She'd appraised Mr. Trevelyan accurately. Nonetheless, she was safer with him than she knew. His conscience, for instance, was an exceedingly feeble one that rarely troubled him. He was, as he'd told her, a womaniser. He was, moreover, feeling exceedingly amourous. He had not held a woman in his arms in many weeks. He had not held an Englishwoman in his arms in over a year. Here was a perfectly acceptable Englishwoman, who, despite the faint redolence of goats, was a perfectly delicious one as well. For all that, Miss Ashmore's virtue was as safe now as if she rode with her own Papa.
While his conscience was to all intents and purposes quite deaf, dumb, and blind, Basil's sense of self-preservation was strong. He wanted to hurry home and wreak havoc with the hearts of London's young ladies. He could not be free to destroy their peace if he were married to this particular young lady; and he knew perfectly well that if he didn't behave himself, he'd have to marry her. Even Basil knew better than to play fast and loose with Aunt Clem's goddaughter. He'd learned, to his cost, what came of antagonising family members. No. The price of pleasure was, in this case, far too high.
These musings on self-preservation led Basil to another problem—one that struck him so forcibly that he abruptly drew back from Miss Ashmore, towards whom he had, rather naturally, been inclining as he meditated. Consequently, she very nearly did fall off the startled horse. Only an excellent sense of balance, nurtured by many long treks on narrow mountain paths, kept her in her place.
"Good heavens!" she cried. "Whatever is the matter?"
"I just thought of something."
"Well, it must be perfectly frightful. Are you trying to kill us both?"
He made no answer to this, being engaged for the moment in soothing his mount and then in soothing Gregor, who had also taken alarm. Only after these two were completely at their ease again did Basil apologise for startling Alexandra.
"I just realised, Miss Ashmore, that if we convince your father of our undying devotion, he'll expect us to marry."
The cold dread with which he uttered the words could not be construed as complimentary. Still, his voice was so chillingly sepulchral that she had to laugh.
She had a very nice laugh—low and husky, like her speaking voice—but Basil was too discomposed to fully appreciate it. Instead, he asked her, with some annoyance, what was so funny.
"You say that as though you expected to be buried alive. How high-strung you are, Mr. Trevelyan. And I wonder that you hadn't thought of it before. Of course Papa would expect us to many, if he believes this folderol, which I rather doubt."
"Well, then?"
In answer she laughed again.
Basil's survival instincts appeared to have deserted him as he contemplated a few responses that would make her stop laughing—and rather abruptly, at that. He was, in feet, about to take steps towards that end when she spoke in more serious tones.
"Whatever Papa expects, I am not so hen-witted as to marry a perfect stranger simply to be rid of someone else."
"I will not be a perfect stranger by the time we're in England," was the huffy retort.
"Oh, so you mean to make me fall in love with you? That would be asking for trouble."
"That is not at all what I meant, wicked girl."
"Then what do you mean?"
He collected himself. Something had gotten in the way of his intellect. Lust, probably. "I meant, my love, only that this is a risky enterprise. I must trust you absolutely to jilt me once we are back, for I cannot, as a gentleman, jilt you. If I do, I will be driven away in disgrace—" He was about to say "again," but thought better of it. "My family would never forgive me."
"Yes, of course. There's an etiquette to these things." Her voice was a little tart, but recollecting that he was the only rescuer she had at the moment, she added hastily, "At any rate, I shall not lure you to the altar, Mr. Trevelyan. I solemnly promise to jilt you. In the meantime, if you don't want to give me the wrong idea, I suggest you save your 'my loves' for the appropriate audience."
He took her reproof with more of his natural composure and obediently turned the topic. They settled between them the story that would be told to Sir Charles. Then Mr. Trevelyan's curiosity had to be satisfied.
"How does it happen," he asked, "that we never met? Aunt Clem has godchildren over half of England, it seems, and I'm forever stumbling over them. Why, I'm sure she's brought out half a dozen goddaughters at least.''
"Yes. She wished to oversee my comeout as well. She wanted me to stay with her, from time to time, long before that. But Papa refused. He—well, he said he didn't believe in that foolishness." She hesitated.
"Foolishness? Oh. I see. Why put you on the Marriage Mart when he already had a husband for you?"
"Well, that was part of it." She felt a tad uncomfortable discussing family affairs with a stranger, even if he was Aunt Clem's nephew.
"And the other part?" he prodded.
"Really, you're the most inquisitive gentleman, Mr. Trevelyan."
"I want to know. I want to know what evil curse has kept us apart all these years."
She turned to look at him again, and he smiled. What a lovely, lazy smile, she thought. It made one feel so peaceful and relaxed, even while one's instincts warned one otherwise.
"No evil curse," she answered. "Only he hated Mama's friends, and has always believed London Society to be shallow, vain, stupid, and vicious. He did agree to a Season when I was eighteen, but until then, Mama lived in London, he was off travelling, and I stayed at our house in the country."
"Ah, I see. He didn't want you to turn out like the rest of Society's debs, so he kept you hidden away from evil influence."
She nodded.
"And what did you do in your rustic haven?"
"I read."
"I see."
Of course he didn't see. How could he? "My governess was rather a bluestocking," she explained. "Consequently, I do not handle my needle very well, and my watercolours are appalling, and—"
"Good heavens! You aren't about to tell me you don't play the pianoforte?"
This being uttered in horrified incredulity, she couldn't help but giggle, even as she admitted she could play no instrument—at least, not very well.
"You poor, benighted girl. What can you do?"
"I can, as Papa will tell you, talk a blue streak."
"Then talk, by all means, Miss Ashmore. It is, after all, the only safe thing one—or two, rather—can do upon a horse."
Deciding it was best to ignore his innuendoes, she invited him to choose a subject.
"Tell me of Albania. Tell me what you've discovered about Byron's 'rugged nurse of savage men.'"
She complied with his request, and he was a little surprised at what she said. She'd read neither Hobhouse's Travels in Albania nor Byron's Childe Harold, for those books had been published while she was travelling with her father. Thus, her perspective was all her own, with the focus on politics though she drew analogies from both literature and history. It wasn't a typical bluestocking speech—or at least, certainly not like that of any bluestocking he'd ever known. Her turn of mind was interesting, and her voice very pleasant to hear. Her letter, Basil supposed, had promised something, but this was more than he'd hoped for. He thought better of his aunt as a result, and the time passed more quickly than he'd expected, considering that it was not whiled away with dalliance.
They did not, as Basil had predicted, have to ride all night, though he guessed it was well past midnight when they reached the edge of the village to be met by Sir Charles, Mr. Burnham, and the Albanian servants. Alexandra, half-dead from exhaustion, gave herself over to Lefka's care and was lead away to a tiny cottage.
Meanwhile, Basil was set upon by the two Englishmen, who immediately began questioning him. Yes, he told them, Miss Ashmore was quite unharmed. No, he assured them, there would be no more trouble.
"But I must beg your pardon, gentlemen. It has been such an interesting day altogether that I am like to drop from fatigue. I assure y
ou I cannot put another answer together tonight. We will talk more tomorrow. If you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of a comfortable mound of earth—or a stump or a rock—and topple me onto it, I should be very much obliged."
Chapter Three
The following morning, after being ungently wakened by the faithful Gregor, Basil betook himself to a mountain stream for a rather chilly bath. Then, clean in body—though his travel-stained garments distressed his fastidious soul—he found Sir Charles and took him aside for private conversation.
Having upon awakening become painfully sensible of a fragrance of goat about her person, Alexandra was making her own morning ablutions about the time the two gentlemen were having their chat. Lefka, who stood guard nearby, persisted in making the most indecorous remarks regarding the beautiful young man who'd rescued her charge. As a result, Miss Ashmore was not only ravenously hungry but unrefreshingly hot and flustered by the time she joined the others for breakfast. One look at her father's face told her there was more aggravation to come.
"I'd like to have a word with you, Alexandra," he announced.
"Can't it wait until after breakfast, Papa? I haven't eaten a thing since yesterday morning—"
"Breakfast can wait."
She looked longingly at the table set under the grape arbour: thick slabs of bread, fruit, two kinds of highly aromatic cheese, and thick black coffee. But her father led her inexorably back into the little cottage.
"I’ve just had a startling conversation with Mr. Trevelyan, Alexandra."
Abruptly, one of Lefka's most lurid suggestions came back to her. She blushed furiously.
"Oh, my dear, your face tells me that it is true. But why did you never confide this thing to your Papa?" His words sounded sorrowful, but the creases were settling into his forehead.
She collected herself, speaking carefully. "Because I couldn't think you'd like it, Papa. He had nothing when I met him, and though I believed in him, I couldn't expect that you would."
"No, and I don't like it now." He then proceeded to remind her at interminable length about obligations, filial devotion, and the superior character of Mr. Burnham.
Since she'd heard all of this several hundred times before, there was no need to attend very closely. Instead, she concentrated on how best to manage her stubborn Papa. When he finally paused for breath, she answered as though she'd considered all he'd said very seriously. "Of course, that's all true, Papa. But you don't know Mr. Trevelyan yet, do you? Hasn't he made something of himself—starting with nothing—in only six years? And hasn't he been true to me all this while? With his background he might have had his pick of brides in England, but instead he's worked and sacrificed—all for me. Even if I did now have some doubt of my feelings—for I was only eighteen when I met him—I must esteem him for his courage and devotion."
This was doing it rather brown—especially the part about being true to her, when she strongly suspected that Mr. Trevelyan had about as much notion of fidelity as a tomcat. Nonetheless, Alexandra would have cheerfully committed any extravagance that promised freedom from the ghastly Burnhams.
Sir Charles, however, was not to be won over so easily. "Yes, dear, I daresay the young man has behaved admirably. But really, what choice had he, if he had, as you say, nothing? And what of Mr. Burnham's patience? He has waited several years, never complaining."
Well, of course he wouldn't complain. He didn't care one way or other about it. Summoning up all her patience, Alexandra dutifully endured her father's anxieties about the Burnhams, who even now must be preparing for the wedding.
"And what of Society?" he persisted. "Everyone knows you're promised to Randolph. No one knows anything of any attachment to Mr. Trevelyan. You'll be labelled ‘jilt.’ And everyone will think that the Ashmores have no sense of honour."
Bother your honour, Alexandra thought. And to talk of Society—as if he'd ever in his life cared what Society thought about anything, as if anyone in Society had ever heard of the Burnhams—was the height of absurdity.
Squelching a sigh of vexation, she answered ingenuously, "I don't understand, Papa, how it's less dishonourable to abandon a man who's sacrificed so much on my account and trusted me all these years to keep my promise to him."
The baronet was growing exasperated. He couldn't in all honesty claim that she had no obligation to Mr. Trevelyan. Sir Charles was beginning to feel cornered. "This is merely a childish infatuation, Alexandra. As I'm sure you and Mr. Trevelyan will soon find out. People change in six years. What seems romantic at eighteen looks very different at four-and-twenty."
She gazed at him as though struck by what he said. Then, in a slow, thoughtful voice, she answered. "Well, to tell the truth, I hadn't thought of that, Papa. I was so overjoyed to see him again—and as my gallant rescuer. I suppose it was very romantic."
Her father nodded, looking obnoxiously complacent. But his complacency began to fade as she went on.
"In that case, I don't see what you're alarmed about. For if it is, as you say, only infatuation, then we'll discover it soon enough, won't we? Very likely, by the time we're home again—or soon after, surely— Mr. Trevelyan and I will have taken each other in dislike. And everything will settle itself peaceably with neither dishonour nor hurt feelings. How perceptive you are, Papa."
Papa being, as they say, hoist with his own petard, could produce no answer for this. He had to content himself with grumbling about childish infatuations and wondering why he and Randolph should have to put up with such behaviour. However, as it turned out, he hadn't time to annoy himself or his daughter much more on that subject. They'd no sooner left the house and joined the others near the grape arbour when they heard in the distance a dull thundering.
This gradually resolved itself into the pounding of hooves, and then in turn became a lone figure on a brown stallion. The figure came to a halt some yards from where the group now stood, watching in alarm.
"Ah, the rejected swain," Basil murmured, moving quickly to Alexandra's side and putting a protective arm about her shoulders. Though the gesture filled Sir Charles with ineffable disgust, he had sense enough to hold his tongue.
The rejected swain was soon before them, looking so humble and abashed that Alexandra's heart, which had been pounding in concert with the horse's hooves, swiftly settled itself to a mere fluttering.
"Zotir Ashmore," said the young man quietly. "Zotir Tri—Tri—Vasil." He looked at Alexandra and heaved a great sigh. Then, raising himself very tall, very straight, he launched into a long, beautiful—nearly poetic—apology. While it was not nearly so poetic in English, the tone alone impressed his listeners. He had shamed his family and disgraced himself. His behaviour was madness and inexcusable. He despaired of obtaining their forgiveness.
The speech made Alexandra feel ashamed of having deceived him with her make-believe fiancé. Dhimitri was obviously sincere, and now, standing there so tall and sad and dignified, he was, she thought, noble.
Good heavens! Now he was saying that he must go with them to Prevesa to make what small amends were in his power. He would personally see to their comfort and safety during their "perilous journey." He had friends and relatives in many of the villages along the way, who would make them all welcome.
"Would you tell him, Alexandra," Basil responded, when Dhimitri's offer had been translated, "that we accept his apology. His offer, however, is too generous. There's no need for him to accompany us."
Zotir Basil was also generous, but the thing must be done. If Dhimitri could not bring his family assurances that the English had reached their destination safely, he could not go home at all.
It soon was plain that the offer must be accepted.
Sir Charles so counselled Basil in a low-spoken aside. "The boy comes of a good family, Mr. Trevelyan, and they're very proud. He must redeem his honour, and we could use the protection—though I must say it is deuced awkward, under the circumstances."
"Well, then, he must come, I suppose. Alexa
ndra, my love"—she saw her father start at this—"I hope you have not too many other beaux between here and Prevesa. Otherwise, I fear we'll soon swell up into a great army and have Ali Pasha quaking in his slippers by the time we reach our destination."
***
"You see the difficulty."
"Ay, that I do, my lady." Mr. Henry Latham accepted a cup of tea from his hostess. "Burnham's a very close man with his affairs. My people have learned nothing that isn't plain and above board. The situation may very well be as he says, you know. As the match means a step up in the world for them, it's worth a good deal more than the gold."
"Then you agree it's futile to attempt to communicate with him?" Lady Bertram asked.
"Oh, yes. A waste of pen and ink. And not only on account of this," he added. "George, you see, is preoccupied lately, due to problems with his labourers."
Lady Bertram smiled faintly. "Is he now?"
"Yes. And I expect it's going to get worse before it gets better. As things always do." Mr. Latham expressed this pessimistic opinion with the utmost amiability, as he carried a tea cake to his plate. "It's what comes of not paying an honest day's pay for an honest day's work. Your labouring classes like to get paid fair for what they do. It's a queer thing, but there it is. Human nature, my lady."
"You are a student of human nature, sir," the countess remarked drily.
"In my own modest way."
"Then what do you make of the other matter?"
Mr. Latham made it out, apparently, while he disposed of the tea cake. After it had vanished into the depths of his plump, genial countenance, he answered, "It's one thing to study human nature and another to predict it. I'm a businessman, not a prophet. But as a businessman—" He paused.
"I'm always eager to hear your views on business, sir."
"Well, then, as a man of business I can give you a fair idea of what ships are scheduled to cross the Mediterranean. Always allowing, of course, for the complications of this unfortunate unpleasantness on the continent. With good information and a little patience, I expect we can manage to be on the spot when that particular ship comes in."
The English Witch Page 3