Bar Sinister (25 page)

"Oh, aunt, nothing at all. He--Colonel Falk--surprised me, of course. He likes the
house."

Aunt Fan snorted. "What's that to the point? How
is
he?"

Emily gathered her wits. "Tired from the journey, I think, but otherwise well enough.
He told me I looked like a housemaid."

Aunt Fan gave her a queer look but for once did not pursue the subject.

Presently Sir Henry and Mr. Wheeler joined the ladies, and in the fullness of time
Richard entered. He looked a trifle rumpled, as if he had been climbed over by small enthusiastic
persons.

"How are the children?" Emily smiled at him.

"Beautiful."

Emily laughed. "I know that. Were they glad to see you?"

"I think so." He didn't look as if he had serious doubts. His eyes were bright. "They will
be pestering you to bring them to me tomorrow. To carry off their Belgian loot, greedy little
beasts. I wonder what they'd expect if I went to India?"

"You're not..." Horrible phantasies assailed Emily's mind. Sir Robert Wilson had
promised that his brother-in-law would retire.

"Lord, no," Richard said hastily. "I'm out of it now, thank God. That's what kept me so
long in London."

Emily meant to be absolutely sure. "You've retired?"

"Yes. As of the end of the month. Sir Henry." He turned to Emily's father who had stood
listening to this little exchange with indulgent twitches of the eyebrows. "How do you, sir? I have
to thank you for your good offices. The cottage is precisely what I want."

Sir Henry was heard to rumble a few doubts. He still thought a cottage a paltry dwelling
for a gentleman, and he made that clear, but Emily could tell that he was not displeased to see his
tenant. Richard also said all the right things to Aunt Fan, whose delight in the meeting was betrayed
largely by the gruffness of her exclamations and the way her back hair began to fall down. Aunt
introduced Richard to Mr. Wheeler. Emily had half forgot the vicar's existence.
Rag-manners,
she told herself, vexed to have forgot so elementary a courtesy.

The company settled in with an air of spurious cosiness. Richard sat on Sir Henry's right
hand, for Emily's father was going a little deaf in the left ear, Aunt Fan, aburst with questions, on
Richard's right, and Mr. Wheeler, with the faint discomfortable look of one who finds himself
intruding on a family reunion, on the sopha next to Emily. In good time every one was provided a
glass of sherry, for Sir Henry did not believe in ladies drinking eyewash like ratafia.

Conversation rambled. The weather, everyone agreed, was the best in years, perfect for
campaigning--Aunt Fan--and haymaking--Sir Henry. Hay led Sir Henry to horses and thence to
Amy's equestrian prowess. Richard received Sir Henry's moving tribute to his daughter--"Good
bottom, young Amy, steady hands, always throws her heart over a jump"--with the merest hint of a
grin. He turned the conversation neatly from Amy to Matt with a question for Mr. Wheeler about
Matt's Latin verbs--how had he found out about Matt's verbs, Emily wondered, bemused--and Mr.
Wheeler spoke at length on the defects of modern education. A perfectly safe topic. Sir Henry's
eyes glazed, Richard listened, Aunt tapped her foot. Mr. Wheeler worked his way gradually from
Caesar to grouse shooting.

At the word
grouse
Sir Henry woke up and contributed a comment on Squire
Talbert's coverts. That produced a little mild controversy to which Richard did not contribute. Sir
Henry was in a tactful mood, however, and before Emily reached the screaming point he turned the
question kindly to the state of Richard's health, and thence, after only a few cluckings about the
inconvenience of one-handed existence, which Richard bore with resigned composure, to a chance
recollection of Chelsea Hospital, Ranelagh, and a set piece on the horrors of London in
August.

That was too much for Aunt Fan's patience. She cut off Sir Henry's monologue with a
single well-chosen phrase and plunged at once without transition into a series of questions about
Water-loo, which somehow, as with most of Aunt's military conversations, turned into a lecture.
Emily's heart sank.

In truth her aunt's expertise, which was genuine and based on passionately thorough
reading and reflexion, embarrassed Emily, and she was ashamed of her shame. Why shouldn't
Frances Mayne study military history if she found it interesting? It was not a very shocking
eccentricity, surely. If only her aunt were not so intense. If only Aunt Fan's intensity did not render
her vulnerable.

Emily listened to a masterful analysis of the charge of the Union Brigade with the pious
but not very strong hope that Richard would restrain his satirical impulses. To her relief and
surprise he listened politely enough and in one of Aunt's infrequent pauses for breath allowed that
he wasn't a cavalryman.

"It's Bevis's opinion you should be seeking, ma'am. He was on General Picton's
staff."

Aunt's eyes shone. "I had forgot that. Lord Bevis, eh? I've met him."

"Shall I give you his direction? I believe he is fixed in Paris with the occupation
forces."

Aunt demurred. His lordship would be far too busy--she could not presume on so brief
an acquaintance. And so on.

Richard's mouth gave a slight betraying twitch at the corners, but he said gravely, "I'm
sure Bevis would be flattered to hear from you, Miss Mayne. He is not at all high in the instep, you
know, and he remembers you very clearly. I think you ought to write him at once."

"Well then, I shall." There was a whiff of defiance in Aunt's voice, but Richard still did
not smile.

He was, Emily concluded, far too pleased with the unsought opportunity to wreak
vengeance on Bevis. She turned a laugh to a cough in the nick of time.

"This business of the Imperial Guard, now," Aunt went on, relentless. "What think you,
sir?"

"Frances," said Sir Henry. "That is quite enough."

Emily gave her father a glance which she hoped expressed her heartfelt gratitude, but he
was not looking at her. Indeed, he had been watching his sister and Richard from beneath twitching
brows for some time. Now he rose.

"Time to be going home. Thank you, my dear." This to Emily. "An excellent dinner, as
usual. Wheeler!"

Mr. Wheeler started and blinked. He had, all unnoticed, fallen asleep.
How he could,
Emily thought, indignant. Then justice compelled her to admit to herself that an outsider
must have missed the tensions that had kept her on edge throughout Aunt Fan's military
excursion.

"Time to go," Sir Henry repeated, authoritative. "Colonel Falk, I have my carriage and
mean to drive Mr. Wheeler to the vicarage. Shall you ride with us?"

Richard had, perforce, risen when Sir Henry did. He accepted Sir Henry's offer. Emily
thought he was relieved not to have to walk the half mile to Watkins's cottage. He looked very
tired. She hoped Aunt Fan might not cross-examine him all the way home, but her hope was
dim.

Richard thanked Emily quietly and said good night. Mr. Wheeler was rather more
fulsome with less cause. Aunt Fan looked pleased with herself and only slightly guilty.

Emily stood at the door as her guests descended to the waiting carriage. Her father was
the last to leave. As he bent to kiss her, Emily murmured, "Thank you, Papa."

"That young man should be on his sickbed. Estimable woman, m'sister. Sometimes wants
good sense. Good night, my dear. You have a lively time ahead of you."

"Down, Papa. want down."

Richard lifted his son from the paddock gate one-handed and set the little boy on the
grass. Tommy was bored with pony watching. He wandered a few steps down the lane in search of
dandelions.

In the paddock, the redundant groom, who was soon to be absorbed into Sir Henry's
stables, was giving Matt and Amy a last schooling on their ponies. Amy sat the sidesaddle with
reluctance. Matt was showing off.

"He'll break his neck," Emily murmured.

"Not likely." Richard leaned on the gate.

They watched the young riders for a while in companionable silence. Emily had spent
most of the day in Winchester with her aunt. The entire time they were in town she kept imagining
she would return to find Richard gone, yet here he was, relaxed and sunburnt, leaning on the
paddock gate as if his continued presence were in no way remarkable. He had been "home" nearly a
week.

Nothing untoward happened in the paddock. Amy took three low jumps. Matt kept his
heels in. Tommy ate a dandelion and decided he didn't care for the taste. It was all wonderfully
routine. Presently Richard made his farewells and doubled back in the direction of Watkins's
cottage.

Emily had resolved to keep her courtship at a low key. She told herself she didn't want to
frighten Richard off, and indeed she did not wish to distract him from his pleasure in the children's
company, which was unequivocal and warmly returned. Amy and Matt would cheerfully have
camped in Watkins's cottage with him.

A pattern had already developed. Every day Emily brought Amy and Tommy in the gig as
far as the cottage. They were met at the gate by Matt, who had morning lessons with Mr. Wheeler
in the vicarage. Then they all took tea together in the cottage kitchen, the pewter mugs dripping
sweet tea that was mostly milk on the oak table and the children chattering and gobbling bread and
butter. Afterwards Emily would go on about her daily rounds alone. In an hour and a half or two
hours she would return to find the children ashriek by the swing or sprawled on the Turkey carpet
as Richard concocted a story for them, or seated at the round oak table in the kitchen in a marathon
of spillikins.

Richard was very bad at left-handed spillikins. The children thought that hilarious. They
were unselfconscious with him, even Matt, who was a little inclined to self-importance. Tommy
took to his father without the coy shyness that sometimes afflicted him with strangers. Amy and
Matt didn't spare Richard their squabbles, but they seemed to quarrel less at the cottage. The
novelty had not yet worn off.

After their games Emily would load the reluctant children into the gig and take them
home for a nuncheon and a nap. Later, when the weather permitted--and it was surprisingly
pleasant most of the time--Amy and Matt would ride in the paddock and Richard would stroll over
from the cottage to watch them. A natural routine. Almost they were turning into a family. Emily
was afraid something would break the spell.

There was one fly in her ointment. Richard would not dine at Wellfield House. He
declined her invitations with fair grace, but Emily was secretly hurt, especially when he did agree to
dine with Sir Henry, Aunt Fan, and Emily at Mayne Hall. She complained to Aunt Fan when the
ladies had withdrawn.

"He's probably heard the talk."

"What talk?"

Aunt Fan pursed her lips. "People gossip, Emma. So far no one is indulging phantasies,
but you'll have to be circumspect. If Colonel Falk were to dine with you every night, or even
several times a week, you could kiss farewell to your character."

Emily's cheeks burnt. "What a pleasure it is to live in a civilised society."

"My dear, that's the way of the world. I'd be cautious with your mother-in-law, if I were
you. She has a malicious tongue, and she has never approved Amy and Tommy."

Emily bit her lip. Aunt Fan was right. The elder Mrs. Foster and Emily had maintained an
armed truce for years, and the woman was a born gossip. "I mean to marry Richard, Aunt."

"Yes, I know," Aunt Fan said calmly.

Emily stared, resentment churning in her bosom. So much for concealment. So
earthshaking an announcement ought to provoke at least a mild exclamation.

"You are going about it with a fair degree of finesse." Aunt pulled out her workbasket
and took up a shift she was stitching for one of the cottagers' wives. "Don't rush your
fences."

Emily fairly drowned in a wave of astonishment. "You approve?"

Aunt Fan threaded the needle. "From a worldly viewpoint it is not a good match."

Emily made an impatient noise.

Aunt smiled and bit off her thread. "I should not let worldly motives govern my
judgement if I were you. He is an estimable man."

Emily sighed. "And Matt likes him."

Aunt's eyes twinkled. "That is certainly a consideration."

Emily felt her mouth twitch in an answering smile. "I won't rush my fences, Aunt Fan,
but to tell you the truth I'm impatient. Perhaps I
should
invite Richard to dinner every
night."

Aunt Fan set a row of neat stitches. "Unwise, Emma. He might feel constrained to offer.
Then you'd always be wondering--."

"Whether he made his offer freely. I was joking, Aunt." Emily heaved a sigh. "It
astonishes me when I consider that Richard and I have spent a grand total of twelve days in one
another's company--and we have known each other nearly three years. I do know him. I fell in love
with his letters."

Aunt gave a sympathetic cluck.

"Do you know how he spends his time?"

"With the brats."

Emily shifted on the chair. "The rest of his time."

"How?"

"Practicing great Os with his left hand like a schoolboy. Amy and Matt find it mightily
amusing." Emily sniffled.

Aunt Fan set her sewing aside and handed Emily a square of lawn embroidered in
scallops. "Pull yourself together, my dear. Don't want to alarm Henry."

Emily blew her nose and pulled herself more or less together. It was one thing for Aunt
Fan to guess her feelings, but quite another to betray her feelings to her father. He might accept
Richard as a tenant and even grudgingly allow him some rights as Amy's father, but Emily knew
very well that Sir Henry would kick up a dust at the prospect of his daughter wedding an
unemployed army officer, even one with a pension. And though he had shown surprising
complaisance about Richard's irregular connexion with the Duchess of Newsham, Emily did not for
one moment suppose Mayne of Mayne Hall would embrace any bastard eagerly as a
son-in-law.