“No, no, dear,” protested Rosamond, much amused. “Charles has eyes only for his Deborah!” She moaned inwardly, with an immediate inward wish that she had not mentioned her errant cousin. “And I feel quite sure,” she hurried on, “that Papa has—other interests…”
Mrs. Porchester darted a quick glance at her, and with a somewhat heightened colour said, “Such as?”
“Why, his garden, of course, dearest. Besides, he would never be in the slightest interested in a French maid, although I grant that Fifi is a pretty little creature. She speaks almost no English, and Papa cannot endure to have people jabbering a foreign language around him all the time. It makes him so uncomfortable. And speaking of being uncomfortable, ma’am, here are your slippers. Would you wish that I loosen your stays so you may put on your wrapper?”
“No, I would not,” replied Mrs. Estelle firmly. “And never think that because you can conflummerate all the silly gentlemen with your big eyes and that buxom shape and—”
“Buxom!” Glancing down at the rich curves of her figure, Rosamond protested, “Oh, now really, Aunt!”
“Well, your bosom is, at all events. And I may be obliged to cross the ocean with no abigail, but you need not think that I will allow privation to turn me aside! You have been very clever, but—”
The cabin rolled, and Rosamond squealed and made an unscheduled rush to her berth, landing with a swirl of voluminous skirts and the revelation of a pair of very neat ankles. “Oh my,” she cried, “we are in for a storm, I fear. And only see how your music box slid. Really, I should—”
“A pox on all this chit-chat about meals and maids and music boxes! A pox, miss! The box will be perfectly safe where ’tis, and I enjoy to hear its little song. Now—do not think to turn the subject again!” Mrs. Estelle bent a stern gaze upon her niece and declared, “I vow I was like to perish when Maria finally saw fit to let fall that dreadful remark—that dreadful remark!—that it had been so delightful to have had Deborah’s company this past month. This past month! When I think of the little minx behaving so pure as any saint and looking so wan in her blacks, when we was seeing her off to France in June! Or thought we was! And all the while, slinking away to keep some romantic assignation, I’ll be bound!”
“Dearest,” said Rosamond worriedly, straightening her skirts, “I cannot believe that! Deborah adored Hal. You know how she grieved. There must be some simple explanation, and when she comes home, she will tell us.”
“Simple explanation?” echoed her aunt awfully. “How could there be a simple explanation for a young lady of Quality to have vanished for two whole months? Aunt Caroline has not seen the chit, for you recall how she harped and harped about Debbie not having had the courtesy to visit Copenhagen. We met most of the rest of the aunts and cousins and so forth at Maria’s ball and everyone enquired after Deborah—they enquired, miss! Had they seen her, they would have told us so.”
“Yes, but—”
Estelle flung up one hand. “There is no yes. There is no but. Do you know what there is, Rosa? Do you know what there is? She has ruined herself, is what she’s done! Our little Debbie has ruined herself!”
Mutually appalled, they stared at each other.
Rosamond said miserably, “Never say so. Surely, ’tis just a misunderstanding, and when Cousin Louis brings her back from Italy, Deb will laugh at us for—”
“And will she laugh at those letters, Rosa? Ah! You have forgot them, I see! Your dear papa and Violet Singleton both have had letters from the minx! Supposedly sent from the Hôtel de Fontblanque at a time when we now have learned she was not there! Debbie writ them, for I know her hand. So someone must have sent them for her!” She clutched her pale cheeks and, genuinely heartsick, moaned, “Is a long-considered plot, do you see? Oh Lud, oh Lud! Whatever am I to tell the colonel? He will be so enraged. So enraged!”
Rosamond bit her lip. It was utterly incomprehensible. Deborah was the dearest girl, not at all hoydenish, and so cast down over her brother’s death that one would think a romantic tryst the farthest thing from her mind. ‘If ’tis truth,’ she thought miserably, ‘and she has run away with some ineligible Parisian gentleman, ’twill break poor Charles’s heart!’ But it could not be true. There simply must be some reasonable explanation. She said in desperation, “Why must you tell my father anything, dear ma’am? As you yourself so cleverly pointed out, we are without maids to gossip about it, and—”
“Clever, is it?” Mrs. Estelle gave an indignant exclamation. “Somebody will say something, wicked child! Mark my words, someone will speak. And how can you—the sister of a clergyman— Which is another thing, Rosamond. Think of poor Charles, gazing at Deborah like a sick calf every time he comes near her. Your papa knows your brother hopes to fix his interest with her. Much chance Charles will have now! Much chance he will have!”
“All the more reason why we must say nothing, best of all aunts. Not yet, at least. Charles has lost his dearest friend. He must not now lose his love. He has such hopes.” Rosamond wrung her hands and said anxiously, “If only we had delayed long enough to go down to Italy with Cousin Louis and see Deb! We could have learned what happened and brought her back with us.”
“Louis will bring her back. If she is there! But suppose we had gone with him only to find she is cavorting off somewhere again? There would have been more money wasted—and I’ll confess I have already spent far more than your father allowed, so that I’ve had to borrow from Maria! Besides which, Lennox would have been properly in the mopes because we could not possibly have gone to Italy and still reached home in time for his birthday.
Rosamond sighed. “Yes, bless him. For all his bluster, Papa is so soft-hearted. Only—dear aunt, I beg you not to tell him about Deb! After all, we really do not know—”
“Are you sure we do not, Miss Slyboots? You and Deborah have been bosom bows since you was in leading strings and always shared your secrets! Did she make you promise not to give her away, child? If you will but tell me, perhaps—” Her eyes becoming very bright, Estelle lowered her voice. “Was it an affaire de coeur, my love? Was he tall and dark and ador____” She broke off with a gasp. “What am I saying, and her unwed! You would never lend your support to so improper a scheme!”
Rosamond shook her elegantly coiffed but unpowdered head. “I do not believe there was an improper scheme. But if there had been, Deborah would not be so wanting in propriety as to involve me. She knows I still mourn Hal, even as she does.”
At once Mrs. Estelle’s face was sad. She had been deeply fond of Harold Singleton, and his untimely death had horrified her. She struggled from the berth and staggered across the swaying cabin to sit beside her niece and take her hand. “How unkind in me to scold you, sweet child. You have borne your loss so bravely, and you were so deep in love.”
Rosamond said slowly, “No. I will be honest, dear, that is not quite true. Harold was a darling. I was quite content to become his wife, and if I was not in love with him, I did love him. He was so kind and honourable, and so absolutely devoted to me. He was the best kind of man; the kind England needs, and when I think of the evil malcontents who stamped out that bright young life! That dear Hal had to die—so far from all who loved him—” She broke off, a lump coming into her throat, and blinked mistily at Trifle’s nose, just visible under the opposite berth.
This little speech had shocked the romantically inclined Mrs. Porchester, who had fancied her beautiful niece to be bravely concealing a broken heart. Somewhat disappointed, she said, “Such a tragedy. Hal was a gentleman in the fullest sense of the word. ’Twas terribly hard for poor Charles as well, for I dare swear one might have thought he and Hal were brothers, rather than he and William. Shall I ever forget Charles’s rage when he went up to Scotland and found Hal had been thrown into a common grave, so he could not even say a prayer over where he lies … Dear God, what a frightful thing is war! What a fright____”
With the suddenness peculiar to the English Channel, what the captain had p
rophesied would be no more than a minor disturbance had become a violent storm. Black clouds sulked across the sky, the gusty wind roared into a fearsome gale, and the heavens opened to release lashing sheets of rain. The cabin tilted crazily, then rushed downwards as the packet was drawn into a trough between mountainous waves.
Mrs. Estelle clutched the sides of the bunk and uttered a piercing shriek. The puppy presented to her a month ago in Copenhagen, whom she had rather inappropriately named Trifle, woke up, clawed his way from under the bunk, and began to bark excitedly.
Rosamond pushed the dog away when he decided to occupy her lap, and demanded he “be quiet!” Undaunted, Trifle rushed about, creating havoc in the small cabin as he pranced clumsily through an open bandbox and scattered the neatly packed contents.
Fortunately, neither lady was subject to mal de mer, but the sudden and violent storm was frightening, and several times it was all Rosamond could do to convince either herself or her aunt that they were not en route to the bottom of the sea.
Trifle viewed the whole thing as a game and, having been sternly forbidden a promising slipper, he declared war on a towel hanging at the side of the wash-stand and worried at it, growling so ferociously that all commands to desist apparently went unheard. He was only four months old, but during the last few weeks it had become very apparent that his well-born Danish mama had been acquainted with another admirer before she was presented to her equally well-born selected mate. The appealing and affectionate puppy (whose tri-colour coat had secretly worried his breeder) had doubled in size. Any resemblance to a spaniel, even an Irish water spaniel, had ceased to exist. If his fluffy ears had stopped growing, his legs had not; what his paws lacked in the way of tassels they made up for in size and digging ability; and if he belonged on a lap, it might better have been that of a Mongolian war-lord than of a gentle eighteenth-century lady of Quality. His assault on the towel ending when the rack parted from the wash-stand, Trifle was hurled precipitously against the chest, the jolt sending the music box sailing to the floor. One of the drawers in the little box fell open and, this being the means to start the mechanism, the delicate strains of “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?” added to the uproar of wind, rain, Mrs. Estelle’s lamentations, and Trifle’s apparent need to sing with the music.
Estelle truly valued her little box, knowing which, Rosamond sprang up and hurried to rescue it before it was irretrievably damaged.
She had chosen an unpropitious moment. A great gust caught the packet broadside, and it heeled over and plunged down another green wall. Flung to the side, Rosamond knew an instant of frightened confusion, then a great shock reduced cabin, packet, and storm to nothingness.
* * *
The afternoon had become a ravening fury, and the wind, growing ever colder, drove salt spray hissing through the air. The packet, which had looked enormous at the quayside, was now a toy thing to be tossed about contemptuously by the towering seas, its masts, denuded of sail, seeming almost to brush the waves as the vessel pitched and swung.
A few crew members fought with ropes and tackle, but the passengers on the spray-lashed deck were for the most part pathetic creatures who hung over the rail, or collected in cold, sodden groups on the benches, rather than endure the stuffy cabins. The port side was all but deserted, with only two young men in evidence. One, pale and miserable, huddled at the rail; the other gazed with frowning grey eyes towards the north and England.
Through the comparative quiet of a lull in the wind, a faint voice moaned, “Sacre … bleu!”
The sound brought Robert Victor’s head around. “Poor fellow,” he said, in French. “Can I help?”
“Not unless you chance to—to have a loaded pistol in your pocket.”
“Not a good sailor, eh? You might better have waited out the weather, monsieur.”
“Assurément. Regrettably, this, it was not possible.” The packet wallowed sickeningly. He gulped, “Forgive, but—” and bowed over the rail again.
After a pause, the dark head being dragged up once more, Victor shouted, “I believe I saw you at the Fontblanque ball on Tuesday night. Are you related to the comtesse, perhaps?”
“No. You are not … French, I think?”
“Not much doubt about that, I fancy.” Victor grinned and said in English, “My French is execrable. You are Parisian, monsieur?”
“No.” And, speaking also in English: “Nor would I say … your French is execrable. Only that you have a rather—unusual accent.”
“And I am being unpardonably rude and asking altogether too many questions. Pray accept the apologies of Robert Victor, sir.”
“Fairleigh. Roland Fairleigh.” His trembling, cold and clammy hand was taken in a firm grip. “I’m—English born,” he went on feebly, “as was my father. My mother … was French, and various members of her … family still live near Paris. Ah! I recollect now—you’re the fellow old—old Bowers-Malden was roaring at. Doctor, isn’t it?”
A faint irritation came into Victor’s eyes. He said grudgingly, “Yes. And—”
Fairleigh slumped, groaning. When he roused, limp and spent, his companion gave him a sympathetic smile and suggested that he might do well to go and lie down in his berth.
Before Fairleigh could respond, a great gust sent the packet reeling. Almost simultaneously a door burst open and a lady rushed through it.
Mrs. Porchester had not intended to go on deck. She had first sought out her nephew, only to find him prostrated and helpless and his valet in like condition. Her frenzied cries for help had been answered only by faint moans from behind closed cabin doors, and in search of some member of the crew, she had struggled desperately along the companionway. Trifle had found her as she passed the door that led to the deck, and his pleased greeting had knocked her against the door, which had flown open, precipitating her into the stormy afternoon.
Fairleigh roused sufficiently to catch and steady her as she whizzed past him. Much relieved to see a familiar face, she thanked him and breathlessly implored his aid.
He clapped a handkerchief to his mouth, “Deepest…’grets, ma’am. But—otherwise … engaged…” And he bowed low again, quite obviously useless.
Thoroughly enjoying this noisy game, and very willing to play, Trifle turned his attention to Dr. Victor, who, having started toward them, received the dog’s enthusiasm full in the chest and was smashed back, his head making sharp and painful contact with the stanchion.
“Yemuckledaftbeastietaeth’de’ilwi’ye!” he roared, rubbing his head.
Fairleigh turned his cheek against the rail and peered at the victim.
Recognizing the voice of authority despite the bedlam, Trifle sat down and grinned in his best “nice puppy” fashion.
Mrs. Estelle fought her way to Victor. “What,” she gasped, “did you say?”
He slanted a glance at Fairleigh. “Latin, ma’am,” he shouted. “Had to study it so long, I sometimes revert to it in—er, moments of stress.”
“Oh. Well, thank heaven I found you. I believe you were at our ball, and—” She broke off with a squeal and clung to him as the deck slid toward the waves.
When the packet righted itself, Fairleigh said with an effort, “Mrs. Porchester, meet—meet Dr. Victor, who…” His voice trailed off.
“Praise God!” cried Mrs. Estelle.
“Eh?” said Victor, startled.
She seized his arm. “Come! Quickly! I need you most desperately.”
“But, ma’am, you—”
“You are a doctor!” Desperate, and indignant, she tugged. Victor resisted. Convinced his new owner was under attack, Trifle did his duty and gave the physician a good nip on the shin.
Amid a flurry of shrill explanations, loud barks, and anguished protestations augmented by the howl of the wind, they reeled to the door.
The sufferer at the rail stared after them until his attention was again claimed by more pressing matters.
* * *
Rosamond’s head ached mise
rably. When she tried to sit up, her side hurt even more miserably, and she gave a fretful little cry when Trifle came boisterously to play with her.
“Get away, you damnable hound!” cried an irritable male voice.
Trifle vanished. Puzzled, Rosamond peered upward. She saw skirts swirling around her, and wet knee-boots. Aunt Estelle’s anxious face hovered. “My poor dear child! Can you lift her, Doctor?”
“No need,” faltered Rosamond, striving again.
Aunt Estelle’s face was replaced by another. A young face. Water dripped from the sodden light brown hair, ran in little rivulets down the lean planes of the cheeks and trickled from the end of the hawkish nose and the strong chin. “You…!” she moaned.
“My name is Robert Victor. Be still! I will try not to hurt you, ma’am.” He dropped to one knee and started to raise her.
“No!” she squealed, pushing him away.
He fairly leapt back. “Woman, I’ve scarce touched you! What’re you blathering at?”
His grey eyes were dark and stormy, and she thought that he looked very cross and unpleasant. “You—did hurt me,” she whispered.
“My apologies, but since I certainly cannot leave you lying here, you must try to be brave. I’m going to lift you up and lay you on the bunk.”
His arms were strong and surprisingly gentle, but he was cold and soaked. Rosamond was deposited on the bunk and received the full benefit of a stream of icy water that poured from the point of his tricorne. She uttered a whimper of shock and revulsion, and the hand she flung up to shield herself made violent contact with his chin.
Dr. Victor growled something, undoubtedly profane, under his breath.
Happily, Rosamond was a healthy girl and had had little to do with physicians, but the inevitable ailments of childhood had come her way. Old Dr. Jackson had attended her through these miseries, and although she’d always liked him, not until this moment had she fully appreciated his warmth and kindness. This young physician was rude and abrupt and would be unlikely, she decided, to rise high in his chosen profession.
Cherished Enemy Page 3