Revenge of the Barbary Ghost (12 page)

She followed the surge of others out the door and along the gallery, pushed and shoved and doing her own share of pushing and shoving, and heard some young girls excitedly chattering about a fight. To her horror, she heard Darkefell’s name, and then St. James’s! She shouldered her way through and saw the two men wrestling on the floor, but it was soon clear that Darkefell was destined to be the victor. He pummeled St. James ferociously, and blood streamed from the slimmer man’s ears and nose, and a cut along his eye was dripping. His powdered hair was limp and hanging in his eyes, the powder soaking up blood and turning his blond hair red.

“Stop it! Stop it, Darkefell,
this minute
!” she shouted, scrambling forward and jerking the collar of his coat; miracle of miracles, the marquess stopped.

He got up off St. James. “Lady Anne,” he said, his tone formal, as he settled his shirt down on his brawny shoulders, and pulled his soiled cravat off. “I’m sorry you had to witness this, but—”

“Shut up!” Anne shouted, pushing past him. She knelt by St. James. “Marcus, are you all right?” she cried, then looked up at his military friends, who stood gawking. “Help him, some of you! Help him to the cloak room. And send for a doctor.”

She accompanied Marcus as he was carried down the stairs to a cloakroom. Behind her, she could hear some commotion break out, but didn’t spare even a look backward. In the cloakroom, as the physician bandaged his wounds and Anne bathed his cuts with a cold cloth, St. James looked up, chagrined.

“I had so hoped to be your hero, my dearest Anne,” he said, with a crooked grin. “Oh, that hurts even to smile!” He touched his chin, gingerly.

“What happened?”

He shook his head, his pale eyes gleaming in the dim candlelight, but then said, “Well, you will hear of it eventually, and it might as well be from me. I hate to say it but that bloody marquess insulted you, my dear, and I could not bear it.”

“What? Darkefell insulted me?” Anne felt a sickness deep in the pit of her stomach.

Marcus looked grim, his face shadowed in pain. “It’s true. I shouldn’t tell, but I won’t have you spoken of that way, not by anyone. He spoke lightly of your … your virtue, my dear. He was bragging about having kissed you repeatedly, and insinuated that you had gone, perhaps, further than was strictly to your credit. All that in front of the others!” He reached up and touched her cheek, gently.

Anne choked back a sob. She had been prepared for a misunderstanding, some kind of joke gone wrong, but this? Darkefell, telling what they had done, revealing their most private moments? She had told no one about the kisses they had shared, the intimate moments—no one but Pamela and Mary.

How could Darkefell have done something so dastardly? If it had not been that circumstance, if it had not been about those kisses, she would not have believed Darkefell would say anything. But she saw how it was. In his jealousy over St. James, he had probably wished to stake his claim to her, for kisses, in their world, were as good as promises. “I’m so sorry you had to hear that, and from him!”

“I wouldn’t have him speak of you that way, Anne, darling,” he said, catching her hand to his chest. “I’d rather die. I punched him, but he’s a madman. I’m sorry!”

“No, you did what you could. You defended my honor. I thank you for that. You are a true gentleman.”

Seven

Marcus’s military friends assured Anne that they would take care of the wounded captain, so Anne left the ball directly, unwilling to give the gossips fuel for their speculation. The evening had turned chilly, and Anne wound her Kashmir shawl around her, reflecting bitterly on the events of the evening. As Sanderson took her arm to hand her up into her carriage, where Lolly and Pamela already waited, Anne heard a voice call her name. Turning, she saw that it was Osei Boatin. She took one step away from the carriage.

He bowed, formally, but his expression, in the flickering lamplight outside of the regimental assembly hall, was one of troubled inquisitiveness. “And so you are leaving, and without a single word for Lord Darkefell, my lady?”

The lamplight flickered on his glasses, and she couldn’t see the expression in his dark eyes, but it didn’t matter. “I have nothing to say to him.”

“My lady, I feel you must have misunderstood the altercation between Captain St. James and Lord Darkefell.”

“I hardly think that is likely, Mr. Boatin, as I heard the truth of the quarrel from Captain St. James himself,” Anne said, her tone flinty. She liked the secretary, but understood that he had been sent by Darkefell to make up to Anne. There was nothing that could make up for exposing her so, and in such a place!

“What did the captain say? It is possible you misunderstood, or—”

“No, Mr. Boatin, I did
not
misunderstand. You’re loyal to your employer; that is admirable and understandable. But I will not stand by silently and accept that he has seen fit to expose our most … our intimate …” She broke off, shook her head, but then continued: “ … exposed some of our
conversations
to the world at large. It will not do!”

A breeze heightened the flames from the flambeaux that flanked the assembly hall entrance, and with the light from her carriage lamps, Anne could see Osei’s expression, conflicted and somewhat puzzled, but she dismissed it as his uncertainty over what to do to improve his employer’s position with her. She stepped up into the carriage and took a seat, but then let down the window and leaned out, saying, “Good evening, Mr. Boatin. I hope you enjoy your stay in Cornwall. But tell the marquess that he may as well go back to Yorkshire, for I don’t intend to see him again.” She rapped on the side of the carriage, and called, “Go, Sanderson!”

***

A sleepless night and a pounding headache left Anne feeling shaky the next morning. She had no appetite—unusual for her—but Lolly cajoled her into consuming a coddled egg and toast. Pamela, Mrs. Quintrell told them, had departed first thing on her way to St. Ives to visit her brother in the infirmary, leaving a message for Anne not to wait for her before deciding her schedule for the day.

Having eaten her egg and toast and drunk a cup of tea, Anne sat, gazing absently out at the cloudy day.

“Anne, dear,” Lolly said, tentatively, rearranging the flower vase on the table in the gloomy dining room.

Anne turned from the window at her quavering voice. “Yes?”

“May I ask you something?” She nervously smoothed her stomacher, the tatty satin embroidery and drooping ribbon bows the worse for age.

“Of course; what is it?” Anne replied.

“Could we go to St. Wyllow this afternoon and perhaps buy a leg of lamb? Ever since Mrs. Quintrell’s awful …” She broke off and glanced toward the door that let directly on to the kitchen, then continued in a whisper, sitting down by Anne and leaning toward her, “I shouldn’t really say it so bluntly, but that lamb, it was rather tough, and lamb should
never
be tough, my dear.” She shook her head sadly, making a sound between her teeth. “I have wanted for some time now to try my hand at a good roast lamb, with a sauce I have been working on.”

“You don’t need my permission,” Anne said, examining Lolly’s pale face, lines where she hadn’t noticed them before, her cheeks sagging and pouchy. “It’s Pamela’s home, and she’s already given permission to use the kitchen, and you may do whatever you want with your time, you know that. Mother is your employer, not I.”

Lolly’s cheeks turned pink at Anne’s forthright speech. She stared down at her hands, folded in her lap, both thumbs rubbing a piece of limp ribbon. “But … well, I do not like to ask, but lamb … a whole leg, my dear, would be costly, and …” She drifted off, and then shook her head. “No matter, my dear. I’m sure whatever Mrs. Quintrell wishes to make for dinner will be adequate.”

Finally Anne caught what Lolly was asking, in her roundabout way. She leaped to her feet and bent over, kissing her companion’s forehead. How had she been so blind, so intolerably self-involved? Her companion was tired, Anne could see that, and worried. It was the cost of the meat that concerned her, for Lolly had no money of her own for such a thing as a whole leg of lamb, and disliked asking for what she insisted on viewing as charity. Her pride was too tender an accessory for one so poor.

“I need something to do or I shall go mad,” Anne said. “I shall take Mary and Robbie into the village, order a good lamb quarter, and some other things. Have Mrs. Quintrell prepare a list, and I’ll take care of it. If I do it while Pamela is occupied, she cannot worry about my purchases. Though I’ve already ordered wine and coal, I’ve been trying to find a way to contribute more to the household budget without anyone squirming, and this is the perfect opportunity.”

Lolly sniffed, tears standing in her eyes. “You’re so good to me, my dear!”

“Nonsense!” Anne said, bracingly, with the uneasy feeling she was exactly the opposite. How long had poor Lolly been trying to work up the courage to ask for a joint of meat? “If you make us a good lamb supper then you are the one doing us a favor. What Mrs. Quintrell does to perfectly good food is a grave offense.”

It was a relief to walk to the village with Mary and Robbie, for they both kept up a swift pace, unlike Lolly, who could not, it seemed, walk and talk at the same time. And since she liked to talk a great deal, she walked excruciatingly slowly. Robbie was interested in everything, bright-eyed, inquisitive and fractious, like a puppy. Oddly, Irusan had decided to join them; he did that back home in Kent, when Anne went for a walk, but only seldom in other places. He kept pace alongside his mistress.

Her tasks in town were quickly accomplished. The butcher promised to send the lamb immediately, and Anne summoned Sanderson and informed him of the other items she had purchased. He would deliver them himself to Cliff House, carry them inside and consult with Lolly about their dispersal, as well as speaking to a coal merchant for her. Anne was free, then, to stroll around the village with her thoughts, as Mary went to a local barber for help with a toothache and Robbie stayed with Sanderson to help fetch and carry.

St. Wyllow was quiet, but the dreary emptiness suited Anne, as did the low ceiling of clouds overhead and distant rumbling of thunder, for she was in a meditative mood. Solitude was a rare treat away from Harecross Hall, for a young lady was expected to be accompanied everywhere, as if the world was a dangerous place. At that moment the only danger she was in, she thought, strolling the sloped high street with Irusan by her side, feeling the scudding wind tug at her bonnet, was from the wound to her heart. Darkefell must have wormed his way in deeper than she had expected, because his betrayal ached.

Humiliation was a part of the sting, but more painful was imagining what prompted such behavior. There had been no care for her in revealing their most intimate moments, it was his manner of staking his claim to her. In her dark mood, she wondered why he was intent on marrying her. Perhaps the Darkefell family coffers were emptier than they seemed, and it was her dowry and inheritance that was the attraction. He would not be the first marquess to marry a less than desirable woman for love of his estate.

She walked on, until she realized her faithful feline was no longer at her side. She looked back and saw the big tabby sitting and staring down an alley she had passed a few moments before. She returned to him, glanced down the narrow lane, and saw a female form bustling down the side street; from the back, it looked just like Pamela, with the same dress she had on when she left that morning. But her friend was supposed to be out at St. James’s military encampment all day making sure her brother was all right. That couldn’t be her, could it?

Curiosity piqued, Anne picked up her skirts and followed, Irusan trotting at her side. Now, where had the woman gone? After a few minutes of walking down alleyways, one not too fragrant, with slops running in a foul stream down the sloping center, she caught sight of Pamela talking intensely to a man. As she approached, becoming alarmed at the aggressive stance of the man—he had Pamela by the wrist—she heard her friend cry, “I can’t do it, Puddicombe … please, just leave me alone. Isn’t money enough?”

“Pamela, what’s wrong?” Anne asked, striding down the alley, swiftly followed by Irusan. “Is this man bothering you?”

“Anne!” Pamela cried as she whirled around, her pale face stained by tears. “No, no, it’s just a misunderstanding!”

The man—Anne remembered seeing him at the ball the night before—touched his cap and bowed, having released Pamela’s wrist at Anne’s outcry. “I beg your pardon, Miss St. James, milady.”

He sidled past them and scuttled down the alleyway toward the street, watched by Anne. She turned to her friend. “Pam, if you’re having trouble, let me help.”

“It’s nothing really. Please, just leave it alone,” she cried, wiping the tears from her cheek.

“Pam,” Anne started, and grabbed her friend’s arm.

But Pamela shook her off, and with a pleading expression, said, “I’m going home. I have a terrible headache. Please, Anne, just let me go.” And she walked away.

Anne, baffled by the whole affair, let her go. “Come along, Irusan. Let’s go back to the village green.” She decided to sit on a bench on the green while she waited for Mary to come away from the barber’s.

Five children were chasing a piglet that had gotten loose from a neighbor’s pen, but having more fun in the chase than they would if they caught it quickly. But though she would normally have laughed along with the children, Anne couldn’t shake a sense of desolation. A deep sense of loneliness invaded her, even as Irusan butted his head at her leg and stayed close by. She was being ridiculous, she thought, for the only thing that had changed in her life since the day before was the betrayal of Darkefell. As she pondered that, tears welled in her eyes, and she thought perhaps she had begun to care for him in ways other than the purely physical.

She choked back her tears as she noted an elderly man shuffling along the pathway that bisected the village green. Cane in hand, he slowly made his way toward her bench. It wasn’t until he almost sat in her lap that she realized he was blind, and didn’t see her. She scooted out of the way, and once he sat, said, gently, “Good afternoon, sir. This must be your regular seat; I hope you don’t mind my sharing it.”