Had We Never Loved

by Patricia Veryan

  Somewhat reassured, Katrina settled back again.

  “Truly, you are all generosity,” said Gwendolyn, giving Falcon a speculative look. “What have you to say of it, Jamie?”

  Morris glanced at her blankly, then gave a start. “Oh! Your pardon. I was just thinking. Probably dashed uncomfortable, y’know.”

  “For you, ’tis likely downright painful,” agreed Falcon.

  Puzzled, Morris said, “Me? I ain’t got one.”

  “Everybody has at least one, my poor clod. Even you.”

  “D’you know, Falcon, considering you had a bang-up education, you’re downright silly at times,” observed Morris. “If that were so, there’d be no room in England for people!”

  Falcon rolled his eyes at the roof. “I will not strangle him,” he whispered. “I will not strangle him … I hope I will not—”

  Laughing, Katrina interposed, “I believe my brother was referring to thoughts, Lieutenant.”

  “Well, there you are, then,” said Morris. “Shows he’s not paying attention. I was speaking of castles. Look at the size of that monstrosity. And I’ll wager there’s not a comfortable chair in the entire place!”

  Gwendolyn leaned forward to scan the massive bulk of the castle. “Poor old thing. ’Tis going to rack and ruin. They should restore it.”

  “They’ll do better to tear it down,” said the ever practical Falcon. “No one in his right mind would want to dwell there. What use is it?”

  Morris brightened. “I’ve an idea! It could be used to store ice in the summer time. Look at those walls. Likely six feet thick, at the least.”

  “I have heard,” murmured Gwendolyn, pouncing on a promising line of thought, “that there is a wall in China which is almost a thousand miles long.”

  “Nearer to fifteen hundred,” corrected Falcon.

  “Aha…,” she said, turning from the window to smile at him.

  His face flamed. He jerked his head away. Katrina met Gwendolyn’s laughing gaze, and winked.

  Morris said thoughtfully, “Why would anyone want—”

  “Never mind!” growled Falcon. “We’re coming into the town, thank God! You did give my coachman the direction, Morris?”

  Morris confirmed this, and said that he only hoped Mr. Ellis might be at home.

  The carriage jerked to a halt outside a small and rather rundown house distinguished only by a bright blue door.

  Katrina asked, “Are we allowed to come in with you?”

  “No,” answered her brother. “He will speak more freely do Morris and I go in alone. The coachman can take you for a tour of this fascinating metropolis.”

  Katrina was disappointed, and Gwendolyn gave it as her opinion that the gentlemen were marplots, but Falcon was adamant.

  Climbing the deep steps to the front door, he said, “Now don’t forget, we know nothing. I don’t want to colour any opinion he might have formed.”

  “Very well, but why shouldn’t the ladies have come with us, I’d like to know? The old boy would likely be charmed by ’em, pretty creatures that they are.”

  “I’d think it might have occurred to you, since you so admire her, that Miss Rossiter would have a difficult time with these steps.”

  “By Jove! You’re right! Jolly good, Falcon. Who’d have guessed you could consider anyone else?”

  Fortunately, the door swung open before Falcon could reply.

  The angular lady who came out onto the tiny porch was clad in shawl and bonnet and carried a large cloth bag. She was, she informed them, the housekeeper, and was going to the grocer’s. Mr. Ellis could be found in the study. “Straight on back, sirs. Best knock loud, or he’ll never hear, he gets that buried in his books.”

  She was titillated when Morris took her arm and assisted her down the steps, and she went off, flushed and smiling, eager to share the tale with her friends.

  The carriage had only just started to roll away, and Katrina leaned from the window, and called softly, “Faithless!”

  Morris blushed, grinned, and hurried back up the steps.

  Gwendolyn met her friend’s sparkling eyes and said, “He fairly worships the ground you walk on, Trina. Have you any affection for him at all?”

  “I’ll own I never thought I could have. But how can one fail to like him? He’s such a gentle creature, and must be the most amiable man alive. I only hope…” Katrina broke off, her smile fading.

  “What? Their silly duel?”

  “Yes. I know the lieutenant drives my brother berserk, but if August should really hurt him … Oh, ’twould be dreadful!”

  “Never worry. August has no intention of hurting him.” Katrina looked at her curiously, and Gwendolyn chuckled. “You of all people should know that August doesn’t dislike Jamie nearly as much as he pretends to do.”

  “True,” Katrina said slowly, “but August can be deadly, Gwen, and sometimes Jamie—I mean Lieutenant Morris—does bait him, you know.”

  “Yes, he does. So do I.”

  “I have noticed you do. May I ask why?”

  Gwendolyn hesitated. “Oh—’tis none of my affair, and I know I have not the right, but I think it so sad that he should allow foolish pride to—to spoil both your lives.”

  Katrina’s smile was haunted. “He has his reasons.”

  “Yes, but when I see your father, and how blithe and merry he is, ’tis hard to comprehend they can be so unlike.”

  “Papa is not a half-caste.”

  “No more are you. What rubbish!”

  “I wish August might believe it to be rubbish.”

  Looking back as they moved away, Gwendolyn said, “’Tis fortunate they found the gentleman at home. I wonder what he will be able to tell them, or if he will even remember the pieces Newby took to him.”

  As it chanced, Mr. Ellis, a thin gentleman with an untidy wig, and dusty spectacles perched low on his nose, did remember the Jewelled Men Collection. He had, in fact, actually handled two of the pieces. Showing his unexpected visitors to chairs in his cluttered study, and peering at their calling cards, he said, “They were brought to me for appraisal some weeks ago, by a young man named—now, let me see … Ah! Mr. Newby.”

  “Mr. Newby…,” said Morris, with a sideways glance at Falcon.

  “Yes.” The antiquarian’s shrewd brown eyes darted from the enigmatic elegance of the extremely handsome Mr. Falcon, who most certainly had some Oriental forbears, to the ruddy, good-natured, and easily readable face of the lieutenant. “Was it not his true name? I cannot say I would be entirely surprised. He seemed so nervous, you know, and fairly jumped each time my housekeeper opened the front door.” He blinked over the tops of his spectacles and added anxiously, “I recollect now that a day or so later two other gentlemen made enquiries. I trust the icons were not—stolen property?”

  “No, no,” said Morris, with rather too much heartiness. “Devil a bit of it! They were friends of his, not Bow Street runners!”

  Ellis looked even more alarmed. Falcon gave Morris an exasperated glance and said smoothly, “The jewelled figures have, in fact, been stolen and we are trying to help recover them. Neither my friend nor I actually saw the pieces, however, and we were hoping you might be able to give us a more accurate description than—er, Newby has done.”

  The old gentleman looked puzzled, and Morris inserted by way of explanation, “He’s colour-blind, you see.”

  “’Pon my soul! I’d never have guessed it. The other gentlemen were so kind as to take me out for a fine dinner.” Mr. Ellis rested a wistful look on his callers.

  Falcon said briskly, “’Twould be our pleasure to do the same, sir. But we have two ladies waiting in the carriage. We shall, of course, expect to meet your professional fees for—say, half an hour’s consultation. Could you perhaps sketch the figures for us?”

  Ellis cheered up, and began to struggle with his desk drawer. It opened with a jerk, ejecting a shower of crumpled bills, pencils, printed tracts, handkerchiefs, a long clay pipe, and a quizzing glas
s, all of which shot onto the floor.

  “Oh, I say,” exclaimed Morris sympathetically. “Allow me, sir.” He assisted Mr. Ellis in gathering up the items, on each of which he had some comment to make. One could never have too many pencils; the quizzing glass had a most intricate handle—pity the glass was cracked; and so on, until he said with great interest, “Jove, but that’s a fine clay pipe! M’father smokes one that is very similar.” This precipitated a discussion that turned from clay pipes, to the benefits of tobacco over snuff, the two men becoming quite involved with their debate and then laughing merrily over their efforts to cram the escaped items back into the drawer.

  Fascinated, Falcon watched them. Recovering himself, he suggested somewhat tartly that they should not forget the ladies were waiting.

  “Oh, begad, but you’re right,” said Morris.

  Mr. Ellis blinked and looked bewildered, then rummaged through several more drawers, from one of which he at last extricated a rumpled sheet of paper. “Here we are!” he said, pleased. Smoothing the sheet with questionable success, he dipped a quill pen into the Standish, and remarked that they must not waste time, this causing Falcon to grit his teeth.

  “The icons,” said Mr. Ellis, “were roughly three inches in height, and approximately an inch thick. Like … so.” He drew two identical shapes, for all the world like miniature tombstones with rounded tops. “One,” he went on, drawing busily, “was of lapis lazuli. The other was pink jade.”

  Standing, and peering over his shoulder, Morris prompted, “And they had faces.”

  Mr. Ellis looked up at him. “Ah. Then, you did see them, sir?”

  “Why—er, I mean Rossiter said they had faces,” said Morris, sitting down again and uncomfortably aware of Falcon’s disgusted stare. “His brother, d’ye see?”

  “Is that so? I had thought his name was Newby?”

  “They are half-brothers,” put in Falcon swiftly. “Can you recollect, by any chance, what the faces were like, Mr. Ellis?”

  “Eh? Oh, yes, yes. I can indeed. They were only etched into the stone, and quite primitive. There. You see?”

  “Jolly good!” exclaimed Morris. “I fancy you wouldn’t recall just where the jewels were placed?”

  Mr. Ellis wrinkled his brow. “I fear you have me there, Lieutenant. I believe they were scattered about haphazardly, as it were. I do remember however, that the lapis figure was set with six sapphires, and the jade with five rubies. All looking to be extremely fine stones. I can make a guess at placement, if you wish. But ’twould be only a very rough approximation.”

  At their urging, he did this, then handed over the sketch. “I was sufficiently interested to undertake some research on the figures, for I’d never heard of the existence of such a collection prior to this, but I was quite unable to discover any mention of them.”

  Falcon asked, “Was there anything in the craftsmanship to suggest where they were made? Anything at all outlandish, or incongruous?”

  Ellis pursed his lips and considered. “Apart from the fact that they were very old, I would hazard a guess that they were carved in China, or by a Chinese artisan. I was privileged to see a piece from the Shang Dynasty which puts me somewhat in mind of—”

  Falcon interrupted abruptly, “You are sure of that, sir?”

  “No. Not by any means. It might possibly have been the work of a Greek or Italian. However, I’d be inclined, as I said, to suspect—”

  “There was nothing else, then? Nothing that struck you as unique? Or that would give a clue as to what the pieces represent?”

  Ellis said thoughtfully, “Could we see the complete set, we might learn more. The fact that there is a set would indicate a functional purpose. Like chess, or some Oriental game of skill. On the other hand, they might represent part of a group of mythical or religious figures. Have you a particular interest in the Orient, Mr. Falcon?”

  “None whatsoever.” Horribly aware of Morris’ grin, Falcon’s voice was chill, but the antiquarian appeared not to notice that one of his callers had retreated behind a wall of ice and murmured disappointedly that he had always longed to visit the Orient and liked nothing better than to discuss it with someone who shared his interest.

  Falcon stood. “Thank you for your time. Good day, sir.” He stalked out, leaving Morris to pay the antiquarian a good deal more than the humble fee he named.

  As the front door closed behind them, Falcon drew Morris to a halt.

  “You may take that smug smirk off your face. And I see no reason to mention Ellis’ unfounded suppositions to the ladies.”

  Morris’ grin expanded to a chuckle. “You know perfectly well that Miss Gwendolyn would be most interested. She’ll likely start badgering you into researching Chinese myth—”

  Through gritted teeth Falcon hissed, “An you say nothing, she will have nought to badger about, will she?”

  “The only silent stream is at dead of winter,” said Morris solemnly, but with his eyes full of laughter.

  “Yes, and you’ll be under it if you gibble-gabble to her, confound you!”

  “Do you attempt to frighten me into compromising my honour by lying to the ladies?”

  “I’d like to—”

  Behind them, the door creaked open. Mr. Ellis said, “Ah, there you are! I do recollect something, gentleman. A very small thing. Foolish, no doubt, but—Oh, my! are you unwell, Mr. Falcon?”

  “It’s likely his liver,” said Morris glibly. “Do not regard it.”

  “What a pity, what a pity! And so young a man. You do look rather flushed. Dear me! I trust ’tis not whirligigousticon. I hear that cases have been found in Brighthelmstone!” Stepping back a pace, he advised, “Try rhubarb, sir. Or, if you would steep the second rind of alder—”

  Interrupting this well-meant prescription, Falcon said stiffly that he was perfectly well, thank you, and, affecting not to notice Morris, who had turned away and was wiping his eyes with his handkerchief, asked, “What is this small thing you have recollected?”

  “Eh? Oh. Well, it is just my silliness, probably. But—the figures were so similar, you see. In size, I mean. Yet the weight was different. Not by very much, mind you. But—”

  “I believe you said the lapis icon contained six sapphires,” said Falcon, “whereas the pink jade only had five rubies.”

  “Just so, just so. But it would not account for—But there, ’tis an insignificant point, after all. Good day to you.”

  Morris thanked him and he stood watching as his two visitors walked to the luxurious carriage, and the footman sprang to open the door.

  Morris called, “Hi, there! Coachman! Pray stop at a greengrocer’s. We must purchase some rhubarb and—”

  With a muffled growl, Falcon seized his arm and propelled him inside.

  CHAPTER IV

  “You’re quite sure you are all right, sir?” Florian steadied Glendenning and peered into his pale, set face anxiously.

  The viscount clung to the young gypsy until the room stopped spinning. “Perfectly fit, thank you,” he managed breathlessly.

  “Perfectly fit is just what you ain’t, sir. Lor’, but when Amy comes back she’ll have my ears for shaving you and helping you to get up and dressed so soon.”

  “Well, it’s done now, so she can’t stop us. If you’ll hand me that walking cane you brought, I’ll try and get over to the table.”

  The cane Florian gave him was of oak, the handle cleverly carved into the shape of a dragon. It was a fine piece of work, and Glendenning wondered rather grimly if it had belonged to anyone he knew.

  He felt much stronger this morning, although to thrust his bandaged foot into the riding boot had been beyond him. He refused Florian’s help, however, and with the aid of the cane and some dogged determination he managed to hobble as far as the table and back. He was very glad then to sink onto the stool Florian pulled out for him, but he was also jubilant, and he panted, “Excelsior! What d’you think of that, you rogue?”

  “I think you’ve got
more pluck than wit, milord,” said Florian with a grin. “But you’re well enough that I can be on my way now, so long as you promise not to—”

  “No such thing!” Glendenning hooked the youth’s arm with the handle of the cane and pulled him back. “You will instead sit down and keep me company. And firstly, you can tell me why you’re here, and what you know of Miss Consett.”

  Florian hesitated, then sat on a corner of the table, and said reluctantly, “I was with the tribe, milord. So was Amy.”

  This boy had always seemed to Glendenning to have a faintly foreign air. His features were delicately molded, as were Amy’s, but his skin had a more olive cast than did hers. His dark eyes were large and bright with intelligence, and although his accent was not cultured, he enunciated his words clearly and his grammar was good. Intrigued, Glendenning demanded, “What d’you mean, you were ‘with’ them? Are you not a gypsy?”

  The slim shoulders shrugged. “I don’t know. Amy says I was brought into the tribe when I was about five years old.”

  “Then you are not related to her?”

  “No, sir. But she has been as good to me as if I was her brother. The bigger boys made fun, because I was small and very frightened, and cried all the time. Amy was about seven then, and afraid of nothing, and she used to take my part when they beat me. After Absalom adopted her, she helped me whenever she could, but always I was in trouble, because I did not like to steal. I was very miserable and tired of their ways and their life. I knew Amy would be safe with Absalom, so I ran away. I lived in the cart, and if I sold one of my baskets, I bought food.”

  The words were quietly uttered, but the picture they conjured up appalled Glendenning. He muttered, “And then Mr. Cranford rescued you. Hmm. Do you remember nothing of your childhood before you were stolen?”

  The youth considered, and said slowly, “I remember a big bed, and a dog, and a white pony. And a tall, very kind man, who told me stories at night. But … I do not think he spoke to me in English, sir.”

  “Do you know which language he did use?”

  Florian shook his head. “But I could read English. Not much at first, but Absalom helped me. He is such a fine man. When I ran away he let me borrow his donkey and cart, but the tribe said I’d stolen them. I’ve got a horse of my own now, and I brought back Uncle Ab’s donkey and cart.” His eyes flashed. “As if I’d steal from him!”