Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 02] - Feather Castles

by Patricia Veryan

  In the yard a groom led promising hacks to them. Tristram threw Rachel up onto the bay gelding, adjusted the stirrup with practiced ease, then swung into the saddle of the big black that the groom innocently assured him "could carry a mountain!"

  They rode through the heavily trafficked streets side by side, and not until they were ambling along a country lane did Rachel realize how surely she had been guided. When she complimented him upon this accomplishment, he slanted his twisted grin at her and admitted he'd consulted with the stable hands to obtain detailed instructions of a desirable route.

  "Whoever advised you was inspired," she said, glancing around glad-eyed. The lane they followed was a tunnel of mingling greens, the branches of the trees meeting overhead to create a delicately waving canopy through which the sunlight painted ever-changing shadows on the lane. The scents of damp earth, wet bark, and hedge roses sweetened the pure air and, breathing deep of it, Rachel exclaimed, "Oh! How wonderful to be out of doors! Come! I'll race you to the cliffs!" She threw him a look of sparkling mischief, drove home her heels, and the bay sprang forward.

  Tristram followed, but kept a check on the big horse who strained and fought the iron hand that held him back so exasperatingly when he knew he should be far ahead of that puny gelding.

  They came up with Rachel at the edge of the cliffs. She had slipped from the saddle and stood holding the reins and gazing out across the sea. It was truly a glorious day, a few fluffy clouds decorating a deeply blue sky, a slight breeze ruffling Rachel's curls and setting the ribbons of her hat to dancing behind her. The sea, a rich blue green, was touched here and there with soft little whitecaps, and far off towards France the sails of a ship billowed majestically.

  The beauties of sea and sky were lost upon Tristram. He did not dismount, but sat there marvelling at the perfection of this slim girl; the delicate features and determined little chin, the soft, fair hair, the dainty figure. More important, perhaps, her quick, merry humour that responded so readily to any teasing remark he chanced to make, and the sweetly earnest way she had of instructing him in commonplace matters that were taken for granted by her, but unfamiliar to him. Several times on the way through old Dover town she had undertaken such instruction, and often as she spoke a chord of memory had stirred faintly, and he'd known that the awareness of those things was sleeping somewhere in his battered head. Rachel glanced at him. He realized that he was staring and dismounted quickly. "Whew! You're a bruising rider!"

  "You let me win," she accused. "Not sporting, sir. However gallant."

  "Oh, no. You forget I'm an invalid and have to ride cautiously."

  She had not missed the lithe, unconscious grace with which he swung from the saddle, and said, "You do not look an invalid, but it was thoughtless in me. And to bounce about on horseback must hurt your head."

  He threw up one hand, laughing. "Acquit me of that, I beg you! Have you judged me to have a very poor seat?"

  She had judged him to ride superbly and, flustered, answered, "No! I did not mean—" She checked, her infectious chuckle rippling out as she saw his grin. "Odious man! You know what I meant. But—does your head pain you?"

  "Thank you—no. Save that my brain is so stupid. Is that an island?"

  Following his gaze, she exclaimed, "Good gracious! I see I have my work cut out for me! That is Calais, sir! In France."

  "Oh, is it?" he asked politely and feasted his eyes upon her profile, wondering if he would ever have the right to tell this darling girl how he adored her.

  A seagull swooped low over them, voicing its piercing cries, and shading her eyes to look up at it, Rachel said, "And—that is—"

  "A feather castle," he murmured.

  Surprised, she asked, "The gull?"

  "Oh—my apologies to him. I had thought you meant the cloud."

  "Is that what you call them? Feather castles? How lovely! Is it part of a quotation, perhaps?"

  He frowned, then shrugged wryly. "Alas, I don't know. Things pop in and out of my mind so haphazardly." She was gazing up at those vast white billows sailing high above them and, looking up also, he mused, "But it's a fine castle, don't you think? Turrets and battlements—the whole article."

  "Yes," she smiled. "An enchanted castle. I wonder if there are feather ladies inside . . . and feather knights."

  "But of course. And they ride feather horses, and joust with feather lances. All lances should be made of feathers. If only in dreams."

  She turned reproachful eyes on him. "Now you've spoiled it!"

  "How so, fair maiden?"

  "Because you have inserted reality into a delightful make-believe. All dreams are feathers."

  It was said with a trace of sadness, and unease touched him so that he responded very gently, "The feather castles of our lives? Yet some dreams come true, you know."

  "Do they? I wonder." She gave a barely perceptible gesture, as of thrusting away a foolish notion, and said brightly, "Never heed my doldrums, Sir Knight. You are perfectly right, for is it not a dream that we should have such heavenly weather for our ride?"

  Any weather would be heavenly he thought, so long as he could be near her. But, "Is that remarkable?" he asked, as they started to walk along the cliffs, the horses thumping amiably behind them. "It is summer time, after all."

  Rachel gave a little spurt of laughter. "Perhaps you are fortunate in that your memory is erratic. This England is the dearest place on earth, but a gentleman once described our weather as consisting of ten days fog, twenty days cold, and thirty days rain to every one day of sunshine. And I am inclined to believe he was too generous, at that!"

  "He sounds to me like a Friday-faced cawker! French, probably. They're always bragging that their climate is superior to ours."

  Rachel said nothing.

  "Was I right?" Tristram asked easily. "Was he French?" Staring with rather fixed concentration at the massive loom of Dover Castle, she replied, "Yes. He is French."

  Two days later, Guy Sanguinet had still not returned to Dover, nor had further word come from Claude. Agatha's indisposition had proven stubbornly entrenched so that she kept to her bed and was unable to accompany Rachel on her walks, or her afternoon rides. Aside from anxiety over her abigail's lingering ailment, this did not present Rachel with an insurmountable problem. Captain Tristram was the best of companions; unfailingly attentive and good-natured, unselfish to a fault, contriving always to make her feel that her opinions were valued, and his rich sense of humor complementing her own so perfectly that often the witnessing of some droll little incident would cause their eyes to meet in a mutual sharing of merriment. It was pleasant to rely on his attending to small details for her, but despite his devotion, she soon discovered he could also be firm. At first he'd been so tactful in his dealings with her that she'd scarcely noticed if her wishes were gently redirected. With astonishing rapidity however, the slight remaining shyness between them had melted away; they were now on the most comfortable of terms, addressed one another on a first-name basis, and not only were able to tease, but to argue without the least fear of creating an unbreachable void.

  Walking up the stairs of the inn, stripping off her gloves as she went, Rachel was smiling faintly, thinking of how wickedly Tristram had dissuaded her from purchasing a perfectly ravishing bonnet this very morning. Half-sitting against a credenza at the side of the Salon Elegante, he'd surveyed the lavender bonnet with the faintest trace of a pucker between his dark brows, and murmured lazily, "I cannot say I favour it as well as the blue."

  "Oh, but the feathers, Tristram! Are they not dashing? So fluffy."

  "And so many. Truly, the blue is more becoming."

  "Perhaps. But—no, I cannot resist it!"

  "Then do not. In fact, you are very likely right, for now I think on it, my maiden aunt had one very similar that was much admired in Bath. Her friends said it made her look youthful. Yes—definitely, you should purchase it."

  Aghast, she had scanned her reflection in the mirror, noting for the
first time that the feathers were rather overdone, and the colour a trifle matronly. Leaning forward to peer questioningly at Tristram, she had surprised the tell-tale twitch beside his mouth and, bursting into laughter, had removed the disputed bonnet. "Wretched creature! You know I could not buy it after so horrid a recommendation! Is he not a villain, Madame? You see how I am manoeuvred to prejudice against the lavender!"

  "Such a villain!" the proprietor had agreed amusedly and leaned closer to murmur in her ear, "Would I had so cunning a villain to guide me, mademoiselle!"

  With her hand on the parlour doorknob, Rachel paused. How could Tristram know whether or not he had a maiden aunt? Both that lady and her Bath admirers had been a fabrication she'd been too discomposed to detect! "The rogue!" she exclaimed, and, mentally resolving to call Tristram to account for his heinous conduct, walked into the room.

  Sister Maria Evangeline stood to welcome her. "How merry you look, child. Had you a nice shopping expedition? I doubt you may ride this afternoon, for it looks as if it might come on to rain."

  "I mean to go to the circulating library, at all events," said Rachel, the smile in her eyes fading to dismay as she saw that Agatha was dressed and hurrying to assist her. Relinquishing her hat and gloves to the abigail, she said with an oddly hollow feeling beneath her ribs, "Why, Agatha. How splendid to see you up and about again."

  "Is it not?" The nun restored her bulk to the armchair.

  "By tomorrow she will be able to relieve Captain Tristram of his duties and go about with you."

  "How nice," said Rachel, with a singular lack of enthusiasm. "Now, you must not overdo, Agatha."

  "Small fear of that, Miss Rachel. Oh, before I forget, here's a letter come from Monseigneur."

  Rachel stood utterly motionless. Staring blankly at the folded paper that was held out to her, she did not see the swift and meaningful exchange of glances between the two women; she saw only Tristram's crooked grin… Recovering herself, she took the letter and broke the seal.

  Claude had written in French:

  My Dearest Rachel—

  I am devastated to be so delayed in joining you. However, a matter of business compels me to journey first to Scotland. How may I atone for having kept you in Dover these many days? Will you allow me to suggest that you at once return to Strand Hall? I may thus be at ease in concluding my affairs, nor imagine you crushingly bored, cooped up in that dreary inn.

  I mean to bring my Aunt Fleur to Sussex, to act as chaperon, and then you and I shall proceed to my Chateau. It will be a treat for you to see your new home for the first time, my dear, and one I can scarce wait to observe. Meanwhile, I have instructed Guy to convey you to London at the first opportunity, for I entertain a great deal, and you will wish to purchase some new ball gowns. You must allow me to have the reckoning for these; after all, we are formally betrothed, and it is my right, is it not?

  I shall be with you as soon as is humanly possible. Until then,

  Adieu, sweet creature,

  Yr. devoted Sanguinet.

  "Is something wrong, child?"

  "What?" Startled, she found that she was frowning, and summoned a smile. "Oh, no. It is only that Claude sends word he cannot come for a little while, and desires that I return to Strand Hall."

  "Does this upset you?"

  "Not at all. But—we have no coachman until Guy returns."

  "No need to fret," said the nun placidly. "I do not doubt that Captain Tristram is capable of hiring a post-chaise and would likely be willing to escort us back to the Hall."

  Rachel looked at her steadily. "I rather suspect we have imposed sufficiently upon the Captain, Sister."

  Her eyes innocently wide, Agatha asked, "You never mean to stay here, Miss Rachel? Against Monseigneur's wishes? Eh, but he'll cut up stiff, I'll be bound!"

  Neither tone nor words found favour with Rachel. She dealt her abigail a sharp scold and, further irked by the twinkle in Sister Maria Evangeline's eyes, stormed into her bedchamber in complete vexation.

  She was still repenting that foolish show of anger when she made her way along the busy street towards Wright's Circulating Library. It had been necessary that she hug Agatha before luncheon, so as to restore her to spirits, and why she should have become so very cross when the poor soul was just recovered from such a nasty cold was quite beyond her power to understand. Sister Maria Evangeline had eaten with them and throughout had maintained an air so saintly smug that Rachel had yearned to scratch her. She was too honest, however, to continue to blame her sense of irritation on either Agatha or the nun. The real irritant had been Claude's letter. She had been a trifle put out when she'd been ordered to wait for him in Dover. To be now desired to return to Sussex and await his convenience; to be instructed to buy some new ball gowns—as though the few she had were not perfectly presentable!—and above all, to be informed that he would have the arrogance to bring a lady she'd never laid eyes on to act as chaperon was little short of infuriating. Further, the letter implied that when she accompanied Claude to Dinan, Charity was to be left in Sussex! It was very clear that she and M. Claude Sanguinet had some caps to pull! She could just imagine Captain Tristram ordering her about so summarily. The anger faded from her eyes and was replaced by a rueful smile. Tristram would manoeuvre her just as surely. Only he would accomplish it with such fiendish tact she'd not realize she had been manoeuvred until it was too late. She stepped aside to avoid three ladies with arms entwined and an obvious disinclination to yield the right of way. Rachel's frown, however, was directed at herself. What nonsense was she now indulging in? Claude was the dearest man imaginable. Thanks to him her beloved sister had been restored to a state of health she'd not dared to hope for. He had been the soul of generosity, and was, as Justin would have said, so very well to pass that he could offer her a life of luxury that most ladies only dreamed of. More to the point, his brilliant—and extremely dear—surgeon had expressed the hope that someday he might restore to Charity the ability to walk! Nothing must interfere with such a prospect! Nothing! Not even— She shut off that dangerous line of conjecture, but a moment later was sighing wistfully. Dear, dear Tristram. So courteous, so gallant. Such an unknown quantity. Were his worst fears realized, the summit of his ambition must be freedom from the spectre of the gallows! Even were he proven innocent, he might yet discover that he was wed after all—having a hopeful family, and with no better prospects than those of a half-pay officer. On the other hand, suppose he was highly born? She stifled another sigh. Worse and worse, for his family could only despise Rachel Strand, the daughter of that scandalous fellow who'd cheated at cards. Rachel Strand, promised to a man almost twice her own age who, however devoted, had for years been known as a notorious rake.

  She blotted out such foolish and pointless speculation, and her small chin lifted resolutely. She must say her farewells to Tristram and tell him about Claude. Why she'd not done so, she could not think. Yes, she could, conscience argued. She had been so happy and had clung to that happiness, not wanting it to end. Even now, she approached the library with reluctance.

  A uniformed page swung the door open for her, revealing a large room, the sides and rear devoted to rows of tall bookcases. In the centre were counters on which were spread such delights as prettily boxed marzipan and toffee, ribbons for milady's hair, mittens, sunshades defying the omnipresent umbrellas, some ells of fringe and beads, several dozen pattern cards, and several pretty workboxes. The library was well patronized, and convivial groups were seated at a number of small tables, while neat maids moved deftly among them, bearing trays laden with teapots and crockery and plates of scones and pastries.

  Rachel was so intent upon locating a familiar tall figure that she did not notice the stiffening of an angular lady standing before a bookcase, nor the way in which she hurriedly rejoined a companion and at once engaged her in agitated converse.

  Wandering along the narrow aisles at the rear, Rachel came upon Tristram at last, frowning down at the volume in his hand.
She checked and stood watching for a moment, anticipating the now-familiar light that would come into his eyes, as though just the sight of her brightened his world. He looked up and saw her, but his expression was not one of delight. Instead, he looked pale and distraught. Alarmed, she hastened to his side.

  "What is it? Whatever has upset you?"

  "B-berkshire…" he whispered painfully, one hand going to his temple.

  "It is a county to the west of London. A very beautiful county. Have you been there, do you think?"

  The book tumbled from his hand. Rachel caught it in the nick of time and slipped it hurriedly into the nearest opening. He was swaying, his face livid. Really alarmed now, she took his arm and, glancing up, saw a bonnet shoot swiftly from sight at the end of the row.

  "Come," she murmured. "Lean on me, and we will go outside."

  He reeled, reached out blindly to steady himself, but instead clutched spasmodically at his head, a muffled groan escaping him. His disoriented movements had sent several volumes toppling. Rachel looked desperately for aid, but no one was in sight now and she hesitated to call for help and create a scene.

  "Disgusting!" came the hiss of a woman's voice from beyond the bookcase. "He is inebriated, my dear Emma! At this hour! I have sent for Mr. Wright!"

  "Very properly. Did you see the lady with him?"

  "Lady! Hah! It is just such as she who cause the Quality to be spoken ill of! Are we to collect her fine protector has cast her into the gutter?"

  Rachel seemed turned to stone. Not daring to look at Tristram, she stood mute and stricken.

  The waspish voice responded, "If one is to judge by her Papa, it—" The confidence died to a murmur and was followed by muffled laughter.

  A small, elegant, but irate-appearing gentleman hurried into view, quizzing glass upraised the better to survey Tristram, who was leaning against a shelf with shoulders hunched and eyes closed. "God bless my soul!" the newcomer exclaimed fussily. "What is the gentleman about, ma'am? I am Jonas Wright, and I tell you frankly that I tolerate no crude behaviour in my library. Never a breath of scandal in all the years I have been in business. I must insist—"