For as long as he lived, the scene that met his eyes as he burst into the clearing would haunt his memory. There was no sign of Nanette, Mitchell, or Anderson. The tent was collapsed, the contents strewn about as though there had been a desperate struggle. Mr. Fox lay nearby, and it was from the little donkey that the whimpering emanated. Harry started for him, shouting a scared, "Nanette . . ? Mitch . . ?"
"Captain? That you?"
Andy! Harry's heart jumped. But—where in the devil . . ? And then he saw a hand wave a rag from the far side of the cart, and the vivid stain on that rag sent him racing toward it to halt once again, struck dumb with horror. Sergeant Anderson sat on the ground, blood streaking his cheek from a deep cut above his right ear. His wooden leg was gone, his garments rent and dusty, his face twisted with anxiety. Of all this, Harry was aware but vaguely. Mitchell lay sprawled on his face, both hands gripping the spokes of a wheel. He wore no jacket, and his shirt was cut to ribbons, the torn fabric hideously stained and clinging to the lacerated flesh of his back. Harry's stunned gaze returned to the Sergeant. Anderson strove to speak but could not. Mitchell's white-knuckled grip on the wheel shifted. His dark head was raised to reveal an ashen, sweat-streaked face, and eyes frantic with pain and humiliation. "Harry! I… failed you! He… took her. You—you must go… after—" The panting utterance ceased, the white lips drawing back from teeth tight-clenched.
Recovering his wits, Harry dropped to his knees and touched his brother's damp hair caressingly. "My poor old fellow… I am—so very sorry!" His narrowed eyes flashed murderously to the Sergeant. "Sanguinet?"
Anderson nodded, but before he could speak, Mitchell gasped, "He… whipped me!" The fine young face was horror-filled, and Harry was half choked by the fury that welled up in his throat. "As if—I were… a dog, Harry! I couldn't believe… he would… really do it. And—and even when Miss Carlson… came back, he… he wouldn't stop!"
"Sir," Anderson put in huskily, his head bowed as though he was ashamed to meet his Captain's eyes, "if you could please fetch me some water."
Harry sprang up, sprinted to the cart and, grabbing the water jug, glanced to Mr. Fox. The donkey was bleeding at the shoulder, but the wound did not look too serious. He called a few words of comfort as he seized a bowl and tore back to Anderson. He poured some water into the bowl, handed it to the Sergeant and, returning to the cart, unearthed a flask of brandy, then ran to kneel once more beside his brother. "Try and take a mouthful or two," he urged gently, "It—"
Mitchell turned his head away. "I tried, Harry! You must believe me!"
"Of course I believe you." Harry set the flask down and took the hand that came out to him. Holding that hand strongly, he said, "I am sure you did splendidly. We'll get her back, never—"
"She… she saw him whip me!" Mitchell groaned. His grip tightened convulsively, his voice rising to a shrill cry of despair. "As if… I were… a dog!"
"Easy… easy!" Harry soothed. He was shaking with rage, possessed by such a longing to do bloody murder as he'd never known. Andy's big hands were peeling away a sodden remnant of shirt as tenderly as any woman could have done. The sight of that ravaged back sent terror lancing through Harry, but with a tremendous effort he managed to speak calmly. "Do not try to talk now, Mitch. We'll have you feeling better in—" He gave a gasp and cried a terrified, "Mitchell!" as his brothers taut body sagged and the hand he held relaxed its crushing grip to rest limply in his own. Scarcely daring to breathe, he sought a pulse and gave a long-drawn sigh of relief as he found it at last, rapid and uneven, but lacking the terrible threadiness he'd met from time to time on the battlefield. He whispered a grateful, "Thank… God . . !"
"Better give him some brandy, sir," gulped Anderson.
"Heaven forbid! He cannot feel anything now. Good God, Andy! Whatever happened? No—never mind, you shall tell me later. I'll take over here. You go and look after Mr. Fox."
"Can't do it, sir." His rugged features flushed with shame, Anderson gestured toward the trees. "I think… they throwed it… that way."
Harry clambered to his feet, ran to the trees, and sought frantically about, his mind a whirling chaos. Mitchell was badly hurt, to say nothing of the terrible blow to his pride. As for Nanette… "I'll come, my darling girl! just as soon as I have Mitch in the hands of a surgeon, I'll come for you!" He found the wooden leg at last and, placing it beside the sergeant, took the rag and began to minister to his brother. Anderson, meanwhile, restored his mobility and without a word stood and clumped over to Mr. Fox. "Hurry! Oh… my dear… God!" The Reverend rode up, leading the sorrel. His flabby face pale with dread he started to dismount, only to be restrained by Harry's upflung hand and crisp command that he ride into Chichester and find a doctor. "Mitchell has been most savagely whipped. Please be as quick as you can!"
For once the garrulous Mordecai was shocked into silence. He stared from Mitchell's still form to Harry, to Anderson, to Mr. Fox. And shaking his head as if all of it was totally beyond his comprehension, dropped the sorrel's reins and rode away.
In the stark waiting room of Dr. Jonas Twickenby's surgery, Sergeant Anderson, his head neatly bandaged, started up from the wicker chair as Harry opened the inner door and entered. "Sir! Is he— Will he be—"'
Harry said tersely, "They kicked me out. but Twickenby's working hard."
The Sergeant drew a deep, quivering breath. "Did Mr. Mitchell say anything. Captain?"
"Only—about Miss Carlson." A muscle in Harry's cheek twitched nervously, and in a voice suddenly hoarse, he said, "He begged me to leave and go after her."
"Just like him… Pluck to the backbone.' Not one single sound outta him—all the way in that perishing old chaise with not a decent spring to it! You should've been the one to hold him, sir! Not me!"
Harry crossed to slip one hand onto the broad shoulder, pushing him back into the chair again. "You great chawbacon! You were in no case to ride. How do you feel now?"
"God love the man!" thought Anderson, and said gruffly, "It'll take more'n a whack over the brainbox to put a period to this old Army mule! Sir—what about this here Twickenby? He looks an awful sour prune! The woman who tied up my head says he's a good enough doctor, but d'you think he's—"
"I think we're damned fortunate that my uncle found him. He seems to know his business, and his wife is a slendid nurse."
"What—was that fat lady his old woman, then?"
Harry nodded, his expression hardening. He had stayed beside his brother when the doctor began his task, but the white-faced agony of the gentle, scholarly boy had brought his rage to the boiling point, and he'd vowed softly, "I'll find her, Mitch. And before I kill Sanguinet, he'll rue the day he laid that whip across your back! I swear it!" The doctor's large wife, who had seemed undismayed by the sight of Mitchell's injuries, had uttered a cry of horror at those grim words, and her dour husband had folded his arms and refused to proceed until the barbarian was ejected…
Andy was watching him anxiously. Harry glanced around the dusty little chamber and asked, "Where is my uncle gone?"
"He's trying to find a farrier to go and help Mr. Fox. Kind in him, I thought, sir, for he was wanting powerful to stay here. But— it's coming on to storm, and he says if it gets much darker he'll never find the way. We knowed you wouldn't want us to just leave the poor little devil lying there."
"No, of course not." Harry's eyes flickered anxiously towards the closed door beyond which his brother lay.
"Captain… I feel so… I mean—if only I could've done something!"
"Stupid hedgebird! D'you think I do not know you did all you could?"
Anderson blinked speechlessly, then managed, "You must be fair aside o' yerself, sir—wanting to get after that madman!"
It was true. The need to go to Nanette was a frenzy within Harry, but he could not leave yet. He pulled up a wooden chair, straddled it and, sitting with arms folded across the back, said. "I shall go as soon as I can. Now—for God's sake tell me what happened."
"Dice . . !" breathed Harry through his teeth. "Gawd! Devil Dice? Then it was our Lace? But—she'd got no white stockings."
"Dye. But never mind that now. Go on, Andy."
"Well, that there Dice had a pistol aimed steady at Mr. Mitchell's bread basket, so we just stood there. The Frenchy (all in black he was sir, like the rest of 'em), he come drifting over, very lazy-like, and asks Mr. Mitchell where was Miss Carlson. Cool as a cucumber, Mr. Mitchell says as how since they hadn't been proper interduced he didn't think he could rightly give a answer. Then along comes another swell riding on a beautiful Arabian mare the like of which I never did see. Looked like she was made out of gold. But the gent's got one arm in a sling and don't look quite up to the rig. Mr. Sanguinet said he had no business following them, and called him Guy, so I knew it was his brother. Well, he gets orf his horse and says he'd got every reason to follow, and he'll be glad to do the honours, and he interduces Mr. Mitchell. Diabolick puts up his eyeglass and looks Mr. Mitchell up and down and laughs. "You allowed that baby to best you?" he says. "Really, Guy!" Then he asks Mr. Mitchell again where Miss Carlson went, and Mr. Mitchell says as he wishes as how he knowed." The Sergeant hove himself out of the chair at this point and began to thump restlessly up and down, while Harry, eyes very grim, waited.
"I didn't like the way he looked at Mr. Mitchell," Anderson went on somberly. "He was halfway laughing, but with a—a sort've hungry look. He says in that soft voice o'his as how she couldn't have got far because he'd had a report as she was with us when you rid out. "I'll lay you odds, Guy," he says, "as she's up there somewhere on that slope over yonder. Watching. If we go after her, it might take some time. So I think we'll just ask Mr. Redmond to bring her down here to us." I begun to edge a bit closer to Lace 'cause I thought we was fair in fer it. Mr. Mitchell didn't say nothing, but he give a little grin, and Diabolick says as he can see Mr. Redmond thinks it's all some kind of game, but it ain't, and he don't like it if one of his family gets set upon. His brother says the duel was fair and to let the boy alone. Sanguinet acts like he hasn't even heard him and tells his coachman to go and fetch his whip. I'll tell you, S'Harry, me blood run cold when he said that, but I never thought he'd do it. His brother knowed him better, I expect, because right orf he goes up to him and says as how Mr. Mitchell's a gentleman. "You must not!' he says. Diabolick, he just tells his men to tie Mr. Mitchell to the wheel o' the cart. Well, S'Harry, I could see as he means it all right. And poor Mr. Mitchell, he's staring at him as if he can't believe his own ears. Very pale he is, but—what a plucked'un, sir!"
"Yes. He is, indeed," said Harry tautly. "So you made your move, did you?"
"Yus, sir." Anderson gave a small sigh of relief that the Captain had known he would put up a fight. "I reckoned as it was now or never. You'll mind as I allus kept a needle and thread stuck under me collar, just in case you lost a button orf yer jacket or something? Ain't never lost the habit. I gives the mare the needle—right in the rump. Cor! You shoulda seen her go! Straight up! And the bully keeps on going, like a ugly fat bird! Mr. Mitchell makes a dive fer Diabolick and I takes on the cove nearest to me. We was going at it hot and heavy fer a little bit, but then—someone whacked me over the head and I sort've lost track o'things fer a minute. Next thing I knowed they'd took orf me wooden leg, sir. I just had ter lie there and… and watch. I wasn't no use ter poor Mr. Mitchell. None a'tall!"
For a moment Harry said nothing, visualizing the scene with painful clarity. Then, holding the chairback very hard, he grated, "Who did it? Sanguinet himself?"
The Sergeant nodded. "And loved every minute, Captain. I'll say one thing, his brother tried to stop him. When that perisher shook out the whip, he grabbed hold of his arm. Diabolick looked him straight in the eye and said something. Not much, but I could tell it was enough. And Guy give up."
Harry swore bitterly and rammed his fist against the chair. "How soon did Miss Carlson come down?"
"Very quick, sir. I was a'thrashing and a'cussing. Mr. Mitchell didn't make one single sound, but the donkey was crying something awful. You'd a' thought the whip was coming down on his back! Miss Nanette come running up, white as a sheet, and begged Diabolick to stop. She'd do whatever he wanted, she says. He smiles at her and says a'course she will—he never doubted it. And in he starts again! I think even his own men was fair took aback!"
Harry stared at him in unseeing misery. Had it been only this morning they'd talked in that misty clearing? Only this morning that Mitch had said shyly, "I do not think I would care to be—all alone in the world." He'd not dreamed then that he himself might be the one to be "left all alone". If Mitch died… A smothered groan escaped him, and his head bowed onto his arms. At once the Sergeant was beside him. "Don't sir! Don't you never give up! S'Harry—you done the best you knowed!"
The best he knowed… Perhaps. But if only he'd sent Mitch to see Cootesby and had himself remained with Nanette. He might have known that Sanguinet, desiring her, would have tracked them down! How glibly he had offered her his protection. How nobly he'd sworn that whilst he lived Sanguinet would not lay a hand upon her! Well, his hand was upon her now! That thought made him writhe. For the present, his one hope lay in the fact that Guy Sanguinet apparently bore some resemblance to a gentleman and, despite his loathesome inheritance, might shield her… at least until he himself could come up with them. Meanwhile, there was nothing to be gained by brooding over how much better he might have handled matters. He had done all in his power to elude detection and, believing he had succeeded, had left her as well protected as possible. He'd had an obligation to his father as well as to his brother and the girl he loved. He had done his best. He said a husky, "Thanks, Andy," and pulled back his shoulders. "What of Miss Carlson? He didn't abuse her in any way?"
"No, sir." The Sergeant returned to his chair once more. "She's got plenty o' spirit, that little lady. She run and grabbed hold of the whip and hung onto it, but Sanguinet just pushed her away." He paused, an odd little smile appearing as he said slowly and with relish, "His brother shot the whip out of his hand."
Harry's eyes opened wide. "Jove! That must have been a fantastic shot!"
"That it were. Diabolick didn't say nothing. He just stood there staring at his brother. Lor'! I don't never want no one to look at me like that, Captain! Then he pulls a little pistol out of his pocket. Miss Carlson runs to Guy and throws her arms around him. I thought as he was done fer, I can tell yer. And so did he, I reckon, 'cause he pushes Miss Carlson away from him." Anderson shook his head condemningly. "A lovely bunch they is, eh sir?"
"For God's sake!' Harry exploded "Don't keep me in suspense! Did he shoot?"
"He aimed very careful and let him swear for a minute. Then he says, 'Blast that animal and its beastly noise!' and up and shoots the poor donkey!"
"Devil take the miserable hound! I'd fancied that a mistake! Better he had rid the world of one of his own vicious clan!" Harry-stood, stalked to the uncurtained window, and peered outside. The evening was dark and stormy, and it was beginning to rain. Where would Sanguinet take Nanette . . ? Would he dare to beat her . . ? A cold sweat sprang out on his brow and he had to battle the terror of it. He swung back into the room abruptly. "Which way did they go. Andy?"
The Sergeant peered curiously at him. "Why, you must've passed 'em. sir. They'd not been
gone above five minutes when you come. And they took the same road."
"The only coach I passed bore no crest and was quite empty. They—""
The door opened. Twickenby came into the room, followed by his wife, and Harry went quickly to meet him. The doctor raised a lugubrious countenance and said sadly. "I did—the best I could, sir…
Harry felt sick. "My… brother . . ?" he said in a far away voice.
"Twick… en… by…" warned the lady in a low undertone.
He shot her a malevolent glance. "He's asleep now. Thanks to laudanum. I wish I could say he will recover But—it's been a terrible shock, you see. I will do my best, of course, but—he's not very physically hardy."
Harry wet dry lips, tried to speak, and could not. Mrs. Twickenby moved closer and looked searchingly into his drawn face. "My dear young sir." she murmured, "pay him no heed. He's only trying to get his price up." Her husband cast her a glance of pure loathing, and she chuckled and, patting Harry's arm. said kindly, "Your brother's going to have a nasty week of it—I'll not lie to you. But we'll take good care of him—of that you may be sure. My sheets are aired and free from fleas, and if he starts to run a fever. Twickenby will bleed him. He's a hard man for the pennies, but a fine doctor for all that. Now—ten shillings for tonight, and a guinea on deposit, if you please…
Harry drew the collar of Andy's greatcoat higher about his chin and leaned to the blowing mane of the hack the Sergeant had found for him. The wind was out of the north and the rain drove into his face, the drops cold and stinging. As well he'd insisted on the Sergeant staying with Mitch. Andy had been furious, but was in no state to ride fast and far as Harry must do. He prayed his decision to follow this familiar road had been well founded. Sanguinet might have been heading for the main London turnpike, or perhaps had intended to journey as far as Guildford before turning east to Kent and Sanguinet Towers. But Harry was gambling on the sadistic nature of his enemy. If Parnell Sanguinet suspected he entertained a tendre for the girl, it would afford him tremendous enjoyment to hold Nanette at Moire: to gloat over her in the very house of the man who loved her.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette Page 26