Bar Sinister (5 page)

Emily began to dread the coming ordeal of Christmas. She had three brothers, two of
them older than she, and married, with large families of children. Her younger brother, James, was
still unwed at seven and twenty, and something of a rake. Like other rakes before him he was
prudish in the extreme where the repute of his kinswomen was concerned. When he heard of
Captain Falk's overnight sojourn at Wellfield House, James flew into the boughs. He was ready to
call Falk out and heartily disappointed to find the man had already fled the country. Although Emily
was equal to depressing the pretentions of her brothers and withered James with a few well-chosen
phrases, his rodomontade promised ill with regard to the family's probable feelings about Captain
Falk's children.

As James and the other Mayne males converged on their ancestral home, Emily toyed
with the idea of refusing to bring the children for the traditional goose and plum pudding dinner.
But Matt would have been crushed by such a decision and so would Emily's father. At least Papa did
not demand Emily's presence on Boxing Day.

The huge dinner party on Christmas evening was every bit as appalling as Emily foresaw.
Christmas was the one day of the year at which all the grandchildren except infants in arms dined
with their elders. As a rule Emily found the sight of so many scrubbed nieces and nephews
diverting. This year she kept seeing the event through the eyes of a frightened three-year-old
abandoned in the midst of gabbling strangers.

All the while Emily exchanged chitchat with her sisters-in-law, admired their offspring,
explained for the hundredth time why she had taken in someone else's brats, nodded and smiled
and sampled the overrich viands, she knew the child who shrank beside her was utterly desolate.
Emily kept Amy's cold little hand in her own and wished time would fly.

The child ate nothing and said nothing. On Emily's right Matt wriggled and giggled. The
noise level rose and fell as course followed course. At last, as abruptly and inexplicably as an
eclipse, the candles were snuffed. Into the appalling darkness a livened footman, his face lit from
beneath and distorted with his efforts, bore in the flaming pudding.

It was too much for Amy. She began to sob, softly at first, then wildly, hysterically.
There was nothing for it but to beat a quick retreat.

"Stay by your Aunt Jane," Emily hissed at Matt as she rose with the rigid, wailing child in
her arms. Matt nodded, wide-eyed. Everyone was staring, Sir Henry balefully. Emily fled.

That night, alone in her darkened bedchamber, Emily almost made up her mind to write
Captain Falk that she could not keep his daughter. It had taken nearly an hour to calm the little girl,
and she instantly withdrew once more into her shell of silence. But what would become of Amy if
Emily did not keep her?

From Peggy McGrath's casual remarks Emily had begun to draw a picture of the perils
attendant on following the army. She envisaged Amy captured with the baggage, as might have
happened that very year had Captain Falk not providentially been wounded in the siege of Burgos
and compelled to leave his duties before the army made its disastrous retreat into Portugal. No.
Even in settled, comfortable circumstances, life was a fragile thing--as Emily's own daughter
showed, dead at two of the same fever that had killed Edward Foster.

Resolutely Emily beat back the tide of melancholy that recollection always brought. No.
She would not abandon Amy. But what she would do to reach the child Emily could not think. It
was well past midnight before she climbed, shivering, into her now cold bed. She cried a little, but
that did no good. Finally she fell into a restless sleep.

As a rule the children took their breakfast in the nursery, but Emily had always made
Boxing Day breakfast a feast, and Matt expected to find his gifts by his special place in the breakfast
room. She did not like to disappoint him. Indeed she meant to reassure him of his importance to
her now that the other children claimed so much of her attention. Amy had certainly claimed her
attention on Christmas Day. Accordingly Emily rose early. Feeling somewhat the worse for wear,
she donned her prettiest grey morning gown and tiptoed in to wake Matt.

She had a very good private chat with him. He had found a sixpence in his portion of
pudding and he told her of that and of trouncing his cousins at spillikins, and he didn't dawdle
overmuch at his dressing either. When he was scrubbed and looking fair and fresh in his best
nankeens and the new navy jacket with gilt buttons, Emily peeked in on Peggy and her
charges.

The wet nurse was suckling Tommy. Amy lay on her trundle, thumb in mouth. She
wouldn't look at Emily.

"What's wrong with her?" Matt demanded, scornful.

"Hush, Matt. Will you dress her and bring the two of them down directly, Peggy?"

"I will that." Peggy glanced at Amy. "Her ladyship woke twice in the night, missus. Bad
dreams."

"Did you make her a glass of hot milk?"

"Yes,
but she wouldn't take it. She don't like milk, missus."

"Oh dear, I forgot. I'm sorry, Peggy." Emily went to the trundle and touched Amy's hair.
Amy held her breath.
"Pobrecita,"
Emily murmured.
"Dolce niña."

"Er, it's
dulce,
missus."

"Dulce,"
Emily repeated wearily. "Bring them down when they're ready,
please, Peggy. Matt and I have something to do first."

Ordinarily Emily delighted in her son's pleasure as he played the lord of the manor. Now
she watched almost absentmindedly as he gave the grinning groom, Phillida, and Mrs. Harry their
customary vails. He made a small neat speech thanking them for their faithful service. When they
applauded his efforts he beamed and looked up at Emily for approval. Abruptly, she knelt and gave
him a bear hug. He was a quick, confident little chap. She really did not deserve such a
paragon.

"You were splendiferous," she whispered and he giggled at the wonderful new word, and
Mrs. Harry and Phillida made much of him. The groom, eager to be off home for the day, shuffled
his feet. Presently Phillida and Mrs. Harry, who had taken Christmas with their families, began to
bustle about, anxious to serve the breakfast, so Emily and Matt took leave of them.

"Will there be presents?" Matt asked, jumping along at her side.

"Just a lump of coal," Emily teased.

"Oh, Mama."

Emily relented. "Yes. I think so. One or two."

Matt gave a joyous leap. "Dozens!"

"Well, not quite so many. Will you help me, Matt? Amy's papa sent gifts from
Portugal."

Matt made a face.

"There's one for you, too," Emily said gently.

"Oh."

"Here." She unlocked the china cabinet in the dining room. "This little one is for
Tommy. Carry it in to the breakfast room for me, please."

Matt bore the small box in very carefully and set it by the place Emily indicated. He
looked at the four set places, covertly comparing the small piles of gifts by each plate to see which
was biggest. "Where do I sit?"

"Where you always sit. Tommy is beside you. Here."

"What does that say? Mat-thew," he spelt out, screwing up his face at the unfamiliar black
letters. "Ha!"

Emily set the larger parcel marked
Amy
by the other place. "Did you look by
the curtains?"

Matt turned, eyes wide as saucers. A rocking horse as tall as he was and handsomely
accoutred stood by the window.

He emitted a shrill whistle. "For me?"

"For the nursery," Emily said firmly, but Matt was already beside the horse, inspecting its
equipage with satisfied grunts. He would have to be brought to share. At the moment, with Amy
passive and silent, that was not a problem. Emily watched her son mount his charger, and
sighed.

Phillida served the meal, for once dropping nothing. Matt kept pinching his packages.
Occasionally he had to be reminded to swallow. Peggy McGrath held the bright-eyed Thomas on
her lap and ate heartily. She was totally unembarrassed to be eating with the family, Emily saw with
relief. From time to time the nurse popped a choice morsel into Tommy's rosebud mouth, all the
while commenting with hyperbolic Hibernian approval on the table, the setting, the food, and the
beauty of the children.

Amy sat beside Emily, who induced the girl to down a bit of toast and several spoonsful
of porridge. Amy looked pretty in her best wool gown. Brown became her, but Emily vowed to
make the child some less utilitarian garments. Although, she thought, that would be beside the
point if Amy were to spend the rest of her early years in a brown study.

"Can't we open them now, Mama?" Matt had reached the limit of his patience.

Emily said, resigned, "'May we not.' Yes, Matt. But one at a time, and starting with
Peggy."

"Me!" Peggy looked delighted and scandalised. "Faith, missus, there's no need for
it."

"It's the custom," Emily said gently. "Go ahead, Peggy. The first is from Matt."

Peggy's presents were perhaps a trifle predictable. There were a small net purse with a
gold guinea--the lord of the manor's gift--a length of soft wool from Emily for a new gown, and a
lace cap with a blue ribbon through it, which was also from Emily in lieu of something from the
Falk children. Tommy chewed on the purse, Peggy exclaimed, Matt looked pleased with himself
and not too impatient. Amy stared.

At least she was staring
at
something, and not just into thin air. Emily opened
her own trinkets. Matt had constructed a handsome penwiper, Phillida a reticule covered with any
number of glued periwinkle shells, and Mrs. Harry had sewed a set of fine lawn handkerchiefs,
which, as she was a notable needlewoman, were a handsome gift. Emily rather thought she liked
the penwiper best.

"My turn?" Matt, dancing with impatience.

"Yes, very well. You're next oldest."

He ripped through his gifts like a gale, silver paper flying, and did not seem at all
discommoded to find among them a box of lead soldiers--from Emily--and a box of wooden
soldiers--Captain Falk. Indeed, when he had approved his other gifts, Matt set the soldiers up all
around his place. It seemed likely that the wooden ones would be overborne by the leaden
ones.

"Thank your papa," Matt said politely to Amy.

Papa.
Amy did not speak but Emily could have sworn her lips moved.

Emily picked up the largish, oblong parcel from Lisbon. She took a deep breath and
plunged. "This is for you." She set the packet beside Amy's left hand. "From your papa, Amy.
De su papa.
Tell her, Peggy, please."

Peggy obliged with a short burst of Spanish.

Amy's eyes widened and she touched the package gingerly.

"Shall I help you open it, darling?" Emily tore open the paper without any delicacy at all.
The parcel was stoutly wrapped. Emily fumbled the last tie loose and lifted the lid. A handsome
bisque doll dressed in the Spanish style reposed in the box, a note pinned to the gown. Emily
puzzled the message out.
A Amy. Feliz Navidad. La señora se llama 'Doña Inez.' Papa.
And in English,
Someone for Amy to talk to.
Carefully, her fingers trembling, Emily
removed the doll and put it in the little girl's lap.

"De papa,"
Amy whispered.

"Yes, darling. I mean,
sí. De papa. Para tí.
Peggy, tell her that the
doll is called Doña Inez and that it is to keep Amy company." Emily gave up the paraphrase
and quoted, "Someone to talk to."

Peggy looked game but baffled, and tried a few sentences.

"De papa,"
Amy said aloud. She asked a question, hands clutched on the doll,
eyes bright.

Peggy burst into laughter.

"What is it?"

"She wants to know if it's a saint, missus."

"No. My word!" Emily was too intent on the small secular miracle occurring to be
diverted into theology. "Tell her a friend,
una amiga.
Tell her Doña Inez can
understand her."

"Doña Inez?"
Amy finally caught at the name through Emily's clumsy
pronunciation.
"Oh, claro! Claro!"
And she began to jabber away to the doll as if she had
never heard of silence.

Peggy beamed. "Will ye listen to that?"

"Very happily." Emily leaned back in her chair, limp as an old dishclout with relief.
"Whew. What is she saying?"

"I can't follow her when she goes along at that clip, missus. Something about his honour
and a carriage and a big ball of fire."

The plum pudding. The blasted plum pudding. "I wish I knew why she stopped
talking."

Peggy jiggled Tommy and removed a napkin ring from his mouth. "Have ye thought that
mebbe she didn't understand why the captain went off?"

Emily said, "Yes, of course I thought of that, but he did explain."

"He told her he had to go away. I've turned it over in me mind, missus. When
Doña Isabel died Amy didn't understand, and they all kept telling her her mama had gone
away to God. She didn't know
muerte.
Could it be that, d'ye think?"

Emily stared at Peggy's good-natured face with consternation. "I ought to have thought of
it. She was afraid to let her father out of her sight. How clever of you, Peggy."

Peggy flushed. "Whisht, missus, haven't I known Amy since she was born? She's a deep
one."

"Doña Inez," Amy said happily and stuffed a half eaten piece of toast into her
mouth. Crumbs fell on the doll's gown. She brushed them off fastidiously, then looked from Emily
to Peggy. A long question, uttered through the remains of the toast, rattled out.

Peggy answered her, smiling.

"What now? Who is Doña Inez?"

"Nobody, then. It's only a story his honour was always spinning for her. They was making
it up together as they went along, see."

Emily did see. "I wonder if he would write a bit of it down for her from time to
time?"

"I dunno, missus," Peggy said doubtfully. "They always talked Spanish and he'd have to
put it in English for you, wouldn't he? I ain't a scholar."