Had We Never Loved

by Patricia Veryan

An icy and refreshing coldness touched his face, and the voices became clearer. The man was talking again. He sounded very quarrelsome. “… should’ve been scragged, like I said. A nob, ain’t he? Perishers. They should all be scragged. Or topped!”

  “You’re talking foolish, Uncle Ab. Fair yearning to swing on Tyburn Tree, is ye?” The voice was lilting but neither cultured nor coarse. So it wasn’t Mitten, after all. Puzzled, Glendenning listened as she said, “He can’t help if he’s Quality, poor cove. Now, what about his mare?”

  “Flame!” exclaimed Glendenning, and sat up into a world that shivered to fragments and was gone …

  A long time afterwards he was listening to bells. Not church bells, or a ship’s bell; more like the little handbell that Mama kept on the chairside table in her private parlour. A tiny bell this, whose erratic chime was accompanied by a hissing sound. He wondered idly if it was a pet snake with a bell tied round its neck.

  “Why do you frown?” asked the woman softly, and a cool hand stroked his temple.

  If he dared open his eyes, the hammer in his head would probably break right through his skull. Not risking it, he lay still. The skin of her hand was rather rough, but her touch was gentle and comforting. “I was wondering…,” he began, and frowned again, because his voice sounded so far away.

  “Yes? What was you wondering, poor cove?”

  “Were,” he corrected foolishly.

  “Fiddle-de-dee! What were, then?”

  “I was wondering … if snakes have … necks…,” he managed.

  “Gawd,” said the man’s voice, querulous as ever. “Proper gone off his tibby, he has! Didn’t I say it? Be kinder to put him out of his misery!”

  The viscount was weak as a cat, and his head was pure hell, but be damned if he was going to lie here and let this rogue do away with him. With a great effort he took the risk, and forced his eyes open. Amid a scarlet mist he saw an extremely untidy scratch wig, under which there gradually materialised a fierce tanned face, all bushy eyebrows, glaring eyes, and out-thrusting chin.

  “You slippery curst … horse thief,” panted Glendenning. “What have … what have you done with … my mare?”

  The screech that rang out reverberated shatteringly inside his head, and he fell back. Distantly, he heard the murderously inclined thief howling, “Didn’t I tell ye? One foot in the grave, and he’s ready to have me topped! Let me scrag him! Oh, you gotta let me scrag the perisher, Amy!”

  Amy? Glendenning blinked, and another face appeared. A face that, even dimmed by the mists, was so delicately lovely that he was dazzled. He said weakly, “So your name … really isn’t Alice…”

  The soft lips parted. “I said it wasn’t. I’m Amy Consett, and this is me Uncle Absalom Consett. And what’s your name, mate?”

  “You know … who I am.”

  “I forget. Remind me.”

  “I will if you … won’t let him … kill me.”

  “All right. Then tell me.”

  He thought about it, but he was so weary that he fell asleep.

  When he awoke, the mists were gone. The little bell was no longer chiming, but he heard another sound, a sort of faint and sporadic rattling. He began, gradually, to take stock of things. He lay on a rough but fairly comfortable bed. The mattress appeared to consist of straw and bracken piled on a wooden frame and contained by a sheet. Two coarsely woven blankets covered him, and, incongruously, his head was supported by a satin pillow. At first, he’d supposed he was in a cave, but he saw now that the room was built of stone blocks, and that sunlight was slanting through an opening high up in one wall.

  He looked about curiously. Rough wooden packing cases were piled under the window, and beside them a large upended crate held a chipped water pitcher and bowl, a cracked mirror, and a hairbrush and comb. His wandering gaze was held by a picture that hung nearby. It depicted a goosegirl driving her flock across a field at sunset, with dark clouds building on the horizon, and it was another incongruity, because the artistry was superb, and the frame richly carven. ‘Stolen, past doubting,’ he thought.

  He moved his head carefully, and was not punished by the immediate and savage stab of pain that had plagued him in earlier awakenings. He discovered a crude table, where the gypsy girl, Amy, sat on a three-legged stool. Her head was bent low over a curved strip of polished wood at which she worked with intense concentration. As he watched, she turned to a small open box on the table and began to poke about at the contents, this causing the rattling sounds he’d heard. She evidently found what she was seeking, because she selected a very small object, then bent to her work once more.

  She had a charming way of tossing her hair back when it fell forward. Glendenning noticed how obediently most of the dark mass hung behind her, but one silken strand, as though unable to bear being pushed away, would slip stealthily across her snowy shoulder until it swung triumphant before her, only to be shaken back once more. He was waiting for it to start sliding again when she glanced at him.

  Her face lit up. She exclaimed, “What, are you awake at last? And does you know who ye is, this time?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Aha!” Standing, she approached the bed. “That sounds more like a man’s voice, ’stead o’ some poor ghost. Say it, then. All of it, mind!”

  Vaguely irked, he said, “Horatio Clement Laindon. Viscount Glendenning. And I apologize if I’ve been a nuisance because I broke my head when you stole my mare.”

  “Broke it before, ain’tcha melord? Going to have a scar on both sides o’ yer red nob.”

  He reached up instinctively and touched a bandage. They’d removed his wig, of course. He said ruefully, “I must look a proper sight.”

  She chuckled. “Well, yer hair’s not so red as I’d thought ’twould be. Auburn, I ’spect they’d call it.” She wandered closer, and touched his hair gently. “Starting to curl already, but I ’spect you’ll whack it all off again, which is daft. Yer Irish-jig’s not so nice as yer own hair.”

  He noticed, as he had before, that she had an odd way of sometimes pronouncing words correctly, and sometimes lapsing to a coarser version. “‘Irish jig’—meaning wig?” he asked, smiling. And when she nodded, he went on, “Why do you use rhyming cant? Sometimes you speak quite nicely, and you’ve a pretty voice.”

  “Well, ain’t his lordship the generous one!” She dropped him a mocking curtsy. “Faith, but I scarce knows how to go on, I be that flattered!” He looked at her steadily, his lips tightening, and she laughed, then asked, “How’d ye get that there other scar? Wasn’t too long ago, eh?”

  His mind flashed back to a wild, stormy night, almost two years ago. A desperate ride, with troopers closing in all around, and the deadly Jacobite cypher in his pocket. Mistress Amy Consett obviously judged him a weak-kneed ne’er-do-well. He wondered what she’d think if she knew he was (rightfully) suspected of having fought for Bonnie Prince Charlie. “Oh—a duel, merely,” he lied.

  Her lip curled. “You Quality coves and yer duelling! What a stupid way to throw away the life the Good Lord give ye! Not that it’s any of my bread and butter.”

  “Speaking of which…”

  “Aha. Hungry, is ye?”

  “And terribly thirsty.”

  At this, she ran to the table and returned to hold a cracked mug of water to his parched mouth.

  “Not too quick, mind! There—that’s enough.”

  He thanked her, and lay back with a sigh of thankfulness.

  “I ’spect ye’re wondering where you are, eh, melord?”

  “Yes. And for how long I’ve been here, and—”

  “One at a time, mate. One at a time. You been here—let’s see—this is the fourth day. Took a woundy rap when you went down, and been out of yer head some of the time.”

  Glendenning stiffened, then said with forced lightness, “Egad! I trust I did not give away all the details of my lurid past?”

  With a fluid and graceful movement she sat on the floor and leaned back on her ha
nds. A lurking smile curved her vivid lips. “You got some funny friends, if that’s what ‘lure it’ means. ‘Jewelled men’ you was a’gabbling of. And kidnapped ladies, all mixed up with ‘blockheaded boys’ and ‘mama’ and someone called Mitten.” Watching his expressionless face, she laughed softly. “Wouldn’t have ye, this here Mitten, would she, Quality cove?”

  ‘Damn!’ he thought, and said coldly, “And does that fact please you, Mistress Amy?”

  She shrugged her soft white shoulders. “It’s not such a bad thing when spoiled little rich boys find out as they can’t have everything they want. Even if it’s only once in their useless pampered lives.”

  His head was hurting brutally again. He blinked, and asked, “Is that why you stole my purse after I had lied to help you? Had you meant that I should be killed when I was knocked from the saddle?”

  It was obvious that she had a deep hatred for the Quality, and he was surprised to see the flush that crept up her lovely throat to turn her cheeks bright pink.

  With a flash of trim ankles she was on her feet and leaning over the bed, a small but deadly-looking knife gripped in one slender hand. “If I’d wanted that, gorgio rye,” she said, biting the words out between her white teeth, “you’d be dead three days back!”

  Glendenning jerked his head away as the knife flashed, razor sharp, under his chin. The quick movement brought pain lancing up his right leg, and he gave a gasp.

  At once the knife disappeared, and with it Amy’s fury. “Ah, but what a horrid girl I is!” she said remorsefully. “You’ve made me hurt ye! Is it yer head? Or yer poor foot?”

  “My … foot.”

  She whipped back the bedclothes.

  With a shocked yelp, he clutched them to him again. “Hey!”

  “Oh, don’t never be so daft.” She tugged hard. “Who d’ye think has been tending it since you tumbled? I’ve seen yer legs before, melord! And very hairy they be, if you want to know it!”

  It was Glendenning’s turn to redden. He relinquished the blankets and lay back, breathing hard. The nightshirt he wore was voluminous. At least, he thought, he was decently covered. Amy’s hands were busied with his foot, and another gasp escaped him as she cautiously unwound a bandage.

  “Aye,” she muttered. “I shall have to poultice it again.”

  He peered downward. “Is the bone broke?”

  “Not as I can tell. But ye landed on some fallen branches, and one of ’em jagged through yer boot. I tried to clean the wound, but it got infected, and—”

  “And we shoulda took his foot off. Like I told ye!”

  “The devil you should!” argued Glendenning, frowning indignantly at the short but unexpectedly sturdy middle-aged man who had come into the room carrying a shallow wooden box and a steaming kettle.

  “’Fraid, is ye?” sneered the newcomer. “Not surprising. All Quality gents are cowards. Yellow as new chicks, and as puny. Here’s the medicines you wanted, lass. Dunno why I give in t’ye. He ain’t worth it. Ain’t got sense enough not to gallop that fine mare through the trees at dusk, he’s so eager to ride down a innocent lad. ’Twere the hand o’ Providence that sent that there branch at his noble noggin.”

  “I’ll show you how puny I am when I get up,” promised Glendenning grimly. “And ’twas no branch that came at me, but the rope you’d stretched across my path. If you’d—”

  “What?” Amy had been measuring some powder into a small bowl, but now jerked around with a look of horror. “Absalom Consett—you never did? Oh, and how silly I be! As if you could’ve knowed he’d come that way!”

  “Ar,” grinned her uncle. “Don’t ye listen to this dainty dandy, my chick. Just trying to make trouble, he is. After all we done for him! Typical!”

  Glendenning said firmly, “You knew I would go just that way, because ’twas the only clear path through the undergrowth. You likely keep that trap set for any troopers or constables chancing to venture too close to your camp, or whatever this place is.”

  “What a imagination,” sneered Absalom, coming up to peer at the injured ankle, but watching the girl out of the corners of his eyes. “Ain’t it wonderful what they teach ’em at them universities, Amy?”

  “T’will be easy enough to verify,” persisted Glendenning. “Go out there and look, Mistress Consett. Like as not you’ll find the rope still tied round one of the trees, and the rest of it concealed somewhere in the roots or the branches. Unless, of course, you do not wish to know.”

  She hesitated, looking troubled. Then she said with scorn, “D’ye think I’d take your word over his? Or care, if what you say is truth? When you go chasing humble folk, you deserve whatever ye gets!”

  Absalom chuckled. “And if that don’t put you in your place, Viscount Vanity, I dunno what—”

  Whirling on him like a tigress, Amy said shrilly, “Let him be! And get away from me, fer I swear I could—I could fair box yer ears, if you wasn’t me only uncle!” She sniffed, and added gruffly, “Which ye ain’t.”

  The sturdy man looked devastated. “Now—now, Amy,” he stammered. “Don’t never turn on me! You would’ve done the same to protect Florian. Ye knows it.”

  “I knows as I wouldn’t have done no such thing! I ain’t all bone ’twixt me earholes. Lord Glendenning may be a peer, but he ain’t a bad man. And what d’ye think would’ve come of it, if you’d broke his neck? No!” She gave a gesture of repugnance as he started to reply. “I don’t want to talk to ye! I don’t want to see ye! Go away and let me be.”

  Absalom stretched out a hand pleadingly. “But—Amy, lass. You never turned on me before. Don’t let this gorgio—”

  Springing up, she stamped her foot at him, and flung an arm imperiously towards the blanketed doorway through which he had come. “Go!” she commanded. “Now!”

  His hand fell. He shot a venomous glare at the viscount, then went out, hanging his head abjectly.

  As the blanket fell behind him, Amy suddenly crouched, and buried her face in her hands.

  Horrified, Glendenning pulled himself to one elbow. “Don’t cry. Please. I’ve no intent to bring charges ’gainst him, I promise you. But I am very glad you were not a party to it, Mistress Amy.”

  She lifted a tear-stained face and stared at him for a minute in silence, then muttered, “Is ye?” She sniffed and dried her tears with the hem of her skirt. “Why? I be just a common gypsy girl.”

  Delighted by the glimpse of a shapely calf, he said, “You are a very beautiful girl, and—”

  “And ye can get yer greasy eyes off my limbs,” she said indignantly, restoring her skirt and gathering it about her. “Men! Absalom’s right! Ye’re all alike!”

  Grinning, he said, “Yes, but Absalom’s a man also. And you cannot expect any man to refrain from admiring so lovely a—”

  “Oh, be still!” Scowling, she took up the kettle her “uncle” had brought in.

  “But I would like to—”

  “I can guess what you would like, lordship! And ye won’t like it when I slap this here poultice on yer ankle. That I promise you!”

  She began to add steaming water to the powder in the bowl. Watching her apprehensively, Glendenning said, “’Tis very kind in you to help me.”

  “Stow yer gab, do!”

  “That is ungracious, Amy. And your mouth is much too pretty to utter such crudities. I wish—”

  “So do I,” she interrupted, stirring the contents of the bowl rather savagely. “I wish that ’stead o’ worrying about me limbs, and the way I talks, ye’d lie back quiet-like, and pull all yer courage together. If you got any. You’re going to need it!”

  Lord Horatio sighed and did as she suggested.

  She was perfectly right.

  * * *

  Leaning back against the thick squabs of the large carriage, Katrina Falcon laughed, and said, “You know very well why Gwendolyn and I came, dear.”

  Beside her, Gwendolyn Rossiter nodded. “Had we not accompanied you, there would have been battle royal befor
e you ever reached Windsor, much less before you returned home.”

  Falcon, seated next to James Morris, looked from his beautiful sister to the lieutenant’s cheery face, and wondered if Trina would ever be so foolish as to consider the silly fellow. “Morris and I have made a pact,” he said. “No matter how irksome he may be on this expedition, I’ll not strangle him.”

  Katrina gave an indignant exclamation, but Morris, gazing out of the window at the might of Windsor Castle, appeared not to have heard the remark.

  “Is there a special reason for your expedition?” asked Gwendolyn. “Or are we just visiting Glendenning Abbey?”

  Katrina said, “I don’t think we can be. Surely we should have turned off before this, August?”

  “Oh, yes. If we were visiting Bowers-Malden. We are not.” He hesitated. The ladies did not know the full story, but perhaps it would be as well if they were to an extent reminded. “You recall that Rossiter and Morris managed to get their hands on two of those jewelled figures?”

  “How could we forget?” said Katrina. “Poor Naomi was kidnapped and her ransom was the return of the jewelled men. I only thank God that Gideon was able to rescue her!”

  “No thanks to my brother Newby,” sighed Gwendolyn. “When he decided that they must be worth a great deal of money, and took them to—” She looked up, her eyes widening.

  Katrina put in nervously, “To an antiquarian who is an expert on jade, so that he might appraise their value. And the antiquarian dwells in Windsor! August—is it that dreadful Society again? The people you call the League of Jewelled Men? Is that why we came here? I thought that horrid business was over with!”

  “It isn’t over, is it?” demanded Gwendolyn, her eyes bright with excitement. “You think they’re plotting again, so you’ve come to see what the jade expert can tell you!”

  Dismayed, Katrina said, “Oh, never say so! The very thought of those evil creatures purely terrifies me.”

  “Then don’t think of ’em, m’dear, for we’ve no reason to suppose they’re at their tricks again. Morris was curious to meet the old fellow, is all. Another of his silly starts, but you said you wished to go for a drive, so I indulged him.”