Relieved, he said, “If she should be so foolish, Mama, will you give us your blessing?” He saw her small frown and added quickly, “My father voiced all the arguments I am sure you must feel, but he has agreed.”
“An I do not give you my blessing, shall you give her up?”
He stood, walked to the window, and came back to stand before her. “’Twould grieve me to marry ’gainst your wishes. But—no, ma’am. I’ll not give her up.”
She nodded. “Then I suppose you must have your gypsy, my love. Almost, I have lost you. I really could not bear to do so again.”
* * *
There was only Absalom to see now, and Absalom might be the most difficult of all. But, striding rapidly across the courtyard, Glendenning’s heart was so light he felt he might have floated. The nightmares were done at last. Now came the joy, the love, the great and so undeserved happiness.
The old house looked quite beautiful at this golden hour. It was surprising, in fact, that after all the rain so few people were out here enjoying this balmy late afternoon. Not so much as a gardener to be seen. The only person he really wanted to see, of course, was Miss Amy Consett, and, Lord, but he longed to see her! He’d not be surprised to find her awaiting him in the great hall. With luck, Absalom would be with her, and he could petition the dear old fellow for her hand. Amy was willing, of course. A little scared, perhaps, but she would not refuse him. Would she? His rapid stride faltered slightly.
‘I couldn’t live here, Tio … Your life’s like another world, compared with mine.’ Her voice was so clear it was almost as if she stood beside him.
He began to walk faster.
He had a blurred memory of her kissing him as he’d fallen asleep in the withdrawing room yesterday. And of a sadness in her eyes.
He reached the great hall, almost running. It was deserted, save for a lackey who swung open the door for him.
Turning on the man, he said, “Have you seen Miss Consett?”
“She was with Miss Templeby, my lord.”
Glendenning sprinted up the stairs.
The lackey’s voice floated after him. “This morning…”
Marguerite was not in her room, and her abigail said she believed her mistress was showing Miss Consett and Mr. Consett about the grounds.
Somewhat reassured, Glendenning hurried to the window, but he could not discern the faintest splash of colour that might be a lady’s gown, nor, in fact, any sign of life, save for a solitary peacock. Returning to the hall, he went first to his own, then to his brother’s suite, both of which were empty. The absence of servants was beginning to alarm him. They were always about. The confounded house fairly crawled with them. But it was stupid to be so afraid. She wouldn’t leave him? She wouldn’t run away?
He raced to the stairs again, tore down them, and went outside. And never dreamed how many eyes watched him.
The sun was going down when he returned to the house, and by now, terror had him in its grip. Almost the first person he saw was Whittlesey, coming slowly down the stairs. The man looked startled, and backed away as Glendenning took the stairs two at a time, and stopped in front of him.
“Tell me,” said the viscount grittily. “You know. You all know. That’s why everyone is avoiding me like the plague! Where is Miss Consett?”
“Sir, ’tis not my place—”
“Don’t be roaring at yer man, milor’. He don’t know nought.” Absalom stood on the landing, surprisingly distinguished in a simple brown habit, though his wig was as untidy as ever.
With a sigh of relief, Whittlesey escaped.
“Thank the Lord!” Glendenning hurried up to the landing. “Absalom, I’ve been unable to find her. She’s teasing me, the saucy scamp, is that it?”
Consett couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man who scanned him with such desperate intensity, but, “Run off,” he said, not softening the blow. He saw the lean features become very white, and added, “Well, you mighta knowed she would. Yer brother’s gone after her. Won’t find her. If my Amy don’t want to be found, she won’t be found, and she didn’t want no part o’ being a Quality mort. What’s more, I don’t—” He stopped, perforce, as Glendenning seized him by the throat.
“Where has she run? Tell me, or by God, I’ll—”
“Are you run quite mad, Glendenning?” The earl ran to wrench at his son’s arm. “Let Mr. Consett go at once! Damme! Let go, I say! This man is a guest in my house!”
“Amy has disappeared, and this rogue won’t tell me—”
“Rogue, is it! You’ve a damnably short memory! Only hours since, Mr. Consett saved all our necks! I would suggest that you make him a profound apology, sir!”
His father’s powerful hands and the voice of reason broke through the viscount’s maddened fury. His fingers relaxed their grip, and he stepped back.
Clutching his throat, Consett advised in a fierce croak that he wouldn’t tell such a madman where his niece was if he knew—which he didn’t.
“She’s got herself lost is all,” declared the earl. “Where’s that fool of a butler? Ah—there you are, Darrow! Have all the staff out at once! Miss Consett is lost somewhere. I want the house and grounds searched!”
The butler hurried off. Shaking his head, Consett followed.
The earl lowered his voice, “Pay no heed to what he said, Horatio. He’s a good man, but a revolutionary, I fancy. Likely don’t like the notion of his niece marrying into the Quality. I’ll wager there’s nothing more to this than that your lady’s found a quiet place to sit in peace and get her thoughts sorted out. Very sensible. Just be easy, m’boy. We’ll find her, never fear.”
But they did not find her.
At dusk, Glendenning swung into Flame’s saddle, the earl watching him glumly.
“You’re a fool not to wait until morning. Templeby’s not yet back, and may well have come up with her. Even if he has not, what can you hope to accomplish at this hour?”
“I only know I must try, sir.”
“Then try in the morning! I shall call in special constables. She can’t have gone far, and—”
“She is alone, sir! I daren’t wait another second, much less till morning!”
“But—”
Horatio bent lower, gripping his father’s hand strongly. “Papa, I beg you—get word to Morris, and August Falcon. They’ll help, I know it. I’m going to her—er, cottage in the woods. It’s near Epsom. If she’s not there, I’ll try Mimosa Lodge. Kadenworthy may have seen her.”
“But, Tio,” pleaded the earl, using his son’s abhorred nickname in this moment of distress, “it don’t make sense to—”
“If anything should go wrong, sir, go to Gideon Rossiter. He’ll explain.”
“Wrong? Now see here Horatio—is there something more to—”
But Glendenning was already riding out.
CHAPTER XVI
More than three weeks passed before Glendenning again crossed into Berkshire. Thunder was bumping down the clouds, and he pulled his cloak higher about his ears, ducking his head when a gust of wind drove rain into his eyes. Another grey day, as these past three days had been grey. He sighed wearily. A fitting return home, perhaps.
Despite his determination to devote years, if need be, to the search, he’d been sure he would find his love within a very short time. He knew so many of her haunts; surely, she could not for long escape him. Yet this was the twenty-fourth day, and he had found not so much as a trace of her.
He had reached Absalom’s cellar at about noon the day after leaving home. He’d approached the ruins very cautiously, and watched for a good quarter hour before venturing from the trees. And he’d known by the time he went inside that she was not there. The League had been there, however. The shelves once so neatly stocked had been ransacked, glass and chinaware smashed, the contents of pots and cans strewn over the floor in a wave of senseless destruction that ants were doing their best to tidy up. A small pile of ashes and some scorched pages were all that remained of Absa
lom’s peerless sketches and notes. The painting Amy had so treasured had been slashed with a knife, and the frame smashed. Bedding had been piled in the centre of the kitchen and set alight. Apparently, the hunters had ridden away, assuming the cellar would burn to the ground, but the fire had gone out after most of the bedding and the table was consumed.
To see such devastation had wracked Glendenning and, wandering through the wreckage, coming upon bits and pieces of items that had been cherished by Amy, brought memories too painful to be prolonged, so that he’d ridden out very soon.
From the ruins he’d gone straight to Mimosa Lodge, but Kadenworthy was at his hunting box in Yorkshire. His gentle aunt, troubled by the viscount’s distraught manner, had pressed him to stay for tea and, failing, had said apologetically that her nephew was not expected to return until the weekend.
Leaving the Lodge, he’d ridden to Epsom, and then Reigate, and he’d spent the rest of that day and the next scanning an endless succession of faces, searching narrow alleys and busy thoroughfares, prowling the crowded marketplace and the yards of inns and taverns, and enquiring of ostlers or pedlars or rag-and-bone men if they’d seen her. Some knew her, but none had encountered her for weeks. Hour succeeded hour, but until far into the evenings he persevered. The following day he rode to a fair. The next was devoted to a bazaar, and the next to a race meeting. Thus, the days slipped away as he wandered the Down country wherever people might congregate, sure each time that she would be here—she had to be somewhere in the throng, this would be the day he would find her. When night forced him to abandon his efforts, he refused to be discouraged, but after a few hours’ sleep, was up at dawn and off to another village or town, or summertime festivity.
At the end of the first week, he thought he’d found her. In Godalming he learned there was to be a mill next afternoon in the fields outside Dorking, the combatants sufficiently well-known pugilists to attract a crowd. He’d set out before dawn, riding northeastward, and gradually becoming part of a great noisy company, all heading with eager expectancy for the scene of combat. It was the very kind of crowd where Amy might decide to do a little “prigging,” or perhaps try to sell some pretty thing she had made. Reaching the site, he’d left Flame at a makeshift livery while he prowled. His heart had leapt when he’d spotted a slender gypsy lass with a scarlet scarf around her thick dark hair, and a provocative way of walking that had convinced him his long search was ended at last. Shoving his way through the crowd he’d come up with her, seized her by the shoulders and whirled her around, shouting an exultant, “Sweetheart!” But the startled face turned to him had nothing of Amy’s beauty. The features were coarse; the eyes, bold and calculating, had swiftly taken his measure, resulting in an inviting smile as she swayed to him. The brawny farmhand beside her, however, had viewed this infringement in a far different light. The viscount’s polite apology had been refused with wrath and violence. The pleased crowd had enjoyed an extra mill. The altercation had been short but sharp, and Glendenning had gone his way with a split lip, his ears ringing with the admiration of the spectators, and the vituperations of the disappointed gypsy girl, who knelt beside her champion, clutching the guinea the viscount had offered, and shrieking a profane assessment of his character.
Since then, he had lost count of the miles he’d tramped. His days had deteriorated into a dreary procession of faces and figures, of hope that sprang only to prove vain, of a growing despair that must be fought lest it defeat him. Worst of all, fear had become his constant companion. His darling Amy was beautiful and brave, but she was all alone. What if some of the chals found her? What if she’d been kidnapped by the Squire’s animals, as they had tried to do before? Haunted by such terrors, he found it hard to sleep at night, and often woke from such ghastly nightmares that he dreaded to sleep again.
As one week blended into the next, worry and lack of sleep began to undermine his spirits. If there had been just a crumb of encouragement, if only one person had seen her, or heard of her, he could have kept hope alive. But when, after all this time he’d discovered no trace, out of sheer desperation his thoughts turned towards home. It was, he told himself, quite possible that Michael had found her the very night of his own departure. Perhaps, while he wasted time searching the south country, August or Jamie had already brought her safely back to the Abbey.
So it was that on this afternoon of clouds and rain and the sullen grumbling of thunder, he came again to the Abbey and turned Flame towards the stable block.
“His lordship’s come!” A rush of feet followed that youthful howl, and two stableboys were beaming up at him, and shyly welcoming him home.
Glendenning smiled, praying they would say “Miss Consett’s back, sir!” But they did not, and because he so dreaded the answer, he dared not voice the all-important question, and asked only if his brother was at the Abbey.
At once their faces became solemn. Mr. Templeby had been here, they reported, but had gone off again.
Glendenning asked that his saddlebags be brought up to the house, and made his way through the downpour. The skies were even darker now, and lightning zigzagged against the low-hanging clouds. The following thunder was still distant, but they were probably in for a stormy night. An ill omen, he thought wretchedly, then pulled his head up. Be damned to omens! This was just his first try. Next time, he’d rope in Michael and, with luck, Jamie and Falcon as well, unless they’d fought their— He halted, with a guilty gasp. Once again he’d completely forgotten the duel, and his promise to Falcon! Lord, but the man would be more like to murder than to help him!
Starting for the door that led into the west wing, he felt a hand on his arm. The stableboy had followed with his saddlebags, and now touched his brow respectfully and said that there had been some trouble with the thresholds, and would his lordship please to use the main entrance. Sure enough, Glendenning saw that makeshift barriers had been erected to block the various outer doors. “Joy!” he muttered, and started the long haul across the courtyard. Lost in thought, he forgot the boy behind him until lightning flashed again, and he heard a startled exclamation. “Here, I’ll take those,” he said, reaching for the saddlebags. “No need for both of us to drown.”
The boy protested staunchly, but Glendenning took his burden and sent him splashing off.
He had expected that one of the lackeys would come to his rescue with an umbrella, but the front doors remained closed until he was reaching for the handle, at which point they were swung open.
Darrow, ever imperturbable, bowed and welcomed him as if he’d left an hour since. A lackey hurried to take the saddlebags. A hovering footman relieved him of cloak, and whip; another took his gloves and tricorne. Making off with their burdens, they all looked so cool and efficient and noncommital.
“Is the earl at—” began Glendenning.
“Horatio!” Lady Nola came down the stairs and held out her hands to him. “Thank heaven you are come home, my dear!” she said, drawing him towards the west wing. “Did you learn anything of her?”
Such a simple question, but with such terrible implications. Amy wasn’t safe, then; she wasn’t here. He had braced himself for such news, but the reality was still crushing. He shook his head, and asked, “Has there been no word at all, Mama? I’d thought perhaps Michael—or Falcon might have—”
“Falcon!” she exclaimed, looking irked. “Do not even mention that wretched creature, Tio! He came here breathing fire and smoke, as usual. Something about a promise you’d made and—”
“Blast his stupid duels,” he exploded. “Oh—your pardon, ma’am.” He drew a hand across his brow distractedly. “I had hoped, you see … but—”
“Even so,” she said with a disapproving air, “there is no call for language, and— My heavens! Your father particularly wished me to join him at four o’clock, and I am late.” She started off.
“Mama—wait! Please. I must talk to—”
“Yes, dear. Later on,” she called over her shoulder. “Do you go on
up, and I shall come to you directly.”
He stared after her. There had been no embrace, no real anxiety about Amy, no sympathy with his own grief. It was unlike Mama to be impervious to another person’s suffering. Furthermore, neither his father nor Marguerite had come to hear whatever news he might have. He felt hurt and betrayed, and started towards the stairs, head down and his heart like lead. Probably, they still blamed him for their recent ordeal. That was understandable, after all. And none of them really approved of his lady, nor guessed how much this meant to him. Perhaps they had never loved as deeply as he loved, so that each hour of not knowing, of growing terror, was worse than the last. Perhaps they had never missed someone so much that it was an unceasing ache of the heart. Dear God, if only she was well, and not—
“Pray have a care, your lordship, else you will surely bump into me.”
The young voice was soft and cultured and musical. A friend of Margo’s, thought Glendenning dully. Too weary to move fast, he murmured an apology and stepped to the side of the stair. The lady did not pass, and he lifted his head slowly.
He saw a jewelled slipper peeping from beneath the scalloped hem of a pink and white striped underdress. The paniers were of deeper pink satin, the tiny waist contained by a stomacher that spread gradually to reveal pearls glowing on a creamy expanse of bosom. He saw at last an exquisitely lovely face, with a patch trembling beside ruddy lips, and framed by powdered and upswept curls. She stood there, watching him and plying a fan in one small hand. And her great dark eyes held an indescribable tenderness.
Shock, added to fatigue and despair, proved too much. Glendenning’s eyes blurred, and he groped blindly for the rail.
A flutter of draperies. Warm arms about his neck. Tears, blinding him. And he was sitting down, hugging her close, trying to talk sensibly, but able to do no more than to whisper her name, over and over again, and know that he was behaving like a fool, and not care.
* * *
Had We Never Loved Page 31
