“Indeed he has, and—oh, hurry, hurry! I can scarce wait to tell my niece that you are acquainted with her dear brother. What a small world it is to be sure! What a small world!”
Left alone in the lounge, Mr. Fairleigh sat down again, but he did not take up his newspaper, gazing instead at the brightening portholes, and smiling his faint, cynical smile.
* * *
Aunt Estelle, thought Rosamond, must be experiencing some difficulty in finding Dr. Victor. Cautiously, she lifted the brush and with not a little discomfort coaxed one tendril of her darkly golden locks into a descending ripple beside her right ear. By proceeding very gently, she had managed to arrange her hair into a less severe style than her aunt had created. Her poor head still ached, and her side, when she raised her arm, was stiff and tender, but by and large she was feeling surprisingly well this morning, despite the continued tossing of the cabin. She really had no pressing need for the services of the block of ice that called itself Dr. Robert Victor. Nor did she at all like the creature, for how could one like a man—however attractive he might be—who looked upon one without the least spark of interest? Interest! Aversion, more like! And he had dared to say females flew into the boughs “at the least little thing.” The wretch! Thus, if she had not argued with her aunt’s determination to bring him here, it was, she told herself, purely out of curiosity to see if those cold eyes ever reflected other emotions besides wrath, hauteur, and unfriendliness.
She sighed and scanned her reflection. She was not of a noble family and had neither title nor fortune to recommend her, but her birth was far from contemptible and although she was not a vain girl, she could not fail to know that she was very pretty. “All this stuff” indeed! Revolting creature! How dare he use such terms to describe her hair? It was true that blondes were out of fashion, but with the unfortunate gold of her luxuriant tresses concealed under powder, and just the right flutter of her curling lashes, she had captured several most desirable Parisian beaux into becoming worshipful members of her court. She eased back an unruly curl and frowned. “All this stuff…”
Her gaze drifted down to the blouse that Aunt Estelle had very gently helped her into, so that she would not have to lift her arms to don a proper night-dress. Cautiously, she pulled it up. The bandage Dr. Victor had wound around her just below her breasts came into view and she eyed it with resentment. The dear dainty little night-dress on which she had expended so many patient hours—and he’d torn it up without so much as enquiring if there was another piece of cotton that might have been less disastrously utilized. He had not made a very neat bandage either. But, of course, one had to allow for the fact that the ship had been heaving frenziedly, and the doctor obviously put about because Trifle had been so disobliging as to bite him a little bit. He deserved it, the oaf. That’s what he was—a woman-hating oaf, who needed to be taught a lesson.
She replaced the blouse thoughtfully. There was no doubting that Englishmen lacked the savoir-faire, the polished courtliness of French gentlemen. They improved, of course, with a little simple instruction …
She chuckled and returned to the bunk, climbing in and arranging the bedclothes so as to present her stricken self to best advantage. The drawings and paintings she had done during their travels lay near at hand, and she began to leaf through them. She really had made some rather good water-colours of Versailles, and her sketches of the Seine when the clouds had come up so suddenly one day were the very thing to have framed for Charles’s vicarage—whenever he should be awarded a permanent living, poor darling. Papa might like the one of the splendid troop of cuirassiers who had ridden in through the Montmarte Gate that beautiful breezy morning. She’d captured the sunlight on their breastplates rather well, if she said so her—
Aunt Estelle’s voice was close at hand. Rosamond tossed the sketches onto the small chest, eased herself down, and spread her fair curls across the pillow. And, even as she did so, wondered why she was troubling herself. The man was only a doctor, after all; one could not really expect him to behave as a gentleman.
The door opened. Trifle plunged in, raced to the bunk and sprang upon it, cavorting about and barking madly. Forgetting all about her appearance, Rosamond let out a shriek and tried to protect herself.
A deep voice growled an oath. Trifle was dealt a sharp blow with some rolled-up papers. Immediately interpreting this as a new game, he seized the end of the impromptu weapon and flung himself whole-heartedly into the tussle. The cloudy view of the Seine was rent asunder. The magnificent cavalry troop shredded.
Rosamond wailed, “My sketches! Oh no!”
Dr. Victor swore under his breath and abandoned the struggle as Trifle bore off his prize, hotly pursued by his vexed owner.
“’Twould seem I can do nothing to please you, madam,” gritted the doctor, flushed.
“Those sketches are irreplaceable,” declared Rosamond tearfully, thinking that the horrid man was a full-fledged disaster. First her night-dress, and now those lovely sketches and paintings. All her hard work—ruined! And it had been far and away the best work she’d ever done! She had so looked forward to presenting them to Charles and her dear papa.
He picked up a fragment of cuirassier and looked at it without marked contrition. “Sorry. Perhaps they can be stuck back together.”
Stuck back together? The fiend! Incensed, she said somewhat unjustly, “I thought you had come to attend me, sir, not to play with Trifle.”
“Play with him! I’d like to—” He broke off, compressing his lips, then snarled through his teeth, “How do you go on this morning?”
“Very much better, I thank you,” she replied, with difficulty restraining the impulse to add “until now!” But the sight of him, face like a thunder-cloud, standing as far away from the berth as possible, hands clasped behind him, presented an irresistible challenge. Lying back, she pressed a hand to her side, and said in a fainter voice, “I think I must have hurt it a little when Trifle jumped on me.”
Victor bit his lip. Pretty Miss Albritton was very obviously the type of female who would find something to complain at no matter how one tried to please. Still, she certainly presented an angelic appearance, lying there looking so helpless, with her shining hair spread like a cloud of gold on the pillow.
Mrs. Porchester, having subdued Trifle with her slipper and banished him to lie panting happily under her bunk, came breathlessly to say that she had found some salve and had water and bandages all ready.
“Very good, ma’am. Were you able to sleep at all, Miss Albritton?” asked the doctor, scowling.
“Fairly well,” sighed Rosamond, looking at him with a smile of saintly resignation.
Mrs. Porchester said, “I will just unfasten these buttons, my love, so that Dr.____”
“No!” cried Victor. “I—er, it is too cold in here, ma’am. We cannot have your niece catching the pneumonia! I can manage perfectly well just as she is.”
Mrs. Porchester retreated, looking dubious.
Gingerly, Victor folded the blouse back, cut through the bandage, and began to ease it from the cut.
He was very pale, Rosamond noticed, and his hands were again icy cold. Despite his aversion to women, his touch was rather astonishingly gentle, and he bit his lip and eyed her anxiously when the last piece of the bandage came free. An improvement. She winced, and he smiled at her with amazing warmth, began to bathe the injury and said she was a “brave girl.”
So he could be half-way human—if he tried.
Peeping over his shoulder, Estelle said, “How is it today, Doctor? Do you—”
A lingering gust struck home and the packet yawed widely. The water bowl sailed to the floor. With a squeal, Estelle threw her arms around the physician. Rosamond also squealed as she was flung toward the side. In an instinctive attempt at protection, Victor reached out to steady her. The roll of the vessel threw him off balance, and Estelle’s weight caused him to stagger back. Instead of Rosamond’s arm, unhappily, his hand closed upon the front of her
blouse, and his erratic movements brought about a ripping sound. Mrs. Estelle cried out as his involuntary retreat sent his booted foot down upon her dainty slipper. Victor glanced over his shoulder and apologized. Turning back, he froze. His hand lay upon something sweetly warm and soft and creamy white save for the delicate pink tip. For an instant he stood there, unmoving, his dilating eyes fixed to the heavenly article he clutched.
“Doctor!” squeaked Rosamond, her cheeks blazing.
He snatched his hand away as though it rested on hot coals. Scarlet, he seized the nearest available covering, which chanced to be Mrs. Estelle’s shawl, and flung it over the embarrassment. “Oh, God!” he mumbled, tucking the shawl in frantically. “I dinna—” He bit his lip and broke off abruptly.
Through her own shocked shyness, Rosamond was struck by the horrified dismay in his eyes. They really were very nice eyes, and with such thick, brown lashes. And his light hair had little red-gold highlights and an attractive soft wave.
“What is the matter with it?” asked Mrs. Porchester, alarmed.
“Nothing! ’Tis absolutely perfect—” gulped Victor foolishly, and then, his flush deepening, groaned, “I—I mean—”
“’Twas not your fault,” said Rosamond, having reached the conclusion that he was remarkably bashful for a doctor, and liking him a great deal better for it.
“What was not his fault?” Mrs. Porchester demanded.
“The—er, bowl,” said Rosamond. “Dr. Victor’s elbow must have hit it, I suppose. But I think he was finished with bathing my poor side, were you not, sir?”
“Yes. I—er, absolutely!” Considerably off-stride, Victor could not bring himself to meet her eyes, but spread the salve with a hand that shook, then took up the roll of flannel Mrs. Porchester had cut from one of her own night-dresses. “If—you can contrive to support your niece, ma’am, I’ll bandage now.” He managed to pass the roll about Rosamond’s slim self, keeping his eyes resolutely turned away, and mumbled, “I really am—most terribly—I mean, I am so very sorry for—”
“Eh?” asked Mrs. Estelle, fixing him with a puzzled stare.
“For having ruined Miss Albritton’s—ah, sketches,” stammered the unhappy Victor.
“Oh. Well, that was really the fault of my naughty baby dog. Lean this way a little, my love. Do you know, ’tis the most amazing coincidence, but Dr. Victor is a friend of our Charles!”
Rosamond’s covert smile vanished. If Dr. Victor cried friends with her brother, he must be a gentleman after all, which threw a rather different light on matters. “Good gracious! Have you known Charles long, Doctor?”
“Some years, Miss Albritton.”
“And do you know what I was thinking?” said Mrs. Estelle. “I was thinking how lovely it would be could we persuade the doctor to become our courier.”
Her eyes upon Victor’s flushed face, Rosamond witnessed an odd transformation. The agony of embarrassment disappeared; the high colour faded; his hands ceased their efforts to secure his bandage, and he stood straight and very still. “Courier, ma’am?” he enquired in an expressionless voice, his suddenly piercing gaze fixed upon her aunt.
‘Lud,’ thought Rosamond, ‘up go his feathers again!’ Regretting her lapse into kinder feelings towards him, she suggested with a curl of the lip, “Perchance we offend the doctor, Aunt. He likely has more important things to do.”
“Nonsense,” declared Estelle, beaming. “He certainly can spare a few days. You behold, dear Doctor, two unfortunate ladies who have been deserted by their maids. Deserted by the wicked girls! As if that were not bad enough, my nephew, who had agreed to escort us home, is prostrated by mal de mer and will be unfit to travel for some days. He is willing, poor lad, but ’twould be better for him, and for us, no doubt—no doubt—did he rest in Dover and go straight back to Paris. You are a physician. My niece would benefit by your presence, and you would render my brother-in-law a great service did you agree to escort us.”
“I am flattered, ma’am,” he said, returning to his bandage. “It chances I have business in The Weald, but—”
“Our home is not in The Weald, sir,” said Rosamond. “Are you thinking perhaps of Little Snoring?”
“I had the impression,” he said, still avoiding her gaze, “erroneous evidently, that you lived with your brother, yes.”
“’Tis quite the other way around,” said Mrs. Estelle. “You would not believe, Doctor—you positively would not believe how that poor boy is bustled about from parish to parish! I was telling Rosamond—but that is neither here nor there. Our home is in Sussex. Not far north of Chichester.”
“It is called Lennox Court,” said Rosamond, adding ironically, “and ’tis a simple home. We do not live as does Tante Maria.”
Victor’s eyes lifted. He frowned into two blue and disdainful eyes and knew that now this unpredictable chit was judging him to be an opportunist.
“We may not live as does your aunt,” Mrs. Porchester said, indignant, “but Lennox Court is a lovely old place, and we have no need to apologize for it, child!” She laid one hand on the doctor’s sleeve. “Do say you will oblige us. If only out of your friendship with Charles. I am very sure Colonel Albritton will more than recompense you for your time.”
At this his chin lifted and the now familiar glint of hauteur came into his eyes. ‘Well, well,’ thought Rosamond. ‘Now, Aunt Estelle has offended His Arrogance, wherefore ’tis unlikely we shall have the dubious pleasure of his escort.’
Victor tied the knot, drew the sheet over his handiwork, and looked from the aloof young face to the hopeful older one. For a long moment he was silent, his face unreadable. Then a slow smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “’Twould be my very great pleasure, Mrs. Porchester,” he said.
Rosamond frowned.
* * *
“So you have agreed,” said Mr. Fairleigh, watching the chalk cliffs draw ever nearer as at half-past nine o’clock the packet made her way towards the old port.
The two men had encountered each other on the deck, and drawn by a mutual liking, stood chatting at the rail. There was only a slight drizzle now, the sun was making a feeble effort to peep through the dispersing clouds, and the motion of the sea had eased to a heavy swell.
Victor shrugged. “It chances I travel that way myself.”
“And Miss Albritton is a true Fair, did ever I see one!” The dark eyes gleamed. “I must hope our paths are not so far removed as to preclude my encountering you somewhere en route. Though the chances are, I suppose, remote.”
“Which way do you ride, sir?”
“To say truth, I’m undecided. I have an invitation to join friends in Tunbridge Wells, and another to go to my cousin, who has a delightful country home just west of Little Hampton. On the other hand, I may ride straight to Town and forget the lot of ’em. And you?”
“North,” answered the doctor. “Near Rochester, I believe.”
“Lovely country,” said Fairleigh, “but devilish cold in the winter-time. Sorri!”
“Your pardon?”
Fairleigh grinned. “Not at all. I was calling my servant.”
A sleek, soft-footed man of indeterminate age and immaculate appearance came towards them.
“His name’s Sorenson,” explained Fairleigh. “I call him Sorri for short. With an i, for I’m far from sorry to have the benefit of his services. Well”—he put out one gauntleted hand. “Good luck to you. And take care you do not trip over any of that Jacobite gold.”
His smile was warm, and there was liking in the brilliant eyes. For a moment Victor regretted having lied to him. But only for a moment. “Goodbye,” he said, returning the handshake. “I shall strive to control my greed.”
Fairleigh watched him walk away, his fair head high, his shoulders erect, and only that slight limp marring what would otherwise have been an easy, graceful stride.
Coming level with his employer, Sorenson eyed him fondly, then followed the dark gaze. “A fine-looking young gentleman, Captain,” h
e said. “Carries his head very proudly.”
“At the moment,” murmured Fairleigh.
* * *
“How glad I am,” said Mrs. Porchester, buttoning her niece’s beige habit, “that the doctor is to be our escort. Such a nice young fellow, do you not think? And quite mannerly, considering he follows a profession. Quite mannerly. The small cap will be best for driving, my pet. Did you notice what fine hands he has? Lud, but you are flushed! I pray ’tis not a fever!”
“No, ’tis not, so do not distress yourself. I feel much better, and thank goodness the weather is clearing at last.”
“Yes, indeed. Come out, come out, baby dog! Oh, that reminds me! I quite forgot to enquire of Dr. Victor as to the nip Trifle gave him. And he seemed to limp slightly when he left us, did you notice?”
“No. I think I will go and see poor Jacques.”
“He would not welcome your presence, love. The poor lad is wilted as a hot lettuce leaf, and his man too enfeebled to have shaved him. I will take Trifle along to see him, that will cheer him up. He has arranged to remain aboard for a few hours and recruit his strength, and says he may stay in Dover until he can face the return journey. He means well, you know, but what a fribble he is, to be sure! What a fribble! How glad I am that we have a reliable Englishman to give us his protection and—” She paused in the struggle to secure Trifle’s leash, and frowned slightly.
“What is it, dearest?” asked Rosamond.
Mrs. Estelle appeared not to have heard. When her niece repeated the question, she blinked at her and then said, “Oh, ’tis nothing of import. Only … I would have sworn the doctor asked me if Charles had been ordained. If he had been ordained.”
“I do not see why that would trouble you. Dr. Victor likely did not hear of the ordination. He said he had been studying in France.”
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