Feather Castles (21 page)

“Oh, no. It is that I like to have people about me. Very often the chateau is filled with guests even when I am away. Gerard knows how to go on. He is most efficient and, fortunately for me, his talents are—diversified. Which reminds me, my love, that I must tear myself away for a week or so. It is very bad, and I beg your forgiveness, but—alas—an urgent matter.”

“A—week or so?” Rachel echoed in dismay. “But—the ball is to be this coming Friday, is it not?”

“It was, but I have had to postpone it. Did I not tell you? Oh, how absent-minded I am become! We shall instead receive our guests two weeks from Friday.”

Charity rather studiedly gazed at a fold of her gown. Aghast, Rachel cried, “But—I had expected to be home by then. There are so many arrangements to be made.”

He smiled indulgently. “You must allow me to handle your arrangements from now on,
chérie.
I had thought we would be wed here. And there is not the necessity for you to return, for anything you need can be brought from Sussex, and—”

“Here?” She halted, staring at him.

“Do not say you object, dear Rachel I have so often pictured you in your bridal dress coming down my beautiful staircase. How glorious you will look.”

“But, I—well, yes, I
do
object! I have friends—a few. And family, who must at least be visited. A million things to do. And—oh! this is most vexatious! You should have consulted with me, Claude, before—” She stopped with a startled gasp as a stream of water came through the tall hedge to send mud splattering over the flounce of her gown.

Claude uttered a muffled curse and called angrily, “Come here!
Vite!
” He bent to wipe Rachel's gown with his handkerchief, then looked up as a young gardener hurried to them, hat in hands.

Watching Claude's face, Charity caught a glimpse of a different expression at last, and caught her breath. Rachel, seeing only the back of Claude's head, was more interested in the gardener. The boy's freckles were dark against his white face, the grey eyes wide with fear.

“Monseigneur! Mademoiselle!” he gulped. “M-My humble apologies. I did not know you were just there. Not for the world would I—”

“It is quite all right,” Rachel smiled. “Purely an accident.”

He did not so much as glance at her, his apprehensive gaze fixed upon Sanguinet.

“You will be so good,” said Claude gently, “as to report to M. Gerard.”

Anguish came into the boy's eyes. “But—monseigneur—I beg of you! I did not mean—”

“That will be all. You may go.”

A brief, pleading glance was slanted at Rachel. Then the boy's shoulders slumped, and he walked away.

“Claude…” Rachel began, frowning a little.

Turning to her, he chuckled. “Have no fears, my sweet. I'll not have the clumsy fool tied to a post and given six hundred lashes—though I heard of just such a case in your own Army last month.”

“I am sure he had no thought to—”

“And I will not have you worrying your pretty head with such matters. That is what we men are for, is it not?” Sanguinet patted her hand absently but peering downward, muttered, “Do you know that beastly peasant splashed some of his dirt on my boots?”

*   *   *

Tristram left the barn, wherein Devenish still snored, and turned his steps toward the main building of the “Castle and Keg Inn.” A pleasant place, this old inn, its whitewashed walls and latticed windows gleaming in the early morning sunlight. It was too far off the beaten track to lure any of the London crowd, yet enjoyed a steady business by reason of the fact that it offered clean beds and good food at a moderate charge. Already, smoke was curling from several chimneys, and as Tristram made his way to the washhouse at the side of the stables, he could hear the clatter of crockery, indicating that preparations for breakfast were under way. The ostlers were beginning to stir, but Tristram was sufficiently early to have the pump to himself. He washed to the waist in the icy water and had finished shaving before the head ostler yawned his way across the yard. “Up early, Captain,” the man observed sleepily.

Tristram nodded. “I hope to finish this morning.”

“And be on yer way to Lunon.” The ostler shook his head and bodingly remarked as how that fearsome metropolis was a den o' iniquity what he'd seen once as a little 'un but had no wish to rest his ogles on again!

The description was not appealing, but carrying his tools and supplies to the ladder propped against the rear of the building, Tristram was no less eager to be on his way. Mrs. Rhys, the owner of the inn, was a widowed Welsh lady. When first confronted by two decidedly down-at-heels young gentlemen, she had told them regretfully that she could not afford to hire any more workers for however brief a time. Devenish had at once doffed his battered hat, swept her a low bow, assured her that they would find work somewhere “along the road,” and crumpled at her feet in a dead faint. Her motherly heart had melted at the full sight of his youthful and damaged countenance, and they had since enjoyed her excellent cooking, as well as the warm and fragrant hayloft for a bedchamber, in exchange for replacing the roof shingles.

The work had taken longer than Tristram had expected; they'd been here the better part of a week and, however good the food, pleasant the company, and tranquil the life in this lovely part of the south country, he was becoming impatient to get to the Horse Guards and learn what he might of his past.

He worked steadily and had completed a full row of shingles before he began to feel the warmth of the sun. Pausing in his labours, he looked about him appreciatively. Dawn's haze had burned off, but everything was drenched and a thousand tiny lights winked from the dewdrops. This England, he thought, was very beautiful. So different from the parched lands and searing winds of Spain, or the bleak grandeur of the Pyrenees. He grinned, recalling how Timothy Van Lindsay had stumbled on the precipitous slope of the Santa Cruz and hurtled down the mountainside, causing his friends to scramble after him, fearing to find him dead at the bottom. How Tim had cursed when they came upon him! But not a bone broken—good old— He crouched, one hand flying to his temple and his shoulders hunching against the merciless lances of pain that seemed to splinter through flesh and bone to impale his cringing brain. But he fought it this time, for whatever horrors his past may hold
must
be remembered …

He saw a field, wreathed in smoke and littered with dead and dying men and horses. A small group of mounted officers, becoming more distinct as he rode up at breakneck speed to offer a despatch. A lean face beneath a plain cockaded hat; a face brilliant of eye, the strong features dominated by a beak of a nose. A smile flashing up at him, and a harsh bray of a voice rising above the cacophonous din of battle to say, “Colonel, each time I see you, you're astride a different trooper. Have you been badly hit?” …

Memory had been terribly costly. He was panting and soaked with sweat, and as from a great distance it seemed, another voice reached him. “Be ye all right up there, Captain Tristram?”

Surreptitiously, he drew his sleeve across his face, and answered unevenly, “All—right and tight, ma'am.”

Mrs. Rhys scanned his profile with her keen black eyes and asserted it was not “all right and tight” he looked. “Come ye down, lad. 'Tis precious hard ye've worked all week. Too hard, belike, for now Frank tells me as ye be leaving today, and here I'd hoped as ye'd stay to roof the stables also.”

His head having eased a little, Tristram laughed rather breathlessly and backed down the ladder to slip an arm about her plump shoulders. “The truth of the matter is that while I've been hard at work, a certain scalliwag has stolen your heart away. Admit it now, you naughty girl!”

Her comely face became quite pink. With a giggle, she admitted Mr. Alain to be a saucy rogue beyond the doubting. “But what charm has he! Never a cross word, always so merry and bright! I wish—”

“See here!” The object of their discussion hurried around the corner of the building, his bruises less lurid, and his spirits as exuberant as ever. He held what appeared to be an untidy bundle of feathers. “Only look how much better she is!” he urged triumphantly.

“She?” Tristram peered dubiously at the bundle and discovered it to be a scrawny, one-eyed duck that peered back at him with marked suspicion.

“Mrs. O'Crumbs,” Devenish nodded. “Did I not tell you? A dog got her.”

“Yes, and we was all sure as she would expire,” Mrs. Rhys said fondly. “But Mr. Alain saved her. He's a wonderful way with animals, has Mr. Alain.”

“And with shingles,” boasted that gentleman.

Well aware that a formidable glare was fixed upon the perpetrator of this wanton provocation, Mrs. Rhys chuckled and returned to her kitchen, thus allowing Tristram to say a threatening, “You mentioned your—ah, skill?”

“Can you doubt it? I told Mrs. Rhys we would give her a fine roof, and look at it! Jolly fine, if I say so myself.”

“I wonder,” Tristram said dryly, “you could keep away from so satisfying an endeavour.”

“No wonder about it, old pippin. Cannot abide heights.” The blue eyes twinkled merrily, but as Tristram strode menacingly towards him, Devenish clutched Mrs. O'Crumbs and cried, “You'd not raise your hand against a sick duck?”

“No. But I may throw her scoundrelly benefactor clear over the blasted roof I was slumguzzled into repairing!”

“Do not, I beg you,” Devenish pleaded laughingly. “I own you to be a superlative carpenter. In fact—here! I ask none of the remuneration. It is all for you. We shall toddle forth on your quest at once. I swear it!”

Tristram took the flimsy he offered. “Ten shillings? A fortune! We'll share it, of course. But you are bound to Newhaven, no?”

“No.” Devenish restored his duck to the ground, patted her tail feathers and said blithely, “My cousin can wait. Besides—” He paused, eyes narrowing. “Something amiss? You look a trifle pulled.”

“Starved, merely.” They started towards the kitchen, Mrs. O'Crumbs weaving along after them. “I was sure,” Tristram said, “that you told me you were promised to your cousin for something or other.”

“Was. George has a yawl he—er—floats around in from time to time. He cannot always come by a crew, so I help a bit. And he pays well. The thing is, he'll come about. But you will not.”

“The deuce I won't! What gives you that impression?”

“Too complaisant by half, old fellow. Do I not take a hand in matters, you'll likely never even get to Whitehall. And your memory don't seem to—” He interrupted himself to ask curiously, “Was that what wrung you out just now? Had you another bout with your past? You've never remembered where your home is located?”

“Unfortunately, my recollections this time were concerned only with Waterloo.”

Genuinely disappointed, Devenish sighed. “Pity.”

They entered the kitchen and made their way to the large table. A buxom maid hurried over with a dimpling smile and two mugs of ale. Winking at the blushing girl, Devenish drank and then asked, “Anything special about the battle?”

“Not really.” Tristram stretched out his legs, then withdrew them hurriedly. Peering under the table, he discovered the little duck nestled at Devenish's feet. “You and your way with animals!” he said indignantly.

Devenish glanced down and grinned. “‘Whither I goest—she will go.'”

Thanking the maid for the laden plate that was set before him, Tristram devoted himself to his breakfast until Devenish asked, “What
did
you remember, then?”

“Eh? Oh, well it seems that I was an officer, after all.”

“Were you now. Well, I expect your men took shameful advantage of you. Do you recall your rank? Never tell me you really
are
a Captain?”

“No. Not a Captain, exactly.”

“Lieutenant? Nothing wrong with that.”

“Oh, no. Nothing. Only—I, er—was a Colonel.”

In the act of taking another mouthful of ale, Devenish spluttered and choked. Wiping watery eyes with his napkin, he echoed faintly, “
C-Colonel…
? What—what regiment?”

“I wish I knew.”

“But you must have
some
indication. Was your jacket red, d'you recall?”

“No. Not red.”

“Ah, a rifleman. Green, was it?”

“Not green, either.”

Devenish scowled. Then his eyes widened. “Tris! You're never telling me you
are
a blasted Frog, after all?”

“I don't think so, because on the field I was speaking English to someone.”

“Another officer, perhaps?” Devenish leaned forward eagerly. “Aha! Now we're getting somewhere! Can you come at his name? Anything particular about his rank? Did he wear silver lace? A blue plume in his helmet perhaps? White? Well, for lord's sake, don't just sit there shaking your head! What the deuce
did
the fellow wear? His nightshirt?”

“A plain cockaded hat, and—and a dark coat.” Tristram frowned reflectively. “Oh, I do recall he had a rather large nose and seemed to be greatly revered by the officers around him.”

Devenish dropped his fork and stared, eyes very wide, and jaw hanging.

“And,” Tristram continued in his quiet way, “I remember that my jacket was not at all elaborate. If anything, rather dowdy. A plain blue, in fact.”

“Oh … my … God!” gasped Devenish. “One of the great man's Family!”

Before Tristram had time to question the meaning of this inexplicable remark, the quiet was shattered by a sudden uproar from outside. Shouts mingled with the shrill neighing of an angry horse, and thuds and crashes of the sort made by a plunging animal. Tristram was in the yard in a flash. Making his way through a small group of men gathered in the barn doorway, his superior height enabled him to see Frank, the head ostler, attempting to throw a rope over the head of a magnificent but maddened black horse. Mrs. Rhys, hands clasped in terror, cried, “Oh, Captain, a poor groom do be trapped in there!”