Feather Castles (6 page)

“It is of
peu d'importance,
” he smiled. “I shall not swallow the beastly brew.”

She frowned on him deliciously. “I'll have you know, monsieur soldier, that I am accustomed to nursing invalids, and do not permit that my orders are questioned.”

A large, surprisingly authoritative hand reached to remove the bottle from her fingers. He said in a very gentle voice, “No, but you see—I have no wish to sleep, just at this particular moment. I am almost well, and a surer cure would be for you to stay and talk to me.”

During her short existence Rachel had faced the bitter tragedy of her adored father's sudden death and, having been left with utter chaos and her brother half a world away, had managed somehow to pull together the remnants of her life and so order it as to provide a pleasant home for her sister. Neither hard-hearted nor inflexible, she had learned to be self-sufficient and not easily swayed. Now, however, knowing she should leave, she said hesitantly, “At all events, I must go and—”

“No,” he gripped her wrist. “Please do not leave me. I— There are things—er, just a few moments, I beg you!”

He released her hand but looked so desperate she could not refuse him. “Very well. But
only
for a few moments.”

“I thank you. Indeed, I have so much for which to thank you. Your bravery in refusing to abandon me on the battlefield was—simply incredible. You nursed me when I must have been a wretched nuisance, and to have transported me to Brussels and persuaded your—er, M. Sanguinet to allow me to travel to England on his yacht—there are no words to—”

“Well, I do hope not!” she interrupted smilingly. “You were most gallant, sir, and it was the least I could do by way of repayment. I do not doubt but that you will find your fears regarding your—your past history, to be groundless. Still,” her eyes sparkled mischievously, “you did not exactly aid my attempt to smuggle you out of the country, you know.”

“Did I not?” He grinned, but then sobered and exclaimed in horror, “
Mon Dieu!
I'd not had the brains to consider it! You may very well have incriminated yourself by allowing me to travel in your company!”

“I wish you will not fly into the boughs. I assure you that if you are discovered, I shall claim you deceived me, and I had no knowledge of what a great villain you are. There. Is that sufficient to calm your conscience?”

He smiled wryly, some of the anxiety leaving his eyes, and Rachel sat down on the opposite bunk and added, “I merely meant that in addition to being
such
a rogue, you are a confirmed marplot. Do you recall informing Monsieur Sanguinet that you are not a Captain? Infamy!”

“Yes, and I thank you for the attempt to lend me some dignity. Had I known my promotion was of your making I'd have accepted it with better grace.”

“How do you know it was a promotion? You might very well be a Major.”

He chuckled at this. “So long as we are indulging in fancy, I will be a Colonel, at the very least, if you please.”

She was slightly stunned by the effect of mirth on that lean face and groped for something to say that was even moderately sensible. “I wonder now if I served you a bad turn. We are not sure if you
are
French, despite the fact that you speak it as though it were your native tongue.”

“As do you, ma'am.”

“Yes, but I had a fiendish French governess who browbeat me from nursery days until I went to the Seminary.”

“And perhaps I had a similar experience,” he nodded. “Is that what you mean?”

“I suppose it is not impossible,” she said demurely. “Though I would have supposed you to have had a tutor and to have gone to Oxford rather.”

He was unable to repress a laugh and Rachel exclaimed, “Ah! Now you do sound almost well again.”

“If I am, it is purely thanks to you.”

She scanned him thoughtfully. He did look better and seemed much more comfortable than he'd been during those first bad days. His expression was remote again, as if his mind wrestled with some knotty problem. She waited, marvelling at how completely at ease she felt in his company; more as though he were some very dear friend, or even a brother to replace her absent and so-loved Justin.

In his turn, the soldier was pondering her kindnesses. How sweetly protective of her to have invented his captaincy. Was it possible that he was indeed an officer? Perhaps of lesser rank? An officer, surely, would not be likely to have committed murder. He smiled, cynically amused by such a hopeful and ridiculous thought. “What stuff!”

He'd not realized he spoke aloud until Rachel uttered a startled, “
What
did you say?”

“Oh—er, nothing of import, mademoiselle.”

“Nothing of import!” She rose, her hands clasped, her eyes alight with excitement. “But—you spoke English! And with no
trace
of an accent!”

He blinked at her stupidly. “I … did?”

“And still are!” Continuing in the same language, she cried, “Oh, sir! Can it be possible that you are English?”

“I remember speaking French.” He pressed a hand to his temple in bewilderment. “So—I thought—that is, I was sure…”

He looked mystified and distressed, and fearing his struggle for recollection might precipitate another of his exhausting attacks, she said hurriedly, “Do not worry at it now. You must be very tired.” She walked to the door, becoming aware that
La Hautemant
was behaving in a less violent fashion, and that the storm must be drifting away. Pausing, she turned back. “I will ask just one more question, if I may. Sir—do you
think
in English? Or in French?”

He considered for only a second. His eyes widened and he exclaimed, “In English! I
do,
by George! I think in
English!
”

“Our mystery is quite
definitely
solved!” she laughed. “None but an Englishman could say ‘by George!' in just that way!”

Chapter 3

From the depths of the bolted-down armchair in her stateroom, Sister Maria Evangeline wailed, “Come in, child,” and as Rachel closed the door and hurried to her, she went on in that voice of affliction, “Can you understand it? The flowers and beasts and birds; the wonders of sunshine and moonlight; so many lovely things. But—why a storm at sea? I ask and ask, but am granted no answer!”

Smiling fondly, Rachel crossed to dampen a towel at the washbasin and returned to dab it at the good Sister's greenishly clammy features. “Why disease?” she contributed. “Why famine and flood; or flies; or such savageries as the Spanish Inquisition, wrought in the name of religion?”

The nun raised a drooping hand. “One thing at a time, my Rachel. I am still arguing with Him over a storm at sea, and must not confuse the issue by inserting all these other matters.”

“Your arguments must have been well taken, dear one,” Rachel laughed. “We have passed through the storm and are even now standing off the Dover Tidal Basin.”

“What?” Hope lit the pale face. “Have I truly lived through this unspeakable ordeal? Father—I thank You! When shall we land, child?”

“The Captain seems to have been told we may have to wait for some while. There are so many ships bearing wounded from the battle. They are calling it the Battle of Waterloo—did you know?”

“I had heard La Belle Alliance.” The nun waved away the towel and, tottering to the porthole, expressed her profound sympathy for the tortures the wounded must have endured on so frightful a crossing, interrupting herself to cry ecstatically that she could see the cliffs. “Oh, for solid ground under my feet! Did the Captain—” She turned about, and said in startled accents, “The
Captain?
You never went up to the bridge alone, Rachel?”

“Oh, it was safe enough, I assure you. I am a good sailor, and—”

“I had not thought of it in just that way.” The nun returned to her chair. “Sit down, child. I am feeling more the thing now, and we should talk. But, first—who is with our gallant murderer?”

Rachel seated herself obediently, experiencing the nervousness that had gripped her in years past when she had been sent to Sister Maria Evangeline's tiny office at the Seminary and had stood with quaking knees before the old desk, dreading the reprimand about to be dealt her. “He is alone, ma'am. But I looked in on him for a few minutes, and—”

“How few?”

So that was it. Vexed because she knew that she was blushing, she answered, “Perhaps ten. No longer. Do you brand me a scarlet woman for such? He is—”

“What
I
brand you is of little account, my dear. It is what others may think that matters.”

“I am not a girl straight from the schoolroom, Sister. I have had to fend for myself—and Charity—ever since Papa died. Much I care what gossips may make of so trite a thing!”

“You are a lady of Quality, and
must
care.”

Her eyes very bright, Rachel argued fiercely, “I am very poor
ton,
ma'am. As well you know! When my dear father was driven by desperation to—” she bit her lip, her hands clenching, “—to cheat at cards, we were dropped as though we had never existed. That scorn—that merciless disdain killed Papa!”

The nun, her face studiedly enigmatic, was silent. Rachel shot a glance at her and went on, “Do not imagine I defend his behaviour. I know that what he did was inexcusable. But—I know also how bedevilled was the poor soul! It is equally wrong to judge someone until you also have had to sit at the bedside of a dear one who suffers unendingly; to know that help could be found, but lack the funds to command it.”

“I would never presume to judge, my dear. But—”

“Well—
they
judged!” Rachel flared, cheeks bright with anger. “And they condemned not only Papa, but Justin.
Justin!
That gentle boy, wholly innocent of any wrongdoing! I was with him in Piccadilly one day when a ‘friend' cut him dead, before heaven knows how many people!” Galled by that memory, she twisted a fold of her skirt into a tight knot. “Justin shrugged and told me it didn't signify. It did! He was
white!
I knew how deeply he was hurt! Odious creatures! I could have scratched every one!”

Inwardly in sympathy with the girl's passion, the nun persisted, “The more reason why you should allow no breath of scandal to touch you again. If you cavort about, unescorted, there are always eyes to see and tongues to wag.”

“And shall it spread through countless servants' halls that I ventured alone to the bridge of a private yacht, ma'am?” Rachel asked, with a curl of the lip.

“Perhaps.” The nun leaned back in her chair, elbows on the arms, and her several chins resting on the fingers of her folded hands. “And if they would gossip at that, think how much they could make of your being alone in a cabin with—”

“With a very sick man?”

“With a very handsome young man,” Sister Maria Evangeline corrected. “Who is almost well.” She saw Rachel's cheeks flame once again, and the angry eyes lower in sudden confusion. “You are betrothed, dear child. And must consider the feelings of the man you love.”

The blue eyes, very wide, flashed to her.

“Claude,” reminded the nun mildly.

“Oh.” The fiery blush faded, leaving no colour in the girl's cheeks.

Sister Maria Evangeline lowered her hands and bent forward. “You
do
love him?”

Briefly, Rachel had the look of a fawn at bay before a pack of wolves. “I— He has been—so good. And—and—”

“And paid for Charity's surgeon, and all the examinations and medicines since then.”

Rachel took a deep breath, and recovered her poise. “Yes,” she said defiantly.

The nun settled back again, watching that proud young face with its uptilted little chin. “My dear—are you not confusing gratitude with the tender passion?”

“I do not know, ma'am,” answered Rachel stiffly. “For I have never known the tender passion. Gratitude, I do know. And,” she shrugged, “one must be realistic, after all. Who marries for love these days?”

*   *   *

Mr. Shotten's frieze coat, lurid but grease-spotted waistcoat, and dirty fingernails were decidedly out of place in the best parlour of “The Ship” in old Dover town. Wholly unabashed, however, he stuck a straw between his stained teeth, and, his eyes travelling Rachel's shapely figure, said, “All as I knows is Monseer Sanguinet says you was to wait here 'til he gets back. I'm a simple cove. I don't argify with the likes o' Monseer. If
you
feels like argifying with him, Miss, I 'spect as that's yer right, seein's England be a free country, and—”

A gloved hand, holding a gold-chased riding crop, flashed before Mr. Shotten's beefy features. The straw was slashed from his teeth, and his indignant, “Ey!” rose into a yowl as the leather cracked across his upraised knuckles.

“How do you dare so address the lady, foulness?” Guy Sanguinet, hazel eyes narrowed with wrath, guided Rachel gently to one side and, superbly indifferent to the awed faces of the maids that peered around the hall door, growled, “Your apologies make, and yourself remove!
Vite!
”

Shotten's beady eyes glittered with hatred, but he essayed a clumsy bow and said defiantly, “Sorry I am if I upset Monseer's—” The crop inched upward, Sanguinet's white teeth gleaming in a savage grin. Shotten stepped back and added with haste, “I mean—Miss Strand. But, Monseer says—”

“My brother, peasant, knows it is I who have escort Miss Strand and her sister.
Oui?
” Shotten merely glowering in a truculent silence, Sanguinet continued, “Then,
assurement,
he know also that the ladies they are safe in my care. You would not,” his voice dropped silkily, “presume, this to deny?”