"Oh!" she cried. "Never have I seen so lovely a sight!"
"You have but begun!" proclaimed Madame Fleur exuberantly. "Beyond the next wood is—" She stopped as Claude glanced at her, and then finished lamely, "A lot more."
Several men were scattered about, busily at work, and Charity, awed, said "You must have an army of gardeners here, Monsieur Claude."
"An unhappy necessity," he smiled.
They were entering another wooded belt. Coming into the open, Claude announced, rather in the manner of a conjurer pulling rabbits from a hat, "The Cathay Garden!"
Here were quaint winding streams, crossed by stepping-stones, and edged with flowers. The shrubs and trees were of unique delicacy and conformation, and even the turf was different, being of a darker, more dense, and springy texture. Dominating this peaceful garden a great bronze Buddha, oxidized by the dampness to a dusty light green, sat atop a black onyx platform and nearby, black swans floated regally along the stream. There was scarcely time to fully appreciate these beauties before the next curve brought an even more exquisite sight, an enchanting pagoda beside a large pool, with a red lacquered bridge arching over the lily-strewn surface. The huge tree that shaded the pagoda was gnarled and twisted, and the branches stretching protectively over the enameled roof were bare of leaves save for occasional flat clumps that created a most attractive form, perfectly complementing the oriental architecture.
And so it went, the carriage moving steadily upward through the Grecian garden where marble ruins and statuary were scattered about plantings of classic symmetry, dominated by another pool—a long rectangle this time, providing a mirror-like reflection of the superb temple that loomed beside it; through the Egyptian garden with its sphinx and bullrushes and papyrus; the English garden, complete with moated, minature castle and charming flowers; each seemingly more lovely than the last.
The sisters were captivated and had exhausted their store of superlatives when the carriage rounded the last curve. The chateau, bursting upon their sight like the final crashing chord of a symphony, was the piece de resistance. A sprawl of white marble, fronted by wide steps, it stood proudly on the crest of the hill. The architecture was Italian rather than French, the main block being set back between forward-reaching wings on either side, thus creating a wide court which was lined with fountains. The sun was stronger now, and its beams awoke sparkles from the sweeping sprays and brightened the white walls so that the house shone like a thing of faerie.
The coachman blew up a blast on his yard of tin as the carriage circled a wide, level area devoted to an extensive maze where more gardeners trimmed the tall hedge walls. Servants appeared on the broad steps and began to hurry down to them. The carriage stopped. The door was thrown open, and a magnificent being in ivory satin and powder let down the steps. Claude sprang out and handed Rachel down. She paused, looking dazedly at the great, gleaming structure above her.
"Well, cherie" he murmured in her ear. "What do you think of it all?"
She thought it a palace, so magnificent as to be terrifying, and experienced a deep yearning for the dear dilapidations of Strand Hall. But she must put away such thoughts! She had entered this bargain willingly, and it was both pointless and unfair to her betrothed to do anything less than make the best of it. "I think it superb," she said quietly.
Claude nodded. "Yes. But—just wait until you see the suite that I have had prepared for you!"
As lovely as was the exterior, inside, the chateau was indeed like a palace. The entrance hall was oval, the domed ceiling arranged into six panels radiating from the central star, each panel embellished with paintings of exotic birds fluttering about well-endowed and nude ladies. The floor was of pink marble, having in the centre a large oval Persian carpet woven in tones of red and white. Two enormous chandeliers graced this large chamber, and charming statuary was set about, interspersed with benches and intricately carven chests. Wide corridors led from either side towards the other areas of the ground floor, and at the rear a staircase flowed gracefully around the contour of the wall to spill its widening red-carpeted steps onto the roseate floor. Glancing down the corridors, Rachel gained an impression of red and gold and crystal; of exquisite chandeliers; walls lined with gilded chests whereon were priceless porcelains, jade and marbles; sparkling mirrors within filigreed Chinese Chippendale frames. Everything rich, tasteful, and regal.
A very large footman carried Charity into the house and followed as Claude and Madame Fleur led the way upstairs.
"Had I only thought," Claude sighed, "I could have made arrangements for a downstairs room to be equipped for your sister's needs. Alas, there are steps everywhere, but she need never feel constrained. My servants have so little to occupy them that they will delight to carry the poor child about."
He had spoken in a loud whisper that Rachel was sure Charity had heard. She fought a surge of irritation, reminding herself that he doubtless fancied he had been all consideration, but she could have shaken him for such tactlessness. Like most invalids, Charity was less distressed by her own illness than by her dread of being a burden to others. Rachel, who went to great lengths lest her sister harbour such a suspicion, forced a smile and enquired in a rather brittle voice as to how many rooms the chateau boasted.
"Approximately ninety. Not as many as you may have supposed, but you will have noticed that both wings have only the ground and first floor. Only the main block has another floor, and that, I must confess, I keep all to myself; it is where I conduct my many—concerns and because of the extremely confidential nature of some of my ventures, is necessarily kept locked. However, I shall be very eager to conduct you through the rest of the chateau when you are rested, my love." He bowed over her hand. "I leave you now. If there is anything— anything you desire, I pray you will call for it at once."
He smiled upon Charity and hurried away, to be succeeded by a middle-aged housekeeper clad in a gown of dark blue linen fastened to the throat with small mother-of-pearl buttons. She spoke politely, but with brevity, and did not so far unbend as to reveal her name. The sisters were assigned a suite having bedchambers on each side of a central petit salon. There was also a spacious dressing room where a cot had been set up for Agatha, so that she could be near to Mademoiselle Charity at night. Listening politely to these arrangements, Rachel was past being surprised when the woman flung open a panelled door. The petit salon was delightful, the walls papered in a design of pale pink flowers interspersed with gold fleurs de lis. The furnishings were from the era of Louis XIV, upholstered in soft pinks and greens. Charity's room was blue and white and charmingly feminine. Having viewed it, the small procession journeyed across the petit salon to the bedchamber allotted to Rachel. It was large and sumptuous, but not oppressively so. A dainty canopied bed with a small sofa at its foot; thick carpets; a cozy fireplace framed with Italian painted tiles and flanked by two small wing chairs; ample chests and two large clothes-presses, and wide windows looking out over the side of the hill that fell away in a sheer drop below. Rachel crossed to the small table before the windows, enjoying the breeze that ruffled her hair as she removed her bonnet.
"It is all—so exquisite!" said Charity. "Dearest—do you—" She broke off as Agatha uttered an exclamation of surprise.
The abigail stood before one of the presses, staring in bewilderment at a neat row of dresses and ball gowns. "Well! I never did!" she gasped. "One might think as you wasn't never going home again, Miss Rachel!"
Chapter 8
"Do you know, Dev," said Tristram thoughtfully, "we have been three days journeying together, and I've not yet called you out."
Attempting to settle himself more comfortably against the hayrick on this warm July morning, Devenish inspected his left hand and replied, "Had you expected to have done so?"
"I cannot deny it. I marvel, in fact, at my restraint. Never in my life—or as much of it as I can recollect—have I encountered such a firebrand! Must you challenge everyone we meet?"
"Firebr
and?" snorted Devenish, indignantly. "Was it my fault that clod of a farmer attacked us last evening? He was the one named you a 'gert creature,' and—"
"And you were the one objected. Had you not retaliated in kind—"
"I did but say he was a yokelly jack-at-warts. Which was purest truth—did you see the one on the end of his nose? The trouble with you, Tris, is that you waste your time in trying to reason with these upstarts." He addressed his companion earnestly. "You must learn to be more firm. More decisive. If a man offends you—knock him down. Then you can reason, old fellow. Mark my words, you'll get nowhere in life do you not change your ways." Pleased with this little lecture, he nodded and resumed his inspection of his hand.
"You struck first last night," Tristram remarked mildly. "And instead of the warm bed I'd almost convinced the landlord we should have, we paid almost as much for the privilege of racking up in a stable." He scratched his ribs and added with a rueful smile, "Some of whose occupants I fear still accompany us."
"Blasted fellow was a rogue! Gouging the public, just as I told the greedy mawworm! When I think—" In the midst of a heated gesture, Devenish winced and swore.
Tristram sat up. "Let me see that."
"It's the thumb, I think." Devenish held out his hand. "Trifle puffy."
"A trifle dislocated. Baconbrain! Why could you not have told me? Hold on."
"Hey! Wait!"
Tristram did not wait and, having pulled hard, was enveloped in a flood of profanity. He lay back, and when Devenish ran out of breath, asked, "Did it do?"
"Blast your eyes! You half killed—"
This exaggeration was cut off by the frenzied barking of a large black and tan dog that came at them, lips curling back from long and efficient-looking fangs, and hair standing on end all across powerful shoulders.
Tristram sprang to his feet. Looking desperately about for a weapon, he found none. "Dev!" he exclaimed. "Get up, you clunch! It's likely the farmer's hound. We're trespassing, and—"
"Come on, you old fool," Devenish said lazily and extended one hand, palm up towards that double row of gnashing teeth.
The dog crouched lower. The growls in its throat were deep and murderous. Tristram took a pace nearer his friend.
"Be still," said Devenish, perfectly calm. "There's no danger to me."
Tristram stood motionless, but watchful.
Narrowed eyes gleaming malevolently, the dog prepared to spring.
"For God's sake!" breathed Tristram, readying for violent action.
"Here, boy!" The slender fingers snapped, scant inches from those powerful jaws.
Growling deep in its throat, the dog's long tail began to wag. The fearsome rumble stopped. The upcurled lip relaxed. The bristling hair lowered.
Slowly, easily, Devenish touched the wolfish head, then tugged at one rather mangled ear. The dog whined, moved closer, and butted its head under that caressing hand.
"I'll be… damned!" gasped Tristram.
Devenish grinned up at him. "I've a bit of a way with animals."
Tristram had detected a new sound. "I trust you've a bit of a way with farm labourers. I fancy your friend here was the advance guard."
Devenish sprang up. "You stay, old fellow," he ordered, and the dog lay down at once.
"Come on!" urged Tristram. "Those rakes don't look any too friendly!"
The farmhands proved a lusty crew, armed with an unnerving array of implements from pitchforks to shovels, and it was some time before their prey dared slow to a walk. Long after he had regained his wind, however, Tristram was silent, his brow furrowed, and the occasional remarks of his companion earning only an abstracted grunt by way of answer.
"Women?" Devenish asked. "They're the devil, are they not?"
Tristram smiled faintly. "Matter of fact, I was thinking of a man. Dev—are you by any chance acquainted with a fellow named Sanguinet?"
"By God—I am not!" Devenish responded, considerably affronted. His ire faded when he saw that Tristram watched him with an almost fearful intensity. The matter must be important, he deduced, and elaborated, "The father was said to be tutor to the Fiend Incarnate. He's dead these five years and more. Unhappily, before he slipped his wind, he sired three sons. Of Guy, the youngest, I know little save that he has fought several duels and is considered deadly. Parnell, the middle brother, is universally despised, and universally catered to. They've wealth beyond imagination, besides which, rumour has it that those who cross them suffer strange and often fatal reverses. My Tyrant claims that Claude, the eldest of 'em, is a monster veritablement!"
The ghastly suspicion that had bedevilled him ever since Shotten had voiced his poison, strengthened its grip. Tristram asked, with an attempt at nonchalance, "Dangerous? Oh—to the women, you mean?"
"No. But, he is, I'll admit. How any woman could stomach him is more than I can fathom, for his reputation is perfectly horrible. Money, I suppose. He has an English chit for a playmate at the moment. A beauty, so I hear. Her family's smoky, to say the least of it, but—that she would sink to his level is downright shocking!" He shook his head righteously, happily unaware of the menace of two glinting eyes. "He means to marry her, apparently. Lord knows why— unless he wants to wed into England's society. He's not picked a prime example, but—beggars can't be choosers, and with his past, no matchmaking Mama of the ton would allow her daughter within arm's length of the creature. The only other explanation is that the slut's in a delicate condition and blackmailing the dirty bas—" He choked. A hand of iron had gripped his cravat and dragged him to within inches of a face he scarcely recognized, so contorted was it with passion.
"Apologize! You filthy, lying swine!" grated Tristram.
Devenish spluttered, "You're ripe—for Bedlam! Let go!"
"Take back what you said—damn your soul!"
"The … the devil I… will!"
The murderous grip tightened. Not all Devenish's struggles were of any avail, and a red haze was clouding his vision when he was flung away so violently that he staggered.
"By God!" Tristram snarled. "Did I not outweigh you…"
Devenish stood swaying, clutching his throat, and gasping for breath. But in a very few seconds he hurled himself at his tormentor. Tristram placed one hand squarely in the middle of the enraged man's chest, and held it there.
"Fight! You addlewitted hedgebird! You—you man-milliner!" Devenish roared, arms flailing madly. "Damn you— fight!"
"If I did, I'd likely kill you."
"Indeed?" Devenish's struggles ceased. He drew himself up and, as Tristram lowered his restraining hand, requested regally, "Name your seconds!"
"How in the deuce can I name seconds when I don't know with whom I am acquainted?"
The lofty hauteur was at once submerged in rage. "Then—devil take you, we'll fight without seconds. Here and now!" He flung back his hand, but Tristram caught and held his wrist. "I'll not fight a green boy," he said. His own rare fury had waned, and recalling what Rachel had said of her family's disgrace, he watched Devenish thoughtfully through a torrent of outrage during which he was advised that it was too much, quite the outside of enough, and, "I'll have your blood for it! Damme if I don't! You damn near throttled me, blast you! And for no reason! You asked a question. I did my best to give you a civil answer and—"
"And is it your practice to speak ill of a lady of Quality?"
The perfect features flushed scarlet. The blue eyes slid away. "It is not. Nor did I. The Strand girl is not—"
"Have a care!"
Devenish stared at him. Was that the way of it, then? But it was no excuse, regardless! "You have questioned my honour, sir," he said grandly. "You must answer to me!"
Those fateful words could not have been spoken with more disdain by a Prince of the blood. Devenish was more than a little superb in his youthful pride and courage. But his old beaver hat was stained and battered, his face bruised and not too clean, and the shoulder of his coat was torn. A twinkle crept into Tristram's dark eyes, a
nd he asked in a gentler tone, "How do you know I am a gentleman? Perhaps I'm not worthy of your steel."
Devenish saw the twinkle and interpreted it as mockery. Seething, he wheeled, suddenly swung around, and backhanded Tristram hard across the mouth.
Tristram gasped and staggered slightly. The boy was stronger than he'd thought! Devenish's flush had faded. He looked grim and white, and very determined. The cold feel of blood on his chin, Tristram bowed and started off.
With a howl of frustration, Devenish sprang after him. "Stop!" he demanded, trotting anxiously along beside his adversary. "Have you no sense of proper conduct? Stop! I am five and twenty—not a green boy! Dammit man, I doubt you're above four or five years my senior—eh? Will you stop! I've struck you in the face—drawn your cork too, begad! You can not simply walk away from that!"
Tristram could, and did. Baffled, Devenish halted, watching him, then ran in furious pursuit. Sighing, Tristram turned. Devenish raced at him, fists clenched. At the last instant, Tristram stepped lightly to the side. Unable to stop his furious charge, Devenish shot into the deep ditch beside the hedge.
Tristram surveyed him gravely as he sprawled, winded, amid the brambles. "Good day to you, sir," he said, and went his way, faint, breathless curses following him.
What was the name of the village, or even the county through which he now wandered, Tristram had no idea. He knew that several days had passed since he'd parted from Devenish, and he had a vague knowledge that they had been riotous in the extreme. He remembered several inns and himself shouting for "Ale all round!" Some kind soul had guided his wavering feet to a room where he had been allowed to sleep. The next night, he had shared accommodations with a gentle-eyed carthorse. He had talked at length with that patient animal, explaining that it could not be truth. Rachel Strand was a pure and virtuous lady. She could not be—she was not—the mistress of such as Claude Sanguinet. No! Never! The carthorse had flicked an ear, his gaze plainly pitying. And Tristram had remembered many little incidents to erode his trust. Her obvious familiarity with the yacht, the vicious remarks of those two women in the library—aimed at Rachel, he now knew. By her very evasion, she had admitted she did not love her affianced. But, "I shall marry him," she'd said. "I shall marry him." She adored Charity, and it was very possible that she was wedding Sanguinet to provide for her sister. But she had known a father's love; she had a brother—she certainly must be aware of Claude's foul reputation. No lady could sell herself to such a man—whatever her reason. Nor was it necessary. There were other, far more palatable alternatives. Rachel was the loveliest woman he'd ever seen. She could have her pick from among the Cits and Nabobs, that was beyond doubting. Much they would care for her father's disgrace! And better a decent merchant, than a "nobleman" of Claude's stamp! Because of his own clouded memory, it did not occur to him that a sheltered girl would have no way of meeting such men, nor that advances from a stranger would have frightened her. He decided wretchedly that, knowing what Claude was, she had cared not. Loving another man, she had clung to her Croesus. "I shall wed him…" No matter how vile, how depraved! "He has been so good…" He has been so generous, she meant! Sodden days and nights had followed. Bereft of hope, he had now lost the one thing that had sustained him. The pure angel he had worshipped did not exist. He had given his heart to a jade no better than a harlot, and less honest! A woman who had sold herself to a man scorned by her own kind despite his riches—a renowned rake and libertine. Heartsick and tormented he had journeyed alone, yet not alone, for he walked ever with despair.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 02] - Feather Castles Page 13
