Bar Sinister

by Sheila Simonson

  Sarah was watching her brother. When Wilson pulled the chair for her she came out of her trance and made a moue of distaste. She sat, keeping her skirts raised above the grimy floorboards. Wilson lifted Richard's wet cloak from the other chair and sat as well. The chair creaked but held him.

  Either Richard had been out or the damp cloak lied. He was dressed for it. This time he had slipped his right arm through his coat sleeve. The right shoulder was already noticeably lower than the left. Wilson felt another stab of anger. Damn George and his hirelings to perdition. That morning George had been embarrassed, resentful, indignant, but he had shown no remorse at all. Wilson thought him incapable of it.

  Having read the confessions with frowning attention, Richard rattled the papers and swore under his breath. "Here. I can't fold them properly. Will you keep them for me, Wilson?"

  Surprised and moved by the trust implicit in the request, Wilson nodded his agreement.

  "Thank you." Richard's mouth quirked. "Did no one ever teach Lord George to spell?"

  Wilson laughed. Sarah smiled, too. "Tallie always swore George read backwards. Do you remember Tallie, Richard?"

  "Miss Talcott? Yes." Richard leaned against the table. "I daresay you mean to cross-examine me about my offspring, Sarah. You might as well begin."

  "Where are they?"

  He glanced briefly at Wilson. "Treglyn."

  Sarah looked blank.

  "Lord Clanross's Cornwall estate, I fancy," Wilson murmured.

  "Oh, thank God!" Sarah's relief was disproportionate, Wilson thought, puzzled.

  Comprehension dawned upon her brother. "Did you imagine I had bestowed them here in the top floor back?"

  Sarah flushed. "I didn't know."

  Richard was not entirely amused. "What a good idea. Pity I didn't think of it."

  Sarah made a swift recover. "I'm persuaded that Emily Foster would have objected."

  That did amuse him. "When I consider the objections she raised to a journey to Cornwall, I shudder to think what she'd say to this rookery. I have a letter of her. Do you care to read it?"

  "Of all things--if you don't mind, Richard."

  He raised his brows. "Why should I mind?"

  "Manner of speaking," Sarah mumbled.

  Richard surveyed the strewn table. "Where the devil did I put it? Oh, my coat." He withdrew a sheet with a broken seal from his pocket. The paper was crossed in Mrs. Foster's neat hand. "She says Amy and Matt have taken to running footraces in the gallery. I hope Tom's ancestors have stopped whirling in their graves."

  Sarah smiled. "I wish I might see the children."

  "So do I," Richard rejoined, his voice dry. He turned to Wilson. "I mean to go down to Cornwall tonight on the mail unless you think there's some urgent reason for me to stay in Town."

  Wilson considered. Beside him Sarah, absorbed in the letter, gave a subdued snort of mirth. Wilson shifted on the stiff chair. "Everything is well in hand. I foresee no difficulties."

  "Good. I bought our places on the coach this morning. McGrath goes with me." Richard walked to the window again and stood looking down. "I can return when I've restored Mrs. Foster to Wellfield House. A week, say, or ten days."

  Wilson rose with a creaking of chair joints and joined him. Two curs were snarling over a bone in the alley. "That won't be necessary. Newsham and George should be safely in exile by then. You may make whatever arrangements you wish at your leisure."

  "Exile?" Richard's brows drew together.

  Wilson explained the dowager's coup. "I confess I did not expect that of your mother. She is the most redoubtable lady."

  "I should think it very much in her style," Richard said quietly. "Out of sight, out of mind."

  Wilson could think of no comfortable reply. He glanced back at Sarah. She was finishing the letter and appeared unconscious of the exchange.

  Smiling, she looked up at the two men. "What a delightful letter Emily writes. I can almost see Tommy confronting the housekeeper." She sprang up. "You ought to marry her."

  Wilson went cold.

  "A splendid notion." Richard took the letter from his sister and restored it to his coat. "I've already embarrassed Mrs. Foster sufficiently without flinging my liabilities at her feet as well. Why don't you take up rescuing chimney sweeps or fallen women, Sarah," he added, well and truly losing his temper, "and stay out of my life? It's chaotic enough at the moment without your help."

  Sarah looked as if she had been struck.

  For once Wilson felt no impulse to rescue her, but he was by nature a tactful man, so he interposed a question about the still imprisoned footpad, leaving Sarah to stare out the window in her turn. He thought she was crying.

  Richard, still ruffled, snapped an answer at random, drew a breath, and put his mind to the problem of the footpad. He meant to see the man released and on his way out of the country that afternoon, and had made tentative arrangements. Efficient.

  "That's an expence you oughtn't to bear," Wilson said bluntly.

  "I collect you ought to," Richard jeered, still angry.

  "No. Lord George is the appropriate party, I fancy." Wilson held Richard's gaze. After an explosive moment, he had the satisfaction of seeing his brother-in-law's mouth relax in a grin.

  "He'll balk."

  "I think not. At the moment George is thoroughly subdued."

  "Rompré?"

  "If I understand the meaning of the term. How much, Richard?"

  "Fifty guineas."

  Wilson nodded. "I'll direct George to send your banker a draught at once."

  "He'd be better advised to send it to Tom Conway's banker. I had to draw on Tom's letter of credit. He banks with Coutts."

  "Very well."

  An indignant sniff recalled Sarah's presence to their minds. Wilson met Richard's eyes. Richard grimaced, but he went to the window and touched his sister's stiff shoulder.

  "Pax, Sarah. I'm sorry I snarled at you, but you really must give up your meddling ways."

  "Meddling!"

  "I daresay you always act from the best motives, but from my viewpoint it feels remarkably like being overrun by heavy cavalry."

  "Oh, Richard," Sarah wailed. "I'm sorry. It's all been my fault." She burst into tears.

  Richard patted her and rolled his eyes at Wilson. "Help." In a moment, Wilson mouthed. He extracted a large lawn handkerchief from his pocket. When the first throes of the storm had subsided he retrieved his wife from her brother's damp bosom and seated her once more on the cane-bottomed chair.

  Sarah blew her nose violently.

  "Come, that's better, my dear. Cheer up." Wilson tidied her bonnet, which was askew. "All's well that ends well, after all, and you'll be giving Richard a very odd notion of your understanding if you insist on blaming yourself for Newsham's deeds."

  One bloodshot hazel eye peered at him from behind the handkerchief. She hiccoughed on a sob.

  "I rather think Newsham has done me a favour," Richard ventured, eyeing his sister warily.

  Sarah gave an incredulous sniff.

  Wilson squeezed her shoulder. "How so?"

  "I've been rereading my novel, and it's a good thing it never reached the bookstalls. It sounds as if I were unconscious when I writ it. I probably was."

  Wilson chuckled. "Shall you look for a new publisher at once?"

  "When I've revised it."

  Sarah drew a shuddering breath. "I collect we're to be grateful to Newsham for saving you from the reviewers' shafts."

  "Just so."

  "Ha."

  Wilson, his hand still on her shoulder, felt her shiver, more from reaction, he thought than from cold, though the room was cold enough in all conscience.

  "I can't think why you chose such a miserable kennel to hide out in," Sarah muttered. "Surely you could have found a snugger lair."

  "No doubt, but few so convenient for entrapping foot-pads. Let be, Sally."

  "Oh, very well. Shall we go, Robin?"

  "Yes, if I wish to keep John Co
achman's goodwill." Wilson gave Sarah his hand.

  She rose, straightening her skirts and gathering up her gloves and reticule from the table. "Shall you call on us when the dust settles, Richard?"

  He hesitated, but acquiesced with fair grace, and Sarah gave him a sisterly peck on the cheek. Wilson and Sarah made their way down to the besieged carriage. Richard followed them out.

  When they were seated, Richard stuck his head in the door. "Good-bye, Sarah, Wilson."

  Sir Robert remembered to hold out his left hand. "Goodbye."

  "Thank you." Richard's handclasp was brief but warm, his eyes grave.

  The door slammed to and Richard's voice rang out on the chill air. "Hi, you lot!"

  The gabble of voices from the tattered crowd devilling Wilson's coachman stilled.

  "Here. A drink to the lady's eyes." Richard tossed a handful of coppers. There was a burst of good-natured laughter and a scrabble for the coins. The horses' path cleared miraculously and the carriage swayed into motion.

  Wilson pulled down the glass. "Thanks!"

  Richard gave a casual wave from the steps and disappeared into the house.

  Wilson and Sarah rode in silence through the squalid streets. When the carriage turned into the wider stretch of the new Regent Street, which was still in construction, Sarah heaved a relieved sigh. "I'm glad you didn't allow Maman to come. What a dreadful place."

  "I ought to have forbade you to come, too, Sal."

  "Well, you couldn't."

  "I know." He smiled at her. Sarah was still ruffled, red-nosed from crying, and pretty as new paint. "Neither to hold nor to bind, are you?"

  She looked remorseful. "I had to see Richard."

  "I know it."

  "Forgive me?"

  "There's nothing to forgive, my dear. You're my wife."

  She leaned against his shoulder. "Yes, and glad of it. Can we go home to Knowlton soon, Robin?"

  "In a few days."

  "Richard will have reached Cornwall by then."

  Thank God, said Wilson to himself. He was yearning for a little peace and quiet.

  "That slumming kennel..."

  "Such language!"

  "It was a back slum. I daresay Richard was clever to find the place, but he could just as well have chosen an inn in some decayed area that would have served his purposes."

  "But not at so low a rent."

  She had been leaning against his arm and now sat upright, stiff as a poker. "He said--"

  "I know what he said."

  Sarah's mouth compressed. "Men!"

  "We're all vainglorious creatures." Wilson smiled at her. "I daresay Richard was afraid you'd dash out and pop your pearls for him. Sarah to the rescue again."

  Sarah flushed.

  "No more meddling, Sally." He patted her hand. "I must admit I was relieved to hear he has Clanross's letter of credit to draw on, for I must otherwise have had to offer him a loan of money. I'm not turning miser," he added as she bridled, "but I was sure he'd plant me a facer if I offered."

  "Such language," Sarah mimicked.

  Wilson grinned.

  Her face clouded. "What's to be done?"

  "Nothing, my dear. Richard will come about. He has the pension, after all. In the circumstances, though, it was doubly tactless in you to prescribe matrimony."

  She shot him a defiant look out of the corner of her eye. "It would be an excellent match."

  "For Richard."

  "For them both. Emily Foster loves him."

  It was Wilson's turn to be startled. "She confided in you?"

  "Not in so many words."

  Wilson laughed. "Wishful thinking, Sally."

  Her neatly gloved hands clenched into fists. "Stop dealing with me as if I were a ninnyhammer. I have eyes. When I brought her your letters from Brussels this summer I watched Emily narrowly. I could tell what she felt."

  "What, then?" he asked, skeptical.

  "Exactly what I'd have felt had you been lying ill in a foreign place."

  That took a moment to register. Wilson's cheeks burned with astonished pleasure. He felt as if he had been given the Garter.

  Unaware that she had made a gratifying revelation, Sarah went on. "If Richard asked her, Emily would marry him like a shot."

  "An impecunious, illegitimate, unemployed, one-armed scribbler of satires? Why should she consider him? Mrs. Foster is a woman of the first respectability and may look higher for a husband than your half brother."

  "Robin!"

  "My dear, that's not what I think, and, whatever her sentiments, not what Emily Foster thinks either." He leaned toward her, earnest. "It's a fair approximation of what Richard feels, however, and with some reason. Besides," he added as her eyes darkened with distress, "we do not know Richard's tastes. Perhaps he favours opera dancers."

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. "Black-eyed señoritas, more likely. It's not fair."

  "Certainly not. There are few señoritas in rural Hampshire."

  Sarah fetched him a blow to the midsection that left him gasping and laughing. He had to placate her.

  Presently a revolted passersby in the vicinity of Cavendish Square could observe a plump, middle-aged gentleman and a woman old enough to know better embracing in a carriage in broad daylight, a clear instance of the decay of modern manners.

  Epilogue

  Emily, Cornwall

  1815

  35

  It was Amy's birthday. She had been unnaturally virtuous all day. Richard had posted the obligatory doll well in advance, and Emily was set to produce it at the little girl's birthday dinner, but the magic had begun to fade from Amy's dolls in the past year. Emily thought the child would have preferred her father's presence to any number of gifts.

  Amy and Matt missed Richard almost as much as they missed their ponies. They were always asking Emily impossible questions, the worst being "When he is coming to take us home?" Only Tommy, unmoved by nostalgia, existed at Treglyn in a state of perfect bliss. Peg had weaned him that summer, and today, as the culmination of a week of heroick continence, he was to be breeched.

  "Like Matt!"

  "Certainly, darling."

  Tommy was beside himself with joy, but fortunately not to the point of neglecting to use the requisite domestic offices. Before they left Wellfield, Emily had caused her seamstress to stitch up half a dozen tiny pairs of nankeen trousers. Now she brought out a pair, and she and Tommy stood together by the pier glass in Emily's dressing room, admiring them.

  "Brishes?"

  "Nankeens," Emily said. "Nankeen breeches. Or trousers, more correctly."

  "Trows." Tommy indicated vigourously that the time had come for his transformation.

  "It's early...Oh, very well, Tommy."

  They had a struggle with the buttons. Presently, however, Tommy preened before the mirror in the compleat dress of a little English gentleman--black pumps, white stockings, nankeens, frilled shirt, blue jacket with brass buttons. An English gentleman manqué. He looks incorrigibly Spanish, Emily thought, her eyes filling with sentimental tears. My baby. And Amy is just five years old.

  "Nankies," Tommy shouted and roared out into the hall, breeched legs twinkling.

  Emily caught up with him outside the schoolroom. He was still too short to open the door. When the other children had applauded him and Peggy had shed her own quota of sentimental tears, there was a lull in the action, for it was still half an hour to the birthday dinner. In a spirit of generosity Matt decided to teach Tommy naughts and crosses. Amy took up her station at the window.

  The Treglyn schoolroom overlooked the front entrance and the long carriageway. In the past week Amy had spent every unoccupied waking moment staring down the carriageway. She meant to be the first to announce her father's coming.

  Emily grieved for her. "I really don't think he can be coming so soon, darling. Next month, perhaps."

  "He'll come." Amy pressed her nose to the glass.

  It was blowing a modest gale, and the child could sur
ely not see far through the rain and dusk. When Amy breathed out she made patches of fog on the panes. Presently she was drawing interesting faces in the mist. Relieved to see her distracted, Emily didn't try to stop her.

  Aunt Fan came in and was properly awed by Tommy's trousers. Emily had just decided to smooth her own hair a last time in the schoolroom mirror before leading the party downstairs to dinner when Amy gave a shriek.

  "Good heavens, child, what is it?" Aunt Fan peered out the window.

  "Papa!" Amy gave another whoop and added, complaisant, "I thaid he'd come." She had lately lost her front teeth. The result was a fine Castillian lisp.

  Unwilling to credit the announcement and unwilling not to, Emily stood frozen.

  Aunt Fan squinted. After a judicious moment she said, "I believe the child is right, Emma. There are two men walking up the drive. The taller appears to be Colonel Falk."

  Emily leapt over the boys, who were stretched out on the carpet drawing Xs and Os on a slate, and dashed to the window. "Where?"

  Aunt Fan pointed.

  "Papapapapapa!" Amy was chanting happily.

  "Do stop bouncing, Amy." Emily peered. Her heart tripped along like one of the steam hammers Tom Conway raved about in his letters. "I can't see--oh." She swallowed hard. "Yes, so it is."

  She exchanged glances with her aunt. Had something gone wrong?

  "Wonder what brings him so soon?" Aunt Fan murmured.

  "My birthday," Amy crowed. "Whoop!" And she was off, streaking for the door.

  "Catch her, Peggy!" Emily picked up her skirts and pursued, alas, too late. Amy had made good her escape.

  By now the boys had caught fire, too, and were hopping about like fleas. Emily, almost as giddy as they were, began to laugh. "Yes, dears, we'll go down, too. Only please, a little slower."

  "Nankies!" Tommy shouted, bouncing.

  "Come on, Mama." Matt dragged her hand.

  Emily cast a last rueful look at Aunt Fan and Peggy, and allowed the boys to sweep her out into the hall. Aunt and Peggy followed at a more sedate pace.

  "Oh, saints preserve us all, they'll be breaking their necks, all three of 'em," Peggy could be heard wailing as Emily and her two headlong escorts clattered down the first flight of steep polished stairs.

  "No, Matt, not the bannister!" Emily gasped, laughing, as they reached the first floor landing.