She caught her breath, then said, "There. Now you have properly set me down and you will feel better."
He did not feel better. He felt utterly miserable, and he had barely begun! Drifting closer to her he drawled, "Shall I, indeed? I might do so were you able to explain to me by what right you persist in interfering in what don't concern you!"
"I had no right," she admitted repentantly, "and I am truly sorry for what happened with Lady Mount-Durward. Had I known—"
"And thereby hangs a tale, for there is such a great deal of our personal business you do not know, ma'am. And that is— I'll not wrap it up in clean linen—is none of your business! But ignorance doesn't stop you, any more than delicacy. You had the unmitigated impertinence to deliberately goad that dreadful—er, to goad Lady Hester into humiliating Katrina and me last evening, and—"
"No!" Distressed, she came to her feet and stretched out a hand pleadingly. "You cannot think that, August! I was upset because you were so spiteful toward Trina, but—"
Touched on the raw, his temper flared. "Spiteful, is it? I 'faith but you take a deal upon yourself, madam! What I say to my sister is none of your bread and butter!"
"Don't be vulgar!" Bridling, she lowered her hand and her own eyes began to sparkle. "Katrina is my dear friend and to see you take advantage of her gentle and sweet nature, is—"
"If I chose to beat my sister at thirty-minute intervals, day and night, 'twould be no one's concern but Katrina's and mine!" That foolish statement recalled him to his rehearsed and long lost One Simple Sentence, and he began again, "I will ask, Madam Busybody, that you—"
"That is the most dreadful thing I ever heard!" she interrupted, her voice ringing with indignation. "Such bestial behaviour would be the concern of every decent-thinking person in England! Katrina is of age! She has every right to choose her mate! You know perfectly well that she loves Jamie—"
Already infuriated with himself, her words fanned his anger. He took a step toward her, and the blaze in his eyes caused her to draw back nervously. He said through his teeth, "Hear me, madam! My sister will never wed James Morris! I'll see him dead, first!"
Gwendolyn wet dry lips, drew herself up, and argued, "He won't fight you! He loves Trina, and he knows—"
"He'll fight! Oh, I'll own he's been hard to bring up to the mark, but I've a weapon now. If I must, I'll use it. And I promise you, ma'am. He'll fight!"
Dismayed, she said, "You must think highly of him to be willing to hang for his sake!" But suddenly, the sight of his pale strained face, that molten glare in his eyes, was more than she could bear. She touched his arm and pleaded, "Oh, August, I know you did not mean that! You have not rested as you should, and 'twas fever from your wound talking, not your true self! I know that whatever you say, in your heart you do not dislike Jamie nearly as much as you pretend, and—"
He caught her wrist in a grip that made her gasp. "You know nothing!" He released her so violently that she staggered and fell back onto the sofa with a little shocked cry.
"I know that—that you love Trina," she stammered. "But don't you see how you are breaking her heart? Did you know that she weeps at night? Are you too full of pride to care about her grief? August—hate me, if you must. But I beg of you—"
Hate her… ? Could she really think that? Better if she did think it, of course. Considerably shaken, he said tempestuously, "Have done! Have done!" So much for being cold and controlled! So much for "li"! He had loved and left some of the most beautiful and most admired ladies in the land, and always had handled the manner of their parting with tact and grace. What had become of his tact and grace now? Why was it that this slip of a girl could so swiftly ignite his wrath that everything he had meant to say was swept away and forgotten? Perhaps she was right and he was feverish. Was it fever that made it seem so vitally important that she should, to some small extent, understand? He knew only that it was so, and bowing to that awareness, he sank onto the fireside chair, hands clasped between his knees, and his dark head downbent.
"Very well," he muttered. "Since you cannot keep from prying, and because Katrina cares about you, I'll gratify your curiosity."
"No! August, please! All I ask is—"
He made a savage silencing gesture. "You've seen my grandmama's portrait. Despite her—alien features, you won't deny she was a great beauty."
"Of—of course she was. And I never thought her alien."
He said sardonically, "Then you are indeed a rara avis. But the important thing is that she was a remarkable human being; as warm and loving as she was beautiful, and a most accomplished lady besides. She made one mistake. She loved greatly, for— But I go too fast." He drew a steadying breath. "Natasha was living with her family in Paris when my grandfather, Sir Geoffrey Falcon, was presented to her. He was ten years her senior, a diplomatist and a very dashing fellow, who had just been knighted for a brilliant piece of work. He lost his heart to her at first sight. He was one of many. All Paris was mad for Natasha. There were wealthier and more highly placed men willing to overlook her—unfortunate lineage; fine gentlemen, eager to give her their proud old names. But she was as lost in love as Sir Geoffrey, and her parents, reluctantly I believe, gave in. She was seventeen when they married. The following year he brought her to England to have her first child."
He paused, and Gwendolyn ventured, "Please stop. There is no need for you to—"
"Be still! You pestered me into speaking of something that is too painful to ever be discussed in this house. Now you shall gain some faint notion of the harm you've done with your meddling!" He stalked to the credenza, poured a healthy measure of brandy, sampled it, then carried the glass to the hearth and stood gazing into the fire.
"My mother was born at Ashleigh," he said broodingly. "Sir Geoffrey abandoned his career, and they lived in Sussex all year round. At first, they were ideally happy, but as time went by, Natasha came to see that she dwelt in a fool's paradise. The visits of her husband's friends became less and less frequent. They were seldom invited to the homes of neighbours, and never went to Town. To give him his due, I believe Sir Geoffrey never complained, but Natasha realized at last that he was shunned; cut off from the society he always had known. Because of her. Because those sterling English aristocrats looked down on her and named her—" his eyes glared, and he fairly spat out "half-breed! Natasha! Born of the love between a princess of Russia, and a great Mandarin of China! And those narrow-souled ladies and gentlemen dared judge that exquisite little creature beyond the pale! My God!"
He returned to the window and stood there with his head thrown back and one hand thrust deep into his pocket.
Gwendolyn longed to be elsewhere, but she did not dare move, and waited, feeling trapped, and yet fascinated by his story.
"Sir Geoffrey was a fine sportsman and a bruising rider to hounds," he went on at length, "but he could enjoy neither pursuit alone. I'm very sure Natasha knew how much of his former life was denied him, and how he missed that life. She worshipped him, and she blamed herself for having brought shame on the man she loved. Eventually, she begged him to divorce her. He would have none of it, of course. A second child, a son, was born, but died in infancy, and my mother grew up an only child. Natasha adored her, but Mama hated her mixed blood and tried to conceal it." As though unable to be still, he went back to his chair and sat down before resuming: "She was pretty, and the Oriental cast of feature seems to have skipped a generation in her case. She was overjoyed when she was sent away to a select young ladies seminary.
"Grandmama was still a very lovely woman, not yet forty, when my mother married and moved into this house. For years Mama refused to go down to Sussex, but my father held Natasha in the deepest respect, and after I was born he insisted that I visit my grandparents frequently. Sir Geoffrey had become quiet and withdrawn and had not much to say to me. But Grandmama Natasha!" He smiled nostalgically, and his voice softened. "The tales she would tell me, Gwen! The store of knowledge she had about nature and history and the
world around us! The wonderful pictures she would draw. You cannot guess how I looked forward to those visits."
Gwendolyn said gently, "I think I can guess. I knew you loved her greatly."
"Very greatly. A love that was fully returned, I promise you. Katrina was still in the nursery when I was packed off to Eton. I was not happy there. I think Grandmama knew, for she would write the most wonderful letters and do all she might to encourage me." He paused, then said haltingly, "Mama was ashamed of my—appearance, and couldn't endure to be near me." Gwendolyn stifled a gasp and saw his hand clench hard, but he went on, "My father was devoted to Trina and to me, but he was kept busy with the estates—we have a large property in the shires, you may know—and also he was at that time very active in politics. If I studied hard, it was to please Grandmama. I counted the days till I would come home for the holidays and lay my small triumphs before her. I was shattered the following year, when I was forbidden to go down to Sussex. Grandmama was ill, Mama told me, and unable to see anyone. Papa was kind and tried to console me, but he seldom opposed Mama. I was headstrong, and 'twas in my mind that Natasha wanted me to come." He paused and set his glass on the table, his movements slow and deliberate, but Gwendolyn saw that his hand trembled. She had guessed by now what he was going to say and, dreading the telling, clasped her own hands tightly. "I had quite a sum," he went on, "that I'd saved from my allowance, and I slipped out early one morning and took a chair to the coaching station. I was very careful, when I finally reached Ashleigh, to go in the back way, and I crept into Grandmama's suite before anyone saw me." Again, he paused briefly. "I expected to find her weak, and changed. I have never—never been so horrified. She was far more than ill." His voice shredded. "She was… blind. And—and quite… hopelessly… insane."
It was the last thing Gwendolyn had expected. "Oh, my heavens!" she exclaimed "How dreadful! Poor lady! What a frightful shock for you!"
He stood jerkily, went to the credenza and refilled his glass. Tossing off the brandy he returned to the fire to stand facing
Gwendolyn, and she ached with sympathy to see his eyes so haunted.
"I couldn't move," he muttered. "I just stood there, staring… Then she began to scream and—and rave. One of the nurses ran in and saw me. I was whisked away, as you may guess." He ducked his head. "I remember nothing more of that summer. Nothing whatsoever. I went back to Eton. I never saw Grandmama Natasha again. She—died six months later."
Her kind heart wrung, she said gently, "Oh—my dear! I am so sorry!"
"Are you?" A twisted smile was levelled at her. "I was sorry too. And bitter, because that dear and lovely lady had been taken so long before her time. And so cruelly." He gave a derisive grunt. "Little did I know! Another six months went by before I learned the truth. A schoolmate told me. Gloatingly. Horribly. I was so stunned I didn't even strike him, though afterwards… But that's another story. I ran away from school and came back to Town and demanded the truth. My father tried to dissemble, but I'd have none of it, and at last he gave in.
"A charming widow, it seemed, had bought an estate near Ashleigh. She had an eye for Sir Geoffrey, and complete contempt for his foreign wife. I suppose poor faithful little Natasha thought it the judgment of the gods. She decided to clear the way for her beloved—to allow him to find all the happiness his marriage had denied him. So—that pitiful heartbroken lady… poisoned herself!" He heard Gwendolyn's shocked exclamation, and not daring to look at her, flung around to face the fire again. After a moment, gripping the mantel with both hands, he said, "Only she was not conversant with such—procedures. She took not quite enough of the poison. And she was left more or less alive, and… and as I last saw her."
A hushed pause. He pulled himself together and finished, "So now you know! And can you see now, madam? Can you get just a glimpse of why for not one instant would I think of allowing Katrina to follow that ghastly path? No, by God! Sooner would I see her enter a convent! My beloved grand-mama was slain by pride and bigotry. And if you imagine anything has changed in this great city since then—look about you! See how they sneer once I am safely past! Hear how they name me! How they despise—" He heard a faint sound and jerked around.
Tears glistened on Gwendolyn's lashes, and a bright path slipped down her left cheek even as she gazed at him.
Astounded, he covered the distance between them in two long strides and dropped to one knee before her. "Why, Gwen," he said tenderly, taking both her hands in his. "Have you such compassion that you can weep for a lady you never knew?"
She blinked at him and a diamond drop coursed down her right cheek. "Poor, tragic… little thing," she said in a very scratchy voice. "Oh, August!"
He raised her hands and pressed a kiss on each. "Thank you for that sweet sympathy, m'dear."
Gwendolyn sniffed and searched her pocket.
Sitting beside her, he offered his handkerchief, and she dried her tears and blew her nose.
With a faint smile he watched her tuck his handkerchief into her pocket. "I am so glad you told me," she said. "And I promise faithfully never to repeat a word of it. Dare I ask one question? Is—is Sir Geoffrey still living?"
"He survived Natasha by a year. Her diary was in his hands when they found him. And to read that, I promise you, would wring tears from a stone!"
She sighed. "I can well imagine."
The room was quiet for a space. It was a comfortable quiet, the tensions between them seeming to have been swept away. Watching Gwendolyn's expressive face, Falcon could understand why Katrina had become so very fond of her. She really was a taking little thing, with such a kind heart, and so genuine an interest in those around her. Not an ounce of affectation, either. Only look how she was wrinkling that dainty little nose.
Gwendolyn said thoughtfully, "I do believe you should allow Katrina to tell Jamie."
He stood, his smile fading. "Certainly not! One does not spread word of a suicide about Town. My father has enough to bear! Besides, Morris is just the kind of gudgeon to declare with great nobility and no insight that it made no difference. Huh!"
"Well, that is true, of course." Standing also, she scanned his face with deeper understanding. A smile crept into his eyes again, but she thought he looked very tired, and she said guiltily, "I was monstrous unkind to have caused you to endure such a painful retelling, August. I wish you will believe—"
He put his fingers lightly over her lips. " 'Tis behind us. Let us say no more about it."
She nodded. "Very well. But—you really do look rather pulled. It cannot be wise for you to be up and about with that nasty wound not yet healed. I think Sir James Knight would be really vexed if he knew."
"Oh, I've no doubt of it. 'Tis best not to pay too much attention to his rantings. He's a proper doomsday doctor, you know!"
"I suppose if I say he did not get knighted by ranting to no purpose, you will say that is precisely how one gets knighted."
He laughed. "You begin to know me too well, miss!"
"Even so, I wish you would rest. At least keep at home for a few days."
He had every intention of going to the Winter Fete at Overlake Park the following day, and no intention of mentioning that fact. Walking over to open the door, he assured her he was feeling "perfectly fit," but that it was kind of her to worry for his sake.
She shook her head and left him. When she reached her bedchamber, she sat by the window and gazed out at the rainy gardens and at the little summer-house where she and August had engaged in some lively discussions. Thinking over the tragic story he had told her, she felt tears start to her eyes again. That poor little lady—and that poor tormented boy!
How terribly hurt he must have been when his schoolmate so cruelly told him the truth of the matter. Whoever it was should have been soundly thrashed. She smiled musingly. Perhaps he was. August had hinted that there had been something more. He fought back, did August N. K. Falcon. The poor creature had been fighting back all his life, one way or another. 'Twas remarkable he'
d not been crushed by the world. 'Faith, but there was little wonder he felt as he did.
She went to the dressing table and unlocked her jewel case. The collection revealed would have been judged pitiful by most ladies of the ton, but she had never thought of herself as being the type to wear expensive jewels, and although she treasured some of the lovely pieces given her by her family, she seldom wore them. She took up a gold chain and a locket surrounded by intricate filigree set with semi-precious stones. Opening the locket, she gazed wistfully at the object it contained: a carefully polished but very much used golden guinea. Sighing, she closed the locket and returned it to the case, then wandered back to the window.
It was raining steadily now. She had never disliked the rain, nor did she share her brother Newby's feelings of depression on gray days. But on this decidedly gray morning she closed her eyes and directed a small prayer to whichever angel was in charge of the weather. "Please, holy sir or madam, if 'tis at all possible, might it not pour tomorrow?"
Falcon leaned back in the sedan chair and closed his eyes. Jove, but he was tired. He'd intended to walk to Rossiter Court, But the rain had changed his mind. He'd been lucky to find an unoccupied chair. Deuce take the fellows, they didn't have to gallop! He leaned forward and shouted a request for less speed, then eased himself back again.
Confounded arm. The Smallest Rossiter was likely in the right of it and he should have kept to his bed today. If truth were told, he'd have rather enjoyed to stay at home. But, stupid as it may be, he could not dismiss Tummet's remarks about Bonnie Prince Charlie, and he was eager to hear what Ross had to say in the matter.
Despite his arm and the fact that he felt rather uncomfortably warm, he knew a deep sense of relief that he'd not been obliged to send the Smallest Rossiter packing. To drag out the sad tale of Grandmama Natasha had been an ordeal, but it had been worth it to win Gwendolyn's understanding. They'd have liked each other, he thought. Although Grandmama might have been a trifle taken aback by some of Gwendolyn's starts. Indeed, many people, even today, would be shocked that a young lady should hold views on such things as politics, or the history and philosophies of other nations (such as China!). And that she would voice those views in mixed company would be judged presumptuous and unfeminine. He chuckled. An independent spirit, the Smallest Rossiter, which was the very quality he found so delightful. It was remarkable in fact that she had not argued when he'd rejected her suggestion that Katrina tell Jamie Morris about Grandmama Natasha. Nor had she protested his remark that Jamie was sure to say it would make no difference. Instead, she'd said in that funny grave little way of hers, "Well, that's true, of course," which was—
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