Parfit Knight

by Riley, Stella

  She nodded. It occurred to her that he was unwise – in this mood and with only one arm – to go out riding but she knew better than to say so.

  ‘Ask them to saddle Vulcan.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Again that tight, meaningless smile. Then, ‘Don’t worry. I won’t ride ventre à terre and I’ll try to come back in a more civilised humour.’ And he was gone.

  For a long time, Eloise sat quite still looking at a rather blurred image of the closed door and then, with an air of quiet desperation, she picked up her hat and walked resolutely out into the sunshine of her garden.

  She was still there when her major-domo came to inform her that she had visitors. Two young ladies, he said, bristling with disapproval, who had asked first for Monsieur le Marquis.

  The Dowager laid down her trowel and thoughtfully pulled the gloves from her hands. Then she said quietly, ‘Merci, Gaston. I will see these young ladies.’

  Gaston sniffed. ‘Oui, Madame.’

  Eloise regarded him with a twinkle of mischievous sympathy.

  ‘I know, mon vieux – I know. But we are no longer young, you and I - and the world changes. Also, two young ladies are better than one, so it could be worse.’ And on this somewhat obscure utterance, she drifted away into the house.

  Isabel turned apprehensively as the door opened and received the confused impression that this small, elegant lady in apple-green silk could not possibly be the Marquis’s mother. Then she recognised the line of cheek and jaw, realised that the delicate skin was no longer young and the exquisitely-dressed silvery hair perfectly natural; and, looking into the Dowager’s clear green eyes, said impulsively, ‘Oh – but you are so like your son!’

  Eloise gave a sweet rippling laugh but, even as she replied, her gaze was already on Rosalind. ‘Merci du compliment, mademoiselle – I am happy that you think so. But it seems that you have the advantage?’

  Isabel flushed and wondered foolishly why no one had thought to mention that the Dowager Marchioness was French.

  ‘I – I beg your pardon, Madame,’ she said haltingly. ‘It must seem odd to you but I – that is, we – have come to – to … ‘

  Rosalind’s fingers tightened on Isabel’s arm and then fell away as she took a small, uncertain step forward.

  ‘We came because I hoped to speak to his lordship,’ she said baldly. ‘And Mistress Dacre came with me because I am blind.’

  ‘Ah.’ Eloise’s gaze became positively owlish as she studied the exquisite face. ‘And what you have to say to my son, Mademoiselle Vernon – it will not wait?’

  ‘No. It will not wait,’ came the tense reply. Then, differently, ‘You know who I am?’

  ‘Bien sûr,’ nodded Eloise. And thought, You are the one for whom my Dominique is in purgatory – and you look as though you are sharing it with him. ‘Monsieur le Marquis has gone out riding but he will be back. You will await him, yes?’

  ‘Yes, please – if we may.’ The violet eyes grew dark with worry. ‘But how can he ride? It was only yesterday he had a bullet through his arm!’

  The Dowager’s slim shoulders stiffened and she said flatly, ‘A bullet, you say? Vraiment? I think we should sit down.’

  ‘It’s alright, Madame,’ said Isabel quickly. ‘Philip said it was not serious – just a flesh wound.’

  ‘Philippe?’ queried Eloise. And then, ‘But yes! I have it now. He is your brother, is he not, Mademoiselle Vernon?’

  ‘Yes. He is also,’ said Rosalind reluctantly, ‘the gentleman responsible for shooting Lord Amberley. You didn’t know?’

  ‘Me – I know nothing!’ said the Dowager, shrugging emphatically. ‘Dominique is never communicative – and today less so than ever. So. You speak to me of a duel, do you not?’

  ‘Yes. I’m so sorry but – ‘

  ‘And Milord Philippe, he was not shot?’

  ‘No.’ Rosalind’s cheeks gained a little colour. ‘I – I understand that Lord Amberley fired in the air. It was all a – a misunderstanding and Philip deeply regrets wounding him but he thought … at the time he thought … ‘

  ‘Oui, mademoiselle?’

  Rosalind clasped and unclasped her hands nervously.

  ‘It’s all rather complicated,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I should start at the beginning?’

  A hint of laughter gleamed in the green eyes.

  ‘Well, if you do not, it is of a certainty that no one else will – and me, I am consumed of a curiosity quite remarkable. But one does not, of course, wish to pry.’

  The unmistakable note of levity in the attractively-accented voice was so strongly reminiscent of the Marquis that it brought an ache to Rosalind’s throat and an answering gleam to her eyes. She said, a fraction less awkwardly, ‘Of course not. But I think I would like to tell you.’

  ‘Eh bien.’ Eloise smiled encouragingly. ‘Then sit down and tell me.’

  It was, as Rosalind had said, a difficult tale to tell and was made more so by her determination to deal fairly with everyone concerned. But when the threads showed signs of becoming tangled, the Dowager sifted them with some brief and beautifully direct questions that enabled Rosalind to explain and move easily on. Isabel said nothing and, indeed, hardly listened. Instead, she wondered hopefully if Lord Philip would indeed follow them and tried to calculate how soon he might possibly arrive.

  ‘So you see,’ finished Rosalind quietly, ‘Philip realises his mistake and means to acknowledge it to Lord Amberley – so I beg you will not judge him too harshly, Madame.’

  ‘I do not judge him at all, ma fille,’ replied the Dowager blandly. ‘You had better address that request to my son.’

  Rosalind smiled faintly. ‘I won’t need to. It isn’t in his nature to be less than generous.’

  There was a long pause and then Eloise said bluntly, ‘I make you my compliments, mademoiselle. It seems you know Dominique very well. Do you love him?’

  A slow flush stained Rosalind’s cheeks and, bending her head, she said simply, ‘Yes. Too much to let him live through three more days of believing I blame him for what happened twelve years ago. It’s enough that he appears to blame himself.’

  ‘I see.’ The Dowager’s green gaze rested consideringly on her guest’s tightly clasped fingers. ‘And if he asks you – you will marry him?’

  With a slow, painful smile, Rosalind lifted her head.

  ‘That would depend on why he asked me. You see, he hasn’t … he hasn’t actually said that he loves me.’

  Eloise, wondering how her usually intelligent son had been so maladroit, rolled expressive eyes at Isabel, and drawing a long, bracing breath, came to her feet.

  ‘I think,’ she announced buoyantly, ‘that you and Dominique must talk. Meanwhile, we should have some tea and you will both take off your hats and be comfortable, non? Then we shall enjoy a cosy tête-à-tête and make these foolish men very sorry that they have left us alone to do it. D’accord?’

  ‘D’accord,’ responded Isabel shyly. It was very easy, she reflected, to see where the Marquis had acquired his charm. His mother had it in abundance.

  The tea was sent for and, over it, in the process of telling her sympathetic hostess all about her troublesome brother, Mistress Dacre unwittingly revealed a good deal of the situation between herself and Lord Philip – all of which the Dowager found much more interesting than the Honourable Robert’s vagaries. Indeed, Eloise was just beginning to think that it would be a pity if she were not to meet the erstwhile Captain when, from the hall, there came sounds of an arrival that was clearly not that of the Marquis. And then a tall, dark and exceedingly dusty young man erupted into the room.

  ‘Oh!’ said Isabel, blushing furiously. ‘Ph-Philip!’

  ‘Oh Isabel!’ retorted his lordship irascibly. ‘I don’t know why you sound so surprised – for, having troubled to leave me a note, you must surely have expected me. Oh – get your hands off me, man!’ This to an affronted Gaston who was still trying to perform his duty of announcing this hasty guest. He was brush
ed briskly aside in a cloud of dust from Philip’s coat and shut firmly out of the room. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve ridden all this way for nothing!’

  ‘We don’t intend to,’ sighed Rosalind. And then, to the Dowager, ‘I must apologise for my brother, Madame. It seems he is fated to be continually at a disadvantage with your family.’

  ‘Oui - ça ce voit,’ agreed Eloise. She stood up and directed a twinkling smile at his lordship. ‘Toutefois … I am very happy to see you, my lord. I have been hoping I might do so.’

  That smile was so uncannily familiar that it was a moment or two before Philip recovered sufficiently to bow over the small, shapely hand she extended to him. He coloured hotly and said, ‘I b-beg your pardon, Madame. For my intrusion and also for my appearance.’

  She laughed. ‘But do not! One sees that you have ridden ventre à terre in pursuit of … your sister … and are a little out of temper. I do not regard it, je vous assure!’

  Philip’s mouth relaxed a little as he responded involuntarily to her charm.

  ‘I thank you, Madame – but the truth is that I followed my bride-to-be. I’ve spent altogether too much time worrying over Rosalind’s concerns and - save that I have a number of apologies to deliver presently to your son - I intend, in future, to leave them in her own charge. It’s high time I began putting my own house in order … and, if you will permit me, I should like to ask Mistress Dacre to walk with me in your garden.’

  Eloise shook her head decisively. ‘Mais, non – the garden is much too public! Your sister and I, we shall leave you here and Mademoiselle Isabelle shall pour you a cup of tea.’ She smiled encouragingly at Isabel. ‘Tea, I have noticed, has a very beneficial effect on the temper and monsieur le Capitaine will appear much less formidable when he is seated. Come, ma fille.’ And, taking Rosalind’s hand, she led her quietly out of the room and closed the door behind her.

  Philip showed no sign of sitting down and nor did he speak, so at length Isabel said hesitantly, ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘No,’ said Philip curtly. And then, drawing a deep breath, ‘I’d like to know what you expect of our marriage.’

  Startled brown eyes flew to meet his.

  ‘I – don’t know what you m-mean.’

  ‘Yes, you do. When it was first arranged, we scarcely knew each other but that’s no longer true, is it? And, although I know you accepted me for the sake of the money, I want to know if … if you have come to like me at all for myself.’

  Isabel stared fixedly down at her hands, her heart beating very fast.

  ‘Does it matter?’ she asked carefully.

  ‘Yes, damn it – it does!’ Philip dropped romantically on one knee and took her shoulders in an unromantic and somewhat exasperated grasp. ‘Because it’s only fair to warn you that, if you’re looking for a fashionable alliance where you can do as you please, you’d better not marry me! It’s true that I didn’t expect to be jealous – didn’t think I could be – but I am. And, once you’re my wife, if I catch you flirting with any man under eighty, I’ll knock his teeth down his throat!’

  ‘Oh,’ breathed Isabel, entranced by this evidence of lover-like ardour. All her longings for a gentle, poetic courtship melted into the realm of things forgotten and unregretted and she said, ‘Would you really?’

  ‘Yes. Why do you think I blew a hole through Amberley? And don’t say it was because of Rosalind. I’m sick to death of the whole tedious business and it’s bad enough that I’ll have to let him think it was that – but I can hardly say that I felt like killing him because you seemed a good deal fonder of him than you were of me, now can I?’

  ‘No – of course not.’ A sweet radiance settled on Isabel’s face and she smiled shyly. ‘B-but you were quite wrong, you know. I like Lord Amberley, of course – but nothing more than that. And I never flirted with him or anyone else.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I rather hoped, you see, that you m-might flirt with me yourself.’

  ‘Really?’ Philip grinned suddenly. ‘Then I’d better take care to do so in future, hadn’t I?’

  She nodded and stared in apparent fascination at his cravat.

  ‘You’ve been mistaken about other things too – such as the money. I never … ‘

  ‘Yes?’ The sapphire gaze sharpened suddenly. ‘You never what?’

  ‘I never cared about it,’ she replied simply. ‘Papa did – but not me. I – I would have married you anyway but I thought you just wanted a … a suitable match.’

  Philip’s hands tightened hard on her shoulders and he stood up, pulling her with him.

  ‘I did – then,’ he said unsteadily. ‘Or, at least, I thought I did. But that was before I knew you and came to love you so. I’ve been a fool – but no more. Oh my dear … ‘

  And then she was in his arms and the need for words was gone as she lifted her face to his.

  *

  Alone with the Dowager, Rosalind forced herself to ask the question that had been in her mind for the last hour. ‘Madame, if Lord Amberley were to ask me to marry him and – and I were to say yes - would you mind? I imagine that, like any mother, you would prefer that your son’s wife was not … did not have a disability.’

  Eloise reached out and took her hand. She said, ‘Ma chère, I care only that my son’s wife loves him. That you are here at all says that you do – and it is enough, enfin.’

  Rosalind clung to the slender hand and silence fell for a moment. Then, as if the words had been wrenched from her, she said, ‘Oh God – why doesn’t he come? It’s been hours.’

  Sympathy mingled with satisfaction in the Dowager’s eyes and she squeezed Rosalind’s hand with absent affection. ‘Yes. But that is nothing so extraordinary and no reason to suppose him lying dead in a ditch.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No. Dominique is a very good horseman and quite able to take care of himself – even with only one hand. He will come when he is ready. And, when he does, it will be to this room for always he enters the house from the garden when coming back from the stables. It is his habit, you understand. And me, I think it will be better that he first sees you and not Milord Philippe – who is, one hopes, more happily engaged.’ She got up and shook out her skirts. ‘Voyons … I am enjoying myself very much today. And now I think I shall enjoy myself some more and tell mon pauvre Gaston that we shall be five for dinner. He will make me a sour face and say it cannot be done – which I find fort amusant for secretly he is pleased and knows that it can. You will not mind if I leave you, ma chère?’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Rosalind politely. And wished it was true.

  She also wished, as she sat quite alone and straining every nerve to hear any sound that might warn her of the Marquis’s approach, that she could remember any of the things she had planned to say. But they had vanished beyond recall, along with a large measure of her composure and she had the nasty feeling that, when the time came, she might find herself blurting out something so hopelessly gauche that he would be unable to answer it truthfully.

  And the truth was important. Before listening to Isabel it had not seemed possible that his lordship could hold himself responsible for her blindness but now it appeared the most likely explanation. And that was as dangerous as it was ridiculous for it meant that Philip might well have been right about one thing at least.

  How do you know it isn’t from pity or guilt?

  Or a quixotic but misplaced attempt to make amends in the only way open to him, thought Rosalind miserably; and, knowing the Marquis, that was by far the most likely of the three. Unless …

  And then there were light footsteps on the stone terrace outside and she stiffened, her hands clenched tight in her lap.

  Deep in his own unpleasant thoughts, Amberley had closed the door behind him and was several steps into the room before he realised that she was there. He froze, unprepared either for the sight of her or what it did to him; and then, with a kind of groping gesture, he stretched out his hand to close hi
s fingers on the solid back of a chair. The seconds ticked by in silence while he stared wordlessly at her from eyes full of shock and disbelief and a queer, desperate hunger.

  Rosalind’s throat tightened with the agony of waiting in her endless, intolerable darkness and then she said stupidly, ‘You are surprised to see me here, I suppose.’

  The lame futile words echoed on and on in the stillness that followed and, because she had no way of knowing that the reason he did not speak was because he couldn’t trust his voice, she bent her head and said flatly, ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.’

  With an effort, he tore his eyes from her downcast face to study his own whitened knuckles. ‘Why did you?’

  The sound of his voice, harsh, brittle and stripped of its customary lightness, hit Rosalind like a blow for it made him a stranger. She shivered, feeling suddenly cold and very alone. His voice was all she had to rely on and, without it, there seemed to be nothing left.

  ‘I came to ask you something I had thought important,’ she said carefully. ‘But I think that I may have been … mistaken.’

  ‘Oh I doubt it.’ He stood straight, his hand falling clenched at his side. ‘You’d like me to explain myself – isn’t that it? To tell you why I never thought fit to mention the small matter of it being my coach that – that took away your sight? Well, I can do so if you wish. But there seems to be little point since you’d be quite mad to believe me.’

  The flippancy was back but with a razor-edged bitterness.

  ‘No – it’s not that.’ She made a tiny hurt movement that made him turn away, scalded.

  He said, ‘What then?’ And had to wait a long time for her answer.

  ‘I wanted to ask you if it’s true that you blame yourself for the accident. Do you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied tersely. ‘How could I not? And that, of course, is why I … or no. It won’t cure anything, so why say it? And my high regard for your intelligence suggests that you’ve already worked it out for yourself anyway.’