Bar Sinister

by Sheila Simonson

  "Why?" Tom asked, bewildered.

  "Because the duke left me out of his will."

  "Did you expect a legacy?"

  A wry smile twisted Richard's mouth. "It's a legal question. For all his rodomontade in the Abbeymont schoolroom, the duke neglected to blot me out legally. A tirade in front of nursemaids doesn't constitute repudiation of paternity. I'd lived twelve years as Lord Richard Ffouke. He should have branded me a bastard or cut me off without a shilling. That would have been final."

  Tom blinked. "Upon my word, you should sue."

  "For my 'share'? Don't be simple. I'm not his son. Besides, I'd no money then for lawyers, and I haven't now. Keighley--Newsham, I should say--could command the best in the realm. Or hire footpads. He writ me to that effect. I still have the letter."

  "Lady Sarah informed you of the legal question. You've an ally."

  "Sarah? She brought hell on me when I was twelve. I'm too old to play her games now." He spoke without rancour but with absolute finality. "I prefer a decent obscurity--for myself, and for Amy and Tommy, too. Believe me, Tom."

  "It'll have to be Bevis, then."

  "If there's no other choice." He shoved his hair out of his eyes. "I'll go to Mellings. I decided you were right, but I won't leave until Wednesday."

  "That'll give you two days."

  "Two days too many," Richard said with sudden bitterness.

  "Go to sleep."

  "Very well." He got clumsily to his feet. "Tell Sims it's his turn for the floor."

  "A pallet?"

  "Yes, by the fire. Very snug."

  "Richard."

  Richard turned back. He was cradling his left hand. "Shall I fetch something for you first?"

  "No. If you were my father, Richard, I'd want to be able to say I'd met you."

  He thought Richard flushed.

  "Good night."

  "Good night," Tom said to the ceiling. Sims was going to be late and rather drunk. Ample time for thinking. For the first time since the Chelsea surgeons had passed their death sentence on him, Thomas Conway found he wanted to think.

  Part III

  Emily, Sir Robert Wilson

  1814-1815

  12

  Emily had fallen in love with the Author of Doña Inez. She brought herself to admit her feelings the day Eustachio arrived. Emily fell in love frequently. It was her secret vice, cultivated since girlhood, when she had tumbled head over ears in love with her father's new bailiff because he had guinea-gold hair.

  Emily had never done anything about her little passions. Virtue? Rather prudence, perhaps, or cowardice. She did not suppose she would do anything about this passion, either, but she had now been a widow for four and a half years. Sometimes she felt as if her widow's weeds were a nun's habit, or as if, at five and twenty, she had taken on the mantle of middle age. Sometimes she wanted to do something quite mad--run off with a band of gypsies or take up opera dancing. It was in this spirit of secret recklessness that she had indulged her epistolatory passion for Richard Falk. It was not quite a safe thing to do, and that was why she did it.

  As the "doing" so far consisted only in writing him cheerful details of his children's lives and rereading the brief notes that prefaced each installment of Doña Inez for signs of the man behind the pen, her risk had not seemed very great. But there was risk. The uncertain, up-and-down state of mind that had driven her to write the furious letter to him when she thought he would not come to see the children had taught her that much. Her anger had been disproportionate. The children did not miss him. How could they? Amy would surely have missed his letters--Matt as well. But none of the three children remembered Richard Falk as a real presence. Emily was the one who wanted to see him in the flesh.

  She also had to admit to herself that part of her anticipation stemmed from plain vulgar excitement. She was exceedingly curious to see him again. She wanted to compare the man with the writer of absurd adventures. She reminded herself that she had not been enchanted with him at their first meeting. Indeed, he had struck her as remarkably cross-grained. In all likelihood she would find him repellent, and probably that would be for the best.

  Peggy McGrath's welcome of her spouse was nearly as vociferous as the children's enthusiasm for Eustachio. Emily did not take to McGrath. A sour-faced, short-tempered, ugly man, his glowers intimidated Matt, though Amy chattered away to him happily enough. Out of delicacy Emily gave the connubial pair a private room in the untenanted second floor and took Tommy into her own bedchamber. He cried for his Peg a bit the first evening, but he was a sunny child, and Emily distracted him easily enough with his new territory. When he found next morning that his nurse had not entirely deserted him, he decided to accept her husband with only an occasional reproachful glance from his sloe-black eyes.

  Amy coerced McGrath into saddling Eustachio with one of Emily's discarded sidesaddles, an insult that Matt bore so ill he forgot to be afraid of McGrath. Thereafter everyone rubbed along tolerably well--for the next week. Amy, like Doña Inez, decided she preferred to ride astride.

  It was not possible to pump McGrath about his master. Emily had thought the Irish loquacious. Peggy certainly bore out that impression, but McGrath's idea of civil speech was confined to grunting and scowling. When Emily ventured a cautious question about his master's wellbeing, McGrath scowled. When she allowed that Major Falk must be pleased with his promotion, McGrath grunted. Given her husband's unprepossessing qualities, it was curious that Peggy took on a rosy glow in his presence. The horse McGrath had ridden belonged to Major Falk. McGrath declined to stable the creature on Emily. "Orders." Grunt. Scowl.

  Major Falk himself finally appeared on the late coach as McGrath was about to settle with the innkeeper for the horse's board, so he did not come to Wellfield House until morning. Warned by Peggy's welcoming screech--she had spotted her master from the window on the second-floor landing--Emily put off the apron she had donned for her daily descent to the kitchen, tidied her cap and her emotions, and went down to greet her employer. If the pulse pounded in her throat it did not pound so hard that she was incapable of reason.

  Phillida had stuck the major in the chilly withdrawing room where he stood looking not greatly different from what Emily remembered, except he was clean-shaven and somewhat tidier. His hair was cropped short. He had a new coat. Emily did not approve the coat. It looked vaguely foreign.

  "Good morning, Major Falk."

  "Mrs. Foster."

  "I am glad to see you well. You will wish to go up to your children directly, I daresay. I have not prepared them for your coming, so I beg you will go slowly with Tommy." Emily was proud of this civil, businesslike, uneffusive greeting.

  Major Falk followed her obediently up the stairs and said nothing. At least he didn't grunt, Emily reflected, philosophic. It was not in her to maintain a dignified silence. She kept up a polite chatter. The children loved the pony, Tommy now spoke seven separate words and two sentences, Amy was learning to write her name, the weather was agreeably mild, was it not, she hoped he had had a pleasant voyage. She did not await his reply and ushered him into the schoolroom sans ceremony.

  His daughter indulged no adult tergiversations. She launched herself at him with a delighted shriek.

  "Papa," Tommy echoed, experimental.

  It was not as affecting a reunion as it might have been, but it was satisfactory. Major Falk accepted Tommy's wariness without comment. He listened to his daughter's mostly English chatter with grave attention, and when Matt showed signs of sulk, drew Emily's son into a discussion of the pony's points which developed into a riding lesson. That took up most of the afternoon.

  Emily had decided it was time her father met her employer. That evening, Major Falk bore with Sir Henry's Corn Law monologue without satire. No sparks flew. When Major Falk had gone off to the inn at Mellings Parva, Sir Henry made mild approving noises. Aunt Fan said nothing disparaging. Emily did not voice her own exasperation. It was all too tame. Major Falk left the next after
noon with McGrath. The children continued to speak of their father afterwards, casually, as one might speak of an uncle one saw on occasion. Amy did not repeat her silent mourning.

  Emily told herself she was a fool to have wished for more. Presented with a full account of his friend's sufferings, she had had to accept her employer's decision to stay so long with Major Conway. Indeed she was glad Major Falk had never received the scorching letter she posted to Toulouse, and she admitted to herself that loyalty to one's friends was always commendable. Commendable. Convenable. Conventional.

  Before he took his leave, Major Falk said, flat and emotionless, "Write Tom Conway if I'm killed. He'll know what to do."

  That seemed to give Emily an opening. "I trust it will not prove necessary, sir. Er, what arrangements--"

  "Tom knows what to do," he repeated. "No complications to trouble your head over, unless you mean to give the children up."

  "No. Oh, no, of course I don't." Exasperation sharpened Emily's voice.

  Falk went on, oblivious, "That's settled then. Write Tom."

  At that point Peggy brought his freshly scrubbed children down to the foyer, where the major and Emily awaited them. Peggy was inclined to be distraught and dramatic. Major Falk sent her out to lament over her departing husband and took Tommy, who gave his father a wet kiss of the sort he bestowed on all corners.

  "Bye, Papa." He wriggled to be put down, and his father obliged with a small pat on the little boy's petticoats. "Bye," Tommy repeated, cheerful. "Bye-bye."

  The major had knelt by his solemn-eyed daughter and took her in a cautious embrace.

  "Don't go."

  "I have to."

  Amy's face screwed up.

  He said something soft and rapid to her in Spanish, adding in English, "Shall you write to me, querida?"

  "I can write my name."

  "Yes, and very clearly, too."

  "I'll write," Amy said with dignity, "if you will, tambien. Bring me un paroquet, Papa, and write me of Doña Inez in America."

  Tommy whirled in a gleeful circle. "Bye, Papa."

  "Oh, sir, I'll keep my heels in." Matt clattered down the stairs. His shirttail hung out. "I promise."

  "Hush, Matt." Emily intercepted her son at the foot of the stair. Tommy was still whirling and chanting. He is going to knock over that table, Emily thought, distracted. She lunged after Tommy just in time to prevent a vase of late daffodils from crashing to the polished tiles of the entry. "Bye," said Tommy impudently. "Bye, Mama Em."

  "Oh, Tommy." Half laughing, Emily turned, and stopped with her smile frozen on her lips. Major Falk still knelt holding Amy, his hands cramped desperately on her small shoulders and his eyes clenched shut.

  "You're squeezing me, Papa."

  "Like a lemon," he said in an almost ordinary voice. Amy giggled.

  He released her and rose slowly, his face composed and colourless.

  "Shall I write you every month as usual?" Emily wanted to say something splendid and healing, but her voice rattled out dry and precise as peas on a shuttle.

  "Yes, if you will. The winds from America are somewhat erratic. Don't be alarmed if my replies are delayed as much as three months. Good-bye, Matthew." He shook hands with Emily's son.

  Three months! Emily did not voice her despair. It was rather too late for that. "Shall we come out with you?"

  "No!" He added more quietly, "I shall have to detach Peggy from McGrath."

  "Poor Peggy."

  "Poor McGrath," he said drily. "Good-bye, Mrs. Foster."

  "Bye!" Tommy shrieked. "Bye! Bye! Bye! Bye!"

  13

  The first letter came within the month by a packet Major Falk's ship met off the Lizard. It contained a spirited account of Doña Inez and Eustachio on the high seas, and Doña Barbara seasick in the scuppers. Emily responded immediately and warmly. Amy and Matt added careful sentences about the pony. The second letter followed the first within a week. Doña Barbara was back to brewing chocolate, and Eustachio had had a narrow escape from sharks. After that the letters stopped.

  By September Emily was reading the American news with grim attention. The army had burnt the city of Washington. There was no mention of Major Falk. She told herself not to play the hysterical female. Contrary winds.

  Finally, when Amy's birthday passed without a parcel, Emily wrote Major Conway. Because she was unsure of how she ought to address a dying man she kept her language stiff and formal. The reply was delayed. When it came it was marked from a village in Lancashire, not Rye, whence she had directed her letter.

  Major Conway, it appeared, had taken on the position of estate agent on one of Lord Dunarvon's manors which was just now being opened to coal mining. "Fascinating new engines," the major wrote with obvious enthusiasm. "Dunarvon talked of installing one of Stephenson's circular rail roads--steam-powered, of course--if the vein proved rich, and by the way, don't worry. Richard always lands on his feet." Major Conway's clear unconcern set Emily's mind temporarily at rest but another silent, letterless fortnight unnerved her and she wrote again.

  "I'm sure there is no cause for alarm yet," the major replied by return post, "but as you may have questions for me in my role as guardian-of-record, perhaps you might consider meeting me in London in ten days' time. I must travel there on a matter of business in any case." He added further soothing comments, which meant he knew no more of his friend's whereabouts than Emily did.

  It took Emily five minutes to decide to go.

  For several days after their early arrival in Town, Emily and Aunt Fan amused themselves with raids upon cloth warehouses, arcades, and book emporia. Emily bought toys. She had a sinking feeling there would be no toys from America for Christmas, so she was perhaps overlavish. They are all three such good children, she reflected from the safe distance of sixty-odd miles.

  She found a handsome cloisonné snuffbox for her father. She also indulged herself in a sinfully expensive bonnet. It was blue with a deep poke and an enormous feather dyed to match that curled over her left eye. She liked it so well she wore it back to the hotel and told the garrulous modiste to burn the old mourning-grey. She was glad she had done so over Aunt Fan's protests, for when she and her aunt entered the solemn foyer in a flurry of bandboxes and parcels she bumped into Major Conway.

  "My dear Mrs. Foster." The proprietor, a man of wonderful dignity, allowed her a tight smile. "This gentleman has just been enquiring for you. Shall you receive him?" He retreated five discreet paces.

  "Oh, dear. Major Conway, you're early!" Distracted, Emily pulled off her glove and held out her hand. "How do you, sir?"

  "Very well, ma'am."

  Emily peered around the feather into a pair of tired grey eyes.

  "I like your bonnet," the major said in a pleasant baritone. He was a tall man. "Matches your eyes."

  Emily smiled. "I knew how it would be when I read your letters, sir. You know precisely what to say. I shall probably fall in love."

  The grey eyes lit and he smiled delightfully. "I can't see any objection to that, ma'am, but I think we should conduct our courtship in a less publick arena."

  Emily and Aunt Fan had had time to dispose themselves on the small sopha before their caller arrived at their first-floor suite. When Phillida, with a coy giggle and a flounce, announced the major, Emily rose. Welcoming pleasantries died on her lips. "My dear sir, you look quite white. Shall you take a glass of...oh dear, we have nothing stronger than ratafia."

  He gave a faint, twisted grin. "I am afraid--under circumstances--I can accept nothing less than cognac."

  "Brandy." Emily nodded. "The very thing. Unfortunately we haven't any."

  "Yes, we have." Aunt Fan whisked from the room.

  Emily stared after her. "Dear Aunt Fan, always prepared for emergencies."

  "It is scarcely that," Major Conway rejoined in a rather steadier voice. "Why I should be suddenly afflicted with this nuisance, when I trotted up three flights yesterday, I don't know."

  "Well, that's proba
bly the cause," Emily said reasonably. "If you'll sit in that chair by the fire, sir, you'll feel more comfortable directly."

  The major sat by careful degrees. By the time he was settled and looking less green, Aunt had returned with a stoppered bottle plainly labelled Tonic in raised letters. Aunt Fan poured a healthy dollop into what Emily took to be her tooth glass. Aunt did not precisely say now be a good boy and drink it all down but that was the gist. Major Conway obeyed. Presently he regarded them both from half closed grey eyes.

  "And to think I asked them to send up a mere tea," he murmured.

  "Did you, sir?"

  "Yes. I thought you might require soothing."

  Emily laughed, relieved. "I should like tea of all things. Can it be had in one's rooms? Aunt and I have been taking ours downstairs with the common herd."

  "Common? In Grillon's?"

  Emily pulled out a gilt armchair and sat. "It is rather an exalted place."

  "I could have installed you in Dunarvon's town house, but you'd find it oppressive. It's in holland covers." His returning smile faded. "My conduct just now relieves me of the tedium of explanation. When Richard left we had agreed that I would be needing a replacement. I asked you to come, because I wished to make you known to my successor. Don't look so distressed, Mrs. Foster," he added, wry. "Grillon's staircase won't kill me. Bevis had leave. I thought you might as well meet him."

  Emily frowned. "Mr. Bevis? That sounds unlikely."

  "Lord Dunarvon's heir," Major Conway said. "Viscount Bevis. We are friends. He is just now on leave from Brussels, where he is on the Prince of Orange's staff, but I daresay he will be selling out. In any case I think he'll do. Richard is acquainted with him."

  "Acquainted," Emily echoed, rather faintly.

  He grimaced. "You are too acute, ma'am. Richard objected to Bevis on the grounds that he does not know him well, but neither Richard nor I could fix on anyone nearer. And I do know Bevis. He is the best of good fellows. I think you'll find him agreeable."