Feather Castles (13 page)

Clinging to her hand, Rachel tensed and said miserably, “How can I promise to protect a man who spies on my husband?”

“An innocent man has nothing to fear, little one. And if we find Claude to be innocent after all, why—so much the better, eh? Meanwhile, will you at least agree that should you feel obliged to reveal Diccon's true purpose, you will tell him of it first, so that he will have a chance to get away?”

The implications contained in that request were frightening, or would be was there any truth to the matter. Rachel searched her conscience. To refuse must imply a fear that Claude indeed plotted against England—which was ridiculous. Reluctantly, therefore, she gave her promise.

*   *   *

Thanks to the thriving business enjoyed by “The Jolly Countryman,” Tristram was able to engage a post-chaise to convey Sister Maria Evangeline back to her convent. Why the nun had made so sudden a change in her plans, he could not guess, but that the decision had distressed Rachel was very obvious. Suspecting that she had quarrelled with the nun, he tactfully rode escort beside the carriage during this final portion of their journey but made no attempt to converse with her.

For some reason he had formed the impression that Strand Hall was a small country house, but when they arrived in late afternoon, coming through what must once have been a fine park, his preconceived notions were banished. Although obviously run down, the sprawling edifice was still a spectacular sight with its pillared front and the soar of the neo-classical architecture. The pillars were chipped now and broken away in places, the paint was faded and peeling, and the once white stucco of the exterior showed sadly weather-stained. Never impressed by pretension, Tristram thought it a perfect setting for one of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels, and wondered whether Rachel was deeply fond of the place. The setting was charming, certainly; the house being centred in large—if weedy—pleasure gardens, and looking out to the west over rolling, wooded hills. An energetic steward, he thought, might have accomplished much even during Strand's absence, but then, perhaps there were not sufficient funds to support the hiring of such an individual.

The butler wheeled Charity's chair onto the terrace to meet them, and Rachel's depressed spirits appeared to revive as she ran to greet her sister. Tristram was commanded to take dinner with them, and the butler, a lean, greying man named Fisher, was sent off to arrange that a room be prepared so that their guest could rest and refresh himself. Tristram had thought this the end of the idyll and was grateful for a possible extension of this dream that must live forever in his heart. Still, he was a bachelor and no suitable chaperon to hand. He declined, his eyes so clearly betraying a longing to accept, that the housekeeper, who had also come out onto the terrace, warmed to him immediately. Turning to her employer, she discerned a look of dismay in the girl's face and, having an axe of her own to grind, suggested that dinner be moved up. Bravely offering to notify the cook that he must provide an excellent meal within the hour, she said reasonably, “If you was to sit down to table at half past five, Miss Rachel, Captain Tristram could reach the village before dark. We could send a boy to arrange accommodations for him. That should satisfy convention, do you not think, ma'am?”

Rachel's eyes flew to Tristram. “I think it would answer, Mrs. Hayward. Unless the Captain has other plans.”

He bowed—not to his hostess, but to the amused housekeeper. Then, proffering his arm to Rachel, said, “I am most grateful to accept.” Rachel smiled radiantly; Charity took his free hand, and in happy captivity he was led into the house.

The entrance hall was a cold chamber of great size, with fading ceiling paintings and a vast fireplace about which were grouped some rather pitiful sofas. The mantle was cracked, and the enormous tapestry that hung upon one wall did nothing to add warmth to the room, its only redeeming feature being that it appeared to have allowed generations of kittens to swing from its gloomy magnificence. Tristram thought, “The Priory!” but memory stopped there.

Fisher returned and led him to the chamber allotted him. It was another outsized room with a ceiling that spoke of a smoking chimney. Sunshine poured through the large windows, however, and it was more than adequate for his present needs. Fisher seemed to take a delight in fussing over him, insisting upon unpacking the valise that held the few belongings the nun had so kindly bestowed upon him, and working such magic with his dusty garments that he felt quite presentable by the time he went downstairs.

There was no sign of the Misses Strand, but a maid approached, dropped a curtsy and told him there was wine in the drawing room did he wish to wait there. Her manner was kind, but her eyes were riveted to his face and, very conscious of his scars, Tristram told her he would instead stroll about the grounds, and retreated.

The afternoon had become warm and rather muggy, and he wandered unhurriedly along a path that led around to the side of the house. An elderly spaniel, sprawling in the shade of an apple tree, gathered itself together and padded over to inspect this new arrival. Tristram stroked the dog and invited it to join him. He was promptly presented with a somewhat misshapen ball; the spaniel retrieved only twice, however, then returned to the shade of the tree as though it considered its obligation fulfilled. Tristram followed the ball he had thrown and began to kick it along absently, thinking of the Misses Strand and how different they were: Rachel, so vibrantly lovely with her shining fair curls and the laughter dancing in those deep blue eyes; Charity, frail and tiny, her thin features lit by great eyes somewhere between green and grey, hair of a light sandy shade banded neatly, and rather austerely, about her head. She was no beauty, nor ever would be unless an improvement in her health effected a drastic change in her looks. Despite her long illness, however, her pale face held a look of gentle patience and she had her sister's merry sense of humour, so that one could not help but both admire and like her.

He had by now come round to the rear of the mansion and, guiding the ball through an area of high shrubs, discovered a barn in about as decrepit a condition as the main house. The ball sailed across the cobblestones and bounced against the side of the barn, and from within a voice called anxiously, “Is that you, Riggs?”

Rachel! His pulse accelerating as it always did when he was near her, he replied, “I don't think so. Though you may be right, at that.”

“Tristram? Thank goodness! I came looking for you.”

He entered the barn and, blinking in the sudden dimness, discerned her halfway up a ladder that was propped against the hayloft. She held a large box in her hands, and peered over her shoulder at him with a rather embarrassed smile.

“You thought I was up there?” he asked incredulously.

“No, of course not. I heard kittens mewing and came up to see if Pieces had become a mama again.”

She looked adorable, he thought, her cheeks flushed as she stood there holding the box, from which emanated feline sounds of indignation, compensating in shrillness for what they lacked in volume. “How naughty of you,” he grinned, moving closer. “And in your high-heeled slippers, too!”

“Well, I had changed for dinner and came to show you about the grounds, so it is all your fault that I now find myself in this ridiculous predicament.” Smiling, she jerked her head downwards. “My flounce has caught itself on that splinter so that I can move neither up nor down, and—” she gave a rueful shrug, “each time I attempt to free it, these foolish creatures try to escape so that I fear they will fall and kill themselves.”

Tristram quickly mounted the rungs of the ladder, freed her gown with deft assurance, then reached around her for the box. She relinquished it gratefully, and he descended, set the box down, and turned back to aid her. The rotting ladder looked none too safe, he thought, and his weight had not benefitted it. Even as he reached out for her, the rung onto which she stepped gave way. Uttering a small shriek, she toppled, but he was ready, and caught her. With her arms about his neck, she laughed breathlessly, and he cradled her as he might have held a child, gazing down into her lovely face.

The laughter died from her eyes, to be replaced by a look of inexpressible tenderness. The bonds of honour that had so unyieldingly restrained him, melted away, and with a small sigh he bent to her lips. It would have been simple enough for Rachel to swing her head away; holding her as he was, he could not have compelled her. Instead, she lifted her face, her lashes sweeping down so that her eyes were half closed. And Tristram kissed her and with awed reverence felt her respond to him.

In that tempestuous instant, Rachel knew how she had yearned for his embrace, and knew also a dizzying joy, such as she had never before experienced. For an enchanted space she was lost, drifting ecstatically in a dream so perfect, so wonderfully sweet as to obliterate all else.

Tristram raised his head, but still holding her tightly, kissed her cheeks, her closed eyes, her brow, whispering his adoration.

Pieces put an end to this rapture. Sailing triumphantly into the barn, bearing the sausage she had stolen from the kitchen, the large multicoloured cat was confronted by the sight of her offspring exploring the floor. She dropped her prize and uttered a piercing yowl of consternation.

Rachel gave a gasp and was abruptly returned to the mundane.

Just as suddenly jolted back to reality, Tristram set her down hurriedly. For a brief, aghast moment, they gazed at one another. Then he turned and stepped away and, driving one fist into his palm, groaned wretchedly, “God forgive me! I should be shot for compromising you so! What have I to offer you?”

Rachel stretched a hand toward his hunched shoulders, but withdrew it. “It was not your fault,” she said unsteadily, her eyes blurring with painful tears. “I was … equally to blame.”

He spun around. “I must first clear my name, and shall go to the Horse Guards at once. But, I doubt, my dearest one, that you were kissed by a murderer. That fear has almost left me, thank God! When I return, I—”

“No!” she interpolated, her voice trembling. “You—you must not—”

“Offer for you? No. Nor will I until I have discovered who and what I am.” He stepped closer to seize her nerveless hand and hold it between both his own. “My conduct has been utterly shameful, but I shall add to it, by begging that you will wait a month, beloved. Should I discover that I have neither name nor expectations, I will not embarrass you further. But—if my prospects prove not contemptible, will you tell me to whom I must speak?”

“No!” She pulled away, staring up at him with dilating eyes, the pretty blush quite drained from her cheeks. “I should have told you long since. Oh, how I wish I had! Tristram—” She gripped her hands in agitation, drew a deep, quivering breath, and blurted, “I am betrothed!”

He stood motionless, so shocked it was as if she had struck him. Rachel saw his face become drawn and white, while a look of such anguished disbelief came into his eyes that her tears spilled over. “I am so sorry,” she whispered. “Oh, I am so very sorry!”

“No cause,” he said in a croak of a voice. “None at all. May I know—who…?”

“You are not acquainted. He is Guy's brother. Claude Sanguinet.”

“I see. Then—his is the yacht we sailed on?”

She nodded mutely.

Tristram's hands were clenched so tightly that the nails drove into his palms. He managed a travesty of a smile. “Rather formidable competition, for a man with—with no identity. Has your engagement been made public?”

“Yes. It was in
The Gazette
last month.”

He nodded. It was the death knell to his last faint hope. He tried to say goodbye; to take up her hand with poised dignity and kiss it lightly, and leave. But now he dared not touch her again. Nor could he bring himself to leave her. She looked so stricken, so grieving. Against all his instincts, he gasped, “Rachel—only tell me—do you love him?”

Her head went down. In a muffled voice she answered, “I shall marry him.”

Tristram flinched. For a few moments he was rigidly silent. “Forgive me,” he said at length. “This is very bad, but—if my name should be cleared and my background proves acceptable … Might you—? I mean—were I to call on him and—and explain, could you—give me a chance?”

Half blinded by tears, she blinked up into his imploring eyes, and gulped, “It is—not possible. He has been so—so very good. And—” She gave a helpless gesture, words all but failing her. “It is just—too late, you see.”

“Of course. And I am behaving—” he drew a hand across his eyes in a distracted confusion, “—behaving disgracefully. I can only wish you happy, and thank you for all you have done.”

Not waiting for a response, he walked blindly to the door, but he could not cross the threshold, not without one last glimpse of his love. She was still standing immobile, a slim, lovely shape in the dusty old barn, the sunlight playing on her pink muslin gown and waking bright gleams along the trails that tears had painted on her cheeks.

Tristram had no consciousness of having moved, but suddenly he was reaching out to her. Her arms went about his neck, and he crushed her close and warm and dear against his heart. He did not speak, nor did he attempt to kiss her. Eyes closed, he bowed his head, feeling the silk of her curls brush his lips, feeling her arms tighten about him. For a long, ecstatic moment they remained thus, clasped in that silent, bittersweet farewell. At last, he put her from him and gazed down into her poignant face. He traced the line of her cheek with one gentle fingertip. Then he strode swiftly from the barn, leaving her alone with Pieces and her kittens.

Chapter 6

The hand-painted hairbrush and comb were neatly disposed upon the dressing table. A mirrored tray held a variety of dainty little pots and bottles, a hare's foot, and a rather meagre assortment of perfumes. But, seated before the mirror, Rachel availed herself of none of these articles. Her hands were folded in her lap, her lacklustre eyes gazed blankly at her reflection, and her thoughts were with Tristram. Where was he at this moment? Was he, perhaps, thinking of her as achingly as she thought of him? She had managed to slip into the house yesterday afternoon without being observed. Upstairs, Agatha had looked at her with obvious consternation, but upon being told that Captain Tristram had decided to proceed at once to London, and that dinner could be set back to the usual hour, she had made no comment but gone downstairs at once to inform the cook. And Rachel had wept, shaken by so violent a storm of grief she had wondered her heart did not break. When Agatha returned she had managed to conceal her face in the sheet and had pretended to be asleep. The abigail had tiptoed silently away to spread the word that her mistress was tired out from the journey, and thus Rachel had been granted sufficient time to so restore herself that she had been able to go down to dinner looking only a trifle strained.