Ask Me No Questions

by Patricia Veryan

  "Beg pardon, sir. Would you by any chance be Mr. R. Allington?"

  The footman had come up and was addressing the smiling man, who shook his head and then turned aside to collect his luggage.

  'Resolution!' Ruth reminded herself. The footman was looking about. She tried to sound firm. "I believe you are looking for me."

  The man appraised her in one swift and supercilious glance. "Thank you, madam, but I am to meet a gentleman."

  "My name is Miss Allington. I have an appointment with Sir Brian Chandler, and was told I would be called for."

  The man's jaw dropped. "But," he gasped, scandalized, "you're a—lady!"

  "Quite true." She smiled and handed him her valise. "Is that your coach?"

  "Yes. But— I do not— Miss—"

  She paid no attention to his spluttering bewilderment and despite shaking knees walked to the waiting coach, the footman trailing after her.

  The coachman, a powerful-looking man with powdered hair and greying bushy eyebrows, leaned from the box, grinning broadly. "Hey! Mackey!" he called. "You ain't brung the proper party."

  Ruth looked up at him. 'To the contrary, he has indeed brought the proper party."

  His pale blue eyes became very round and he gawked at her speechlessly.

  The footman stammered, "Lady says she's M-Miss Allington, Dutch. What you think—?"

  Ruth turned and stared at him until he gave a gulp and sprang to open the door and hand her inside. When the door was slammed, shutting out his aghast countenance, Ruth sank back against the squabs feeling limp with relief.

  There came the muttering of voices, capped by an irked, "All right then. But what the master's goin' ter say, I dunno. I just dunno!"

  The carriage jolted and began to roll out of the yard. The persistent stagecoach passenger stood in the drizzle and watched their departure. Smiling. Then they were out on the street and in bustling traffic.

  Ruth closed her eyes and gave a shuddering sigh. The first hurdle was past!

  Unlike the stagecoach, Sir Brian Chandler's carriage was well sprung and luxuriously appointed. It moved smoothly and rapidly and the picturesque old town was soon left behind. They followed a north-easterly route along the top of the cliffs. Through the right-hand windows Ruth could see the Strait and two ships, their sails hanging motionless in the still air. After a while the carriage turned inland. The road narrowed into a lane, edged with trees. Even in this grey misting drizzle it was beautiful country, with lush well-kept fields and occasional little clumps of thatched and whitewashed cottages. Soon, the cottages dwindled and were gone and the carriage bowled along through open country.

  In spite of her dread of the coming interview, Ruth was warm and comfortable, and her head began to nod. She jumped when the footman blew up a hail on the yard of tin. They were slowing. Shouts were exchanged. Then, they went on again through wide iron gates, passing the gatekeeper's lodge and a tall man in dark green livery who stood holding the gate open and craning his neck to peer into the carriage.

  The drivepath seemed to go on for miles. They traversed a strip of woodland, then a wilderness area, followed by a spacious park, its neatly scythed lawns dotted with great trees. The drivepath curved into a loop, and Ruth gave a gasp as she saw Lac Brillant for the first time.

  A large lake spread in a sheet of silver at the foot of a low broad-shouldered hill. Near the top, was the house. It was unlike any great house she had ever seen, for, instead of a massive and dignified mansion, three semi-circular white buildings with red tile roofs were spaced in a wide crescent shape and separated from one another by flower gardens. A short distance away the tower of a small and apparently ancient chapel peeped from a grove of beeches. Little pools and streams were everywhere, and in the centre of the crescent a winged horse reared from a great fountain, which sent feathery sprays high into the air. Except that the central structure was larger, the houses were identical and looked, thought Ruth, more like a collection of Italian villas than the country seat of an English aristocrat. Fascinated, she forgot her problems as she gazed at low yew trees, neat box hedges, colourful flowerbeds threaded by meandering pathways. Urns, benches, and statuary added their charm to the scene, as did the rock gardens and enchanting topiary. Quaintly balustraded little stone bridges crossed the streams and miniature waterfalls, while rising behind house and gardens like a verdant frame, loomed tall graceful trees.

  The carriage pulled up outside the central building. Ruth gathered her courage again. His eyes as disapproving as ever, the footman swung open the door and followed her up the steps, carrying her valise. She hesitated, wondering whether she should go to the servants' entrance, but the panelled front doors were already opening.

  The butler, a rather stout but dignified individual in a pigeon-wing wig and a black habit, directed a startled glance from Ruth to the footman.

  Ruth said quickly, "I have an appointment with Sir Brian Chandler. My name is Miss Ruth Allington."

  The butler's dark eyes returned to her. They were without expression now, but for a moment he was motionless. Then, he gestured to a lackey to take Ruth's valise, sent the footman off with a nod, and murmured, "This way, if you please, miss."

  They crossed a superb great hall with beautifully carved ceilings, floors of gleaming marble, and a graceful curving staircase. The butler turned into a wide corridor where thick rugs were spread on parquet floors. He opened a door, ushered Ruth into a spacious room whose high windows overlooked the fountain court, murmured a polite request that she wait, and sailed off.

  Her palms wet with nervousness, Ruth looked about her. There were bookcases on the panelled walls, and a large mahogany desk stood at the centre of the room, a leather chair behind it. Above a charming marble fireplace in the right-hand wall hung a portrait of two young men, somewhere in the early twenties, she thought. Neither wore a wig or powder, and the firm chins, well-shaped lips, and lean features were sufficiently alike that she guessed them to be brothers, but that they were very different men was obvious. The taller of the pair was extremely good looking, with thick auburn hair rather carelessly tied back, and a winning smile. One slim hand rested gracefully on the parapet beside them, and Ruth's trained eye admired the detailing of a dragon's head ring he wore, and the way the artist had captured a gleam of mischief in his brilliant green eyes. There was something in the look that reminded her of Jonathan. 'A dashing rascal,' she thought wistfully. Although a comely man, his brother, whom she judged to be the eldest, was darker, his hair more severely dressed; there was no smile on the lips, which were set in a stern line, and the grey eyes reflected a trace of impatience, as though he had resented the time spent in posing for the portrait. Always interested in others, Ruth decided they must be Sir Brian Chandler's sons, and she wondered if they lived here, and if they were friends.

  A door slammed somewhere, and she sat down hurriedly on a straight-backed chair facing the desk.

  The door was flung open. A deep voice said irritably, "Papa, an I do not leave now, I—"

  Ruth jerked around as the elder of the men in the portrait strode into the room. He was clad in riding dress, and he paused, one gauntletted hand on the latch as he stared at her.

  "Oh," he said. "Your pardon, ma'am. I had thought Sir Brian was in here."

  She started to tell him that Sir Brian was on his way, but the door was already closing.

  "Most ill-mannered," she advised it. The portrait, she thought, must have been painted about a decade since, for he looked closer to thirty than twenty. He also looked even more unamiable, and one could but hope he was visiting merely, and did not dwell here.

  She turned the chair slightly, so that she would be prepared next time the door opened. The minutes slid past and her nerves tightened again. Suppose Sir Brian did not mean to come? It would be simple for him to refuse to see her, and if his health was poor, as she'd heard, that would be the logical thing for him to do. Especially if his nature was as forbidding as that of his son. She sent up a qui
ck prayer. 'Dear God—please

  "Miss Allington?"

  She pulled her head up. A tall thin gentleman watched her from the doorway. Suddenly, her knees were weak; they shook as she stood and made her curtsy.

  He came into the room and offered a slight but polite bow. Ruth scanned a careworn face and weary green eyes that also reflected incredulity. He looked far from hearty, but he was not as elderly as she had supposed; certainly not much above sixty. He must, she thought inconsequently, have been an exceeding handsome man in his youth. And there followed another thought. 'He is sad, poor old gentleman. I wonder why.'

  In a kindly and concerned tone he said, "I am Sir Brian Chandler, and my dear lady, I fear there has been a dreadful misunderstanding. Indeed, I do not know what Mr. Falcon can have been thinking of when he wrote to me in your be-half. The position I have to offer requires an experienced artist. A male artist. I am sorrier than I can say, but—"

  Ruth gripped her hands together and interrupted desperately, "I beg of you, sir. Do not set your mind 'gainst me. I am an experienced artist. I worked closely with my father, whose work is greatly admired in—in Europe."

  The poor girl looked distraught, he thought uneasily. And how pale she was. "Pray be seated," he said, and walked around the desk to occupy the big chair. "I am unaware of an artist by that name, but you must understand, Miss Allington, that were your father to have been a great man with the skill of—of a Greville Armitage, for instance, I could not hire you."

  Ruth crossed the fingers that were hidden by the folds of her gown and slid deeper into deception. "My Papa worked with Greville Armitage, Sir Brian. 'Twas Mr. Armitage taught me all I know of art." (That, at least, was no lie!) She saw that he was impressed, and hurried on. "I helped him often. In fact, Papa and I worked with him on the restoration of frescoes in the Villa Albertini, outside Milan."

  His tired eyes brightened. "Did you, indeed? I have seen the Albertini frescoes. They are magnificent! But I'd no idea—" He broke off and regrouped hurriedly. "I cannot but be impressed, ma'am. But nothing could sway my decision. This, you see, is a bachelor establishment. My eldest son resides here, for the present at least. And it would be considered quite shocking were I to allow an unmarried lady to share our roof."

  "But, sir, might I not take rooms nearby? I would never expect to be allowed to live on your beautiful estate, but surely there is a farmhouse where I might find accommodation? Oh, Sir Brian, if you would just give me a chance. I do not ask for charity. I promise you I can work as hard and as long as any man. Only give me a chance to prove my ability. I have brought some of my work, if you would but look at it."

  She was, he thought, a pretty creature, in spite of her severely dressed hair and rumpled gown. And she appeared so desperate, poor thing. Deeply troubled, he took up Falcon's letter and made a mental note to have a few words with that young madman in the very near future. For the present, however, he must be firm. He said, "Alas, 'twould be pointless, Miss Allington. However, I shall set my steward to try and find a suitable—ah, post for you. Though I'll confess myself astonished that the daughter of a fine artist must be reduced to earning her own livelihood. You have family, surely?"

  "My brother was lost at sea," she said truthfully. "And Mama went to her reward years since. Papa was all I had. He was successful, as you say, and had an adequate fortune, but he was of the artistic temperament. Which is to say," she added, feeling shockingly disloyal, "that he was a brilliant man, but with no least concept of business matters. His investments proved to have been poor, and he borrowed unwisely. Indeed, I believe 'twas worry over what should become of us that—that brought about his death." The memory of her beloved father overcame her at this point, and she pressed her handkerchief to her lips.

  Sir Brian squirmed in his chair and prepared to end this unfortunate interview at once, but Ruth recovered herself and swept on before he could administer the coup de grace.

  "I am not a foolish woman, sir, and I was sure I could manage quite well when we were left all alone, but—"

  "We?" he intervened keenly.

  'Bother!' thought Ruth. "My—cousin. I have always cared for her because she is a— Well, she is not quickwitted."

  'Good God!' thought Sir Brian.

  "But," she went on hurriedly, "I have had all I could do to pay our creditors. I knew that my dear father would want that. He was always so—so moral a man, you see. And now, the house has been swallowed up, and—" She bit her lip and for a moment her voice was suspended.

  Sir Brian rushed into the breach. "My poor child," he said, standing. "Rest assured I shall do whatever—" He blinked, shattered by the tragic despair in two lovely grey eyes framed by tear-wet black lashes. "Truly," he faltered, feeling the ultimate villain, "I wish I could—"

  The door opened and the man who had looked in earlier started to enter, then hesitated. "Your pardon, sir," he said, eyeing Ruth curiously. "I had thought you were talking to the applicant for the restoration."

  "Quite correct." Sir Brian gave an inward sigh of relief. "Miss Allington, allow me to present my son, Mr. Gordon Chandler."

  Even as Ruth stood to make her curtsy, her heart sank. There was a kindness in Sir Brian. She had sensed it, and sensed also that he had been touched by her plight and that with a little more time she might have persuaded him. But now he was all cool control again.

  Gordon Chandler's bow was perfunctory. He said in faintly incredulous amusement, "A female applicant? No, really, sir, I think you quiz me."

  'Brute!' thought Ruth, and sinking into the chair again tore open her valise and thrust her sketchbook across the desk. "If you would but look at some of my work, Sir Brian."

  "Oh, come now, Miss Allington." Chandler's grey eyes were suddenly alight with mirth. "This task will be arduous and is not for a lady. You cannot really expect that my father would consider such an arrangement."

  "Surely, Mr. Chandler," she persisted, her soft voice at odds with her murderous thoughts, "Sir Brian will want to engage a person of skill and experience? I can offer him both."

  His lips twitched. Clearly, he was struggling not to laugh out loud. In the manner of one addressing a tiresome child he said, "Yes, I've no doubt you can, but—"

  Sir Brian, who had been sorting through the sketchbook exclaimed, "By Jove, but these are good! Gordie, only see how—"

  The smile in his son's eyes faded. He said austerely, "If ever I heard of such a thing! 'Tis not to be thought of, Papa, and we must not be so unkind as to raise the lady's hopes. Now, if you've a moment I'd like your decision about the new steward."

  Sir Brian said with a trace of petulance, "I was not displeased with Durwood."

  "But—sir, I told you how his books were—"

  "Yes, yes. I know you never liked the man."

  "I'll own it. But that has nought to do with—"

  "I am engaged at the moment, Gordon. We will discuss the other matter when I am free. You know, I believe that 'tis never my wish to be unkind."

  Sir Brian's voice was silken, but suddenly the air was full of tension and Ruth held her breath. For a moment the two men looked at each other, then Chandler's eyes fell. "Of course, sir. My apologies."

  "Very good. Now, spare me a moment from your busy schedule and look at this extraordinarily fine sketch. 'Tis of the Villa Albertini in Milan, as you can see. We were there in… forty-three, was it?"

  "I have never been to Milan, sir."

  Sir Brian's head jerked up.

  His son said expressionlessly, "You took Quentin."

  A look of infinite sadness chased the frown from the handsome features. There was the impression of a sigh restrained, then he nodded. "Ah, yes. Memory plays me false at times." He returned his attention to the sketch, but the enthusiasm had gone from his voice when he said, "Still, you must agree this shows a marked degree of skill."

  Chandler glanced at the sketch. "Charming. Papa, it grows late. If Miss Allington is to catch the afternoon stagecoach…"

  S
ir Brian stood and began to gather the sketches together. "Quite so."

  Ruth said imploringly, "But, sir. You like my work, and—"

  "My father is tired, ma'am," said Chandler, the frigid tone forbidding further discussion.

  "And so is the lady," said Sir Brian gently. "I'faith, but you look much too wearied to travel back to Town tonight,

  Miss Allington. My son will arrange for you to be conveyed to Dover and obtain rooms for you, and a ticket on the morning stagecoach. Truly, I am sorrier than I can say to be obliged to…"

  He went on speaking in his kind courtly voice while he came to offer her her sketchbook.

  Ruth scarcely heard him. She had failed. Despite all her lies and prayers and pleadings, she had failed. The abominable Gordon Chandler had seen to that. Whatever would become of Thorpe and Jacob now? Would they all be thrust into debtor's prison? The thought of those two dear little boys in such a ghastly place as Newgate made her knees grow weak. She'd had too many worries and not enough sleep and it was many hours since she had eaten. The room began to grow dim…

  From a long way off, she heard Sir Brian's voice raised in a near scream…

  Only a moment must have passed when she opened her eyes. She was in the big chair behind the desk. Sir Brian was bending over her, slapping at her hand gently, his face white as death and his eyes terrified.

  She put up a hand and touched her brow dazedly. "Oh… my dear sir… I am so sorry! Whatever must you… think."

  Inexpressibly relieved, he drew a trembling breath. "That you are worn out, poor child. And have not eaten since— when?"

  "I… do not recall… That is— Oh, I feel so stupid…"

  "You are not in the least stupid. I should say rather that you are very brave. Your situation must be desperate indeed. If I cannot offer you employment, I can at least see to it that you have a good meal before sending you off."

  She could hear Mr. Chandler's voice, upraised and wrathful, in the distance, and she sat up, trying vaguely to tidy her hair. "No, no. I thank you sir, but—" She glanced fearfully to the door. "I quite understand why you must refuse me. Pray believe that not for the world would I bring your son's anger down upon you."