He had by now come round to the rear of the mansion and, guiding the ball through an area of high shrubs, discovered a barn in about as decrepit a condition as the main house. The ball sailed across the cobblestones and bounced against the side of the barn, and from within a voice called anxiously, "Is that you, Riggs?"
Rachel! His pulse accelerating as it always did when he was near her, he replied, "I don't think so. Though you may be right, at that."
"Tristram? Thank goodness! I came looking for you."
He entered the barn and, blinking in the sudden dimness, discerned her halfway up a ladder that was propped against the hayloft. She held a large box in her hands, and peered over her shoulder at him with a rather embarrassed smile.
"You thought I was up there?" he asked incredulously.
"No, of course not. I heard kittens mewing and came up to see if Pieces had become a mama again."
She looked adorable, he thought, her cheeks flushed as she stood there holding the box, from which emanated feline sounds of indignation, compensating in shrillness for what they lacked in volume. "How naughty of you," he grinned, moving closer. "And in your high-heeled slippers, too!"
"Well, I had changed for dinner and came to show you about the grounds, so it is all your fault that I now find myself in this ridiculous predicament." Smiling, she jerked her head downwards. "My flounce has caught itself on that splinter so that I can move neither up nor down, and—" she gave a rueful shrug, "each time I attempt to free it, these foolish creatures try to escape so that I fear they will fall and kill themselves."
Tristram quickly mounted the rungs of the ladder, freed her gown with deft assurance, then reached around her for the box. She relinquished it gratefully, and he descended, set the box down, and turned back to aid her. The rotting ladder looked none too safe, he thought, and his weight had not benefitted it. Even as he reached out for her, the rung onto which she stepped gave way. Uttering a small shriek, she toppled, but he was ready, and caught her. With her arms about his neck, she laughed breathlessly, and he cradled her as he might have held a child, gazing down into her lovely face.
The laughter died from her eyes, to be replaced by a look of inexpressible tenderness. The bonds of honour that had so unyieldingly restrained him, melted away, and with a small sigh he bent to her lips. It would have been simple enough for Rachel to swing her head away; holding her as he was, he could not have compelled her. Instead, she lifted her face, her lashes sweeping down so that her eyes were half closed. And Tristram kissed her and with awed reverence felt her respond to him.
In that tempestuous instant, Rachel knew how she had yearned for his embrace, and knew also a dizzying joy, such as she had never before experienced. For an enchanted space she was lost, drifting ecstatically in a dream so perfect, so wonderfully sweet as to obliterate all else.
Tristram raised his head, but still holding her tightly, kissed her cheeks, her closed eyes, her brow, whispering his adoration.
Pieces put an end to this rapture. Sailing triumphantly into the barn, bearing the sausage she had stolen from the kitchen, the large multicoloured cat was confronted by the sight of her offspring exploring the floor. She dropped her prize and uttered a piercing yowl of consternation.
Rachel gave a gasp and was abruptly returned to the mundane.
Just as suddenly jolted back to reality, Tristram set her down hurriedly. For a brief, aghast moment, they gazed at one another. Then he turned and stepped away and, driving one fist into his palm, groaned wretchedly, "God forgive me! I should be shot for compromising you so! What have I to offer you?"
Rachel stretched a hand toward his hunched shoulders, but withdrew it. "It was not your fault," she said unsteadily, her eyes blurring with painful tears. "I was… equally to blame."
He spun around. "I must first clear my name, and shall go to the Horse Guards at once. But, I doubt, my dearest one, that you were kissed by a murderer. That fear has almost left me, thank God! When I return, I—"
"No!" she interpolated, her voice trembling. "You—you must not—"
"Offer for you? No. Nor will I until I have discovered who and what I am." He stepped closer to seize her nerveless hand and hold it between both his own. "My conduct has been utterly shameful, but I shall add to it, by begging that you will wait a month, beloved. Should I discover that I have neither name nor expectations, I will not embarrass you further. But— if my prospects prove not contemptible, will you tell me to whom I must speak?"
"No!" She pulled away, staring up at him with dilating eyes, the pretty blush quite drained from her cheeks. "I should have told you long since. Oh, how I wish I had! Tristram—" She gripped her hands in agitation, drew a deep, quivering breath, and blurted, "I am betrothed!"
He stood motionless, so shocked it was as if she had struck him. Rachel saw his face become drawn and white, while a look of such anguished disbelief came into his eyes that her tears spilled over. "I am so sorry," she whispered. "Oh, I am so very sorry!"
"No cause," he said in a croak of a voice. "None at all. May I know—who…?"
"You are not acquainted. He is Guy's brother. Claude Sanguinet."
"I see. Then—his is the yacht we sailed on?"
She nodded mutely.
Tristram's hands were clenched so tightly that the nails drove into his palms. He managed a travesty of a smile. "Rather formidable competition, for a man with—with no identity. Has your engagement been made public?"
"Yes. It was in The Gazette last month."
He nodded. It was the death knell to his last faint hope.
He tried to say goodbye; to take up her hand with poised dignity and kiss it lightly, and leave. But now he dared not touch her again. Nor could he bring himself to leave her. She looked so stricken, so grieving. Against all his instincts, he gasped, "Rachel—only tell me—do you love him?"
Her head went down. In a muffled voice she answered, "I shall marry him."
Tristram flinched. For a few moments he was rigidly silent. "Forgive me," he said at length, "This is very bad, but—if my name should be cleared and my background proves acceptable… Might you—? I mean—were I to call on him and—and explain, could you—give me a chance?"
Half blinded by tears, she blinked up into his imploring eyes, and gulped, "It is—not possible. He has been so—so very good. And—" She gave a helpless gesture, words all but failing her. "It is just—too late, you see."
"Of course. And I am behaving—" he drew a hand across his eyes in a distracted confusion, "—behaving disgracefully. I can only wish you happy, and thank you for all you have done."
Not waiting for a response, he walked blindly to the door, but he could not cross the threshold, not without one last glimpse of his love. She was still standing immobile, a slim, lovely shape in the dusty old barn, the sunlight playing on her pink muslin gown and waking bright gleams along the trails that tears had painted on her cheeks.
Tristram had no consciousness of having moved, but suddenly he was reaching out to her. Her arms went about his neck, and he crushed her close and warm and dear against his heart. He did not speak, nor did he attempt to kiss her. Eyes closed, he bowed his head, feeling the silk of her curls brush his lips, feeling her arms tighten about him. For a long, ecstatic moment they remained thus, clasped in that silent, bittersweet farewell. At last, he put her from him and gazed down into her poignant face. He traced the line of her cheek with one gentle fingertip. Then he strode swiftly from the barn, leaving her alone with Pieces and her kittens.
Chapter 6
The hand-painted hairbrush and comb were neatly disposed upon the dressing table. A mirrored tray held a variety of dainty little pots and bottles, a hare's foot, and a rather meagre assortment of perfumes. But, seated before the mirror, Rachel availed herself of none of these articles. Her hands were folded in her lap, her lack-lustre eyes gazed blankly at her reflection, and her thoughts were with Tristram. Where was he at this moment? Was he, perhaps, thinking of her as achingly as she
thought of him? She had managed to slip into the house yesterday afternoon without being observed. Upstairs, Agatha had looked at her with obvious consternation, but upon being told that Captain Tristram had decided to proceed at once to London, and that dinner could be set back to the usual hour, she had made no comment but gone downstairs at once to inform the cook. And Rachel had wept, shaken by so violent a storm of grief she had wondered her heart did not break. When Agatha returned she had managed to conceal her face in the sheet and had pretended to be asleep. The abigail had tiptoed silently away to spread the word that her mistress was tired out from the journey, and thus Rachel had been granted sufficient time to so restore herself that she had been able to go down to dinner looking only a trifle strained.
She took up her hairbrush and stared at it. How brutally she had hurt him, and with what utter thoughtlessness. She had been happy and so she had prolonged that happiness, selfishly refusing to acknowledge that Tristram might be forming a lasting attachment, even as Sister Maria Evangeline had warned. How stricken he had looked, and how very dear their final embrace. Her eyes filled with tears yet again. She thought yearningly, "Oh, Tristram, Tristram. If only we had met earlier!" But it would have been quite useless. Her first duty was to ensure that her frail sister was as well provided for as was possible. Actually, the vow she'd made at Papa's bedside was no more binding than her own sense of responsibility. A responsibility that would, she knew, have bound Charity just as firmly had their situations been reversed. Dear Charity, how she would grieve if she knew the true state of affairs. And, of course, she must never know.
Armed with that resolve, Rachel sighed, lifted the hairbrush and was startled by the wan, pale face reflected in the mirror. This would never do! She was completing a careful application of cosmetics when she heard hoofbeats and the rumble of wheels. Claude's groom had brought word this morning that the carriage would reach Strand Hall in time for dinner; they were early. Well, thank heaven she had been able to restore some semblance of normalcy to her features!
Agatha came swiftly into the room. She scanned her mistress narrowly and, responding to a slight lift of Rachel's delicately arched brows, conveyed an expressionless, "I thought you was resting, miss."
"Is Miss Charity dressed?"
"All ready. And so pretty as a picture. Did you hear? Monseigneur's come. Sooner than we thought."
"How lovely," smiled Rachel.
Agatha folded her arms. "And his aunt," she appended.
The half-amused, half-scornful inflection in that pleasant country voice sent a pang of unease through Rachel. Agatha had been in her service since she'd left the schoolroom, and was utterly devoted. But, although only six years older than her mistress, she treated her with the proprietary air of a longtime retainer. Both voice and manner now implied more problems, and, apprehensive, Rachel hurried downstairs.
Fisher stood at the open front door, the late afternoon sunlight waking a sheen on his silver hair. He was as dignified, his stance as regal, as ever, but he did not hear her approach and, turning, revealed his lined countenance wreathed in a rare and large grin. He started as he saw her, and regained his gravity in a flash. "Monsieur Claude Sanguinet," he announced, only slightly unevenly.
"So I understand," nodded Rachel, and walked onto the steps.
She checked, barely stifling a gasp. A luxurious beige carriage picked out in gold and drawn by a magnificent team of matched white horses stood before the house. The coachman was still on the box, staring ahead, his face wooden. An equally wooden-faced groom was handing luggage down to two footmen, while three covertly grinning outriders waited behind the carriage. They all were attired in white and gold livery, unlike any Rachel had previously seen Claude's servants wear. Her betrothed stood on the carriage steps, attempting to extricate an extremely large lady from an embarrassment with the narrow door.
"I cannot readily understand," wailed the lady in French, "how this foolish doorway can have shrunk since we entered the carriage!"
"No more can I, Fleur," murmured Claude Sanguinet smoothly. "Since there is but one other explanation, however, we should, I feel sure, attempt to believe it has achieved such a feat."
So this, thought Rachel, was her chaperon; an even larger lady than Sister Maria Evangeline. At that instant the plumed bonnet tilted upward and two small dark eyes flew to her. A tiny mouth drooped pathetically and a little wail escaped it. With a flood of sympathy, Rachel hastened to greet her guests. "Welcome! Welcome! Oh, is it not the outside of enough how narrow they build carriage doors these days? I vow if one dons an extra pelisse it is as much as one can do to escape! May I be of assistance, Madame?"
Sanguinet had spun around at the sound of her voice. He jumped down, sweeping off his high-crowned beaver to reveal a pleasant face distinguished only by large, light brown eyes. His curling hair was near black and just now rather untidy, but in all else he was quietly elegant, despite the long journey. His build was slender, nor was he above average height, and yet about him there clung an indefinable air; the self-possessed confidence, bordering on the arrogant, that so often marks those blessed—or cursed—by great wealth.
He took both the hands that Rachel extended, and bent to kiss them, looking up from under his brows with laughter in his eyes, to murmur in much better English than that of his younger brother, "If you chance to have the shoe horn about you, my love."
"For shame, sir!" she chided softly. And turning to the carriage, added in French, "Will you not sit down a moment and allow me to join you, Madame? Fisher—please take Monsieur Sanguinet into the red salon and provide him with some cognac. I am assured he must be ready for a glass after such a ride."
"I am enchante" murmured Claude, bowing to her. "As ever." And he followed the imperturbable butler into the house.
Rachel started up the carriage steps. A lean hand took her elbow and assisted her. Surprised, she glanced down. She had never before seen this man. Unlike the servants, he wore a black jacket and pantaloons, and he wore them well, his lean frame such as would gratify a tailor, although his shoulders lacked breadth and the cut of the pantaloons was not so snug as to reveal whether or not he possessed a well-shaped leg. His shirt was as snow, his cravat a model of excellence. Thick brown hair was brushed straight back from a high forehead, and his features were regular. But in the hard black eyes and the smile that curved the thin mouth, Rachel read unmistakable admiration and a chill shivered warningly down her spine.
"Oh, do go away, Gerard!" cried Madame Beauchard irritably. He bowed and took himself off, and she went on in a lowered tone, "That man gives me always the feeling that I am a mouse and he a snake! He is Claude's steward in Dinan. No one knows his real name. He is just—" she shrugged and threw out her hands in a Gallic gesture that set all her chins to wobbling, "just—Gerard! And I am Claude's aunt! And you— you are la tres belle jeune fille! How very kind of you, my dear, to help me!" The little mouth spread into a smile, the small eyes almost disappeared in the folds about them, and two large arms enveloped Rachel in a brief and somewhat smothering hug, through which the monologue swept on. "First impressions, says Claude, are all important. And he did so wish that I impress you!" Her hands went up to cradle her cheeks. "He will be angry! Oh, but he will be angry!"
"No, no," smiled Rachel. "How can one be really angry with one's own family?"
"Then—you will tell him you are not offended?" begged Madame.
Rachel eyed her curiously. How odd that the woman should be so anxious to please her own nephew. Perhaps she was dependent upon Claude's largesse. "Whatever is there to offend me?" She patted the plump hand that plucked at her sleeve. "Now, as to the problem at hand—did you by any chance loosen your stays, ma'am?"
Madame Fleur hove a vast sigh of relief. "You have it, little one. Claude dozed off for a space, and I—oh, it is a torture chamber, is it not, to wear tightly laced stays in a rocking carriage for hour upon hour? I knew I should not be so reckless—not without my maid to truss me up again! But—
" she giggled conspiratorially, and edged herself sideways on the narrow seat. "You can manage, my niece-to-be?"
Rachel took the precaution of lowering the shades, then essayed the task. It was quite a tussle, and when she was done, two of her fingernails had paid the supreme penalty, but thanks to her efforts, Madame Fleur was enabled to leave the carriage and enter Strand Hall.
The notes of the music box faded into silence. Hovering above it, her face alight with pleasure, her head tilted so as to hear every tone, Charity clapped her hands, closed the beautifully inlaid lid gently and turned glowing eyes on Sanguinet. "Oh—monsieur! It is exquisite! How may I ever thank you?"
He smiled and said with a careless wave of the hand, "By some of the time speaking my name—not 'monsieur.' Soon I will be your brother, you know."
"Yes, I— Of course. Claude." She blushed. "Oh, but it seems so impertinent!"
"Why?" he laughed. "Do you fancy me a decrepit creature of many years?"
Aghast, she protested, "No, oh no! Indeed I do not. I have never—"
"I am glad of this," he interrupted. A faint boredom crept into his eyes as he took up the glass of cognac from the table beside his chair. "You will wish the small tune to hear again, no?"
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 02] - Feather Castles Page 10