d said you was Edward Bainbridge!’ and looked at me as though I was Bluebeard, unmasked. And just to sweeten the pot, up comes your nosey Lady Epps. ‘Good morning, Mr. Somerville,’ says she!”

  “Oh—no!” moaned Penelope.

  “The host pointed to where I’d signed the register last night, and said in a voice of doom, ‘You mean Mr. Bainbridge, don’t you, ma’am?’ and she went so stiff I wonder she didn’t splinter! Egad! I thought all three of me would sink right through the floorboards!”

  “Poor darling! Little wonder I received such censuring looks just now. They fancy me a fallen woman.”

  He slid his arm around her. “You are,” he said tenderly. “Fallen right into my trap. Are you thinking better of it this morning, sweetheart?”

  She was able to convince him that
she’d had no second thoughts and, after a delightfully improper interlude, she straightened her cap and advised her reluctant husband that they should talk sensibly. “I must write to Geoff at once, dearest,” she said, allowing her hand to be recaptured.

  “I can give you his direction, but you must remember he is Captain Delacourt. And you shall have to be very careful as to what you say.”

  “Yes, I shall. And—he is better? Where was he wounded?”

  “Took a piece of shell casing in the chest, and his lung was pierced.”

  She gripped her hands, distressed. “Oh—how awful! I should have gone at once to him, had I only known.”

  “That would have been impossible, I’m afraid.” He added quietly, “Geoff has had a nasty time of it, but there are many men today, Penny, who owe their lives to his efforts.”

  “Including your precious life! How proud I am of him! But—it is two months since Culloden. Surely he can come home soon?”

  “There are still many rebels in hiding, and now he has a small band of brave fellows who will likely keep at it—God bless ’em!”

  She said thoughtfully, “And—this treasure—is it still in Scotland?”

  “It has been divided into several shipments and sent to various temporary hiding places. What we want to do is transport it all to a place of real safety and keep it hidden until it can be either returned to the original donors, or put into a fund to help those of our people who survive. Many of my own men were stripped of homes, farms, everything they owned. If we can keep the treasure safe until amnesty, it could mean the difference between life and starvation for hundreds of people.”

  Penelope sighed. “Oh, how very dreadful it is.”

  “Why, a man must fight for what he believes best, Penelope Anne. And be prepared to take the consequences. The dreadful thing is when his loved ones, innocent children perhaps, suffer because of his actions.” He looked sombre, and she knew he was remembering what his father had said during that terrible confrontation in Reading.

  She said loyally, “Yes, you are right, of course. If every man was afraid to defend right and justice for fear of what might happen to his loved ones, we would still be in serfdom.”