Rosamond stood. “I shall call you Addie, if you’ve no objection. And now—I must change my dress or my papa will be most upset. The colonel is very strict about punctuality.” She crossed to the tall press and opened the door. “I wonder,” she said thoughtfully, “if I should wear the new blue velvet with the white trim…”
Hurrying to join her, Addington eyed the gown in no little awe. “Och, ’tis awfu’ pretty, ma’am.”
“Yes. I think so, too.” Rosamond smiled and wondered whether the enigma that was Dr. Robert Victor might share her opinion. “Definitely, the blue,” she decided.
By the time she had washed and changed clothes, she was pleased with her new servant. Addington was clumsy with details such as buttons and fastening necklaces, but she had a fine eye for colour and was skilful at styling the hair. Rosamond, her thick locks piled high on her head and nicely powdered, a cleverly crafted blue silk rose nestled among her curls, and her mother’s pearls about her throat, surveyed her reflection with approval.
Addington ran to open the door and Rosamond thanked her and went to find her aunt. Mrs. Porchester was busy reading a letter and gave a shocked squeal when she realized what time it was. Promising to try and keep her father’s mind occupied, Rosamond left her.
At the half-landing she paused for an instant, looking down into the wide entrance hall with its handsome teakwood table that Papa had brought back from India, the branch of candles waking a great bowl of chrysanthemums to a vivid splash of colour. How pleasant it was to be home where everything was so dear and familiar … With a faint smile she went on down the stairs. Cobham, their solitary footman, bowed and advised that the gentlemen were in the withdrawing room.
The storm had died away now, but rain still pattered down, and the air had become cooler. The doors to the large room stood slightly ajar, and a fire was blazing on the hearth. Rosamond walked in and paused, glancing fondly at her brother, who was in the process of lighting a branch of candles. Her father, cousin Howard, and Dr. Victor stood around the fireplace, glasses in hand.
Howard Singleton was saying in a shy, diffident way, “… would not mind perhaps—when you feel more the thing, Doctor—to talk with me about Culloden. The—the accounts we’ve had were garbled at best, and—well, I’d be grateful to know some of the true facts from someone who was actually there.”
“And I’d be only too glad to oblige,” Victor said graciously. “Perhaps—”
“Ah! Here’s my lass at last!” exclaimed the colonel, setting down his glass and holding his arms wide. “Come, child, and give your papa a buss!”
Moving obediently to greet her loved ones, to be exclaimed over, told how pretty she was tonight, hugged and heartily kissed, Rosamond was inwardly dismayed. Dr. Victor had been more or less forced to tell Captain Holt he had fought at the Battle of Culloden Moor, but surely there was no need to continue that deception here, under her father’s roof? Whatever did he mean to tell poor Howard, already so pathetically wounded by his brother’s death? How calm and assured he looked, and how easily he reeled off his falsehoods, as if ’twas second nature to him to lie and deceive. It was all too probable that he had also lied about his tendre for her. Certainly, one would be unwise to place much dependency upon anything the man said, however sincerely he said it!
The awareness made her feel miserable, but she knew also that for several reasons she was beginning to be afraid of the man who called himself Dr. Robert Victor, and that, as soon as may be, she must have a private talk with Charles and find out just how well he knew this disturbing individual.
* * *
It was very dark and raining steadily at half past one o’clock, when Robert Victor crept stealthily down the back stairs, opened the door next to the flower and potting room, and slipped into the night. Charles had spoken at dinner of his “private suite,” which apparently consisted of a pavillion in the garden that had been enclosed and furnished as an office where he retreated to study, and compose sermons and handle his correspondence. ‘And et cetera,’ thought Victor with a faint grim smile.
He peered about, straining his eyes against the darkness, and after a minute or two was able to discern a distant gleam of light. He turned up the cape of his cloak and made his way cautiously towards that glow. Dinner had been an ordeal, with Mrs. Porchester chattering vivaciously and trying to turn the colonel’s curiosity from the well-being and whereabouts of his niece, Deborah. Victor’s lips twisted cynically. A fine shock the colonel had in store did he ever discover the truth about that young lady! Not that she was of his immediate family, but he’d apparently appointed himself the guide and protector of the Singletons. An impressive individual was Colonel Albritton, and Victor liked the man despite the fact that his scorn for his clergyman son made it uncomfortable to listen while he sniped at the poor fellow. Victor thought of his own father and stifled a sigh, wondering if ever again he would see the dear old boy or his beloved home …
The pavilion loomed up. He had glimpsed it earlier from the window of his bedchamber and thought it charming. Of octagonal design, it was a good size, topped by a pagoda-shaped dome, and with broad steps encircling its base. He started up the steps, peering for the entrance, then blundered into something, which he discovered to be a handrail suported by vertical iron bars. He saw then that there was another railing a few feet distant, evidently forming an approach to what was now the front door. He vaulted the railing and groped his way up six steps, knocked softly at the door, then opened it a crack. “It’s Rob,” he whispered.
Albritton called, “Come in, Doctor.”
Victor entered a room that was much larger than he had anticipated. Six of the walls were lined with crowded bookcases, a seventh contained a tall walnut wardrobe, and the eighth had evidently been designed for devotions since a plain cross hung above a shelf holding a Bible, and below was a small hassock. A deep chair sagged on one side of the fire that burned on the hearth, a long wooden settle facing it. Backing the settle was a fairly clear reference table, and closer to the door, a huge, rather battered desk was cluttered with papers and books. Many more books were piled in heaps about the floor. On top of one such pile, a big Persian cat sat with paw upraised, having interrupted its toilette so as to inspect the newcomer.
Victor wiped a hand across his drenched hair and turned, smiling, only to encounter a searing blue glare. “What the—” he began.
“You dirty lying blackguard!” ground out the clergyman. His fist whipped back and struck home so truly that Victor staggered, tripped over a pile of books, and fell heavily.
The Persian cat took up where it had left off and resumed the cleaning of its paw.
8
Rosamond opened her eyes to find an excellent set of pointed teeth grinning in her face. Before she could gather her wits a pink tongue, seemingly at least a yard long, wiped around her chin.
“Oh! Wretched beast,” she spluttered, pushing Trifle down and wiping her face with her handkerchief. The room was cold, the fire had gone out, and the candle was guttering. When she stood to light another, Trifle voiced an enthusiastic endorsement. She bent to him and hissed, “Be quiet! Bad dog!” which he evidently interpreted as a term of affection, for she once more received the dubious benefit of the yard of tongue. Moaning, she lit a new candle, blew out the old one, and crossed to look at the clock on the chest of drawers. It was twenty minutes past two o’clock. Dismayed, she exclaimed, “Oh, Lud!”
She had sat reading in the chair until midnight, by which time she was sure Papa would be safely asleep. Victor’s presence in the house, however, had evidently changed her father’s schedule, for when she had crept to the landing a burst of male laughter had drifted from the downstairs hall. Howard had gone home when she and Aunt Estelle had retired, but Papa was probably chattering happily with the pseudo-captain on military matters. She’d thought, ‘Poor Charles!’ and had returned to her room to find Trifle comfortably ensconced on the bed. Her attempt to oust him from the room had precipitated such
an uproar that she had swiftly abandoned it and allowed him to settle down before the fire while she sat in the chair again, yearning for her bed, but knowing that so sure as she lay down she would not wake until morning.
Twenty minutes past two! Still, it was possible Charles was still up, for he sometimes became so engrossed in a book that he would read half the night away. If there was any chance at all, she must talk to him! She went to the window and peered outside. The rain had stopped, but the air was cold and damp. There was no sign of light from the pavilion, but Charles might have closed the curtains, which were thick, to keep out the draughts. She put on her cloak, crept across the room, and opened the door. Trifle raced past at top speed and scrambled, pranced, and slid his way along the corridor. ‘The Unmitigated…!’ thought Rosamond, praying that the series of crashes as the overgrown puppy negotiated the back stairs had not awoken her father.
When she reached the ground floor and there still had been no rageful outcry, she breathed easily again. Trifle gamboled beside her to the rear door, then tore at the panel with energetic if destructive enthusiasm until she was able to swing the door open, whereupon he erupted into the darkness and was immediately lost to sight.
Once again tense and anxious, Rosamond waited for someone to come and investigate all the noise, but after a moment of comparative silence she judged herself spared, and with a sigh of relief she put up her hood, closed the door softly, and hurried down the steps and across the lawns.
The wind had become chill and was blustering about, sending leaves swirling across the grass. She could see narrow gleams of light as she approached the pavilion. Charles was still here then, thank heaven. She lifted her skirts and started up the steps, only to halt abruptly as the door began to open.
Dr. Victor, one hand on the doorknob, stood looking back into the room and speaking in a low, guarded voice. “… may be a widgeon, but she is a perfect darling of a girl.”
‘A widgeon!’ thought Rosamond indignantly. She dodged around the handrail and tiptoed up the steps and around the curve of the wall to where she would be out of sight. But she smiled a little, for it was nice to be described as ‘a perfect darling.’
She heard the murmur of Charles’s voice, and Victor said, “I’ll insist you do so when she arrives for your sire’s party!” Rosamond did not hear his next words, and she stood very still, her smile wiped away. So he had been speaking of some other ‘darling girl’ … She experienced an odd hollow sensation and then he was growling harshly, “Well, I am here. And there’s not a damned thing you can do to be rid of me! I warn you, Albritton. Be careful. Be extreme careful!”
On that sinister note he opened the door wider. Rosamond shrank closer to the wall, but peeped at him and for just a second before he closed the door she saw his face illumined by the glow from the room. He looked grim and dishevelled, and along the left side of his jaw was a red, angry swelling. Aghast, she watched him stride swiftly into the night. Not until she was sure he must have reached his bedchamber did she dare risk entering the pavilion. Then she rushed inside and closed the door quickly.
Her brother stood with one hand on the mantel and head bowed, gazing into the dying fire. He spun around at her precipitous arrival and stared at her in obvious consternation.
“Charles,” she cried, hurrying to him. “Why does Dr. Victor dare to threaten you?”
He took the hands she stretched out and held them strongly, smiling down at her and saying in his easy, pleasant voice, “Whatever do you mean, child? Have you had a nightmare?”
She scanned his face, noting even more than she had done earlier that this beloved brother was pale and tired-looking, with dark shadows under his eyes. “Oh, my dear,” she said, frightened. “Who is he? Has he some hold over you?”
He shook his head chidingly, led her to the chair, and sat cross-legged at her feet, as he had done so often in the past. “Now what bee have you in your pretty bonnet this time, my Rosa? Robbie Victor is an old friend, and—”
Leaning forward, she demanded intensely, “Is he? Is he really an old friend? Charles—we never have kept secrets from each other. Tell me!”
A wariness came into his eyes. “What is it I am to tell you? We were schoolmates, and—”
“Schoolmates! He did not even know you when we arrived!”
“Why—he had suffered a nasty spill and his mind may have been—”
“Charles, do not! Don’t try to—to fob me off! I heard him threaten you just now, and—”
“And I would like to know, miss, just exactly why you were prowling the grounds at this hour of the night!”
“Because of him,” she declared fiercely. “And do not insult my intelligence by telling me you were indulging in friendly horseplay!”
He was silent for a moment, then said in a slow, thoughtful way, “I wonder why—when first you came—I gained the impression you rather liked each other.”
She tried to meet his calm gaze, but could not, and her lashes sank above suddenly scarlet cheeks. “We—that is, I— Well, for a little while, perhaps, I … But—”
“Perhaps,” he said, “you should tell me, love. I understand that Rob treated you when you were hurt. Was he—offensive? I think you have never been—er, touched by a strange doctor. Especially in such—”
“He did not mean it,” she interposed swiftly. “The ship rolled and—and quite accidentally, his hand—” She stopped again, bit her lip, and looked away.
For that brief instant an expression very few people had ever seen lit the narrowed eyes of this man of God, but when Rosamond glanced up shyly, his face reflected only a fond concern. He said, “Now you defend him, and yet just a moment ago—”
“Oh, I know. I know!” She put a hand to her temple. “Is so confusing! Charles, I will tell you everything. But then—I want you to tell me the truth. Please.”
“I am not in the habit of lying to you, Rosa.”
The reproof was gentle, and well justified. Until now, at least. “I first saw him at Tante Maria’s ball,” she began. “Oh, and Charles, that’s another confusion. Did my aunt tell you that Deborah had not reached Paris until August?”
Slightly frowning, he said, “But—surely you must be mistaken? Aunt Estelle did not mention it to my father, and—”
“Because I begged her not to! If aught is amiss, I did not want it to spoil his birthday.”
“I scarce think anything is amiss. Debbie may simply have decided to spend some time in Denmark first.”
“But she did not, Charles! Aunt Caroline was in a huff because Deb had not taken the time to go up there!”
“Well then, she likely went to see Cousin Hilde, or her friend Mrs.____oh, I forget the woman’s name—the one who lives in Rotterdam now. She might have decided she could not endure to have relations commiserating with her anymore. There are so many people she might have stayed with. Cousin Elise, for instance. The weather could easily have drawn Deb to the Mediterranean.”
He made it all sound sane and normal, yet somehow his very shrugging off of the matter, so at odds with the anxiety she had expected, was disturbing. Her brow puckered, she said slowly, “Deborah is with Cousin Elise now.”
He smiled. “Well then, why all the vapourings?”
“Charles, pray do not tease me. You know ’tis peculiar, to say the least of the matter. I had understood that Mr. Troy would escort her as far as Paris, where he had business of his own to attend to, and that he expected to return to England within a few days. In which case, if Debbie changed her mind and went elsewhere, who took her? Certainly she could not have travelled alone and unchaperoned. Your tolerance is astounding, considering that the lady you mean to make your wife has disappeared for nigh two months! And how shocking that she would so high-handedly depart from the itinerary you had mapped out for her, sending word to none. She must have known we would worry.”
“You would, certainly,” he teased. “Not I, for I have implicit trust in her. Jove, but what a pother you make of it!
Deborah is not one with a head full of maggots.”
“Has she written to you, then? I suppose she must have, since you are all but betrothed.”
“She meant to correspond only with my father and her family. I wanted her to have a complete rest. But Zachary Troy is the best of good fellows, and wrote directly he returned home to say that Debbie was safely with her cousins. I’ll own it never occurred to me to ask had she changed her plans, or to which cousins he referred, but you may be sure whoever they are they would not permit of her jauntering about Europe unchaperoned! Where are your wits gone begging, Rosa? So far as I’m aware, our Continental cousins are not lost to all propriety, however rackety Jacques may be.”
It still seemed an extraordinarily liberal point of view. She said dubiously, “I suppose you are right and I am silly to worry so, but—would you send off a letter to Mr. Troy, and ask him if—”
“I can do better than that. The last I heard, Zack stayed with the Aynsworths at Willowvale. I’ll ride over there and talk with him. Shall that appease your over-lively imagination, miss? Good. Then perhaps we may now go back to Tante and—” But at this point, noting his sister’s painful blush, Charles paused, gave her skirts a tug and said kindly, “Forgive. I’m a clod to censure you when you mean only good.”
Dr. Robert Arrogance had accused her of possessing an “over-active imagination,” but why should the recollection of his mockery make her feel shy or cause her cheeks to become so heated? She banished the feeling of being hopelessly at sixes and sevens, smiled at her brother and assured him he was not a clod, then proceeded to tell him everything that had happened. By the time she came to the end of this lengthy recitation, all her apprehensions had returned. She said, “And just now, he threatened you!” She reached out suddenly and grasped the hands he had linked around his knees. “Your knuckles are broken! You did strike him! Oh, never deny it! Charles—I am afraid of that man! What does he want here? You are the gentlest person I know; what can he have done that would cause you, of all men, to raise your hand ’gainst him in violence?”
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