Feather Castles (38 page)

Rachel hurried to him with a bowl of water and a cloth and said urgently, “Come and sit here, dearest,” and when he had obeyed, began to bathe his face.

“What's the matter with Ulrich?” he asked.

“I gave him the ‘medicine' he intended for Charity. You see how it has restored him!” And slanting a contemptuous glance at the doctor, she said grimly, “Wretched man! You deserve a deal more than you now suffer!”

“Yes. The plague, at least.” Tristram added thoughtfully, “Does Claude know you drugged him?”

“No. He obviously thought him in his cups.”

He chuckled and looked up at her, his eyes dancing despite the fierce throbbing in his head. “It will serve, Rachel! By God, but it will serve us well!” He stayed her gentle hand for an instant, to kiss it. “With your help, love, by dawn we shall be en route home to our grey and rainy little island!”

Chapter 16

“Oh,
there
you are, Captain!” cried Madame Fleur, in exaggerated relief. “It is quite unlike Claude to leave his guests, and I've not seen him this half-hour and more! Oh, my goodness! I'd not stopped to think! Is it the poor little Strand girl? I declare I have been quite overset with anxiety for the dear child! Is she—er—very ill?”

“Hush, ma'am,” Tristram said in a dramatically low tone, leading her to one side of the ballroom. “Claude wishes it to go no further than the few of us who know.” He glanced around again as though every ear in that hot and crowded room was stretched to them, then gestured to the hall. When they stood in the middle of that large chamber, he went on, “Your nephew asks that you be so good as to help us get the poor girl to the doctor.”

“Wh-what…?” she stammered, her eyes widening with fright. “Oh—lud! Rachel
said
something about its being c-contagious, but—”

“Ssshh!” Tristram glanced to the two interested footmen beside the doors. “There is no cause for panic.”

“P-Panic? Oh—no, no. B-But I thought Doctor Ulrich
had
arrived.”

“So he has. Unhappily, it appears he also had thrown out a rash and is now in near as bad case as the girl.”

“R-r-rash…? S-scarlet fever…?” she gulped. “Oh, God! Not—
The Pox?
”

“Monsieur Gerard has ridden for another physician, but you can appreciate it will take time, ma'am. And now that Rachel is feeling in queer stirrups, Claude wants both ladies sent at once into Dinan. The abigail cannot manage by herself, and Claude does not wish word to spread to the servants. You understand.”

“Oh, I do. I do. But—but, do you know, Captain, I am—feeling rather unwell, myself. I think I had best go and lie down upon my bed.”

“But, you cannot, ma'am! Monseigneur had hoped you could ride in the carriage with—”

“Quite impossible! Claude shall have to do that! I must to my chamber!”

“Claude has been put into isolation by Dr. Ulrich. He fears he may also have contracted the disease. It is so curst swift, you see. Madame—” He caught her arm as she backed away. “You must not abandon me! I've no authority here!”

She wrung her hands distractedly. “If only Guy were here, but—
Tiens!
He was taken ill shortly after dinner and has not stirred from his room since! Is—is he … too…?”

Surprised by this intelligence, Tristram dropped his eyes, shrugged, and said nothing. His very silence fanned the flames.

“Oh, what a wretched business this is!” wailed Madame. “I knew no good would come of it. One cannot trust the English! Your pardon, sir, but fact is fact! How any girl of breeding could invite hundreds of guests to her engagement ball, and then expose them to the plague!” She threw up her hands. “It is beyond my understanding. Antoine! Antoine! Over here, foolish creature!”

Tristram's feeble and insincere plea for caution was ignored. No sooner had the exquisite Antoine joined them than his aunt proceeded to regale him with details that grew ever more lurid. When she ceased speaking, he was as pale as she and recalled an engagement in Paris that would necessitate his leaving this very hour.

Tristram scolded severely, “This is ridiculous! You are monseigneur's kindred. One, or both of you,
must
help. Miss Rachel is able to walk, but her sister must be carried down, and monseigneur wishes us to use the back stairs so as not to alarm the guests.”

Antoine fussed and Madame whined, but the end result was that the two sturdy footmen were summoned and, with faint, knowing grins, followed Madame, Tristram, and Benét up the stairs.

Agatha answered Benét's cautious knock at the door of the
petit salon.
Her face was very white, and the shadows Rachel had carefully painted under her eyes made her look as if she'd not slept for a week. “Thank heaven you are come!” she exclaimed tremulously. “Miss Charity's very bad, Mr. Benét, and Miss Rachel so ill, sweet lamb! Are these men to carry them to the carriage?”

“That,” one of the footmen spoke up, his sneering grin fixed on Tristram, “must wait for what Doctor Ulrich says—eh, Leon?”

His broad-shouldered colleague nodded grimly.

“Excellent,” said Tristram. “I'm glad to see you're not afraid.”

Some of the mockery faded from the man's hard eyes, replaced by an uneasy look, but his friend smirked, “You intend to accompany the ladies, I have no doubt?”

“I?” Tristram fell back a step. “Er—well, I would be overjoyed. But monseigneur required only that their abigail accompany them.”

It was a telling stroke. Obviously unnerved, Claude's minions yet clung to their intention to receive Dr. Ulrich's orders. Agatha waved them impatiently into the room and closed the door. “The doctor is laid down upon Miss Rachel's bed, poor man,” she offered. “This way, you two!”

She opened the door into the bedchamber. The one called Leon took one look at the doctor's limp form and fairly leapt back. “
Mon Dieu!
Do but look at his face! It is the pox!”

His comrade viewed that livid, spotted countenance, crossed himself and retreated precipitately. “D-do you wish us to carry the English mademoiselle downstairs, doctor?” he croaked.

Ulrich opened one bleary eye and mumbled incoherently.

“Enough!” said Tristram. “The ladies are ill, and you stand here shivering. Agatha—do the Misses Strand have their cloaks? Miss Charity must be wrapped in a blanket as well and carried to the carriage. Do you not agree, Monsieur Benét?” But when he turned around, by some strange chance both the artist and his aunt seemed to have been summoned elsewhere. Emulating their example, Leon volunteered nobly to hurry downstairs and open the rear door.

Tristram nodded, stifling a grin as Leon made a dive for the corridor.

In Charity's room, Rachel sat on the bed supporting her sister, whose countenance was so alarming that Tristram could scarcely contain his mirth. The remaining footman gulped something about “summoning aid” and shot from sight.

“By heaven, I believe we've cleared a path to the back door, at least,” Tristram said jubilantly. “Will Raoul have the carriage for us, Agatha?”

“Yes, sir. He says as he will. It created such a bobbery when I told him, for word had got out that Miss Charity has ‘something catching,' and all the other grooms and stableboys wanted to know what ails her. I said I'd been told not to say nothing.”

“Excellent.” Tristram swung the “expiring” Charity into his arms and smiled down at her. “Courage, ma'am. We shall do nicely so long as you look sufficiently stricken. Agatha, do you support ‘poor' Miss Rachel. Come now.”

The wide corridor was deserted. Music could be heard from the ballroom, but it sounded as though many people were gathered in the lower hall, their voices considerably agitated. Tristram led the way, walking swiftly to the rear stairs. If they could just get the girl into the coach, he thought prayerfully, the worst part of the battle would be won. A maid, carrying a jewel box upstairs, took one look at Charity's face, uttered a screech of terror, and ran for her life. At the foot of the stairs a small knot of servants peered at them in horrified awe, several of the women whipping their aprons over noses and mouths. A grim-faced footman began to push his way through. The housekeeper, wearing bombazine and a lace cap, suddenly screamed, “The pox! It
is!
The pox!” and before that dread cry the scramble to get clear became a riot. The footman, however, was made of sterner stuff. He stayed a distance behind them, but one hand was inside his jacket, and his eyes were alert.

At the end of the hall, Tristram called over his shoulder, “Well, for Lord's sake, man! Come and open the door!”

The man hesitated, then sprang forward to swing the door wide.

Raoul had not failed them. The large black coach, with four matched black horses between the traces, waited. Of Devenish there was no sign.

Seized by a sudden sickening doubt, Rachel murmured, “Tristram—you
will
—”

“Get in, quickly!” he urged,
sotto voce.

She glanced frantically at the powerful form of the footman, bit her lip and climbed into the coach, Agatha following. Well aware that the footman was only inches behind him, Tristram said, “Here we go, ma'am—mind your head now,” and ducking his own head, carried Charity up the steps to deposit her on the seat beside Rachel.

Very white, Rachel put a hand on his sleeve. “You do not mean to come! I
knew
it!” She started up. “I'll not leave without—”

Through the far window, Tristram saw more guards watching, faces suspicious, weapons held ready. He pushed Rachel back down, hard. “You will do as I say!” he commanded sternly. “Do not spoil this, love. I cannot accomplish it any other way. We will join you—never fear.”

“No—but—”

He sprang down the steps, and slammed the door, shouting, “Off with you! To the doctor's house—as fast as you can go!”

He had a brief impression of Rachel's horrified and blotchy face at the window, then the horses had leaned into their collars, and the carriage was gaining speed and rolling swiftly down the drivepath.

The footman was very close now, and the little knot of watchers across the yard started forward.

The door suddenly burst open again, and Monsieur Benét rushed out, his man following with valise and dressing case. “Poor girl!” Benét said, twitching with nervousness. “I sympathize. I really do. Do not stand there gibbering, Ransom! My chaise! At once!”

His arrival was but the start of the avalanche. A valet shot past calling for the carriage of the Comte Dolbé; a maid, pale and frightened, summoned the barouche of Monsieur and Madame de Young, and in a flash the yard was crowded with shouting servants, bewildered grooms, and frustrated guards.

Devenish appeared, wearing a fine jacket of maroon velvet, and with his face much cleaner if somewhat grimed here and there. “Claude's,” he twinkled in response to Tristram's curious glance. “Didn't think he'd mind. We'd best—”

Above them, a window was suddenly flung up. Claude leaned out, scanning the chaotic scene. The lamplight was not brilliant, but Tristram's height betrayed him, and Claude howled, “Do not let them escape! Imbeciles—
stop them!
At all costs—stop them!”

His guards and more intimate servants knew exactly to whom he referred: his guests did not. As the burly guards surged towards Tristram and Devenish, the guests, sure they were to be forcibly detained, variously shrieked, shouted, or fought back. The power of Sanguinet's wealth and whatever other holds he exercised upon them were wiped away, for not even Claude's rage was to be feared more than the dread spectre of smallpox! The visiting servants resisted even more furiously than did their masters, for Sanguinet had no direct power over them.

Looking up, eyes glinting with amusement at this providential development, Tristram saw Gerard, aiming a musket. The man would not dare shoot, he knew, and laughing openly, he continued toward the stables, undaunted by the three fuming men who stood between him and his objective. Devenish also had looked up however. He entertained less faith in Gerard's humane impulses than did his friend, and in his eyes, Tristram's head, above any other, presented an all too easy target. “This way!” he shouted and dove around to the back of the house.

“No! Dev!” shouted Tristram, but he was delayed by the new surge of the mob now adding to the hysteria in the yard. “Blast the gudgeon!” he groaned but plunged after the rapidly disappearing Devenish. He caught up with him in the rear shrubbery. “Stupid chawbacon!” he raged. “We could have won through!”

“The devil we could! You tower like a blasted lighthouse! Gerard would have picked you off, easy as winking. If we head north, we may—”

“We
cannot
head north! That's just what Claude would expect. Raoul will come back for us as soon as he gets the girls to safety.”

“You're addlebrained! We'd have no chance to get past the main gates!”

“Why not? Couldn't you install the screens?”

The slope was steep here, and for the moment they were concealed by the tall shrubs, and Devenish stopped walking, to say indignantly, “Of course. Though it was no mean task, I can tell you! Raoul was talking with the other servants, and I worked like a blasted Trojan, fearing you would arrive with the ladies to find me only half-finished. Instead of which, you took an age!”

“It was necessary. The screens attach to the roof inside the coach, no?”

“Just as you thought. And can be let down so as to enclose a small segment of the interior. Thanks to those ‘paintings' that so baffled us, anyone glancing in from outside the carriage sees apparently empty seats and the other window. But the area so enclosed is very small. I doubt it was intended for more than one or two people at most. There'd have been no room for us, in addition to the ladies.”