Ask Me No Questions (19 page)

"Why, how very good of you." Sitting up and lowering her feet to the ground she reached out for the basket.

Her hand, the left one, was caught in a grip of iron and wrenched upward. Chandler's head bowed above it. For a heart-stopping minute she thought he was going to kiss her fingers. Then, he all but flung her hand down.

"So it
is
Mrs.," he snarled. "Another deception, eh, ma'am?"

She felt cold with fear and, standing to face him, demanded feebly, "Whatever do you mean by that?"

"You know perfectly well! You deceived my father into thinking you a male when first you applied for this position. Now, 'twould appear you also lied about being unmarried." He gestured impatiently as she attempted to speak. "No, never deny it. The mark of your ring is plain enough, though I fancy you tried to conceal it with powder and paint. Why, madam? Was your husband of so lurid a reputation that—"

"How dare you imply such a thing?" she said hotly. "He was—" She broke off abruptly. Tears stung her eyes. Turning away, she said low voiced, "Well, you may be proud, sir. You trapped me into—"

"Into the truth for once?" He seized her shoulders and wrenched her around. "I'll have the rest, if you please. What is it? Some scheme to discredit my father?"

"Good heavens! Why ever would I wish to do so? Let me go at once."

He released her, but because he was so deeply disappointed said harshly, "I think such a thing because from the start I misliked this arrangement. Clearly, you are an adventuress, and… and—" The expression on her flushed face cut off his angry words.

"Oh, never stop, sir," said Ruth fiercely. "First I was a wanton. Now I am become an adventuress. What next will you name me? Thief? Murderess?"

"Do not take such a high and mighty tone with me, madam. I have found you out, and you'd as well admit what you hoped to gain by all your lies."

"Why—Lac Brillant, of course! Had you any doubt? Good God, but you've an evil mind! Is that why you and your friend creep about after dark, watching the cottage?"

"The devil! I do no such—"

"In truth, you make a poor spy, sir! An you want to slither through the woods unobserved like some—some night crawler—"

"Night crawler?"

"—you had best learn not to whistle while you are about it."

"What a'plague are you babbling at?" He caught her wrist. "And where are you going?"

'To find Sir Brian." She tried unsuccessfully to free herself.

"You will do no such thing! Sit down!"

He stepped closer. Of necessity, Ruth drew back and all but tumbled onto the chaise. Behind Chandler then, she saw Thorpe and Jacob standing as if frozen, rage on their small faces. Desperate, she wailed, "Oh! You have hurt me! Look at my poor wrist!"

Chandler released her as though he held a hot coal, and looked down at her hand. Ruth directed a taut glare at the twins, and jerked her head to the cottage, and they ran inside.

"My apologies." Chandler sat on the end of the chaise. "But now I want the truth, if you please."

The truth… Dear God! How much of it dare she give him? She gripped her hands tightly. "I am very sure," she began, her mind racing, "that
you
can have no conception of what it means to be utterly desperate. To face the possibility of being thrown into Newgate, or—"

"My God, what dramatics! What crimes should lead you to Newgate, Mrs. Allington?"

"Debt," she said quietly. "I explained my circumstances to Sir Brian."

"You explained
some
of your circumstances to him. I thought it unfortunate that your father saddled himself with a mountain of debt. But your husband must have been a regular slowtop to allow himself to also be pauperized by it."

Seething, Ruth said, "My husband died
before
Papa's— difficulties."

"I see. So 'twas
your
decision to compound folly by throwing good money after bad."

"Oooh!" She sprang to her feet, glaring at him. "Have you
no
compassion? No understanding at all? How could I watch and do nothing to help?"

Standing also, Chandler said scornfully, " 'Twould appear, madam, that you make a habit of helping lame dogs over stiles. Continue on that road and you will most assuredly land in Newgate. Or—worse."

"
Lame… dogs
?" Ruth crouched slightly, her hands clenching. "Is that how you thought of
your
brother, when you aided him to escape execution? Is that how you think of
your
father, now that—"

"Different matters entirely," he interrupted hurriedly. And because she looked so furious, he lied, "Allow me to warn you,
Mrs
. Allington, that I know how to deal with females who so far forget themselves as to resort to violence."

"I can well believe you've had experience with such women!" She inspected her wrist and added in a forlorn way, "I suppose that explains why you think it justifiable to treat a lady with brutality, when she attempts to defend herself."

Red to the roots of his hair, Chandler all but cringed, and mumbled that he had certainly not intended to hurt her. To his great relief, she sighed and sat down again. He remained standing, and resumed the attack, but with considerably less force. "The fact remains that none of what you have seen fit to divulge explains why you failed to admit at the beginning that you are a widow."

'
Admit
!' she thought, but she felt drained now and without hope, and answered wearily, "I was desperate to find a situation. When a friend told me of this opportunity, it sounded like the answer to a dream, but—I have heard men say that widows are—are predatory, or of easy virtue. It appeared safer not to mention my marriage."

"Safer, indeed! A charming parcel of rogues you think us!"

"No, but—" Looking up at him pleadingly, she said, " Twas very obvious you thought me to be setting my cap for your papa. Had you known I was a widow,
would
you have hired me?"

He thought, 'By God, but I would not!' But to admit that would strengthen her position, so he counter-attacked. "Instead of seeking employment that must only be demeaning to a lady, one might suppose you would instead have turned to the major for help."

Puzzled, Ruth almost asked, "Major who?" and in the nick of time remembered her gallant "fiance."

"W-well, I have, of course," she gabbled. "But letters to India take months and it will be the better part of a year before I can expect a reply from him."

That was true, but she seemed inordinately flustered. He said, "I fancy that Major—I have not his name, ma'am."

Her chin lifted in the proud defiance he could not help but admire. "Leonard has sufficient difficulties to overcome without being distracted by a letter from you informing him of my—'demeaning' situation."

A letter was not quite what he'd had in mind, although he intended to make enquiries. He said loftily, "You credit me with more interest in your affairs than I possess."

"Yet you declared that you were anxious for my future."

He had said that. In a moment of weakness. Irritated with himself, but more irritated with her, he muttered, "I suppose I am as capable of nonsense as the next man." He snatched up his basket which, at some time during their quarrel, he had allowed to fall onto the grass, and began to stride off. Pausing, he turned back and in his gruffest voice demanded, "Do you want your fish?"

A sudden bubble of mirth lightened Ruth's heavy heart. She said meekly, "Yes, if you please."

He stamped back and thrust the basket at her, glowering.

"Oh, how lovely! You
did
bring me two!"

"I brought you three!" Peering into the basket, he muttered, "The devil! There
were
three! I'll swear I've not dropped any…" He began to look about the lawn, but there was no sign of the missing trout.

With a tentative smile, Ruth asked, "Did one get away, Mr. Gordon?"

"No. Two." Bemused, he shook his head, and her thanks came to him as from a distance.

Walking back to the main house, his mind fairly whirled and he checked at one point to feel his brow. There was nothing to indicate a fever, but between bounding perch, deceitful widows, and disappearing trout, a man could not fail to wonder if his intellect was becoming disordered.

From the upstairs window Jacob and Thorpe watched the retreat.

"He's worse'n I thought," said Thorpe.

Jacob nodded. "He knocked Aunty Ruth down. Only a Evil Villin would knock a lady down."

"We'll have to punish him again."

"Mmn." Jacob looked worried. "I don't 'spect he'll let us stay now."

"We can't anyway. He hurt Aunty Ruth. I heard her say so."

" 'Course," said Jacob doubtfully, "he
did
let her have the fish."

Thorpe chortled, "What was left."

"And Being got one of
them
!"

Coming in at the kitchen door, Grace glanced to the ceiling and said fondly, "Oh, they're back, thank goodness! Listen to the dear children. How good it is to hear them laugh so!"

Next morning Ruth walked to the chapel through a heavy ground mist that swirled about her and imparted a ghostliness to the trees looming on the hillside. The air was chill, but she was more chilled by her dread of facing Sir Brian, and of the reception he might accord her. Heavy-hearted, she realized that if Mr. Gordon's revelation of her duplicity (as much of it as he knew) resulted in her dismissal, she would grieve for more than the loss of her livelihood.

Quite a number of worshippers were attending services. Several people had paused to greet one another on the steps of the old building, some were probably from the villages and farms, but most were of the estate staff. Mr. Swinton, looking uncomfortable in his Sunday finery and wearing a wig that rendered him almost unrecognizable, touched his brow respectfully to Ruth and glanced about with a faintly disappointed air. Clearly, he'd hoped Grace would be here. It would be so nice if her faithful companion could indeed have come, but that was out of the question. The twins had been repentant but evasive when confronted with their disobedience in having gone outside in broad daylight yesterday. Ruth had demanded their word of honour never to do so again without permission, and they'd crossed their hearts solemnly, but Jacob had added, "Not 'less it's a 'mergency." And Thorpe, with an equally solemn nod, had agreed, "Not 'less that. There might be a accident." Jacob had contributed the possibility of a fire. Acknowledging the logic of such caveats, Ruth was plagued by the sense that they were up to something, and had warned Grace to keep a close eye on them.

As she went into the chapel she was offered some shy smiles and murmured "Good mornings." Mrs. Tate was playing the organ, one of the footmen, looking very drab minus his livery, pumping for her. Mr. Swinton guided Ruth to a pew, and when she rose from her knees and looked about she saw that Sir Brian and his son were already in the family pew at the front. They turned now and then to exchange murmured remarks with two fashionably attired couples seated behind them. Neighbours, perhaps.

There was an aura of serenity about the ancient little chapel, and the voices of the six rosy cheeked choirboys were so pure as to cause gooseflesh to break out on her skin. The service was charming, until the sermon commenced. The Reverend Mr. Aymer was preaching from the book of Leviticus, and had taken for his text "Do not deceive one another." He seemed to look straight at Ruth when he read this, and his subsequent exhortations were so pointed and so condemning that she felt scourged by guilt. She thought he would never stop his denunciation of "the deceitful among us" and, sure that other eyes were boring into her back, she was enormously relieved when the service came to an end.

Sir Brian and his party led the exodus. Mr. Aymer stood at the open door, looking ethereally handsome in his white surplice. He pressed Ruth's hand gently, saying that he trusted she had found his message uplifting, even as his sad smile told her he considered her a lost soul. She responded that she could not see how anyone could fail to be uplifted and, hurrying past, heard a low chuckle.

Gordon Chandler was beside her, unexpectedly dashing in a dull red coat that fit his broad shoulders to admiration, and with his eyes full of laughter. "Very proper sentiments, ma'am," he murmured.

She answered as softly, "I suppose
you
gave Mr. Aymer his topic."

"But, of course." He offered his arm. "Now, an you will step this way, our guests would have you speak to them about the work of restoration."

He led her to where Sir Brian and his friends were gathered about the fresco. Ruth whispered, "Have you told him about me?"

"Not yet. I must await the most—ah, advantageous moment."

She was not quite sure whether that indicated his usual concern for his sire, or whether he was trying to protect her. 'Twould be rather nice, she thought, if the latter was his object.

Sir Brian's guests were a stout and fiftyish Mr. and Mrs. Derby, and a younger and most elegant Sir Marvin Hadlett and his lady. They all were obviously curious that a female would be commissioned to undertake such work, their manner kind but slightly condescending. Ruth managed to answer their questions about the fresco and her methods, and politely evaded enquiries concerning her own background. She was grateful when Chandler intervened once or twice to ease a difficult moment, and more grateful when she was able at last to escape.

It was past one o'clock when she went outside. The mists had burned away, the air was warm, the sun bright, and Mr. Swinton was waiting. He walked beside her, offering awkwardly to escort her home. "There being no objection, ma'am."

She was amused by the prospect of being escorted on a journey of something over a hundred yards through charming and civilized grounds, but she restrained a smile and thanked the head gardener for his kindness. "When we reach the cottage," she said, "you must take a chair in the garden, and Miss Milford shall carry tea out to you."

He beamed, his blue eyes lighting up with delight. Unfortunately, that was a short-lived emotion. In a shady spot on the lawn, Enoch Tummet, neat if not elegant, was seated on one of the rustic chairs while Grace Milford poured him a glass of lemonade.