He kissed the cool soft fingers that caressed his cheek and, looking in at the casualties, asked, “How do they go on?”
“Your father has slept much of the night. Toby, I think, must have a concussion, and has been in considerable pain. He has only now dropped off to sleep. Paige has been delirious at times. He is full of fever, poor soul. I’m afraid.…” The words trailed off, then she said a touch too brightly, “Dare we go in and command some breakfast? Just a cup of coffee would be heaven!”
He agreed and sent her off with Pierre to see what they could buy.
A wizened little ostler came out of the stables pulling on a coat and yawning, his breath hanging like a small white cloud on the frosty air. In later years the one thing about the inn that stood out in Vespa’s memory was the scorn on the face of that solitary ostler. “Monsieur,” he said acidly, “is doubtless aware he is killing his horses. Monsieur is no doubt on a mission of supreme urgency that he would so ill treat these fine beasts.”
At this point Manderville began to mutter wildly. The ostler viewed the waggon suspiciously.
“Mon Pére,” said Vespa, tapping his temple. “Poor old fellow.”
The ostler led the team towards the barn, the curl of his lip conveying his belief that monsieur’s papa was not the only one in the family with a brain-box full of maggots. “Poor beasts,” he grumbled. “I shall take off your harness and walk you until you have cooled a trifle, then—”
“No!” Feeling the ultimate villain, Vespa said, “Rub them down and water them, if you please. But keep them poled up, and they can have no feed. I must press on as soon as possible.”
With a dark scowl the ostler observed that monsieur’s accent it was not that of a Breton. Vespa repeated the tale of his Italian birth.
Staring, the ostler said, “Monsieur have the bad injury.”
Vespa glanced down. There was a dark stain on his gauntlet; the bandage around the cut on his arm had been a very makeshift affair and must have slipped. “I was—er, chopping wood,” he said.
The ostler met his eyes steadily, then began to lead the team up and down and around the yard.
Very sure that the man had not believed a word of his story and that the moment their backs were turned they would be reported to the authorities as suspicious foreigners, Vespa stamped up and down trying to get warm while he kept watch.
A very young and sleepy fire-boy was the only person yet stirring in the kitchens and the most Consuela was able to bring away was a bowl of chicken broth and some stale baguettes. When she carried these provisions outside, Vespa marvelled because, in the miraculous fashion of creatures feminine, she had brushed out her lustrous curls and washed her face, and looked as bright and pretty as though she was a happy young girl setting forth on some carefree excursion. Pierre trailed after her, carrying a pan of water, and the ostler’s curiosity reawakened when they both disappeared into the waggon.
It was growing lighter with each passing minute, and as soon as he dared Vespa guided the team out onto the road once more, followed by the incensed ostler who stood shaking his first after them. For the next few hours they travelled through increasingly populated areas, skirting little towns and picturesque villages, halting occasionally at some secluded spot for a brief rest, and coming at length into a richly forested area, and then a succession of green gentle valleys.
They had not once been challenged nor had there been any sign of Monteil or soldiers, and Vespa was half asleep when Consuela asked, “Where are we going, Jack?”
She was sitting beside him. He looked at her blankly. It seemed a very foolish question. Where were they going? He replied, “I’ve no idea. Except…” he racked his brain “except that we’re heading to the west. I hope.”
“Yes, dear.” She reached up and pushed the damp hair back from his forehead. “But do you know where we are to meet the ship?”
Of course he didn’t know where they were to meet the ship. He said severely, “You know we don’t know. They know we don’t know. They must find us, you see, but they can’t sail on French soil.” That didn’t sound quite right, and he paused, frowning.
Somewhere, somebody shouted. Consuela slid to the side and looked back. “We are being followed! Oh, Jack, they’re coming very fast!”
“Is it those blasted cuirassiers again?”
“No. I think it must be Monsieur Monteil!”
“Devil take him,” moaned Vespa, whipping up the team. “Does he never give up?”
They raced at a thundering gallop along the road. The reins must be soaking wet because they were so heavy it was all Vespa could do to hold them up. Now, something was blinding him. Blinking, he realized it was sunlight. Pale winter sunlight on water. There was a beach—a long beautiful beach. The sand was white, and glittering.
Pierre screamed, “Look! Look! A great ship!”
Vespa muttered, “I see a sort of lagoon—are those all ships?”
Consuela looked at him worriedly. “They are islands, dear. The ship is far out and at least five miles to the south. It will never find us.”
Peering from the small window behind the seat, Broderick called weakly, “Someone has! See there!”
“Soldiers!” cried Pierre. “And they’re coming right for us, Captain Jack!”
Vespa was concentrating on trying to lift the whip. It was incredibly heavy and he was so very tired. He’d just close his eyes for a minute.… His head nodded and he jerked himself awake. This wouldn’t do! He must keep on—he must not fail his General and his country. But why couldn’t he hold onto the reins? What on earth … was the matter with him?
And then came another pair of hands; strong little hands that took the reins from his failing grasp, and a beloved voice that said, “Let me help, my love. Can you see the soldiers now?”
He shook his head hard. Yes, he could see them now. Coming from the south. Straight for them. At the gallop. A troop of—of what? The uniforms seemed to be red, but he couldn’t distinguish the brass plate with the imperial N and the crown that would brand them Lancers. And now they were clad in dazzling white—like Carabiniers but minus the easily identifiable tall helmets. Why on earth had they changed their uniforms?
Consuela wailed, “Oh, my heavens!”
She was staring to the east. He turned his head slowly, and saw a coach and four and two outriders on dapple greys bearing down on them. Monteil! Pox on the wretch! But if that was Monteil, then who was behind? More cuirassiers, perhaps? At all events, he thought wearily, there was nowhere to turn now, but into the water. Could the cart-horses swim? That thought struck him as hilarious and he chuckled foolishly.
Consuela was pulling up the team.
He said feebly, “No, love. No—we mustn’t give up yet.”
Pierre shrieked, “Papa! Papa!”
Clinging to the side, Vespa managed to look back again. The coach and the escorting riders approaching from the north looked murderous. Small wonder, if it was de Coligny. And he had given the poor fellow his word of honour that in seeking Lord Kincraig he did nothing against France. Nothing against France … Except to provide Lord Wellington with part of the means to continue the war! His word of honour … “Oh, Gad!” he muttered.
“What did you say, my dear?” asked Consuela.
“Nothing that—makes sense. Pierre, get down, lad. Hurry to your father. And—God speed!”
The boy looked at him, suddenly tearful. To Vespa’s astonishment, his hand was seized and kissed. Then Pierre was in the road and running back to the slowing coach of the chevalier.
The military troop was less than a mile to the south.
Monteil’s carriage was bearing down from the east.
De Coligny was behind them.
‘A touch ticklish,’ thought Vespa.
Consuela had managed to whip up the team and they were charging straight towards the soldiers. Bless her brave heart. He tried, not very successfully, to encourage her. Monteil’s coach became a blur that seemed to swerve suddenl
y. Consuela was crying out. She needed him! He pulled himself together and took back the leathers and in a burst of strength, cracked the whip over the horses’ heads. The waggon seemed to fly. Those French troopers had best get out of the way, by God, for he was going right through their centre!
There was a lot of shouting and noise.
The troopers were scattering in all directions.
Consuela was screaming.
Lord Kincraig was cheering.
Someone howled, “He’s done it!”
If he had done it, he could go to sleep.
Grateful, he sighed and his head sank onto Consuela’s shoulder. He wondered vaguely if they had crossed into Spain.
It seemed to him that he heard shots.
* * *
The man who stood at the window was young, and a colonel. The window was round, and the floor was moving up and down. So this must be a ship. How he came to be aboard ship, and why he was in bed at what appeared to be late afternoon, Vespa could not imagine, but he had a vague sense of having made a horrible bumblebroth of something. After two attempts that were inaudible, he managed to ask, “Am I under arrest, sir?”
The man at the porthole turned and approached the bed.
“Oh,” said Vespa. “It’s you.”
“It’s me.” Colonel the Honourable Hastings Adair sat on the end of the bunk, his handsome face grave. “How do you feel?”
“Puzzled. How long have I been here?”
“Two days. We had a rendezvous to keep before we turned for home.”
Vespa knit his brows, trying to sort it all out.
The young colonel asked, “What’s the last thing you remember before you dozed off?”
Dozed off…? Was that what he’d done? Not during an action, surely? Lord! He said slowly, “I seem to recollect a road, and— Great heavens!” He started up and found it such an effort that he lay back again, panting. “My father! Broderick and Manderville! And—Consuela! What—what…?”
Adair sighed. “I was afraid you’d remember Consuela.”
“Hasty, you villain! You’re teasing the poor fellow!” Broderick came in, clean and shaved and with a neat bandage around his head.
“I’ll point out,” said Adair, “that I am a colonel, and despite that romantical bandage, you, Broderick, are a lowly lieutenant!”
“An alive lieutenant!” exclaimed Vespa, greatly relieved as Broderick came to grip his hand. “Toby, is my father—”
“He’s not quite as alive as this impertinent cloth-head,” said Adair. “But he’s going on very well and should be up and about within a week, so the ship’s apothecary tells us.”
Broderick said mournfully, “Poor old Manderville is in a bad way.”
“Oh, blast the luck! It was the pneumonia, then?”
“Yes. He’s through the worst of it, apparently. But—” Broderick winked “—poor sailor, you know.”
Vespa grinned, then said apprehensively, “Does Wellington know what happened?”
“He does.” Adair said with a sober look. “He’s going to demand an explanation, Captain, of why you disobeyed orders, and—”
“What orders? I never received any orders!”
“—and why you blithely gave away one hundred louis!”
“That ain’t fair,” exclaimed Broderick. “Against all odds he got the rest of the loot through!”
“I—did?” said Vespa hopefully. “But—how on earth—”
Someone was knocking at the door. Adair sprang up and opened it, then bowed, and Consuela hurried in.
“Oh!” she cried in delight. “He’s awake! And you didn’t call me!”
Broderick pulled a chair beside the bunk and she flashed him a smile as she ran to occupy it and take the hand that Vespa tried, and failed, to reach out. Nursing it to her cheek, she asked, “How are you today, dearest Captain Jack?”
“I feel very well,” he answered, smiling at her adoringly. “Except—I cannot understand why I am still so pulled.”
“You great clunch,” said Broderick. “You drove all night without tightening the bandage round that cut on your arm. It’s a wonder you ain’t bled white!” He settled onto the side of the bunk and went on: “There are some very interesting studies being undertaken on blood. For instance, did you know that the body of the average male contains about five litres of the stuff? And that although a fellow can lose a considerable amount without turning up his toes, at a certain point he will go into shock—which is likely what happened to you only you were too dense to—”
“Go away,” murmured Vespa not taking his eyes from Consuela’s radiant face.
“Well, of all the—”
Adair took Broderick by the collar. “This way, Lieutenant,” he said firmly, propelling him to the door.
“If that ain’t the outside of—”
“The outside of Captain Vespa’s cabin,” said Adair, and closed the door behind them.
“Alone at last,” sighed Vespa. “Now, if I only had the strength…”
Consuela pointed out, “I am very strong.”
“And I swore an oath not to try and fix my interest—”
“Whereas,” she murmured, leaning closer, “I am very interested, and I have sworn no oaths.…”
After a delightful interlude he asked dreamily, “Did we really get the gold through?”
“No. You got it through, dearest!”
“Never! Paige and Toby helped, my father was superb and you—you were a real heroine, my signorina! How you hung onto the reins with those precious little hands while I was totally useless—”
“How you kept going for as long as you did was a miracle, my poor darling. And when you broke the ranks of that troop…” She chuckled. “There was no stopping the team. What an uproar!”
“I can guess. And if I know Frenchmen—”
“They weren’t French, Jack.”
He stared at her, bewildered.
Tidying her hair, Consuela said, “They were British dragoons.”
“British?” he gasped. “A troop—of our dragoons—in Brittany? You’re roasting me!”
“No such thing. The captain of the warship had been told to rendezvous with us between Lorient and Quiberon and that we would signal by lantern—which we did not know, of course. He tacked about offshore, waiting, then sent an intelligence agent in to try and trace us.”
“The poor fellow we found killed at that abandoned farm?”
“No. But the intelligence officer had met that gentleman and told him where we could meet the ship. You’ll recall that he had managed to draw an arrow in the dirt, pointing to the southwest. When we didn’t keep the rendezvous, Hasty Adair, who was aboard the warship, demanded that a troop be landed.”
“Good Lord! They’d come to help and I charged—”
“Right through them, dearest.”
He groaned. “When am I to be shot? Were any of the poor fellows hurt?”
“Only their pride. But they’ve forgiven you. In fact, they seem quite proud of their encounter with the Flying Captain!”
He looked at her amused face uneasily. “What a thing to do—after they’d taken such a chance for our sake. I wonder they didn’t have to fight every inch of the way!”
“Yes. It was a desperate venture, but Lord Wellington had said nothing was to be left undone that might get the waggon through. I suppose nobody expected a troop of British dragoons to be there. Luckily, we met up with them fairly soon, and the warship changed course and sailed back to us.”
“But—I distinctly recall seeing a great lagoon—with ships that you said were islands.”
“So they are.” She stroked his cheek gently. “And you are talking too much and must rest now. Is your arm very painful?”
“A little stiff merely, I thank you. But how could a warship put into a lagoon?”
“It didn’t, my love. The water was shallow when the tide went out. We drove across to one of the islands and two longboats came with a landing party, and all the
gold was loaded, and rowed out to the ship. We left the poor waggon and the cart-horses behind.”
“The French did nothing while all this was going on?”
“Hasty thought that at first they were taken by surprise. Then there seems to have been a panic—the local people thought Wellington had broken through Marshal Soult’s lines and was invading.”
Vespa laughed. “What—with one troop? But I was sure I heard shots.”
“You did. The chevalier restored order and rallied the people, then led an attack on our little island. He really was magnificent, Jack, and I’m very sure he will be given a medal or some sort of honour.”
“Still, he didn’t prevail.”
“No, thank the Lord. And we were safely away before those fierce cuirassiers came charging to help him. Now, go to sleep.”
He yawned drowsily. “Then Wellington will have his funds. And my father is a fine brave gentleman … Consuela—my beloved one … your Grandmama won’t deny me now … do you think?”
But before she could answer, he was contentedly asleep.
* * *
It had been snowing all day. The village of Gallery-on-Tang looked like an artist’s depiction of Christmastime, with smoke curling from the chimneys, thatched roofs buried under a white mantle and people bustling about the slippery street, bundled in their winter cloaks and scarves, exchanging cheery greetings.
Some two miles east of the village the ancient manor house at Alabaster Royal also wore winter white, and lights from many windows painted amber glows on the snowy lawns. The steward, Hezekiah Strickley, and Harper, the groom, were busily at work in the stables; rotund Chef Henri sang uproariously in his kitchen; Mr. Thornhill, the statuesque butler, issued a constant stream of orders; Peg, the stout head housemaid, trotted about happily, picking up the various items she dropped along the way, and encouraging her rather ill-assorted retinue of assistants to make haste because “all the rest of ’em is coming today!”
In the great drawing room Captain John Wansdyke Vespa paced restlessly, glancing often to the front windows, and running a nervous finger around the neckcloth that Thornhill had adjusted with, it would seem, an eye to strangling him. At his heels Corporal trotted patiently, and Manderville, strolling in from the stairs, observed that the little dog must have walked miles this last hour. “By George, but you look impressive, Jack. Regimentals, eh? Jolly good touch.”
The Riddle of the Lost Lover Page 31
