by Mira Stables
The lane which led to the village was eventually reached, but by then it was full dark and Giles was leading his horse.
“Go to bed early in these rural parts,” remarked Charles, surveying the darkened cottages. “Let’s hope they don’t keep such early hours at the Lamb.”
“There’s maybe more going on behind those window blinds than you might think for,” retorted his henchman sourly. “Up to the neck in the smuggling, every man jack of them, and if so be as there’s a run on tonight, t’would account for them all being safely abed. Leastways that’s where they’ll swear they was. Not a bad night for it, neither,” he added, surveying the clouded heavens.
Nevertheless he was somewhat dismayed to find the Lamb, too, enveloped in the prevailing gloom. No welcoming lights shone from its usually hospitable portal. The windows were blank and unresponsive, and when Giles set the bell pealing furiously there was no sound of approaching footsteps. His jaw jutted obstinately.
“I’ll take the nags round to the stables, Master Charles. Do you shelter here in the porch till I knock somebody up.” He departed around the corner of the building, fulminating furiously on the habits of his errant brother.
Since he was wet through already, Charles could see little profit to be got from sheltering in the porch. He began to prowl along the rambling frontage of the inn, looking hopefully for some means of entry. He had the oddest feeling that he was being watched; that the inn, in spite of the blank face that it presented to the world, was quite definitely inhabited, indeed very much on the alert. Once he thought he caught a gleam of light reflected on to the wet cobblestones from an upstairs window, as though some heavy curtain had been briefly drawn aside to allow a hidden watcher to peer out. But his swift upward glance could detect no chink. Presently, however, he found what he was seeking. A casement window was standing slightly open. There was no need to force an entrance. He had only to release the catch and step over the low sill into the room. It was lit only by the glowing embers of a dying fire, but as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light he made out the shape of a lamp standing on a table near the hearth. He felt his way towards it, trying to avoid an array of heavy furniture which seemed to be largely composed of sharp corners and treacherously out-thrust arms and legs. A basket of logs standing convenient to the hearth suggested an easy means of re-kindling the lamp. With the skill of long practice he replenished the fire and sought amid the débris of the basket for a sliver of wood. It kindled easily, but the lamp proved more obstinate. A tentative shake indicated that it still held plenty of oil, but the wick was crusted. The splinter was burning away rapidly. Providently Charles blew it out while he searched for a knife to trim the calcined wick. The fire was beginning to burn up again and cast a light quite sufficient for the simple task, but the knife eluded him. Impatiently he thrust both hands into his pockets, and at the same moment became aware of a sudden draught which encourage a sizzling log to shoot out a plume of smoke, and, almost simultaneously, of a human presence behind him. He turned quickly, half rising from his knees, but his movement came too late to avert catastrophe. Something struck him a stunning blow on the side of the head, and he collapsed in an inert heap on the floor.
Chapter Three
It was very queer. It must have been only a dream that he was back in England, for here he was, still in Spain. He could smell the smoke of the camp fires. But they were burning apple wood. Where on earth had they found that? Some poor devil of a peasant was going to find his orchard sadly depleted. He wondered how he had come to be wounded, and what had happened to Giles. The pain in his head made thinking difficult, and the effort required to open his eyes quite impossible of achievement. He lay still, trying hazily to assess his situation. He must have been carried off the battlefield, for he was certainly not lying on bare earth. And someone had put a blanket over him, a blanket that smelt, quite incongruously, of lavender. He sniffed again; quite definitely, lavender. Never a trace of wet mule or saddlery. It was very curious. Cautiously he explored his immediate surroundings with questing fingertips. He was lying, he discovered, in an extremely comfortable feather bed, and furthermore he was attired in a stiff and scrubby nightshirt that was certainly none of his own possessing.
At this point in his reflections he was disturbed by the sound of a stifled groan. Of course. He must have been seriously wounded and taken to hospital. It was an agreeable surprise to find it so comfortable. And having carried his careful reasoning to this point he relaxed for a little while, yielding to the clamour of his throbbing head. Next he began a careful process of flexing and stretching each limb in turn, in an attempt to discover the extent of his incapacity.
Very odd. So far as he could ascertain, he was perfectly whole and sound, apart from this blinding headache which still insisted that he would do very much better to lie perfectly still and keep his eyes closed. Submitting to this dictum, he lay drifting peacefully on the borders of sleep until the sound of voices disturbed him once more.
“No use arguefying, Miss Nell. You know very well you’d no manner of right to go hitting the young fellow over the head like that, and him an officer in the old regiment.”
“Well he shouldn’t have come creeping through the window in such a stealthy fashion,” retorted a second voice. A clear young voice this, slightly defensive and guilt stricken, but very determined. “How was I to know he was a soldier and a friend? It was too dark to see his uniform. I thought he was a housebreaker—or perhaps even my wicked uncle come to seek me out. He’s very lucky that I only hit him. I might just as easily have shot him, but I thought the noise would disturb Emma.”
This very reasonable explanation of her conduct seemed to satisfy the speaker, for she relapsed into silence. Charles lay still, trying to sort out the pieces of the puzzle. Emma. He was sure he had heard that name quite recently. Vaguely he knew that it had a comfortable sound. Now who was Emma? Cool fingers touched his wrist. A shade of anxiety had crept into the girl’s voice when next she spoke.
“Isn’t it time he was coming round? I had not thought to have struck so hard. I meant only to render him unconscious so that I could tie him up.”
“Giles said ’twas a new healed wound he had on him—and in course you had to pick the self-same spot to hit him. Wounded at the battle of Vittoria he was. Just to think—all through the Peninsula with scarce a scratch—for Giles did say ’twas just a sabre cut, though deepish—and then to be laid out by a female!”
On a soft gurgle of laughter, ‘Ah! But the female was British—and a soldier’s daughter too,” came the answer, and Charles, despite his headache, could appreciate the lilt in the voice which betrayed the speaker’s smile. The mists which had dulled his brain were beginning to recede, and he listened with gathering interest as the girl’s voice went on, “But I do wish he would recover his senses. He’s horridly pale. Ought we to ask the doctor to see him when he’s finished with Emma?”
“Now don’t you go fretting yourself, Miss Nell. He’ll do fine, though maybe he’ll be a bit mazed like when he do come to himself. Stands to reason you can’t really have hurt him—a slip of a lass like you.”
“I did hit him pretty hard,” she offered dubiously. “That was one of Papa’s maxims. ‘If you are going to hit, hit first and hit hard,’ he was used to say.”
“Yes, I daresay. And he was quite right. But they’re not maxims for a young lady, Miss Nell, as Emma and me do be for ever telling you. Just see what trouble you’ve landed us all in! How we’ll ever have the face to explain what happened, I just don’t know. But I must be getting back to Emma. Sit you here and keep watch. If he wakes, he’ll not be knowing where he is, and you can set his mind at ease, that he’s with friends. And mighty queer friends he’ll be thinking them,” he ended, reverting to his earlier note of reproof, and Charles heard halting foosteps recede to the door, and the sound of its opening and closing.
Through lowered eyelids he was aware of a shadow passing between him and the lamplight, and present
ly identified a gentle rhythmic creaking sound as that of a rocking chair on polished boards. He did not yet feel ready for any attempt at conversation, so he continued to lie quietly with closed eyes. It seemed pretty obvious that the deep voiced man who had gone off to look for Emma was Giles’s brother Jasie. Who the girl could be he had no idea, though from the terms in which Jasie had addressed her she was probably very young—a schoolgirl even—and by her pure accent demonstrably a lady. A soldier’s daughter she had said. And she had taken him for a housebreaker. The farrago of nonsense about a wicked uncle he dismissed as some private joke to which he did not hold the key. He wondered how long he had been unconscious, and what had become of Giles, and it was at this point in his musings that he once again felt the touch of the girl’s hand as her slim fingers felt for his pulse. It was time, he decided, to stage his awakening. The child had meant him no harm, even if her conduct had been rash in the extreme. If it came to that, his own action in entering by the window had been foolish and ill-judged. It was unkind to leave her any longer in doubt over his recovery. He debated for a moment how best to simulate returning consciousness, and in that moment the girl spoke, her voice soft but perfectly clear.
“I do wish you’d open your eyes. I want to see what colour they are.” Almost, instinctively, he obeyed. Just in time the soft voice spoke again, and he realised that she was merely beguiling the tedium of her task by talking to herself, with no least notion that he could hear all she said.
“You’ve got nice hands,” she told him, still in that same crooning undertone, and he felt his hand gently lifted and examined. “A soldier’s hands,” announced the voice, as its owner’s fingers lightly smoothed the hardened skin of the palm. “And how long your fingers are! I think you must be tall. Of course I haven’t seen you standing up. Oh dear! I do wish I hadn’t hit you so hard, but truly it did seem best at the time.”
Charles was beginning to feel slightly embarrassed. There was no telling how far the lady might carry her innocent commentary on his personal appearance. He tried the effect of a deep sigh, and moved his head restlessly on the pillow. The voice did not cease its soothing murmur, but gentle fingers lightly touched his head.
“I expect your head aches dreadfully, and it’s all my fault. I’ll bathe it for you. That will make it feel better.”
Now she sounded more like a mother tending a sick child, and less than ever did it seem possible to sit up and say, “Look here, I’m perfectly all right. Please don’t make a fuss.”
Meekly he submitted to having his forehead bathed with lavender water. The ministering angel was not particularly adept, and although her touch was gentle the cloth which she was using was overcharged with the cooling liquid. Charles, enduring manfully while trickles of wetness ran down behind his ears and soaked the pillow, had much ado to restrain his involuntary grin at the thought that the same small hand which had inflicted the injury should now be at such pains to soothe it. Presently the inevitable happened and the lavender water made its way under his closed lids. He bore with fortitude the stinging that it caused, but there was no stifling the shattering sneeze that the stinging precipitated. It quite convulsed him, and the resultant pain in his head was sufficient to render unnecessary a pretence of weakness. He was thankful enough to close his eyes once more and subside on to the damp pillow, while his attendant informed him rather haltingly that he was not to worry, that he was with friends, at the Lamb in Springbourne, and that he had met with a slight accident. Charles nobly refrained from opening his eyes at this polite euphemism. It was, in any case, less painful to keep them closed.
Having accepted this information in passive silence, he presently essayed what he hoped was a sufficiently feeble voice to ask for Giles.
“As soon as he and Jasie had got you to bed, he went off to see to the horses. They were near done up he said, especially the one he had been riding.”
It seemed safe to display more obvious signs of recovery. Not without some natural curiosity to see the cause of his downfall, he opened his eyes. The lady was able at last to satisfy her ambition. Framed by the thick sooty lashes a pair of cool blue-grey orbs directed their steady gaze upon her. She found it oddly disconcerting. Not unfriendly, it yet held a measuring quality to which she was unaccustomed. She stiffened slightly, and her chin went up.
Charles, for his part, beheld a delectable vision, a sight to cheer the heart of a returning soldier long deprived of England, home and beauty. Seated in the low rocking chair it was difficult to gauge her height, but it was certainly not above medium. She was older than he had thought—definitely not a schoolgirl—her slim young body subtly but insistently feminine. A mass of silky hair, so dark as to appear almost black, was braided into a coronet round the proudly poised little head, and from this two or three soft ringlets curved casually to caress the whiteness of her throat. He paid scant heed to her other features, to the childish curve of soft lips or the beautiful modelling of brow and cheek and short straight nose. All his attention was for those incredible eyes. They were green. They really were green. Afterwards he was to realise that it was merely a trick of reflected light from the clear green of her dress, that actually they were of that changeable hazel that takes on colour from mood and background. Her complexion was clear and pale, but as he gazed it was suffused by a wave of soft colour.
Hastily he averted his eyes, guiltily aware that his behaviour in staring so was quite outrageous, and stumbled into apologetic speech.
“Forgive me if I seemed to stare. I had thought myself back in Spain—wounded, perhaps in hospital. When you spoke, and I opened my eyes to see a young English lady, I could scarce believe them and thought myself dreaming.”
Nell’s blush subsided, and her bearing relaxed. “Jasie said you might be a little dazed at first,” she acknowledged. “Jasie is your Giles’s brother you know, and the landlord of this inn.”
“Surely—I think I remember—we found the inn deserted when we arrived? No one answered when Giles rang the bell, so I climbed through an open window while he was getting the horses into shelter. What happened after that? And why was the place in darkness? For it was not much past nine o’clock.”
Not surprisingly the girl chose to ignore his first question and hurried into explanation of the other circumstances of his arrival.
“Jasie had gone for Dr. Hilsborough. And Bella had just slipped down the street to call Mistress Hannah. So Emma and I were by ourselves when you rang the bell. She said I mustn’t answer it, so of course I didn’t. One always has to do what Emma says. Even my Papa was a little afraid of her. She is a most redoubtable female.”
“But why didn’t she answer it herself?” demanded Charles. “Surely, if she’s such an Amazon as you make out, she wasn’t afraid to open the door after dark?”
“Oh no! But she couldn’t.” She hesitated for a moment, fumbled for a word, found it, and announced triumphantly, “She’s—she’s increasing you see. That was why Jasie went off for the doctor. He’s dreadfully anxious because it’s their first baby, and he’s not accustomed to it.”
This was said with such an air of grave feminine wisdom that Charles badly wanted to laugh, and put up a hand to hide the smile that would certainly give offence to so young a damsel. The action was misconstrued.
“There now—you’ve made your headache worse with talking too much,” she scolded, rising quickly from her chair. “Would you like me to bathe your head again?”
Charles declined this offer with rather more haste than courtesy, whereupon she announced her intention of getting Dr. Hilsborough to mix him a soothing draught before he left the house. “Then you will feel very much more the thing,” she promised him confidently.
Fortunately, before there was time to implement this helpful notion the bedroom door creaked open and Giles’s tousled head appeared round it. Seeing his master’s eyes open, his face creased into a relieved grin and he advanced boldly to the bedside. His first words however were addressed to the lady.
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“Jasie says I’m to tell you all’s well and it’s a boy. And Mistress Hannah says you can go along and see Emma for a minute if you’ve a mind to.”
The girl looked pleased and nodded acquiescence. “There! I told Jasie it would be so, and no need to fret. He might know he could depend on Emma. Where’s the doctor? I hope he hasn’t gone off. I want him to mix a composer for Captain Trevannion.”
Giles looked mildly surprised, but said that the doctor had only gone down to the parlour, where Jasie was doubtless seeing to his refreshment.
“Then I’ll run down and see him straight away before I go to Emma,” exclaimed the girl impetuously, and was gone from the room before Charles could express his opinion of soothing draughts. Nor could he suborn Giles to his assistance. The big groom declared that he was well served for running head on into an embuscade as soon as he was left to his own devices.
“And who’s the girl, and what is she doing running loose in an ale house?” demanded Charles, when Giles had finally come to the end of his comments on his master’s folly.
Giles grinned. “That, sir, is Miss Helen Easton. And she’ll run loose anywhere, for she’s never been broke to bridle.”
“Easton?” said Charles, on a startled note. “Related to Colonel Easton of ours?”
“Aye—poor little lass,” nodded Giles. “His only child. And an orphan since Badajos, for seemingly her mother died only a few months before.”
“But what’s she doing here? Surely she must have relatives who could give her a home?”
