Bar Sinister (22 page)

With an effort, Emily infused coldness into her voice. "May one ask why, ma'am?"

The duchess flashed a mischievous smile, very much like Amy's. "I thought you might
show me the door if you was warned."

Aware she had been read like a book, Emily said nothing.

Lady Sarah bit her lip.
"Maman--"

"Hush, my dear. It is one of the few prerogatives of age to speak bluntly. I wish to meet
my grandchildren, Mrs. Foster."

Emily regarded the duchess steadily. "I daresay I cannot refuse you, ma'am."

"But you would if you could," the duchess finished on a wry note reminiscent of her
son.

Emily said quietly, "I would ask their father's permission. If I could."

"And you don't think it would be forthcoming."

Emily's initial anger renewed itself. "I don't know, your grace. I'm not Colonel Falk's
confidante.
We deal comfortably enough, but he is a reserved man."

"And protective of his children." The duchess made a rueful
moue.
"As I have
reason to know."

Recalling the humiliation the dowager had undergone, the admission of her folly before
witnesses, Emily blushed.

"Do I offend your sensibilities, Mrs. Foster?" The duchess was amused.

"My sensibilities are less to the point than your son's, ma'am. He does not trust you, or
any member of your family."

"Emily!" Lady Sarah was shocked.

The duchess's amusement faded. "That is blunt indeed."

Emily kept her voice cool. "Forgive me. You've placed me in an awkward
position."

The duchess gave a decisive nod. "Yes, I see that. You are a young woman of
character."

"You flatter, ma'am. In the circumstances, you surely don't expect me to toad-eat you,
nor do I understand why you are suddenly overcome with a yearning to see two children whose
existence you didn't trouble to find out for yourself."

"That is precisely the reason." The duchess was still gentle-voiced, but bright spots of
colour burnt on her high cheekbones. "I was curious. Vulgarly curious."

Emily gritted her teeth.

"You disapprove me, I think."

"It's not my place to censure your conduct, your grace, but I'd dislike it very much if you
were to confuse Amy and Tommy."

"Confuse?" The duchess's brows shot up.

Emily groped for the right words. "You cannot mean to acknowledge them, and they're
bound to wonder why a duchess should find them interesting."

"Why should I not acknowledge them?"

Lady Sarah stared at her mother.

After a pause Emily said, "Because the duke cannot like it."

"I'm not subject to Keighley. He is a fool and a bore." For the first time she sounded like
an old lady, a testy old lady.

Emily compressed her lips. "It may be that Colonel Falk would not like it."

"My son is a prude?"

"No. He may eventually tell the children of their paternal descent, ma'am. Very likely he
will, but I don't think his hand should be forced." It was too much for Emily's patience, and she
went on recklessly,
"They
are not bastards, your grace. Why should they be made to
trouble their heads over such matters?"

A long silence ensued. The duchess watched Emily, hazel eyes unwinking. "Are they
happy children?"

"I hope so," Emily snapped. "Happier than
your
children."

The duchess paled. Lady Sarah jumped up and went to her mother. "That was uncalled
for."

The duchess patted her arm almost absently. "Hush, Sarah. The truth will occasionally
out. Perhaps you're right, Mrs. Foster." She sighed. "I had no talent for motherhood, but rather to
my surprise I find myself a tolerable grandmother. Oh, don't bother to protest, Sarah. We have
never discussed my conduct as a mother, but you must know I speak the truth."

Lady Sarah subsided, but she looked troubled.

"I did not love the late duke nor, after the first years of my marriage, could I respect
him," the duchess pronounced, dispassionate. "I also resented bearing his children. I've since
learned to value Sally as I ought, and George, who is silly but amiable. I have some respect for
John--he won't speak to me. The other girls and Keighley seem to me rather dull personages, and
Keighley is capable of both malice and greed. In spite of that, I'm fond of Keighley's girls. They visit
me at the Dower House. Perhaps there is something in watching a child grow and change."

Emily cleared her throat. "I believe it is so, your grace." The duchess gave a wry smile. "I
daresay you're more maternal than I by nature. If so, perhaps you'll understand why I did not allow
myself to watch Richard grow up."

Emily swallowed her astonishment.

"I could have indulged such feelings toward Richard. I was fond of his father. Powys was
a romanticist, but a kind man at heart and amazingly handsome. He was fair. Sally tells me neither
of Richard's children is fair. A pity."

"But they are both handsome." Emily felt her resolution giving way. "Amy resembles
you. Tommy will be a darkeyed Latin type, a devil with the ladies if he troubles to exert
himself."

"Lazy, is he? Powys was inclined to be lazy unless something"--she gave a wry smile--"or
someone caught his interest."

Emily was in over her head and knew it. "I'd say Tommy was placid rather than lazy.
Amiable."

The duchess gave a decisive nod of her head. "Like George."

Emily hesitated, embarrassed. Tommy resembled himself. "They're at play in the garden,
ma'am."

The duchess frowned. "Don't weaken, Mrs. Foster. You are quite right. I ought not to
confuse them."

Oppressed by a sense of
djea vu,
Emily went on, "Perhaps not. But if you stood
by the French doors in the dining room you could watch them and satisfy yourself as to their
appearance and perhaps their state of mind."

"My dear, I am too shortsighted."

"Opera glasses," Lady Sarah interjected, inspired.

Emily pulled the bell for Phillida. "The very thing."

"You persuade me." The duchess had a charming laugh, like crystal bells.

Thus the duchess, leaning on her silver-headed cane, walked into the dining room and sat
by the windows for a time, perhaps half an hour, watching Amy and Matt squabble under the
ancient apple tree. Tommy was plucking overblown dandelions and chasing the fuzz. From time to
time all three children teased the latest batch of kittens. Peggy minded them whilst she pared
potatoes.

Emily could not help thinking how casual the scene must appear to ladies accustomed to
ranks of nursemaids and governesses. The duchess said nothing, nor did Lady Sarah.

Her grace and Sarah took their leave quietly, and Emily spent the balance of the afternoon
feeling horrible guilt, but in what cause she was not certain.

She worried the strange visit over in her mind until exasperation drove her to write a
letter. She was not comfortable writing Colonel Falk--by Wilson's account he was still very ill--so
she writ Wilson. She also writ the duchess a long epistle describing the children's regimen and their
small foibles and talents. It seemed the least she could do, but she knew it was no substitute for
receiving the children's homage. Finally she wrote Tom Conway, too, but that was merely a sop to
her sanity. She and Tom were innocent bystanders, after all. He would understand her
feelings.

Perhaps homage was the chief satisfaction the duchess took in being a grandmother. Emily
did not doubt her grace's grandchildren would pay her homage. The duchess had enough charm for
ten grandmothers. A pity she had not been able to charm her own children.

Richard Falk resembled his mother, but he did not have her charm. Emily thought that
was a good thing. She liked him better without it. With charm he would have been a dangerous
man.

It was Sir Henry Mayne who provided the household with its first real distraction from
worry. For Matt's seventh birthday Emily's father gave her son a pony, and Emily a shock.

"Well, my dear?" Sir Henry beamed at Emily and smacked his breeches-clad leg with his
crop. "Well?"

They were standing in the stableyard. Sir Henry pointed the butt of his crop at Matt's gift.
The spotted pony was somewhat leaner than Eustachio. Matt and Amy were already talking to it.
Eustachio, brought out for comparison, watched them tolerantly.

Emily kissed her father. "Papa, how splendid."

"He's a good boy, is Matthew." Sir Henry harrumphed deep in his throat. "Made up my
mind to buy him a mount when I saw how he took to Falk's gift horse."

Emily suppressed a grin. Sir Henry had thought Eustachio a "demned imposition." "Now
perhaps Matt and Amy will not quarrel so much. And Amy can use the sidesaddle."

Sir Henry gave an indulgent snort. "Rides like a trooper, little minx."

"Yes, indeed, which is all very well now, but it will not be at all the thing when she is
Miss Falk."

"Or Miss Ffouke."

Stunned, Emily could not immediately speak.

Sir Henry sighed. "I daresay it ain't my business, but I can put two and two together.
Lady Sarah Ffouke-Wilson. The Duchess of Newsham. Young Falk is the duchess's by-blow, ain't
he?"

Emily's tongue thawed. "How did you know that?"

Sir Henry's brows twitched. "Her grace's
affaire du coeur
with Powys was a great
scandal the year I first sat for Mellings. Year William was born. Young whippersnapper's the right
age."

Emily swallowed. "I didn't like concealing anything from you, Papa."

"Thought I'd kick up a dust."
Slap
went the crop against his dusty buckskins.
"Might have, when the brats first came. Whole business smelled of fish."

"I'd have told you, dust or no dust, Papa, but I could not betray a confidence." Emily
took a breath and explained as briefly as she could the events of that spring and the peril in which
the children had lain. Her father grasped the legal problem directly, but all the comings and goings
required considerable elucidation. In the end he shook his head.

"Never could see sense in that sort of intrigue. People making life complicated for
themselves. Newsham was a bully boy. Mad as a hatter. Pity Powys didn't kill him in the duel.
Better all round. Well, Emma you've taken on quite a tangle. You're sure you don't want to
disengage?"

Emily stared. "What do you mean?"

"Give the children up," Sir Henry said without roundaboutation. "Not at once, but as
soon as Falk recovers. I daresay this sister of his would see them comfortably established. Sir
Robert Wilson is a man of means."

"No! I couldn't." Panick rose in Emily's throat.

"You may have to. If Falk is reconciled to his family--"

"He wants nothing to do with them."

"The more fool he," Sir Henry snapped. "Newsham is a magnate, always a power in the
land, though the present duke's a lightweight. There's blood and wealth there, my dear. Even a
left-handed connexion--"

"I can't believe that would weigh with Richard Falk."

"Come, come. You've seen the man thrice."

Emily shook her head. She
knew.

"If you're fixed in your mind then there's no more to be said." Sir Henry heaved a sigh.
"He writ me."

"Who?"

"Falk. Colonel now, eh?"

Emily nodded.

"Very proper. Wants to see more of his children. Asked me to find a house for him on a
short lease."

"Does he mean to set up his own nursery?"

"No, no, calm yourself. Wanted a cottage in walking distance of Wellfield House. Didn't
wish to compromise you. Don't like the inn at Mellings Parva."

"Oh." Emily was baffled, but pleased and relieved. "I thought Lady Sarah and Wilson
meant him to come to Knowlton."

"They may. Ain't in
his
mind."

"But a cottage."

"I know. I don't like the idea either. Writ him to come to me at Mayne Hall."

Emily blinked hard. "Oh, Papa, how kind of you."

"Hrrmpb.
Not at all. Honour to have a Water-loo man under my roof. At least,
that's what Fanny says."

Emily choked on a laugh. "Dear Aunt Fan. So
military."

Sir Henry grinned. "Something in what she says."

"When does he come?"

"Toward the end of August."

"This month?" Emily beamed. "How splendid. He must be very much improved in
health. Shall I tell the children?"

"Unaccountable young man. Better wait till you know for sure. Daresay he'll write
you."

That was a grievance. "I wonder he did not write me in the first place.
I
could
have helped him find a house."

Sir Henry looked shocked. "Most improper. I must warn you, Emma--getting altogether
too independent. Watch yourself, m'gel."

Emily let that pass. She wrote Lady Sarah the news at once, not stopping to consider the
consequences.

Sarah, dismayed by Emily's news, writ her husband, and Wilson, in his turn, was hurt and
confused, for he had assumed his brother-in-law would come to Knowlton.

Richard's recovery was slow, but he had got past the point of danger. He could not read
because of the head wound, nor write because of the shoulder injury. After three operations he was
weak as a kitten, but no longer in much pain, except when one of the blinding headaches came on,
and they were now infrequent. He was on the mend. Indeed he had reached that stage of itch and
ennui in which his temper, never very biddable, was on a short fuse. Wilson had been tiptoeing
about his brother-in-law's sensibilities for days, but Sarah's letter dispersed his caution.

"Sarah informs me you've leased a house of Sir Henry Mayne," he said without preamble
as he entered the sickroom.

"Then she knows more than I," Richard said shortly. "I asked him to find me a cottage."
He was lying, propped, on a chaise longue with the window open to a view of Bruxellois chimney
pots, and he regarded Wilson without enthusiasm. The room was hot.

"A cottage. Upon my word, Richard, what game are you playing at? You will come to
Knowlton as soon as may be, and let us hear no more of cottages."