“Egad!” exclaimed Morris. “D’ye think he knows that Tio—”
“Careful!” hissed Falcon, with a glance at the open door.
Mr. Falcon said in a lowered voice, “Nobody knows, Lieutenant Morris. Not with certainty. But—there are rumours abroad, no doubt of that.”
August nodded. “Farrier was at Hector Kadenworthy’s place in Surrey. Slimy as hell. Kade trod carefully, I can tell you.”
“Very wise,” said Mr. Falcon. “Ain’t healthy to step on snakes.”
“Is that it, sir?” asked Morris, troubled. “D’you think that miserable hound is after Tio?”
Mr. Falcon said slowly, “I hope not, my boy. I like young Glendenning.”
CHAPTER VI
It was ridiculous, thought Glendenning, that he should feel so happy this morning; almost as if he had come home. He glanced up from the small cracked mirror, lowering the razor as he looked around at the stone walls and crude furnishings. This was poverty. Certainly, there was nothing here to make him so light-hearted. It was, he told himself, relief; plain and simple gratitude that he was alive. A trifle stiff, perhaps, and his ankle bothersome, but, considering the hectic events of the previous day, feeling remarkably well. The diagnosis, however, did not quite satisfy his remorseless introspection, and he stared soberly at his own reflection, seeing it not at all. His mind’s eye saw instead a dark woodland glade and the flickering flames of a fire that played on four cruel faces. If Amy had not come …
“Breakfast! Hurry up, slugabed!”
He smiled faintly as that lilting call rang out. “I’m coming. And I shall expect some answers, my girl, so prepare yourself.”
She made no reply, but he heard her low chuckle, and smiled again as he resumed the business of shaving. Last night she had refused his weary attempts to question her, and he’d been asleep almost before his head touched the satin pillow so incongruously placed on the crude straw bed. Today, he promised himself, would be the day of reckoning!
He finished shaving and reached for his wig. The teapot was gone, and the wig was propped irreverently on a head of cabbage. “Of all the…!” he muttered, snatching it up and inspecting the inside for unwanted residents. Still holding it, he seized the cane and limped into the kitchen. “Where is my teapot?” he demanded.
Amy, busied at the hearth, spun around. The door was wide open, allowing sunlight to splash into the room and revealing the lush green of grass and trees outside. Birds were carolling industriously, and the air smelled deliciously of frying bacon and coffee. Yet the heart of my lord Horatio quickened not to these delightful things, but to the sparkle in a pair of mischievous dark eyes, the curve of two vivid lips, the dimple that came and went in a petal soft cheek. Today, her snowy blouse was tucked into a full dark skirt on which pink rosebuds were embroidered here and there. Her thick dark hair was bound into two fat plaits tied with pink ribands, and she looked very young and enchantingly pretty.
Meeting his stare, Amy was thinking that his auburn hair curled charmingly, and that the laugh lines at the corners of his green eyes found an echo in the set of the humorous mouth. “Your teapot?” she teased.
He had quite forgotten the teapot, and murmured, “Amy, do you know how very lovely you are?”
Her cheeks became as pink as the ribands, and she turned away quickly.
He thought, ‘I’m being a lecher again!’ “You know very well what I mean,” he said. “My wig is not accustomed to being supported by a head of cabbage!”
“Oh, I don’t know…,” she said provocatively, then squealed, and danced to the far side of the table, as he laughed and made a lunge for her. “Behave,” she warned, “or your breakfast will go to Lot. He’s waiting, as ye see.”
Sure enough, the little donkey stood at the door, looking in with great hopeful eyes.
“He deserves a reward, certainly,” acknowledged Glendenning, hobbling over to the shelves and appropriating a carrot. “May I?”
She nodded. “And then sit down, and leave off that silly wig. I like what there is of your curls.”
“Why do you call him Lot?” he asked, feeding the carrot to the donkey.
“’Cause Lot’s wife was turned into a pillar of salt, and that’s what he does, sometimes.”
“You mean he becomes recalcitrant?”
“Cor,” she said, staring at him in awe. “What a jawbreaker. What’s it mean?”
“It means to be obstinate and refuse to move.”
“That’s Lot, all right.” She clapped her hands and said exuberantly, “Oh, wait’ll I throws that at Uncle Ab. Recassy— how does it go?”
“I’ll teach you how to say it properly. After you’ve told me what happened to my teapot.”
She added fried eggs to the bacon and toast on a large plate, and carried it to him. “Ye saw what they done—did to it. Now eat.”
With belated comprehension he exclaimed in horror, “No! Was my teapot your extra head, then? And they shot it from under your arm? My dear God! You might have been killed!”
He had turned quite pale. Touched, she shrugged. “’Twas a lucky shot, is all. Nothing to get in a garden-gate about.”
“I’d say it was something to get into a proper gar— er, state about,” he contradicted. “You were holding it under your arm! An inch or so either way…!”
The thought that her gallant rescue might so easily have resulted in her own death brought a cold sweat starting on his skin. He seized her hand and pressed it to his lips. “How shall I ever thank you? To think you would take such a risk for my sake! Amy, were you not terrified?”
She jerked away from his clasp and for a long moment stood quite motionless, gazing down at her hand. Then, “Nah!” she said with a curl of the lip. “I ain’t no airy-fairy fine lady swooning in the parlour when she’s sure there’s a gent ready to catch her!”
“You certainly are not!” For some obscure reason the glance he received upon thus agreeing with her was decidedly unfriendly, and he regrouped hurriedly. “What I mean is, you’re incredibly brave. I wonder you were not cut!”
“I was, just a little.” Her eyes softened. “Now don’t be getting all aside o’ yerself. ’Twere just a small cut.”
He sprang up. “Oh, Lord! Why didn’t you tell me? Is it your arm?”
“No, it ain’t.” She poured ale into his mug, and went on roughly, “And ye’d as well sit yerself down again, ’cause it ain’t where you can tend it, so don’t waste yer breath argle-bargling! Why don’t ye eat? If what I cooked ain’t good enough, I’ll give it to Lot.”
He sat down, and said in a frigid voice, “I was waiting for you, ma’am.”
From under her lashes she looked at his proud averted face. A tiny smile curved her lips and, after a minute, she said, “I can’t afford to snore in bed all day, mate. I et hours ago.”
“I see.” He took up a slice of toast and glared at it.
Amy bustled about, singing softly. When she glanced at him again, he was watching her, his face stern, his breakfast untouched. She demanded, “What’s the matter with it?”
“I find I am not hungry, thank you.”
“Hoity-toity,” she jeered, hands on hips. “Now what’s got the noble gent all bristly?”
He had decided to be coldly indifferent, but the sight of her standing there like the spirit of the morning, with the two plaits swinging and her glorious eyes full of mischief, made indifference an impossibility. He said angrily, “Why must you always think the worst of me? I was distressed to learn that you had cut your, er—self. Is it a crime that I should worry for you? If I asked about your hurt, ’twas not because I sought to— That is, I had no thought to look at your—” Aware that he was making a hopeless botch of this, and that the mischief in her eyes had become mirth, he said irritably, “By Zeus, madam, you are perfectly safe with me, I promise you! I’ve never yet sunk to—to abusing a helpless girl!”
She retaliated with a triumphant, “No, and you can’t now, can ye, Lord Quality? The g
host made you take a vow last night, and you took it, all shiversome as you was.”
Reminded of his craven terror, he flushed, but seeing the peep of the dimple, said with a reluctant grin, “You little wretch! I knew all the time ’twas you!”
“Fibber! Oho, if you could’ve but seen yer face! I thought you was going to faint!”
“You make a joke of it, Amy, but the truth is that you did risk your life to help me. I promise I mean to do whatever I may to repay—”
Her amusement gone in a flash, she said stormily, “Oh, stow yer gab! Can’t ye think of nothing else but paying me off?”
“Dammit!” Again he jumped up and, disregarding the immediate lance of pain through his leg, seized her wrist. “I didn’t mean that! Always, you twist what I say, and—”
“Aye, I does,” she cried, her voice shrill as she fought and clawed at him. “Let me go! Leave me be, ye dirty…”
He released her at once, and stepped back.
She crouched before him like a wild creature at bay, her little knife a glittering upraised menace.
A tense pause. Then he said very gently, “My poor child. How terrible your life has been.”
“I ain’t your child,” she panted. “And much … you know o’ life.” Despite the scornful words, her eyes searched his face in a strangely desperate fashion. Suddenly, she hurled the knife from her, put both hands over her face, and burst into tears.
“Please do not,” he begged, horrified. “Amy—please don’t cry.” He touched her silky hair cautiously, and her sobs seemed to become even more wracking. “Oh, Lord,” he groaned. “I’d best go, if I make you so very unhappy.”
“Well … ye does,” she gulped, dragging the back of her hand across her eyes.
“Why? What have I done?”
She sniffed. “You—you won’t—eat the breakfast I made ye.”
He laughed, limped over to pick up her knife, and presented it with a flourish. “There, madame. Now you may be safe. Amy—please won’t you sit and talk to me?”
She hesitated, then smiled through her tears, and bent to restore the knife to its garter sheath. “Oh, all right, then,” she said, drawing out the other stool and perching on it. “But I ain’t got all day.” She dried her eyes on the hem of her petticoat. “You wants to ask yer questions, is that what it is? Go on then, only— Now what is you all crimp-faced about?”
This was not the moment, decided the viscount, to explain that a lady should not pull up her skirts in front of a (relatively) strange gentleman. “My apologies,” he said humbly. “I expect ’tis just that I’m very hungry.”
“Well, eat, then!”
Obeying, he attacked succulent toast, bacon that was tangy and crisply delicious, and eggs cooked just the way he liked them. “First,” he said, spreading damson jam on a slice of toast, “why did you bother to follow me, and how did you know where I was?”
“I follered ’cause…” Amy became intent upon adjusting the position of the butter saucer. “Oh, ’cause ye went off with Uncle Ab’s favourite cane. I’d give up, and was on me way home when those silly great bullies started tearing down branches and making noise enough fer ten, trying to build that shelter—what would’ve come down at the first puff o’ wind. You must’ve goed round in circles, lordship, ’cause ye was close by. So I run home quick, and made our ghost.”
Glendenning looked at her over a forkful of bacon. “However did you do it? I never saw such an eerie sight.” And struck by a sudden thought, he asked, “What d’you mean our ghost? Have you used it before?”
She nodded, her expressive face saddened. “When the chals come after me. It keeps ’em away.” She grinned. “Frightens most folks away, to say truth.”
“So I would suppose. But—”
She raised a hand. “One at a time, melor’. It ain’t me what makes the ghost so scary. Uncle Ab does. He calls it ‘phossy,’ and when he puts it on a old sheet or something—well, you saw how it shines.” She hugged herself, chuckling gleefully. “Did you hear how me voice echoed-like when I moaned and laughed at first? That’s ’cause I talked into a broken old tin. I couldn’t use it after I come out, ’cause then I had to use me hands to hold up the sticks and make me arms longer.”
He chuckled, remembering the weird echoing of her laughter, and how those long arms had waved about. “You were truly a magnificent apparition. But where does Absalom get this ‘phossy?’ What is it?”
“I dunno, lordship. He’s a clever one, Ab is.” She glanced to the door and leaned closer, whispering, “Promise ye won’t tell, but—he’s a wizard. A little bit.”
How big and solemn were her eyes now; how sweet and fresh the fragrance that hung about her. And how, he wondered, could one be “a little bit” of a wizard?
“He makes it,” she confided, “but he won’t never let me see, nor tell me how he does it. He says it’s a old, old secret, what he learned from some other wizard in exchange fer a picture he made him. And that he swore a awful oath not to tell no one.”
Glendenning had never put too much faith in wizards. Witches, everybody knew about, but one heard very little of wizards. Perchance their club was more exclusive. A wizard, however, even a “little bit” of a wizard, might be a tricky customer, and best handled with care. Preoccupied, he chased the last piece of bacon around the plate. Three times, it fell off his fork.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” exclaimed Amy. “Pick it up, mate, do!” She leaned forward, retrieved the elusive morsel, and popped it into his mouth. “Like that!” Laughing at him, her fingertips lingered for just an instant on his lips, and leaning across the table thus, the neck of her blouse dipped. Enchanted, he gazed at the rich, snowy swell of her breasts, then, with a hissing intake of breath, wrenched his eyes away. “What,” he croaked, “kind of picture?”
She drew back, watching him steadily. After a pause, she said in her most scornful voice, “Ye got eyes, aintcha?”
All too aware of that fact, he met her gaze for a brief, guilty moment, and mumbled that he did not take her meaning.
With a contemptuous snort she slipped off the stool.
“No!” he exclaimed. “You’re cross again, and I am behaving—er, trying to behave properly. Please don’t go.”
She moved with her graceful swinging walk into the bedroom, saying over her shoulder, “You be just a man, poor thing. And I’m just a gypsy.”
Her words threw a shadow over this beautiful morning. Glendenning stared glumly at the empty plate, reliving the touch of her soft fingers on his lips. ‘And I’m just a gypsy.’ The most beautiful gypsy ever created, but … Sighing, he knew it would not be wise to remain here much longer.
“Wake up, Sir Lordship!”
Amy stood in the doorway, holding the painting that hung in the bedroom. “Didn’t ye never rest yer peepers on this here?”
Incredulous, he stammered, “Why, yes—but— Jupiter! Do you say Absalom painted that?”
“Didn’t carve it out with his knife, mate. But he’s got one. A big one!”
His face was hot. Ignoring the scornful tone, and the implication of her words, he took up his cane and limped over to inspect the painting.
Almost, the goosegirl seemed alive; almost, one could hear the geese complaining as she hurried them home through trees touched with the fiery blush of sunset. He muttered, “Of course I saw it, but I thought—”
“You thought we’d prigged it, I suppose.” She swung the picture away and marched back into the bedroom.
Following, he said, “Amy, I do wish you would try not to be angry with me all the time.”
“Then don’t look at me so daft,” she said ungraciously, struggling to raise the heavy frame. “All soft and sweet one minute, and sneery and top lofty the next.”
He dropped the cane and reached up to take her burden and hang it. Turning, he pounced to seize her by the shoulders. “When did I sneer at you, Miss Consett?”
Her teeth flashed in a snarl of fury, and something sharp dug a
t his ribs.
Really angry now, he said, “Strike, then! But if you don’t kill me, you’ll have to nurse me again, so be sure you strike truly.”
She said in a choked voice, “I hate ye, I does! With yer—yer silly red hair, and yer evil eyes.”
“I’ve never treated you in an evil way. Be honest, and own it.”
“Green as grass, they is,” she evaded, blinking tears away. “And that’s bound to be evil. Certain-sure, you thinks evil thoughts. Always saying we prig—”
Relenting, he tilted her chin up. “Steal,” he corrected, smiling down at her. “And if I judge you, child, ’tis only because of what you’ve told me yourself.”
She wrenched away, and dabbed at her tears with her petticoat. “Always making me blubber. And I never cries! Never!”
“I’m sure you don’t, for you’re the bravest lady I ever met, and—”
“And there ye goes again! Don’t do it! Don’t!”
The eyes that turned up to him, pleaded. And he knew exactly what she meant, and that he must indeed leave here. While there was yet time. And yet, knowing that, after a breathless moment, he heard himself pleading in turn. “Can we not cry friends, at least? A truce, Amy? For just a little while?”
She swung her head away from his wistful gaze, and stared at the curtained doorway.
Glendenning tugged one thick plait gently. “You’ve had my given word, and I rate my honour high. Don’t fear me. You are as safe as though Absalom stood beside me. You have been so good, and I want to know more of you—both. I want to help.”
“Help?” She unwound his fingers from her plait and walked back into the kitchen. “How?”
Retrieving the cane, he hobbled after her. “You asked me to help with your grammar.”
“Oh. I thought you was going to offer yer gold, again.”
“I won’t. I promise. Now, tell me, if Absalom paints so magnificently, why do you live here in poverty? He must be a great master. He could be—”
“Transported,” she interposed, carrying several small boxes to the table.
“Why? You said— Then—he did steal the painting?”
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