“Not yet, I beg. I must return to Paris. When I come back, with your permission I will call again. Oh, it is not that in my mind there are doubts. It is only—to make a mistake would be a very bad thing for the young lady. Therefore, we must be very sure.”
Devenish nodded. “Monsieur, you said that after the child was abducted your brother spent the five years until his death searching for her. That would mean, I believe, that Josie was nine years old in 1813?”
“Oui. She will be twenty in January, Monsieur Devenish.”
“Then she was right—the little rascal!”
The rather wistful smile awoke the Chevalier’s curiosity. He asked, “This, it is of grande importance?”
“It is of no importance whatsoever. Merely a joke between us. You must be very excited, Chevalier.”
“I am—ah, beside myself with joy! You will not understand, I expect, but—but I have been a man very lonely since my dear wife died. To find her child, to perhaps watch her marry and have children of her own—a family circle into which I may be permitted to enter … There are no words, sir!”
“No,” said Devenish quietly. “There are no words.”
* * *
The fire had come and gone, and despite that terrible event, it could have been worse. By some miracle, Devenish had not been seriously burned. There had been no further sign of the threat that was Elliot Fontaine, nor had Dev made any reference of late to his alleged penchant for the beautiful Isabella. Josie should have been happy and carefree again, but she was neither.
In the days that followed the disaster, the old house was a beehive of activity. A small army was imported to haul away the rubble between the two wings and repair the havoc created on the once green lawns by horses, wheels, and the great depressions from which dirt had been dug to be dumped on the pyre. Wolfe and Mrs. Robinson worked feverishly to itemize all that had been lost and restore what was left. Carpenters replaced window glass and patched up blackened walls. Fires were lighted on every hearth in an attempt to dry out drenched floors and woodwork, no easy task with the cold outer air and a persistent drizzle falling. Neighbours came and went in steady streams to gawk at the stricken old house and commiserate with its owner.
Josie, trying amidst the uproar to replenish her wardrobe, since most of her possessions had been lost, and also to prepare for the fast approaching Christmas season, seemed to run from dawn to dusk, and the time whipped past at such a rate that she told Mrs. Bliss one cloudy afternoon that there was no least chance she ever could be ready in time. “For we are to go to Cloudhills this year, you know, to spend the holidays with the Leiths.”
“How lovely,” said Faith, putting down her teacup.
Josie glanced at her. “And—you, dear? Do you and Guy make plans to be— Oh, my! Never say you have quarrelled?”
Blinking rapidly, Faith concentrated on collecting some crumbs that had fallen onto her napkin, and said they had not quarrelled. “One cannot easily quarrel”—she smiled too brightly—“with a gentleman who never calls.”
“Sir William?” asked Josie, dismayed.
“Oh, no! They have decided it between them. I must—must look elsewhere for my future husband.” She bunched up the napkin savagely, thus scattering all her carefully gathered crumbs. “I wish I might knock their wooden heads together,” she said, her teeth bared.
“But—I thought, now that the King has cleared Guy from suspicion, he would be accepted, and your brother no longer object. Whatever happened?”
“It seems,” said Faith, her colour deepening, “Guy is afraid that—that if we marry, I … might have children.” She looked away, her lips trembling.
Josie slipped an arm about her. “Oh, but that is so like him! Truly, he is the most caring of men. But—you are healthy, and—”
Faith was shaking her head so vehemently that tears scattered. “It is not that. I think if it were, I could—could have convinced him. It is something I—cannot fight, do you see? Guy said the world could not endure another Claude or—or Parnell. And—and William says there is bad blood there, and he’ll not have it introduced into our family!”
Josie wondered sadly if Devenish feared that she, too, had bad blood. She said, “What nonsense! You’re of age, Faith! You love Guy, and—”
“And he loves me! But foolish creature, he is fairly eaten up with pride!” Her face crumpled and, bowing it between her hands, she sobbed out, “I even said we need not … that is to say—we could lead separate lives at night, if it would ease his mind.” She tensed and blinked through her tears at the troubled young face beside her. “Oh, my apologies.” She wiped impatiently at her eyes with the napkin, and sniffed. “I should not speak so to a sweet innocent.”
“Pooh! You forget, I think, that I spent my early years in a gypsy encampment! I knew more when I was six, Faith Bliss, than you did when you were wed, I fancy!” She sighed, and went on in a defeated way, “Enough to understand Guy’s reaction to your offer. He loves you so much, and likely knows he would not be able to abide by such an unnatural bargain. No more would you, I think.”
“No,” whispered Faith helplessly. “So—it is ended for me. And—enough of my problems. Now, dearest, I’ve scarce seen you this past week. I saw Dev outside just now. His eyebrows are already beginning to grow back, but I’ll admit he looks different without his curls.”
Josie smiled. “Like a hedgehog, I tell him.”
“You scamp! He never does.” Faith blew her nose daintily, and said in a casual way, “He—was unhurt in the fire?”
“A few burns, but nothing— Faith! My heavens—you’re not at your premonitioning again?”
“No, no, dear. Only … it’s probably just my silly worrying nature, but—I know Dev has had—er, reservations about this old place, but—it is his ancestral home, and to suffer so terrible a loss, one might think…”
“I know.” Josie’s dark eyes were troubled. “It has worried me, I own. He is almost—too cheerful. But—that is his way, you know. I think the fire brought home to him just how much he loves Devencourt, and when he is very much hurt, he would die sooner than allow anyone to see it.”
Faith squeezed her hand impulsively. “How well you know him. Now, tell me—what have you bought him for Christmas?”
* * *
Devenish reined up and pulled the inordinately long and rather garish scarf a little more closely about his throat. Josie had knitted it for him, and for a moment he continued to hold the tasselled end, a faint smile softening his expression as he recalled the many winter evenings they had sat by the fire together while he read (or tried to) and she knitted and chattered at him like a bright little magpie …
Santana danced, impatient with the pause, and Devenish shrank to the touch of the icy wind, and started him off at an easy canter. They’d have snow before Christmas, at this rate. Josie would like that. He wouldn’t mind either, so long as they could get to Cloudhills before it came down in earnest. If they went to Cloudhills. If the Chevalier returned with his confirmation, for it would be a confirmation, he knew—before the holidays, it could spoil their last Christmas together. Irritable, because he was selfish enough to wish a delay for such happiness for Josie, he moved in the saddle, his spurs touching against the stallion’s sides. Santana needed no more. With a bound, he was away, his hoofs spurning the muddy ground, his powerful strides eating up the distance. Eyes narrowing, Devenish leaned forward, exhilarated by the speed, defying common sense. Within two minutes, he was obliged to rein the big horse in again. He bowed lower, waiting it out with eyes closed and breath held in check. By the time it eased, he was panting and wet with sweat, his right hand gripping his knee, his left clamped so tightly on the pommel he could scarcely relax his fingers. Straightening cautiously, he knew he had brought it on himself, but he knew also that it was worse than ever before, and the attacks much more frequent. It was madness to put things off any longer. Sooner or later it would happen in front of Josie, and if she once suspected … He swore
, and headed Santana across the fields toward the smoke that drifted from the chimneys of a neat little hedge tavern he patronized from time to time on his way to or from Stroud.
The tavern keeper met him at the door. A warm breath of air on which hung the scents of woodsmoke and ale and a baking pie wafted to his nostrils.
“Ye look half froze, zur,” said the stocky host, beaming at him. “Coom ye in by the fire, here. Ye’ll likely be company for the gent as is biding wi’ us a while.”
The “gent” was John Drummond, seated at a hearthside table and staring gloomily at the leaping flames. He stood, flushing as Devenish came in, and asked if his cousin would care to join him.
Devenish had not wanted to meet anyone he knew, least of all one of Josie’s suitors, but he lied courteously and limped over to occupy a facing chair while the tavern keeper hurried to pour a mug of scalding coffee and call to his wife to warm a piece of the apple pie.
“Back again, eh?” said Devenish heartily.
Drummond sighed. “Never left. I fancy you must think me a sorry fool to hang about here. Knowing it’s all hopeless. But…”
“Not at all. Save that I do not see why you couldn’t have stayed at Devencourt instead of here.”
“You had your hands full, without me moping about the place. Besides, I got off a letter to my sire. Just had his reply.” He gave a wry shrug. “He’s quite adamant. He’s very fond of Josie, but … Well, if anything should happen to Arthur, I’d be the heir.”
His quick temper flaring, Devenish said an acid “One wonders whether my ward would disgrace his line, or if the dowry I’ve settled on her is inadequate!”
Drummond stiffened, paling. Fortunately, the host returned at this moment with a fragrant slice of apple pie which he set with a flourish in front of Devenish. As soon as the rotund little man had gone, Drummond said with fierce resentment, “Your remark was completely uncalled for, and—”
“I know.” Devenish gave a weary gesture. “You’ve my apologies, John. It’s only … she’s such a rare little creature.”
For a moment John continued to glare at him. Then, relaxing, he sighed. “Aye, she is. And I had to tell her—poor sweet girl.”
Devenish hacked out a piece of pie with rather extreme ferocity. “Upset, was she?”
“Yes. But you know how she is, Dev. So high in her moral values. She says she don’t want to bolt to Gretna, which I wouldn’t dream of suggesting, of course. And that she don’t want to marry me in a clandestine way, because she would feel ashamed. God bless her! Dashitall, when two people care for each other, it’s the very devil! I promised her I’d find some way out. I told her not to grieve too much, but—honestly, I don’t know what to do.”
The pie was tasteless and dry in Devenish’s mouth. He slammed down the fork and thrust the plate away. So she really did care for Drummond. She must. Certainly, she’d not have told him so if she didn’t mean it; she was no coquette. And what in hell was he resenting? John was a good, clean chap. Just the kind he’d always prayed for …
“Coz…?” repeated Drummond, peering at him.
“Your pardon. You were saying…?”
“I said—don’t you want that pie?”
“Pie? Oh. No—damnable stuff. Dry as dust.”
Drummond stared at rich, flaking pastry, juicy slices of apple, and the steam that drifted so fragrantly above the generous portion.
A reluctant gleam of amusement dawned in Devenish’s eyes. Heartbroken this suitor might be, but he was not too far gone to covet another man’s pie! He shoved the plate over. “Help yourself. I’m just not hungry.”
Drummond gave the pie his enthusiastic attention. “I told Josie,” he said rather thickly, “that we’d be wed, no matter what my father says. M’mother might be able to win him around. Knows how to handle him. It’s the only hope we’ve got, as I see it.”
“And—what if Lady Louisa cannot win your father over?”
The busy fork stilled. Staring at it broodingly, Drummond said, “Elope.”
“Oh, very good. And what would you live on, pray?”
“No difficulty there. I’ve been administering Tyndale’s Canadian properties these past months, and found I was quite able to do so, although his holdings are enormous. Craig would like nothing better than for me to take over on a permanent basis. There’s a dashed fine house, and it’s beautiful country.”
Devenish sat very still. He’d thought France would be far away. Canada was halfway around the world! He asked, “You have mentioned this … to Josie?”
“Lord, no. But—it’s a solution, if all else fails.”
It was a solution. Two young people venturing upon a new life in a new land. Stunned, Devenish thought, ‘Would she really have gone so far away? Would she really have left me?’ And how wrong to think so. He must let her go. The time had come, very well timed, for him to step back. He nerved himself, and said, “John … I will tell you something—in confidence.”
Five minutes later, Drummond drew the cork, poured the champagne, and swung his glass high. “A toast!” he cried, flushed with joy.
With a fixed smile, Devenish stood, glass in hand.
“To Josephine de Galin,” said John. “The future Mrs. John Drummond!”
Devenish raised his glass, but the most he could make his lips utter was, “To Josephine de Galin!”
The ardent swain was full of plans and hopes, yet it was obvious he could scarcely wait to retire to his room, array himself in the best clothes he had with him, and proceed to Devencourt to woo his beloved. Having no least doubts of the rate at which Drummond meant to ride, Devenish said that he had other business to attend to before returning home. They soon parted, therefore, Devenish embarking upon a wide easterly loop before at long last turning west towards Devencourt. The gloomy afternoon did nothing to brighten his mood, and he scarcely felt the snow flurries. Everything, he decided, was falling neatly into place—provided Josie would believe him. That was going to be the most difficult part; to get her to believe what he would tell her.
A shout, distant and indistinct, cut off his introspection. He looked up. A rider was coming at the gallop. A man, wearing a heavy coat and a low-crowned hat, and who waved with frantic urgency. Devenish applied his spurs and Santana bounded forward. As they drew closer, Devenish recognized the new footman and fear of some further disaster clutched him. “What is it?” he shouted, reining Santana to a halt.
“Bad news, I fear, sir,” gasped Finlayson breathlessly. “Word came from Cirencester. Lord Redmond has been shot!”
“Oh, God!” groaned Devenish. “They’ve not killed him?”
“It sounds bad, sir. His lordship lies at the Boar’s Head—it’s just beyond the town on the Cricklade Road. The valet said—if you could come, sir—to please come at the gallop!”
All thought of his own troubles disappeared. His heart twisting painfully, Devenish said, “I’ll go at once. Does Miss Storm know?”
“She rode part way to Oak Manor with Mrs. Bliss, sir. Mr. Wolfe sent Klaus after her.”
“Good. Pray tell her— No, wait.” He took a pencil and a small notepad from his pocket, and scribbled, “Little one—I’ll send word as soon as I learn something. Dev.” He formed the paper into a twist and handed it to the footman. “Give this to Miss Storm directly she comes home. Ask Mr. Hutchinson to come to the Boar’s Head with a change of clothes and my overnight necessities.”
The footman inclined his head.
“Did Mr. John Drummond pass you, by any chance?” asked Devenish.
“I saw a rider, sir, but I had cut across country and was riding very fast, so I did not see who he might be.”
“Never mind. You’re a good man. My thanks.”
The man bowed again. Devenish turned Santana and touched the sleek sides with his spurs. The big black snorted in surprise and leapt joyously into a gallop, Devenish leaning forward in the saddle, and horse and man like one being.
The young nob, thought Finlayson (wh
ich was not his real name), had a damn fine seat. He smiled unpleasantly. Much good might it do him! Still smiling, he read Devenish’s note, then tore it into small pieces and let the wind carry it away before he commenced a leisurely return to Devencourt.
Chapter 17
“Oh my, but it has turned cold,” said Josie, peeling off her gloves and handing her whip to Cornish as he opened the terrace door for her.
“Didya ride all the way to Oak Manor, miss?”
“No. It came on to sleet, so I decided to come back. Is the master home yet?”
“Not yet, mate. But young—er, I mean Mr. Drummond’s waitin’ in the bookroom.” He accompanied her as she started to the hall, and said rather reluctantly, “Wouldn’t ’ave a minute first, wouldya, miss?”
She liked the big man, and she smiled and asked if he would wish to speak to her in here.
“Ain’t me. It’s that there littel—” His jaw set, he said primly, “Mr. Finlayson. Arst ter see yer immedjit when yer come in.”
Finlayson. Her brow wrinkled. That would be the cold fish. “I’ll see him in the drawing room if there’s a fire in there.”
Cornish went off, saying he’d fetch “the slippery cove” there, and, stifling a smile, Josie left the study and turned into the drawing room. Before she had time to sit down, Finlayson was pulling the doors closed. Immediately, she felt the rush of dislike. He was never anything but polite, yet there was something … Impatient with herself, she said, “You wished to see me?”
“I have no right, miss.” For the first time he appeared agitated, and went on hurriedly, “I may be making much out of nothing, but—I know that Lord Redmond is most anxious about the master, and—”
Her heart gave a scared jolt. About to sit down, she stared at him. “In what way?”
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