Ask Me No Questions

by Patricia Veryan

  He stiffened. "Nor will you do so, I promise you! There is but one master in this house, ma'am."

  'Hah!' thought Ruth. But she peered at the portrait on the wall and enquired timidly, "Is the other gentleman your son also, sir? He looks very like you. Such a handsome man."

  He glanced at the portrait and said rather heavily, "Yes. That is Quentin, my younger son."

  Quick to note the wistfulness that again came into his eyes, she murmured, "He does not much resemble his brother. Is he— I mean, does he have the—er, same temperament as Mr. Gordon Chandler?"

  Sir Brian laughed. "Oh, no. Quentin is a most amiable young fellow."

  "Well, well." His face a thundercloud, and having obviously heard his father's comment, Chandler was coming back into the room. He was accompanied by a middle-aged lady carrying a glass of water, whom he introduced as the housekeeper, Mrs. Tate. "What a remarkable recovery, Miss Allington," he went on. "I trust my return was not too prompt for you?"

  Yearning to rap the tray over his dark head, Ruth reached for the glass with a hand that shook, and whispered, "Thank you, ma'am."

  "I think there is no cause for such a remark, Gordon," said Sir Brian sharply. "Mrs. Tate, pray ask Chef to prepare a warm meal for Miss Allington."

  "You are too kind, sir," said Ruth, keeping her eyes, suitably awed, upon Chandler. "But—but I think it best—"

  "Nonsense. Now you must not be frightened by my son. He has a sharp tongue at times, but I promise you his heart is kind. Ain't that so, Mrs. Tate?"

  From under her lashes Ruth saw a muscle ripple beside Chandler's jaw, and could all but hear his teeth grinding.

  The housekeeper, a poised woman with grey-streaked auburn hair under her neat cap, said in a beautifully modulated voice, "Very true, sir. Perhaps the young lady would be the better for a short rest while Chef prepares her meal."

  "By all means." Chandler added sarcastically, "I'd not be at all surprised does Miss Allington find herself too weak to return to Dover tonight, eh ma'am?"

  Ruth said nothing, but shrank a little closer to Sir Brian.

  "I thought so," said Chandler. "You must let her stay here, sir. I feel sure you can arrange suitable accommodations, eh, Mrs. Tate?"

  The housekeeper looked quickly from Sir Brian's tight lips to his son's angry eyes. "I think 'twould be improper, sir."

  Gordon Chandler had suffered a frustrating day on several counts. He was quite aware that his sire was displeased with him, but his temper overbore his customary good judgment. "How so?" he demanded. "Why, 'twould take no more than three or four hours to open, clean, and prepare one of the cottages so as to show our hospitality to so— ah, talented a lady."

  "That will not be necessary." Sir Brian turned to Ruth, and added smilingly, "However, I have reached a decision, ma'am, and you may thank my son that I am enabled to accept your application. Had it not been for his quick wits I'd not have thought of it, but he is quite correct. While you work here the blue cottage will both provide you with comfortable accommodation and protect your reputation. Especially, if you bring your cousin to serve as chaperone."

  Momentarily overwhelmed, Ruth was too choked with emotion to thank him, and tears slipped down her cheeks.

  "There, there," said Sir Brian. "Never upset yourself, little lady." He smiled at his housekeeper. "I leave her in your care, Mrs. Tate."

  His face grim, Gordon Chandler stalked over to open the door. He bowed as the housekeeper guided Ruth from the room, and through his teeth murmured, "One can but hope, madam, that you ply your brushes as well as you play your cards!"

  Chapter 3

  Three days later Ruth stood very still in the centre of the withdrawing room at Lingways, listening to the tall case clock strike eleven, and savouring the delights of this loved and lovely old house. The scent of woodsmoke that still faintly permeated the air; the thick carpets and tasteful furnishings; the heavy maroon velvet of the draperies; the pale gold bar of sunlight that slanted through the mullioned windows to accent the brass peacock in the hearth. It had been sad to say good-bye to the house on Mount Street. It was wrenching to have to leave Lingways. She sometimes thought she cared more for the Essex estate than had Thomas, though it had been in his family for almost two centuries. Thomas, bless his gentle soul, had not been a man to concern himself with belongings; nor indeed with anything save the ancient Greeks and their writings, which had, he believed, been so erroneously translated.

  She could almost see him, half-buried behind piles of mouldering volumes, blinking at her over his spectacles, and murmuring absently, "You must do whatever you wish, my dear. Whatever will make you happy." Always, he had wanted only to make her happy, but it had never seemed to occur to him that a bride so much younger than himself might have wished him to share in that happiness. Proud of her, never belittling her accomplishments, delighting to see her clad in the latest fashions and enjoying her friends, he had denied her nothing—except himself. For, dwelling so much in his own world, he had kept the door to it firmly closed, and all her attempts to lure him into walks or conversation, or into accompanying her to social functions had been not so much refused, as simply not noted.

  She smiled faintly. In his way, he had loved her dearly. And she had loved him. He had left Lingways to her when he died, and after a while Johnny had come with the twins, and Lingways had become home to them all, until—

  "Dear Mrs. A. This must be so hard for you."

  Holding some squares of paper and a pencil, Grace Milford had come into the room and stood watching her sympathetically.

  "Only think how much harder 'twould be had I not secured the post in Kent," said Ruth, summoning a bright smile. "I was thinking, Grace, that we might bring the price down to fifteen guineas for the drum table. Would you change it, please? And there's Mr. Allington's desk. I was sure it would sell to that farmer yesterday. I suppose that must be reduced, too." And she thought that if only it had not rained so, they could have done much better.

  Grace Milford wrote a painstaking "15 gns." on one of her paper squares and went to put it on the drum table and remove the sign that read "28 gns."

  "Be lucky to get ten guineas for the master's desk, I think, ma'am," she said.

  Ruth nodded reluctantly. "But the big desk and the reference table in the book room are both fine antiques. They should surely fetch a hundred guineas if—"

  "If we'd time to wait for better weather and the proper buyer, maybe. But we've only today! And by the time we reach the farm— Is it far from Lac Brillant?"

  Ruth said absently, "Farm… ?"

  "Aye. The farm where the boys are to stay. Proper excited they be. You did say 'twas a farm?"

  Looking anywhere but into those honest eyes, Ruth felt her face getting hot. "Er—did I? What I meant to say was I had found a place for them near Lac Brillant where they'd be properly cared for, but—" She was grateful to be rescued by the sound of hoofbeats and the grind of wheels. "A coach!" She flew to the windows. "It is! We've a customer! Oh, my! A most elegant lady—no, two ladies! Pray, dear Grace! You have such power in prayer. Pray they will buy lots of our lovely things!"

  The prospective buyers were elegant indeed. The younger of the pair was about her own age, Ruth judged, and of a rare beauty with great dusky eyes, high cheekbones, and a full-lipped rather wilful mouth. Tall and blessed with a generous bosom and a tiny waist, she moved with assured grace. Her dark curls were quite short under a ruffled cap threaded with a scarlet riband. Matching ribands were tied about the falls of lace on the sleeves of her pink muslin morning gown, and she carried a pink reticule richly embroidered with red and gold silks. Her companion was younger, shorter, and rather plump, with a round face, big blue eyes, and a giggle. Her green gown was sadly over-embellished with bows and rosettes, and not improved by the elaborate blue and white shawl draped around her shoulders.

  "We are come," said the dark lady as Grace showed them into the withdrawing room, "in response to the sign in the lane. I trust," she
added, her glance flickering over the upholstered furniture and lingering briefly on the drum table, "that these are not the only articles you mean to sell?"

  Her tone was disdainful, her manner haughty, and she did not give her name. Her friend appeared to find the situation hilarious, and whispered and giggled as Ruth led the way into the book room.

  The plump girl's eyes shot to the desk, and she interrupted her own amusement to squeak, "Only look, Lady Dee! Just what you wanted!"

  The dark lady gave her an irked glance and said disparagingly, "It might serve, but—dear me! Not at that price! Fifty guineas, indeed!"

  Her heart sinking, Ruth pointed out that the desk was an antique piece and beautifully made. "As is the reference table, ma'am."

  The plump girl said, "Oh, that is lovely. See the carving, Dee."

  "Lady Dee" sniffed. "I see that 'tis prodigious overpriced. If this is all you have, Mrs. Lingways, I fear 'twas a waste of my time to stop here."

  Ruth began, "My name, ma'am, is—"

  Ignoring her, Lady Dee observed that the rug by the fireplace was fair, and that she might take it if the asking price was "not absurd."

  Ruth gritted her teeth. The rug had been brought home by Jonathan after one of his voyages, and was a thing of beauty. " 'Tis from Persia," she said, "and—"

  "I will give you ten guineas for it," said Lady Dee. Oblivious to Grace Milford's outraged gasp, she sailed into the hall, proceeding at speed through the dining room with its handsome mahogany furnishings, and into the study. Thomas Allington's desk she dismissed with a shudder, the bishop's chair in the corner received a thoughtful look, and she walked on.

  A quarter of an hour later, Ruth was seething, Grace was red-faced and bristling with indignation, and Lady Dee's friend had ceased to giggle and was casting longing backward glances at the book room.

  My lady swept towards the entrance hall, and Grace hurried past and reached for the front door handle.

  Lady Dee paused, and regarded Ruth in a considering fashion. "I collect that you need the money, poor thing," she said loftily. "So despite my better judgment I will do what I can for you. You may have fifty pounds for the reference table, desk, and Persian rug in the book room, the drum table in the withdrawing room, and the display cabinet in the dining room."

  Ruth stared at her.

  Grace tugged at her sleeve. "But, ma'am," she hissed audibly. "The other gentleman said he would come back, surely."

  Lady Dee favoured Grace with a look of loathing. "Come, Hetty," she ordered.

  Grace opened the front door.

  Ruth thought achingly, 'Fifty pounds! Not even fifty guineas! And they are worth at least three hundred guineas!'

  The two prospective customers went onto the front steps.

  The plump girl muttered, "Dee, if you do not want—"

  My lady swung around. "Very well, Mrs. Lingways. You drive a hard bargain, but clearly my friend is taken with that foolish rug, and I will be generous in the name of Christian charity. One hundred pounds for all the items I named, plus the brass bird in the withdrawing room fireplace."

  It was an improvement certainly, but still Ruth hesitated. Perchance someone else would come. This unpleasant young woman shouldn't have all those beautiful things for such a niggardly price. But—there was so little time left. Perhaps no one else would come. And a hundred pounds would enable her to give Samuel Coachman and William their back wages, and pay Grace for the first time in many months. She would even be able to repay their kindly benefactor, Dr. Osbrink, and Grace could settle the grocer's bill in Shoeburyness, and arrange for the hire of a coach to take them as far as Croydon. She stifled a sigh. "Very well, I accept."

  Grace hissed, "But—ma'am! The other gent!"

  Lady Dee snapped, "I shall take the rug, the drum table, and the brass bird with me. Hetty, go and call my footman. The rest," she went on as her friend trotted dutifully away, "I will send my people to collect later this afternoon. I will pay you now, however, so that you cannot dicker for a better offer once my back is turned."

  Ruth flushed. "As if I would do such a—"

  "Here." A fumbling in the pretty reticule and a fat purse was extracted from which my lady removed two banknotes already written in the amount of fifty pounds each. "Take them, do," she said impatiently, "before I repent of my poor bargain. Good God! Now why must you look displeased? You have seen banknotes before, surely?"

  Troubled, Ruth said, "My late husband would never accept paper money."

  "What nonsense! This is 1748, not 1478! Should you expect that I would carry such a sum in gold pieces?" She gave a scornful titter. " 'Faith, but I would need a coal scuttle!"

  With quiet persistence, Ruth said, "Perhaps your ladyship could pay for the articles when you come back to—"

  "Whilst you haggle with your other buyer and then claim the sale was not final, eh?" With the words it was as if a blight fell upon Lady Dee's beauty. The lovely eyes narrowed and became hard, her chin jutted, and the line of her mouth thinned so that suddenly Ruth felt sorry for her husband. "I have already wasted too much time," my lady declared. "Make up your mind, madam, or I'm done with you."

  Humbling her pride, Ruth accepted the notes. With no more of a farewell than a derisive, "I should think so!" Lady Dee turned to give instructions to the waiting footman, then hurried to her carriage.

  Once inside, she turned to embrace her friend with a squeal of excitement. "What a bargain!" she trilled. "Those articles are splendid, and worth closer to four hundred guineas than a paltry one hundred! That stupid woman could have no notion of their true value! Only think, Hetty! I am finished with searching for something to please my tiresome papa-in-law. He will love that desk and fancy I paid a great sum for it."

  "Perhaps Mrs. Lingways was desperate," Hetty murmured. "I could not but feel sorry for her. She seems so young to be a widow. And very pretty did you not think?"

  "La, but how silly you are! Why should you feel sorry for such an insolent woman? As for looks, I thought her plain as any pikestaff. Really, Hetty! Sometimes I think you need spectacles, like your mama!"

  Hetty stammered and giggled, and not until they were well on their way did she venture to point out that dear

  Lady Dee had not obtained a written receipt for her one hundred pounds.

  This very sensible reminder startled her ladyship, but only for a moment. "Pish," she said. "The widow Lingways would not dare to cheat a lady of Quality. And even if she should, she would catch cold at that, for we know where she is to be found, and I would have her clapped into Newgate before she could wink her eye!"

  The grocer in Shoeburyness was overjoyed when his bill was paid in full, and Grace Milford went back onto the street torn between relief at having been spared the embarrassment that usually attended her visits to the aromatic little shop, and regret that dear Mrs. A. had been obliged to sacrifice her belongings. Momentarily dazzled by the bright spring sunlight, she was pleasantly surprised when a familiar voice spoke in her ear.

  " 'ullo, 'ullo, 'ullo! This is my lucky day! Just who I 'oped ter find."

  With a tricorne under his arm and a broad smile on his square countenance, Enoch Tummet made an awkward but energetic bow.

  "Well, I never did!" said Grace, blushing, and fluttering her lashes coyly. "Mr. Tummet, as ever was! What brings you all the way up here?"

  He proceeded to escort her along the street. 'Told you as I'd come 'fore you runned orf. Gotta keep me ogles on a pretty girl like you, Miss Grace, or some young and 'andsome Buck will snatch you away."

  Far from displeased, Grace giggled and said, "How clever of you to find me. Did you call in at Lingways first?"

  He admitted this, then added with a rather odd note to his voice, "Good thing, too. Not that I dared to say nuthink to yer lady. But I see that there sign you got stuck out on the lane, and I says ter meself, 'E. Tummet,' I says. 'This 'ere must be looked inter. Quick-like.' So I ups and asks your Sam Coachman where I might 'ope ter find a certain 'ands
ome young female." He winked and gave Grace a nudge with his elbow. "Meaning you, ma'am. And being a downy file, Sam Coachman told me. So—gooseberry-jam, 'ere I am!"

  With a coquettish smile, Grace turned into the yard of the livery stable.

  Tummet seized her arm and drew her into the shade of a laburnum tree. "Sam says as you're orf terday, Miss Grace. That right?"

  She nodded. "The greatest piece of luck, Mr. Tummet. That letter your Mr. August writ done the trick proper! I'm to hire a coach this very minute. Mrs. Allington's been give a pretty cottage to live in, and the exact wages she was asking! And I'm allowed to go down and look after her!"

  "Very 'appy fer the lady, I'm sure. All packed up, is you?"

  "Yes." Touched because of his mournful expression, she said, "We ain't going to the end o' the world, y'know, Mr. Tummet. Leastways, I hopes you don't find it so."

  "Even if it was, I'd find it," he declared. He still looked sombre however, and he said with rare gravity, "Not to stick me nose in where it ain't wanted, but—why don't yer lady 'ave Sam Coachman drive you dahn?"

  "Well, Lady Buttershaw arranged it all, as you know. And she thought it best that Sir Brian Chandler didn't find out Mrs. Thomas Allington was used to be Miss Ruth Armitage. So our coachman is to bring us only this far. Then we'll travel by a hired carriage to Croydon, and—"

  "Croydon! Cor, luv a duck! She really reckons on being follered, does she?"

  Grace said uneasily, "Not followed, exactly. But Sir Brian Chandler's heir was proper put out when Mrs. A. was hired. Very rude, he was."

  Tummet nodded. "That'd be Mr. Gordon Chandler. A bit stiff-rumped sometimes, but—"

  "Mr. Tummet!" exclaimed Grace, scandalized.

  "Whoops!" he exclaimed. "I'm a commoner and no mistaking!" His impenitent grin won her to a smile again, and he went on, "So Mrs. Allington don't want Mr. Gordon Chandler follering Sam Coachman back 'ere and asking all manner o' questions and finding out about Captain Armitage, is that it?"