"This 'ere intruder hassaulted me, Monseer Sanguinet," said Fritch aggrievedly. "Tipped me a leveller, so 'e did!"
"In which case," purred Sanguinet, his accent barely discernable, "you failed. And failure you must know displeases me."
"But… sir . . !" whined Fritch.
Sanguinet lifted one gloved hand. A lazy movement, but the fingers might have gripped a crossbow to judge by the speed with which the Ferret slunk away.
"My estate," smiled Parnell Sanguinet, "bears signs. And the signs read—in English, mark you—'trespassers… will… be… shot!' " His gaze slid to his men and his shoulders shrugged in a Gallic gesture that reminded Harry of Camille Damon. "Eh bien? So—shoot him."
Harry stared, then laughed scornfully. "Coûte que coûte . . ?"
The pallid eyes widened a trifle and returned to him. "It shall cost me nothing, sir." He gestured once more and Harry was hauled to his feet. The scene blurred, but he kept his head up and from an echoing distance heard Sanguinet demand, "How are you called?"
"Harry… Redmond. I have come—" His rather indistinct utterance was checked by a startled, "Pas possible!" and Sanguinet leaned forward, his eyes glowing slits as he scrutinized Harry intently.
"He was with that there trader fella, Monsewer," put in the fat individual. "I seed 'un s'marnin."
Briefly, Sanguinet remained rigidly still. Then, his breath hissing through shut teeth, he relaxed, "You have come down in the world, monsieur," he sneered. "And as to why you have come here—this to me is of peu d'importance. I would be much wearied to discuss either the loss of your ancestral estates, or…" the shapely mouth twisted mockingly, "or the so-nonsensical death of your papa."
Harry swore and lunged forward, but was restrained by strong hands.
"Since you are nobly born," Sanguinet went on, "I permit that you leave. But—be warned. If upon my property you again set your feet, I shall have you shot. And—"
"And thrown to the dogs?" mocked Harry. "You are the one who is nonsensical, Sanguinet! This is 1816—not the Dark Ages! And you are 'monsieur'—not 'monseigneur'! I tell you now that I intend to discover what happened at that damnable card game and why my—"
The Frenchman's black brows had met during this defiant outburst, and now one hand flung imperiously upward. To his rageful astonishment a hand came from behind to clamp hard across Harry's mouth.
"I have a dislike to be interrupted," announced Sanguinet. "Your papa was so foolish as to challenge me when he was—how do you say this… ? In his cups? He lost—logiquement. That his whelp comes whining to me for mercy, I find disgusting. Besides which…" He grinned suddenly. "Mercy is a commodity of which I have none." He pointed his riding whip at the struggling Harry and said with deadly intensity, "Offend me once more, Redmond, and you will discover me to be—vraiment—a monseigneur!" He twisted in the saddle with lithe ease, drove home long spurs, and rode toward the house, calling over his shoulder, "Rid me of him… tout de suite!"
Half strangled and all but sobbing with fury, Harry was spun violently about. A large and knotted fist drove at him. There was no chance to avoid it. The beautiful spring morning exploded, and ceased to be.
His head was filled with merciless gnomes, each pounding at his skull with cruel pronged hammers. And as though this were not torment enough, his boots had never been intended for long hikes over rough country lanes on very warm afternoons. Harry began to feel sick and, weaving onward, did not allow himself to think of what he would do if he did not find the friendly pedlar and his humorously inclined ass. At last he approached a copse that looked vaguely familiar, but it seemed to shimmer oddly before his gaze and he put out one hand to steady himself against a tree… He flinched to an ear-splitting blast of sound and was surprised to discover not only that he had fallen to his knees but that he was all but nose to nose with a droll and familiar countenance, topped by long ears threaded through a forlorn beaver hat. "Mr. Fox…" he muttered thickly, and then was puzzled to discern dark skirts aproaching, together with a ripple of feminine laughter. He peered upward and struggled to his feet, brushing impatiently at his clouded eyes.
She wore the same round gown as when he'd last seen her, and her dark hair, although still pulled into the tight knot atop her head, was even more unattractive since strands and wisps had come loose and straggled down untidily. It was the poor half-witted girl who'd sat beside his Golden Beauty at Mrs. Burnett's genteel boardinghouse! "You . . !" he gasped. "But—how—"
She was already running to him, crying sympathetically, "Oh, my goodness! They have been rough with you!"
"Serves him right," said Diccon, slouching up to scan Harry's battered self judicially. "I told him to stay away from that lot!"
"Yes," Harry admitted. "You did. But—" He blinked at the girl, wondering if he was dreaming. "I do not understad… how—"
"Of course you do not," she said, seizing him by the arm. "And you will please to sit down on this tree stump before you fall upon your face, for it is much too warm to carry you about. There—that is better. If you will be so kind as to bring water, Diccon, I will contrive to repair your friend. I am, indeed, relieved that you found him, since—"
"Diccon did not find me." Harry glanced curiously at the tall man who now rummaged through the cart. "Were you looking for me, Diccon? I—er—I thought you would be gone about your trading."
"Was." Bowl in hand, Diccon wandered towards the stream.
"Do be still," the girl adjured, wiping at Harry's head with a wisp of cambric. "If you will refrain from speaking all the time, I shall try both to attend to you and answer your curiosity, which is, I can see, setting you all on end."
Ten minutes later, however, he had gathered only that "the good Diccon" had rescued her from a Horrid Fate, that her name was Miss Brown, and that she had "left" Sister Maria Evangeline and her friends and been brought this far by a kindly young clergyman who was very shy and very stupid since he had taken her many miles out of her way and then become 'calf eyed' so that she'd had to leave him and would have been stranded—save for 'Good Diccon'.
Harry was feeling much better now than he had upon regaining consciousness outside the Sanguinet estate, but his head still pounded so savagely as to make thinking a sad effort. Unable to unwind the tangle of her words, he reverted to a previous, and unanswered, question and was promptly told to hush.
"I only asked," he said with faint indignation, "if your friend was—"
"Be quiet!" she frowned, working gently at a cut on his lip. "All you do is talk while I try only to help you. Instead of all this… chatter about my friend— Oh! I am so sorry! But there is a little speck of gravel. I must get it out."
Submitting, he could only marvel she had not fainted. The water Diccon had brought from the stream was now crimson; his hurts must have been a frightful mess. Yet she had bathed them kindly, albeit with frowning concentration and an apparent disinclination to answer the few questions he had managed to slip in when she did not have him in such a grip that talk was impossible. Now, he again seized his opportunity. "She was sitting with you at the table, and—"
"Oh—Sister Maria Evangeline. Well, of course she is not here! Where do you suppose we should have hid her? Beneath the cart?"
The picture this conjured up drew a laugh from Harry, followed by a spasmodic clutch at his ribs; but before he could comment, she went on, "Still, she is a good woman, and I am glad you found her so fascinating."
"Er—yes…" He eyed her uneasily and thought to glimpse the flicker of a dimple at the side of her mouth. Her eyes were quite large, he noted, and flecked with little splashes of blue. Actually, she wasn't so bad looking, if only… She moved her head a trifle, glanced at him, and those big eyes slowly crossed, her chin sagging in the vacuous expression of stupidity that quite appalled him. "I'm sure she is estimable," he said, blinking and looking away hurriedly. "But, I really meant the other—" He gasped and flinched back from her hands, and she cringed a little, her eyes returning to normal.
"Tiens? Your head—it is very bad… I think."
"And you are very brave," he said comfortingly.
She looked down at her bloody hands and fluttered, "I am not… missish… if that is… what… you…" She swayed. Harry jumped up and caught her, and she leaned against him weakly.
"Here." He guided her to the tree stump on which he'd been sitting. "Please rest a moment, Miss—er, Brown. I'm not like to bleed to death, you know."
She tried to smile but her face was paper white, her eyes lacking focus. Harry had seen that look before and at once swung her head down between her knees. She gave a resentful squeal and punched him on the thigh, and he jumped back. Regarding him with indignant and watering eyes, and touching her snub nose, she wailed, "Oh! How bad of you! I think you have broken it!"
Harry explored the afflicted area. It was idiotically small but appeared intact. "I am sorry ma'am," he said penitently. "I thought you were going to faint."
"A poor sort of creature you think me!" She stood, bade him be seated, and resumed her repairs. After a moment, he tried once more. "Your friend—"
"I have no friends," she snapped. "I am all alone in the world. With no one who cares a tiny piece for me!" Diccon, an interested if supine observer, made a small sound of protest, and she flashed a tremulous smile at him and amended. "Except my very dear, kind Diccon."
Weeping women terrified Harry, wherefore he maintained a discreet and fearful silence. Nonetheless, in a little while he saw that tears crept down her cheeks and, aghast, burst out, "Oh, Lord! I beg you will not weep, ma'am! I am really feeling much better thanks to—"
"I shall weep if… I wish…" she asserted, her lower lip trembling. "And I do not cry for you, at all events, but because… because I am such… a great stupid!" She swung away, and sobbed, "Oh! How I hate myself! I was so sure—if I had gone to Spain… I would have been able to… But I see I am just a—weak and foolish… girl… after all! Juana is worth ten of me!"
Harry, who had listened in bewilderment to this uneven speech, now interposed an eager, "Juana? Do you refer to Juana Smith?"
"Oui—I mean—yes!" She wiped away her tears with the heel of one hand, leaving a crimson smear across her cheek. "She is my very dearest friend. But I hate her. She did what I am too weak and vapourish to be able properly to do. And—" She turned to him intently. "Why? Do you know her, also?"
"I do, indeed. Her husband and I saw service in Spain together. Juana is the dearest girl, and as for old Harry Smith—"
"Old Harry!" she snorted, resuming her task. "I doubt he is a day older than you! And Juana is the world's most dreadful spitfire. Except for me. But she is brave… There—I am done. And you may have a black eye, sir, which shall give you less opportunity to look at the ladies."
"God forbid!" grinned Harry. "Speaking of which—the lady I sought to describe had hair the colour of sunshine in the morning, and—"
"And eyes of the cerulean blue," she cried, waving her arms dramatically. "And a shape beyond the dreams of mortal man. While her voice—ah! the trill of a nightingale! N'est'ce pas?"
At first taken aback, Harry had become lost in reflection and sighed a dreamy, "Mai oui… absolument…
"Pah!" she snorted rudely. "It is as I have think! You are just like all the rest, and have fallen in love with my Lady Nerina Tawnish!"
"Nerina…" he breathed. "What a beautiful name."
"It means nymph of the sea," said Miss Brown. "And if you love her you had best be able to swim very fast, for there are many big fish after that one!"
The dreams fading from his eyes, Harry looked up. "You are exceeding outspoken, ma'am. Why would you think I should presume to have a tendre for the lady? I only ever saw her twice."
"The more fool you, to have fallen in love so quickly! And least of all with Nerina. But you have the look—much good it will do you! She knows where she is going, and what she wants. And it is not the likes of you."
Flabbergasted by such blunt rudeness, Harry stared at her speechlessly. The scorn died from her eyes to be replaced by a look of dismay that as quickly became defiance. "I have shocked you, I collect. Well—" her voice scratched a little, and her lips quivered, "do not expect me to behave as one of your sickly sweet ladies of Quality, for I am not!"
"Of course you are," frowned Harry. "You are Convent educated and should be spanked for—"
"Oh, and have been, I do assure you, sir." she flashed. "More times than I could count. But all have despair of me. Even Sister Maria Evangeline… Her voice softened and a wistful look crept into her eyes. "She was used to say that I am more shrew than saint. Convent or no…" She sighed, then her chin went up and she snapped, "And so be warned!" nodded fiercely, and started off with her nose in the air.
Harry recovered himself in time to stand and catch her arm. "Even so, I thank you," he said politely. "I am most grateful, Miss— er. Brown."
She wrenched away; then, as if disconcerted by the violence of her reaction, dropped him a swift curtsey. "I would let you kiss my hand, Mr.—er, Allison, did I not know the kind of man you are."
He comprehended at last why she spoke to him with contempt. At the boardinghouse she had affected a patch on her mouth, and she likely considered him an immoral man. He flushed and drew back, whereupon she went to the stream and, kneeling, began to rinse out the rags, singing softly to herself in a rather scratchy soprano.
The pride that had sustained Harry during the girl's ministrations ebbed away. He was not quite sure, whether he sat down or his knees gave out under him. He leaned his head back against the tree with a weary sigh and closed his eyes for a minute… Opening them, he was astounded to see the sky flushed with sunset. A blanket had been spread over him, and despite the sensation that he had been ridden over by a cavalry regiment, he felt a little less miserably uncomfortable. Mr. Fox grazed nearby, still wearing his hat. It was a rakish beaver, although the crown was now somewhat crushed and the brim drooping. Perhaps it was the angle at which it sagged, or the faintly whimsical look in the large dark eyes beneath it, but there was a distinct resemblance to the great statesman and Harry muttered, "By George! He really does look like Charles James Fox!"
"Told you so." Diccon appeared at his side as if by magic and, scanning him a trifle anxiously, said, "You look properly dished!"
"I shall come about, never fear. But—I do apologize for causing you all this trouble. And for leaving you in such a… er—"
"Top lofty?" Diccon suggested.
Harry coloured faintly. "No, was I? Well then, I certainly—" Here, his gaze straying to Mr. Fox once more, a surge of resentment put humility to flight. "Dash it all! That's my hat!"
"Well, it's been a hot day." Diccon sat down beside him. "Mr. Fox—he feels the heat something terrible."
There was a brief silence. Almost, Harry fell asleep, but memory stirring, he looked up again to ask, "Were you really seeking me, Diccon?"
"Wanted to give you your share." Diccon dropped two coins onto the blanket.
"Two shillings! Wealth for a sultan! Bur—why give it to me?"
"Your hat buckle was silver, like you said. Sold it to a tinker."
"Even so. I have been eating you out of house and home, besides being a confounded… nuisance." Harry roused himself and held out the coins with one hand even as his other moved to touch his pounding temple. "Take them—please. I owe you much more than—"
"Don't owe me nothing," Diccon intervened gruffly. "Bought enough vittles to keep us eating fer a week—if you want to come along."
"Please." Harry managed a smile. "Now I'll feel less of… a burden…"
"You keep on like this." observed Diccon with mild severity, "I'll have to charge you more'n buckles! Terrible strain on Mr. Fox t'see you all banged about. Took a real fancy t'you, he has, and he worries dreadful."
His voice droned on, bur the words became indistinct and Harry drifted into a slumber haunted by dreams of eyes that glowed like diamonds in a darkly handsome face.
Diccon sat on the tree stump, fiddle in one hand and bow in the other, gazing into the fire.
Astounded. Harry settled back, and drifted into sleep while pondering the incongruities of this most unusual trader.
Chapter VI
During the course of his life, Harry had not come in the way of many people cursed with afflictions, bur those few he had encountered had been unfailingly self-effacing and of a pronounced humility. His earlier suspicion that Miss Brown possessed neither of these traits was borne out the following morning. He awoke feeling renewed and, intending to repay Diccon in whatever way he was able, left his blankets so as to start the fire. Miss Brown, however, was before him. Not only was the fire blazing merrily, but water was heated, and Harry was immediately pounced upon, made to sit on the convenient tree stump and have his head inspected, bathed, pronounced healing satisfactorily, and rebandaged. He was grateful for this kindness and made some courteous enquiries about her background. These were most harshly repulsed. His attempts at polite conversation were ignored, but when he gave up and lapsed into silence, he was promptly accused of sulking. Miss Brown, he perceived, was a hopeless case. Far from attempting to minimize her pitiful handicap, she accentuated it by a hostile manner that frequently deteriorated into outright rudeness. It was possible that did she attempt to improve her appearance a trifle she would not be totally repulsive, but instead her hair seemed even more untidily tangled this morning, and her face not only lacked any trace of cosmetics but was defaced by several smears of dirt. His incredulity that a gently born girl could have plunged herself into so shocking an adventure faded before the realization that she was as wanting in sensibility as in conduct. If she saw anything improper in having spent the night alone in the woods with two strange men (an event that would have reduced most gently bred ladies to total despair), she betrayed no sign of it and was even now, in fact, glaring at him belligerently.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette Page 8