Rondo Allegro

by Sherwood Smith

  o0o

  Anna and Henry did not see one another until late afternoon (it was already dark, something Anna still was unused to) when they met in their sitting room before readying for dinner.

  “Anna,” he said, head tilted slightly as he listened.

  “I am here, Lord Northcote.”

  He smiled, then attempted to mimic her accent. “Nort-cout. When you say it like that, almost I am resigned to a mantle I never wanted to put on. Will you say my given name?”

  She complied, careful with her pronunciation as always, but the result made him smile the wider. “Onn-ree. ‘Henri’ is a fine fellow, who has a flattering word for everyone, and does not miss his hammock. Does not even know what a hammock is!”

  Anna could not help laughing. “You would find many Frenchmen disagreeing.”

  Henry’s smile flattened, but he said quickly, “No, I can hear you taking breath to apologize for reminding me. Do not. I cannot see you, but I feel certain I can safely talk to you about what happened at Cape Trafalgar, for you were there. You will know a little of how I feel, how we all feel. The . . . the elation and the grief, sometimes felt in the same breath.”

  “Yes,” she said, remembering that breathed Emily, “I thought it was different for men.”

  He was sitting back in his chair, looking tired. “Many will insist that it is, but sometimes I wonder how very different our emotions are, underneath the trappings.” He flicked his cravat.

  Anna was distracted by the single lock of curly dark hair hanging over his bandaged eyes. Her fingers tingled; she wanted to brush it back. But she remembered what he said about waiting until his bandages came off.

  And in any case it was not the right moment. He said, “I have heard, as you no doubt did, strong men cry for their mothers while under the surgeon’s knife, whereas I have witnessed two women, the wives of a gunner’s mate and a bosun respectively, give birth under the worst of circumstances. One during a hurricano, and t’other a difficult breech birth, twins, while we were in the midst of a running battle with a French privateer, and nary a word did either of them say, beyond the necessary.” He grimaced slightly. “Perhaps this conversation is better saved until I can see you.”

  “I will talk to you anytime,” she said quickly, coming to his side. “About anything you wish.”

  “You are not offended at such subjects? I hear all about me that you are a very fine lady.”

  She gave a little laugh. “After the orlop? As for the fine lady, I do my best to play the role—” She cut herself off, appalled. That was coming far too close to the truth that she had promised not to reveal.

  Henry smiled, clearly with no thought of the theater. “You are probably more deedy at your role than I am at mine. But one thing that bolsters my confidence, I might not be able to strut about London like a Bond Street beau in the way my brother did, but already the tangle of family debt is considerably less.” He lifted a hand.

  “I wanted to talk to you about that,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “It is the rooms the servants are obliged to live in. Did you know they have no fire, none at all?”

  Henry could have retorted, Any more than we had on shipboard, but he was ashamed of the thought. “I did not,” he said. “I have never been up there. Is it bad, then?”

  “Mrs. Diggory did not take me up there. I would not have thought of it either had not Parrette told me. I have been up there since. Their rooms are no bigger than those little corners the lieutenants live in, but these people have to spend their entire lives there. I would like very much to amend that.”

  “Then we shall do so, come spring.” He smiled. “Take your time to plan it any way you wish. Commencing construction before winter begins would convince them my brains were permanently addled.”

  “Begins?” she repeated, horrified.

  Henry laughed ruefully. “I suppose it isn’t funny, but you have no notion of a proper winter, do you? Well, we shall wait a few months, but until then, content yourself with this: I expect that your Parrette, and the others, find ways to warmth or they would not have survived this long. And I can give orders to that effect, to make certain.”

  The door opened, and Perkins poked his head in. “It wants twenty minutes before the hour, my lord,” he said in a faintly accusing tone.

  “And Parrette will be awaiting me,” Anna murmured, crossing the room to the opposite door.

  “We will talk again, after the tea is drunk,” Henry said. “Shall we?”

  “I will look forward to it,” she said.

  And so it was. Dinner passed pleasantly. Afterward, though the dowager hurriedly suggested music, as if to ward off any unpleasant scenes, there was nothing to hurry for. Henry sat back and listened to his mother play, and Emily sing, with a polite smile. Tea was drunk, and the dowager asked her son if he had any wishes with respect to the holidays.

  “I have been gone so long that I am completely out of habit,” he said. “Make your plans. Accept what invitations you will on my behalf. You and my wife may arrange it between you. You have only to tell me when to put on my coat and hat, and I shall get myself down to the carriage at your hour.”

  Emily smiled composedly. Once he had loved her, and his anger over that house on Hallam Street convinced her that he still retained something of that passion.

  She had expected him to return to heel when she snapped her fingers, and had been disappointed of that, but on reflection she discovered that Henry was far more interesting now. He had gone out, traveled, fought, and learned to command. He possessed wealth that he had not squandered at the gambling tables, or on his own pleasures.

  To crown it all, he made no mention of his dreadful instrument. Nor did he display transports while listening. Another few such evenings, and she was confident that cards might be safely introduced, no, that would not suit, until Henry’s bandages came off. She might lead conversation, or find a fashionable book to read aloud, and so a gradual return to a civilized pastime.

  o0o

  The family retired in the best of tempers when they parted for the evening; Henry’s head ached, but that ache, it seemed, was his constant companion anymore. At least he was not as weak as he had been those initial, endless days: he had only had to withdraw once to lie quiet for a time.

  Henry was proud of all he’d managed to get done in spite of his weakness. When Anna entered their sitting room, he told her about his day: after his tour of the stables he had met with Pratt, the gardener, promising that all his hirelings were to be brought back.

  He had also, with Perkins’ help, begun to sort through the sheaf of bills flung into the escritoire.

  “It is as well I had London to prepare me,” he said grimly. “My brother had not paid his tailor in a year, and yet the week before he died he had sent to order another two dozen shirts. When would he have time to wear them all? I cannot say these things before my mother, of course, because John was her son, too, and though she never played favorites, bless her, she must feel his loss. Only a blackguard would speak publicly as I speak safely in private now. If I do not say anything, it festers like a bad wound, and as you never knew him, it cannot mean anything. Am I right? What do you say? I wish I could see you.”

  Anna sat down next to him. “I say that I agree it is better to speak. And you may speak freely to me, which cannot hurt those who knew this brother I never met. How does your head?”

  He sighed. “It is better than it was.” Hating himself for complaining, he said wryly, “At least until I sit down at that desk again, and Perkins reads me those bills. Stay. I had a thought.” Instinctively he turned toward her, though the damn bandage was ever-present. “Will you read ’em to me? I got in the habit of having Perkins read my mail to me, but he is slow and mispronounces anything that might be French. If I hear your accent, perhaps I will not be so irked at yet another creditor clamoring for his due for things that never ought to have been ordered.”

  “I should be happy to be of u
se,” Anna said sincerely.

  And so the rest of the week passed in this manner. Henry and Anna took up their station in the library, where she could be heard reading out bills and letters to him. He vanished to his room to lie down in the afternoons, when she would get her walk, if the weather permitted. She also continued Eleanor’s lessons, and learned to play pat-a-cake and peek-a-boo with baby Amelia, who seemingly never tired of these games.

  On Sunday, Henry was first seen at church, his bandage giving him an air of interest and even heroism, so everyone agreed afterward. And Mrs. Bradshaw gained a great deal of pleasure when the new Lord Northcote and his lady spent time talking of their Beverly, and his bravery in battle, to her and her family outside the church, where they could be seen by everyone in the parish.

  When it came time to leave, Harriet waited with bated breath to hear what Penelope would do. Indeed, the elder Miss Duncannon set about directing them exactly as before, as if she had come to the conclusion that a bandaged head meant wounded intellects.

  But upon hearing her telling Caro and Harriet where to sit, Henry said in a strong voice, “What is this? Seven in this confounded coach? Pen, where is your own carriage?”

  A pause, and Penelope said, “Your mother has most generously taken pity on two poor spinsters who cannot afford to be profligate—”

  “Nonsense,” Henry cut in, demonstrating that interrupting might very well be a family trait. “Not six days ago I sat in the solicitor’s office going over the quarterly expenses. You are very well to pass, very well indeed. You could afford a coach and six.”

  “But . . . Sunday . . . there is nothing to be found,” Penelope began in a grating, accusatory tone. “How are we to get home?”

  Henry made a curious wry grimace. “Then John-Coachman will be put to the trouble of having to go back for you, to carry you to Whitstead. I trust by next week you will have arranged your affairs better.” He touched his hat. “Good day to you.” He bowed slightly in Penelope’s direction and climbed into the carriage, leaving her standing beside it, stiff with fury.

  No one said anything until the door was shut. The dowager gazed at her son, a little frightened, but not unpleased: she had been bullied by Penelope since her marriage, and until now, no one had thought to say anything at all to the deceased baron’s eldest daughter.

  Harriet exclaimed, “Poor Caro! She will have to bear the worst of Penelope’s tongue. Especially if they sit down to no dinner.”

  “Why would they not have a cold dinner, like everyone else? Has that changed while I was at sea?” Henry asked, his lips thinning as the carriage began to roll and sway.

  “They were used to come with us,” the dowager said. “If John-Coachman carries them back to Whitstead, they will have no way to come to church again, and I am very sure Penelope will not have ordered a cold dinner.”

  “Penelope and Caro come to the Manor of a Sunday? What start is this?” Henry asked.

  “After John’s fall,” Harriet said. “Penelope would come, and Mama did not like to say anything.”

  Henry considered that, turned his head slightly toward Anna, who he knew by her scent was seated at his right, and murmured in French, “I did not think my brother would have put up with that. The only thing he and Penelope shared besides a father was a cordial hatred for one another.” And, “Do you wish for her to be invited to the Manor?”

  The only person there who did not follow the quick words was Harriet, who had ever been impatient of lessons; why learn French when that nation seemed destined to be at war with everyone forever?

  Emily, who did comprehend, also understood that he meant it to be a private conversation.

  “I feel for Miss Caro Duncannon,” Anna finally said.

  Henry turned his head. “Is that why you suffered their presence of a Sunday, Mother?”

  “It is Sunday, and Penelope was so certain it was correct, given mourning,” the dowager said nervously.

  Emily waited—and Henry said, “Emily?”

  It was the first time he had spoken to her since the night of his arrival. She said composedly, “At first I tried to remonstrate with her, for she upset your mother so, but she informed me that she had grown up in that house and had more right to it than I did, unless my child was a son.” She spoke in her sweetest, most peace-making tone, and waited for his response.

  But there was none. The last little distance was traversed in silence. After the ladies climbed out, skirts held well up over the pooling water, Henry said, “John-Coachman!”

  “My lord.”

  “Pray return to the church for the Miss Duncannons, and carry them to Whitstead.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Thank you. Anna, your arm?”

  He felt the press of her fingers, and pulled her arm against him so they could match pace. He waited until he heard the others’ footsteps diminish toward the house. Behind, the noise of the carriage going back up the drive also diminished, and he said in a low voice, “I do feel sorry for my half-sister, but Caro is a grown woman. She made her choice to stay single, it seems.”

  “To stay single?” she repeated, understanding some things. “Are you certain it was not decided for her?”

  Henry frowned in the direction of the house, breathing deeply in the frosty air. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Your sister told me a very little, but also there is what I have witnessed. Every Sunday I have observed her talking to Dr. Blythe. I know she does work for charity, but the way he looks after her when Miss Duncannon summons her away . . .” Anna halted herself. “I think . . . perhaps I ought not to speak of persons I know so little,” she finished contritely.

  “Speak anything you like. I cannot see. The devil fly away with this bandage! You have no notion how abominable it is, this not seeing. My hands are going numb. I need better gloves. Are you cold? Let us go inside.” They began walking again, Anna matching his pace, Henry mindfully taking shorter steps. They fell into rhythm. Presently he murmured, “So that did not pass off.”

  “Pass off?”

  Henry twitched as he instinctively began to look about him, then uttered a sharp sigh. “Let us go into the book room,” he said as he fought to curb his impatience. “Where we may speak in peace.”

  Anna nearly laughed, thinking that he could speak in peace anywhere he wished in that enormous house, but she understood. He would conduct this conversation in privacy, and without unduly disturbing the rest of the family.

  So she thanked Thomas Akers, the second footman, who closed the door behind them and carefully helped Henry out of his greatcoat. Thomas departed with coat and hat, and Anna and Henry moved to the library, which had not been lit. Anna could not see very well in the dim room, but she pulled her shawl closer around her and sat in one of the vast wingchairs.

  Henry leaned back. “Where was I? My sister Caro. I was a boy when all this happened. If you know aught of boys, you can imagine how little interest I took in the matter, save I was fond of Caro, who unlike Pen was kind to us as children. And I always held Blythe in great respect.”

  “He seems a good man,” Anna said.

  “He is. He’s no sanctimonious piffler. I’ve met ’em. One of my Dangeau cousins, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, but he’s the worst gambler I’ve met with, and a skirt-chaser as well. I wonder what his sermons are like? But he wouldn’t write ’em. He undoubtedly either buys them or gets them from our mutual great-uncle, the bishop. But I digress. Blythe came to Barford Magna directly he took his degree. I believe his father is a knight. There is nothing amiss with his birth, but coming from an enormous family, he has little private means. No more than fifty pounds a year, if I recollect.”

  Anna had only begun to understand English money, but she thought that one could live very well on fifty pounds a year, if one were careful.

  Almost as if he heard her thought, Henry said, “Leastways, you cannot raise a family on it and maintain your position. More to the point, my father believed that
he couldn’t, even with the tithe share.”

  “Tithe share,” Anna repeated. “I do not understand.”

  “Dr. Blythe is a rector, no mere clergyman. The tithe comes directly to the rector. But that was not good enough for my father, and I do recollect his towering rages over the matter, which were matched and raised by Pen’s wrath at the disgraceful prospect of a younger daughter being married before the elder. She would never be able to hold up her head again, Caro would be forever put down as fast and on the scramble, the entire family would be positively steeped in scandal. I don’t know how true it is, as I never expected to have to—”

  He paused, put his head back, then his voice changed. “One thing I can say for certain is that the only thing my father hated worse than poverty was scandal. Blythe’s request for her hand was turned down, and that was the end of it. I had assumed that twenty years must have changed things, but if he’s been faithful all these years . . .”

  Again his voice had changed. He struck his hands to his knees. “Well, at all events I had planned to call on him in the next week or so.” He was aware that his courtship had been abysmally lacking so far, and in a softened tone he asked, “Should you care to go with me?”

  “I would, thank you.”

  “Good. You can drive me, which will free up—no, you said you do not drive, did I hear right? Would you care to learn? You might enjoy tooling about, once you have become more familiar with the place.”

  “I would, oh, very much.”

  “I will speak to Noll. He’s a bit slow. You have to have patience with him. Something happened when he was small, and he was nearly despaired of, until the Cassidys took him in. This was before John-Coachman’s wife died. They raised Noll with their son, who is second mate on an Indiaman, and doing very well for himself. I used to see him now and again when we and the India fleet met in ports. At any rate, Noll’s very good with horses, and you may trust him completely.”

  “Thank you,” Anna said, both charmed and apprehensive at the idea of taking the reins herself.

  Then he said, “I mean to put in every effort to get affairs settled before this pox-cursed bandage comes off my head, that when I can see again, I may put to sea with the comfort of knowing my duty here was done.”