Bar Sinister (34 page)

"Trows." Tommy indicated vigourously that the time had come for his
transformation.

"It's early...Oh, very well, Tommy."

They had a struggle with the buttons. Presently, however, Tommy preened before the
mirror in the compleat dress of a little English gentleman--black pumps, white stockings, nankeens,
frilled shirt, blue jacket with brass buttons. An English gentleman
manqué. He looks
incorrigibly Spanish,
Emily thought, her eyes filling with sentimental tears.
My baby. And
Amy is just five years old.

"Nankies," Tommy shouted and roared out into the hall, breeched legs twinkling.

Emily caught up with him outside the schoolroom. He was still too short to open the
door. When the other children had applauded him and Peggy had shed her own quota of
sentimental tears, there was a lull in the action, for it was still half an hour to the birthday dinner.
In a spirit of generosity Matt decided to teach Tommy naughts and crosses. Amy took up her station
at the window.

The Treglyn schoolroom overlooked the front entrance and the long carriageway. In the
past week Amy had spent every unoccupied waking moment staring down the carriageway. She
meant to be the first to announce her father's coming.

Emily grieved for her. "I really don't think he can be coming so soon, darling. Next
month, perhaps."

"He'll come." Amy pressed her nose to the glass.

It was blowing a modest gale, and the child could surely not see far through the rain and
dusk. When Amy breathed out she made patches of fog on the panes. Presently she was drawing
interesting faces in the mist. Relieved to see her distracted, Emily didn't try to stop her.

Aunt Fan came in and was properly awed by Tommy's trousers. Emily had just decided to
smooth her own hair a last time in the schoolroom mirror before leading the party downstairs to
dinner when Amy gave a shriek.

"Good heavens, child, what is it?" Aunt Fan peered out the window.

"Papa!" Amy gave another whoop and added, complaisant, "I thaid he'd come." She had
lately lost her front teeth. The result was a fine Castillian lisp.

Unwilling to credit the announcement and unwilling not to, Emily stood frozen.

Aunt Fan squinted. After a judicious moment she said, "I believe the child is right,
Emma. There are two men walking up the drive. The taller appears to be Colonel Falk."

Emily leapt over the boys, who were stretched out on the carpet drawing Xs and Os on a
slate, and dashed to the window. "Where?"

Aunt Fan pointed.

"Papapapapapa!" Amy was chanting happily.

"Do stop bouncing, Amy." Emily peered. Her heart tripped along like one of the steam
hammers Tom Conway raved about in his letters. "I can't see--oh." She swallowed hard. "Yes, so it
is."

She exchanged glances with her aunt. Had something gone wrong?

"Wonder what brings him so soon?" Aunt Fan murmured.

"My birthday," Amy crowed. "Whoop!" And she was off, streaking for the door.

"Catch her, Peggy!" Emily picked up her skirts and pursued, alas, too late. Amy had
made good her escape.

By now the boys had caught fire, too, and were hopping about like fleas. Emily, almost as
giddy as they were, began to laugh. "Yes, dears, we'll go down, too. Only please, a little
slower."

"Nankies!" Tommy shouted, bouncing.

"Come on, Mama." Matt dragged her hand.

Emily cast a last rueful look at Aunt Fan and Peggy, and allowed the boys to sweep her
out into the hall. Aunt and Peggy followed at a more sedate pace.

"Oh, saints preserve us all, they'll be breaking their necks, all three of 'em," Peggy could
be heard wailing as Emily and her two headlong escorts clattered down the first flight of steep
polished stairs.

"No, Matt, not the bannister!" Emily gasped, laughing, as they reached the first floor
landing.

"Oh, Mama."

"No!"
Tommy was clutching her hand for balance but he seemed bent on
jumping his way down. She grabbed the tail of his new blue coat.

Matt grasped the bannister with both hands and compromised by leaping and slithering
sidewise the rest of the way. He made a terrific clatter.

By this time the commotion had stirred the servants to life, and the aged Treglyn butler
creaked into the foyer bearing a branch of lit candles. He was followed by the gaping footman and
the housekeeper.

Dancing with impatience, Amy struggled with the latch of the huge oak door.

"Now, Miss Amy..." The butler set his candles on the hall table.

"It'th my papa! Open it, pleathe, Turvey." She gave him her famous gap-toothed smile.
"Pleathe."

"Amy, wait!" Emily called from the stairs. She'd got halfway down the last flight with
Tommy jumping and shrieking beside her.

Amy was far too agile for the ancient Turvey. He made the mistake of unlatching the
door. Casting an impudent grin over her shoulder, she slipped out under his elbow into the night.
Turvey peered after her, clucking.

"Lord, she'll take her death. No, Matt. Oh, Turvey, I beg your pardon." Emily finally
achieved the foyer, panting. "Thank you, Charles." This to the footman who had collared a
red-faced Matt. "It's Amy's father, you see, come from London. She saw him from the schoolroom, and
there was no holding her. The rest of us"--she gave Matt a Meaningful Look and tightened her grip
on Tommy's hand--"will await him here in a civilised manner."

The servants looked sympathetic, if bewildered. They knew of Richard, but hadn't met
him. Matt squirmed.

"It's Amy's birthday, Matt," Emily said gently.

Matt made a face but subsided.

"Will you be requiring another place for dinner, then, m'dear?" Mrs. Denning, the
housekeeper, was a Cornishwoman with a strong sense of order. It had taken Emily a week to
realise the woman enjoyed the challenge their visit represented.

"Yes--ah, no. Colonel Falk may take Mrs. McGrath's place. She will want to greet her
husband properly. If a chamber could be prepared for Colonel Falk, hot water, of course. And I
daresay dinner ought to be put back half an hour. Yes."

"Very good, missus." Mrs. Denning gave an approving nod. She liked a decisive manner,
or so Aunt Fan said. Emily had been cultivating a decisive manner for a month. Smiling, Mrs.
Denning vanished into the domestic nether-land.

In the next minutes Emily's eagerness was undermined by the horrible conviction that
something must have gone wrong with Tom Conway's scheme. Probably Richard was going to
gather the children up and fly to the Antipodes. Emily wondered if her father would visit her in Van
Dieman's Land, and banished the thought as unworthy. Probably Richard would spurn her, if she
offered to come. Probably he would sail to Montevideo and marry a wealthy Spanish lady at once,
and Emily would never see him or the children again.

"Charles, do you assist Colonel Falk and his man." Turvey, quavering but authoritative.
"I believe they have...yes, a portmanteau and saddlebags. At once, if you please."

The footman leapt to obey. Voices could be heard but Turvey's bent back blocked the
view.

"If you will just step inside, sir. I am Turvey. Welcome to Treglyn." Turvey threw the
door wide.

Richard entered, dripping. "Thank you, Turvey. I seem to have acquired a very damp
child." He was carrying Amy under his cloak. She stuck her head out and grinned.

Turvey removed Richard's hat and cloak, shaking the water from them onto the black and
white tiles of the entryway, and Richard set his daughter down. Wet and beaming, she clung to his
side.

"How do you do, Richard?" Emily croaked. She took a step forward.

Blinking against the light, he looked over at her and smiled. "Very well and very wet. I'm
glad to see you."

Emily's knees quivered and her heart lurched, but she contrived to utter her most urgent.
thought. "Has anything gone wrong?"

"No, no. Everything's splendid. Amy,
querida,
dislodge yourself from my leg so
I can move." Amy bounced a few feet away.

Richard took Emily's hand. His was cold but his smile was warm. "It's all right. I didn't
mean to alarm you. I thought McGrath and I should arrive as soon as a letter, so here we
are."

Emily heaved a sigh of pure relief and smiled at him shakily. "I'm so glad to see you. But
you must be frozen, and McGrath, too. Did you walk from the village?"

"From the coaching inn."

"Good heavens, that's three miles!"

"It felt like ten," he said ruefully. "Poor McGrath is half dead from dragging that
portmanteau. We didn't realize Treglyn was so far."

Peggy had spotted her wet spouse. She gave a screech and flung herself down the last
stairs, uttering a barrage of greetings and predictions of imminent pneumonia. The baffled Turvey,
who was not accustomed to admitting anyone's servants by the front door, freed McGrath from his
greatcoat. The bâtman scowled round him and grunted.

"Er, perhaps Charles could show McGrath down to the kitchen to dry off," Emily
ventured. "It's warm there."

Charles, the footman, damp and laden with portmanteau and saddlebags, had slipped in
the door, too. Turvey shut it. Turvey regarded McGrath with a stern eye. "An excellent idea,
madam."

McGrath dripped and shivered.

Turvey softened. "A small glass of brandy might be in order, if I may be so bold."

"Faith, lead me to it," McGrath growled.

Emily stared. She had not thought him capable of articulate speech.

Richard laughed. "A
large
glass of brandy, I think, Turvey. Jerry, I'm obliged to
you, as usual. Give over wailing, Pegeen, and see to your man's comfort." He gave Peg an
affectionate squeeze of the shoulders and shoved his servants off in Charles's wake.

All this time Aunt Fan had been descending the stairs with unimpaired dignity. Stately as
a galleon, she gained the foyer and advanced, hand outstretched. "Colonel Falk, a welcome sight.
Trust your mission was successful."

Richard's eyes gleamed. He bowed over her hand. "It was, Miss Mayne. We rolled 'em
up, foot, horse, and guns. And in short order, too."

"Excellent. We shall await your account with great interest. And now, sir, I believe you
should retire to your room to dry off. Wet to the bone."

"In a minute." Richard looked round. "I think I see Matt over there by the hatrack. And
who's that with him?"

"Nankies!" Tommy shrieked and flew at his father like a whirlwind.

Richard knelt in time to catch the little boy and hug him tightly. "So I see. All grown up,
Tomkin? Like Matt." He smiled over Tommy's head at Matthew who, unaccountably shy, had hung
back. "Hiding, Matt?"

Matt grinned, shamefaced, and advanced to be hugged in his turn. Watching Richard
disentangle himself gently from the two boys, Emily decided to propose marriage at the first
opportune moment.

The moment did not present itself that evening. Amy's dinner could not help turning out
a smashing success, for all that the food was a trifle overdone. The guest of honour, having
drenched her best gown, had been hastily towelled and stuffed into an ordinary blue wool, but
nothing could quench her high spirits. Amy's doll--beside whom her other gifts faded into
temporary insignificance--was seen to be a tiny, splendidly haughty English lady in the first stare of
the mode.

"What'th her name?" Amy demanded.

Richard looked startled. "Er, I've forgot. Just a moment. It'll come to me."

Emily smiled at him. So he didn't think of everything.

"Whopstraw," he said firmly, avoiding Emily's eyes. "Lady Whopstraw. Yes, I'm sure
that was it, but you'll have to christen her yourself, Amy. My acquaintance with her was so brief we
never reached first-name intimacy."

Amy's brow furrowed. "I know! Lady Tharah." She tested it on her tongue. "Lady
Tharah Whopthtraw."

Richard fell into the whoops.

Everyone regarded him with sympathetic tolerance, even Amy. Emily was hard put not
to laugh, too. So he had had further commerce with Sir Robert and Lady Sarah.

"It's a good name, Amy." Emily bestowed an approving nod on the puzzled child.
"Doña Barbara and Doña Inez will be happy to receive Lady Sarah."

Sheepish and still chuckling, Richard wiped his eyes. "Sorry."

"That'th all right, Papa." Amy had already examined the fabric of the doll's gown. She
gave a small satisfied nod and began to remove Lady Sarah's bonnet. She was very critical of her
dolls' hair.

Richard said out of the corner of his mouth, "Tell me her teeth will grow back
thoon."

"I trust they may. Matt's did." Emily choked on a laugh. Richard was certainly in tearing
high spirits.

"Show us your fangs, Matt."

Matt grinned cheekily around a mouthful of cake.

"My God, aren't they rather large?"

"Matt's face will grow to accommodate his teeth in due time," Aunt Fan offered.

"How old are you now, Matt?"

"Seven and a quarter. On my birthday," Matt pronounced, "I want a few de joy, like the
king."

Richard winced. "Can you possibly mean a
feu de joie?"

Matt looked at Emily.

"It is a French phrase," Emily said blandly. "We must defer to Colonel Falk's
pronunciation, Matt. After all, he has the Order of Saint Lewis."

Richard flushed and grinned. "I knew there had to be a use for it. I'll set myself up as a
tutor. French and deportment at a shilling a week."

Matt stared at him wide-eyed. Aunt Fan looked rather shocked. The sight of her aunt's
disapproving face sent
Emily
into the whoops. It was plain that the gathering had begun to
disintegrate. Tommy, worn out with glory, was half asleep in his plate.

The children safely abed, Emily and Aunt Fan carried Richard bodily off to the
withdrawing room for explanations. Aunt Fan deserved that courtesy, though Emily had begun to
wish herself and Richard marooned on a desert isle.

Would they never be alone together? Not that Richard seemed conscious of any such
desire. Having spent two nights on the mail coach, he was by then nearly unconscious in the
absolute sense of the word. A pot of strong tea and the intricacies of his narrative woke him up
sufficiently for coherent speech, though he continued to suppress yawns at the most hair-raising
points in the story.