Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette

by Patricia Veryan

  "Yes."

  "And does he know the suitor hates him also?"

  "Well, of course he does!" She looked at him as though he were touched in his upper works and added, "He is his brother."

  Harry gawked at her, then went off into a peal of laughter. "Oh, you've done it up rather too brown, my girl! You could at least have made him a cousin!"

  Nanette sprang up and glared at him. "I do not make him anything, Sir Harry Horrid! Could I make him into something else, I would make him without the taint of my stepfather's evil blood. And then I would marry him!"

  "But—you hate him!"' pointed out Harry, standing politely and wiping his eyes.

  "Only because he is my uncle. If he were not, I would love him. In point of fact, I do love him. Save only for… Papa."

  "Oh." His laughter faded. "Well, you certainly cannot marry your uncle. I should think even your wicked papa would see that!"

  "My wicked papa," she said, low voiced, "holds there is no blood relationship." She clasped her hands imploringly and beggged, "So you see, Harry, you must not force me to go back to him! I beseech you to save me!"

  Unmoved by this dramatic performance, he said, "Save yourself."

  "Peasant!" she raged, stamping her foot at him. Then asked, "How?"

  "Simple. Marry someone else."

  "Oh…" The dark lashes drifted down again to the soft glow that warmed her cheeks. "I—dare not."

  "Your villainous papa would kill him, I collect." He could not hold back a laugh and tugged gently at one of her fat braids. "What a rasper!"

  "You are a stupid!" she flared, clenching her hands as she railed at him. "I hope your Nerina does marry you! It would serve you right to spend the rest of your life listening to her foolishness— when you were not gambling away her fortune!"

  Harry brandished the small club and warned, "Now you listen to me, my girl! I have endured about enough of—" And he stopped, gazing in stunned disbelief at what he held. "Where did you get this?"

  Struck by the change in his manner, she replied, "It was in the cart. I found it when I was searching for the rolling pin. Why?"

  He tore his eyes from the crown atop that truncheon and asked, "Do you know what it is?"

  "But of course. It is a little bludgeon—or club—with a knob on one end. It is quite heavy. I suppose Diccon carries it for protection. He does not care for firearms, you know. And I am glad I hit that beast, for he struck you with a great branch. Most dreadfully hard. I wish I had killed him!"

  "Killed who?" asked Diccon, ambling into the clearing. His eyes flashed to Harry. "Trouble? I see you found my baton." He reached to take it, grinning broadly. "Didn't know as how I was a Runner, did you?"

  "What I'd like to know," smiled Harry, "is how you came by it."

  "Three of my papa's men found me!" Nanette interposed urgently. "Hideous great smelly ruffians! They sought to drag me off, but I screamed, and Mr. Fox shouted, and Harry came. And he fought them! Oh, Diccon!" Her hands clasped, her small face suffused with a flush of excitement. "If you could have but seen him! So brave! And so terrible! He knocked the biggest one down, and then the other also, but another came and crept around behind him, and—"

  "She crowned him with your baton," Harry laughed. "Like a regular Amazon!"

  "Amazon!" she expostulated with a flash of her big eyes.

  "Oh—well, I mean, with incredible courage," he amended hastily. "Whilst I was like so much dead meat."

  "No! Do not heed him, Diccon. He was splendid! Only when the other pig hit him across the back with a branch, he could not jump up right away."

  Diccon's faint amusement gave way to concern. "You all right, Harry? You took a nasty one at Rodrigo."

  Harry had no recollection of having mentioned that fact and frowned his perplexity. Before he could speak, however, Nanette cried, "Ah! Now this I did not know!" She grasped his arm and pulled him towards the tent. "In with you! You shall rest, mighty warrior, while I prepare your victory feast."

  Her program sounded delightful but he said gravely, "I fear our victory feast must wait, little one."

  "Right," sighed Diccon, relinquishing his plans to settle down beside the fire. "What we got to do now is to move camp. Less'n we want more unexpected visitors. I think we'll let our military gent drive the cart. He's likely had a bit of experience at leaving no tracks behind."

  The 'military gent' smiled grimly. "Do our three valiant girl snatchers pass this way again, they'll think Mr. Fox grew wings!"

  The sun was almost down now and the purple shadows of dusk were creeping into the little glade beyond Alfriston where they had at length decided to halt for the night. Harry accepted the tin cup Diccon brought to him, rose from the stool beside the fire, and lifting his cup, saluted "A lady who is as brave as she is lovely."

  Nanette glanced up from her kettle in pleased surprise. Harry took a sip of the brandy and, watching her over the rim of the cup, knew with a touch of nostalgia that he would always remember her like this, the flames lighting her face with a dancing glow, her eyes very bright, that half-smile hovering about her lips. Lowering the cup, he smiled back at her. And at once she blushed, while her thick, curling lashes dropped in confusion. His heart beginning to beat very fast, he took an instinctive step towards her.

  "Does ye think she's pretty?" Diccon asked softly.

  Harry, who had completely forgotten the Trader was present, checked and sat down again hurriedly. "Why, yes. In her own way."

  "Aye." With a sigh of contentment, Diccon at last assumed his favourite position and, stretching out his long legs, murmured, "A man'd have t'be a blind fool not to see it." A faint smile lurked in the blue eyes, and Harry reddened and said defensively, "Yes—er… well, Jove! That awful face she pulled!"

  Diccon chuckled. "Near split me sides each time she done it. If you could've seen your expression!"

  "I saw hers!"

  "Aye. Well, she'd reason enough, poor lass."

  "Indeed?" flared Harry haughtily. "Against me, sir?"

  Diccon raised one hand in a conciliatory gesture. "Don't frizzle your ears! If I'd thought that, I'd never have let you come along."

  "I'm glad you did. Lord, but I wish you could have seen her! To think of a tiny girl like her having the nerve to whack that hulking lout on the noggin!"

  "She's a rare one, all right."

  "With a rare imagination. You'd not believe the whiskers she spun me! One would suppose her father to be a veritable prince of darkness!"

  Diccon's gaunt face became unwontedly grim. "There's things walking about on two legs, Harry, as I'd be downright ashamed to interduce to Mr. Fox as men!" He took a healthy swallow of his cognac and was sufficiently strengthened as to sit up and lean forward. "Way I sees it," he said softly. "She's a spirited little thing and fighting as best she knows. But her papa's got the law on his side, and he ain't the kind to care fer public opinion; nor her the kind to get her friends mixed up in it 'less'n she must. Only thing I can think to do is get her to her aunty, like I promised."

  Troubled, Harry's eyes followed the girl as she bustled about, singing happily to herself. Was the poor little shrew really a victim of brutal avarice? If so, he'd been a perfect clot! Totally lacking sympathy and understanding. Squirming inwardly, he found Diccon's twinkling eyes upon him and said, "I only hope she is not seen with us. It would, I fear, put her into a most unhappy situation."

  Diccon turned also to look at the busy cook and muttered, "If her papa comes up with us, friend Harry, you and I will have a deal more to cope with than a unhappy sityation!"

  Harry had come to love dinner time and their easy conversation as they ate around the fire. Tonight, however, although he took his part in the talk, he was preoccupied, his thoughts turning ever to the morrow. He would see Lady Nerina again! Anticipation made his heart race. Would she remember him at all… ?

  "Troopers and special police all over the place," Diccon grumbled.

  Harry gave a start. "Where? Lewes?"


  "Aye. More excitement than you'd've seen in a month o'Sundays in the old days. They was even some young bloods from London. All after the reward."

  "Reward? What reward?"

  "Some child's been stole, and the poor family has put up a tidy sum for information."

  "And so the greedy vultures gather," frowned Nanette, standing and taking the empty plates.

  "I could use a reward myself," said Harry thoughtfully. "And if there's one thing I despise it's anyone who would harm a child. A girl, Diccon?"

  "Fraid so."' He shook his head. "World's losing it's morals, so it is."

  Nanette was singing as she carried the kettle to the pan on the table and began to wash the crockery. Her voice was not strong, but she carried the tune truly. She had tied a red shawl about her shoulders, the rich colour matching the ribbons that held her braids. Harry went over to help and urged her to go on singing. She did so, shyly at first, but gathering confidence until she faltered, unable to recall the words. He prompted her in his rich baritone, "… thy neighboring hills

  "What a nice voice!" she exclaimed, putting the plates into the box. "Sing with me, Harry!"

  And so they sang together and were soon joined by another voice—the pure, soaring notes of Diccon's violin. Nanette clapped her hands delightedly when the song was finished, but the evening air was growing cool, and as they went to the fire, she shivered a little. Harry took off his jacket and wrapped it about her. She looked so absurdly small that he said she was more like a little bird than a girl and, swinging her off her feet, deposited her on the stool and sat close beside her as Diccon launched into a rousing version of "A'Hunting We Will Go"!

  And so the pleasant hours passed. The fire leapt and crackled; the air was brisk and clean, full of the sweet smells of earth and blossoms and wood smoke; and the moon crept higher until the trees stood like black etchings against a silver sky. The violin, Nanette's husky soprano, and Harry's deep tones entwined through one song after another. He also forgot the words in the midst of "The Mermaid," and his improvisation brought a shout of laughter from Diccon, while Nanette yanked at his hair in mock indignation. He threw his head back against her knee and laughed up at her, and when he straightened, her hand slipped onto his shoulder. It seemed so natural, so as it should be. But looking down at his tumbled dark hair, her voice shook a little. And watching her. Diccon's eyes grew troubled.

  Chapter IX

  The many-paned windows of the village shop positively sparkled with cleanliness. The display area was immaculate, the beaded green and white reticule tastefully placed beside the green sunshade. On the stand, the white gown of sprig muslin with pale green ribands beneath the bodice and laced through the tiny puff sleeves, was dainty and charming. Harry looked through the windowpanes with not one whit of appreciation for their spotless shine, however, and the rest of the display escaped him entirely, as he gazed at the muslin gown with helpless longing. How sweet Nanette would look in that gown. Almost he could picture her in it. Never before had he so desired anything, and never before had he been so totally unable to purchase what he desired. He smiled wryly, recalling the emerald and diamond necklace he had bestowed on the last barque of frailty to live under his protection, and the ruby encrusted comb that had brought such a sparkle to the eyes of his little Spanish ladybird. And now, a simple muslin gown that probably cost five shillings at the most might as well have been a hundred carat diamond, so totally was it beyond his reach. He turned sadly away.

  Diccon had driven on to "The Star," where Nanette wished to have a private cose with her schoolfriend. She had told Harry he was not to come to the inn until at least eleven o'clock, so he had plenty of time.

  He glanced again at the muslin gown. It was quite useless, of course… He strode up the step and entered, bowing his head to avoid the low lintel. As he straightened, his eyes were level with the chin of a giant of a woman, and he was so startled he all but took a step back. She stood at least five inches over six feet, and there was little doubt but that she indulged a hearty appetite. Several double chins were ranked above the small ruff of her vast dove grey gown; her bosom was of awesome proportions, and the arms that were folded across it would have done justice to a wrestler. Her hair was black and glossy and arranged into tight curls of such profusion as to be suspect, and they framed a face that seemed composed of two round and rosy cheeks, between which a tiny nose, blue eyes, and a little rosebud mouth were all but lost. Instinctively, Harry's eyes shot to the narrow door and, reading his thoughts, she chuckled and said in a rumble of a voice, "There be another door out back, sir. Twice that size. Else I'd have to conduct me business outside!" The folded arms began to heave up and down, the grey gown shook violently, the small mouth widened, and the eyes disappeared totally. From within this formidable lady came a great wheezing explosion of mirth, a sound so contagious that Harry could only join in. It ceased as suddenly as it had begun and, wiping at the folds of her cheeks, she removed her handerchief to again reveal those two bright blue slits that were her eyes. "I seed ye look at the muslin. What size be your lady, sir?"

  Harry held his hand beneath his chin. "The top of her head comes to here."

  "A little'un, bean't she? My husband now… he do be just about your size."

  "Is he now?" murmured Harry politely. And he thought, "Gad!"

  "Ar," she chortled knowingly. "That there frock would be just the right size. Be she pretty ?"

  "Yes, indeed she is. And—if she had some ribbons for her hair…"

  Before he could finish, her hand darted out and clasped across the pudgy palm she extended were several loops of ribbon exactly the shade of those on the muslin gown. "Six shillings the lot," she rumbled.

  "I should not have come in and wasted your time, ma'am," he said ruefully. "I do apologize," and he turned to leave.

  "Cannot always have what we want, can we?" she said sympathetically, her eyes scrutinizing him with an odd intensity. "Take my husband, now. He always longed to go to one o'them there fancy London tailors. Never could, a'course. But he do be a fine figure of a man. Like yourself. That there jacket o'yourn now. Would that be from a fancy London tailor—by any chance?"

  "Yes, ma'am. Though it has seen better days, I fear." Harry looked down regretfully at Bertie Schofield's somewhat tattered garment.

  "Ar—but… which one?" she persisted.

  "As a matter of fact, it is by Weston."

  "Ar. Western…" She fixed him with a shrewd stare. "And does lots o'lords, and sirs, and honourables—that sort—does they go to this here Western?"

  "Indeed they do, ma'am. He has, I believe, dressed the Regent, and—"

  Her mouth fell open, her arms dropped, and for an instant of sheer terror he thought she was about to faint. Then, "How much?" she demanded feebly.

  "What?" gasped Harry. "But—ma'am, it's torn, and dirty. And… " he peered at the bloodstain Nanette had been unable to remove from one lapel. "I doubt your husband would want—"

  "Not that one, my dearie! I can take that all to pieces and make a pattern to sew my Hezekiah a jacket what was designed by the chap what tailors for the Prince. Oh, my! Won't he be took!" She gripped her hands and, seeing how Harry's eyes flashed to the muslin gown, beamed, "Sir—I be very sure as how we can help one another."

  The five Corinthians at the large table were very loud and, although it was not eleven o'clock, appeared to have consumed more than their share of wine this morning—unless they'd been at it all night, which Harry deduced was more than likely. He sat in a far corner of the fragrant little coffee shop, a steaming mug before him, waiting impatiently for the clock to strike the hour. His thoughts were on the little shrew and the surprise that would light her expressive face when she saw her presents. He straightened the clumsy parcel on the chair beside him. Mrs. Hawthorne, overjoyed with his jacket, had next convinced him to trade his top boots. Harry had found her husband's old shoes loose and strange to his feet and had warned the proprietor of the dress shop that Mr. Hawthorne mig
ht find Hoby's handmade boots impossible to get into. "Fer something as elegant as them," she'd asserted, "Hawthorne'll curl his toes up!" The trades had been sufficient for Harry to purchase the muslin gown and ribbons, plus a small silver locket in the shape of a heart for Nanette, and a used but finely wrought enamelled snuff box with a hound embossed on the lid for Diccon, and still have some few shillings left over.

  His sleeve looked dreadful, the ill-fitting brown corduroy jacket rendered the more hideous by its unhappy conflict with his grey pantaloons. Amused, he stretched out one long leg and peered down at that awful shoe… Good old Bolster would split his sides if— Again, his musings were interrupted by the uproar, and he glanced at the noisy group. The aura of Town hung about them, and if they were here in an effort to win the reward Diccon had mentioned, they weren't working very hard at the task.

  "My turn! My turn!" One of the young men had jumped to his feet, waving a sheet of paper. "Now listen, you bosky booberkins!" He cleared his throat and, as they quieted, watching expectantly, he read in a slurred, nasal voice:

  "The maze of Parnell Sanguinet was really very clever.

  But Mitchell Redmond liked it not,

  To Sanguinet he gave his shot—"

  Here, the grinning poet was interrupted by shrieks of hilarity, while Harry sat rigid and stunned with shock. His voice cracking with suppressed mirth, the poet resumed,

  "To Sanguinet he gave his shot—

  And made that maze so blasted hot

  That it will grow back—never!"

  He collapsed into his chair, chortling gleefully as his friends whooped and howled and beat upon one another.

  Harry sprang up, and his chair went over with a crash. The poet turned to him and the laughter died from his face. "What ails you, fellow?"

  With a tremendous effort, Harry held back the floor of questions that trembled on his tongue. It was very apparent from their haughty stares that they judged him a bumpkin. If he behaved like an equal he'd likely get tossed into the street and learn nothing. With a hand that shook, he touched his brow and said respectfully, "If you please, sir—I served with Cap'n Harry Redmond. Be that his brother you was a'speaking of?"