Vespa said gently, “You’re thinking of your Grandmama.”
“Yes.” Her lips trembled. “She is—frail, you know. And she will be terribly worried.”
“So I thought, and I left a letter for her with Willy Leggett’s brother. With luck it will be in her hands tomorrow.”
“Oh, Jack, how very kind.”
He leant forward to kiss the hand she reached out to him, and said with a smile, “I agree that Lady Francesca must have worried. But as for her being frail—never! She is resilient as steel, and I’ve no doubt that the moment she reads my letter she will have old Watts drive her down to retrieve Corporal.”
“You found him?”
“Say rather that he found us, and it is thanks to him that we were able to follow Monteil’s coach.”
“Dear little fellow! Then Nonna will trust you to rescue me once again, for she will assuredly question Mr. Leggett. Thank heaven! Now I may be easy.”
She was indeed greatly relieved and her buoyant spirit reasserted itself. She was with the man she loved, and things were going so well. Her frightening ordeal in Monsieur Monteil’s coach had turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Rennes was not very far away, and with luck, between them they would find Lord Kincraig and their troubles would be over.
It was typical of her to be undismayed by the fact that she was far from home, in an enemy country, and without a chaperone; that she had not so much as a toothbrush or a comb for her hair, and only the clothes she stood up in. She was in Jack’s hands and he would take care of everything. Within weeks, perhaps, she would be his betrothed. The one shadow to mar her pleasant scenario was the presence in Brittany of Monsieur Imre Monteil. But once the silly man accepted the fact that the Spring Carpet of Khusraw—ah! She’d remembered the name!— Once he acknowledged that it was no longer in existence, he would take himself and his frightening servant away.
She glanced at her beloved. He and de Coligny were engaged in a low-voiced discussion about Brittany and the plans for its development. She listened drowsily, amused by the expertise with which Jack drew out his companion so that the chevalier did most of the talking. They would probably, she thought, become lifelong friends. Certainly, de Coligny was convinced that Jack had saved his life on the battlefield, and now he was taking a considerable risk in helping them. He was older than Jack by about a decade probably. He was very handsome and must have been hotly pursued during his courting days. If she had met him when he was single … She smiled to herself at such nonsensical thoughts. She liked him very well, but she found him a shade too stiff and rather studiedly dignified. There was no doubt but that he took himself very seriously. She pictured him sitting in judgment in the local cour d’appel, if they had such courts in Brittany. He would be grave and distinguished, and look splendid and all the ladies would sigh over him. She wondered what his wife was like, and if she ever did impulsive and reckless things that a lady should not do. Perhaps she was as dignified as her husband.
Glancing at Jack, her heart warmed. He was quick-tempered at times, and might not match the chevalier for looks or dignity, but he was blessed with an underlying strength and compassion. And he had besides a ready sense of humour. How glad she was that he was the man she meant to spend the rest of her life with.
She caught herself up. To be criticizing de Coligny while she sat in his carriage, en route to accept his hospitality, was surely the height of ingratitude. She turned her attention to the window and looked into the grey morning.
She was struck by a pervading impression of emptiness. For mile after mile the land appeared barren, with only sparse vegetation and stunted trees growing in the stony soil. Yet there was no shortage of water, for streams and busy little creeks were rushing about everywhere. Houses were few and scattered, and despite the fact that they were usually situated all alone in the middle of some field or meadow, they were enclosed by low walls with thick hedges growing from the tops as if jealously forbidding the approach of any invasive neighbour. These Bretons, one gathered, liked their privacy. Frequently, a cross loomed up atop some hill, but when she asked de Coligny where so many churches found their parishioners, he replied that most of the crosses indicated only a wayside shrine or small chapel. “They are convenient for travellers or country folk,” he said. “But the bourg, or village, churches are very well attended on Sundays.”
Manderville woke up and mumbled sleepily, “Is it Sunday already?”
They all laughed.
Peering through the window he said, “So we’re off on Consuela’s wild-goose chase, and my sound advice has been rejected. Much chance you have of catching Kincraig now. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
Consuela shivered. It was weak-kneed and silly, but sometimes she was afraid. Her every hope for happiness rested with a mysterious wanderer who was at the very least eccentric. If he should turn out to be hopelessly insane, or if he refused to acknowledge Jack, Nonna would never give her consent. To go through life without him … It did not bear thinking of, and she would not dwell upon such terrors. She thought resolutely, ‘We will find Lord Kincraig, and he will be a good and sensible—’
“What a jolly fine animal,” said Vespa.
A man riding a tall black horse came into view briefly, then was gone.
“He must be going in the same direction as we are,” said Consuela. “I saw him soon after we left the port.”
Manderville said, “I see three more riders over there.”
“Your people, de Coligny?” asked Vespa.
“No.” The chevalier looked grim. “They are robbers, most probably. This is not a very safe place to be riding alone.”
“Deserters?”
“Some, yes. But times are hard, the crops are poor, and there is little in the way of law and order here. But have no fears, Miss Jones. My servants are well-armed, and we will be on my preserves in but a few moments. I promise there will be wine and a warm fire, and for poor Manderville, a hot bath.”
“And some breakfast?” asked Consuela, who had suddenly become aware that she was ravenous.
The chevalier said with a smile, “This, too, there shall be.”
* * *
When first she saw the towers looming on the hilltop Consuela exclaimed, “Oh, my! It is a castle!” The estate road was better-maintained and they passed through wide fields where men and women laboured at weeding or digging out rocks. The men touched their caps respectfully, and some of the women waved, or bobbed a curtsy as the coach rumbled past. She heard Pierre screaming a demand to be allowed to blow up a hail on the yard of tin. His efforts were faint and discordant, and his father chuckled and said that his son’s lungs must grow a trifle before they could master the art. A moment later a strong note was sounded, the coachman having evidently reclaimed the horn.
The carriage jolted into a cobbled courtyard and grooms came running to hold the horses and let down the steps. The walls of the château soared upward, grey and cold and somehow disdainful. A manservant, the butler no doubt, and a footman flung open the front doors. As Consuela was handed from the coach, a lady ran down the steps, and with a glad cry of “Gaston! Gaston! At last!” threw herself into the chevalier’s arms.
Surprised that such a passionate embrace would be enacted in front of strangers and the servants, Consuela glanced at Vespa. He grinned, and winked at her. The chevalier looked embarrassed. He murmured something to his wife, and ushered his guests up the entrance steps and into a very large hall where he performed the introductions.
Madame de Coligny was a tall lady, slender and beautiful, with great brown eyes and lustrous dark hair. She responded politely, but she was clearly taken aback by the arrival of unexpected company. Her gaze held on Vespa a shade longer than was proper, then she turned to her husband and exclaimed, “But—Gaston! They are English!”
“Yes, my love,” said the chevalier. “Captain Vespa is the man who saved my life at Vitoria, and—”
“Ah!” She held out her hand to Vespa again and
said throbbingly, “Then I must be ever in his debt!”
‘Hmm,’ thought Consuela.
“I will tell you the whole later, Thérèse,” said the Chevalier. “But see, here is our Pierre, come home to us.”
He gestured, and the boy, who had been hanging back, came forward and bowed. “Maman,” he said politely.
Madame Thérèse looked at him appraisingly, and remarked that he had not grown at all. “Nor did your letters tell us very much,” she added. “Did you not like England?”
“More than here,” he said, with a defiance that spoke volumes.
It seemed to Consuela that little swords flashed in Madame’s eyes. De Coligny looked annoyed and suggested sternly that his son would want to inspect his own room again.
Manderville sneezed and apologized into his handkerchief. Madame edged away from him uneasily. The chevalier gave orders that his guests be shown to suitable apartments and murmured an aside to his butler concerning the preparation of a hot bath.
Following the footman up the winding stone staircase, Consuela heard Madame Thérèse exclaim a shocked, “They are not wed?” She paused, frowning, but Vespa’s hand caught her own, and she thought, ‘She does not understand. The chevalier will tell her what happened.’
En route to the first floor she looked about curiously. De Coligny could scarcely be a poor man, but the château had a stark look; walls were unadorned by paintings, and there were no works of glass or sculpture or pottery. The only decoration appeared when they turned on a half-landing where a large crucifix was hung on the wall. At the top of the stairs a long passage stretched out, silent and chill and grey. Vespa’s strong clasp on her hand tightened and she clung to him gratefully.
The bedchamber into which she was shown was small and spotlessly clean, but rather dark, with only two tall narrow windows to admit the light. The bed had a medieval-type headboard that reached to the ceiling and was painted in dark greens, black and browns. The floor was bare of rugs, the walls were an unrelieved stone, and the one painting was a Calvary, the detail so gruesome that Consuela had to look quickly away.
“Good gracious!” she exclaimed involuntarily.
His eyes glinting with laughter, Vespa told the footman to go on ahead with Monsieur Manderville. He murmured as they walked away, “Yes, I know what you are thinking, my little rogue, but you will be safe here. And I may be at ease, for Gaston is a perfect gentleman, and will see that you are well cared for.”
“What of his lady?”
“A beautiful creature, don’t you agree?”
“A beautiful creature who wishes me at Jericho.”
“No, no. Gaston says that she gets lonely here at times, and will be only too glad of your company.”
“She looked anything but glad just now.”
“I daresay she was surprised to have all of us descend on her with no warning. But did you notice how devoted she is to her husband? I thought it most affecting.”
‘Men!’ thought Consuela. “I wonder if Pierre thought it affecting,” she said tartly.
“He’s a changeable rascal. One minute trying to have us all arrested as spies, and the next telling his step-mama that he likes England better than La Belle France.”
“His step-mama? Madame Thérèse is the chevalier’s second wife?”
“Yes. I thought Pierre had told you.”
“He told me he was an orphan, the little wretch!”
He laughed. “He’s full of spirit. The sort of youngster who will grow into a son any man would be proud of.”
She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the chin, and heard a smothered gasp as a chambermaid carrying a pile of clean linens edged past and hurried into the bedchamber.
Vespa whispered, “What was that for, you forward hussy?”
“It was for—for just being you. Oh, see. The footman is waiting.”
“So he is, the marplot!” To have found her, to be with her again was unutterable relief. He didn’t want to leave her, even for a few minutes. And their minutes would be few, because very soon he must tear himself away. To love so deeply was a blessing, but it carried with it the pain of parting. He lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips, and with a twinge of guilt remembered the promise he had given to a trusting old lady. He sighed and knew he must be very careful, or his honour would be sullied beyond redemption.
In the room he was to share with Manderville a hip bath had been set in front of a hastily laid fire. De Coligny’s valet, shaking his head over the crumpled wreckage of the once-magnificent coat, carried it away together with Vespa’s garments. A footman came in with a ewer of hot water. He was the first of a continuing line of water carriers so that Manderville was very soon able to enjoy the promised bath, while Vespa washed and shaved.
The fire began to warm the cold air. Another footman brought heated wine and biscuits and advised that Chef was preparing a hearty luncheon. The valet returned with their clothing neatly brushed and pressed, and Manderville’s new coat much restored. “Although,” its owner said between sneezes, “it will never be the same.”
Lost in thought, Vespa stood gazing out of the window and made no comment.
“You’re very quiet,” said Manderville. “What’s churning in that clever brain-box of yours?”
“I was wondering how that rider we saw came to own such a fine horse.”
“Because he’s a horse thief, of course.”
“Perhaps.”
“What d’you mean—perhaps? There’s no other explanation.”
“I expect you’re in the right of it. But you know, I’ve the impression that de Coligny’s the principal land-owner hereabouts.”
“What has that to say to anything?”
“Only that I looked in his paddocks and stables as we drove in. I saw not one hack to compare with the one our thief straddled. And if it wasn’t stolen from here—it would be interesting to know where it did come from.”
“Why?” said Manderville. “More importantly, let us collect your lady and seek out this alleged hearty luncheon. After which, you’ll be anxious that we continue on to Rennes, I suppose?”
Vespa looked at him from the corners of his eyes.
“No!” said Manderville.
Vespa smiled.
10
“Where is it that you are born?” The shabby and angular wanderer peered at Vespa suspiciously over the slice of dried beef he held in a hand that was lacking three fingers.
Vespa tossed another branch onto the small fire he’d built in the shelter of the woods and took his time about replying. He had left the Château Coligny shortly after two o’clock the previous afternoon, riding the sturdy little piebald mare that the chevalier’s head groom had assured him would be more sure-footed in the wilderness country than a larger animal. Parting from Consuela had been wrenching; the sweet girl had tried not to weep, but her trembling lip and tear-wet lashes haunted him and he had made Paige promise to take her home if he did not return within two weeks. De Coligny had provided a razor, strop and soap, together with clothing less likely to attract attention than his own well-tailored garments, and the head groom had drawn a rough map and given him directions that had proven a godsend. He had spent the night in a little hollow, wrapped in his blanket with fallen leaves piled over him, the cold and the myriad night sounds of the open country carrying him back to the Peninsula Campaign. Up with the dawn, he had travelled all day towards the southeast, walking occasionally to rest the mare, and seeing only a farmer driving a cart westward, and a group of boys gathering firewood, all of whom he had avoided.
He’d reached the lonely little shrine to the Lady of the Sea just before the light failed. It had not been an easy climb, and that he’d found the spot at all was largely due to the fact that the shrine had at some recent date been painted white, and it had shone rather eerily against the surrounding darkness of the trees. A stream ran close by, as de Coligny’s groom had said, the icy water clear and sweet. He’d tended to the mare whose name was Bruine.
This, he felt was a misnomer, for, as he told the animal, she might be the colour of drizzle, but she was a willing little lady with an affectionate nature. Having built a fire he had settled down to enjoy the now rather stale but still good loaf, and the remains of the cheese and smoked meat Gaston’s chef had packed for him. And then this tall unkempt fellow had arrived with his equally unkempt donkey and invited himself to share the fire.
“I was born in España,” lied Vespa. “Not that it is any of your affair.”
Despite his brusque growl the answer appeared to be satisfactory and his unwelcome guest started to slice mould from a hunk of cheese and said with a nod, “That will explain the way of your talk. I knew you were no Breton.”
“Nor are you,” said Vespa.
The knife stilled. “Why do you say this?”
“Because Bretons like their privacy.”
The pale eyes stared unblinkingly. Then, a grin twisted the wide mouth. “A man gets enough of their standoffish ways, I won’t argue that point. Me, I like company. That’s a nice little beast you have.”
“It is. And I mean she shall remain my little beast.”
“So. You likely have a pistolet in that pocket, eh, Monsieur l’soldat?”
“Very likely. Why do you suppose me to be a soldier?”
“I saw you walk. You have the limp, but you have the shoulders and the movement of the man of action. You fight for our ‘Little Corporal,’ eh? Where did you earn your limp?”
“Vitoria. Where did you lose your fingers?”
“Badajoz. Aha—this is the bad word for you, I see. It was a most terrible battle. You have perhaps suffer another wound there?”
“I lost my brother there.” Vespa put down his bread and reached out. “I am Jacques.”
They exchanged a handshake and the shabby man’s face lit up. “Me, I am Paul. It is a good thing for two old soldiers to meet and to talk, no? Nom de Dieu, but this Brittany is the lonely place. It cause much discomfort to my poor stomach, which I will tell you is a most delicate machine. How may one talk with these people when one cannot understand what they say even when they will speak? At least you have the proper French. What do you here, mon ami?”
The Riddle of the Lost Lover Page 17
