by V. A. Stuart
“Your husband returned this to me before he died. He said that the gift came from you both.”
In the light from the mud-splashed carriage windows, the splendid stone gleamed dully and Mademoiselle Sophie looked down at it in startled recognition. “It is the one I gave you!”
“Yes, the same.”
She sighed. “Our destinies and the destiny of this ring are strangely interwoven, aren’t they, Phillip? And yet, when I was leaving the Trojan and asked you to accept it as a souvenir, I had no thought that it might take on such significance for us both … and for Andrei. I—I wanted to make a small gift to you and I had nothing else of value with me. Nothing except this. It was my father’s and … oh, Phillip, I am pleased that Andrei returned it to you, for … for many reasons, of which it is better not to speak, I think. Keep it, I beg you, as the … the souvenir I intended it to be. A souvenir by which to remember us both.”
She laid it on his palm but Phillip shook his head. “I need no souvenir. I shall not forget you; I shall not forget either of you for as long as there is breath in my body. But if it has a destiny, will you permit me to make a gift of it now to your— your unborn child?”
Mademoiselle Sophie tried to answer him but could not. Finally, in tearful silence, she held out her hand to him and Phillip, after a moment’s hesitation, took the ring from its case and slipped it carefully on to one of her small, cold fingers. For him, the action was strangely symbolic and, as she bent her head to look down at the intricately carved jewel now adorning her hand, the conviction that this was to be their farewell grew in his consciousness, until it became certainty. He had given her back the ring which had linked them together—given it of his own free will, without coercion—so that their destinies might no longer be interwoven. They would not meet again after he left for the cove this evening, he knew instinctively … yet could feel no regret. It had been enough that he had known and loved her, without hope and without fulfilment. This was the end of a road they had travelled together, the end, perhaps, of a dream for both of them and, since it could be no more than a dream, the only end.
As if she had intuitively guessed his thoughts, Mademoiselle Sophie raised her head, her eyes still bright with tears as they met his. She subjected him to a long and thoughtful scrutiny, her small, lovely face grave and unsmiling, yet oddly tender, and then whispered, as if it were a benediction, “The heart does not forget, Phillip, however sad it is … and my heart will not forget. May God be with you, now and always, my brave English sailor.”
Phillip bore the hand he held to his lips and they sat facing each other—both wordless, because there were no words now to say—as the carriage entered the walled Narishkin estate and came clattering to a halt outside the heavy, iron-bound front door of the palace.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Phillip left the ancient, stone-built palace of the Narishkins at sunset, mounted on a horse from the palace stables and accompanied by the same giant footman, Boris, whom Mademoiselle Sophie had sent to guide him from the Cathedral, a few hours before.
“Boris is completely to be trusted,” she had assured him. “He speaks no language save his own, alas—our peasants are not linguists—but I have instructed him to ride with you to your rendezvous and then, when you no longer require his services, to return here with both horses. It is unlikely that you will be stopped or questioned but, if you should be, Boris knows what he is to say. And should anyone molest you, he will defend you with his life.”
As he trotted along the rutted coast road, with Boris a length behind him, Phillip found himself looking back on the hours he had spent as a guest in Andrei Narishkin’s vast, opulent house with a sense almost of disbelief. He had been transformed from a weary fugitive, in bloodstained clothes and with a battered head, into an honored guest, waited on by a small army of servants, who went about their business with silent efficiency. His wound had been cleansed and carefully bandaged; tea from a huge samovar had been served to him as he soaked his bruised and aching body in a tub of hot water, in which healing herbs had been infused to banish his stiffness.
When he was wrapped in a thick bathrobe and seated before a blazing log fire, a meal had been brought to him— course after course, accompanied by lavish offering of wine and vodka—to which he had been too long without food to do full justice but had nevertheless enjoyed. Later the majordomo and a liveried manservant had assisted him to dress in a uniform they had contrived somehow to dry and renovate, so that it fitted him comfortably again, over fresh linen that was not his own but which fitted him as comfortably as the rest. His boat-cloak had, however, defied their efforts and, in its place, the major-domo solemnly laid out a selection of fur-lined coats and cloaks, inviting him by signs to make his choice and seemingly blind to his repeated head-shakes until, eventually, finding it impossible to argue, he had chosen a garment most nearly resembling his own torn one. His fingers went out to touch the costly fur at his throat and he smiled wryly to himself, wondering what Ambrose Quinn would make of his reappearance in this borrowed and obviously Russian finery. His second-in-command would make something of it, no doubt—it would not be like him to miss such an opportunity for innuendo, if not open accusation—but … Quinn himself had some explaining to do, hadn’t he?
Phillip sighed. His brain was clear now, his memory perfectly restored and, frowning, he cast his mind back to the scene on the cliff top that morning. True, he had been in a confused state this morning and might well have exaggerated the implications he had drawn from the position of the rock which had descended upon him with such force in the darkness. The infernal thing could have fallen accidentally, without Quinn’s knowledge and without assistance from him or any one else—the whole cliff face was a mass of loose, crumbling rock and piled-up boulders. On the other hand, the possibility that the rock fall had not been accidental could not entirely he dismissed. Quinn had known exactly where he had taken shelter and had, in fact, pointed out the cleft in the rock to him, suggesting it as a … what had he said? A snug spot for a cat-nap … yes, indeed he had, although it was somewhat out of character for him to concern himself with so trivial a matter as his commander’s comfort.
Yet last night he had … Phillip involuntarily reined in his horse, stifling an exclamation, and Boris drew level with him in swift alarm. He shook his head, smiling apologetically, and the man returned his smile and dropped back.
There was, perhaps, a way in which he could find out the truth, Phillip reflected, as his horse settled down once more to a steady trot. An inconclusive way but, for his own peace of mind, he had to know the truth, had to decide whether his injuries had been caused deliberately or accidentally last night. He might be unable to prove this, of course, but at least he himself would know and, in the future, would take good care never to relax his guard with Ambrose Quinn. It was curiously ironic, though, to reflect that he had been in less danger from his country’s enemies today than—last night—he had been from his own second-in-command. Had been? No … He stopped himself. Might have been; he had proved nothing against Quinn yet, even to himself. In fairness to the man, he must keep an open mind, until he was able to do so, must give him the benefit of the doubt, as—he shrugged—as he had given his First Lieutenant the benefit of the doubt when little Lightfoot had fallen from the rigging, and as the court of inquiry into the death of Commander Francis Willoughby had also elected to do, according to Surgeon Fraser. …
Phillip’s mouth tightened and he dug his heels into his horse’s sides, suddenly impatient, his mind made up. He would put his suspicions to the test, he decided, and either justify them or dismiss them completely from his thoughts. It would be simple enough to make the test, in all conscience. He had only to return to Quinn’s “snug spot” or the cliff face and wait there … wait, to see who came to him. If Quinn came, he would know and all his doubts would be resolved, because Quinn would not come unless he expected to find him still lying there injured, as he had left him … or even dead.
&nb
sp; He breathed a deep, troubled sigh, suddenly sick with revulsion at the thought of what he would have to do and reluctant, even now, to believe that his half-formed suspicions could be justified. Quinn was a British naval officer and …
Boris touched his arm, pointing ahead of them to where, bathed in the crimson glow of the sinking sun, the British squadron lay at anchor. He nodded in acknowledgement and shook off his depression, resolutely thrusting the thought of Quinn to the back of his mind. Kneeing his horse to a canter, he breasted the rise ahead of his escort but, after a quick glance to satisfy himself that the ships had not changed position, he did not draw rein. All appeared to be well; the Gladiator was still flying her white flag of truce at the main and his own Huntress was continuing to keep her distance from the rest of the squadron. His mission was complete, thanks to Mademoiselle Sophie, so that the sooner he rejoined his ship and delivered his report the better. He turned in his saddle to wave to Boris and, when the Russian caught up with him, again put his horse to a canter.
They turned off the road, ten minutes later, and crossed the marshy wasteland in semi-darkness, slowing down to a cautious trot as the light faded. At the cliff top, Phillip dis mounted and gave his reins to the big footman, indicating by signs that they had reached the end of their journey. But Boris did not immediately accept his dismissal; reaching into his saddle bag, he brought out a bottle of wine and provisions of some kind, wrapped in a linen napkin which, dismounting, he laid at Phillip’s feet. Then he bowed and remounted and was swiftly lost to sight in the gathering darkness, the thud of his horses’ hooves on the iron-hard ground continuing for a short while after the darkness had swallowed them up. When this sound had also faded and he knew that he was alone, Phillip made a careful reconnaissance of the cliff top and the shore of the cove. Satisfied that both were deserted, he located the cleft in the rock which Quinn had found for him and, having retrieved the lantern—still lying, up-ended, as he had left it—he took the thoughtfully provided food and wine and, lowering himself on to the ledge, settled down to await the arrival of the gig.
The boat came, commendably on time, heralded as before by the muted splash of oars and, as before, its approach was cautious, which suggested that Lieutenant Quinn was again in command. It was now so dark that Phillip could not see the gig from his hiding-place but the sounds of its coming were borne to him quite clearly across the water, and he heard its bows ground on the stony foreshore some ten minutes after entering the cove.
His pulses quickened, as he crouched in the darkness, waiting for men to splash ashore and for one man—or, perhaps, two—to scale the cliff in search of him. But, to his bewilderment, no one came and, after only four or at most five minutes, he heard Quinn bark the order to shove off. The realization that his gig was about to put back to the Huntress without him came as an unexpected shock, and almost decided him to abandon the trap he had baited. He was on his feet, hands cupped about his mouth preparatory to calling the boat back, when he thought better of it.
He had proved nothing, had neither allayed nor confirmed his suspicions and, he told himself wryly, he must do one or the other if he were ever to know peace of mind where Ambrose Quinn was concerned. The gig would, in any case, return to the cove an hour before daybreak, in obedience to his orders, and he could wait until then … another night in the open might not be pleasant but would do him no great harm. It was cold but he had food and wine, as well as the splendid fur-lined cloak with which Mademoiselle Sophie’s major-domo had supplied him, and—there was plenty of shelter. He could afford to bide his time and it would give him the opportunity to think and, perhaps, to decide, about Quinn.
He let his hands fall and resumed his seat, brows puckered as he endeavoured to analyse the possible reasons for his First Lieutenant’s behavior. Ambrose Quinn, he reflected, was nobody’s fool, and he was not in the habit of taking risks. Obviously he would play for safety now if he had anything to hide. Yet he had acted rather oddly. He had made no search, even of the foreshore of the cove, and had permitted none of his gig’s crew to set foot on land. Why? There had been no warning light, the cove had been silent and deserted but, although his orders allowed for a wait of ten to fifteen minutes, Quinn had barely waited for five minutes before putting out again— an action, surely, that required explanation, since the gig was in no apparent danger?
Phillip stared into the darkness, his eyes narrowed as he listened to the receding splash of oars and endeavoured to decide whether his second-in-command’s failure to make even a cursory search for him could be construed as the act of an innocent man or—he shifted uneasily, his back against the hard, unyielding surface of the rock—or as that of a man with attempted murder on his conscience because this, in effect, was what it amounted to, wasn’t it? He sighed. Well, supposing it was, supposing that Quinn had known, when he entered the cove this evening, that his commander was in all probability lying injured near the top of the cliff, what line of reasoning would have dictated his actions?
He lay back, pulling his cloak about him. He had most of the night to give to the solution of his problem, so he might as well make use of the time at his disposal, he told himself, and consider the question logically, from every angle. It was an ill wind, for at least it would serve to occupy his mind, keep his thoughts from straying to Mademoiselle Sophie, of whom he dared not let himself think. Not yet, not until the pain of their parting had dulled a little. He felt his throat muscles stiffen and forced himself to concentrate on Quinn. For a start, he would try to put himself in Quinn’s place, he decided, and assess the situation through the eyes of his First Lieutenant.
Taking it then that he had been responsible for the dislodged rock—deliberately or even accidentally—would he have scaled the cliff this evening to look for his injured commander? Or would he have postponed the search, until there was a better than even chance that the unfortunate fellow had succumbed to his injuries? In Quinn’s eyes, his commander’s failure to meet the gig on the beach just now would suggest that the rock had found its target and that, as a result, he was dead or dying—but this was by no means certain. The missile could have struck him only a glancing blow—as had, in fact, been the case—from which he had recovered, partially or completely. This contingency could not be ruled out. In Quinn’s place, Phillip thought grimly, he would not have ruled it out. He would have postponed the search—as Quinn had done—until adhering strictly to his orders, the gig returned next morning to the cove, because … he frowned, not liking the trend of his thoughts.
Quinn’s brief call at the cove a few minutes ago would have confirmed the fact that his commander had been unable to make the first rendezvous. The reason for his having failed to do so remained still in doubt but there was a strong possibility that the injured man was lying on the cliff face, the “snug spot” in which he had sought refuge having now become his final resting-place. If he were not yet dead, a second night’s exposure to the icy cold would almost certainly bring about his death: there was no disputing that supposition.
Despite the protection of his thick, fur-lined cloak, Phillip shivered. Dear heaven, it was cold now that the sun had gone, he thought, and began to regret his impulsive decision to spend a second night in this desolate place. But he was here and it was too late for regrets. He sat up and, opening the bottle of wine which Mademoiselle Sophie had sent for him, poured a liberal draught of it down his throat. The wine, as he hoped it would, induced an illusion of warmth and well-being and, after a while, he forced himself to continue his analysis, still viewing the situation from Ambrose Quinn’s angle, and still supposing the man guilty of a deliberate attempt on his life.
By putting off the search for him until morning, Quinn could allow for any eventuality because he had committed himself to nothing and time was on his side. If his commander survived two long, cold nights on the cliff face, he would be in no condition to make accusations or even to remember what had occurred in the interim. If he did not survive, then his body would be found
by the landing-party and his death attributed to an unfortunate accident—or even to enemy action—for which, of course, no blame could be attached to Quinn. He could claim that he had carried out to the letter the instructions he had been given, while quite truthfully pleading ignorance of the reason why his commander should have gone ashore, in enemy-held territory and in flagrant branch of the flag of truce the squadron was flying.
Even if his commander’s injuries were slight and he reappeared on the foreshore next morning, Quinn need only deny that he had seen or heard the rock fall or that he had been aware that his commander had been struck by it. He would have little to fear, so long as he stuck to his denial—as he had done quite successfully in Lightfoot’s case, Phillip reminded himself glumly. No one could expect him to investigate an accident of which he had not been aware … and yet he must have been aware of what had happened. Damn it, he had been so close at hand, he could not have failed to hear that rock crashing down, whether or not the darkness had hidden it from his sight and even if it had been dislodged accidentally. But he had returned to the gig, without waiting to ascertain that his commander had suffered no ill effects, he … Phillip swore softly. He took another gulp of the wine, suddenly experiencing a strong desire to drink himself into a stupor, in order to escape from the torment of his own thoughts and the conclusions he was beginning to draw from these. Then he capped the bottle and laid it down at his side. He hadn’t yet done, he chided himself. In justice to Ambrose Quinn, he had now to go back over the same ground, assessing the whole series of events on the basis that his second-in-command was innocent of any attempt—deliberate or otherwise—to do him injury or to take his life.