Her eyes shot to him, the stormy look in full force. “Sit down, and I’ll fetch yer breakfast,” she muttered.
“I’ll help.” He followed her into the house, but he still could not walk without limping, and she was carrying out a plate of cold sliced pork and a board of bread, butter, and pickles before he had a chance to pick up anything, her movements so swift and forceful that he knew she was angry.
The smell of coffee in the open air was delicious, but she slammed his mug down so hard that he had to jerk back his hand to avoid being scalded. He said nothing, wondering what he’d done, and confirmed in his belief that women were the most unpredictable of creatures.
Stirring sugar into his coffee, he asked cautiously if she was not feeling well.
“Yes, I is.”
“Why do you say ‘is’ when you know it should be ‘am’?”
“’Cause I’m iggerant.”
“You are not ignorant, but I think I have angered you. What have I done?”
“Nothing,” she said sullenly, reaching for the pickle jar.
He took it up and offered it, and perversely she pulled back her hand and gazed at the cellar wall in such a way that he wondered it did not catch fire.
“You know you crave a pickle,” he said, trying to make her smile.
Lightning swift, she snatched the jar, speared a pickle and waved it at him ferociously. “So now I got one, ain’t I!”
Without waiting for the musical invitation Old Bill swooped, snatched the pickle, then dropped it in the dirt.
With a squeal of wrath, Amy threw her fork after the bird, and shouted, “Sneak and snitch, you son of a”—she glanced at Horatio from the corners of her eyes, reddened, and finished awkwardly—“witch.”
Glendenning gripped his lips tightly in an effort to preserve a solemn countenance. She ignored him, but the dimple hovered. He extracted another pickle, went to her side, and dropped to one knee. He recited,
“I have here a gift for a lady fair,
Who’s sweet, petite, beyond compare.”
Amy laughed, and blushed a deeper pink. “Get up do, you silly great creature!”
“With the kindest of smiles,
And such glorious hair.”
He paused, gazing at a glossy tendril of that same hair, and thinking that it was indeed glorious.
Amy peeped at him from under her thick lashes, and asked in a very soft voice, “Are you done with your foolishness, Lordship Tio?”
“Eh? Oh—no.” He felt oddly muddled. “Let’s see now …
“Yet her passion, alas,
Must all females be fickle?
It burns not for me,
But for this lowly pickle!”
She clapped her hands, and her merry peal of laughter rang through the clearing.
Glendenning waved his offering under her nose. “Now that I have charmed you with poesy, you must forgive mine offense, dear lady. And do not be looking a gift pickle in the mouth.”
Still laughing, she accepted his “gift.” “Get up now, or you’ll hurt your poor ankle.”
“What? No word of thanks? No vows of undying gratitude? Then I shall claim a kiss in return for my efforts!”
She was suddenly very still, almost as if she had ceased to breathe.
Glendenning took up her hand and kissed it, manoeuvreing around the pickle.
“Hmm,” he said, struggling to his feet again. “Your dainty fingers are somewhat briney, m’dear, but—” And he stopped, because she was gazing up at him with a look he had never seen before. An awed, almost reverent look. He said, “Why … Amy,” and touched her cheek wonderingly. Always, she was quick to draw away if he attempted to so much as hold her hand, but now she did not evade that simple caress.
The breeze tossed the leaves gently, the warm air was heavy with the scents of honeysuckle and woodsmoke, and the sun struck fiery gleams from the auburn hair of the man and painted the shadow of a small wayward curl upon the girl’s smooth cheek. And for a long moment, neither of them moved.
Old Bill was the villain who shattered that brief enchantment, seizing his opportunity to swoop down again and appropriate a morsel of bread.
Amy gave a start and looked at the pickle as if she could not understand how it came to be in her hand.
Glendenning limped around to sit at the table again, and stare at his plate blankly.
In a hurried, breathless fashion, Amy said, “Ye’ll never be saying you made that up? Out of empty air?”
“It was worthy of the Bard—no?”
“Get away with you! Did you make it up?”
It seemed difficult to collect his thoughts. “I—er—”
She managed a chuckle. “Ye doesn’t remember?”
“Of course I do.” Recovering himself, he boasted, “It had the power of Chaucer, the brilliance of Shakespeare himself! And to think ’twas composed by”—he bowed—“your very humble, obedient.”
“Humble, is it!” Smiling, she forked some pork slices onto his plate. “Still, ’twas very nice, and here is your reward, clever lordship.”
“Most gratifying. I’m famished! This looks jolly good, Amy.”
“I bought it from a farm wife this morning.”
“This morning!” He looked up, frowning. “I wish you’d not go off without telling me.”
“Does ye, indeed?” Carving a piece of bread, she offered it on the end of the knife. “I went about alone before you co—came. And I’ll do the same after you goes, so don’t get into a garden-gate.”
“Go,” he corrected absently. What she said was truth, of course. But if he was getting into a state, he felt his concern justifiable. He would have a word with Absalom. “Jupiter!” he exclaimed, hunger taking command. “Was there ever such a smell as newly baked bread?”
Amy sank her white teeth into a crusty buttered slice, and said a rather indistinct, “Never!”
They ate in silence for a while, bathed in the peace of this brilliant morning. But at length, Glendenning asked, “Why were you so cross with me just now?”
She did not reply for a minute, then with the flirt of one white shoulder said, “Reasons.”
“What reasons?”
“Just … reasons.”
“That is unreasonable, Amy, and a typically feminine evasion.”
“Well? I’m a feminine, ain’t I?”
“You are not. You are a female. And that’s another thing. Why do you always allow your speech to lapse when you are vexed with me?”
“Reasons.”
He gave an exasperated groan, and she giggled and told him to eat and not talk so much. But a moment later she murmured, “Did you write lotsa poems to your Mitten?”
His breath was snatched away. He feigned a laugh. “Good Lord, no! Do not be fancying that London is littered with my—ah, masterpieces.”
Despite the light tone, he was watching her intently, aware of which she adjusted the shining coil of one plait, and murmured, “It’s none of my bread-and-butter, so there ain’t no call to fib, lordship.”
“Nor,” he said, annoyed, “do I make a habit of telling falsehoods.”
“No? Then you must’ve dreamed it all, I suppose.”
“I do not take your meaning, ma’am.”
“You talked about it that first day. I told you.”
“You said I mentioned Mitten, but—”
“There’s iggerance fer ye. I musta used the wrong word, ’cause it was a sight more’n a mention, sir. Fairly raved about her, you did. And a poem you’d give her. And a lotta gab about Charlie somebody.”
‘God save us all!’ he thought. He must have been delirious, and babbling of the Jacobite cypher he had carried! “’Twas a private—er, poem, Amy. I would be glad if you’d not speak of it to others.”
“Would you?” Standing, she began to gather up the plates. “You must’ve liked her if you wrote her a poem.”
Irritated, he snapped, “I did not write her a poem. Exactly. ’Twas—”
“Lor’, but ye’re ruffled up. Why? ’Cause she wouldn’t have you?” She laughed tauntingly. “That there poem didn’t do ye much good, did it?”
He stood, and said at his haughtiest, “You are perfectly correct. The lady would have none of me. And besides being a very poor sentence, your remark was unkind.”
“Much I care,” she stormed, and flounced into the kitchen with her plates.
Seething, he made up his mind. He would leave today! She very obviously—He heard a crash then, and ran.
In the bedroom, Amy knelt on the floor weeping heartbrokenly. One of the crates had fallen, and lay beside her, the contents scattered about.
He rushed to draw her to her feet, and put his arms about her, stroking her hair, trying to comfort her. “There, there, never weep so. Oh, Gad, what a brute I am to have again upset you!”
“Yes, you is,” she confirmed brokenly. “But … but why shouldn’t you be? All ye thinks o’ me is that I … I’m just a iggerant thieving gypsy what … what goes about … begging!”
“Of course I don’t think such stuff,” he said, kissing her forehead tenderly.
Clinging to his cravat, she wailed, “Yes ye does! You—you said I’d taught Old Bill how to beg!”
The last word was scratchy, but uttered with such loathing that he comprehended how deeply he had wounded her with his clumsiness. Remorseful, he said, “Dear little soul—may I be accursed if I meant to imply—”
Her fingers flew to cover his lips. Her eyes, very wide, looked up at him fearfully. “Oh, don’t ye never invite no curse, Tio! Don’t ye!”
He appropriated her hand and pressed the soft palm to his lips. “I’ faith, but I deserve it for being so thoughtless. How could I think evil of you, when you very likely saved my life? Don’t you know how much I respect your courage, your unfailing ingenuity? Only think what good comrades we’ve been. I’ve helped you with your grammar, and you have taught me so much!”
She sniffed, and murmured wistfully, “What have I taught you, Lordship?”
“Why—how to peel a potato, for one thing, and—”
“Oh.” The dark screen of her lashes lowered, and she gave a shaken laugh. “You peeled it all away!”
“The first one, perhaps. But I did better with the second. Come now, own it.”
“You did so much better that dinner was late because I had to bind up your thumb.”
“Yes. Er, well then, I learned how to bargain with farm wives, and—”
“And how to prig cacklers,” she teased, the twinkle coming back into her dark eyes.
He laughed, grateful that the tears had ceased. His arm was still about her. It was warm and quiet in the old cellar, only bird songs and the rustling of leaves breaking the silence. Suddenly, he was very aware that he stood in a bedchamber, with a beautiful girl in his arms. Her red lips were slightly parted, showing the tips of the even white teeth. He felt drowned in the great velvety eyes upturned to him. Her lovely body was so soft … so inviting. As one in a dream, he bent to her mouth.
His kiss was very gentle, and her lips responded with a sweet and tentative innocence. He kissed her again, harder, and when she tried to draw back, his arms crushed her closer.
Fear came to Amy. She fought to get away, but desire was in his green eyes, and he was much stronger than she had realised. She wrenched her head away, but his lips were on her cheek, sliding down her throat. Between kisses, he murmured husky promises, tender words of endearment.
“No,” she gasped, struggling. “No! Let me be!”
He scarcely heard her. She had kissed him back. She wanted to be loved just as much as he yearned to love her. He slid the blouse aside and began to kiss the warm softness of her shoulder. “I won’t hurt you, my beautiful. Don’t be frightened.”
“I ain’t frightened,” she lied, sobbing, and straining to push him away. “’Cause I’ve got the word of—a gentleman!”
That home truth seemed muffled and distant in Glendenning’s ears. She was afraid, that’s all it was. But, he wanted her. Oh, how he wanted her! And he would take care of her, always. It wasn’t as though he meant to abandon her once she had given herself to him. He tightened his arm, his hungry mouth seeking lower.
Amy screamed shrilly, “Don’t! Tio—please, don’t! Is that—is that all yer honour’s worth?”
It was as if a sword had slashed through the mists to reveal stark reality. His word of honour … He had given his word of honour to protect her. He’d sworn that she would be safe in his care. Good God! Had he lost his mind? He was a gentleman, and he was violating the Code that he had been taught to revere since childhood. The Code of Honour, unchanging, unassailable, by which a man was judged, and which decreed that above all else, the word of a gentleman must be inviolate. How terrified she looked. Horrified, and with a wrenching effort, he flung her from him and stumbled away, to stand with head down, fists clenched at his sides.
Trembling, Amy watched him, and saw that he also was shaking. She crept up behind him and, very softly, one fingertip touched the cuff of his sleeve.
Unaware of that gesture, despising himself for what he almost had done, and how his mind had sought to justify such a betrayal, he realized that she was saying something, her voice full of sadness.
“… head has broke off, and Ab made it for me. If you hadn’t got me so cross, I wouldn’t of kicked the crate.”
Breathing hard, he fought for self-control. She was offering him an escape from a contretemps a gentleman of honour should not have allowed to happen. He had never forced a woman in his life. Especially a girl so far beneath his own station in life, and to whom he owed so much. He could well imagine what Papa would have to say of such disgraceful conduct. Turning, he found that she was kneeling again, holding two pieces of a broken figurine. She looked so small and so daintily vulnerable. She had trusted him, and he, sworn to protect her, had almost—He muttered shamefacedly, “Amy, I do not know—”
“Only look,” she interrupted, holding the pieces up for his inspection. “It’s ruined.”
He held her eyes levelly. “I don’t deserve that you should be so forgiving. I behaved despicably.”
“I know,” she agreed. “But—you’re just a man, ain’t ye. Even if you is—Quality.”
He flushed scarlet. “I can only beg your forgiveness.”
She said nothing, and for a long moment he stood with head downbent, mute and wretched.
Amy gave a little tug at his coat. “You stopped,” she pointed out kindly. “There’s lots as wouldn’t have. Now look at my poor deer. It was so pretty.”
Pulling himself together, he raised his eyes to the pieces she held, and was not surprised that she should be so distressed. The small deer had been most beautifully carven from white marble. The head, itself a work of art, had broken off. “Good heavens!” he muttered, taking the sections from her. “Is there no end to your uncle’s talent?”
“He does all sorts of things, my Old Ab. He can mend broke pots, and statues and arty things like this. He was making a swan for a lady’s garden when you first came, but I told him to stop, ’cause I thought the noise was troubling you.”
He remembered the sounds that had puzzled him that first day, and that he’d thought to be the chiming of a little bell. Intrigued, he asked, “But how can he afford to make you such a gift? Surely, this type of marble must be—Now do not fly into the boughs! I am not accusing him of—prigging!”
To hear that word on his lips drew a tremulous laugh from her. “It was left over,” she explained. “Sometimes rich folk let him keep whatever he don’t use for their things. And he gets bits from jewellers now and then, when they’ve got something that needs mending. I think it’s ’cause they don’t know how to fix it theirselves—” She threw up a hand imperiously. “Don’t say it! Themselves.” She was relieved to see his faint grin, and went on: “Ab says sometimes their customers is in a hurry and they can’t get things done quick enough to please ’em, so they call on him.”
Glendenning turned the little deer in his hands. Pleased by his obvious admiration, Amy asked, “Would you like to see Ab’s drawings? He likes to sketch out what he’s working on. I’ll bring them in the kitchen, and you can look at them while I tidy up.”
He was only too willing to do whatever she suggested, so he sat and looked through Absalom’s sketches, and the more he saw, the more impressed he became. The man was a master; an extraordinarily talented craftsman. “Small wonder the jewellers hire him,” he said. “But they take advantage of the poor fellow. With skills such as these, he should at least be able to afford a better way of life.”
Amy put the left-over pork in a stone bowl and covered it tightly. “You think they’re good, then?”
“Good! They’re absolutely—”
“Here! What you a’doing of?” demanded Absalom, stamping in at the door, the picture of belligerence.
Glendenning scarcely heard him. He was staring, frozen with astonishment, at the sketch of a squat, primitive figure. It was shaped rather like a small gravestone, but with the outline of a face on the front so that the figure seemed all head, with a suggestion of stubby legs beneath. The accompanying measurements indicated a height of three inches, and scattered about the grotesque “face” were five small circles with at the side a notation: rubies here.
“My dear God!” he whispered.
“Oh! What is it?” cried Amy, alarmed by his expression. “Whatever’s the matter now?”
He could not at once answer her, and continued to stare in disbelief at the sketch he held. The figure portrayed was of one of the icons carried, apparently for identification, by members of the secret society that he and a small group of friends believed threatened England. The powerful, fanatical, and deadly band they had named the League of Jewelled Men.
* * *
The heat of the afternoon was alleviated to an extent by a bustling wind; a pranksome wind, which set Gwendolyn Rossiter’s many lace-trimmed petticoats fluttering, and snatched at the pages of her book. Wandering across the lawns toward the summer-house, with Apollo panting at his heels, August Falcon paused to watch with a grin as Gwendolyn attempted to subdue petticoats and pages. Absorbed, she did not notice him, and would have been astounded had she known what was in his mind.
Had We Never Loved Page 14
