Bar Sinister (23 page)

Richard shut his eyes and did not reply.

Wilson moderated his tone from wrath to exasperated patience. "I don't understand you.
There's no danger in your coming to us. I assure you, Newsham has been muzzled. The duke is still
sulking at Abbeymont and don't mean to show his face in Society before Michaelmas. If it's the
dowager you don't want to meet, she is taking the waters at Bath."

Richard frowned. When he spoke his voice was stiff. "I'm very much obliged to you,
Wilson, and oppressively grateful, but I'm not going to sit in your pocket."

"I don't
require
gratitude," Wilson roared. "And I don't see what that has to do
with your letting a cottage in Mellings Parva."

"I want to see my son and daughter."

"It's no great distance from Knowlton to Wellfield House. Or you could bring them to
Sarah. They'd enliven the nursery, I daresay."

Richard gave a brief grin. "I daresay." The smile faded. "No. They're comfortable as they
are."

"They wouldn't be discomfortable at Knowlton."

"Would they not?"

Wilson stopped short in his nervous pacing of the chamber and glared at his
brother-in-law. "You may be justified in pursuing an intransigent attitude toward the Ffouke family, Richard,
but I'm damned if I see why you won't accept
my
hospitality."

Richard gazed at the chimney pots. "Since I entered the army I've been poked, slashed,
punctured, grazed, and on one occasion, blown arse over teakettle into a ditch lined with
chevaux de frise.
Nobody considered that cause for celebration. Not to mention cholera,
dysentery, Guadiana fever, and yellow jack. All of a sudden I have offers of hospitality from you;
from Henry Mayne, who considered his daughter had come down in the world to associate with my
children; from Monsieur le comte; from madame; from Lord Dunarvon, for God's sake; and from
half a dozen persons I'm not acquainted with. Am I transmogrified, I ask myself, by a mere whack
on the noggin? Thank you all the same, Wilson. I prefer not to be exhibited like a two-headed
calf."

"Knowlton is not Bartholomew Fair," Wilson snapped, but he felt a twinge of guilt.
There would be a certain social cachet in having a Hero of Water-loo under his roof-tree.

"I'm not a freak of nature."

"You're a damned perverse care-for-nobody with the manners of a...a..."

"A bastard," Richard supplied helpfully.

For the first time Wilson felt some sympathy for his late father-in-law.

"Oh, go away, Wilson," Richard muttered. "I'm in a foul temper."

"Evidently."

Richard took a breath. "I want to see my children. I need a place to work. Hence the
cottage. I didn't think much beyond that."

Wilson was not placated, but his ears pricked at the word 'work.' "Do you mean to write
another novel?"

"I have the feeling I'm about to be put on half pay by a Grateful Nation," Richard said,
wry. "I daresay I'll have to write another novel. That is, if I can still lift a pen."

"I have an excellent bookroom. You're welcome to write in it."

"I doubt that I could."

That was a facer. Wilson's deepest, most cherished motive was to show Richard his book
collection and enjoy a few intelligent words on the art of literature. He had even thought he might
show Richard the reviews he contributed regularly to the
South Briton.
Sir Robert was
diffident about his own literary talents, however. Rebuffed, he retreated into description. "I assure
you my bookroom is pleasant and quiet." He cleared his throat. "I have an early edition of
The
Pilgrim's Progress
I'd like to show you."

Richard flushed. "My God, I'm a hack, Wilson, not an Author. I wouldn't know how to
write without interruption. Be reasonable, man. The bust of Molière would intimidate
me."

"That's arrant nonsense. There is no bust of Molière."

"You're quibbling."

"I'll hide the engraving of Milton dictating to his daughters."

Richard gave a crack of laughter, and clutched at his head with his good hand.

That forced a reluctant smile from Wilson. "I don't see--"

"No, you don't." Richard's tone was no longer hostile. "I'm damned if I can explain. It
has something to do with the circumstances under which I writ the other books. I'll have to have
McGrath parade the village children through the dooryard from time to time, firing off squibs and
beating on pans, to set up the proper atmosphere... Habit is a wonderful thing." He cocked a
friendlier eye at his brother-in-law. "You ought to go home to Sarah, Wilson. I'm in rude
health."

Wilson made an indignant noise of protest.

"Well, at least you'll allow I'm rude. Go home. I mean to be in Hampshire by the end of
the month, and I promise faithfully to call on you and my sister. There's no need for you to cool
your heels in Brussels any longer."

"The arrangements--"

"There's nothing to arrange. When I can travel, McGrath will pack my traps and we'll be
off. I must go up to London, in any case."

"They can't expect you to report so soon."

"They don't.
I
mean to settle things, however. The Horse Guards will be
cutting down the establishment as quick as may be. They'll be delighted to rid themselves of
another line officer on any pretext."

"Then you won't make a push to stay in?"

Richard said drily, "I think I've had enough."

"I thought you might find it in your interest to remain with the army."

"I've no wish to be shipped off to India."

Wilson shuddered. "There's the Army of Occupation"

"I believe my regiment are bound for the Indies. Even if they aren't, I shouldn't like
France now"

That shocked Wilson. "But Paris!"

"What pleasure could anyone take in being loathed in Paris? You can't be imagining the
French will welcome us."

"They seem docile enough."

"They're relieved and exhausted. In a sixmonth they'll spit on us. When we entered the
south, you know, it was different. Many of those people were Royalists. Paris is another story. I
hear Bonaparte has been captured."

"Yes."

"Will he be tried?"

"Exiled, I think."

Richard was silent for a long moment. "Let's hope they find a snugger prison this
time."

"Do you remember the battle, Richard?" Wilson ventured, hesitant to raise the
subject.

"Bits of it, early on." Richard's mouth twisted. "I shan't strain after the missing parts. I
recall Quatre Bras very well."

"They will be investing you with the French order soon." Richard closed his eyes. It was
hot in the chamber and he was sweating--had been for some time.

Wilson went to the window to seek out a breeze. "I'll stay for that. You shouldn't have
refused the Bath."

"If I meant to stay on in the army I wouldn't have refused. As it is, there's no
point."

"It is an honour."

"'That I dream not of,'" Richard quoted inappropriately. "A political game, Wilson. You
know that as well as I. The government mean to placate the Belgians."

There was some truth in the observation, but only some. Wilson was troubled. Because
he had never understood the military frame of mind, he had listened to the harbingers of Richard's
glory with baffled attention. Sir Walter Scott, it was said, wished to write a History of Water-loo.
Wilson had supposed his brother-in-law to be something of a fire-eater, and it surprised him that
Richard would spurn a place in Sir Walter's history. That kind of glory Wilson did understand.
Very strange. Wilson turned back from the window.

"I can't convince you to convalesce at Knowlton?"

"No. But I thank you."

Wilson sighed. "Very well. I'm sorry for it. I daresay you'll do as you wish, however. I'll
stay for your bout with the French court Wednesday."

"Thank you. You may prop me up."

"With pleasure. I'll write Sally to expect me in a fortnight."

Owing to a favourable wind, Sir Robert was home within ten days, and glad of it. That
evening, when they were alone in Lady Sarah's withdrawing room, he sat on a satin-covered chair
and faced her at last. "Well, Sal, your brother is now a
chevalier
of France. I must say he
speaks the language very well."

"French governesses," Sarah said tersely. She had been disappointed not to see Richard.
"We all speak good French."

Wilson hadn't thought of that. He was inclined to overlook the fact that Richard had
spent his first twelve years in the late duke's household.

"Why did he not come home with you?" Sarah, intent, worried.

"He won't be fit to travel for another fortnight." Wilson evaded her eyes.

Sarah waited, tapping her foot, for his explanation.

"There was nothing to be gained from my staying on."

"You might have persuaded him to come here."

"That's out of the question."

"Why?"

Wilson sighed. "I'm not sure why, Sarah. I just know it is. I was angry with him when he
first refused me."

"After all your trouble in his behalf..."

Wilson said, rueful, "You think he should be more grateful, is that it? I'd like to deal with
Richard on an equal footing some day, but I'm afraid that won't be possible whilst he feels himself
obliged to me. Let be, Sally. God knows he has reason to be prickly. And now I wish to hear no
more of Richard. How are you, and how are my boys?" The right questions in the right
order.

Sir Henry Mayne was nearly as baffled by Colonel Falk's conduct as Lady Sarah when
Richard wrote him a polite but firm refusal of hospitality and repeated the request for a cottage.
But Sir Henry was not as military-minded as his sister Frances, and contained his disappointment
with only a few grumbles, which he directed at Emily. "Ungrateful whelp" was the strongest term
he uttered. Emily understood him to be reconciled to finding Colonel Falk a house.

"There's the Lodge."

Emily shook her head. "It's a five mile walk from the Lodge to Wellfield. Besides, it's too
large."

"He don't want a dashed hovel."

"No, of course not, Papa. There's Aunt Maud's little house."

Sir Henry guffawed, and Emily was forced to a reluctant answering smile. Her great-aunt
had lived out her twilight years in a tiny ornate bandbox that still reeked of femininity.

"There is Watkins's cottage at Mellings Parva." Watkins had been Sir Henry's first bailiff
and his father's before him, a venerable old man who treated the infant Emily to bull's-eyes as she
walked with her nurse to the village.

"Dash it, not a gentleman's residence."

"If we were near a town I daresay Colonel Falk would let rooms. Watkins's cottage is
more spacious than that, and it is in fair condition, isn't it?"

"Well..."

"You've not let it!" Sir Henry had been looking for a tenant for the cottage since
Watkins's death the previous winter.

Sir Henry shook his head, "No, but I don't like the idea."

"Oh, Papa, times change. I daresay Colonel Falk would be perfectly content with
Watkins's house. There are four rooms, the windows are large, the kitchen has a pump, and there's
a proper writing desk--unless you've hauled off the furnishings."

"It's as it was in Watkins's time. Place wants a coat of lime. Tiles loose. Dash it, it's
cluttered with the old man's gewgaws."

"Do you mend the tiles. I'll give it a good cleaning," Emily said firmly. "And you may
take out the lumber. Watkins's cottage will do very well."

Still grumbling, Sir Henry acceded.

As August dragged on, Emily, having seen the cottage refurbished, changed the water in
the vases she had confidently placed on every flat surface. Then she changed the flowers. Sir Henry
received a bank draught for three months' rent, which inspired him to stump up with a load of
wood and an extra bookcase. Emily aired the linen and dusted. It rained--proof positive the roof no
longer leaked--and cleared off again for what would probably be the last wine of summer.

On her third flower changing expedition Emily took polishing cloths and a duster and
made a thorough, critical inspection.

The kitchen-scullery-dining room of Watkins's cottage was a large low-ceilinged room
made surprisingly light by two small windows and a fresh coat of lime. The gay chintz curtains
Emily had hung made it cheerful. The hearth shone with scrubbing and so did the round oak table.
Watkins had left an oak dresser, too, against the interior wall. In it Emily had placed such dishes
and cutlery as she judged Colonel Falk might need, including three sturdy pewter mugs for the
children.

Emily swept the already spotless flags briskly and took the blue bowl of marigolds from
the table to the pump for fresh water. A few drops of priming and a hearty push on the handle
produced a stream of artesian water. The interior pump was the one great luxury the cottage
boasted--the well water was reputed to be the sweetest for several miles around.

She had emptied the vase of stale water and laid the unfaded flowers on the slate
drainboard. She stood dreamily letting the water pulse over her hands. It was a warm day and the
cool rush felt pleasant. Slowly the stream waned to a trickle and Emily filled her bowl. She replaced
the marigolds, critically nipping off a brownish bloom with her fingers, dried the bowl and her
hands on her apron, and turned.

Richard Falk was standing in the door from the passage, watching her silently. Emily
clutched the bowl to her bosom and stared. It was improbable that she was seeing visions in broad
daylight.

"Hullo, Mrs. Foster." His voice at least sounded familiar. "Playing the housemaid?" The
remark, while not flattering, was reassuring.

Emily flushed, laughing a little, and set the bowl on the table. "Caught in the act. How do
you, sir? I'm very glad to see you." She yanked the apron off and advanced to him, her hand
outstretched in welcome.

He took it left-handed, which made her flush again. His right arm was still in a sling and
his right coat sleeve hung empty. She ought to have thought. However, his clasp on her still damp
paw was warm and quite real, and Emily's happiness overpowered her confusion. "We'd nearly
given you up for this week," she confided, smiling at him. "The children have been wonderfully
impatient. Did you drive from Dover? Have you come in Sir Robert's carriage? Where's
McGrath?"