Ask Me No Questions

by Patricia Veryan

Miss Gwendolyn Rossiter's disposition was amiable and, despite the affliction of a knee damaged at birth and unimproved by a painful operation, a smile was seldom far from her blue eyes. On this windy morning, those eyes were vexed however, and as she limped down the majestic staircase of Falcon House, she demanded sharply, "What is the meaning of all this uproar? Tummet! Stop playing with Apollo this instant! You know perfectly well that Mr. Neville Falcon and Miss Katrina are ill."

  The two lackeys and the footman at once ceased plunging about the entrance hall in nervous pursuit of the black hound whose name might more aptly have been Monster than Apollo.

  Panting heavily, Enoch Tummet looked up. He was a square, powerfully built man, not above average height, and although his well-cut habit proclaimed him for a gentleman's gentleman his appearance seemed to deny such a genteel calling. His features, which might charitably be described as rough-hewn, held no trace of the disdainful superiority that so often marked the valets of wealthy aristocrats. His brow was low and heavy, his nose looked to have been broken several times, and the neat wig rested lopsidedly upon his bullet head.

  "Playing!" he echoed, that one word betraying his cockney origins. "Cor, luvaduck, Miss Gwen! D'ye think as I'd play wiv that there perishing 'ound?" He groaned despairingly. "Only look at 'im shake of it! Tear it ter shreds 'e will, and that'll give Mr. August the excuse 'e wants— which is to do nought. You know who'll be blamed. Orf-on-a-spree!" He glanced at Miss Rossiter and translated, "Me!"

  Gwendolyn had acquired some proficiency in his rhyming slang, and said with faint indignation, "I knew!" Wisely settling then for the small part of the rest of his utterance that she could comprehend, and having arrived at the ground floor, she took up the riding crop that lay on a cabinet, said briskly, "Apollo! Fetch!" and sent the crop flying down the corridor.

  Apollo, who had come to associate this young woman's visits with games, at once dropped his lesser prize and went with ungainly enthusiasm after the larger one.

  At once, Tummet pounced on the wreckage of the letter, and attempted to restore it. " 'Ave me ears, she will," he moaned. "Look at it! Couldn't read it if 'e wanted to. Which 'e don't!"

  The floor shook. Apollo was returning at speed. Gwendolyn told the trembling lackeys to throw the crop outside for him, and led Tummet into the book room.

  "Let me try if I can come at the root of this," she said. "A letter was delivered for Mr. August, only Apollo seized it from you, and the lady who left it will hold you to blame—is that right?"

  "Yus. And—no. Lady Buttershaw 'ad writ out what she wants Mr. August to copy dahn and send orf. Like 'e writ it 'isself. Only when Mr. August see'd milady tripping up the steps, 'e said she was a—" He checked, leering. "Never mind what. But 'e up and climbed out the winder, and sent me to make 'is excuses. Course, 'e wouldn't of done nuthink anyway. But you think she'll believe that? Not blooming likely! It'll be Enoch Tummet what spoiled it, sure as green apples."

  Gwendolyn stretched out a small but imperative hand and, peering at the tattered sheet that was obediently placed in it, said, "Goodness me! How ever could you decipher this?"

  Tummet sighed. "Didn't need to, Miss. I already knowed all abaht it." In response to the curious glance she slanted at him, he explained, "Fact is, I bin…" His craggy face reddened, and he directed his eyes at the empty fireplace and said gruffly, "I bin walking out wiv a superior female woman."

  "Why, Tummet! How very nice! And your friend is employed by Lady Buttershaw?"

  "No, mate—I mean, Miss. Me lady friend works fer Mrs. Allington what's up to 'er pretty nose 'oles in trouble. On top of which, she runs afoul of 'er ladyship!"

  "Yes, poor thing. We were in the park and saw it. Oh, 'twas dreadful! Lieutenant Morris was so kind as to try to placate the odi— I mean, Lady Clara Buttershaw."

  "Right y'are. But—may I kiss a newt if the lieutenant could get 'er ladyship to listen. Not till 'e tells 'er that Mr. August 'ad sent 'im over."

  "So that's how he managed it!" Gwendolyn's eyes began to sparkle. "Everybody knows that Lady Clara has a—er, fondness for Mr. August. Never say she now means to offer assistance to poor Mrs. Allington?"

  "In a way, yus. She winkled out that Sir Brian Chandler's looking fer someone to mess about wiv some paintings what 'e found dahn at Lake Brill—whatever it's called."

  "You mean Lac Brillant, Sir Brian Chandler's country seat. I heard he had uncovered an old fresco in his chapel. So now he wants it restored, is that it? Oh, how perfect that would be! Mrs. Arlington's papa was Mr. Greville Armitage, the great artist, and she doubtless would know exactly—" Gwendolyn's expressive little face darkened. She said dubiously, "But—would Sir Brian hire a lady to do such work?"

  "There you got it, mate, in a flea's back tooth! Lady Buttershaw, she knows as Sir Brian wouldn't so much as listen to a female widow if she went toddling dahn there. Never mind 'ow clever she was."

  "True. So Lady Buttershaw wants August Falcon to write a letter to Sir Brian in Mrs. Allington's behalf?" Gwendolyn looked even more dubious. "Is a kind thought, but I doubt 'twould be of much use."

  "No use at all, Miss Gwen, if that was what she wanted. Ain't. What she wants is fer me guv'nor to write to Sir Brian about a extry clever artist 'e knows of, by name of R. Allington, and—"

  "And when R. Allington arrives, and turns out to be Mrs. R. Allington, she will at least be there and have a chance to persuade Sir Brian to hire her for the task!" Gwendolyn clapped her hands delightedly. "Oh, how very naughty!"

  "She wants Mr. August to send the letter dahn to Dover right away." Tummet looked glum. " 'E won't do it, mate. I told and told Miss Milford—me lady friend—that Mr. August would 'ave no part of it. But she'll blame me, just the same." Struck by a new thought, he said craftily, "Unless p'raps you'd be willing to… ?"

  "To forge a letter? Indeed I would! 'Tis time August Falcon began to put something back into the world to make up for all his silly duelling." Her enthusiasm faded. "But alas, I could never imitate his writing."

  Through the brief following silence came the sound of wheels outside. Tummet crossed to the windows. "It's Lieutenant Morris come with flowers. Fer poor Miss Katrina, I 'spect. I 'opes as she's feeling better terday, Miss Gwen? A real lovely lady she is, and don't deserve to 'ave caught that 'orrid influenzy what her pa brung 'ome."

  "She has only a mild case, thank heaven, but I'm glad Lieutenant Morris has called. He always can cheer her up and is so devoted and…" Her blue eyes became very round. Gripping her hands together, she breathed, "Tummet! Lieutenant Morris!"

  "Cor!" he exclaimed. "You don't never think as you could persuade 'im?"

  "Perhaps not," admitted Gwendolyn. "But were Miss Katrina to ask…"

  "Cor!" he said again. 'The lieutenant fair worships the ground she walks on."

  Gwendolyn giggled mischievously. "Doesn't he just!"

  Chapter 2

  Ruth was nervous when she boarded the stagecoach at the Blue Boar posting house in Holborn. Never in her life had she travelled alone, much less on a public conveyance, but Grace's pleas to be allowed to accompany her as far as Dover at least, had been rejected. They could not all go, Ruth had pointed out, and the boys were much too young to be left alone. Every penny must be guarded now, and an extra fare would be expensive. Besides, while she was away, Grace could finish packing. In her heart Ruth acknowledged that this was the start of a new way of life. However much she dreaded it, she must meet the challenge bravely, not cling to old habits nor lean on the support of others. She, alone, must somehow provide for Thorpe, Jacob, and Grace, and Resolution must be her watchword.

  Despite this firm little self-lecture, having worn blacks for so long, she felt oddly vulnerable in her grey gown and neat cap. When she'd finished dressing this morning, with her long hair tightly plaited and coiled behind her ears, and the absence of even the few cosmetics she had been used to wear, her reflection in the mirror had seemed that of a stranger, and her altered appearance had drawn a wail of dism
ay from Grace. To face the uproar and confusion in the mist-draped yard of the old posting house without the protection of a gentleman was terrifying, but she managed to hide that weakness and bade Grace farewell with a smile, then waved cheerily from the window-seat the kindly guard had procured for her.

  The coach was soon filled. A thin little woman sat beside her, and murmured an apology when Ruth's shawl became caught up on her large basket. A very bulky man Ruth judged to be a prosperous farmer took up much too much of the remaining space, ignored the woman's attempt to occupy her own share of it, and looked blandly out of the window, as though he had been stone deaf while she wriggled and protested. A worried-looking man climbed in next, accompanied by a youth with pimples and a sullen face. The only space left was opposite Ruth, and she hoped it would be taken by another small female, for there was little knee room. The coachman bellowed to the ticket agent to stand away. Ruth's sigh of relief was cut off however, when the closing door was wrenched open again. A gentleman sprang inside. Before she lowered her eyes, she noted that he was of early middle age, neatly dressed, and seemed well bred. A moment later, the carriage lurched forward, and the gentleman staggered. Ruth clutched her reticule and gave a startled cry as the late arrival trod on her toe.

  "My deepest apologies, ma'am," he said, regaining his balance, and taking his seat. He raised his tricorne and smiled pleasantly. "I trust I did not hurt you?"

  The farmer sniggered. Righting her basket, which had been almost knocked to the floor, the thin woman muttered indignantly. Ignoring her, the newcomer watched Ruth. He seemed genuinely concerned, and his voice was cultured. She thought that he should have apologized to the woman with the basket, but she thanked him, and said quietly that she was unhurt, then turned her attention to the window and forgot him.

  How little she had suspected during that terrible encounter in St. James's Park that Lady Clara Buttershaw would become her benefactor. She had been little short of astounded yesterday morning when a footman had delivered a letter in which my lady advised that she had been able to secure an interview for Mrs. Allington with regard to a position at Lac Brillant, near Dover. The instructions were involved and were, her ladyship wrote, to be followed exactly. The cautions about dress and her "son" were repeated. She was not to mention Lady Buttershaw's part in this, "for Sir Brian Chandler will be far more likely to be influenced by dear Mr. Falcon's kind recommendation than by my own efforts in your behalf." Miss Allington was to proceed to Dover the very next day, for time was of the essence. Sir Brian's carriage would be waiting for "R. Allington" at the Ship Inn, and from there, Miss Allington (not Mrs. or he would want to know her maiden name and that would never do!) must fight her own battles. As to remuneration (was she hired) she must ask at least five guineas a month, or Sir Brian would think she had little confidence in her own artistic abilities.

  Ruth gripped the handle of her reticule tightly. If Lady Clara dreamed how little confidence her protegee had of securing this post, she would throw up her hands in disgust. But five guineas a month would allow Ruth to put a little away, besides paying for food and shelter for Grace and the boys—hopefully, in rooms somewhere nearby, so that she could visit them on her day off. It would be the answer to a prayer and, if she should please Sir Brian, might lead to other commissions when the work was completed. She must be confident! 'Resolution!' she told herself sternly and, realizing that she had given a small involuntary nod of her head, glanced up in embarrassment.

  The gentleman opposite was still watching her and he smiled sympathetically. He was clearly eager to strike up an acquaintance. Ruth could not help but be pleased to find that she was not as unattractive now as she had supposed, but she looked away, annoyed by the awareness that she was blushing.

  Next to her admirer, the man and the sullen boy were arguing in low but vehement tones. They had done so, Ruth now realized, ever since they'd entered the coach. A father and son, she decided, and felt sorry for the father because he seemed so careworn.

  "Ask me, that there boy's a thorn in his flesh." The thin woman put one hand over her lips as she turned to murmur the remark. "I knows, Miss," she went on. "Bred up six hoys, did me and Mr. Y. and every one of 'em was a thorn!"

  "My goodness," said Ruth. "How dreadful for you. Did none of your sons turn out well?"

  " 'Course they did! Turned out very nice. All married. All kind't'me, now that Mr. Y's gone to his reward. Good boys, they is. Now. But—then? Cor!" A sudden beaming smile illumined the peaked features. An elbow dug into Ruth's ribs. "That's lads for you, though, ain't it? Young or old. Thorns. The whole blessed lot!"

  Amused, Ruth said, "Had you to do it over, I doubt you'd wish a day different. You must be a wonderful mother, ma'am."

  Her new acquaintance wriggled with pleasure. "A grandmother now, dearie. Off't'see me youngest and his little girl. Brung her a present." She gave a conspiratorial wink. "In me basket. Wanta see?" She released the catch and opened the lid. At once, a small striped head lifted and two green eyes blinked sleepily.

  "Oh, how sweet!" exclaimed Ruth. "Your granddaughter will love it!"

  "Have you a cat in there?' The gentleman opposite was leaning forward. His knee, which had repeatedly brushed her own, ostensibly due to the motion of the carriage, now maintained a steady pressure. Annoyed, she drew back as far as she was able, and made a deliberate rearrangement of her skirts. A glance she could only judge as being slyly amused was slanted at her from under his heavy lids, but he made neither comment nor apology. He had a youthfully pink and white complexion that did not seem to equate with his years, or so thought Ruth, for she judged him to be at least forty. His eyes she found rather unpleasant, for they had a hooded appearance and despite his smile, which never seemed to waver, were cold. His voice however, was mild, and he peered at the kitten with interest.

  "He won't be no trouble, sir," said the thin woman anxiously. "He's just a slip of a kitten."

  "What a pretty fellow." The gentleman reached out. "May I stroke him? I am very fond of cats."

  It was the start of a long exchange into which the worried man and his son entered. The kitten was made much of and, as is the way with small creatures, was the catalyst that drew the passengers into friendly conversation. Ruth listened, fascinated. She was glad to see that the sullen look had vanished from the youth's face, and his father seemed less troubled. She found herself imagining the scene when grandmama opened the basket and gave the kitten to the little girl. Jacob and Thorpe had so wanted a puppy, but it had become all too apparent that their future was uncertain, and she'd not dared— Sighing, she glanced up. Opposite, the gentleman's smile was ready, managing to impart such mocking familiarity that her aversion deepened, and for the rest of that long journey she contrived to avoid meeting his eyes.

  They reached Dover at a quarter past three o'clock, having been delayed in Maidstone by a splitting wheel which had to be replaced. The farmer, who had snored through the last hour of the journey, woke up and made it clear to everyone within three hundred yards that he meant to lodge a complaint with the ticket agent. The door was swung open and Ruth smelled the fresh tang of the sea. She had hoped to be assisted by the guard, but the smiling gentleman forestalled him, springing nimbly from the coach so as to help her down. His hand was gloved and didn't linger, but she was not reassured and having murmured her thanks she went at once to the rear to find her valise.

  The yard was almost as busy as had been the one at the Blue Boar. The air was chill and a light drizzle had made the cobblestones slippery. Shouting to one another, ostlers shot and skidded about at reckless speed, unpoling tired teams and poling up fresh ones. A loud dispute added to the din as the coachman and the ticket agent responded with vigour and volume to the continuing bellows of the displeased farmer.

  Serene amid the uproar, the old inn soared above them in all its Tudor dignity, lamplight glowing from some casements despite the early hour, and smoke rising languidly from its many chimneys. A door was opened, and the tanta
lizing smell of hot food drifted out. Ruth had boarded the stagecoach at eight o'clock that morning, and the stops had been too brief to allow her to buy luncheon, besides which she'd shrunk from the prospect of the smiling man's assistance, which she was sure would be offered. Yearning to delay long enough to at least purchase a cold pastie, she dared not. Lady Buttershaw had said she would be met, but of course, Sir Brian Chandler's servants would be looking for a male passenger and she must be vigilant lest they leave without her.

  There were several vehicles standing about, obviously waiting for travellers. The thin little grandmother called her good-byes and waved as she made her way to a waggon where a small girl was jumping up and down on the seat, squealing excitedly. A donkey cart was drawn up at one side, but Sir Brian would not have sent such a vehicle, surely, even for a prospective employee? Ruth eyed a light travelling coach hopefully until a dowager with enormous hoops left the inn and was ushered to it by two servants. The luxurious carriage waiting near the entrance Ruth judged unlikely, but she watched as a footman clad in cream and brown livery left it and approached the stagecoach.

  Someone touched her elbow. The smiling gentleman offered her valise and lifted his tricorne respectfully. Quite proper. Perfectly polite. Yet her dislike suddenly became fear. Poor Thomas had been wont to state that she was beautiful, but in her candid way Ruth knew that although she was attractive, hers was not the kind of beauty to dazzle strange gentlemen. She had consistently snubbed this man. He could not fail to be aware of her reaction, yet he persisted. He must see that she was a respectable lady.

  What did he want of her? Was he—horrors!—a superior type of bailiff? Or a special constable? She had tried so hard to pay all the bills, but there had been so many. Were some still outstanding? Did he mean to serve a summons upon her, or have her arrested for debt? A mental picture of being weighed down with heavy shackles and hauled away before everyone caused her to feel faint for a moment.