Rondo Allegro

by Sherwood Smith

  o0o

  The day was got through each in their various pursuits until the likely time the express was to be expected. Emily had already chosen the place where she would stand directly under the chandelier, whose light would make a glorious gold of her hair.

  When at last the word passed that the carriage was seen turning at the road, and the servants made haste to assemble outside to greet the new baron, Emily made certain to take up her station before anyone else could claim that place. She spared a brief moment of pity for the bride, who was, in spite of her elegance, content to stand between the dowager and Harriet in a dull corner, and then the noise of arrival caused Diggory to open the door to announce his master.

  Emily put on her most serene smile, her hand lifted in a graceful appeal—but then she stopped, thoroughly nonplussed: the man who stepped inside his house was Henry indeed, but with a bandage wrapped around his eyes.

  She stared, her wits flown.

  Anna had also dressed with care because she always dressed with care. She had seen the terrible aftermath of battle, and her expectation was of a man weakened and in need of nursing. She and Parrette had gone round the baronial rooms, discussing what might be best for him: which room was the warmest? The quietest? Anna’s own private thought was, Where shall I sleep? But she could not bring herself to voice it.

  She had spent time living in his family, his house, and his country. Now, at last, she was to be reunited with the man himself, and here he was, being led by Perkins, who was almost unrecognizable in the correct garb of a valet, save for that wooden leg.

  Her heart beat fast as Henry entered on Perkins’ arm. He was thinner than she remembered, the bones of his face above and below the eye-bandage strongly pronounced. Most surprising, even unsettling, was that instead of the uniform she had always seen him wear, he was dressed in the correct garb of a gentleman, though his blue cutaway coat was similar in shade to his captain’s coat.

  The tide of warmth glowed through her. “Good afternoon, Lord Northcote,” she said, her voice betraying a tremor.

  Everyone there saw his face lift, and pale, and then flush. “You are here,” he said, reaching with one hand, his smile wide and boyish.

  Anna stepped forward to close her fingers around his hand. “I am here.”

  29

  Henry Duncannon had woken from his coma to discover that he had lost his command, and gained a title.

  The latter need not necessarily have precluded the former. There were titled officers aplenty in the navy; of late, in fact, there had been an effort made to promote from the upper ranks of society, the reasoning being that like served better with like, and that the seamen all loved a lord.

  Henry Duncannon did not pretend to agree. A good officer might spring through the hawse hole, as the saying went—promotion of a topmast jack whose intellects made him quick to learn and ambitious brought excellent officers into being.

  But this new title appeared to no longer matter. One of his earliest visitors had been Lord Collingwood, whose voice had betrayed exhaustion as he informed Henry that the Aglaea was wanted for other duties. There were not nearly enough whole ships for everything that must be done, and so he had promoted the deserving Lt. Sayers and dispatched him to watch the French again.

  He finished, “And so my last order to you, by rights, is entirely informal, but no less important. Your duties lie at home at present. You are to recover your health, and put your affairs in order.” He had added gruffly, after a short pause, “You will not be surprised to hear that rumor has it your brother saw fit to leave things in lamentable state.”

  Sayers visited briefly before departing.

  “My wife?” Henry asked at the end of their conversation about service matters.

  “As you desired, she was sent to England.”

  “To England,” Henry repeated, the sudden splash of happiness taking him by surprise.

  “Was that not right? You said to send her home,” Sayers responded. “I recollect it distinctly.”

  Henry’s mouth quirked sardonically, and there was the old captain again. “You have done very well,” was all he said, but internally, he reflected—not for the first time—on the many stupid years during which he resentfully considered ‘home’ to be where his sea chest resided. “Thank you,” he added. “I know you have been hard pressed, and I will not keep you the longer.”

  The creak of wood, a shift of a boot, and Henry knew he was hearing Sayers rise and pick up his hat.

  What more was there to say? Sayers wished to be gone, exactly as he himself had done on his first appointment. The new captain wanted to be doing, perhaps to win a prize, now that, at last, his own marriage looked to be in the offing.

  So they shook hands, and the last he heard of Sayers was his quick step in departure.

  After that he must possess his impatience. Sayers might have sent Anna to England, but after his own scrub-like treatment of her, Henry would not have blamed her a jot for taking his fortune and haring off to Italy, or Sweden, or anywhere else in the world but Yorkshire.

  But here he was, back at the house he had sworn once never to set foot in again.

  Everything had changed. It was now his house, his estate. Its affairs were his responsibility. His family was here, only grown older (Harriet sounded quite grown up, something he would have thought an impossibility), his mother wept . . . and then came that low, beautiful voice, the French accent pronounced, Good afternoon, Lord Northcote.

  For a moment the vertigo was back, worse than those first few days. Lord Northcote was his father, his brother . . . and she was here.

  He sustained a sharp desire to hear her lips shape the words ‘Captain Duncannon’ again, and he almost laughed. He was not aware of reaching until her fingers closed around his hand, and he heard the soft rustle of feminine fabrics, and smelled the faint, elusive perfume he remembered so well.

  Before he could find the wit to speak, another remembered voice shocked him, “Welcome home, Henry.”

  He stilled, the joy vanishing like smoke. “Emily,” he said.

  Emily, Anna heard again, and recollected that morning in the captain’s cabin before the storm struck. Her heart beat painfully.

  The dowager had been watching. She heard the flatness of her son’s voice on that word—Emily—and stepped between Emily and her son, then reached to touch his free hand. “Henry, dear, we have the tea things waiting. Are you hungry at all?”

  His stomach was unsettled, and his head ached abominably. Rocking in a coach from which nothing could be seen had rendered him far more ill than ever the sea had in all its moods. But, like sea sickness, he was certain that taking something would subdue the sensations. Besides, if his mother had gone to this trouble, he must acknowledge it; he knew that he had amends to make, and might as well begin now. “Thank you. I am sharp set.”

  “Good. Cook has put a vast deal of effort into dishes that should please you, though in course we do not know what you prefer anymore. What kinds of foods did you eat on your ship? You must tell us all about it . . .”

  With Anna on one side and his mother on the other, Henry walked, distracted from his mother’s gentle words by familiar sounds, and above all, familiar smells. How that furniture polish brought it all back!

  Emily closed in behind, scolding herself out of the shock, and the disappointment, of those bandaged eyes. It was not as if she had not known. Though she disclosed little else, the foreigner had made it plain that he had suffered a head wound that affected his vision. But in Emily’s mind wounds passed off in a day or two, the way a rose thorn prick faded under a bit of plaster.

  She followed the three who walked arm in arm, Henry appearing taller than she had remembered, his features from what she could see more planed, with a terrible scar down one cheek. The dowager was understandably delighted to receive her son once again, but there had been an unexpected alacrity in her advance. What had she meant by that?

  Harriet, watching from where she had s
at on the bottom stair, chin on her fingers, elbows on knees, eyed Emily, remembering bits of conversations, angry looks, and the terrible day Henry departed, vowing never to return. She had been a child, with little understanding. She had always thought he had left because of John’s temper, though she had known about the broken understanding. Had it been more than an understanding? Whom could she ask? No one here would talk to her . . .

  “Nurse,” she breathed, and pelted upstairs.

  o0o

  Confound this bandage!

  Henry had endured it as a necessity, but the moment he stepped into the familiar sounds and scents of his home, he was nearly overmastered by the desire to rip the thing free.

  But he must wait. The physician in London had said not before March, or he could not answer for the result.

  He needed to see their faces: his mother, whose voice trembled, Harriet, who sounded so grown, Emily, who sounded unchanged. But above all he must see his wife. His wife! Those brief days aboard his ship seemed a dream.

  He possessed what patience he could muster as the familiar voices made conversation on topics such as the weather, the state of the roads, and the doings in London in preparation for the holidays.

  “When your health permits,” Emily said, “my brother and father will extend an invitation to dine. They talk of nothing else besides the glorious victory, and wish to hear every detail from one who was there. And if,” she added, “I may be permitted to add, they are not the only ones.”

  “You did not ask my wife?” Henry said.

  There was a slight pause, and Henry was possessed again of a strong wish he could see the circle of faces.

  Then Anna spoke in her distinctive accent, her voice reminding Henry of the rush of a river, of the rustle of leaves, though that was not quite right, either. It was a pure voice, soothing to the ear. “I could not give them witness. You will remember I saw nothing from where I was placed.”

  Emily smiled her way. “Of course a lady would be kept safely well away from the exigencies of battle. We did not think anything else.”

  Henry said, “She was away from battle, but not from the exigencies, as she was a mere deck below the waterline, sewing the ship’s people back together again, she and her maid. When I was brought below, they were both there, well covered in gore.”

  His mother gave a tiny gasp, and Henry said quickly, “I will forbear anymore description than that. But you must realize that the glorious battle you read about from your comfortable distance is a sanguinary affair, and any detailed account is going to make reference to the butcher’s bill, that is, the cost in lives. Nelson, long may he be remembered, was not the only casualty.”

  They responded as he thought they would, demurring, except for Harriet’s sigh, “I want to hear it.”

  His mother said, “For my part, I would be glad if you would speak of our beloved Lord Admiral Nelson, before the terrible event. Was he musical?”

  “He had a passion for hearing music,” Henry said. “I do not know that he played. I can tell you little beyond what was said at captains’ conferences, as I served directly under Fremantle. Our frigates were given a different duty, until the very end.”

  The dowager said, “Thank you, Henry. Perhaps we may continue over dinner? You might remember,” her voice trembled again, “that we keep country hours, though you may wish to change that.”

  Henry said, “Sea captains dine even earlier. Do not change the dinner hour on my account.”

  The dowager rose, something she had never done before. With dignity strengthened by the return of her son, she said, “Lady Northcote, I am certain that Henry’s things have by now been shifted. Shall you take him upstairs so that he has plenty of time to ready himself to dine?” If Emily had hoped to gain a moment alone with Henry, her hopes were dashed when the dowager added, “Henry, the rest of us will remain here by the fire, to stay out of the way if you wish to reacquaint yourself with your home.”

  Henry rose, hand groping unconsciously. Anna stepped forward quickly to take his arm, and they exited the drawing room.

  Neither spoke until he had negotiated the stairway. Once or twice she felt the muscles of his arm tense, and his face lifted as he checked his pace, but before she could speak he walked again.

  When they reached the baronial suite, he heard from the rustles and quiet footsteps that there were people in the room. “Perkins?”

  “My lord. Your dressing room is this way.”

  “That can wait.” To Anna, “You remember Perkins, do you not? It transpires he was a first footman before he was impressed. I inherited him from the previous captain of Aglaea. He has been released from service, so that I could bring him with me. I’d as lief have him to valet than some mincing caper-merchant who will try to stuff me into stays, and cravats two yards wide.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Perkins?” Anna said.

  “Tolerable well, thank you, my lady, tolerable well,” he replied.

  “Perkins, we will dress for dinner in, say, a quarter of an hour?”

  “Aye, sir—that is, aye, my lord.”

  Perkins had practiced the new address, but habit would obtrude. Annoyed with himself, he motioned to the little housemaid who had brought up the hot water and was busy tending the fire, and they retreated.

  Henry waited until he heard the door shut, then he said, with an attempt at humor, “Will you give me leave to call you Anna when we are alone? ‘Lady Northcote’ is still my mother. Needless to say, I never thought to be brought to this pass.”

  Anna said, “In truth, I would prefer it, oh, most prodigiously.”

  He heard a lilt of humor in her soft voice, and smiled. “Thank you. Anna, will you take me around this room, that I may learn where things are? The rest can wait. I am better if I learn a room at a time.”

  She sprang to comply. At the first chair, he ran his hands over the old-fashioned shape, sniffed, then said with a curious grimace, “This is my father’s chair. I am to gather we were given all his old furnishings. Well, well.”

  They proceeded from there, Henry counting steps under his breath. He interrupted himself from time to time by asking questions. First: “Who gives the orders? I hope that you have begun as I would have you carry on. Though I trust you would consult my mother when possible.”

  Anna said, “I have been content to leave things as they are while I make a study to learn the custom here, and until I know your wishes.”

  He paused, his hands feeling over a little table. “There will be a lot of changes. We will begin in here, but I want you to make your wishes known. I want you to be comfortable.”

  “Thank you. Everyone has been most kind.”

  “Everyone?” He paused, the light on the angle of his cheekbone sharp, his mouth compressed.

  Anna could not guess at his mood, but she said, “Your sister, Miss Harriet, has been generous with her time. She has put me in the way of things. Your mother has been most welcoming.”

  “I am very glad to hear that,” he said, noting the absence of Emily’s name. He refused to introduce it between them. Things were already devilish awkward, when he could not see anyone’s face. “And now, I will try on my own. If you see me about to trip, sing out, but otherwise, I must make my way.”

  He moved about with a careful, sweeping step that argued a good deal of practice, as he counted to himself. Twice she nearly spoke, but his reaching fingers encountered the obstacles, and he let out a soft, “Hah.” And then, “Perkins changes my bandages at night, with only a twist, and I keep my eyes shut as instructed. But there are times when my eyes will open, and I believe I catch a gleam of light beside my nose.” He touched one side. “Or it may be only my imagination. There are sometimes quick flashes of light when I would swear my eyes are closed—”

  A knock at the door, and here was Perkins again, with Parrette behind him. He expelled his breath, knowing he had not said a single one of the things he had thought up over the endless days lying blind at Gib, and then during t
he endless journey. It would all have to wait yet again.

  They separated into their dressing rooms. Anna lingered in their salon in case he wished her arm. When he came out, tall and fine in his evening clothes, he carried a wrapped packet in his free hand, which he surrendered to Perkins with a subdued murmur. Then, “Anna?”

  “I am here.”

  They started down the stairs together, Henry counting under his breath.

  In the antechamber before the dining room, Henry recognized his brother-in-law’s laughing voice. “Frederick,” he exclaimed, then felt a warm clasp of his hand.

  “Good to see you returned at last, by Jupiter!”

  “Mary, are you here as well?”

  “Here I am, Henry. And very glad to find you home again.”

  Harriet spoke close by. “Henry, please let me take you in.”

  He smiled. “Harriet? If you wish, though I thought that Mother and I might lead the way. Sit near me, that I may hear what you have been about.”

  Harriet laughed. “That will take all of two moments to relate: nothing, and nothing.”

  “We will see about that,” he promised, and Diggory, seeing him ready, announced dinner, then opened the door.

  Henry felt his mother’s thin fingers close around his hand. He listened to the rustle and shuffle as everyone fell in behind; Harriet chattering to Anna about what to expect for dinner, and Frederick wondering aloud to Mary and Emily what they ate aboard ships.

  Under cover of their voices, Henry murmured, “I hope that we may talk together later, Mother, but I wanted straight away to apologize to you for my long silence.”

  Her voice trembled as she whispered, “Oh, my dearest, I quite understand. It was a terrible disappointment . . .”

  His knuckles collided with the back of his chair. He could not see the others, and had no intention of having his conversation overheard. He patted his mother’s hand. “We will talk again later.”