Cherished Enemy

by Patricia Veryan

  “Most decidedly not! I deplore the breed, as you heard me say at my aunt’s ball in Paris. In fact,” she went on, suddenly thoughtful, “now that I think of it, you appeared irked by my remarks.”

  He watched her with amusement. “Now what do you seek to imply, ma’am? Come now, never hesitate to revile me! Does your over-active imagination picture me bedight in kilts and claymore, hacking away on Culloden Field?”

  She tossed her head and replied with scorn, “My imagination is not that over-active, I assure you!” And then, piqued by something about the set of his chin, she asked contrarily, “Were you at Culloden?”

  He laughed. “Had I admired Bonnie Charlie, I might have wished to be there. But when a man becomes a doctor, he takes an oath to save life—not take it. Which is not to say,” he added firmly, “that I am so witless as to find Free Traders romantical figures to be sighed over and admired.”

  Witless, indeed! Flushing, she snapped, “I neither admire them, nor sigh over them! But whatever their faults, they do not carry the guilt for bringing about a cruel and senseless war!”

  “They circumvent the bounds of the law, Miss Albritton, and should be regarded as criminals. I must have a word with Charles. He very likely hides illicit cargoes in his belfry when the riding officers are about, and has allowed you to be contaminated by his easy ways.”

  “Oh!” she gasped, enraged by this calumny of her peerless brother. “That is not so! Charles is the most law-abiding boy in the— Now why do you look at me like that?”

  The cynical grey eyes were lowered at once. “’Tis rather blinding,” he murmured.

  “What is?” she asked, quite out of charity with the sanctimonious wretch.

  “The sun. Shining so brightly on … er, your cap.”

  Her cap was a very fetching creation of white satin, richly flounced at the edges, and threaded with a beige velvet riband to match her habit. The cap had been much admired in Paris, although never had the word “blinding” been employed to describe it. Nor did she believe he really had been dazzled by it. He had looked more amused than dazzled. Very likely he had been fighting the impulse to offer a compliment, for he was so proud a man that even if he did find something about her to admire he probably would be unable to bring himself to admit it. Which was perfectly satisfactory, for she certainly did not wish to be admired by a physician who made no attempt to help another doctor in need; who condemned so widely condoned a practice as smuggling; yet was not above doing—immoral things in ships’ cabins!

  “Indeed?” she said carelessly.

  “Yes. And you look quite nice when you blush. You should do so more often.”

  ‘Contrary beast!’ she thought and, elevating her pretty nose, started off at a faster pace. Unfortunately, the old paving stones were broken and uneven. Her heel caught on a jutting edge and she tripped. The doctor moved very fast and was able to steady her, but in the process his grip on the leash slackened momentarily. Trifle was not one to miss an opportunity; he made a bound for freedom, tore the leash from the doctor’s hold, and raced down the hill at top speed.

  * * *

  The chariot lurched to a stop at last, and when Rosamond leaned out of the window, Billy Coachman called with a broad grin, “There ’e is, missus. Cor, if I was you, I’d pretend as ’ow we don’t know the poor perisher!”

  Ignoring this probably excellent advice, both ladies left the vehicle.

  The cottage stood at the far western edge of the old town, set back from the lane behind high hedges so that even from his high perch Billy Coachman might not have seen the two men in the front garden save for the pitch of one voice.

  “Oh dear,” murmured Mrs. Porchester, making her way through the open gate.

  Trifle, who had been resting under an apple tree, got up and came to greet her, the picture of a docile and obedient dog—save for the mound of earth on the end of his nose.

  It was a very pretty house, thought Rosamond, set in a charming garden. Charming, that is, except for several large holes that appeared to have been very recently excavated in several flower-beds, and the fact that the sundial, centred amid luxuriant rose-bushes, leaned drunkenly.

  “… very reason I bought the place,” roared a stout man with a face as red as his voice was loud, “was to escape pests like that worthless hound, sir! And you, sir!”

  “I appreciate the fact that you are a little upset—” began Victor.

  “UPSET?” bellowed the stout man. “For three years I have slaved and hoed and weeded and toiled here, sir! For three long years I have striven to convert a neglected weed patch into a garden as fair as the house! And for the most part I have succeeded! I’ll have you know that I hate dogs, with their barking and their destruction and their mess, and I keep ’em out! With a musket, if necessary! But along comes a foreign dog from a foreign country—”

  “No, I assure you, he—”

  “Do you stand there and tell me he is a Sussex dog, sir?”

  “Well, I am sure if he had his choice, commodore, he—”

  “Choice?” howled the proud home owner. “That miserable damned mongrel wouldn’t know choice from cheese, sir. Only see what he has done! In but a few moments whilst I was gone to the house for a glass of water, he has ruined my property!”

  “No, really, there is very little damage, and—”

  “VERY LITTLE DAMAGE? By Zeus, sir! By Beelzebub! Are you blind as well as daft? Look at my marigolds, sir! Shaped like a heart, that bed was! Now it looks as if someone fired a cannon through the poor thing! Look at my iris! Hand-pollinated, sir! Took me two years to get ’em all spaced and set just as I wanted. Your blasted four-legged destroyer chewed up half and tore out the rest! Look at my sundial, sir! Imported from Italy! I had the devil of a time resettling it after all the damned rain last winter. Heavy as hell! But your dear doggie unsettled it with no difficulty!” His voice rose, his face purpling with choler. “And you say VERY LITTLE DAMAGE? You are a viper, sir! A spoiler! You and your foul hound!” And as Victor became aware that the ladies were coming up the path and glanced to them, the irate gentleman added, “Do you see that, sir?” He gestured to where a grim-looking blunderbuss was propped in an angle of the wall. “I keep that loaded and ready in case any murdering Scot should dare to show his bare knees in this vicinity, in which case I’d blow his filthy head off. But damme if I ain’t tempted to—”

  Victor intervened coldly, “Not all Jacobites are Scots, and if you—”

  “You may believe I’d lower me aim for any skulking Englishman so treacherous as to turn his back on king and country,” roared the commodore, his colour deepening alarmingly. “These wild Scots are bad enough, but at least they fought for their own countryman and likely believed he was in the right of it. Any man who does battle for his own has the right to a quick and clean way out of his troubles. But—an English traitor? By Zeus and his blasted thunderbolts, I’d let him have the shot about two inches under his sword-belt—just to give him time to repent his sins before—” Here, his irate gaze belatedly encompassing a remarkably pretty girl, he gave a dismayed gasp, then recovered to growl, “If that shocked you, madam, you may console yourself with the knowledge that were you not trespassing, you’d not have heard it!”

  “I have no need for consolation,” said Rosamond. “Such sentiments are stern perhaps, but to my mind, perfectly well justified. Do you fancy ladies to be unpatriotic, sir?”

  “I—ah—if this is your foul hound, madam, nothing would surprise me!”

  She levelled her sweetest smile at him. “What a very charming house this is.”

  “And the garden is enchanting,” declared Mrs. Porchester. “Everything so tastefully planned and laid out. Beauty wherever one looks! You are to be commended, sir. To be commended! ’Tis a joy to the eye and a delight to the soul.”

  “Which is more than I can say, madam,” growled the proud home owner with slightly less venom, “for that repulsive—”

  “Now, now. You must not blame
Dr. Victor,” interposed Rosamond demurely.

  Victor gave her a level glance over the leafy spray he had taken up. “Only look at this, ma’am,” he said, pointing out the pink-and-white bloom.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Porchester, ecstatic. “What a dainty plant! How is it called, Mr.—er…”

  “Whipley, ma’am. Egbert Whipley. Commodore. Retired.” He glanced from the blossom Mrs. Porchester admired to the bland smile on the face of the young fellow, and a speculative gleam crept into his fierce eyes. “That is a fine example of ah, Cothurnus paradigma.”

  “Cothurnus … echoed Mrs. Porchester uncertainly, and turned to Dr. Victor. “Do pray enlighten us, dear Doctor, for I know you speak Latin like a native. Like a native! What is a—er, co-thingumajig?”

  The commodore levelled a challenging glare at the physician.

  Meeting that glare steadily, Victor murmured, “I believe it means—Twining—er, Splendour. Extreme rare, is it not, sir?”

  “Extreme,” the commodore confirmed, tugging at his whisker while continuing to stare hard at Victor. “And exceeding costly. Your dog, sir—”

  “Quite. Wherefore, I shall insist upon recompensing you for any damage.”

  “Har-rumph,” said the commodore and mumbled that he hoped he’d not been over-hasty, nor upset the ladies.

  “It has been most instructive,” said Estelle, earning a sidelong glance from Victor that brought a twinkle to Rosamond’s eyes. “And you will allow us to buy some cuttings of your—er, Shining Splendour, will you not?”

  “Interested in gardening, are you, ma’am?”

  “Passionately! I delight to assist my brother in the care of our flower-beds, is that not so, Rosamond? I delight in it!”

  “You most certainly do,” agreed Rosamond, her eyes brighter than ever.

  “Well…” said the commodore, pursing his lips. “I might allow you to buy some, though I usually refuse to part with any of my stock. But—I warn you, they’re costly. Very.”

  Sitting on the bench in the shade of the apple tree a short while later, Rosamond was beginning to be drowsy and to feel the heat of the mid-afternoon. She looked up as the doctor came out of the house carrying a tray with a pitcher and glasses. His limp still seemed more pronounced than when they first had met, which caused her to feel a pang of guilt.

  “Lemonade,” he announced, setting the tray on the seat and pouring her a glass. “The old boy’s housekeeper sent it out. Shall I take some to your aunt?”

  She glanced to where Estelle and the commodore had their heads together over a box of cuttings of the Something Shining. “I think ’twould be best to leave them in peace,” she said. And as Victor sat beside her she added sotto voce, “The lull before the storm.”

  He looked at her curiously. “Your aunt really enjoys to garden? I thought she was merely winning him over.”

  “She is almost as rabid as my father. There will be battle royal when she plants her—whatever it is.”

  “Scarlet Splendour,” he murmured, pushing away Trifle, who was trying to drink out of his glass. “I suppose I must now beg a bowl of water for you, you misbegotten—” He glanced at the girl and stopped.

  She chuckled. “I am really sorry for all the trouble he caused you. He is a wretched dog. I had noticed you limp a little. Did he bite you very badly?”

  “Lord no. My limp is a souvenir from—another encounter. And I am amazed to hear you speak of that creature as a dog, ma’am. I think of him more in the light of an unmitigated disaster!”

  She wondered what he meant by “another encounter” and, watching him, thought it unfair that this vexing individual should have that particular way of concealing a smile, so that the suggestion of a dimple quivered beside his mouth. And that the sunshine seemed to have banished the storm-clouds in his eyes and awakened such a dance of laughter there. ‘What nonsense!’ she told herself, and said hurriedly, “You likely think we all are unmitigated disasters.”

  He looked thoughtfully at her face, softly splashed by light and shadows. “Not exactly—unmitigated,” he demurred, then laughed at her indignation.

  5

  Their departure from Rye, already late, was further delayed when neither chariot nor coachman could be found. Billy was eventually discovered in a run-down tavern, engaged in uproarious song with two dragoons. He clearly resented Victor’s stern scold and asserted sulkily that he was not a man to keep his horses standing, so had repaired to the nearest trough.

  “Aye—an ale trough!” snapped Victor. “Outside and on the box, man, before I throw you in the horse trough as you deserve!”

  Since Billy was taller than the doctor, Rosamond held her breath for an instant, but the inept coachman went whining off in search of his horses and they were soon on the road once more.

  Through the late afternoon their way led westwards along the coast. The sea spread like shimmering blue glass toward distant France, the gentle swells bearing no resemblance to the great waves that yesterday had battered the packet so remorselessly. Once past Crowhurst they turned inland across the jut of land that culminated in Beachy Head, progressing steadily through a pastoral tranquillity of rolling turf, the scattered farms and hamlets drowsing under the orange rays of the lowering sun. Yet here also were military to disturb the idyll, and twice they were stopped and asked the same interminable questions, while the coach was searched.

  It was dusk by the time they pulled into the yard of a hedge tavern a mile or so east of Lewes. It had been a long day, for they had been up since dawn. Rosamond was stiff and tired, and Mrs. Porchester had been softly snoring for the last hour. Victor dismounted rather wearily and swung open the door.

  “Why this place?” asked Rosamond, as he handed her down the steps.

  “Because all these delays have brought us in later than I’d hoped, Miss Albritton. Another inspection by dragoons and it would be dark before we reached Lewes, and we might not find accommodations. Better we stay here.”

  Mrs. Estelle and Trifle, both yawning, left the chariot, and Victor called to Billy Coachman to take charge of the dog and be ready to leave early in the morning.

  The tavern was called The Galleon, and the host was an ex-sailor with a friendly, weathered countenance, one sleeve pinned up, and a plump wife who sent her maids running to fetch hot water and pots of tea to the rooms of the new arrivals.

  Estelle had been refreshed by her nap in the carriage, but Rosamond was more tired than she had realized, and was glad to lie down on the soft feather bed in the pretty chintz-hung chamber with the door opened to the tiny parlour between the two bedrooms. Estelle’s immediate concern was to provide her box of cuttings with water, as the heat of the afternoon had dried out the soil. She set the box on the floor in a shady corner and peered anxiously at the leaves. “They were so very costly,” she murmured, “I do hope they don’t wilt before we get home.”

  Rosamond asked sleepily, “How much did Dr. Victor have to pay our fine commodore for the damage Trifle caused?”

  “Ten guineas,” said Estelle. “I reimbursed him, of course, but—ten whole guineas! Plus another two for these.”

  “Good heavens!” Rosamond sat up. “That wretched dog! And I never heard of a few cuttings being so costly!”

  “’Tis because they are excessive rare, so the doctor said, and indeed they are so pretty I can well believe it.”

  “Well, I hope Papa agrees. And I hope even more that you do not mean to exasperate him, dearest, by planting those solid-gold shrubs where you know he will not like it.”

  Mrs. Estelle giggled. “Wherever I plant them will annoy your dear papa, my love. Wherever I plant them. So it makes no odds.”

  By the time Rosamond had enjoyed a cup of hot tea, washed, and changed into a cooler gown of pale green muslin, she was feeling much restored. Estelle complained bitterly of the hardships to be endured without a maid, but Rosamond assisted her with her hair and they went down to dinner congratulating themselves that they had managed very well. />
  Victor had secured a table near a window that opened onto the garden. The mild evening air wafted in, heavy with the fragrance of flowers, and far off they could see lights on the hill where was historic old Lewes town. There were few other diners and they were served promptly with good, if plain, fare. When the second remove was brought in, Victor was called to the stables, where there had been some difficulty with the team. He returned looking stern and with Trifle prancing beside him as full of vigour as though the puppy had not put in a day that would have stretched most full-grown hounds upon the boards. It appeared that one of the horses had thrown a shoe and Billy Coachman had taken it to a smithy to be shod. Not a major problem to Rosamond’s way of thinking, but Victor was evidently put out, and as soon as the meal ended he went off to see if the coachman had returned.

  Mrs. Porchester decreed they should go early to bed. Trifle had disgraced himself in the stables, so accompanied the ladies to their small suite, where his sleepy owner proceeded to change into her night-rail and open her pots of creams and lotions.

  Rosamond, however, was wide awake and, lighting a branch of candles, she sat at the desk and began to record the day’s events in her diary. She had only progressed to the scene on the deck of the packet when a piercing shriek made her jump so badly that the quill pen shot into the air, leaving blots all across her neat page.

  Trifle had discovered the box of Twining Splendour.

  * * *

  “I had no intention of taking him for a walk,” said Rosamond, strolling with The Arrogant Physician along the winding lane that was obligingly illumined by a low-hanging full moon. “But he—er, made it apparent that he wished to—” She broke off with a shocked cry as she was seized in a steel embrace and whirled around. The great plume of water that shot up when Trifle bounded exuberantly into the ditch missed her by a whisper. Her protector was less fortunate and she could all but hear his teeth grind as he set her down, took out his handkerchief and began to wipe mud from his cheek.