Bar Sinister (3 page)

"I see." That, at least, would simplify matters. "Er, is your husband also with the army,
Peggy?"

"His honour's bâtman." A shadow passed over the woman's face. "Left him in
Belém, we did. He's a hot-tempered ould devil, is McGrath, but I'm homesick for him
already, would ye credit it? He's me third."

"Your third husband?"

"Aye, since Vimeiro. Buried two of 'em, God rest their souls, and when Jerry--that's
McGrath--popped the question I said yes like a shot, for don't it stand to reason a nofficer's
servant'll last longer than a sojer?"

"Er, I daresay."

"I've no wish to be widowed again. Whisht, I'd no wish to be shipped off to England,
missus, if it comes to that. It's a strange, hard place, to be sure, and what me da would be after
saying if he found me plumped down in the midst of a lot of Sassenachs...well!" She heaved a
sigh.

Emily began to be amused. "What can't be cured must be endured," she intoned.

Peggy gave her a doubtful look.

"I believe that's my father's coachman. Will you fetch Captain Falk for me?"

Peggy went without argument.

Emily looked at the apparition before her and sighed, too. "At least you're still here,
Dassett. Can you drive?"

Dassett looked as virtuous as he could. His eyes and nose were red. "Certainly, Miss
Emily. Stuck me head under th' pump. Carriage's poled up."

When the carriage reached Wellfield House at last, the bells had rung eight in the village
and it was quite black outside. Peggy McGrath was frankly snoring, Amy-Emilia was sound asleep,
and Emily held the baby, upon whom the visit to the horse trough had apparently acted as a draught
of opium. Captain Falk kept his own counsel. Emily did not think he slept, but he said
nothing.

"Ahem. We're here," she announced feebly. It was not at all the way she had meant to
welcome the children to her home. Dassett threw open the carriage door and pulled down the
steps with a flourish. At least he had not run them into a ditch.

Emily carried Thomas in, directing Dassett to bear the sea chest and portmanteau that
constituted the Falk chattels to the nursery.

"The portmanteau's mine," Captain Falk said shortly.

"Where shall I put Amy?"

By this time Emily's cook-housekeeper had bustled into the foyer with candles, curtseys,
and tongue-cluckings. From behind Mrs. Harry peered the flushed face of Phillida,
maid-of-all-work.

"The nursery," Emily said with equal brevity. "Follow me. Mrs. Harry will lead the way.
Is Matt asleep?"

"I've just tucked him in, ma'am." Phillida, eager to oblige. "Shall I wake him?"

"Lord, no! That is--no, certainly not. Miss Amy and Master Tommy must be put to bed
at once. Warm the sheets, Phillida, if you please."

Phillida darted Captain Falk a sidelong glance and scuttled to obey.

"Has the old cradle been set out?" Emily called after her.

"Yes, ma'am." Phillida vanished.

They had reached the first-floor hallway and Emily was breathless from the swift climb.
"The nursery is on this floor," she contrived to say between gasps. "I've given Matt one nook
opening on the schoolroom and your daughter the other. Mrs. McGrath can have a bed in the
nursery proper."

Captain Falk made no comment. She glanced at his face but it was unrevealing.

"I had not yet engaged a nursemaid," she continued, leading the way, "so perhaps it's
fortunate that Mrs. McGrath will be staying. Ah, here we are." She lowered her voice. "Matt sleeps
through that door, and you may lay Amy here, unless you think she should sleep with Mrs.
McGrath tonight."

"That might be wise."

"I daresay. Well, let's go into the nursery, then." To her relief a fire of sea coal burnt in
the nursery, and when Mrs. Harry had lit a pair of candles on the wide dressing table the room
looked cheerful enough. Emily laid the sleeping Thomas on the low trundle and turned to face the
others. Mrs. McGrath was staring about, jaw slightly agape. Captain Falk held his daughter.

"The cradle is here, Mrs.--er, Peggy." Emily pointed. "If you'll make Tommy ready,
perhaps I can undress Miss Amy. Captain Falk, I daresay you'll be wanting a glass of wine. Pray
follow Mrs. Harry. I'll join you in the drawing room directly."

Captain Falk laid his daughter on the trundle as directed. He stood looking down at both
children for a moment. Then he turned on his heel and followed Mrs. Harry from the room.

No sentimental outbursts there. Emily sighed and issued a spate of orders. Presently both
children were snug abed without having been wakened. Matt hadn't stirred either. Emily tidied her
hair in her own room and trudged back downstairs to the small withdrawing room.

Captain Falk, his back to the door, leaned on the mantel.

He was contemplating the fire, head bent, one foot on the fender. He looked as if he
wanted to kick the coals.

"They'll both do now," Emily said.

He turned in one movement, like a cat. Emily was glad she was not a French outpost. He
was certainly a wary man.

"They're asleep, and Mrs. McGrath is settling in with a cup of tea. Will you not sit,
sir?"

"No, thank you," he said, curt. "I must return to the inn at once. If you'll direct your
servant to find my gear."

"The inn!"

He said, in tones of repressed exasperation, "I can't remain here. It's nearly nine
o'clock."

Emily stared. "I daresay you're confusing me with some green maiden of your
acquaintance. Of course you'll remain here. I've ordered a room prepared for you."

Captain Falk scowled. "Upon my word, ma'am, are English villages so transmogrified
that a single woman may entertain a man for the night without occasioning gossip? A new day is
upon us."

"I think my credit sufficient to pull through one evening in your company," Emily said
sweetly. "Besides, I've sent Dassett for my Aunt Fan."

Captain Falk's brows, really his most expressive feature, shot up.

"My father's sister," Emily explained. "She'll be here very soon. Grumbling. I assure you
she's a famous goose-berry."

That seemed to throw him off balance. After a moment he said wryly, "Then I look
forward to making her acquaintance."

"Now will you sit?"

"I'm standing, ma'am, because if I sit I shall fall asleep."

"Oh."

"I daresay I'd be in the same case," he said with rough kindness, as if such a sentiment
were alien to his character, "even if I'd found the right Mellings to begin with. My children are not
restful travelling companions."

Emily, who always responded to the least sign of humanity in otherwise unredeemed
villains, smiled. "Then I'll order up a supper for us, sir, whilst my housemaid makes your room
ready. I'm sharp-set, I confess."

He did not immediately reply.

"Did you dine at Mellings Magna?"

"No. I wasn't hungry."

"Oh, dear, you must be starved."

"I'm more in need of lint and hot water than food, Mrs. Foster. Do you run to such
items?"

"Lint," Emily repeated blankly.

"I've bunged up my arm, and I should change the dressing."

"You've been wounded! How dreadful. Is it a grave injury?"

He looked embarrassed. "No. In fact it's just--"

"Just a scratch," Emily snapped, annoyed.

He smiled, this time in genuine amusement, and the effort certainly improved his looks.
"As a matter of fact, it was rather nasty. I was going to say it's just about healed. Not quite,
however."

"Then by all means let us change the dressing."

"Us?"

"Your right arm?" He had held the children on his left.

"Well, yes."

"Then you must find it awkward to tie the bandage. I shall do so with ease."

"I might be left-handed."

Emily frowned. "Are you?"

He laughed. A rusty sound. "No. And it
is
awkward."

"Come along, then."

Emily and Captain Falk, the latter in shirt-sleeves, were belowstairs in the Wellfield
kitchen when Aunt Fan finally drove up in the carriage.

The kitchen was warm and cheerful, and Mrs. Harry bustled in and out doing appetising
things upon Emily's new patent range, which Captain Falk regarded with more interest than he
exhibited in Emily's performance as Ministering Angel. He had used the scullery pump to good
purpose and now looked less travel-stained and wider awake.

"Remarkable piece of ironmongery."

"I like it." Emily decided to cut the grimy bandage from his forearm and applied the
scissors with precision. "It's convenient for heating water." Most of the linen strip came off easily
enough, revealing what looked like a weal from the inner wrist toward the elbow. The chief injury,
however, lay in the bunched muscle below the joint. The crusted cloth would require soaking.
Emily set herself to the task. "Have you never seen a cookstove?"

"Not of that size." He drew a sharp breath.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No. The water's rather hot, however. You'd better let me rip the remainder off."

"Rip! I presume you mean it to heal at some point in the not too distant future. Have a
little patience, if you please."

He was silent but not, she perceived, in a mood of meek acquiescence. He watched her
critically. Self-consciousness made her clumsy and in the end she ripped a bit of lint. That opened
the injury and it bled. Not a great deal, but the wound was ugly--inflamed on the edges and not
properly closed.

"How was it caused?"

"Half spent ball."

"Half
spent!"

"If it hadn't been half spent you'd be admiring a very nice stump."

Emily cast him a look of dislike and cleaned the area carefully, dusting it with basilicum
powder. When she had tied a neat and considerably cleaner and less bulky bandage, she glanced at
him, triumphant. "There! That should do until tomorrow."

"I trust so." He rolled the sleeve down, adding with grudging generosity, "For an
amateur you show up well."

"'Praise from Lord Henry is praise indeed."

"My Christian name is Richard."

"But not Lord Richard."

She thought he looked at her queerly but he said nothing. He rose and shrugged into his
seedy coat with his usual economy of movement.

"Beg pardon, Mrs. Foster, I'm sure. Will you be wanting supper in here?"

Emily was scandalised. "In the dining room, Mrs. Harry. Good heavens!"

Mrs. Harry eyed Captain Falk uncertainly.

"She thinks I'll feel more at home here belowstairs," Captain Falk explained in a voice of
sweet reason.

"The dining room," Emily snapped. "And have Phillida show Miss Mayne in directly she
comes."

Mrs. Harry sniffed. "Very good, ma'am."

"Unnecessary," said a familiar gruff voice from the stair. "I'm here." Aunt Fan in militant
black descended with firm tread. "What's the meaning of this, Emma?"

Captain Falk awaited her scrutiny without visible signs of alarm.

Emily tidied away the scraps of lint and the basin.

"Merely a little rough surgery, Aunt. Captain Falk has injured his arm."

Aunt Fan fixed her victim with her direct blue gaze.

"You're late, sir."

Captain Falk inclined his head.

Emily intervened. "I misdirected him. The children are in bed."

"Small blessings," Aunt uttered. "Dassett is foxed, Emma."

"I am sorry, Aunt Fan. He waited all afternoon at the Rose and Crown for Captain Falk,
and temptation overcame him."

Aunt snorted. "Ramshackle business. You oughtn't to have gone to Winchester. Well,
that's water over the weir. How d'ye do, sir. I'm Frances Mayne." She extended her hand.

Captain Falk shook it. "Richard Falk."

"Falk, eh? Odd sort of name. Not English."

"I made it up," said Emily's impossible employer.

"Indeed. No family."

As Aunt Fan's remark was a statement it required no answer, and he gave none.

"Baseborn?" she barked, suddenly.

"Yes."

"Thought so."

Emily gaped. She had not entertained any such thought. Aunt Fan might've hinted.
However, neither her aunt nor Captain Falk seemed disturbed by the harrowing revelation, and
Aunt forged on. "Children legitimate, I trust."

"They have been ratified by the
Inquisición
and my colonel, ma'am. In
advance."

"Ha. What you wanted, young man, was a Protestant clergyman."

"English clergymen are in short supply in Spain and Portugal."

"I daresay. No chaplains?"

"I have never seen a Church of England chaplain in the field," Captain Falk said
thoughtfully. "No doubt such creatures exist. They're reputed to enjoy the rank of major. Certainly
they draw upon regimental funds."

Aunt clucked her tongue. "Dereliction of duty. The Church is in a shocking state, in my
opinion. Fuel for the Methodists' fire."

"Fuel for someone's fire," Captain Falk agreed, a gleam of devilment in his eyes.

Aunt Fan regarded him with suspicion. She was a devout churchwoman.

Emily judged it time to intervene again. "If you'll go up to the dining room, Aunt, Mrs.
Harry can bring the supper. Captain Falk?"

He stood aside to let her pass.

Presently Mrs. Harry regaled them with hot soup, cold meat, fresh bread, a bowl of crisp
new apples, and a good ripe Stilton.

Rather to Emily's surprise, Captain Falk ate little and slowly. At least his bad manners did
not extend to the table. Aunt Fan kept urging more sherry on him. Emily wondered why her
redoubtable aunt had taken a fancy to the man. Probably because they were both blunt-spoken to a
fault.

A bastard. Emily could not quite like that. The by-blow of some City merchant or
wayward gentleman, no doubt. At least he didn't claim high connexions. In one respect the news
were welcome. There would be no grandparents or aunts and uncles to descend upon Wellfield
House and rob Emily of the children.

She was already their partisan, she realised ruefully, young Amy's in particular. Poor
child, she was in need of a defender, what with a dead mother and ramshackle father. As for the
little boy, Emily began to look forward with malicious pleasure to the sensation his appearance was
going to make among her neighbours and kin. Papa, for instance. Sir Henry did not like
foreigners.