"I might have guessed you had some dastardly motive in mind," she said laughingly, and ran back into the cottage.
Until the last flutter of her nightdress had vanished Chandler stood looking after her. He walked away then, to wait amongst the trees so that no prying eyes might see him and leap at once to a logical but quite mistaken conclusion. He watched the door, counting the seconds until it would open again, and ignoring the small inner voice that said this was unwise. He had a right, surely, to just one brief hour? He had slipped a little bit just now, but he would be cool and controlled so that she would never know; and it was so little to ask; so small a time to hoard in memory.
After a while, she came to him. She had plaited and coiled her hair, and put on a primrose yellow morning dress with modified hoops. It seemed to him that a shimmer of gold still surrounded her, and he stared briefly, then took the basket she carried.
They chatted comfortably as they walked side by side through the deserted gardens. Of the birthday party, and the guests, some of whom would start arriving this afternoon; of the scouring of the estate by keepers, grooms, farmhands, footmen, and gardeners, none of whom had found a trace of the whistling man and his bullies, nor the least clue to explain their presence. Ruth's eyes became troubled and, quick to see, Chandler turned the subject to the fresco and the progress that had been made. The moments flew and it seemed a very short time before the buildings were far behind them and they were going down the long gradual slope to the cliffs.
He made for the old lighthouse and they sat on the rocks in the brilliant morning and breakfasted on slices of cold pork, crusty buttered bread, and cheese. The gulls were already wheeling and calling; the sun grew warmer, and the faint haze on the air burned away. Except for the gulls it was very quiet and still, and they might have been miles from human habitation; alone in a world of peace and beauty.
Ruth folded the napkins and replaced plates, mugs, and the water bottle in the basket. Leaning back against his rock, legs stretched out comfortably, Chandler watched the sunlight on her hair, the pretty movements of her hands, the shape of her lips.
"Tell me," he said, after a short silence, "about your husband. What sort of man was he?"
She smiled reminiscently. "He was a very dear person. Gentle and scholarly, and so kind."
It seemed an odd description of a husband. He turned his head and looked thoughtfully across the blue waters of the Strait to where a schooner made its slow way to the Tidal Basin and two fishing boats were far out towards France. "Was it an arranged marriage?"
"Yes. Thomas was my papa's dearest friend." She saw his startled glance, and added, "You are thinking he must have been a good deal older than me. He was also the dearest and best of men. No wife could have known more-more unselfish kindness or—"
"Or a more passionate lover?"
Her face flushed scarlet. "Sir! You presume!"
"And have my answer, I think." He sat up straighter and asked intensely, "Mrs. Ruth, did you love him?"
"You have no right to ask such a question." She looked fixedly at the picnic basket. "But—yes. I loved him in many ways. And he was devoted and—"
"And kind. So you said. And how many years your senior?"
Stiffening, she said, "You know very well that you go beyond the line in asking such personal questions!"
"I can find out easily enough by making a few enquiries. Why should you be ashamed to tell me?"
"I am not ashamed!" But he might indeed make enquiries, which would never do, so she answered reluctantly, "When we married I was seventeen. Mr. Allington was— was six and fifty."
"Good God!"
She started up angrily, but Chandler grasped her wrist. "No, do not! I mean no disrespect. He was a good man, evidently. But—why on earth—" Warned by her stormy frown he went on quickly, "No. You are perfectly correct, and I have not the right to ask. Only—this morning with your hair down, you were so—Well, I mean you are so very lovely, and to marry a man more than forty years your senior seems—by God, I will say it! Was your father all about in his head? Oh, Lord! And off she goes again! Pec-cavi! Only—Fiend seize it! Could you not have objected? Was your sire a tyrant?"
The variously penitent and indignant play of emotions across his face had by this time reduced her to helpless laughter. Freeing her hand, she said, "I am very glad you know you have not the right to ask, sir."
He gave her a searching look, and said with a grin, "What a clodpole you must think me. Truly, I do not mean to offend. 'Tis just, you are so young, and—it seems such a waste. Unless—" He closed his lips over the ill-considered words.
"Unless I married Mr. Allington for his money?" Ruth's eyes twinkled as his face reddened. "Perhaps that was in Papa's mind, although I doubt it, for at that time we were quite comfortably circumstanced. The thing was, you see, that it was his wish. And I did not— That is to say, there was no other gentleman in my life. But my papa was no more a tyrant, sir, than—than is your own."
"Which properly sends me to the rightabout," he acknowledged whimsically. "Unless you chance to believe my father is a tyrant."
Ruth avoided his eyes. "Sir Brian has been exceeding kind to me—"
"But? By Jove! You do find him tyrannical!"
"No, no! I never would say such a thing!"
"Only think it."
"You wretch! I do not! Only… Oh, I suppose, like most older gentlemen he—er, likes his own way. I have wondered sometimes how you— That is to say—"
He smiled. "You think I should resent the fact that he cares more for my graceless brother than for me."
Ruth gave a gasp and looked at him anxiously. "I am very sure he is extreme fond of you, but it seems not quite fair. He leans on you much more heavily than he is perhaps aware, yet…"
He settled back again and drew up one knee, resting a hand on it as he stared off towards France. "He does care for me, you know. Just as much as Quentin, I dare to think. Only—in a different way. I remember him as he was before my mother died." He smiled nostalgically. "Theirs was a perfect match. Mama was the very prettiest creature; a happy, laughing joyous sprite of a lady. All tenderness and grace and caring. I was nine when she died, and Quentin six. We all had adored her. We all were shattered. My father seemed overnight to become an old man; crushed and without hope. Quentin always was sensitive and tenderhearted. He was utterly bewildered by Mama's death. He couldn't comprehend the finality of it, and would search about the houses, calling for her, long after we had thought he understood. When he did understand… well, he lost all power to speak."
"Oh, poor little boy," said Ruth, touched.
"For two years he was the shadow of a child, shrinking, frightened, silent. He would follow me about, and if I got too far away he would run to cling to my coat in terror." Chandler began absently to gather a small pile of pebbles. "Papa was so kind and understanding. How many men, I wonder, would simply have placed us both in the care of some female relative, or engaged a tutor? Not he! He talked to us, played with us, and took us everywhere. I was kept at home for a few years, and being a typically selfish young animal I resented it and longed to go away to school like the other boys I knew. I aired my grievances to Sir Brian one day, and I remember how gravely he listened. He said that Quentin was of a different temperament to him and me. And that we must never let down our family, especially if one person is damaged in any way. Quentin had been damaged, he said and, just now especially, he stood very much in need of us both."
Watching him, Ruth said quietly, "I take it your brother did regain his speech."
He laughed. "Yes, confound him! And became a proper rapscallion. All wildness and daring. My Lord, how I had to race to keep up with his starts, much less prevent 'em!"
"But, perhaps because he was at first so helpless, and because you both guarded him, you gave him extra of your love. And your papa feels lost now and to an extent no longer needed."
He did not at once respond, and then said slowly, "I hope I've not made him
feel unwanted. Do you fancy him a Jeremiah? He's not. 'Tis mostly that these last few years he has been ill, and worried for the Rabble, and—"
"The—what?"
"Rabble." His grin was slanted at her. "My harum-scarum brother."
"Is that what you name him?" Amused, she said, "Poor fellow! And how does he call you?"
"Sir Knight. Only because I shall inherit the title, and he is sadly lacking in respect."
'And because you always come to his rescue,' she thought. "I take it," she said, "that you were unable to keep up with his last—er, start."
'True." The smile left his eyes. "Almost we buried the idiot. Only by the grace of God and the help of some very good friends is he safely in France. Jupiter! 'Twas a close run thing. A terrible strain on my father." Caught up in memory, he shook his head, his expression very stern. Ruth was silent. After a minute he went on, "The discovery of the fresco has given him a fine new interest, thank heaven. And now, since Jacob came, he seems ever more cheerful and light-hearted. So much like his old self." He smiled at her, "Another thing for which I have to thank you."
Her guilty conscience felt a little eased, and she said warmly, "I could not be more pleased. Jacob needs the guidance of a gentleman, and has become most fond of your papa. And of you, sir. I vow, 'tis a puzzle to know which of you he'll run to when he's released from his studies."
They had arrived at the topic Chandler had hoped to broach, and he said carefully, "Is a fine boy, and I enjoy him quite as much as does my father. Though, I'll own he puzzles me at times."
Apprehensive, Ruth asked, "How so?"
"He is either the youngest diplomat alive, or of a most—er, mercurial disposition."
With a rather unconvincing laugh, she said that Jacob was likely nervous. "For I cannot convey to you the depth of my gratitude at being allowed to keep him with me, and I've fairly dinned into his brain that he is not to offend either you, or Sir Brian."
Her tight-gripped hands told him that she was scared. "Oh, he won't do that," he said easily. "My father fairly dotes on him. The young rascal has convinced him he's another Quentin—all high-couraged, panting for risk and adventure, and begging for tales of derring-do. Whereas with me he's a born scholar, a'thirst for knowledge, especially about the sea. Which is, I suppose natural enough since his papa captained an East Indiaman, and—Egad, ma'am! Are you ill?"
Ruth stammered that she was just shocked to hear that her nephew was capable of such toad-eating airs. "I shall see to it the little rogue does not bother you again!"
"You will do no such thing! Do you want my father to have me put in the stocks? Jacob is no bother. Say rather that he is a complicated child and we all shall be most sorry when… when you leave us." The tone of his voice had changed; he lifted his head and looked at her, then averted his gaze hurriedly.
But she had seen that dreadful look again. The wistful caress that seemed to enfold her heart. And the knowledge that she still deceived him became unbearable, so that she stammered, "Mr. Gordon, there—there is something I must tell you."
"You are not done with your work already?" He said almost desperately, "No, you cannot be finished before—I mean, you must stay for the party, at least. It is such a little while."
'Such a little while…' And after all, in another week or two she would have gone out of his life forever. Surely, 'twould be foolish to spoil these last few precious days? She stifled the voice of common sense and said with determined gaiety, "Oh, I think we shall not leave you just yet, sir. I only hope Sir Brian will not be too disappointed. I had expected to have the first cleaning completed in time for his party, and 'tis not done. Though I made quite some progress this week."
"By working much too hard, so I'm told! I think we never asked that you become a slave to that curst painting!"
The protective note in his voice warmed her heart. She said, "Curiosity drove me. Speaking of which, can we go inside the lighthouse?"
"No. We have to keep it locked now. It has been unsafe for years, and there is always the fear small children may get inside. The steps are very steep and there's a sheer drop where the stair railing has fallen away."
"How high is it, do you know?"
"A hundred feet or more I'd guess, from the dome over the roof to the ground. All the undergrowth about it has made it appear rather forlorn now, do not you think?"
"Yes, poor old thing. In fact, I had meant to ask you when the changes were made, and why."
"Changes?"
"Ah, but you've not seen the fresco for a few days. I have uncovered more of the lighthouse and it was evidently much taller when 'twas painted, and I think must have been in another location. Is it possible that the lighthouse in the fresco was an earlier version? You said it had been rebuilt several times."
He shaded his eyes and peered up the length of the tower. "I very much doubt that. To the best of my knowledge—" Lowering his gaze, he interrupted himself and in a blending of resentment and surprise said, "Be dashed!" and sprang to his feet. "You're early abroad!"
August Falcon strolled towards them. He wore riding dress, and although Ruth still could not like the cynical boredom of his smile, she could not deny that the man was breathtakingly handsome.
Falcon, always quick to sense another's moods, had at once noted the brief flash of annoyance in Chandler's eyes. "Poor form to pay a morning call at such an hour, is that what you mean," he drawled, amused.
"Not at all." Chandler shook his hand. "I believe you are acquainted with Mr. August Falcon, Mrs. Allington?"
"I am certainly much obliged to him," said Ruth, dropping a curtsy.
Falcon looked blank, but bowed with lazy grace.
Chandler said, "My father and I are also obliged to the gentleman."
Mystified, Falcon looked from one to the other. "Always glad to be of service," he lied. "Is all this obligation why I am invited?"
Chandler thought that very likely, and said evasively, "I'm sure Sir Brian will be pleased you are able to accept. Never say you rode from Town?"
"Why? 'Tis not become obscene to ride, I believe. Am I to be offered sustenance?"
Ruth delved into the basket. "Alas, sir, there is only a heel of bread, and the cheese looks rather shiny."
Falcon lowered his elegance to a suitable rock and dazzling her with a smile declared that he was "addicted to shiny cheese." Accepting a plate and a somewhat crumpled napkin, he inspected the latter fastidiously before spreading it across his knees.
"Mrs. Allington has done wonders with my father's fresco," advised Chandler.
"But how charming." Falcon sampled the cheese. "We reached Dover last evening. 'Twas too late to demand your hospitality, so we racked up at the Ship. My sister follows, with Miss Rossiter."
Startled, Chandler said, "Not unescorted, surely?"
"I'faith, I almost wish they were!" Falcon scowled.
"That dimwit, Morris, rides escort. I'd not have come on ahead, save that I want a private word with you."
Ruth stood. "Then I shall take my leave, gentlemen. No, pray do not get up, Mr. Falcon." She reached for the basket, but Chandler stood and swung it out of reach.
"I'll bring it back," he said. "You will be all right?"
Her eyes quizzed him. "Now that we have unmasked the daemon, I believe I shall survive a stroll through the park, sir."
He grinned, but his expression changed as he watched her graceful walk. He recalled his guest then, and turned to meet a speculative stare. Irritated because he knew he was colouring up, he sat down and demanded, "Well?"
"I don't know. Is it?"
"If you mean her task—she has done splendidly."
"Did I mean her task, I wonder? I had thought I referred to your air of—"
"My apologies if I appeared somewhat—er, taken aback," Chandler intervened hurriedly. "I had not expected to see you."
"Oh, that was quite obvious, my dear fellow. Shall I change the subject if I remark that your betrothed will arrive tomorrow?"
&
nbsp; "Damn your eyes, Falcon!"
Falcon sighed. "I am come on an invitational—though I was coming without one. Still, I am met with shiny cheese and a crust of less than fresh bread, and now my eyes are impugned. Alas, but polite customs are dying in Britain."
Chandler leaned back against his rock. "Had you but whispered a plea Chef would have offered you a proper breakfast. Since you have chosen instead to spoil the picnic I enjoyed with your protégée, you had best—"
"With my—what?"
"Yes, the word was ill chosen, perhaps. However, 'twas your letter that—"
"Aha! We arrive at the reason I came. What letter?"
"The letter you writ to my father, of course, recommending Mrs. Allington to restore the fresco that—"
"Hell and the devil! Are you run mad? I writ no letter. I scarce know the woman by sight, much less— To restore—what?"
"Our fresco. We discovered it in the chapel when— But never mind all that. If you did not write the letter, who in blazes did?"
Falcon finished his meagre breakfast and rose to his feet. "I should very much like to know. Have you this entrancing missive?"
"I saw it on my father's desk only yesterday. Come. We'd best get to the bottom of this."
A quarter of an hour later, Falcon looked up from the notorious letter and said savagely, "How a'plague could you be such a fool as to fancy this disgusting collection of mangled grammar and primitive scrawl originated at my hand?"
Dreading the answer, Chandler asked heavily, "Is a forgery, then? Do you—er, recognize the writing?"
"I can scarce recognize what is not! I do know the unmitigated villain and unprincipled scoundrel who perpetrated this monstrosity and had the colossal gall to append my name to it! Zounds, but I'll force him to that duel, if I have to bind him and cut him into gobbets to do it!"
Brightening, Chandler said, "You think Morris forged it? But why on earth should he?"
"Because they knew I would have none of it!" Falcon crumpled the letter and hurled it into the fireplace, then ran to snatch it up and try to smooth it out again.
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