A Christmas delight

by Anthea Malcolm

  Senhor Ribeiro had taken the best private parlor that the inn afforded. He was waiting for them with every evidence of impatience, his muscles tense with expectation, his florid moustache quivering as he spoke. He had clearly not expected Amanda, but he greeted her courteously and allowed her to make the introduction,

  after which be begged his guests to be seated and offered them some wine. Amanda took a chair by the fire which was burning reluctantly on the stone hearth but refused the wine. Owen, who had no objection to drinking with imposters, said he would be pleased to join Senhor Ribeiro in a glass.

  "Your health, sir," Owen said, raising his glass.

  "And yours, Mr. Thorn. And Miss Berwick's," he added with a glance at Amanda.

  They sat and looked at each other. Ribeiro seemed uncomfortable under their scrutiny but unable to resent it. Owen drank, smiled, and lowered his glass, not taking his eyes from the other man. They were remarkably alike, the Ribeiro now at Ludlow and the Ribeiro here in Honiton, almost of a height, with the same heaviness of face and the same dark hair and eyes. The man before him had perhaps a less florid complexion and something less of flesh than the man he had met earlier that afternoon, but the greatest difference was in their manner. The second Ribeiro exuded confidence and good humor and the awareness that he would be welcome wherever he chose to go, while this man, even allowing for the difference in his situation, was almost diffident.

  Ribeiro cleared his throat. "I regret I was called so suddenly away. I had brought you messages of good will from my nephew, and I am happy to convey them now."

  Owen continued smiling but said nothing, knowing Ribeiro would not be comfortable with silence. Amanda, bless her, knew when to be silent as well.

  Ribeiro wavered under their combined gaze. "You will understand that it was only the most urgent business that called me away. A private matter," he added hastily, to make it clear that he could not divulge its particulars. "I received a letter yesterday afternoon that made

  it imperative for me to take my departure."

  Owen had already heard of the letter, which had been delivered by a boy from the Dolphin, Honiton's other inn, and received by one of the younger Ludlow footmen who had in turn carried it to Senhor Ribeiro. The footman, who was an observant lad, had said that the letter was addressed in a fearful scrawl, as though the writer had been in a great hurry or had taken care to disguise his hand. "You are bound for London, I believe," Owen remarked.

  "That is correct," Ribeiro said eagerly. "Yes, that is where I must go."

  Owen raised his brows. "Yet you linger in Honiton."

  "To see you, my dear sir. To fulfill my commission from my nephew." He leaned forward eagerly. "You have brought the book, have you not?"

  Amanda made a sound, something between a snort and a sniff, that echoed Owen's own surprise at the crudeness of Ribeiro's approach. It seemed unlike the man, but perhaps he was growing desperate. "No, I have not," Owen told him. "The book is still at Ludlow."

  "But I must have it," Ribeiro insisted. "I cannot stay in this place, and I have promised Eugenio. Please, Mr. Thorn, you have no cause to refuse to give it to me, it is my nephew's book and you have promised to return it to him."

  "Which I am more than happy to do, Senhor Ribeiro. But I'm in something of a quandary." Owen set his glass on the table which stood between Ribeiro's chair and his own. "A man arrived this afternoon at Ludlow who also calls himself Ribeiro and who expects me to give the book to him. You see my problem. Who is the real Raimundo Ribeiro?"

  "But I am Raimundo," said the other man who had gone quite white. "Miss Berwick, tell him. I arrived yes-

  terday at Lord Windham's house. How was I announced?"

  "In the same way as the man who arrived this afternoon. Of course, we have only his word that he is Raimundo Ribeiro." Amanda cocked her head and looked at him thoughtfully. "And we only have yours that you are Raimundo."

  Ribeiro's face became suffused with color. He leapt out of his chair, making inarticulate sounds, then turned away and began striding back and forth across the room, beating his hands together and muttering imprecations in Portuguese. Owen recognized the language and its general intent, but the subtlety of the cursing was beyond his command. After several minutes of this activity, Ribeiro came to a halt, withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, and perused it slowly, the frown on his face deepening. Then he uttered one great oath, crumpled the paper in his hand, threw it on the floor, wiped his hand over his forehead, and faced his guests once more. "You must forgive me," he said, speaking now in English. He was breathing hard, and his face was moist from his exertions. "You must forgive me," he said again. "I am very angry. It must be Henrique. My brother. It must be he who is at Ludlow."

  Owen exhaled in a small sigh of delight. It was exquisitely symmetrical, each brother accusing the other. And virtually nothing to choose between them. "Pm afraid I don't understand," he said, his face showing nothing but polite incomprehension.

  Ribeiro drew an enormous breath and threw himself into his chair. "I see I must tell you the whole. I have a younger brother, Mr. Thorn. As children we were close, but as we came of age our interests and way of life pulled us apart. Henrique is in Paris. That is, I thought he was in Paris, but it appears he is now in Devonshire. I think he would like to cause me mischief and embar-

  rassment. No, I do not know what he is about. The book may be part of it, or perhaps he wishes to cause a rift between me and my nephew. We are both of a serious turn of mind, Eugenio and I, and we have always been good companions. Not so Henrique, who has a levity of manner of which Eugenio has often complained. Henrique, I fear, is inclined to be jealous. He can be vengeful—not vicious, you understand —his vengeance is only intended to make his victim look the fool." Ribeiro sighed and shook his head. "It is an absurdity. I do not know what my brother thinks he is doing."

  The descriptions tallied. Whichever of the two was Raimundo, they were agreed on the character of Henrique. "I don't suppose," Owen said, "that there is a third brother lurking about?"

  "A third? No, no, we were once three, but Eugenio's father, God rest his soul, is dead these ten years. May I repeat, Mr. Thorn, I am Raimundo, and this man who says he is me is an imposter. Perhaps he is not even Henrique, but if he is not, then I am at a loss."

  "The resemblance is very striking," Amanda said.

  "Yes, I think we must assume that one of you is Henrique. But which? Indeed, which?" Owen watched Ribeiro carefully and saw his color rise.

  "You doubt what I have told you, sir?"

  "Not at all. We heard much the same story earlier this afternoon from the other Senhor Ribeiro. I do beg your pardon," Owen added quickly as the import of his words struck the man before him. "It was necessary to hear the story from you independently. But you see what a dilemma it puts me in. I am much inclined to believe everything you say, but three hours ago I was much inclined to believe the other fellow. If you were Henrique and heard that Raimundo was coming, wouldn't you do precisely what you have done, invent a

  reason for a quick departure, then remain in the neighborhood in the hope of obtaining your nephew's book."

  Ribeiro was trembling with indignation. "I invent nothing, Mr. Thorn. I will show you. Yes, I will show you." He rose unsteadily and crossed the room to retrieve the crumpled paper he had tossed there, then returned to his chair. He was on the point of handing it to Owen when his eyes went to Amanda. He hesitated.

  "Miss Berwick," Owen assured him, "is the soul of discretion. And I'll tell her about it in any case."

  Ribeiro nodded reluctantly, but he kept the paper, smoothing it out on his lap. "I did get a message, Mr. Thorn. The hand did not appear familiar, but now that I know Henrique is involved, it is plausible that it is his. The writer claimed to be the friend of a lady. A lady, you understand, with whom I was once acquainted."

  "Intimately acquainted?" Owen thought he knew what was coming.

  "Yes," Ribeiro said, his manner grown a lit
tle stiff. He glanced again at Amanda, then shrugged and turned back to Owen. "The lady was coming to Ludlow and would find my presence—what is the word he uses?" He picked up the paper. "Ah, yes. 'She would find your presence inconvenient. I am sure in view of your past friendship that you would not wish to embarrass — ' The lady," he concluded. "It is a delicate matter. I could do no other but what I did."

  Owen regarded Ribeiro with sympathy. The lady, he knew, was Pamela Duffield, for she had confided her concern to Owen shortly after her arrival, and had, in fact, been inclined to leave the house at once when she learned that Ribeiro was also staying there. It was with some difficulty that Owen persuaded her that the party was large and the light in the evening dim, and she would have no difficulty in avoiding an encounter with

  Senhor Ribeiro, whom by her own admission she had not seen in twenty years. "It was a considerate action, sir, and lends credence to your claim."

  "But it doesn't prove it, you know." Amanda said, as though fearing Owen might turn credulous. "If the letter is from Henrique, then Henrique knows about Lady—There's no use going about the bush", it's Lady Duffield, isn't it? It couldn't be anyone else." She took Owen's silence for assent and turned to Ribeiro. "So if Henrique knows about Lady Duffield's friendship with Raimundo, and Raimundo obviously knows about it too, then you could be either one. Raimundo, I mean, or Henrique. I don't see that we're any more forward than we were, though I must say, Senhor Ribeiro, that I rank your claim the higher."

  Ribeiro made her a small bow. "I must be grateful for that small amount of trust."

  Amanda smarted under the implied rebuke, which she had the grace to see was deserved. Her chin went up. "I'm sorry, but we must be objective about this. The ownership of the book is at stake, and if you're really Raimundo and have your nephew's interests at heart, you should not want to see Mr. Thorn make a mistake."

  Ribeiro spread his hands wide in a gesture of resignation. "What more can I do? I know who I am. How am I to prove it?"

  "That is a facer, isn't it?" Amanda said cheerfully. Then her eyes widened. "But of course. There's only one person at Ludlow who knows who Raimundo Ribeiro is. We'll have to put the two of you side by side, and Lady Duffield can tell us which of you he is."

  "No," said Owen, leaning forward in his chair.

  "No," said Ribeiro, looking immensely shocked at the suggestion. "It would cause her untold distress."

  "Men," Amanda muttered, a frown of displeasure on her face. "I don't mean to embarrass the lady, but in

  heaven's name, how else are we to know the truth? I'm not suggesting we make a great show of it, though considering the trouble the two of you have put us to, it might be a jolly good thing to do. We can handle it all very quietly, and Lady Duffield can give us the answer in a matter of minutes. Unless," she went on, an unexpected gleam in her eye, "you think that she won't be able to recognize you."

  "It's possible, you know," Owen said. "I understand it's been something like twenty years." Ribeiro raised his brows, and Amanda stared at Owen in surprise. Owen saw that an explanation was called for. "I'm in the lady's confidence," he murmured.

  Ribeiro waved the matter aside. "The lady will know me," he said with great dignity. "But I do not see how I may without risk return to Ludlow. If Henrique and I are seen together, it will cause comment, and I will not—no, I will not cause Lady Duffield any mortification. Mr. Thorn, you will have to find another way out of your dilemma." He rose, as though to indicate the interview was at an end.

  "I have it," Amanda said, jumping up and turning to Owen. "The mumming." She turned to Ribeiro. "It's a custom we have at Ludlow," she explained. "Christmas night everyone dresses up—not absolutely everyone, but most of the younger people—and we have a kind of parade and dance and—you know the kind of thing."

  Ribeiro nodded.

  "I'll send you a costume. There's a great long gray robe up in the attic. You can be Friar Tuck."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Oh, one of our—he was a follower of Robin Hood." Amanda frowned. "Your moustache will be a problem, it's a dead giveaway. I know, I'll contrive a hood with holes for the eyes. You may look rather like someone out of the Inquisition—" She stopped, as though she

  had made an indelicate reference, and then remembered happily that Portugal was not the same as Spain.

  Ribeiro took her embarrassment in good part. "An unhappy moment in our neighbor's history, Miss Berwick. I will contrive to look like your Friar Hick."

  "Splendid. Mr. Thorn will bring it to you tomorrow. You will do that, wont you, Owen? And then you must arrange to arrive at Ludlow at seven o'clock, Senhor Ribeiro. We'll send a carriage for you. Go round to the right side of the house and you'll see a door. Someone will meet you there, and you can join our parade."

  "And Lady Duffield?"

  "There'll be dancing afterward," Owen said. "I'll warn Lady Duffield what we're about, and she'll be prepared for you to approach her. And then I'm afraid you're on your own."

  "I understand," Ribeiro said. "If you assure me of the lady's compliance, I will do what is required."

  They parted from him amicably and returned to the entrance hall where Owen ordered the carriage brought round. Amanda was in high spirits. "It will be such fun," she said when they were underway. "I adore masquerades."

  Owen could not feel that what they had agreed to qualified in the least as fun, especially now that it was clear Pamela Duffield must be part of it. "I don't know how else we might have managed it," he said, aware of the grudging quality in his voice, "but it's an awkward matter at best."

  "For one of them," Amanda acknowledged, "but whichever it is, he'll deserve it."

  "I was thinking of the lady."

  Amanda made a sound of impatience. Owen had begun the afternoon's adventure as a great lark, and she knew just the point at which he had gone all serious. "Why do men think women are such poor creatures? I

  don't know Lady Duffield at all, but I'd swear, Owen Thorn, that she's learned all kinds of ways to protect herself from the winds of fortune and that she's not nearly as fragile as she appears." Owen grinned. "Not everyone is like you, Amanda." She gave him a sudden sidewise glance. "Oh," she said, aware that she was in danger of going all serious herself, "I'm much more like other people than you think."

  Amanda was not particularly fond of dancing, but that evening it occurred to her that there were a number of advantages in an activity which allowed a gentleman to place his arm, however lightly, around one's waist. After playing several lively country dances, Nicola had acceded to Baron von Frisch's request for a waltz. Though the dance was rendered less dashing and elegant than usual by the dogs and toddlers who were eager to join in the fun, there was a quality to it which had been quite lacking at the London balls Amanda had attended.

  She must have waltzed with Owen at least half a dozen times before, and he was certainly not holding her more closely than usual. Whatever it was that set this moment apart, it was far more intangible. Amanda could not have put it into words, but she knew it had something in common with the delicacy of finely wrought metal and the sheen of highly polished silver and that magical moment when one's creation first begins to take shape. She had long ago decided that if she ever married, which she was not at ail sure she wished to do, only Owen could tempt her. But that had been a matter-of-fact, logical thought, and there was nothing logical or matter-of-fact about the way she felt now.

  Reluctant to break the spell and made strangely awk-

  ward by her own feelings, Amanda said littie and only once or twice risked a glance at Owen's face. His eyes were strangely pensive with none of the teasing glint to which she was accustomed. That might be a good sign, but Amanda had a lowering feeling that it simply meant he was thinking of something else.

  Nicola brought the dance to an end with a flourish. Just as Owen released Amanda, a determined young spaniel pushed its way between their feet, tail wagging vigorously. Amanda looked up, her awkwardness momentar
ily forgotten, and saw Owen smiling down at her. Her thin poplin dress suddenly felt unusually warm, and she was honest enough to admit it was due to more than the exertion of the dance, just as her light head could not entirely be accounted for by the mulled wine. Then Owen's expression altered, and Amanda knew he was gazing past her, toward the petit-point settee where Lady Duffield was sitting in unusual isolation. His eyes were filled with what could only be called concern. More concern, surely, than was warranted by the problem of Senhor Ribeiro.

  An insistent tug at her skirt ended Amanda's reflections. She automatically bent down and extended her arms, and Susanna, Nicola and Charles's small daughter, ran into them. Any annoyance Amanda might have felt at the interruption was banished as the child planted a sticky kiss on her cheek. Amanda straightened up, Susanna in her arms, just as Verity, David, and the older Lydgate children fell upon Owen.

  "You promised to tell us the story," Verity informed him.

  "I did?" Owen raised his brows. "Well, 'pon my soul, I think you're right. Come along then." He led them to the fireplace, followed by some of the younger members of the party who toddled after their older cousins, their hands on his coat tails. One would never have guessed

  Owen had anything but holiday festivities on his mind.

  Nicola had risen from the piano, putting a temporary end to the music and dancing, but voices and laughter still filled the room. Owen selected an armchair to one side of the fire, and the children clustered on the floor around him. Amanda joined them, Susanna on her lap.

  "Now," said Owen, frowning in recollection, "how far had we gone?"