Practice to Deceive

by Patricia Veryan

  “Now…’pon my soul!” he croaked. “Chandler—I think you’ve done it!”

  Heartened, he wavered forward. The meadow seemed very wide indeed, but if he could just get to that first patch of gorse, it would be a start. Solemnly, he warned the meadow that ‘the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.’ His own step was wobbly, his legs uncertain beneath him, but he knew his condition would not improve if he waited.

  He crouched and set off in an erratic, weaving run. The patch of gorse obligingly lifted and floated towards him, and at last he was kneeling in its shadow, breathing in painful, rasping sobs, clutching his throbbing arm, and peering desperately about for any sign of having been seen. There was no outcry, no running men with clubs or pitchforks, no red uniforms and bayonets to cut him down. He recruited his energy and tried again.

  How he at last came across that meadow, he could not have said, but after a period that seemed as unending as it was appalling, he was amongst the gravestones. The back door of the church was open, and the cool dimness within beckoned, offering a blessed surcease from effort, if only he could get to it, for the Leper’s Door must be close by. And—surely, there would be water…?

  He picked his way amongst the headstones, but they were perverse objects, alternately vanishing and materializing directly in his path so that he blundered into them. Panting and exhausted, he hung down his head and found the earth only a few inches from his nose. This seemed a very odd circumstance. He realized at last that he had been crawling, but one did not go to church on one’s hands and knees. With a mighty effort he clambered to his feet again and staggered determinedly for the elusive door. A great slab of black marble loomed up, and the white angel above it jabbed him with one of her wings.

  It was, as he told her, the outside of enough. He sat down on the marble slab and gave the angel a piece of his mind.

  * * *

  Dutch Coachman was quite sure that if the Major had survived he would by this time be making his way through the forest towards Little Snoring, for he knew that somewhere in that village was the point at which the vital message was to be delivered.

  “But surely,” Penelope argued wearily, “he will be too weak and hurt to worry about that now. He shall have to look to his own safety.”

  The coachman smiled faintly. “Not Master Quentin. He give his word, ma’am. He’ll die sooner’n break it. Now, do you see that little hill yonder, where the trees poke up?”

  Penelope shielded her eyes against the sunset and made out the heavily wooded hillock. “Yes, I see it. Do you really think he might be there?”

  “I’d not be surprised if he runs rings round they sojers, then comes to where he can give the village a look-see. I be going up there, ma’am.”

  Twice on this interminable journey, he had fallen. The second time it had taken her a great time to revive him, and she had insisted he rest and try to regain his strength. Now, she tugged at his arm, protesting, “No! Dutch, you cannot! You’ll never be able to climb up there. And I am so hot and tired—I know I could not.”

  “Lordy, Lord, Miss Penny,” he said with faint chiding. “As if I’d ’spect it of ye. No, miss. There looks to be a nice little church in that there village. You wait fer me in there.”

  She argued against this and said resignedly that she would go with him in case he should fall again, but when he pointed out that Master Quentin might just as likely have took refuge in the church, she thought it quite possible, and so at last watched his sturdy figure disappear in amongst the trees and turned her own steps towards the drowsy village and the quiet peace of the ancient church.

  When she trod timidly through a wide-open side door, the interior was cool, dim, and deserted. She found it rather odd that there was no one about, but at this hour of the evening she reasoned that everyone was indoors for dinner.

  The high vaulted sanctuary was bathed in crimson, the sunlight making a glory of the west windows. The oak pews, dark with age, invited her, and she went to the rear and sank down with a sigh of relief where the light was dim. She stretched out her aching legs and leaned back gratefully, but it came to her that she was in God’s house and had spoken no word for her beloved. She pulled over a cassock, sank to her knees, bowed her head reverently, and prayed.

  Her prayers were disturbed by an odd sound, a sort of muted shuffling punctuated by little thumps and heavy breathing. Penelope opened her eyes. The church was as empty as it had been when she entered. It was, in fact, so silent that she began to think it strange. Surely the vicar or the curate should be about, or someone cleaning, or arranging flowers?

  “Oh … damn…!”

  She gave a gasp, and sprang to her feet. Those so unexpected words had been groaned out, but the voice was wonderfully familiar. Holding up one hand against the glory of the west windows, she hastened to the aisle and walked along towards the altar, scanning each pew with desperate anxiety. She stopped abruptly.

  Quentin had managed to crawl inside and had spotted the Leper’s Door at last. The old church had been designed in the shape of a cross, and in the southeastern corner at which the shorter section of the building bisected the main sanctuary, a small door had been built long and long ago: a door little more than a foot in height and less than that in width, inserted into the wall at eye level, outside which the unfortunate lepers might stand to see the altar and hear the services. It was in that little recess in the thick wall that Quentin had been instructed to leave his cypher. He had tried so hard, but now, however he struggled, he lacked the strength to get to it. He could not even crawl any more, for his legs were like lead and he was so very tired and he hurt so badly, but worst of all was his thirst.

  He thought, ‘Come on, Chandler!’ and, gripping the heavy end of the pew, heaved with all his strength and managed to pull his failing body another inch or two. He groaned despairingly, and his head bowed onto his outstretched arms.

  He heard, then, a little cry and a whisper of draperies, and looking up incredulously, saw a vision coming towards him. Her hair was dishevelled, mud streaked down one cheek, and her gown was torn and a mass of creases, but he saw her with the eyes of love and thought her the most beautiful sight he had ever beheld.

  Penelope sank to her knees in the wide pew, and Quentin fought his way up, whispering her name and reaching out for her. She gathered him into cherishing arms and kissed his brow, his scratched face, his dry cracked lips. And between kisses, she whispered, “Oh, my love—my poor darling. Where are you hurt?”

  “Just … this foolish arm,” he croaked, gazing at her adoringly. “How did you ever … find me?”

  “Because I was meant to, dearest heart. Oh, but you are all blood! I must go and find—”

  “First—my sword, love. The—the cypher.”

  He looked so spent that she was frightened, but respecting his wishes, she opened the little compartment in the hilt of his sword and took out the cypher.

  “Over … there. The Leper’s Door in—the corner. Just lay it … on the ledge.”

  She obeyed, then ran to the font and, with a hasty plea for forgiveness, immersed her handkerchief there, then flew back to Quentin.

  He gasped with relief when she bathed his face and moistened his dry lips. He said with faint elation, “We’ve done it! Penelope Anne, we—”

  Her hand clamped over his mouth. Paling, she turned towards the main door. Hooves sounded outside, and wheels rumbled over the cobblestones. For one glorious moment she had dared to hope they might escape. That the little cottage in France really did await them … that Quentin would have his vegetable garden. Now, she shrank as a man bellowed, “What’s to do here? Is everyone in the blasted place dead as dust? Treadway—take some of the men and search the village. Don’t stand for no nonsense from the yokels!”

  Shivering, Penelope whispered, “Uncle Joseph…”

  Quentin pulled her hand away from his lips. “Go, love! Please—go now. You can hide if—”

  “No, dear.”


  Frantic, he started to beg her, but heavy footsteps were stamping through the front doors. Lord Joseph growled, “Empty as a politician’s head! Oh, well. Best look, I suppose.”

  Quentin struggled vainly to stand, only to sink helplessly into Penelope’s arms. Holding him close, she watched with frozen dread as her uncle’s shadow began to come into view along the roseate floor.

  “Delavale?” called Lady Sybil. “Are you in here? Oh, there you are. Treadway has found an oaf in the tavern who seems to know something.”

  The shadow, which had stopped, now retreated. “Well, Jove, it’s about time! We’re close, Sybil, I can tell you that. We’ll have ’em before nightfall. I knew we’d only to follow that Holt creature, and he came straight here.”

  “And left again, my lord.”

  The shadow was gone now. Penelope breathed raggedly, hoping against hope.

  “See here, Sybil,” grunted Joseph. “You make sure. I’ve got as far as that pew by the pillar. Can’t take no chances. That rebel scum might be skulking there.”

  “What? You never mean to leave me alone? What if Chandler is here? You said yourself he will stop at nothing!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! From what I hear, the fella’s half dead, but—very well—take this if you like. It’s cocked—have a care.”

  Quentin reached up one unsteady hand to caress Penelope’s cheek.

  She smiled and held him tighter, pressing a kiss onto the wet tendrils of hair that had curled against his forehead. Her eyes widened with dread as Sybil’s shadow began to appear, and she gazed with unblinking fascination as the shadow lengthened until she could see the long sleek shape in her aunt’s small hand that was Joseph’s pistol. She could hear the rustle of Sybil’s gown; hear her moaning little grumblings. The tension increased to such a pitch that she could hardly breathe, and it was almost a relief when the tip of the black velvet cloak came into view, and then Sybil’s lovely face, framed by the fur-lined black hood, was staring at them.

  My lady gave a little squeak of shock. Paling, she swung up the long-barrelled pistol and aimed it, her eyes taking in Quentin, sprawled in Penelope’s arms, his bloodied, sweat-streaked face resting against the girl’s bosom. He lifted one hand in a feeble wave, and the corners of his pale mouth twitched into the same whimsical grin she had first seen on the face of an older gentleman. Her eyes shifted to Penelope. There was a deep sadness in the face she had never judged pretty, but that now had an oddly proud beauty. Penelope said nothing, but bent a little lower over the man she cradled so tenderly, in an instinctive gesture of protection.

  “Joseph…!” shrilled my lady faintly.

  From behind her, Father Albritton said, “The quality of mercy, my child.”

  Sybil squawked and spun about, her pistol covering the priest for an instant.

  Watching the inexperienced finger that wavered on the hair trigger, Charles Albritton judged accurately that he had never stood in greater peril, but he stood firm.

  “They—they brought it on themselves, they are traitors,” gasped Sybil.

  “Perhaps. But you have only one immortal soul,” he pointed out with a grave smile.

  “And only one life to live!” she retorted. And not glancing again at the silent lovers, she fled, her croaking voice calling, “Joseph! Joseph!”

  Albritton moved rapidly along the pew. “My poor fellow! Here, let me help you.” He managed to half-lift Quentin onto the pew, but the wounded man sagged, and Penelope sprang to support him. Quentin’s head sank onto her shoulder. “If he might please have some water,” she begged.

  “Of course.” The priest turned away.

  “No!” gasped Quentin. “Please—Father … will you rather … marry us?”

  A wry smile twisted the clergyman’s mouth. “Have you had the banns called, my son? Have you a special licence?”

  “I’m not your—son,” said Quentin fretfully. “Dammitall, you look to be younger than me!”

  Penelope flinched, looking at this man of God in a silent plea for understanding.

  Albritton grinned. “You were up two years before me, as I recall, Chandler.”

  Horrified, Quentin’s strained eyes searched the fine young face. What he read there reassured him. “Do you know,” he said wearily, “I doubt Christ would have asked for … a special licence.”

  Albritton hesitated. “I doubt He would have, either.” He moved closer. “Your name, ma’am?”

  Penelope told him, her heart racing, her eyes gemmed with tears, praying that Uncle Joseph not burst in and drag them off before this was done.

  “This must be a quick ceremony, I fear,” said the priest, over a sudden tumult that had arisen outside. “Quentin Chandler, do you take Penelope Anne Montgomery to be your lawfully wedded wife…?”

  Their responses were spoken softly. Their eyes, banishing pain and sorrow and dread of the ghastly fate that must separate them all too soon, met in so tender a look that the priest’s gentle heart ached for them, and he spoke the final benediction in a voice that broke. The lovely young bride bent to kiss her husband, and Chandler’s left arm lifted weakly to embrace her, then sank again.

  His eyes misting, Albritton looked away and, hurrying to the organ, began to play Bach’s beautiful “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.”

  Nestling his head closer against the sweet softness of his wife, Quentin said, “Whatever they may … do to us—I shall never stop loving you, my Penelope Anne.”

  She kissed him again, and murmured, “We must not let Death part us, my darling.”

  “Why should it?” he said, his words faint but his eyes fixed on her expressive face. “It never has … before.”

  “So you have felt that, too?”

  “Yes. Since first I—”

  The pure organ music stopped suddenly. Quentin’s hand tightened on Penelope’s.

  Many feet were running along the aisle.

  Her teeth chattering, Penelope closed her eyes and prayed for courage.

  “I love you,” said Quentin, quite clearly.

  “Well, of all things,” exclaimed Trevelyan de Villars. “Here we ride all day, ventre à terre, trying to come up with you—while you lounge about taking your ease!”

  Wrenching her head around, her heart thundering, Penelope saw Gordon Chandler, de Villars, and a beaming Dutch Coachman watching them. “Oh … my God!” she sobbed. “Oh—my God! Are you all taken … as well?”

  “They’re all gone, brave girl,” said Gordon, hurrying along the pew behind them to peer over at his battered brother and reach down to grip the hand that so waveringly tried to reach his. Blinking rather rapidly, he scolded, “You see what happens, do I but turn my back on you for an instant!”

  “But … but my aunt … saw us!” stammered Penelope, trying in vain to comprehend.

  “Did she, by God!” said de Villars. “That beauty in the black lace?” His dark brows lifted appreciatively.

  “Then she certainly did not tell your uncle,” said Gordon. “We watched them ride out—the very picture of frustrated fury. Perchance there is some good in the woman, after all.”

  “There is good in all of us,” said Albritton in quiet reproof.

  De Villars spun around. “Devil take you, Charles,” he said, laughing as he recognized the young man he’d not seen since university days. “Why the deuce are you done up in that … ridiculous…” And he faltered to a stop, his crimson face a study. “Oh…” he moaned. “Egad! You really are a priest!”

  Albritton threw back his head and shouted with mirth.

  Too stunned to be able to grasp this miraculous reprieve, Penelope looked down at Quentin.

  His eyes were bright with tears. He turned his face against her breast and wept.

  She bent and kissed his untidy head, then looked up, her joyous gaze moving from one loyal face to the next. They all looked so fond, so understanding, and perhaps a little awed. Her gaze slipped to the Leper’s Door.

  The cypher was gone.

  * *
*

  Dutch Coachman leaned forward in his chair and said low and urgently, “We must get them away, sir.” He glanced to the side of the vicar’s study where Quentin lay on a sofa while his bride gently tended his arm. “They’ll come back here. Soon, like as not.”

  Albritton sighed and lifted his eyes to the man who leaned against the desk beside him. “You agree, Treve?”

  De Villars nodded. “Either that rapscallion of an uncle of hers, or our ambitious Captain Holt.” He bent his dark head closer to his friends and murmured, “Whatever we are to do, it must be fast, gentlemen. If they take old Quentin again, I’m thinking it’s his lady wife’s funeral we shall attend, as well as his. We have—” He checked, his grey eyes widening. “Hey, now…” he muttered, and then, grinning, repeated, “Hey, now! A funeral, by Gad!”

  * * *

  The small cortege wound slowly along the rutted country lane, the hearse in the lead, drawn by black horses with tall black feathers bobbing above their heads; the mourners’ coach behind, escorted by two sombrely clad outriders.

  Inside the coach, her veil drawn back from her wan face, Penelope clung tightly to the hand of her new brother-in-law. Her fingers were icy cold and trembling, despite the warm afternoon. Gordon placed his own free hand over them and said reassuringly, “Hang on, brave little lady. Only twenty more miles.”

  “Two hours,” she whispered. “Oh, Gordon—why did it have to grow so hot? My poor love must be roasting in that dreadful c-coffin!”

  His grip tightened. “Courage, m’dear. Quentin’s come through all this, and though he’s a bit pulled at the moment, he’s tough as nails, never fear.”

  “But I do fear. Indeed, I cannot help but fear that we—we tempt Fate. All these hours, jolting and bumping over these dreadful roads!”