Elisabeth Fairchild (10 page)

The weather worn face proved a closed book, no emotion to be read there, only a bright watchfulness in the faded blue eyes. “But a joy. We love the lass,” he said.

“As my Aunt does her dear Mary.  She is a sweet, taking thing.”

His gaze strayed to the dance floor, to the sweet taking thing this man’s daughter was.

Mr. Foster eyed him steadily,  as if to divine his purpose.

Alexander smiled, well pleased with their brief exchange.

As for the old men, and those who stood listening, they  watched Penny dance, and Alexander, watching them watch her, liked to think they began to see her a little differently.

Oscar numbered was among those who overheard this exchange. He made a point of joining Alexander at the cider cask where he asked quietly, “Is the child not hers then?”

Alexander shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Nor would I care to speculate, but I wonder if you would be so  good as to ask Miss Foster to dance?”

Oscar watched Penny stepping lightly in the dance,  cheeks pink with pleasure. He smiled. “Small hardship. She is a pretty wench, and I hear . . .”

Alexander grabbed his friend in what appeared to be a companionable manner, and squeezing Oscar’s elbow, bent his head close to say, “Best behavior, if you please. Most polite.”

Oscar’s brows rose. He wrenched his elbow from Alexander’s grip and grinned as he gave it a rub. “Like her, do you?”

“I would put her out of her misery.”

Oscar frowned at this, puzzled, but he did not beg explanation, merely  set off to do the honors as the music wound to a close.

Alexander watched Penny join the dance surreptitiously as he made his way around the room endearing himself to the locals. The evening beganlook like a success.

Val spoiled it.

He drank too much from the silver whiskey flask he kept always about his person, liberally spiking the already spirited cider, and when he was no longer in full possession of wit, or good sense, he swaggered across the dance floor to confront Penny Foster.

Alexander was too distant to hear what it was he asked of her, but the negative shake of her head was as unmistakable as Val’s reaction. His faintly inebriated voice carried above the screech of the fiddle, above the enthusiastic thump of the dancer’s feet.

“Too much, Touch-me-not? Nonsense, I have not yet had enough. Besides, my dear, I thought you liked me best when my head was turned.”

His voice turned heads.

One of the fiddlers missed a note.

The dancers slowed. The moment sped by too fast, like ball and powder once firing mechanism was pulled. No stopping it.

Oh, Lord, Alexander thought. Not again. Oscar got to Val first, but not soon enough.

“Is she mine?” Val swayed on his feet, gestures expansive.

Oscar linked arms with him, said something in his ear.

“Don’t shush me, Oscar,” Val tried to throw him off. “This is none of your affair. I would know. Is she mine?”

Coming up behind his inebriated companion, Alexander could see pain writ plain on Penny Foster’s lips, in the downward cast of her eyes.

Alexander braced Val’s free arm, leaning into the fog of apple-scented whiskey fumes, “This is neither the time, nor the . . .”

“Time?” Val jerked away, face livid, chin belligerent, his equilibrium affected by the whirl of nearby dancers. “Six years!” he shouted.

The fiddlers squealed to a halt. The piper trailed away. The dancers fell still.

“Six years gone. Never . . . never knew she existed.”

His words echoed in the  dreadful quiet.

Penny’s low voice broke the stillness. “And if you had?” She advanced on them, regal as any queen. “If you had known of her existence? Would you have publicly claimed a child conceived out of wedlock, Valentine Wharton? Would you have resigned your commission? Come home from the fighting? Seen her fed, clothed, educated and loved?”

“She is mine, then?” Val concluded, voice loud, focus finite.

She responded in the same  calm, well modulated tone. “I did not say that. I merely ask what would have been different had you known the child existed.”

A puzzled look furrowed Val’s brow.

“And if I were to say yes? What then? What would you do with an illegitimate daughter, Valentine?”

He shook his head, as if he were a bear and she the buzzing bee. “I would . . . would . . .”

“Expect your parents to look after her while you jaunt across the Continent? Forget that idea. They have already refused her. Perhaps you would send her off to boarding school? Let strangers see to her upbringing? Tell me, would you name her in your will? Would you allow the legitimate children I am sure you will one day father know she exists?”

Glaring at her he flung his punch cup across the dance floor, shattering glass, scattering the flock of dancers. Shocked gasps met his violence. Alexander stepped between the two of them, ready to come to blows if Val turned his anger on Penny.

“Slut,” Val spat, loud enough that most everyone present might hear him.et was one of his favorite obscenities when he was drunk.

She flinched, but stood her ground, steely-eyed. “You would be pleased, perhaps, to hear me say, no, now, would you not? She is not yours?”

Val’s only reply in that instant was to curse her most foully, before casting up accounts, in the middle of the dance floor.

Val dozed on the way home, leaning out of the window occasionally to further relieve himself of too much spirits.

Oscar turned to Alexander during one of these bouts, and whispered, eyes narrowed, “Never did get a straight answer out of her, did he?”

Alexander shook his head.

“His, isn’t she?”

Alexander sighed, shrugged, heart heavy. “I make no assumptions,” he said, mouth dry, the taste of cider bitter on his tongue.

Chapter Eleven

It dawned sunny and clear the following day, and Alexander knew, at first glance through his bedchamber window, where he would find her. He could not, of course, be sure which of the fells Miss Foster would walk, but that she must walk them today was a certainty.

And yet, it seemed he would not have a chance to hunt for her. Red-eyed and hang dog, Val slunk early into the breakfast room, a cheerful room with a southern exposure that Val met almost every morning with a scowl and the order to draw the draperies lest he be blinded by the light.

As a result, Alexander made a habit of breakfasting early, before Val rose, for he liked the light that poured like golden honey across the breakfast table.

“God help me, “ Val grumbled, squinting at Alexander’s bowl of porridge. “I would rather die than down anything so disgusting.”

“There is plenty to choose from,” Alexander waved at the sideboard.

Val groaned, turned his nose up at the sideboard’s steaming dishes, threw himself down in a chair, and carefully, as if it were made of fine china, rested his head upon the white linen tablecloth.

Yarrow followed him in, and drew the drapes, throwing a cheerless gloom upon the room that Val met with a grunt.

“Coffee?” Alexander asked, pouring a cup.

“Gently!” Val grumbled when he set the saucer on the table beside his head.

“Headache?” Alexander asked.

The deflated shoulders shrugged wrinkles into the tablecloth. “No worse than usual.

Oscar sauntered into the room whistling.  “Damn, but it’s dark in here,” he complained, flinging open the draperies nearest the food. He clapped hands together at sight of the sideboard. “Mm. Smells good!  And I have worked up quite an appetite with all last night’s dancing. I am in the mood for coddled eggs and a rasher of bacon. No! Smoked salmon and mushroom toast.”

Val made a muffled groan. “What puts you in such a good mood?”

“Oh, I say,” Oscar showed no pity as he spooned eggs onto a plate with a rattle of cutlery. “You must have a dreadful head on you this morning, old sod, after last night’s fracas.”

Val spoke into the tablecloth. “I’ve no memory of it.”

“At Fiona’s.” Oscar obligingly reminded him.

Alexander gave hint from his coffee cup.  “It involved Miss Foster.”

Oscar laughed and waved his fork. “Indeed, it was a frightful fracas at Fiona’s over the fathering of Miss Foster’s Felicity.”

Val rolled his eyes without lifting his head. “Funny.”

“It wasn’t,” Alexander contradicted, carrying his coffee to the window. “Rather embarrassing, really.”

“I embarrass you?” Val sounded wearily miffed.

“Not me.” Oscar snorted. “I am accustomed to your drunken mean-spiritedness.”

Val peered at them from beneath the pale, tousled forelock of his hair, the golden boy, used to being excused the morning after.

Alexander considered his words carefully before he said, “You’re a fine fellow when not in your cups, Val.”

“And when I am?” Val’s eyes half closed, though whether from the pain in his head, or their confrontation, Alexander could not tell.

“You ruin what little reputation Miss Foster has left to her,” he said sadly. “Cruelly so.”

“Touch-me-not? Bah!” Val waved a hand, as if nothing more need be said.

Alexander stared a moment at the winter-browned garden, the leafless trees. He was not prepared to let the matter drop. “You go too far, old friend. I take no pride in your company when you behave so.”

Val shrugged and lay his head back down upon the table. “This from gentlemen who are beholden to my hospitality,” he grumbled.

“True, of course.” Oscar forked down a mouthful, pointing the tines at Alexander. “Rather ill-mannered to confront our host, in his own home.”

Alexander abandoned his coffee cup, and rose. “Right you are. I overstay my welcome.”

“Damn right!” Val growled.

Alexander stood a moment regarding the top of his friend’s head. Dust motes danced golden above the sun touched hair. “Thank you for having me, Val.”

“And me. Superb fishing,” Oscar said through a mouthful of salmon as he wiped crumbs from his mouth and rose, chair screeching.

“God! Still there, are you?” Val grumbled into his armpit. “Go on. Get out. I shall be glad to see the backs of you, both of you.”

Oscar slid an amused look Alexander’s way.

“For that,” Alexander said gently, “You must lift your head, old friend.”

“And open the drapes,” Alexander said with a chuckle.

Val’s hand rose, a white flag, waving them away.

Chapter Twelve

He packed his things, saddled the gray, and rode with Oscar through the streets of Appleby before the sun was long risen.

“Heading home, are you?” Oscar asked.

“No,” Alexander said. “I have yet to go fell walking.”

Oscar laughed. “With the man eating dog?”

Alexander nodded. “You know me,” he said. “I love a challenge.”
“Right, you are. Where will you stay?”

“Local inn,” he said. “Give Val time to cool off and sober up. Perhaps we can patch things up.”

Oscar raised one brow. “Has he ever been sober? In the time that you have known him?”

Alexander shrged. “No, but I should hate to end it thus.”

Oscar plucked at his mustache. “Care to share a room? I’ve a mind to get in a bit more fishing, but will soon drown in River Tick if I must pay full price for accommodations.”

“I hoped you might stay,” Alexander said.

“Do you think he might come round? The lad’s prime enough when he is not castaway. “

Alexander studied the crenellated tower of Caesar’s Tower, pale against the trees. “I hope so.”

Oscar promised to book them a room at the Black Boy, a back street sort of establishment, nothing to strain their purses, following which he might be found along the river, fishing. They would meet again for supper.

Alexander nodded, handed over his kit, and with a wave to his friend, rode the three miles from Appleby to Dufton, headed for the fells at last, for a sight Miss Foster had mentioned, known as the High Cup.

Dufton was a pleasant, white cottage village surrounded by orchards, grazing cattle and a church-topped knoll. Squat sandstone edifices edged a tree-lined green dominated by a post-and-ball topped watering trough where he stopped the gray. Latin inscribed the stones, a pun, poorly worded.