Feather Castles (8 page)

Rachel chuckled. “I believe that! Now—what is this ‘marvellous' news?”

He set aside his cup and said in a voice that rang with excitement, “My name! Part of it, at least!”

“Oh!” Rachel clapped her hands in delight and came near to upsetting the tray balanced on the stone bench between them. The soldier laughed and righted it, and she cried an impatient, “Tell me—do!”

“My first name only, I'm afraid. It is—” He paused, with a boyish desire to increase her anticipation. “—Tristram.”

“Tristram!”

How sweetly she spoke his name, and how genuinely overjoyed she seemed to share his small triumph. Watching her, he thought the blue gown with its tiny puff sleeves, swooping neckline and lace-edged flounce admirably became her, while the bonnet set off her bewitching face to perfection. She was as kind and warm-hearted as she was beautiful, and gently born, beyond doubting. There was so much more he longed to know of her. Why did she wait here alone save for her abigail? For whom did she wait? Where was her home? And what were her circumstances? Was she (terrible thought!) promised? But he knew he had not the right to ask any questions at all, and therefore waited silently.

If he did not speak aloud, his eyes spoke for him and, thinking she had never seen such expressive eyes, Rachel's breath began to flutter in her throat so that she said rather hurriedly, “Oh—do listen! Someone must be holding a musicale!”

He listened obediently and with his gaze still fixed upon her face, asked, “Are you fond of music, ma'am?”

“Very fond. Is it not beautiful? I do not know the piece, but it sounds like Haydn.”

“Handel, I believe,” he corrected dreamily.

So he knew music! He was as yet obviously unaware of that recollection and did not appear to have paid the usual costly price for it. Striving to sound casual, she probed, “You are right. I'm so forgetful about some things. Just today, for instance, I heard a quotation, and for the life of me, cannot translate it.
‘Integer vitae scelerisque purus.'
Do you know what it means?”

Tristram was thinking that the curve of her lips should be captured on canvas. And, envying the artist who would be so fortunate as to attempt it, responded, “Loosely translated, it means—someone who leads an upright life and has no vices. A sterling character, I—” But he checked, flinching to a blinding stab of pain, the cup toppling from his hand.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” Rachel cried remorsefully. “I should not have—”

“No, no!” He kept his head downbent for a moment, then looked up again, a trifle breathless, but managing to smile into her frightened eyes. “It is really much less … violent than it was. And—of far shorter duration.
Voilà!
” He gestured theatrically. “All gone! Besides, I cannot alllow it to get the best of me, you know. I simply
must
find out who I am, what I am, before I can—er—attend to certain other vital matters.”

Rachel hid her quite inexplicable blushes by reaching down to pick up the cup he'd dropped. Fortunately, it had fallen on the grass between the stepping-stones of the walkway and was still intact. “You have somewhere to start, now,” she said, restoring the cup to the tray, but avoiding his gaze. “Tristram is not a very common name, and there is no doubt but that you were an officer. You must go to the Horse Guards, where you will likely discover your identity in a winking.”

With a crooked grin, he said, “And discover also, perhaps, that a noose awaits me.”

“Oh, no! You do not really believe that?”

She looked distressed, and he wanted no grimness to spoil this idyll, so said whimsically, “Why, murder's none so dreadful in some cases, Miss Strand. Suppose I was quite run off my legs, fell into the clutches of a cents-per-center, and became so incensed I put a period to him—that would be a public service, eh?”

“Probably,” she chuckled. “But do you really think you strangled a money-lender?”

“If I did they'll likely have a medal for me. And only think how much worse it could be. I might instead have done something really frightful—like cheating at cards, for example. Now
that
is surely—” He was aghast to see her face paper white, her eyes enormous against that pallor. “What is it?” he asked sharply. “I was jesting, merely. I didn't really mean I had done such a thing.”

“No-no, of—of course you did not. Would you care for some more tea? I can ask the maid for a clean cup.”

“Lord, no. That one is immaculate compared to some of the dishes we ate from in Spain, I assure you!” She smiled, but watching the delicate movements of her little hands as she wielded teapot and strainer, he was irked because he had evidently said something that had triggered a shocking memory. The nun had mentioned a brother, Justin, who'd gone out to India. Perhaps he'd
had
to leave England! Perhaps he'd been a gamester, or—

“It must be dreadful for you to know nothing of your past, however you joke about it,” said Rachel quietly, handing him his tea. “I think you are being terribly brave.”

“Yes, aren't I?” Pleased by the responsive little gleam that crept into her eyes, he went on, “Still, I've been thinking, ma'am, that perhaps it is better I don't discover the truth. I might be wed to a large, proud lady of domineering disposition, who would terrify me!”

He was the type, thought Rachel, who would face physical danger unflinchingly, but yet was so gentle he could be cowed by just such a lady. Amused, she pointed out, “You'd not have wed her, surely, did she not have a heart of gold.”

“My father forced me to it,” he said promptly. “He is a tyrant, I've no doubt, and— Oh, gad! Suppose she has presented me with several noisy offspring?”

“Several?” she questioned, her eyes dancing. “Four—perhaps?”

“Four! Never say so! But—if twins run in the family, I collect it might be worse!”

“Oh, a good deal worse. In that case, you might have ten! All boys. And wildly undisciplined!”

He shrank and, clasping his brow, said, “That settles it! I'll not go back!”

“What? Sir—how dastardly! You never mean to abandon them all?”

“Self-preservation,” he decreed blithely.

Rachel said a stern, “It will not do, sir! Too wicked by half!”

She had entered into his farce so merrily that her dismals seemed quite gone, thank heaven. Managing to sound crestfallen, he pleaded, “You'll never condemn me to such a fate? Can you not build me a kinder past, Miss Strand?”

“May I?” she said eagerly. “Let me see now—Ah! I have it! You
are
wed, but to a reigning Toast. A glorious lady, delightfully accomplished, poised, and so charming you are the envy of all England!”

“Euphemia,” he nodded, absently.

Rachel asked a somewhat sharp, “Who?”

“Er—your pardon?”

“You said—‘Euphemia.'”

He stared at her in confusion. “No, did I?” Who in the deuce was Euphemia? And—dammit! Why were just these occasional scraps of memory so tantalizingly tossed at him? His smile a little forced, he went on, “Well, Euphemia sounds right for such a Fair, do not you think? It's the Royal Mail to a wheelbarrow,
that's
who I murdered!”

“Euphemia?” Rachel gasped.

“Her lover.”

“Lover? But—she's your wife!”

“Ah, but you see I am away for long periods. Yearning for her. Counting the hours we are apart. At last, I'm given a leave. I rush home, gallop up the steps of our palatial mansion—and am trampled underfoot by the exodus.”

“Exodus?” she echoed, intrigued.

“Of Euphemia's lovers. Scads of 'em! No—don't laugh, for after all she is a reigning Toast; all London kissing her little feet. It stands to reason there'd be more than one.”

“Then—why,” she asked mirthfully, “why did you murder only
one?
”

“Hmmnn—see your point. Well, I could probably catch only one—after being trampled like that. But I caught him by the ankle, flung him down, and put an end to the beastly rogue. And—
that's
why I joined up! To hide myself in the anonymity of the rank and file!”

He looked so triumphant that Rachel broke into a peal of laughter. “
What
a tragedy! It is fairly heart-rending!”

“Then we won't have it! My apologies, Euphemia, but—farewell!” His smile faded. The words echoed strangely in his ears. “Euphemia—farewell…” And suddenly, he saw a pair of laughing, deep blue eyes; a charming female countenance, full of mischief; a tall girl, her hair a shining, coppery hue. A girl he had loved dearly. “By Jove!” he muttered. “So I am not wed, after all!”

Rachel had seen his expression change, and now remarked with studied calm, “So there
is
a Euphemia. Do you know her last name? Perhaps you could find her and discover your identity.”

He frowned and concentrated desperately, but it was useless. Apart from that glimpse of her face, and the brief recollection of how deep had been his sorrow when she'd chosen some other fellow, there was nothing. “Alas—I cannot recall. But—I'm not wed! That I do know!”

“Oh. Then you are reprieved,
mon Capitaine!
Your—horde of twins does not exist. At least, for the present.”

Her eyes twinkled at him, and he knew that they evoked memories of just such another pair of eyes, and that he loved even more deeply now than he had then. “Yes,” he answered. And added, half to himself, “My past will trot itself out, sooner or later. The important thing now is my future—my golden dream.”

“It sounds delightful,” smiled Rachel. “I hope it may be realized.”

Tristram gazed rather blankly at a cluster of daisies nodding white and yellow faces to the sun. For a moment he did not reply, then, lifting his eyes to hers, said gravely, “I pray it will, ma'am.”

*   *   *

At about the same moment that Tristram dropped his teacup in the garden, Agatha Summers opened the door to Miss Strand's suite and admitted Sister Maria Evangeline. Her advice that her mistress was gone out for a walk in no way discomposed the nun, “for it is you I came to see, at all events.”

Apprehensive, Agatha showed her visitor to a chair and stood before it, with hands clasped; a silent question mark.

“Sit down! Sit down!” commanded the nun in her brisk way. “That's better. Now—what I will say is to remain a confidence between the two of us. Have I your promise?”

“Oh, yes, marm.” Agatha laid one plump hand on her generous bosom. “I do solemnly swear—”

“Well, do not. Swearing unnerves me. Tell me, rather—what d'ye think of Claude Sanguinet?”

Her eyes very round, Agatha gulped, “M-Monseigneur? Why—he be a fine gentleman, I'm sure. And very rich. And—” Seeking about, she added lamely, “And none so bad to look on—considering.”

“Pish and posh! Be honest with me, girl! D'ye
like
him? Do you think he will make your mistress a good husband? Do you think she
loves
him?”

Agatha fiddled with her apron. Her acquaintance with the nun was small; indeed, she'd seen more of her since Waterloo than in all the years Miss Rachel had been a pupil at the Seminary. Longing to speak out, she said hesitantly, “It bean't my place, marm, to—”

“Make it your place!” Sister Maria Evangeline leaned forward. “One confession for another! I'm out to scuttle the Frenchman. But I need help!”

“If that be your game, Sister,” said Agatha joyfully, “I'm emboldened to say I do not trust him! Nor I don't think as Master Justin ever liked him neither! All smiles and syrup fer Miss Rachel, he is, but never a polite ‘how de do' or ‘thankee' fer the likes of me! Mrs. Hayward, our housekeeper, do says as he's a Unhung Villin!” She tucked in her chins and nodded solemnly. “And I've heered a whisper here and a grouse there—enough to put two and two together and not come up with five! He don't give me the shivers like his brother Parnell with them moley eyes o' his, but—”

Fascinated by this flood, the nun was moved to interject, “
What
eyes?”

“Moley. All whitish, they be. And 'tis said as he cannot see in daylight hardly, for all his grand manners and good looks! What's more, Mr. Fisher, he's the butler at the Hall and was used to be Mr. Rupert's man, he says as the Sanguinets won't hire no local people at The Towers—nor at their chatho in France, neither! All the help's took on in London or Paris, and a mighty close-mouthed, stand-offish lot they be. Mr. Fisher told Mrs. Hayward—I heered him—that the rag-tags Monseigneur's got about him in France is such as makes his back get all over itchy the minute he sets foot on the estate. Not that he's done it since poor Mr. Rupert passed to his reward. Still,” she pursed her lips and nodded meaningfully, “it goes to show. Don't it?”

“It does, indeed,” agreed Sister Maria Evangeline, unfailingly impressed by the shrewdness of the British rustic. “But—if I thought Miss Rachel truly cared for him—”

“Care fer him!” snorted Agatha, indignantly. “She don't give the snap of her fingers fer him—saving only that his doctor helped Miss Charity!” She sighed, her hostility fading. “I must own he done us a great service there, and no mistake. If it weren't fer that surgeon o' his, poor little Miss Charity might still be laid down on her bed, so bad as ever.”

“True. And Rachel dotes on her sister. It would be logical enough, I suppose, for gratitude to deepen into the tender emotion.”

Agatha folded her arms and, mincing no words, said an emphatic, “No! I might've thought so, marm. But not since I see the way she looks at the soldier! Now
he's
a gentleman born, and no one can't tell me different! Not a whimper out of him in all that long drive from Brussels to Ostend! And him in downright misery every turn o' the wheels. Always put together a smile, he could. And never did I do the smallest thing to try to help the poor soul, but what he had a ‘thank you.' Miss Rachel, she's been a troubled young lady since she come across him. Surely!”