The light had stayed all through the morning, during which they’d once more been privileged to share Michel Bolay’s table. The man could cook as well as spin a tale.
“And then what happened?” Lucy now prompted, evincing an unnerving predilection for the more bloodthirsty tales.
“Why he drug out his brains and—”
“Hoy! Hoy the house!” A voice from outside interrupted the old man just as he’d reached the climax of his gruesome tale.
Archie glanced at where Lucy sat curled on the bed, the sheepdog’s head in her lap. She winked at him.
Perhaps humor was some sort of aphrodisiac because whenever she laughed or teased him, rather than be affronted, he felt the most intense and visceral attraction as well as the most compelling desire to kiss her. Someone should look into this. But who? Was the reaction physically induced or culturally? Or maybe it was to Lucy. Or maybe a combination of Lucy and him . . .
The old man took the interruption with a great deal less grace than Lucy. With a sour look on his face, he heaved himself up from his chair to answer the door. “What are you doin’, come screamin’ at a feller in his house like that, Jonny Dearborn? What do you want?”
A pimply-faced youth with a mop of dusty curls springing from beneath a knit cap appeared in the doorway. His gaze touched Archie then moved past him to Lucy. His eyes widened.
“Her.” His attention wandered reluctantly back to Archie. “Them.”
“What fer?”
“The ferry’s fixed and set to take off in a half hour.”
“Half an hour?” Archie leapt to his feet. “Why didn’t you come sooner, lad? It will take all that and some to return to the Beaufort’s, collect our belongings, and make it down to the harbor. Come on, Lucy. We’ve no time to waste.”
“Been lookin’ fer you for near on two hours,” the boy said defensively. “You didn’t say as to where you were heading when you left Mrs. Beaufort’s and she says she weren’t watching.”
“The only reason she wasn’t watching was because she didn’t realize we’d left,” Lucy said drily, standing up and donning her coat.
“Ain’t gonna argue there,” the boy said. “Anyway I went north; you gone south. Otherwise I woulda found you earlier.”
Lucy leaned forward and touched the boy’s arm in a companionable manner. “He didn’t mean it as a criticism.”
At her touch the boy’s pugnacious air evaporated. He snatched his cap from his head, spurred to manners by what was obviously an instant case of puppy love.
“Archie, you didn’t mean to sound so crabbed, did you?”
“What? Of course, I—” He broke off. She was regarding him with unblinking faith, making it impossible to purposefully disappoint her. He had the oddest feeling. Like he was in a boat on a river that was moving much faster than he’d realized. “No,” he said. “I didn’t.”
She smiled warmly at him. The sort of smile one should be happy to receive from a pretty young lady. He wasn’t. Instead it made him feel something akin to panic.
She took a step forward, stopping when the boy didn’t move to vacate the doorway. The kid didn’t catch on but just stood there with a barmy expression on his face, twisting his cap in his hands. Finally, with a muttered oath, Archie took him by the shoulders, picked him bodily up, and set him to the side. Then he pumped the old man’s hand gratefully. The notes he’d taken would make a small but significant contribution to the canon on Iron Age Britons. He had Lucy to thank for that. The thought multiplied his sense of internal alarm.
Yesterday, as soon as they’d been seated, Lucy had grabbed the dog—who after a cursory and unconvincing display of temper had curled up on her lap—and asked the old man if he knew any good stories because, apparently, she “collected stories like other girls collect magazine clippings.”
Archie had been certain the old man would call her out on that patent lie. What girl collects folk stories?
But instead the old man had launched into a tale as though he’d spent the last ten years just waiting to be asked. And he may well have. By the time Jonny here had arrived, Archie had surreptitiously jotted down the outlines of a dozen stories, again at Lucy’s behest because, as she’d confided to their host, “I want to remember your stories just as you tell them and I have no head for details so we’ll have Archie scribble them down.”
“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Bolay,” Archie now said. “Come on, Lucy. If we hurry we might just make it.” He started out the door but the old man snagged his arm as Lucy sailed outside ahead of him.
“Here now, son,” he said, lowering his voice. “Truth is, you don’t seem near as bad a feller as I worrit you might be—you scribbled like the very devil to keep up with me blathering, just cause the young miss there wanted you to, so you must have some decent feelings toward her after all. And she is a fair bright little lolly. I can see how a young man might be hard pressed to keep his—”
“Yes! Just so.” He didn’t want to think of Lucy as a lolly, bright or otherwise. It would be far too easy to do so and he wasn’t sure why that would be a bad thing—a man can appreciate a lovely, lively girl without it meaning anything, couldn’t he?—but he was certain it was. “Thank you again. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Granddad!” Lucy put in. “Thanks ever so much for the jolly stories. I shall remember them always. And on my wedding night I—”
Archie grabbed hold of her elbow to hustle her before him. She waved happily. “Good-bye!”
As soon as they were out of earshot she asked, “Whatever did the old dear say? You’re as red as beet juice and keen as mustard to get me out of there.”
“Nothing. We are just in a hurry, is all.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“You’ll have to excuse me. I haven’t as much practice as you,” he said meaningfully.
This brought her up short.
“What are you doing?” he asked. “Why are you stopping? We’re in a hurry.”
She scowled instead of moving. “What do you mean by that? Are you saying that you didn’t find my portrayal of a savvy shopgirl eloping with her gentrified beau convincing?”
“Not in the least. I’m stunned Mr. Bolay did. One can only assume poor sight and poorer hearing accounts for it. What was that accent supposed to be?”
“I wasn’t supposed to be anything. It was Guernsey Island. Ish. And you’re being unfairly critical. I am a very good actress. In fact, I am a Collectible.” She said this last with a proud lift of her chin.
Since he had no idea what a “collectible” was he didn’t respond directly. “Tell me, have you ever considered that the simple truth might serve you just as well as concocting some fantastic story to get what you want?”
“No,” she said.
“Well, you might.”
“It is my experience that people seldom find ‘the simple truth’ as appealing as fantasy. That’s why they go to plays and read fiction and poetry, listen to music and look at art: to experience something they don’t encounter in their everyday life. A little excitement, something out of the ordinary, a different interpretation to make something painful less unpleasant.” A dark note touched her voice.
“For instance, my great-aunt Lavinia might have led a far different and happier life if your grandfather had fabricated some excuse, no matter how poor, for abandoning her rather than letting her spend fifty years wondering what she might have done to engage his heart after he’d engaged hers. It would certainly have been kinder than simply leaving without a word.”
He’d been in the process of trying to propel her forward but her words stopped him short. “What did you say?”
Her dry expression slowly turned into an incredulous one. “Don’t you know? Didn’t he tell you?”
“Tell me what? What are you talking about?”
“Your grandfather. My great-aunt. At Patnimba, during the siege, there developed what Aunt Lavinia called ‘a sympathy’ between them—though I suspect it was
a great deal more than that. In short, Lavinia fell for him like a ton of bricks. She thought the feeling was mutual and believe me, Lavinia is not the sort of woman who imagines men are just waiting in line to court her.
“But apparently she was wrong because as soon as the siege ended, your grandfather decamped without a word. She never heard from him directly again. Until you showed up at our door.”
He was dumbfounded. The behavior Lucy outlined in no way described the man Archie knew. Lord Barton was the very byword for integrity. He was the last person in the world Archie could imagine trifling with a young lady’s feelings.
But then, there was something “off” about this whole situation: the sudden revelation of a cache of rubies of which Lord Barton held a share, his summons to Archie, and the subsequent request that Archie escort a woman he had never heard his grandfather mention to a town in the middle of the French Pyrenees. Perhaps Lord Barton had bequeathed his share of the rubies to assuage fifty years of guilt he’d felt over securing a young woman’s regard that he could not return. It made an unpalatable sort of sense.
“Didn’t he ever say anything to you about Lavinia? About Patnimba?” Lucy asked.
“No.” He shook his head distractedly, trying to make her story match the image he’d always held of his grandfather. He couldn’t.
“I’m sorry, Archie,” she said, her voice softening. “It must be hard to find out your grandfather is a bit of a bounder.”
“That’s just it, Lucy. He’s not. I’m sure there’s more to it than appearances suggest.”
“Sure there is,” she agreed in patently disbelieving tones.
He didn’t begrudge her her low opinion of Lord Barton. How could he? On the surface it appeared that at the very least Lord Barton had acted caddishly. And Lucy didn’t know Sir John like he did. But what proof could he offer her except his own certainty—which was no proof at all? A scientist relied on documentation, not “feelings.” Feelings always landed a bloke in trouble.
Hadn’t he learned that lesson often enough and forcefully enough during his childhood? He’d been a passionate lad and all it had garnered him were broken bones and reprimands.
“Mr. Grant, stop daydreaming. What would your father say?”
“Mr. Grant, perhaps another hour of sitting in silent contemplation will cure you of interrupting your teachers.”
“Mr. Grant, I do not care what Mr. Donnet did, there is no excuse for brawling. I shall have to inform your parents.”
“Mr. Grant, you have only yourself to blame for your current suffering. You should never have tried to climb that wall, that tree, that hill, that ladder . . .”
“We’d better hurry,” he said.
“You’re mad at me.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. I can see it in the way you’re holding yourself. All braced up and prickly.”
He took her elbow, pulling her along with him. “I’m not angry with you. Now, please, hurry.”
“I wouldn’t have said anything, except I thought you knew.”
Again, he urged her forward. “I’m Lord Barton’s grandson, not his confidant.”
“I’ve always known the story. I was practically raised on it. Which is telling in and of itself, wouldn’t you say?”
“What do you mean?”
“It only makes sense that Aunt Lavinia would have told her family and friends.” She was working it out, speaking aloud to herself, trotting along at his side. “I mean, the siege of Patnimba colored everything that happened to her for the rest of her life. But what to her was the most monumental, life-altering chapter in her life was just a side note in your grandfather’s. Which is rather lousy when you think of it . . .”
He didn’t say a word.
Because if what she said was true, she was right.
They made good time returning to the Beaufort place. Archie tore about the room stuffing his belongings into his valise and pausing only long enough to make frantic motions for Lucy to do likewise.
Obediently, she headed toward the sink where the garments she’d washed this morning hung. Mrs. Beaufort stepped in front of her and crossed her arms over her flat chest. “Do ye think to wear damp clothing then, miss? Skirt’s not yet dry.”
“No,” Lucy replied shortly. She’d had enough of Mrs. Beaufort’s hospitality. “I think to pack damp clothing. Now, if you’ll kindly move aside. Or do you charge for that, too?”
Things went poorly after that. Rather than move, Mrs. Beaufort calmly announced that if Lucy wished to keep “dear Kate’s pretty things,” she would need to purchase them. Stunned, Lucy replied that she’d already bought “fat Kate’s nasty clothing.”
What Lucy had paid for, replied Mrs. Beaufort, had only been the lease on the clothing. The price of taking permanent possession of the skirt, blouse, and moth-eaten jumper would be two crowns.
Lucy’s sense of justice howled at such blatant extortion. She’d spent years squeezing every drop of value from every ha’penny that came into her possession. She had bought Kate’s wretched clothing, not rented it, and she had no intention of buying it anew. She assured Mrs. Beaufort of this in extremely colorful London street language that, though unfamiliar with it, Mrs. Beaufort nonetheless understood perfectly well. In response, she raised the price of the garments by three shillings.
Archie, recognizing that the situation was fast approaching crisis level, dug into his valise for his wallet.
Lucy barely noticed. She was too busy dropping her coat from her shoulders, ripping the curtain tie from around her waist, and letting the disputed skirt fall into a pile on the floor. She set her hands on her hips, taking savage pleasure in the red color that swept up Mrs. Beaufort’s wattled neck and into her hatchet-shaped face.
The perpetually silent Mr. Beaufort gaped delightedly.
“I am not paying for these rags twice.”
Before Mrs. Beaufort’s scandalized gaze, she peeled off the scratchy sweater and started in on the blouse’s buttons. “I would rather leave here in my combinations for all your neighbors to see than pay you another penny, let alone two crowns. What do you say to that, you miserly old crone?”
For thirty seconds the two women’s eyes locked in silent combat until finally Mrs. Beaufort spoke. “Did I say two crowns, three shillings? Meant three crowns.”
Lucy gasped.
Frantically, Archie pulled some bills from his wallet.
“Don’t you dare pay that creature so much as a farthing,” she breathed in tones that he dared not ignore.
He stuffed the bills back in his wallet and snatched Lucy’s blouse off the line, grabbed one of her arms, and shoved it through the sleeve, then treated the other to the same before clumsily buttoning the back up and spinning her around.
“Not a word, Lucy. Not. A. Word,” he muttered between clenched teeth. He dropped her damp skirt on the ground, bent down, picked her up and set her down inside the waist opening, and then jerked the skirt back up over her hips. Lucy had unfortunately washed it in water that was too hot, for it had shrunk, the hem four inches above her ankles and the waistband pinching her middle. And the lye she’d used had left bleached spots on the material.
He tossed Lucy’s coat over her shoulders then edged her past Mrs. Beaufort, opened the door, and shoved her outside.
She wheeled on him. “I cannot believe you were thinking of paying that sea hag!”
“Ahem.”
The expression of Mr. Beaufort, who’d followed them out, was as wooden as ever. “I kin drive ye.” It was the first time she’d heard the man speak.
She sniffed, collecting what she could of her tattered dignity. At least the poor, downtrodden fellow had a sense of decency. “Thank you, Mr. Beaufort.”
“For a bob.”
“What? Why, you miserable old bloodsucker. I would not get on that carriage to save my—”
Archie grabbed her round the waist and tossed her over his shoulder. He nodded to Beaufort. “Thank you.”
/>
“Round back,” Mr. Beaufort said, leading the way around the house.
Lucy bounced on Archie’s shoulder with every step. “Put me down! At once. I would rather crawl on my knees all the way to town rather than pay these . . . these people a single sou.”
“You’re not paying anyone anything.”
The pony was already hitched to the cart and waiting. Archie dumped her in the back.
“There’s another half-crown in it for you if we make it to the ferry in time,” he told Beaufort.
A quarter hour later they arrived in the small harbor. The last of their fellow passengers stood on the pier, waiting to be handed into dories that would transport them to deeper water where the newly repaired ferry waited. The carts and wagons that had brought them were already disbanding.
Archie leapt from the dogcart, pressed some coins into Beaufort’s hand, and came round the back to take custody of his valise.
“Well done, Lucy! We made it.”
She stared at the sea, her anger vanishing. “Oh, dear.”
The muttered “oh, dear,” should have alerted him. But Archie was so pleased that they’d actually made it in time he didn’t pay it much heed. He hefted the valise to his shoulder and held out his hand to help Lucy hop down from the back of the cart.
She didn’t hop. She just stared at his hand as if it were a snake about to strike.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t what?” A lone dory awaited them, bobbing up and down in the rolling surf alongside the rickety pier. The fishermen who would row them out—no doubt for a pretty remuneration—stood in their rubberized wading boots thigh deep in the surf. Inside the boat sat a half dozen people, their expressions displaying various degrees of impatience.
“Get on that.” Lucy nodded toward the ferry.
“Of course you can,” he assured her in his heartiest voice.
She shook her head. “I’ll become ill again. Horribly ill. The sort of ill where death doesn’t seem such a bad alternative.”
The Songbird's Seduction Page 13
