Ask Me No Questions

by Patricia Veryan

  "I can well believe you've had experience with such women!" She inspected her wrist and added in a forlorn way, "I suppose that explains why you think it justifiable to treat a lady with brutality, when she attempts to defend herself."

  Red to the roots of his hair, Chandler all but cringed, and mumbled that he had certainly not intended to hurt her. To his great relief, she sighed and sat down again. He remained standing, and resumed the attack, but with considerably less force. "The fact remains that none of what you have seen fit to divulge explains why you failed to admit at the beginning that you are a widow."

  'Admit!' she thought, but she felt drained now and without hope, and answered wearily, "I was desperate to find a situation. When a friend told me of this opportunity, it sounded like the answer to a dream, but—I have heard men say that widows are—are predatory, or of easy virtue. It appeared safer not to mention my marriage."

  "Safer, indeed! A charming parcel of rogues you think us!"

  "No, but—" Looking up at him pleadingly, she said, " Twas very obvious you thought me to be setting my cap for your papa. Had you known I was a widow, would you have hired me?"

  He thought, 'By God, but I would not!' But to admit that would strengthen her position, so he counter-attacked. "Instead of seeking employment that must only be demeaning to a lady, one might suppose you would instead have turned to the major for help."

  Puzzled, Ruth almost asked, "Major who?" and in the nick of time remembered her gallant "fiance."

  "W-well, I have, of course," she gabbled. "But letters to India take months and it will be the better part of a year before I can expect a reply from him."

  That was true, but she seemed inordinately flustered. He said, "I fancy that Major—I have not his name, ma'am."

  Her chin lifted in the proud defiance he could not help but admire. "Leonard has sufficient difficulties to overcome without being distracted by a letter from you informing him of my—'demeaning' situation."

  A letter was not quite what he'd had in mind, although he intended to make enquiries. He said loftily, "You credit me with more interest in your affairs than I possess."

  "Yet you declared that you were anxious for my future."

  He had said that. In a moment of weakness. Irritated with himself, but more irritated with her, he muttered, "I suppose I am as capable of nonsense as the next man." He snatched up his basket which, at some time during their quarrel, he had allowed to fall onto the grass, and began to stride off. Pausing, he turned back and in his gruffest voice demanded, "Do you want your fish?"

  A sudden bubble of mirth lightened Ruth's heavy heart. She said meekly, "Yes, if you please."

  He stamped back and thrust the basket at her, glowering.

  "Oh, how lovely! You did bring me two!"

  "I brought you three!" Peering into the basket, he muttered, "The devil! There were three! I'll swear I've not dropped any…" He began to look about the lawn, but there was no sign of the missing trout.

  With a tentative smile, Ruth asked, "Did one get away, Mr. Gordon?"

  "No. Two." Bemused, he shook his head, and her thanks came to him as from a distance.

  Walking back to the main house, his mind fairly whirled and he checked at one point to feel his brow. There was nothing to indicate a fever, but between bounding perch, deceitful widows, and disappearing trout, a man could not fail to wonder if his intellect was becoming disordered.

  From the upstairs window Jacob and Thorpe watched the retreat.

  "He's worse'n I thought," said Thorpe.

  Jacob nodded. "He knocked Aunty Ruth down. Only a Evil Villin would knock a lady down."

  "We'll have to punish him again."

  "Mmn." Jacob looked worried. "I don't 'spect he'll let us stay now."

  "We can't anyway. He hurt Aunty Ruth. I heard her say so."

  " 'Course," said Jacob doubtfully, "he did let her have the fish."

  Thorpe chortled, "What was left."

  "And Being got one of them!"

  Coming in at the kitchen door, Grace glanced to the ceiling and said fondly, "Oh, they're back, thank goodness! Listen to the dear children. How good it is to hear them laugh so!"

  Chapter 8

  Next morning Ruth walked to the chapel through a heavy ground mist that swirled about her and imparted a ghostliness to the trees looming on the hillside. The air was chill, but she was more chilled by her dread of facing Sir Brian, and of the reception he might accord her. Heavy-hearted, she realized that if Mr. Gordon's revelation of her duplicity (as much of it as he knew) resulted in her dismissal, she would grieve for more than the loss of her livelihood.

  Quite a number of worshippers were attending services. Several people had paused to greet one another on the steps of the old building, some were probably from the villages and farms, but most were of the estate staff. Mr. Swinton, looking uncomfortable in his Sunday finery and wearing a wig that rendered him almost unrecognizable, touched his brow respectfully to Ruth and glanced about with a faintly disappointed air. Clearly, he'd hoped Grace would be here. It would be so nice if her faithful companion could indeed have come, but that was out of the question. The twins had been repentant but evasive when confronted with their disobedience in having gone outside in broad daylight yesterday. Ruth had demanded their word of honour never to do so again without permission, and they'd crossed their hearts solemnly, but Jacob had added, "Not 'less it's a 'mergency." And Thorpe, with an equally solemn nod, had agreed, "Not 'less that. There might be a accident." Jacob had contributed the possibility of a fire. Acknowledging the logic of such caveats, Ruth was plagued by the sense that they were up to something, and had warned Grace to keep a close eye on them.

  As she went into the chapel she was offered some shy smiles and murmured "Good mornings." Mrs. Tate was playing the organ, one of the footmen, looking very drab minus his livery, pumping for her. Mr. Swinton guided Ruth to a pew, and when she rose from her knees and looked about she saw that Sir Brian and his son were already in the family pew at the front. They turned now and then to exchange murmured remarks with two fashionably attired couples seated behind them. Neighbours, perhaps.

  There was an aura of serenity about the ancient little chapel, and the voices of the six rosy cheeked choirboys were so pure as to cause gooseflesh to break out on her skin. The service was charming, until the sermon commenced. The Reverend Mr. Aymer was preaching from the book of Leviticus, and had taken for his text "Do not deceive one another." He seemed to look straight at Ruth when he read this, and his subsequent exhortations were so pointed and so condemning that she felt scourged by guilt. She thought he would never stop his denunciation of "the deceitful among us" and, sure that other eyes were boring into her back, she was enormously relieved when the service came to an end.

  Sir Brian and his party led the exodus. Mr. Aymer stood at the open door, looking ethereally handsome in his white surplice. He pressed Ruth's hand gently, saying that he trusted she had found his message uplifting, even as his sad smile told her he considered her a lost soul. She responded that she could not see how anyone could fail to be uplifted and, hurrying past, heard a low chuckle.

  Gordon Chandler was beside her, unexpectedly dashing in a dull red coat that fit his broad shoulders to admiration, and with his eyes full of laughter. "Very proper sentiments, ma'am," he murmured.

  She answered as softly, "I suppose you gave Mr. Aymer his topic."

  "But, of course." He offered his arm. "Now, an you will step this way, our guests would have you speak to them about the work of restoration."

  He led her to where Sir Brian and his friends were gathered about the fresco. Ruth whispered, "Have you told him about me?"

  "Not yet. I must await the most—ah, advantageous moment."

  She was not quite sure whether that indicated his usual concern for his sire, or whether he was trying to protect her. 'Twould be rather nice, she thought, if the latter was his object.

  Sir Brian's guests were a stout and fiftyish Mr. a
nd Mrs. Derby, and a younger and most elegant Sir Marvin Hadlett and his lady. They all were obviously curious that a female would be commissioned to undertake such work, their manner kind but slightly condescending. Ruth managed to answer their questions about the fresco and her methods, and politely evaded enquiries concerning her own background. She was grateful when Chandler intervened once or twice to ease a difficult moment, and more grateful when she was able at last to escape.

  It was past one o'clock when she went outside. The mists had burned away, the air was warm, the sun bright, and Mr. Swinton was waiting. He walked beside her, offering awkwardly to escort her home. "There being no objection, ma'am."

  She was amused by the prospect of being escorted on a journey of something over a hundred yards through charming and civilized grounds, but she restrained a smile and thanked the head gardener for his kindness. "When we reach the cottage," she said, "you must take a chair in the garden, and Miss Milford shall carry tea out to you."

  He beamed, his blue eyes lighting up with delight. Unfortunately, that was a short-lived emotion. In a shady spot on the lawn, Enoch Tummet, neat if not elegant, was seated on one of the rustic chairs while Grace Milford poured him a glass of lemonade.

  Tummet sprang to his feet at Ruth's approach. She performed the necessary introductions and asked, "Have you perhaps brought a message for me, Mr. Tummet?"

  "From me guv'nor, marm," he answered, his eyes on Mr. Swinton, who had become very stiff but showed no sign of retreating. "Me temp'ry guv. Mr. August Falcon. Only me message aint' fer you, exackly. They're coming dahn fer the party. Sir Neville Falcon and all the rest of 'em." He turned away from Swinton, and his face contorted into a grotesque wink. "Thought you'd want to know."

  'I am supposed to gather something from that remark,' thought Ruth. Before leaving Town she had sent a note round to Falcon House thanking August Falcon for the letter of recommendation he'd so kindly writ in her behalf. Grace had told her it had been delivered into Tummet's own hands, so he could not judge her to have been remiss on that score. Baffled, she said, "Party… ?"

  "That'll be Sir Brian's birthday party," said Swinton. "Quite a occasion. Lots o' the Quality come. Though"—he fixed Tummet with a level stare—"Mr. August Falcon ain't never been invited."

  "Ar. Well 'e is invited this year," said Tummet. "Being as Sir Brian Chandler's grateful to 'im"—his eyes slid to Ruth again—"on account o' a certain letter what certain folk knows of." And again came that horrendous wink.

  His earlier wink must then have referred to Mr. Falcon's effort in her behalf, though why Tummet should find that a matter for such facial contortions was puzzling. Ruth turned to Grace and received so demure a look from that popular lady that she almost laughed. "I had invited Mr. Swinton to take a cup of tea," she said. "But I see you have prepared lemonade. Perhaps you would prefer that, now that the afternoon is become so warm, Mr. Swinton?"

  "Anything prepared by the hands of Miss Milford will be gratefully accepted," he responded.

  Miss Milford's lashes fluttered coquettishly.

  "Me own words, exack," said Tummet.

  Diverted as she was by these preliminary skirmishes, Ruth was somewhat uneasy as she excused herself and went into the cottage. It was apparent that her faithful handmaiden was of a more flirtatious nature than she had suspected, and that, however devoted, she had forgotten all about the twins. Ruth was relieved to find them in their bedroom chortling over a sketch of a monstrous creature they'd labelled "A Hidjus Deemon." It was really quite well done and did bear some resemblance to a wild boar, but when she praised their efforts they became so hilarious that she had to quiet them.

  She went downstairs and enjoyed the cold lunch Grace had prepared. Her preoccupation with Tummet's peculiar behaviour was so frequently disturbed by Grace's giggles that it was eventually driven from her mind altogether. From what she could hear of the outside conversation, the male sallies were becoming ever louder and more pointed, and she was seriously considering putting a stop to the visitations when Tummet took himself off, and a few minutes later, looking rather grim, Swinton departed also.

  Grace carried in the lemonade jug and the glasses. Her eyes were very bright and her cheeks flushed with the pleasure of having had two gentlemen bristling over her. Although she could sympathize with such feminine emotions, Ruth took her to task for having failed to keep an eye on the twins, and for quite forgetting to behave as though she was feeble minded. Ruth was more worried than angry, but Grace appeared to be quite crushed, and admitted she was wicked. Since she soon added with a twinkle that it had made such a lovely change to be pursued once more, Ruth was not convinced of her repentance.

  That her concerns were well founded was proven the following day. She was busily at work about eleven o'clock when she sensed another presence and glanced around to find Gordon Chandler's brooding gaze upon her. Her "Good morning, sir," inspired only a grunt. Apprehensive, she asked, "Have you come to take me to your papa?"

  He said harshly, "No. Nor to the executioner. Why do you wear your hair so?"

  She was taken offstride. "Does the style displease Sir Brian?"

  "It displeases me. And if you mean to remind me that 'tis my father who pays your wages, allow me to point out that he might not continue to do so were I to advise him of a certain discrepancy." He added ominously, "To say the least of it."

  Ruth's grip on the bread tightened. "Perhaps you should tell me the—er, most of it."

  "Would I knew the most of it! I begin to think I've come at only the top of the iceberg." He stamped up the steps and wrenched cloth and bread from her hand. "Go and sit down," he ordered roughly. "You look tired."

  What a mass of contradictions the man was. She wandered to the nearest pew. "You mean hagged, I collect."

  "An I meant hagged, I should have said hagged," he growled, commencing to scrub at the fresco.

  "Oh, I've no doubt that you would. Still, I thank you for your concern."

  "I have many concerns."

  She thought, 'Yes, you do, poor man,' and broke a short silence to exclaim, "Not so rough, Mr. Chandler! We are not at war with the fresco!"

  Moderating his efforts, he said dryly, "Perhaps not. But I collect there was a small war on your lawn yesterday afternoon."

  "Goodness me! I'd not realized Swinton was so upset as to—er, lodge an information 'gainst us."

  Chandler swung around and shook the rag at her, scattering crumbs. "No more he did. But he chanced to mention that August Falcon's ruffian of a valet was courting your cousin, and 'twas clear neither of her swains find the lady in the least dim-witted. I'd give much to know why you saw fit to paint her in so unflattering a light."

  Ruth thought, 'Oh, Grace, you wretch! I knew this would happen!' And with the feeling that she struggled to escape an ever widening morass, she said, "I believe I did not use those words—er, exactly. But it requires no high intelligence in a lady to attract gentlemen, Mr. Chandler. Quite the reverse, in fact."

  "Egad, but you've an odd notion of male preferences, ma'am! Some of us admire a lady with a well-informed mind." He glanced to the side as Mr. Aymer wandered in and, his eyes suddenly brilliant with laughter, he added sotto voce, "I cannot say as much for our worthy chaplain, however."

  "Oh," she exclaimed in mock indignation. "Odious man!"

  Chandler called, "Come on, Aymer! Lend Miss Allington your aid. I'm quite worn out assisting her!"

  The chaplain came eagerly to take his turn, and Chandler disdained the steps and jumped down lightly.

  "Sir Brian asks if you still mean to try for some game this afternoon," said Aymer, as he climbed to the platform. "Swinton is complaining about the depredations of rabbits again, and Chef would be glad of some for the kitchen."

  "I've to ride into Dover this afternoon, but I'll hope to go out later." With a sly glance at Ruth, Chandler added, "Who knows? I may even bag a wild boar."

  The chaplain begged Ruth not to be alarmed, and Chandler laughed and walked o
ut with his long easy stride. Aymer said reassuringly, "I believe there have been no wild boars on the estate this fifty years and more. Mr. Gordon says the strangest things at times. Were he not so serious minded a gentleman one might suspect him of facetious-ness."

  Beginning to entertain the gravest doubts of Mr. Gordon's serious-mindedness, Ruth said, "I am sure you are an excellent judge of character, Mr. Aymer." She settled back comfortably to listen with half an ear to a learned discourse upon the evils of light-mindedness while she reflected upon how pleasant it was to see whimsicality banish the care from a certain pair of fine grey eyes.

  Gordon Chandler's efforts to hire a new steward for the estate had met with little success so far, and the resultant additions to his own responsibilities were proving to be a heavy burden. He'd been sure his father would approve of the most recent applicant, but Sir Brian had liked Durwood, who'd had a greasy smile and a clever tongue. His own allegations that the man was dishonest had been met with doubts and arguments until, frustrated and impatient, he had insisted that the steward be replaced. Sir Brian's feelings had been ruffled, and although he knew he'd been justified, Chandler knew also that he had upset the old gentleman. It was not like Sir Brian, the kindest of men, to be petulant, but illness and the constant worry about Quentin had made his temper more uncertain than in past years. 'Knowing all that,' thought Chandler as he rode homeward through a veiled sunset, 'I should have handled it more tactfully.' And he sighed, aware that tact was not his strong point.

  He glanced at the lowering clouds. Dusk would come early tonight. Discussions with the builder regarding the demolishing of the ancient lighthouse had kept him longer in Dover than he'd intended. It was another matter on which he differed with his father. Sir Brian was fond of the old structure and reluctant to have it pulled down. In their young days, he and Quentin had loved to play there. In later years it had served often as their meeting place where they could wrangle in private over political matters, although they'd known it was crumblingly unsafe and a potential death-trap. After he himself had found children of estate workers playing on the soaring steps that wound up the tower, he'd had the door padlocked, and had at last convinced Sir Brian that it must be razed. It was over a month since he'd given Durwood instructions to arrange for this to be done, and he'd been taken aback to learn this afternoon that the ex-steward had never even approached the contractor in the matter. It was typical of Durwood. Lord knows, he was glad to be rid of the man, but neither of the prospective stewards the registry office had found were satisfactory, one having been an obvious toad-eater, and the other lacking the experience and polish required to manage so large an estate.