Feather Castles (44 page)

Rachel gave a little gasp.
That
Euphemia! Her attempt to draw away was foiled, for the impulsive Euphemia drew her into a hug and, looking into the poignant little face, smiled, “Oh, I am so glad we shall be friends! You will not be angry if I tell you that Tristram occupies a very special place in my heart?”

Making no attempt to feign unawareness, Rachel said simply, “No. How could I?” And watching this warm and wonderful girl, thought how much better it would have been for Tristram had he persuaded her to wed him. “He once told me he had offered for you.”

Euphemia's heart was wrung by the faintly wistful smile. “Yes, he did. And you are so kind, I think, as to suppose we might have dealt well together. Indeed, I was sorely tempted to accept, for he is such a splendid fellow. But—he did not love me, you see.” Her brow furrowed, and she qualified, “Oh, he does love me, and I love him. But—not in that very
special
way. Ah, I see you understand. At all events, we are close friends, and it is because of our friendship that I simply cannot endure to see him as he is now.”

Gripping her hands very tightly, Rachel asked, “He—he is not ill?”

Euphemia shook her head. “He is very changed.” She sighed worriedly. “He smiles, but his eyes do not. He is like a man—existing only. Without joy, or hope … or any reason for living.”

In a strangled voice, Rachel exclaimed, “How—dreadful. But—but he will come about. And, I'll not destroy him, Mrs. Hawkhurst.”

“Please call me Mia. And—my dear, between you, you
have
destroyed him.”

“Oh, n-no!” Her eyes blurred with tears, Rachel gulped, “N-Never say so! I only sent him away because—because I dreaded to bring disgrace upon him!”

“I know, but you see he was by then so deep in love with you, there could be no other. And he is too kind and honourable to seize his happiness if to do so must break his father's heart. If—if there was a way we could ah—arrange things, would you accept him?”

“
Accept
him! Oh, if you knew— I worship him! Without him, life is—is an emptiness. With him … it would be…” Rachel's voice broke on a sob. She wailed, “Would be—joy unspeakable!”

Euphemia smiled, took out her handkerchief, dried the tear-wet eyes, and turning, called to the tall man who stood so quietly in the doorway, “You may come in now, Kingston.”

*   *   *

Rachel was not alone in receiving well-intentioned visitors. At the gracious old house in Berkshire, Tristram was host to a steady flow of friends who would drop in casually, stay interminably, and do all in their individual power to cheer a man they obviously had decided was about to go into a final decline. Suspecting a conspiracy, he was both touched and irritated. Some of his friends brought more than themselves. Viscount Lucian St. Clair arrived with a puppy of somewhat dubious bloodlines who was, he imparted proudly, a son of his famous hound, Homer. That the puppy had inherited the traits of his sire became obvious when he set to work to undermine several of the new plum trees the head gardener had installed and, as an afterthought, dug up a few rose bushes. Alain Devenish's contribution was a large cage containing a magnificently coloured and very regal parrot, irreverently named Byron. For three days this distinguished bird did not utter one of the friendly and companionable phrases Devenish had insisted formed part of its vocabulary, although Byron's former owner had gone so far as to offer his word of honour that the parrot was a most garrulous creature. The arrival of the Countess of Mayne-Waring apparently inspired him, for she had no sooner begun to coo and gush “Pretty birdie” at him, than he hopped onto one foot and regaled her with a stream of such foul profanities that the outraged Dowager went into a fit of the vapours and Tristram spent the better part of the evening apologizing for his pet's obscene behaviour.

It was, therefore, not without trepidation that the following morning, while busied in his study, he heard the clatter of hooves and rattle of wheels on the drivepath. His encounter with Claude Sanguinet had stirred a dormant interest in antique weaponry, and he resumed his inspection of a halberd only to look up uneasily when the door swung open.

“General Sir Nevin Smollet,” the butler announced impressively.

Tristram stiffened, and came around the desk wondering if Smollet had brought an order for his arrest. Smollet, however, marched in alone. He was resplendent in dress uniform, and his brows and whiskers bristled as ferociously as they had done on the occasion of Tristram's last interview with him. Instinctively bracing himself, Tristram bowed perfunctorily, and said a polite if reluctant, “Good morning, sir.”

“Don't hear a welcome!” Smollet glowered, making no attempt to shake hands. “Cannot blame you. Didn't want to come. Do not like the necessity. Wish I wasn't here!”

Tristram thought, “I wish you weren't either, you obnoxious old bastard!” but he merely lifted his chin a trifle and waited.

“Ain't making it any easier for me,” the General pointed out resentfully. He gripped his hands behind him and took a turn about the room. Tristram watched him, curiosity deepening. Smollet had evidently not brought an arresting party, and whatever he had come to say was vexing him, whereas an opportunity to disgrace the man he despised would likely have rendered him jubilant.

“It has come to my ears,” Smollet began formally. “Oh, hell and damnation! I've learned that you spoke only truth, Colonel! I hate like the very devil to do it, but—admit it I must!” He stamped to the younger man and stood glaring up at him. Thrusting out one square, muscular hand, he snarled, “You were perfectly right. You behaved like an officer and a gentleman. I was wrong. Utterly. A curst idiot, in fact. You will, I trust, accept my most humble apology.”

The apology was as far from being humble as Tristram could imagine, Smollet's manner implying that Leith would be at once taken out and shot if he failed to accept it, but he restrained his mirth, took that strong hand, and shook it firmly. “I most certainly do accept. Thank you, sir. I know my father must be overjoyed when I tell I am vindicated. May I—”

“No, you may not!” Smollet interpolated belligerently. “Cannot tell him. Not yet at all events.” He cast a pointed glance to the sideboard and the decanters on the silver tray and, recalling his manners, Tristram begged that the General be seated and went over to pour him a glass of Madeira.

Smollet raised his glass in a grim salute, sipped, and sighed blissfully. Leaning back in his chair he said a tentative, “Seventy-eight?”

“Seventy-six, sir.” Tristram half sat on the desk, one long leg swinging. “From my father's cellars. May I ask why he should be kept uninformed?”

“You've a head on your shoulders. Why d'you think?”

“I certainly cannot think Sanguinet will try again, if you are aware of his dealings.”

“You might be right in that event—though I doubt it. He ain't the kind to halt in mid-campaign. Thing is, he don't know I'm aware. I've made damned sure of that! He'll try again—never doubt it. And next time—” He clenched his left fist and brought it down hard on the arm of his chair, “I'll have the lunatic!”

Tristram made no comment, but Smollet saw his frown, and bristled, “You think I will make a mull of it? By God, sir! I shall not!”

“Sanguinet is as devious as he is powerful, General. I shudder to think what might happen were he to contrive successfully.”

“Personally,” said Smollet acidly, “I ain't never been one for shuddering.” His fierce glare was met by one so cool and unwavering that his eyes fell at last. He grunted, and said with something almost approaching a grin, “I see you earned your reputation, Colonel.”

“Am I to be reinstated, sir?”

“Egad—no! I'd not dare. Sanguinet would hear of it, and the wolf would be in with the sheep! The best I can do, Colonel, is to tell you that we'll strive to keep an eye on you. That maniac is not above arranging an accident to you or your lovely lady.” He saw the younger man's eyes flicker and went on hurriedly, “I am in touch with your old friend, Diccon, who is now in Normandy. I will require that you contact me at once do you hear so much as a whisper of the Sanguinets. We're alerted now, at the least. Pray God, with all of us working together, the Frenchman may be outwitted. But I fear him—I'll own. I fear him…” He stared broodingly at his glass, then put it down and stood. “I must go. Took a chance in coming here, but we've reason to believe you are not presently watched.”

Walking with him to the door, Tristram said rather wistfully, “My father is a most honourable gentleman, as you know, General. If I could just set his mind at rest, he would never—”

“
Dammit—no!
That is an order, Colonel! We deal with the safety of England—not merely the family or reputation of one Staff Officer!” He turned at the door, accepted his cloak from the butler, and stalked onto the front steps. “Oh, by the bye, Wellington knows all that I know. Asked me to convey his congratulations. Thinks highly of you.” He put out his hand again. “I've your word, Colonel?”

With a wry smile Tristram answered, “You have my word, General.”

Smollet nodded, stamped down the steps, then stamped back. He reached out and slapped the surprised Tristram on the arm. “Did damned well in that confounded chateau. Proud of you, my boy!”

Speechless, Tristram blinked, and, watching that fierce gentleman climb into an unmarked carriage and be driven away, felt as though a medal had been conferred upon him.

Chapter 19

On a grey afternoon several days after General Smollet's unexpected visit, Tristram rode homeward from the estate of his nearest neighbour to whom he had paid a rather belated courtesy call. His host, though not endowed with great wealth, was blessed with a plump and cheerful wife who had presented her lord with five healthy children. The house had fairly radiated domestic contentment and although he had enjoyed his stay, once he left Tristram's quiet existence was rendered the more bleak by comparison. Heavy-hearted, he dismounted some distance from Cloudhills, looped the reins over the pommel and walked on, the mare treading daintily after him. The wind was growing colder, pushing great thunderclouds before it, and whipping the trees about. His valet, he now recollected, had urged that he wear a greatcoat, but he had not done so, and the breath of the wind was commencing to cut chillingly through his cambric shirt and light frock coat.

A branch fell across the lane ahead, and the mare kicked up her heels and was off, galloping towards food and the warm stables. Her desertion deepened Tristram's loneliness. Much as he loved his ancestral estate, he felt no pressing need to hurry back to it and, having swung easily over a stile, he wandered along slowly, head down-bent, until he came to a clump of ancient oaks. He had been travelling steadily uphill, and from this eminence a fine view of the valley could be obtained. He sat on the gnarled old root that had served him since childhood and leaned back against the treetrunk, one hand resting across a drawn-up knee, and brooding eyes fixed unseeingly upon the stormy autumnal scene.

How strange a thing, he mused, was life. Who would have dreamed that their struggles against Claude Sanguinet would end in neither victory nor defeat, but a sort of limbo; as though the final act was yet to be played. They had, of course, won a victory of sorts in escaping that beautiful but savage chateau. Yet Sanguinet had won a victory also: He was fully recovered of his illness—if he had in fact been ill—freed from all blame, and had—in the public eye, at least—become an object of sympathy, so that he was viewed less censoriously than before. If nothing else, however, they had delayed him and forced him to restructure his carefully laid plans. Smollet had said Diccon was back in Normandy, and that zealous watchdog would be ever vigilant. The risks the man must be taking were horrible to contemplate, but his warnings would not fall on deaf ears now; Smollet would act swiftly the next time Sanguinet struck. And that he
would
strike again at England, Tristram had no doubt whatsoever.

As yet, his own name had not been mentioned in connection with the scandalous doings at Chateau Sanguinet, and he supposed that Whitehall had been able to impose silence upon the few people who had been aware of his identity. He derived little pleasure from being thus spared, for Rachel had become a prime target for gossip, her jilting of Sanguinet earning her widespread condemnation. That beautiful, gentle, so beloved girl was quite ruined. He sighed wretchedly. He had found his true love at last—a love so perfect as to lift him high to heaven, and so brief as to doom him to wander aimlessly through a world without hope, the future stretching out like a grey abyss of purposelessness. Where was Rachel at this very moment? Was she grieving, as he grieved? Was she victim to the same unbearable loneliness that so tormented him?

The wind gusted, and he glanced up at the racing clouds. They were enormous today, billowing before the force of the wind, ever changing, dark with the rain they carried. “My darling girl,” he thought yearningly. “If only we were there together, you and I. Safe in a feather castle, where none could part us.”

“I wonder if there are feather ladies inside … and feather knights.”

He smiled sadly. Almost he could hear her again, as she had spoken on the cliffs that day when he first had glimpsed what life might offer. A happiness too deep, perhaps, for this old world. And— He stiffened. He
had
heard her! Those words had been spoken—not imagined! Scarcely daring to move, he turned his head.

She knelt beside him, her face pale and marked by sorrow, yet lovelier even than he remembered; her gleaming curls framed by a hood edged with chinchilla, her glorious eyes adoring him, and a questioning half-smile hovering on her lips.