by Sandra Heath
Tansy realized she had misled him. “Oh, no! Please don’t think she is being forced into something against her will. Amanda is very pleased indeed to have secured so advantageous a contract.”
“Arranged marriages can be successful, I know, but I would not care for one myself. I hope I will one day make a love match.”
Tansy found a smile. “A sentiment I share, Lieutenant, but then I will never aspire to an aristocratic husband. Who knows how I might feel if faced with the chance of becoming a countess?”
“You say that as if it were so far into the realms of fantasy as to be utterly impossible.”
“So it is,” she replied emphatically.
“You do both yourself and the aristocracy a grave injustice.”
“You, sir, know too well how to flatter,” But although he complimented her, his words showed how little chance she stood with him. Amanda was the one to have caught his interest.
He laughed. “Flattery is part of naval training.”
“So I perceive.”
They smiled at each other, and she fell even further under his spell, if that were possible. But once again he brought her down to earth with a bump. “When is your cousin’s wedding to take place?”
“This summer. Amanda’s father—my Uncle Franklyn—was, until recently, on diplomatic duty in Constantinople, and we were with him. He has now been posted on to Australia, but arranged Amanda’s match before he left. She and I are on our way back to England, under Hermione’s…. I mean Mrs. Entwhistle’s wing. We are to live with our remaining uncle, Sir Julian Richardson, at his estate of Chelworth in Dorset.”
“Chelworth? I know it. Well, perhaps it would be more accurate to say I have used it as a landmark. It stands on the slope above a bay, about halfway between Portland Bill and St. Aldhelm’s Head. The house looks more like something from this part of the world than rural Dorset, and there is a pyramid folly on the hilltop behind it.”
“Uncle Julian is quite devoted to the study of Ancient Egypt. Actually, he and the late Lord Sanderby—” She broke off, thinking that perhaps it would be indiscreet to mention the great quarrel.
“Do go on,” Martin prompted, ducking as an overhanging branch swept along the cabin roof toward him.
“I’m sure you don’t want to hear about the terrible professional jealousy that Lord Sanderby’s father displayed toward Uncle Julian.”
“You cannot tantalize me with such a statement, and then decline to elaborate. It would be too cruel.”
“Very well, I will bore you with all the details.” She told him all she knew about those long-ago events.
Martin’s brows drew together as he listened, and when she finished he pulled a puzzled face. “You know, it all sounds strangely familiar. I’m sure I’ve heard the story before, and yet I cannot think where. Although….” He thought for a moment. “Actually, I think I overheard my mother telling my father. I was a child at the time.”
“I believe it was quite a cause celebre for a while. Poor Uncle Julian is still very upset about it all even now, which may be….” She didn’t finish.
“Which may be why he doesn’t approve of your cousin’s match?”
Tansy nodded a little awkwardly, feeling she had elaborated a little too much. She shouldn’t have told him all she had.
Martin smiled. “Please do not look so worried, for I assure you that I know when to keep a confidence. Nothing you have said will ever pass my lips.”
Tusun came to join them, having accomplished his tasks for the time being. “The other ladies wish to stay in the cabins, Effendi,” he said. “Well, the young lady wishes to stay there, and the older one feels she must remain with her. There are many tears, you see.”
Amanda making a fuss again, Tansy thought, far from displeased that her cousin was going to stay out of the way.
Tusun leaned back against the cabin superstructure and gave them a smile of some satisfaction. “We have done it, eh, Effendi? We have rescued the ladies, stolen this fine canja, and escaped the French. All we need now is that God remains with us.”
Martin grinned. “He will, Tusun.”
“For that we must pray.” Tusun glanced at Tansy. “So, Effendi,” he went on to Martin, “you have another helper.”
“And she’s far prettier than you, my friend,” Martin replied.
“This I do not dispute.” The Mameluke gave Tansy a broad wink, then looked astern, where all that could be seen was an undisturbed forest of every lush green in creation. The dense cloak of delta vegetation hid even the great statue of Bastet, so tall on the summit of the temple mound. “The French will not give us trouble now; so we must plan what to do next, Effendi.”
“I’m not so sure that we’ve seen the last of them. That officer was not the sort to give up his booty without a fight.” Martin grew pensive. “It’s my guess that he’ll anticipate us rejoining the main Rosetta channel. I have a feeling he’ll set an ambush somewhere close to Rosetta itself. At least, that’s my instinct.”
“Then we must not use the Rosetta channel,” Tusun replied logically. “If we keep to watercourses that take us east, to one of the other main channels….”
“The Rosetta is closer, and will take us more directly to the Lucina. Besides, the current is taking us without any need to hoist the sails, and I would rather follow the flow and lie low like this, than risk hoisting the sails to cross the delta against the water.”
“So what can we do about the French, Effendi? If we must rejoin the main channel, then we must join it, and risk any ambush that may be set.” The Mameluke spread his hands.
Martin nodded. “Yes, but we do not need to enter the Rosetta channel in daylight, do we? We can find a hiding place somewhere in all this damned vegetation, wait until night falls again, then make a run for the sea, and the Lucina.”
Tusun regarded the marsh. “Are you are sure you can find your way out of here again, Effendi?” he inquired a little impishly.
“Are you questioning my navigating talents, you rogue? I’ll have you know that every officer in His Majesty’s navy can find his way out of any backwater, even one such as this.”
The tabby cat meowed as it came to rub around Tansy’s skirts again. She picked it up to cuddle, and Tusun scowled. “Cats are bad luck on a boat,” he declared, almost predictably.
Martin shook his head. “On the contrary, every vessel should have a cat; they keep the rats at bay.”
Tansy cuddled the animal close. “I shall have to give you a name,” she whispered to it.
Tusun shrugged. “My mother was foolish enough to like cats. She had one she called Miw. It is the name the pharaohs gave to all cats.”
But Tansy had already decided. “I shall call her Cleopatra,” she said. “Cleo for short.” The tabby immediately looked up at her and began to purr.
Chapter 11
Sir Julian was taking breakfast in his house in Park Lane. He wore his dressing gown over his shirt and breeches, and there was an embroidered skullcap on his head. The morning sun flooded into the dining room, which looked onto the gardens behind the house. Snowdrops and crocuses flowered on the pocket-handkerchief lawn, where the overnight frost had now melted. It was, Sir Julian reflected a little sadly, the last time he would see them in bloom here. But he wasn’t sad enough to want to change his mind about selling.
A coal fire flickered in the hearth, its flames pale and almost transparent in the bright light from the window, where Ozzy was taking the sun on the sill. The tomcat had enjoyed a feast of crisp bacon fat, which had been neatly cut up for him on his special plate on the table, Sir Julian being no stickler for etiquette. Now a cheeky robin fluttered to the ground just on the other side of the window, which annoyed Ozzy very much. His tail lashed, and he began to make angry clicking noises with his jaws.
“Oh, do stop that, you foolish creature,” Sir Julian muttered, picking up his newspaper and attempting to read. But Randal kept intruding upon his thoughts. At last the newspaper was set aside, a
nother cup of thick black coffee was poured, and proper consideration was given to the man who threatened to stir up so much mud from the bottom of the lake. How very alarmed Randal must have been when he discovered the scandalous family secret that could conceivably rob him of everything. Was that the real reason for the match with Amanda? The security her fortune would provide if he did lose all because of the secret? Yes, of course….
Sir Julian’s eyes cleared as he began to unravel Randal’s motives. Of all the likely heiresses, how clever to choose her, for once she was Lady Sanderby, the letter’s revelations would ruin her life too. Randal was taking the calculated risk that her uncle would not be able to bring himself to do that to his own flesh and blood. He was also relying on the fact that Felice’s doting lover would continue to protect her son and her good name, as he had for all these long years. Sir Julian could imagine Randal’s apoplectic fury at finding his future so completely in the hands of a man he loathed, and who loathed him.
It would be no less than justice if it were to come out at last, but there were degrees of justice, and Felice had been desperate to bury it all so that it never saw the light of day. Sir Julian reached into his dressing gown pocket for the battered leather pouch that never left his side. There, in a double lining, he kept a folded theater handbill, dog-eared now and fragile, but still legible. It was for David Garrick’s farewell performance at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane on Monday, June 10, 1775. But it wasn’t the handbill itself that Sir Julian studied now, for in the margin was the message Felice had sent to him by the box keeper.
My adored J,
My heart is filled with love as I sit here opposite your box. I see only you, not great Garrick’s last glory. You are so near and yet so far, but soon we will be together forever. My decision is made. I will slip away from E directly after the performance is ended. There will be no going back.
F.
Tears shimmered in Sir Julian’s eyes. That night had seen the last moments of reckless hope, the last sighs of foolish abandonment, for as the final curtain came down upon the stage, her husband took cruel delight in revealing that he knew of her illicit love affair. Esmond then told her the shocking truth that changed everything. So few words were needed, just the plain, unpalatable facts, and as the audience rose to cheer Garrick’s parting speech, Felice, Countess of Sanderby, had fallen in a faint from which it took much sal volatile to bring her around. From that moment on she had been bound to her despised husband as surely as if with iron chains. Only one person in the world did she place before herself, before even the lover she had so nearly gone to, and that was her child. Randal Fenworth, so mean hearted and despicable, did not deserve such a mother, but even he would have ceased to be of such importance if—
Someone coughed. “Begging your pardon, Sir Julian, but Lord Sanderby has called.”
“Eh?” Sir Julian hadn’t heard the footman enter.
“Lord Sanderby has called, sir.”
What now? Sir Julian composed himself as he replaced the handbill in the pouch.
“His lordship respectfully requests a few moments to speak with you about arrangements for his forthcoming marriage to Miss Amanda,” the footman explained.
“Very well, show him in. But if he should still be here in ten minutes, be sure to remind me it is time to prepare for my very important appointment in the city.”
“Yes, sir.” The footman began to withdraw, but then he remembered something else the caller had requested. “Begging your pardon again, Sir Julian, but his lordship trusts the cat will not be present.”
“Does he, be damned? Well, he can trust away, for Ozymandias stays.”
“Yes, sir.” The footman bowed and went out.
Sir Julian tossed his napkin on the table, rose from his chair, and addressed the cat on the windowsill. “Ozzy, there is more bacon fat for you if you make yourself useful while this fellow is here.”
The door opened again, and Randal was shown in, his gilt spurs clinking on the marble floor. He was dressed to ride in Hyde Park, in a dark green coat, dull golden waistcoat, and white breeches, although riding was one of his least favorite pastimes. His fair hair was tied back with a ribbon that matched his waistcoat, and his starched neck cloth was an intricate work of art. An indifferent horseman at the best of times, he was nevertheless prepared to obey the rules of fashion by being the peacock in Rotten Row. To this end he was so perfectly turned out that a hair out of place would have ruined the effect. What would also have ruined the effect would be a horse that showed any sign at all of blood or spirit. However, in the bay gelding now attended at the front entrance by one of Sir Julian’s grooms, he had found a mount that pranced a lot, but was actually quite docile.
He waited until the door was closed behind him, then sketched a stylish bow. “Good morning, Sir Julian. I trust you had a good journey from the coast?” he greeted, his eyes and nose initially quite unaffected by Ozzy’s close proximity.
“I think you already know how my journey went, seeing you followed me for a while,” Sir Julian replied, going to the fireplace and standing with his hands clasped behind him.
“Followed you?” Randal was all innocence. “If you were followed, it was not by me.” Ozzy chose that moment to jump up onto the table. Ginger fur floated invisibly, and Randal’s nose immediately began to react, and he reached hastily for his handkerchief. “Dab it all, Richardson. I bade it clear I wanted no cats!”
“This is my house, not yours, and it pleases me to keep Ozymandias with me. Now then, what brings you here, Sanderby?”
Randal had been on the point of advancing to a more dominant position in the center of the room, but now he kept well back by the door. “It is a while since our beeting at Chelworth, so I thought I would pay you a friendly call.”
“Only a fool would believe that; so get to the real point, whatever it is.”
“In good tibe, Richardson, in good tibe. A few social niceties first, eh?” Ozzy bestowed a baleful look on the visitor and growled low in his throat. Randal eyed the tomcat uneasily, then blew his nose again and continued stoically. “Have you heard when Abanda will reach England?” he asked Sir Julian.
“If she has any sense, she’ll still follow her father to Australia.”
“Ah, how droll you are, to be sure,” Randal murmured, watching Ozzy, whose amber eyes did not waver from him.
“Drollness has nothing to do with it, Sanderby, for I mean every word.”
“I ab sure you do, but your opinion bakes no difference to be. What does bake a difference, however, is the knowledge that as a child I cabe within an inch of being deserted in favor of you.”
That isn’t really what matters to you now, Sir Julian thought, in his mind’s eye seeing Felice’s all-important letter in the statue’s secret compartment at Chelworth. Ozzy was acutely conscious of the atmosphere between the two men, and he ventured to the edge of the table closest to Randal, then spat as threateningly as he could. Sir Julian could barely conceal his admiration for his pet’s noble efforts. Ozymandias was past master of delivering feline invective. There would definitely be another plate of bacon after this, as deliciously light and crisp as the cook could manage.
Admiration was the very last thing Randal felt for the bristling ginger quadruped. He furiously regarded Ozzy, and then sneezed again. Handkerchief flapping at his nose, he spoke again. “Sir Julian, I suggest we stop beating about the bush. Your affair with by dear baba is really neither here nor there, is it? What really batters is what happened five years before you and she exchanged so much as a glance, let alone stole a clandestine kiss.”
Sir Julian contrived to look puzzled. “What in God’s own name are you getting at?” he demanded. “I know nothing of anything that might have gone on five years before I met her.”
“You are playing with fire again, Sir Julian. I know frob by father’s diary that she wrote you a long and exceedingly delicate letter.”
Sir Julian’s heart missed a beat. Until this moment, Ra
ndal’s knowledge of the letter had just been guesswork, unconfirmed and therefore not to be entirely believed. Now it was confirmed.
Randal went on. “She detailed her exact reasons for not seeing you anybore. Naturally enough, given the circubstances, by father tried to prevent the letter frob reaching you. He failed, but then you already know that, because you have the letter. Don’t you.” The last two words were a statement, not a question.
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sir Julian replied, determined to protect the letter at all costs, but he could see by Randal’s eyes that the denial failed to convince.
“Oh, I think we both know there was a letter, Sir Julian.” Randal blew his nose. “That’s why you’re here in London, isn’t it? To see how great a ripple you can cause in the pool?”
So that was what had prompted the visit. “You’re wrong…about everything. I’m here in London to attend to the sale of this house and to visit the British Museum in order to examine a papyrus. And I tell you again that I know nothing of any letter from your mother.”
“Why do you persist in speaking to be as if I were a boron? The letter is fact, you know it and I know it, so will you please stop this dabbed pretence?” Randal’s eyes were now very red and bloodshot, and he looked quite dreadful, but his voice remained cold and level.
“There is no letter,” Sir Julian insisted. “Believe me, don’t believe me, I really could not care less.”
“On the contrary, I think you care very buch. You still have the letter, and the only reason you haven’t used it is because it would hurt by baba. You don’t give a dab about be; in fact, I would have been sacrificed long since if it weren’t for her. And I still will be if you were to find a certain other party; isn’t that so?” The last words were uttered quietly, reasonably, as if remarking upon the fine weather outside.
“Certain other party? Heavens above, man, will you please stop speaking in riddles?”
The moments hung so silently in the room that the crackle of the fire seemed suddenly very loud. Ozzy growled again, and he shuffled up and down the edge of the table, as if gauging whether or not he could leap upon Randal.