Had We Never Loved

by Patricia Veryan

  “So you thinks I couldn’t be passed off as a lady, does ye?”

  Glendenning’s eyes flew open as the words were snarled in his ear. Amy’s wrathful face was inches away. “Oh, my God!” he moaned. “What the—”

  “There ain’t no cause to call on the Lord, young man! Thought you’d be rid of me, didn’t ye? Thought as you’d traded me to that—that rascally old rake, in exchange fer this here carriage and yer fancy new—”

  “No such thing! How dare you suppose I would— And it has nothing to say to the case, at all events! Where the deuce did you spring from? I’d thought you were safely—”

  “Safely dumped into that there gent’s hands! And a fine time I’d have had, trying to keep ’em off me for the rest of the night! But you didn’t give a button fer that! Anything to be rid o’ the worthless gyppo, once she’d served her purpose! Well, I see what he was, quick as quick, so I slipped out and hided under the seat, and you was so eager to be off, you never even noticed!”

  She was flushed with wrath, her eyes sparking, her white teeth fairly gnashing. And because, being aware of Neville Falcon’s reputation, he had indeed suffered some uneasy qualms, Glendenning said in a calmer voice, “Of course I worried about you, Amy. But I knew you could control Falcon. Lord, anybody could! He’s all show and no go most of the time, and a kinder gentleman you’d never wish to—”

  “Ah, but what does the likes of me know about gentlemen? I be only a cheap trollop as you thinks couldn’t no ways be ‘passed off’ as a lady!”

  “You are not a trollop,” he said angrily. “Nor did Falcon say—”

  “Ho, yus he did! And he says as he could imagine yer mama’s reaction. Swound away, I ’spect, poor old gal, and—”

  He seized her by the arms. “The word is ‘swoon’—not ‘swound.’ And my mother is a great lady who would receive you with kindness, so you may stop being silly. You know very well—”

  Tears sparkled on her lashes, but she interrupted with hissing fury, “I knows very well I were all right so long as I were cooking and washing and caring for ye, and—”

  “And saving my life, and fighting beside me like a regular Trojan.” He smiled fondly and wiped a tear from her smooth cheek. “Now pray do not cry. For your own sake you would have been better advised to stay with Falcon, but— Good Gad! What about poor Lot?”

  “I told the ostler Mr. Falcon wants him took good care of. You owe the poor moke that much.”

  “Assuredly. And I’ve a greater debt. Now do not fly into the boughs, but since you’re here I shall take you home with me, and my mama will—”

  “Will be evah so charmed to meet of her son’s fine lady, the gypsy mort,” she mocked.

  He looked at her tangled hair, grubby blouse, and torn skirt, and hesitated. Mama would be polite and kind, and in a hundred ways Amy, with her fierce pride, would be affronted. He said, “There’s a hamlet a few miles up the road. I’m sure we can find a shop, and with the money I borrowed from Falcon I’ll buy you new clothes. Never fear, Mistress Consett, you’ll look as fine as any fine lady when I present you to the countess.”

  “Well, I might look it,” she muttered sullenly, “But I won’t be it. She’ll know what I is the minute she rests her high and mighty ogles on me.”

  The thought that his beloved stepmother had “high and mighty ogles” so wrought upon Glendenning that he forgot his worries for a moment, and laughed heartily.

  “I don’t see what’s so funny,” said Amy sulkily, drawing as far from him as possible, and glowering out of the window.

  “Perhaps not. But when you meet my mama…” He chuckled again and, winning no response, said coaxingly, “Don’t pout, child. We’ve so much to be thankful for. We’re safe, and—”

  “You’re safe, ye means,” she said, rounding on him. “It don’t never occur to you that me pal ain’t, do it?”

  He said ruefully, “Since you are choosing to forget your grammar, I take it you’re really overset. But I’m afraid I cannot answer sensibly, because I don’t know what ‘pal’ means. Is a foreign word?”

  “Romany, does ye mean?” she retaliated sharply. “Don’t be afraid to say it, mate. I ain’t ashamed o’ what I am!”

  “You don’t know what you are, so—”

  “Well, I ain’t too iggerant to know what ‘pal’ means! Cor! Don’t you know nothing?”

  He said in his humblest voice, “I have more than my share of ignorance, alas. Enlighten me, Miss Consett, I beg.”

  “Crumbs! Pal means friend. More’n friend—more like brother; sorta like you took loyal, and faithful, and—and someone what you’d risk yer own skin to help, same as he would for you, and wrapped it all up in three letters. P-a-l.”

  “Thank you. I’d say it’s a jolly good word. Now, what can we do to help Absalom?”

  “Nought.” She resumed her contemplation of the rain. “He knows what he’s about, and he’s got your gry, so he’ll be all right.”

  “But I thought you were worrying—”

  “And I knowed you wasn’t.”

  “Is that why you were so angry with me?”

  She shrugged impatiently. “Oh, leave me be!”

  Instead, he kept up a steady flow of chatter, trying to make her respond, or to win a smile, but nothing he said could coax her out of her sulks, so that at last he said in exasperation, “If you are so very cross with me, why did you insist upon coming?”

  “Reasons … And ’sides, when I got in this spanking ready-fer-marriage, I didn’t know as you’d turn inside out when yer silly old friend said he’d take me to yer flat. Cor! What a shameful thing that would’ve been fer yer noble lor—”

  “And that will be sufficient of your foolishness,” he interrupted, losing patience. “In the first place, this ready-for-marriage, as you call it, belongs to Mr. Falcon, and without his kindness in lending it to us we’d have had a far less comfortable ride to Windsor. In the second place, he is neither silly nor old, and if he enjoys to flirt with a pretty girl now and then, he means no harm by it. And in the third place, I didn’t want you taken to my flat because—”

  “Who cares?” she interrupted rudely. “Not this gypsy mort, so stow yer clack, young man!”

  “I care! So you may stop talking like a coster-monger, and listen! The reason I—”

  “Oh, there was a young coal-heaver, down Brixton way,” sang Amy lustily.

  “—didn’t want you taken to—” shouted Glendenning.

  “Who stayed up all night, and slept during the day,” shrilled Amy.

  “—my flat—” howled Glendenning.

  “He liked nothing more than a roll in—”

  Glendenning gave a gasp and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Do you want to demoralize Falcon’s coachman, you wretch?” he hissed. “Where did you learn that naughty song?”

  Amy bit his palm sufficiently hard that he jerked his hand away.

  “Well, it weren’t from no hoity-toity countess, mate,” said she.

  * * *

  “It wasn’t enough that I must be dragged through half the clubs in town last night!” Swinging from the saddle, August Falcon stepped ankle deep into a muddy puddle and swore vigorously. An ostler splashed up to commandeer his mount, and he went on, “Why I should have allowed myself to be bamboozled into this forlorn venture, is beyond me! I care nothing for Glendenning and his problems.”

  Morris gave the ostler instructions, then ducked his head against the wind-driven rain, and hurried to catch up with Falcon. “Any fool knows you’re a care-for-nobody,” he agreed. “Thing is, old Tio’s your second, and the southland ain’t exactly littered with bosom bows willing to act for you, so if you want to fight me, we’ve first got to find him. Besides, must warn him about the Terrier. Only decent thing to do for a friend.”

  Splashing along the cobblestone path, Falcon shot him a withering look and lengthened his stride. “You speak for yourself, I trust.”

  “Waste of money,” panted Morris, almost running
so as to keep up, “to have your chimney swept after … the house has burned down.”

  Having reached the step, Falcon gritted his teeth, came to an abrupt halt, and turned. Blinking through the raindrops he said, “The murky processes of your mind, my good clod, are seldom penetrable, and I shouldn’t dignify this one with a comment. But—what in hell have I to do with chimney sweeps?”

  “You keep telling everyone you have no friends. Bad business, August. Day may dawn when you need one. You give a shout for help and there’s not a friend in the foundry. Then what—”

  “Rubbish!” Falcon reached for the door handle. “The day I call on any man for help will be a scorching day in December! And don’t call me August, blast your hide!”

  The door of the Black Galleon tavern was flung open, and a noisy group of gentlemen came out, to pause, groaning, and turn up the capes of their cloaks as they encountered the pouring rain. Holding the door for Falcon, one offered a kindly warning. “Devilish slow inside, old boy. Long wait for a table.”

  “Is all I needed,” grunted Falcon.

  The parlour was crowded, the air in the shabby but good-sized dining room wreathed with smoke, fragrant with the smells of ale and cooking, and ringing with talk and laughter.

  Morris had to raise his voice to be heard. “Shouldn’t stop. We made a late start as it was.”

  Falcon took off his tricorne and emptied the water from the brim into a dirty tankard. “If we started late, ’twas because, thanks to your blasted persistence, I was unable to get to my bed until three. Furthermore—” He paused as an harassed barmaid was sufficiently diverted by his good looks as to come and take their wet garments.

  “There’s a party leaving in the corner, sir,” she advised, fluttering her lashes at Falcon. “If you gents look sharp, you’ll get it.”

  He slipped a shilling into her hand, and asked with a smile, “Which corner, bright eyes?”

  “Alongside the painting.” She nodded her head to a table near the fire.

  Someone shouted an irate “Millie! What became of our pork pies?”

  “Coming!” she howled, and, with a promise to bring them ale as quick as she could, she was gone.

  Falcon shouldered his way through the good-natured crowd and commandeered the table, nimbly sidestepping a boozy-looking man who had been reeling about, getting in everyone’s way, and who at once whined that he and his friend had “b’n here firs’!”

  “Then you should have sat down first,” said Falcon carelessly.

  The boozy man fussed and fumed and went reeling off, obliging the gathering with his assessment of ‘ins’lent puppies.’

  Unmoved, Falcon glanced around and saw that Morris had halted and was staring up at the nearby picture. This portrayed a slim young army officer who stood with arms folded and one booted foot nonchalantly crossed over the other. The uniform was magnificent, the sword very much in evidence, and the white horse against which the officer leaned was very fiery of eye, and flowing of mane, its nostrils flaring so that one might almost hear the snort.

  “If that ain’t just like Morris.” The mocking observation came in an undervoice from a large overdressed individual seated with a group of friends at an adjacent table. Falcon turned his head idly. The speaker was about five and thirty, with a belligerent air and a bitter mouth. He had laughed loudly when Falcon commandeered the table, and had met the boozy man’s resentful glance with a contemptuous stare and a suggestive easing of his sword in the scabbard. Falcon had judged him a bullying crudity, and a second look gave him no reason to change his initial opinion.

  In response to a murmured question from one of his cronies, the large man laughed. “Saw service with him in the Low Countries. Not worth a damn on the field, but the veriest blockhead off it! Had I not been there to put the sabre in his hand and tell him which way was the enemy, he’d likely have forgot what he was there for. And so shy around the females one might have fancied him straight from the nursery.” He laughed again. “I recollect once—” He gave a start as the thong of a whip dropped into his tankard. “What the devil, sir?” he demanded, twisting around in his chair, his face one great scowl.

  “I do not understand your question,” drawled Falcon. “Pray be more explicit.”

  “Your damned whip is in my damned ale! Is that explicit enough for you?”

  “My apologies. I certainly did not intend to disturb your ale. I’d fancied I aimed at a braying jackass. A mistake, no doubt. The host would certainly not allow such a creature to sit with gentlemen.”

  There was a concerted gasp.

  The bully was a good head taller and two stone heavier than Falcon, and he knew an easy mark when he saw one. His chair scraped back as he sprang to his feet. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, and he towered over the slighter man with undisguised menace. “By God, sir!” he said with a ferocious grin, “I’ll let some of your blood for that impudence!” Becoming aware of the alien shape of Falcon’s eyes, he added, “Whatever you are!”

  Falcon drew back his whip, and flicked it fastidiously, causing ale to splash his victim’s red velvet coat. “Are you a competent swordsman?” he enquired, making no attempt to rise. “I do not care to waste my time with amateurs.”

  Accustomed to inspiring terror in those he threatened, the bully was rendered momentarily speechless. “Of all the…,” he spluttered, then, “the confounded gall! I’ve sliced up better than you, you dandified curst foreigner! Get on—”

  “Ryan!” One of the men at his table had been staring at Falcon, and now jumped up and caught his friend’s arm. He spoke rapidly behind his hand. The large man’s eyes grew round, and his flush receded, leaving him very pale. He looked at Falcon intently, gave a gulp, and stammered in a far different tone, “I—er— Your pardon, sir, an I offended. I was only funning. Lieutenant Morris is—”

  “A splendid fighting man, and a fine gentleman,” said Falcon coldly.

  “Oh—yes!” With a ghastly grin the bully mumbled, “Yes, indeed! I had not known you was togeth— That is, I wasn’t aware he was a friend of yours, sir.”

  “’Tis said we may learn something each day we live. Provided we go on living, of course. To which end, I expect you will wish to take your departure? Yes?”

  Ten seconds later, another table became vacant.

  Falcon watched the retreat thoughtfully, then called above the din, “Hey! Morris!”

  Morris started, and came to join him. “Dashed silly thing to do,” he remarked, sitting down as two groups scrambled to claim the available table.

  Falcon looked at him from the corners of his eyes. “I expect you know what you mean,” he said carefully.

  “Fellow in the picture,” explained Morris. “Shouldn’t go about leaning on horses in that fashion. From the look of the brute ’twas ready to rear up. Then where would he have been? I ask you?”

  Falcon told him. Succinctly.

  “Hum. Well, go on.”

  “Go on—where?”

  “You said ‘furthermore.’”

  “I did? When? Last year?”

  “Just now. Gad, but if that ain’t typical of you, Lord Haughty-Snort! ’Tis a rare peacock can remember the egg!’”

  Falcon put a hand over his eyes and moaned.

  “You said,” prompted Morris, “you’d been kept from your bed ’til three, and—”

  “Ah, yes. And furthermore, I am at a loss to know why we go to Owen Furlong’s country house. Lacking my own keen discernment, Glendenning’s life is fairly littered with addle-pates he fancies to be his friends. Why trudge all the way to Kent?”

  “No, is it?” said Morris, surprised.

  Falcon regarded him steadily.

  The corner of Morris’ mouth twitched. “Thought it was Sussex,” he said demurely. “I chose Furlong because he and Tio have been friends forever, and I heard he stood by poor Kit Aynsworth when Kit ran afoul of Colonel Fotheringay. And any fellow who would stick by a friend through Fotheringay is a Trojan!”

/>   “Do you say,” said Falcon, sorting the wheat from the chaff, “that we travel through this repellent storm and endure untold hardship for no more substantial reason than that you admire Furlong? Ye Gods!”

  Morris pursed up his lips and at length entered a reinforcing, “Sort of man I’d turn to was I in a fix. Thought young Templeby might do the same if he ain’t been able to come up with his brother. Wouldn’t be surprised if Tio would look for him there. If I’m wrong, I suppose we could try that Minnie fellow. Do you know who he is?”

  “Minnie … fellow…?”

  “Odd sort of name for a gentleman, eh? My thought exactly. But then for the life of me I only understood half of what the lady said.”

  “Stupéfiant,” muttered Falcon to the ceiling. “Who is this baffling female, pray tell?”

  “You know perfectly well. Lady Bowers-Malden. You heard her say it same as I did. Something to do with mice.”

  Falcon put back his head and closed his eyes. Opening them after a moment’s cogitation, he said, “I think I have it. Truly, I am astounded. Lady Nola said, an I recall, that to ask my father for assistance would be like setting a mouse after the Minotaur.”

  “That’s the fellow!” said Morris triumphantly. “D’you know him?”

  Tapping the end of his riding crop against his chin, Falcon answered with his rare and sweet smile, “He just left. But I assure you he’d have been a proper bull in a china shop.”

  “Rats,” said James Morris, disappointed.

  * * *

  The Earl of Bowers-Malden had been blessed by two happy marriages. There were times, however, when even so contented a husband suffered moments of exasperation, and on these occasions he had been heard to mutter that when the Good Lord made woman He had lost the recipe half-way through. If his countess was within hearing distance she would invariably riposte with a twinkle that the Good Lord had thereupon improved upon the recipe. At this moment, however, feeling big and clumsy and ill at ease in the tiny village shop, Lord Horatio was much inclined to agree with his sire. He scowled at the curtain from beyond which came the murmur of female voices. The dragon of a matron who ran the place had fixed him with such a look when he’d brought Amy into her establishment! He’d felt his face burn, and had scarce known where to look.