"Do you journey far with him, it's probably the least you'll get. The boy attracts livestock like—" He broke off as the vessel lurched suddenly.
Tristram grabbed the rail. "We'll not encounter a really bad swell at this season, shall we?"
Kimble shot him a keen glance. "I see you've sailed these waters before. No, the worst of the tides are past, but I must leave you. This is a tricky coast."
It was tricky indeed, for soon the sea was a churning race, with billows of foam roaring around the great rocks that loomed menacingly along the shoreline. Clinging to the rail, Tristram began to wonder if he'd ever reach the chateau at all, and, echoing his thoughts, Devenish struggled to his side, holding his frightened pet under his coat and shouting that at least she would be able to swim for it!
Quite suddenly, however, the violent pitching of the yawl eased, and they approached the darker bulk of the coastline over smoothly rippling waves. The beach was dark, and Kimble grumbled, "Yves is late again!" Tristram scarcely heard the anchor splash into the water, and at once the offloading began. This proved a simpler process than he'd anticipated, the barrels being secured together by ropes threaded through rings in their sides, then lowered into the sea and floated along behind the dinghy. The men worked quickly and quietly, but when one of the barrels slipped from Tristram's cold and inexperienced hands to land with a loud splash, Kimble's head jerked around and he rasped, "Quiet!" his face one big scowl. The recipient of several irked glares, Tristram muttered an apology, and his suspicion that Devenish had plunged him into a decidedly havey-cavey business was confirmed.
Soon, they were on the mist-shrouded beach, hauling in the barrels and stacking them neatly. This proved difficult work for Devenish, who was concerned lest Mrs. O'Crumbs wander off in the darkness and become lost. Irked by his cousin's slow progress, Kimble grated, "For lord's sake, Dev! Stick the dratted bird into one of the tubs and get to work!"
Devenish protested, but obeyed, and Mrs. O'Crumbs was safely, if indignantly confined to a small barrel.
Half an hour later, short of breath, Tristram said, "That's the last of 'em. How do we get them to the inn?"
"Why, we will be most happy to assist," offered a triumphant French voice.
Tristram swung around. The biggest musket barrel it had ever been his misfortune to encounter was an inch from his nose.
"Excisemen!" roared a diminishing voice.
A shot rang out and the beach was suddenly swarming with struggling men, a few lanterns dimly illuminating the wild melee. From the corner of his eye, Tristram caught a glimpse of Kimble whizzing into the surf, a large man in hot pursuit. He and Devenish were hopelessly caught, however, unable to move with that musket held so steadily on them, the grimly smiling face beyond it leaving no doubt but that it would be fired if they attempted escape.
"So many times, messieurs," nodded their sturdily built captor, "I am tricked; my trap it is sprung, my prey flits safely away. So many times, you land where I am not. This time, I ask myself where I would be the least likely to land with the tides as they are tonight. Hein! I think, I know where I would not be. So—here I am, and voila! Here are you, also!"
"How unfortunate," said Tristram. "The barrels, you see, are empty. Is it illegal to bring empty barrels ashore, monsieur?"
"Aha!" Devenish cried gleefully, "He is right! You should have waited until they were full, my poor slowtop!"
The Exciseman glowered at him. "By the saints, but you're saucy rogues! And do not imagine yourselves reprieved.The tubs doubtless reek of brandy, however empty they may be."
A cohort came up, holding a small barrel. "To judge from the weight, this one it is not quite empty, Jean-Pierre."
Devenish stiffened, his mouth opening. Tristram said swiftly, "Dev! Be silent!" And as his friend turned a startled face to him, added, "Admit nothing!" and winked the eye that was beyond the range of the Exciseman's sight.
Devenish's lips twitched. He shrugged, and hung his head as one totally dejected.
"I collect," Tristram sighed, "that you fellows mean to sample—" He checked, and went on clumsily, "Er—I mean, take that with you."
The two officials exchanged brief, conspiratorial glances.
"It is our duty," said Jean-Pierre, importantly, "to sample the goods, no, Louis?"
Louis lost no time in seconding the motion. He wrenched the lid off, then raised the barrel eagerly to his lips.
Mrs. O'Crumbs was not in the best of humours. She had endured a horridly lengthy sojourn in a stuffy vessel, and to add insult to injury, had then been plunked into a reeking barrel. While her master had been kind enough to leave the lid off, she'd been able to bear it, but some fiend had come along and replaced the lid, after which she'd been half-suffocated. When the lid was again wrenched off she was at first too startled to give tongue. Propelled forward as the barrel was tilted, she gave more than tongue, and Louis uttered a scream of terror and pain as her strong beak clamped angrily onto the end of his nose. He flung the barrel aside. Fluttering her wings frenziedly, Mrs. O'Crumbs was launched at Jean-Pierre, who yelled and jumped back. Tristram sprang forward, and a clenched fist (which was later to be designated a sledgehammer) caught Jean-Pierre beneath his chin, silencing his outcries. Simultaneously, Devenish seized the barrel and applied it vigorously to Louis's downbent head. The two Excisemen sank quietly to the beach. A shout warned of more trouble.
Devenish scooped up Mrs. O'Crumbs. "Shall we toddle?" he suggested. They did.
Dominer, situated upon a gentle hill in the Cotswolds, was widely held to be one of the loveliest estates in all England. It had been some time since Kingston Leith had visited the great house, and he had accepted Garret Hawkhurst's invitation with alacrity, partly in the hope that for a while it would help him to forget his growing fears for Tristram's survival, and partly because London was become rather uncomfortable. He was attempting to explain this strange phenomenon to Mrs. Dora Graham as they sat in the luxurious yet welcoming gold lounge, awaiting the arrival of the rest of the family in this pleasant hour before dinner. The day had been warm, and the sun had not yet gone down, the pink rays that slanted through the great windows lighting Mrs. Graham's auburn locks and sending little gleams dancing through the decanter and onto the mahogany of the occasional table. It seemed to Leith that Dora's hair was a trifle less red than in days gone by, but perhaps memory played him false. Besides, like himself, the dear lady was getting just a little past youth.
"The main trouble," he said plaintively, "is Drusilla. Always was inclined to be fusty, y'know."
"So is the Earl." Her pale blue eyes fastened to his face, Mrs. Graham reached blindly for her wineglass, took up a small vase instead, and was startled when the rose it held invaded her eye. "Good gracious! Did you put a rose in my glass, Leith? How very romantic you are! Always was." She removed the rose, then stared at the vase uncertainly.
Leith took the vase from her plump hand and said with a chuckle, "Dora, Dora! Absent-minded as ever!" Restoring her wineglass, and amused by this typical lapse, he went on, "You're right about Starchy, though. Dreadful bore."
"Starchy?" she echoed dubiously.
"Palmer. My brother-in-law. The Earl of Mayne-Waring."
She uttered a trill of laughter. "What a perfect name for him! And how shocked poor Drusilla would be! Leith, you're a rascal. But, oh how very good it is to have you here and chat about old friends, old times."
"Old friends, well enough, Dora," he said rather disconsolately. "It's the new friends tend to have the odd kick in their gallop. Or so m'sister holds."
"How so?"
"Well, I've been—ah—looking about, you see. Not that dear Tristram ain't coming home. You know he will …" He searched her face anxiously. "Don't you?" Although inwardly appalled, she smiled and nodded with such assurance that he was heartened, and went on, "Thing is— Just in case— Well, there's young Glick. Cannot have him at Cloudhills. Wouldn't be fitting. Tradition's a funny thing, Dora. Much we may laugh at it, but
still—what's due the family is—well, is due. So," he sighed heavily, "there you are."
She stared at him, her brows knit. "Perhaps you'd best fill my glass, Leith. My wits are no match for yours."
He was only too pleased to oblige, refilling his own glass also. After taking a few sips, Dora seemed more able to comprehend that a new heir must be provided, and was suitably sympathetic regarding Drusilla's henwitted behaviour. "If she don't understand your 'sponsibilities, it's because of her gibble-gabble cronies," she opined, nodding owlishly. "Been filling her head with windfalls."
"Windmills," Leith corrected, but he applauded this excellent verdict and extolled Mrs. Graham's understanding to the point that the blush on her smooth cheeks was not entirely the result of the rosy sunlight.
"She's all on end," he confided. "Says I'm being too partic'ler in me attentions. Am I being too—'ticler, d'you think, Dora?"
'"Course not, Kingston," she assured him fondly. "Always pleasure to have you. Pleasure, indeed."
He patted her hand. "Too good. You always was, Dora. 'T'all events, there's safety in numbers, do y'not think?"
"Abs'lutely. 'Speak low if you speak love.'" Leith stared in mystification, and she giggled, "That's what Army Buchanan used to say. Before he was wed, 'course."
"Aye. What a wild young devil Armstrong was. Dora," Leith edged his chair a little closer. "D'you remember that time when Army was walking beside your chair—along the banks of the Serpentine, I think. And—and," he chortled gleefully, "some other beau come tripping 'long?"
"Oh, yes. Such a stately fellow he was, too," she nodded reminiscently.
"Got to admiring you too pointedly, as I recall," grinned Leith.
"It turned out eventually, he was a Cit, Kingston. Designed toothpicks!" This sent them both into whoops. "Poor Army," Dora gasped. "But—it was the Seine, not the Serpentine."
"And Army was just… just as wet!" he howled, slapping his knee.
Dora laughed until the tears slipped down her cheeks, and it became necessary for Leith to dry them for her.
Watching from the doorway, Euphemia Hawkhurst's eyes were very soft. She held up a hand to detain her tall husband as he moved quietly to join her. Taking that hand, he kissed it and, his eyes holding the smile the sight of his wife invariably awoke in them, murmured, "How does Leith go on, love?"
"He seems content," she murmured, "but only because— Oh, Garret, the poor dear will not accept it! Is it wrong in us to pretend with him?"
Hawkhurst's gaze turned to the two who chattered so gaily together, and, frowning a little, he said, "Perhaps it gives him time to adjust to the pain of his loss. Perhaps—when it becomes obvious that he must face the fact that Tristram is…" And he hesitated, himself unable to speak that dread word.
Euphemia's face crumpled. She hid it against Hawkhurst's splendid dinner jacket, and he dropped a kiss upon the bright tresses that contained a titian no artifice could provide. "Do not, sweetheart," he murmured. "We must try only to be glad we knew him. He'd not have wanted these tears, you know."
"I … know," she gulped. "But—is there no hope? No hope at all?"
Hawkhurst stifled a sigh. "It is almost six weeks since Waterloo, Mia. God knows, I'd give my right arm to think Tristram was alive. But—" He heard her muffled sob and said bracingly, "If anyone can help poor Leith face up to matters, it's our Dora. Come—let them talk alone a little longer. They've been friends for years. Who knows, that friendship may prove a boon to both of 'em."
Euphemia looked up, wonderingly. Drying her tears, she slipped her hand into his, and they crept silently away.
Rachel sat beside the open petit salon window, staring blindly into the peaceful afternoon. For the third time she sighed, and took up her embroidery frame.
Watching her, waiting for the first stitch to be set, Agatha saw the pretty hands sink again and, her heart heavy, put down the torn flounce she mended and asked, "Miss Rachel? Be you worrying over what that silly Raoul said? I nigh boxed his ears when he told me! The impertinence, to dare try and involve you in such a scheme as he and Mr. Diccon have—"
"No, no." Rachel crossed to sit beside the indignant abigail. "It is much more than that. And, Agatha—my sister must know nothing of all this."
"My lamb." Agatha squeezed the hand she held and said fondly, "You do not belong here. Can we go home soon?"
Rachel bit her lip. "Truth to tell, I have very little in the way of funds. And—at all events, it cannot be thought of while Charity is far from well."
Agatha said glumly, "She did seem to take a turn, dear soul. And so quick as it was!"
"Yes. And in no case for a long journey, even if that were possible. I worry about her, and yet—" she checked, turning sharply as she heard a small sound behind her. Angered, she came to her feet and said with regal hauteur, "I failed to hear your knock, Gerard!"
"A thousand pardons, mademoiselle. I knocked very softly, for fear of disturbing Mademoiselle Charity."
"Must've been so soft as thistledown," Agatha muttered, but when Gerard's cold gaze rested on her, she quailed into silence.
Rachel's head was very high. "Indeed? I assume you intrude for some urgent purpose?"
Amused, and unable to refrain from admiring her, Gerard betrayed neither emotion, saying, "A messenger has arrived, mademoiselle."
"From monseigneur?"
"From …" he paused, knowing he was vexing her, and finished with his faint smile, "from Mr. Justin Strand."
The embroidery fell from Rachel's hand. "My brother?" she gasped, hearing Agatha's excited exclamation.
"So I am advised."
Her heart leaping, she asked, "Where is this messenger? Bring him here at once!"
"I would have done this, naturellement, but he is not, ah— suitably clad to set foot above stairs."
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" She swept past him and walked swiftly along the corridor, her steps muffled by the thick carpets. Dear Justin was come home at last! And just when she so needed him! Hurrying down the winding stairs, she all but ran through the hall. Several footmen came rigidly to attention as she passed, her eyes searching anxiously. There was no sign of anyone other than servants in the entry hall, and she spun about angrily. Gerard watched her from beside the open door that led to the kitchens and the rear of the house. He bowed slightly, his face quite without expression.
Rachel fairly flew past him and down the narrow corridor, a startled kitchenmaid leaping back before her impetuous advance. When she came to the door leading into the small office where the housekeeper interviewed local merchants, Gerard was beside her and, reaching for the handle, murmured, "Allow me, mademoiselle. This is a rough-looking customer."
He entered the room first, blocking the doorway as he said a stern, "Make your respects, fellow. Here is Mademoiselle Strand." And he stepped aside, his cunning eyes riveted to the girl's face.
"Are you—" Rachel began, and stopped, her breath snatched away, shock causing her heart to leap into her throat and every vestige of colour to drain from her face. A hand to her throat, she stared at the tall young man who bowed before her; the strong, fine face, the wide-set dark eyes she had never thought to see again.
Tristram had heard the gasp that cut off her eager words and was himself stunned. Rachel was white as death, with dark smudges beneath her glorious eyes, and her face thinner than he remembered; yet her beauty seemed enhanced. For a frozen instant he could only know how lovely she was, the pale jonquil gown accentuating the fair curls and dainty figure. Even though he had prepared himself for this moment, it took a mighty effort of will to present an appearance of cool impassivity. It was very clear that Rachel had not been told his identity. How stricken she looked. He slanted an irked glance at the Frenchman and surprised a gloating triumph on the sallow features. As always, danger sharpened his faculties. He pulled himself together and said politely, "My apologies, ma'am. I should have realized my sudden appearance would shock you. I did not die, after all, you see."
&nb
sp; Rachel had betrayed herself, she knew, but an escape route had been offered and she snatched at it. "I am—very glad," she stammered breathlessly. "I will own I was… most startled. I had thought—that is, the surgeon was of the opinion… I am glad to see he was mistaken."
Tristram laughed easily. "Oh, yes, I confounded him. And went to Strand Hall to thank you for your kindnesses."
"It was the least I could do." Her knees were jelly, but she turned to Gerard and said, "Captain Tristram did me a great service after Waterloo, when the carriage I occupied was attacked by looters."
"We are greatly indebted to Monsieur le Capitaine," murmured Gerard, his eyes enigmatic.
"No need, I assure you, sir," smiled Tristram. "Any man would have done the same."
"And it appears you have now done me another service," said Rachel. "Monsieur Gerard says you bring word from my brother? He is back in England?"
"Yes, ma'am. And when he learned I was bound for France, begged that I tell you of his arrival and ask that you return to Sussex as soon as is convenient."
"He doubtless sent a letter to that effect," purred Gerard.
Tristram thought, "Blast! Why did I not think of that?"
"Regrettably," he said, "Mr. Strand was abed with a heavy cold. Nothing to worry you, ma'am, but he did not feel inclined to write."
"Oh, no," Rachel laughed nervously. "Justin abominates being obliged to set pen to paper. How eager I am to see him, and my sister will be overjoyed. I shall return to England at once, Gerard. Please order a carriage for us."
"But of course, mademoiselle," Gerard turned to the door and Rachel's wild heartbeat began to calm. See how simple it had been? How absurd that she had imagined he would object!
His hand on the doorknob, Gerard paused and glanced back. "Monseigneur is expected momentarily. He will, of a certainty, wish to thank the gentleman who was of such great service, and doubtless would desire personally to escort you."
"But we cannot be sure when he will return, and I can be back in—"
"Mademoiselle has perhaps forgotten the ball?" he reminded smoothly. "I betray a secret, I fear, but monseigneur is even now in Paris selecting the betrothal ring. He will be quite shattered to find mademoiselle gone away, for he has planned the ball with such care—everything mademoiselle might wish. Many of the guests must travel a great distance and are already en route."
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 02] - Feather Castles Page 19
