Had We Never Loved

by Patricia Veryan

  “No, he did not! That picture is a original. ’Cept”—the dimple flickered—“it’s a copied original.”

  “Absalom copies great masterpieces?”

  She nodded. “He don’t like to, ’cause it’s chancy and takes him a awful long time, but—sometimes … Like, if he gets took ill, or I do. Or if his teeth gives him pepper—his teeth can’t abide him, he says—well, then, there ain’t much choice.”

  “But the man has enormous talent. Why run the risk of arrest and imprisonment? Why not paint his own pictures?”

  She crossed to the shelves and came back carrying the long curving piece of wood she had been working over when he’d first arrived. He moved quickly to pull out the stool for her, and she gave him a faintly wondering look as she sat down.

  “Who’d buy em? A picture painted by an unknown gypsy? Cor! You are green, yer viscountship! Poor Uncle Ab would be lucky to get sixpence fer it. And paint’s dear. When, a’ course,” she added sardonically, “we don’t prig it.”

  “Now be a good girl, Miss Consett, or I won’t tell you that you should say ‘of’ course, not ‘a’ course. And you must forget that ‘cor,’ ‘prig,’ or ‘ain’t’ ever sullied your ladylike ears.”

  She pulled back a glossy plait and asked eagerly, “Is they ladylike, melor’?”

  He ran the tip of one finger lightly around the delicate curve of the ear thus revealed, and murmured, “They are perfection.”

  Amy shivered.

  Recovering himself, he said briskly, “Er, yes! Now tell me, who does buy Absalom’s copies? Is he well paid?”

  “He once got a guinea,” she said, turning her attention to the piece of wood. “But I don’t know who bought that one. It was of a man wearing a funny-looking helmet. Not a pretty picture, like the one in the bedroom. I wanted that one so much, Uncle Ab give—gave it to me for Christmas last year.”

  “The man with the funny-looking helmet,” he probed. “It wouldn’t—it couldn’t have been a golden helmet by any chance?”

  “Yes, matter o’ fact.” She rummaged in one of the boxes.

  “Jupiter!” he said under his breath. “One trusts Mr. Rembrandt don’t put a curse on him!”

  “What did you say?”

  “Oh, nothing of importance. What are you about now?”

  She sat straighter, so that he could see her work. It was the top bar of a chairback, beautifully carven, and inset with gold leaf, enamel, and stones, to form an intricate design. “They wanted a extra chair,” she explained, selecting a piece of mother-of-pearl from one of her little boxes. “So Ab built it, and I’m making the top to match with the rest. It’s about done.”

  “Why, how clever you are! Are you given much of this type of work?”

  “No. But sometimes I fixes the lids for dressing cases—things like that. Depends what Uncle Ab can find fer me. He goes to a lot of shops what sells—that sells to the nobs. This don’t pay much, but”—she twinkled up at him—“every little helps, eh?”

  “Yes. Absalom taught you, I collect?”

  “Mmm. He does the carving. Like that there cane. You should see some of the things he makes. A jeweller told him he’s got the hands fer it.” She placed the mother-of-pearl fragment into one spot, then tried another.

  Watching interestedly, Glendenning said, “He seems to have taken good care of you, I’ll own. But—this isn’t much of a home for you.”

  “I’m safe,” she said, bristling at once. “He’s kept me safe from the chals. You shoulda seen that, last night!”

  “They weren’t chals,” he argued. “They were Londoners. They said something about having been employed by a squire.” He eyed her narrowly. “Is there any reason why a country squire would seek you?”

  Her head flung up and her eyes glittered. “Why not? Absalom broke into the squire’s mansion and stole his butler, and sold the poor cove to the king of Lilliput. And the silly arse of a squire ain’t been able to open his front door since, so—”

  Glendenning’s shout of laughter interrupted her.

  “Oh, Amy! What a delightful puzzle you are! But how ever are you to become a lady if you use such terms?”

  “I might surprise ye,” she said, twinkling at him.

  “You constantly surprise me. How did you contrive to read Gulliver?”

  “A fine lady in a carriage throwed it at her husband and it—” She hesitated, then said carefully, “Came—through the window. So I picked it up and run.”

  “Ran, Mistress Consett.”

  She sighed. “I can’t get ’em right all the time.”

  “You’ve a quick ear. You’ll do splendidly, I don’t doubt.”

  Brightening, she said, “That’s what Uncle Ab says. ’Sides, he heard a duchess talking once, and she swore something dreadful, so I’m going the right direction, ain’t—isn’t I?”

  He smiled. “Perhaps. But I’d rather hear you speak like a gentlewoman, m’dear.”

  “Oh. All right. I’ll try. Still,” she appended, beaming up at him, “how many gentlewomen ever made ye laugh like that?”

  It was a home question.

  * * *

  The Countess of Bowers-Malden held the calling card at arms’ length and said without warmth, “You are on the staff of General Underhill, Mr. Farrier?”

  Standing before her chair in the richly appointed red saloon at Glendenning Abbey, Burton Farrier bowed.

  She viewed his sober grey habit disparagingly. “Yet you do not wear uniform.”

  He bowed again, and the countess’ thought that she did not care for his persistent smile was strengthened.

  “There are some matters, ma’am,” he said with an apologetic gesture. “Matters of a … sensitive nature, one might say, that are better handled in civilian dress.”

  She observed coldly, “You mean you are a spy.”

  Up went both white hands in horror. “I’faith, no, my lady! Nothing so vulgar.”

  “What do you want with my son?”

  “I came on a matter which need not disturb a lady. ’Tis why I had asked to see Mr. Templeby.”

  “Mr. Templeby is in London.”

  “Ah. And Lord Bowers-Malden, I am told, is in Ireland. Perhaps—Lord Glendenning?”

  Lady Nola wondered if that smile might be amputated. She said, “The viscount visits friends.”

  “In company with his brother, perchance?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Nor do I see how Lord Horatio’s whereabouts need concern you, Mr. Farrier.”

  Another bow. A faintly wounded air. “If I am concerned, dear ma’am, ’tis only that because of the apparently dire emergencies that have called your husband and sons from your side, I am forced to—”

  “I do not recollect,” she interrupted glacially, “that I described the absences of my menfolk as being due to ‘dire emergencies.’”

  “Oh, dear me. How I offend. I humbly apologize. It just seemed odd, you know. That all your gentlemen would leave you, my lady. But then, perhaps I am overly protective where the fair sex is concerned.”

  Her sense of danger was strong. She said, “I have little time to spare, Mr. Farrier. You will do better to overcome your protective impulses and say whatever it is you have come to say. Pray be seated.”

  He thanked her, and sat watching her, his smile positively benign. “It is, my lady,” he said in his soft voice, “in the matter of a jewel thief. A very clever fellow who conspires with a servant in some fine house, removes a piece of great value, copies it, and returns the copy in place of the original.”

  “Indeed? We have had nothing stolen, sir. But I thank you for the warning.”

  “Ah, but ma’am, how would you know? This, you see, is why I am sent to you. I am expert, and can detect a copy in an instant. The general was most anxious that your valuables be verified as authentic, for you have some pieces he holds in high esteem.”

  “I suppose that might explain why a general in His Majesty’s service would feel called upon to investigate the activiti
es of a common thief.”

  Farrier laughed softly, and clapped his white hands. “Ah, but you are too clever for me, my lady. Rumour hath spread its wings, I see. How astonishing that word of the list should have reached you so swiftly!” He leaned forward. “But you have nothing to fear, ma’am. So loyal a family as the Laindons are not suspect, I do assure you.”

  Lady Nola experienced the sensation that a cold wind had breathed upon her. ‘Tio!’ she thought. ‘This horrid creature is come after Tio!’ Trying to sound calm, and dreading lest she had turned pale, she said, “List? What kind of list, sir? And how does it concern us?”

  “It does not, my lady! Of that there can be no doubt. But I will explain, in the fervent hope that you will not be too provoked with me for having twisted truth’s tail, as they say. ’Twas required of me in the course of duty, and from no wish of mine own.” He looked at her soulfully, and receiving no response save for her steady stare, went on: “There has come to light, madam, a list, drawn up by the traitor Charles Stuart.”

  The countess felt quite breathless, but she managed to keep her gaze fixed unwaveringly upon this serpent and his grin.

  “You will have heard, I feel sure,” Farrier continued, “of the treasure that was donated by the Jacobites to finance their treacherous cause?”

  “I heard,” she acknowledged, “that much was given by ill-advised supporters, but was received too late to be of help to the prince. And that nothing is known of what became of it.”

  “Very true. Egad, but I cannot fail to admire so well-informed a lady! At all events, there was a list made of everything the Jacobites received. Each donation was given a number and, on a separate sheet, another list contained the names of all those who contributed. Beside each name were noted the numbers of the appropriate items on the first list, so that after the war, restitution could be made. Ah, I see you are shocked, ma’am.”

  “Indeed, I am,” she said, struggling to command her voice, and wondering if the name of her beloved but exasperating stepson was on that accursed list. “I am shocked to think that loyal Englishmen would indulge such folly!”

  “The point exactly, ma’am. They are not loyal! But they are about to be unmasked, for—the list is in our hands now!”

  The room seemed to swim before her eyes. She said, “Then you can arrest them all.”

  The lady had become very white, noting which Mr. Farrier looked down to hide the triumph in his eyes. Spreading his hands, he sighed, “Would that we could. Alas, we have only the first list, which describes the articles contributed. The names—ah, if we had that!”

  “You will pardon my obtuse brain,” said the countess, able to breathe once more. “But I fail to see what all this has to do with the activities of a thief.”

  “Ah, well, that was my little subterfuge, ma’am. One does not wish to distress ladies unnecessarily. And I am sure that in your case it would be unnecessarily.”

  A terrible premonition began to hover at the edges of Lady Nola’s mind. She said, “Do you say, Mr. Farrier, that you believe this family has donated articles to the cause of Charles Stuart?”

  He sprang to his feet, and with a hand over his heart said, “Heaven forfend, ma’am! The very thought that the threat of imprisonment; the confiscation of all the earl’s properties; the horrors of questioning and execution for High Treason! That such terror might come upon so splendid a family!” He took out a lace-trimmed handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Faith! It quite unmans me!”

  “Mr. Farrier,” said the countess, rising and looking down on him from her commanding height, “you weary me. I take it that you wish to ensure that certain valuables are still in our possession and have not passed into the hands of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Shall you require a complete inventory? Or have you a specific area of interest? Deeds of Trust? Livestock? Silver? Strong box? Antiques?”

  Again, he looked grieved. “You are vexed. How should I blame you? I am desolate to so offend. But—the general, ma’am. I have no choice, alas, and must do as I am bid. Forgive, but—if I might just be allowed to see your jewellery?”

  With regal steps despite her trembling knees, the countess walked to the door.

  Farrier leapt to open it and bow her out. As he accompanied her along the hall, she asked, “May I know if there is any particular piece that interests the general?”

  He said apologetically, “You will laugh, ma’am. You will snap your pretty fingers in my stupid face. But—you own, I believe, a very ancient plaid pin?”

  CHAPTER VII

  Glendenning reached for the cane, then stood staring down at it and turning it slowly in his hands. His head seldom troubled him now, and his ankle was sufficiently healed for him to dispense with the cane. It was eleven days since he’d come crashing into Amy’s life, and he acknowledged guiltily, that he should have gone home before this.

  He doubted that Lady Nola would be worrying, for it was not uncommon for several months to elapse between his visits to the abbey. But quite often Michael would appear at his flat, or they’d run into each other somewhere about the Metropolis. And Samuels, his head groom, who doubled as his man when he was in Town, was a regular mother hen since he’d been shot down while carrying that Jacobite cypher. Remembering, Glendenning’s grip on the cane tightened involuntarily. That had been damned close. Except for Dimity, he’d not be alive today. Dimity—who was now Lady Anthony Farrar … He closed her out of his mind hurriedly. And then there was Falcon, who would be beside himself, for the date they’d set for his duel with Morris had come and gone!

  Sighing, he propped the cane against the wooden crates and limped into the kitchen. These past three days had been an oasis of peace in his rather hectic life. He had begun to help Amy with her tasks, as well as to correct her grammar. She responded eagerly to his instruction and was quick to learn not only the correct usage, but also the cultured accent. Each sentence correctly spoken became a small triumph for her, and her delight when he praised her was touching.

  He had insisted upon accompanying her when she drove the donkey cart into Epsom to deliver her completed chair-back. Afterwards, they’d gone shopping, and he’d been angered to note how the eyes of the men followed her. She had been radiant that day, and had danced for joy in her spontaneous way when he’d bought her a bright silken scarf and blue ribands for her hair. Small things, he thought rather sadly, to have thrown her into such transports.

  Always, she was full of questions about London life and fashions, and the Court. He’d done his best to gratify her curiosity, often coming to grief when attempting to describe the gowns and coiffures of the ladies, so that she would dissolve into peals of laughter and tell him he was a great silly, who wouldn’t know warp from weft—whatever that might mean. In the evenings, he chatted with her lazily, watching her quick light movements as she bustled about at her cooking, or tidied the rooms, or worked at some task for Absalom. Sometimes, while listening to the quaint songs she sang, he would meet her eyes across the room, and smile at her. At first, she’d returned his smile cheerfully, but of late he noticed that the thick curtain of her lashes would sweep down, and she would avoid his eyes. She seemed also to revert to her coarse ways of speech and for no apparent reason would take him in strong aversion. Suspecting that she was tired of the extra work he caused, he’d tried to be of more help, but his efforts seemed to exacerbate her ill humour, and she would tell him ungraciously to sit down and stop getting underfoot. Fortunately, she soon got over these odd fits, and would be as bright and light-hearted as ever, drawing his attention to the shape of a cloud, or the wonder of a blooming weed, or the patient crawl of a caterpillar, so that he marvelled at her ability to find beauty in the most commonplace things, and envied her passionate zest for life.

  So had the golden days drifted past, and for the first time in a very long while, he’d been content. ‘When Absalom comes back,’ he’d told his niggling conscience. ‘When Absalom comes back, I’ll go.’ But Absalom had not come back. Several times he
made up his mind that the farewells must be said, but then he would recollect the expression in the eyes of men who had ogled her in Epsom, until his fierce glare had sent them off. And he thought of the louts who had tried to make him lead them to her, and of the chals who lusted after her. Wherefore, increasingly aware of her vibrant beauty, he was afraid to leave her alone in the ruined house in the deep woods.

  She was singing now. A rather plaintive song today. Her voice was exceptional only because of the feeling she imparted to the words, and the pathos of this particular melody disturbed him, so that he went outside to find her. She had set up a small table in the little clearing at the top of the steps, and was busily arranging battered knives and forks and positioning the cracked and ill-assorted plates with as much care as any superior butler might do.

  As if she sensed his presence, she stopped singing and turned around. The new scarf was draped across her shoulders, the blue ribands were wound among the plaits that were arranged into thick coils beside each ear, and her eyes were bright and happy. “Surprise!” she called. “We’re going to have breakfast out here, Tio.” She spread her arms, as if to embrace the sun-splashed trees and the blue sky. “Oh, ain’t—isn’t it a glorious day? Look! Look! There’s old Bill!” She tugged at his hand, pulling him to the edge of the trees and pointing to where a rook perched on a limb, his black garb shining in the sunlight. After a brief glance at the bird, Glendenning looked down at her again, and thought smilingly that she seemed as the spirit of this bright morning, all purity and youthful exuberance.

  “Watch,” she commanded. “And stand very still, mind.” She whistled a lilting little rill, and the rook tilted its head, then sang the same rill. Amy threw the viscount a sparkling glance and went to break a piece off the loaf and toss it in the air. With a whirr of wings the bird zoomed down, caught the bread before it struck the ground, and zoomed away again.

  “There!” exclaimed Amy proudly. “I taught him how to sing for his share. Ain’t he the clever one?”

  “Yes,” he agreed, not wishing to spoil the moment by correcting her lapse. “And lucky to have such a lovely lady teach him how to beg.”