Cherished Enemy

by Patricia Veryan

  He helped Victor take off his coat, and crossed to the bell-rope. “I’ll send for one of the servants.”

  Victor moaned and bowed forward, clutching his gory sleeve.

  Rosamond said, “He is faint, poor man. Small wonder, after such a fall. Howard, ’twill be much quicker do you go. Fetch some brandy also. Please hurry!”

  Alarmed by Victor’s expiring demeanour, Singleton ran.

  The instant he was out of sight, the doctor straightened. “Get these bandages off!” he whispered tersely. “Quickly!”

  She flew to open a drawer and returned with a pair of scissors. The doctor was rolling back the blood-stained ruffle at his wrist. Rosamond began to cut through the bandages, and with a quick glance at his pale face, said, “That really was a nasty spill. Are you feeling very poorly?”

  “I am feeling quite well enough to strangle your damnable Unmitigated!” he snarled.

  “In that event,” she murmured, struggling with the maddeningly blunt scissors, “I need not scruple to say that your memory—or the lack of it—astounds me, sir. La, but one might almost have thought you had never met my brother!”

  She was looking at him keenly, but his expression changed only in that it became even more sardonic. “You forget perhaps, that I’ve not seen Charles for several years.”

  “No, I do not forget, Doctor. Only my brother is fair and blue-eyed, and so friendly of aspect, whereas Howard’s hair is near auburn and his hazel eyes, poor dear, so brooding and sombre since his brother’s death. I—could not but think it strange that you made such a—er, mistake.”

  “Oh, pray do not wrap it up in clean linen, ma’am,” he sneered. “Say I lied and have done with it!”

  Using both hands on the recalcitrant scissors, she said, “Well—did you?”

  “You heard Charles acknowledge me. Patently, you disbelieve whatever I say. Do you mistrust him also? My, but what a very suspicious mind you have!” His twisted grin was full of mockery, but when she paused, staring at him, he gritted, “Come on, girl! That tragic young Hamlet will be back here in a trice. I could see he’d no least wish to abandon you to my infamy.”

  “For your information,” she said, setting the scissors aside and attempting gingerly to ease the sodden bandage from the wound, “that ‘tragic young Hamlet’ was devastated by Hal’s death, and—”

  Distantly, voices could be heard raised in question. Victor grasped the bandage, gave a quick tug, winced, gasped out, “Hell!” and shoved the bandage at her with a hand that shook markedly. “Hide this!”

  Flinching with sympathy, she rushed to thrust the bandage in a drawer, then took up a clean strip of linen and ran back shaping it into a pad. She bent above him, but he took the pad from her and clamped it hard over the wound. She gave a little gasp and scanned his face anxiously. He was much paler; sweat shone at his temples and around his lips, which were tightly compressed, but he met her eyes steadily. “You are exceeding adept at returning evasive answers,” she said in a low voice, “but you will surely appreciate that I must tell my father all that has happened.”

  A faint smile quivered. “You mean my—ah, depredations in—in the cabin?”

  She blushed but persevered sternly, “You know very well what I mean. The fearful chances you have taken—the lies you have told. You did help that poor boy! I thought perhaps it was because—I mean—if ’twas done because of me—I am sorrier than I can say. But—Charles is so kind that if he could not recollect you, but thought he should have, he would at once pretend to do so, rather than hurt your feelings, and—”

  “I think I did not quite follow that convoluted piece of reasoning,” he intervened drily. “Might I hear it again, ma’am?”

  She avoided his eyes, knowing that above all things she yearned to be reassured and freed from the nagging little suspicion that would not let her mind rest easy. Glancing up again, she saw that he looked grave, but there was a twinkle in his eyes and the dimple in his chin was evident. She sensed that he was laughing at her, and she drew herself up and said regally, “I have the well-being of my family to consider. I must know if—if you are in some other sort of trouble.”

  Thunder boomed, and the windows rattled. Watching Rosamond’s proud little face, the mockery in Victor’s eyes faded into a very different look and the curve of his fine mouth reflected a deep tenderness. He said quietly, “I am in the greatest sort of trouble, dear ma’am. And if you do not know why I did—what I did, you must be the most modest lady alive.”

  A wave of crimson burned up the white column of her throat and heated her cheeks. Breathless, she stared at him. That terribly appealing wistfulness was in the grey eyes again; she could not tear her own away, while her heart slowly turned over and her knees seemed to disintegrate. Then Howard Singleton ran into the room, a decanter of brandy in one hand and a glass in the other. Grateful that her back was to him, Rosamond moved away, fighting to collect her fragmented sensibilities.

  “Came—fast as I could,” panted Singleton. “How are you now, sir?” He poured some of the potent liquor into the glass and proffered it. “Gad, what a beastly reception you have had here. Did you—” The pad shifted as Victor removed his hand from the hurt and Singleton paused, staring. “Jove, but that looks nasty. How ever came you to suffer such a deep cut?”

  “Impaled on my own dagger,” said Victor. He grinned wanly and indicated the worn sheath at his belt.

  Rosamond thought, ‘My heavens! He carries both sword and dagger!’

  Miss Seddon, their brusque but efficient housekeeper, hastened into the room, followed by a maid carrying towels and a pan of hot water. “I will help the gentleman now, Miss Rosamond,” she said firmly. “Do you run along. Your papa and Master Charles are all impatience to properly greet you, and I fancy you will wish to change out of your travelling clothes. I cannot tell you how shocked I was when Mrs. Estelle told me your woman left you, ungrateful baggage! I took the liberty of assigning a new maid to serve as your abigail. Temporarily, of course. She’s a gawky creature and not superior by any manner of means, but she knows she is here purely on trial, and is eager to please. She might do until you can interview some more suitable applicants for the position.”

  Willy-nilly, Rosamond was obliged to abandon her task, and avoiding her patient’s eyes, went, still bemused, to meet the ‘gawky creature.’

  * * *

  “I merely said,” Charles Albritton murmured, refilling his father’s wineglass, “that ’tis only a puppy, and since my aunt seems fond of—”

  “Fond!” The colonel’s heavy eyebrows bristled. “Your aunt is ‘fond’ of everything that walks on four legs! ’Pon my soul, but there’s no accounting for the woman! I let her chaperon my daughter on a simple journey to visit her relations in Norway and—”

  “I think you mean Denmark, sir,” put in Charles mildly.

  “Well, Norway—Denmark—wherever they are! What the hell does it matter? Got no business being there in the first place! No more had your Aunt Mary any earthly excuse to marry that pretty Frenchy and go tootling off to Paris, leaving behind everything that mattered, including her good English name!” The colonel snorted an explosive “Maria, indeed! Pshaw!”

  Charles, who was fond of the comtesse, ignored the danger signals of his sire’s brows and whiskers, and murmured, “She loved him, sir, and—”

  “Do not interrupt, dammit all!” barked the colonel, glaring into his son’s gentle blue eyes. “You may fancy you’ve got me off a touchy subject, Charles, but you ain’t, I assure you! Why Stella brought that damned mongrel here is more than I can fathom!”

  An amused voice drawled from the doorway, “Surely you cannot mean the ‘dear puppy,’ sir?”

  Father and son turned as Dr. Victor sauntered into the room, and the three men took stock of one another.

  The colonel had an air of command, strong features and a proud carriage. His well-cut burgundy velvet coat, pearl-grey waistcoat and satin knee breeches set off a powerful frame devoid o
f fat or flab. He wore a moderate pigeon-wing wig which did not become him and was not quite straight on his head, but this did not detract from the fact that the heavy brows, piercing light blue eyes, and square chin proclaimed him a man of strong will and volatile temperament. ‘Wants his own way,’ thought Victor. ‘And Lord help anyone who doesn’t measure up to his standards! But likely, he was a damned fine officer.’

  Charles Albritton possessed the high forehead, clear, calm eyes, and sensitive mouth of the intellectual. He had put off his gardening clothes and wore a sober black habit à la française. Tall, lithe, of lighter build than his father, and a totally different type of man, he was handsome in a quiet, fine-cut fashion. The plain white stock that proclaimed his calling and the gentleness of voice and manner tended to be deceptive, but there was a tilt to the chin, a firm set to the lips, and a steadiness in the blue eyes that to Victor’s way of thinking marked him as one to be reckoned with.

  For his part, the colonel viewed a lean, athletically built young fellow, who might better have been an inch or two taller, although he wore his clothes well, the dark grey satin coat clinging snugly to a fine pair of shoulders, and the lighter grey breeches and stockings revealing muscular legs. ‘A good-looking boy,’ thought the colonel, although the peaked brows and down-drooping eyelids bespoke a hauteur that accorded ill with his chosen profession. The nose was straight and determined, nor could he find any fault with the firm jut of the chin. The mouth was harsh, and the eyes—‘grey steel,’ he thought. Which confirmed that the silly lad had mistaken his calling. He was more of a fighting man than a scholar and healer, and to judge by the rapier he’d worn when he first arrived, he’d seen his share of action. A hasty temper too, unless he mistook the matter, and with a sight more spirit than he’d ever need in a sick-room. Pity Charles wasn’t blessed with some of it.

  The Reverend Charles Albritton’s impressions were less specific. He simply thought, ‘I’ll murder the bastard!’

  “Dear disaster, more like!” responded the colonel a shade belatedly. “Come in, Doctor. I understand that we are indebted to you, and instead of being thanked, you have been most shabbily treated by that four-footed commoner my sister-in-law has foisted upon us! Are you feeling a little better?” And he thought, ‘Pity about the limp, but he moves well.’ “A glass of Madeira for our guest, Charles.”

  Joining them, Victor smiled. “I am only glad I was able to be of service, sir. Besides, it has given me the chance to renew my acquaintanceship with your son.”

  Charles handed him a glass of wine. “We’ll have much to talk about, Rob.”

  “You’ll want to compare notes,” agreed the colonel, thinking that these two young men could have very little in common.

  Victor said, “We were at University together, you know, sir.”

  “Hmmn,” said the colonel. “You’re military, or ex-military, I think, Doctor? I can always spot a soldier. Something in the bearing. Damned good training. Builds character. Distinguishes a fellow for life. Officer, of course?”

  “Captain,” said Victor. “But I sold out some months back and—”

  “Ah. Then likely you was at Culloden! Wounded, eh? I noticed you limp.”

  Victor’s lips twitched. “Yes to both, sir, but—”

  Beaming, the colonel swept on. “Jove, but I’d like to have been in on that scrap! When I think of the turmoil that damned idiot King James visited on our England with his nonsense, and heads rolling right and left, and ladies burnt at the stake, and decent Protestants thrown out of house and home to starve in the streets! Pshaw! And then his puling son must slink back over and stir up those wild Scots to try and put the bastard back on the throne! Zounds, but ’tis enough to make a man cast up his accounts!”

  Victor looked steadily at his glass, that faint enigmatic smile still playing about his lips.

  Charles said with quiet heroism, “I’ll have to admit that the Duke of Cumberland and his notion of reprisals has the very same effect upon me.”

  “Yes, I can well believe that,” snorted the colonel, throwing him a contemptuous look. “Ah, there you are, Howard! Come and meet a man you’ll have the gumption to appreciate! Our doctor’s no dainty mealy-mouth, but fought at Culloden Moor where we gave those accursed Scots a taste of what they asked for!”

  Howard Singleton hurried in, his sober face brightening. “Did you so, Doctor?” he asked eagerly. “My—my elder brother died there, you know.” Briefly, stark anguish darkened the hazel eyes, then he went on, “By Jove, but I’d be proud to shake you by the hand!”

  For the barest instant, Victor eyed him without expression, then came the smile that was so heart-warming, and he returned the handshake.

  * * *

  When Rosamond entered her bedchamber the new abigail looked nervous and unhappy as she bobbed a curtsy. She was a tall young woman, thin and large-boned, so that she seemed all angles and lumps. Her movements were clumsy, and very obviously she did not know what to do with her long arms, holding them rigidly to the sides, gripping her red hands in front of her, whipping them out of sight behind her back, all in the first moment that her new mistress came into the room.

  Sorry for her, Rosamond held out her hand. “How do you do,” she said kindly. “I am Miss Albritton. You may call me Miss Rosamond. I believe you are to work for me.”

  The big hand that met hers was wet with perspiration and shook pathetically. “Aye, m-miss,” quavered the abigail in a deep, gruff voice that also shook. She gulped and added, “If so be as I can please ye.”

  There was a slight lilt to the voice and Rosamond tensed. “Are you Scottish?”

  A spasmodic nod, while the brown eyes watched her in terror. “But—I been doon here long and long, ma’am—I mean Miss Rosamond. I never did no harm to a body in all me born days. I dinna hold with war and—”

  Rosamond had heard someone else say “dinna,” and wondered fleetingly where, and who it had been. “I see,” she said. “Then—you were not in sympathy with Prince Charles and the Stuart cause?”

  “Lots on us wasn’t, ma’am. But we got hated just the same. And—”

  “And you did not answer me, I think.” She frowned a little, hesitating, then said gravely, “I shall be honest, and expect the same courtesy from you. A most gallant young gentleman I knew all my life and whom I was to have married was killed by Jacobites at the Battle of Culloden.”

  “Och … aweigh…!” whispered the abigail, horrified.

  Rosamond went on, “I have known Scottish people in the past for whom I have had liking and respect. But I feel sure you will understand that—that to have any slightest dealings with one of the people responsible for his death—to so much as speak with a Jacobite sympathizer would be, of all things, utterly repugnant to me. If you were so involved, I do not ask you to place yourself in jeopardy by owning it. I do ask that you simply go away now, and pack your belongings. I give you my word you will be given a month’s wages and no steps will be taken against you. But you must leave this house at once. I could not allow that you work for me.”

  The knobby face flushed; the eyes flickered and fell. “I—I need work awfu’ bad, ma____miss. The reverend were so good as to give me name to Miss Seddon.” Her eyes crept apprehensively to meet Rosamond’s grave regard, then she lifted her chin, clenched her fists, and said, “Me mother and father and me wee sister and brother went oot to America, but I didna wish tae—to leave Britain, so I found work in England. I thought the Prince a fine handsome gentleman, and I loved him fer bein’ a Scot and a brave mon, but—I does not hold wi’ war, Miss Rosamond, and I couldn’t think he’d much chance o’ winning. I swear I’m not a Jacobite, but—I’ll own one o’ me brothers was. He—fell at—at Culloden Moor. When a letter came telling me of it, I”—she gave a small, helpless gesture—“I was grieving him so, and the lady I worked for began tae—to suspect.” Tears came into her eyes and her lips trembled. “She found me letter and turned me oot on the spot, saying I was fortunate she was a Chr
istian woman or she’d have handed me over to the authorities as a Jacobite spy.”

  “Oh, poor creature,” cried Rosamond, gathering the tall girl into a hug. “How dreadful! What a sad time you have had. I am so sorry!”

  For a moment she was clung to, then the abigail stepped back. Gripping her hands in desperation, she declared, “I’d serve ye well, Miss Rosamond, if ye would but give me a chance. I’m no a bonny girl, I ken—I mean I know. And I’m not clever, but I—I’d be that grateful! I’ve one brother left, y’see, only he’s unable to find work, and I’ve tae earn for the both o’ us.”

  Rosamond drew her to the sofa and made her sit down. “Where is he—your brother? In England?”

  “Aye, ma’am. A rare man he is wi’ a horse, and had a fine position with a English lord, but he was trampled by a stallion and milord dismissed him.”

  “If ever I heard of such a thing,” exclaimed Rosamond, indignant.

  The wide mouth twitched into the closest approach to a smile that had yet evidenced. “Jock canna use his left arm, and milord said he was of no further use. He’d’ve died save for my wee bit savings that paid for the doctor and medicines. But now—there’s precious little left for his food and shelter.” She shrugged, and said as if impelled against her will, “Even so, now that I know ’bout your affianced, Miss Rosamond, and how sadly you lost him, I can understand if ye’d no want me aboot.”

  For an aching instant Rosamond saw Hal’s kind smile. The Scots girl noted the look of sorrow, and despair came into her face.

  Rosamond patted her hand. “I will accept your given word. Besides, my brother recommended you to Miss Seddon, I think you said, and I never go against Mr. Charles’s wishes. Let us try how we suit each other, and—oh, I do not know your name.”

  For a moment it seemed she was not destined to learn that vital piece of information, the abigail being so overcome she was obliged to lift her apron and use it to make fierce little dabs at her tearful eyes. “’Tis—Addington, miss,” she gulped hoarsely.