Ask Me No Questions (10 page)

Heartened by this prospect, she smiled, and thought 'Resolution!' But in the back of her mind a small mean voice awoke and gibbered, 'For a few short weeks, mayhap. And after Lac Brillant? What then?… What then?'

The following day's approach to sunset was glorious, the sky a blaze of colour and a warm breeze carrying the smell of the sea to mingle with the scents of blossoms. But riding at a leisurely pace through the Lac Brillant woods, Gordon Chandler was too lost in thought to admire the gold, scarlet, and amethyst of the heavens or notice the fragrance of the air. His journey to Canterbury had been disappointing. Gatewell, their man of the law, had heard none of the rumours about a Jacobite amnesty and had said in his gruff way that he did not expect the King to grant an amnesty for a long time to come. "Your brother," he'd added with a stern glance from under his heavy eyebrows, "should count himself fortunate to be alive at all, even if he has to live outside England." Chandler frowned. He'd not relay that news to Papa. Since he had to be in Town tomorrow, he would see what he could learn there. He must seek out Gideon Rossiter as well, and ask him about the peculiar affair at Larchwoods. There was something dashed havey-cavey going on out there, and he'd have investigated before this save that Nadia had been in such a taking.

He seldom followed the estate road when riding in from the north, preferring to travel cross-country over Peggoty Hill. From there one was afforded an exquisite view of the house and grounds, all the way down to the blue glitter of the Strait and their little cove with its guardian offshore rocks and the crumbling and no longer used old lighthouse. Today had been no exception. He'd let Carefree have her head after they crested the hill and had ridden with slack rein through the woods. His thoughts turned to Quentin, wondering what he was doing on this sunny afternoon, missing the wild scatter-wit, recalling some of their childhood escapades, and sighing over the final deadly escapade that had robbed him of his brother, and driven Quentin, a hunted fugitive, out of England.

Carefree's meandering route now brought them out onto the side of the hill just behind the blue guest cottage, and the pretty piebald mare slowed, her ears pricking forward. Chandler looked up. Against all reason a shabby coach stood half on, half off the narrow rear footpath, and a coachman, equally shabby, was staggering towards the open rear door of the cottage with a large portmanteaux on his back.

Noting that the ill-matched pair was contentedly devouring what had once been a neatly trimmed shrub, and that the coach wheels had dug deep grooves into the velvety lawn, Chandler thought numbly, 'Swinton will turn inside out!'

Recovering, he attempted an enquiry. "What—the— DEVIL—are—"

However justified, his question was poorly couched. His roar, shattering the drowsy silence of late afternoon, sent Carefree hurtling straight into the air, drew frenzied neighs from the startled pair, caused the coachman to drop the portmanteaux scattering its contents, and awoke a screech from a plump little female who had apparently been carrying a cup of tea to the coachman. Her reaction was not limited to the screech, for she flung up her arms, at the same time essaying a spirited leap. The cup shot from the saucer and deposited its contents on the back of Chandler's neck as he made an abrupt descent into the flower bed.

The lady artist, coming rather belatedly onto the scene, said in surprised accents, "
Whatever
are you doing, Mr. Chandler?"

Gordon Chandler was widely held to be a rather stern young man, with a reputation for shrewd common sense and a temper that was usually held in check. Mr. Chandler's temper however had, for several reasons, been somewhat frayed of late. One of those reasons stood before him now, and the knowledge that he had stupidly allowed himself to be thrown into a flower bed, that his hair was in his eyes, his new riding coat torn, and that he must look a proper fool, did nothing to improve his mood.

"I might well ask the same of you, madam," he snarled, coming swiftly to his feet. "Who the deuce gave you leave to use this garden as a shortcut? It escaped your notice, I gather, that this is a footpath! A
footpath
, Miss Arlington!" Clutching the back of his neck, which smarted considerably, he glared at her.

"Allington," she corrected involuntarily. "I am so sorry if we have come the wrong way. We were lost, you see, and arrived on this side of the grounds, so— Oh, my! You have tea leaves in your cravat, sir." She snatched a small handkerchief from the bosom of her gown. "Allow me to—"

"Thank you—no." He stepped back and brushed at his cravat. His hand, being muddy, did not help matters. He saw Miss Allington's lips twitch and, lightning fast, a dimple came and went. Glancing down, he swore under his breath.

From the cottage behind her came a squeak of mirth. Aghast, Ruth retained sufficient presence of mind to clap a hand over her mouth as though trying to muffle the sound.

Her apparent amusement did not please. "Allow me to inform you," he raged, shaking his riding crop for emphasis, "that this lawn—" The riding crop, broken in the fall, sagged ludicrously.

The dimple in Miss Allington's cheek struggled against suppression.

Gritting his teeth, Chandler hurled the crop from him. With fiendish perversity it flapped through the air to drape itself over the nose of the coachman's tall bay horse. The bay took violent exception to such treatment and made a determined effort to jump backwards over the coach. His cohort, jerked back willy-nilly, became equally alarmed and succeeded in getting a leg over the pole. The coach veered crazily, creating havoc in the flower bed.

Alarmed by the murderous expression on the face of this crusty young gent, the coachman ran to seize the harness and shouted threats at his animals.

Chandler moved quickly to tear the leathers from his hand. "Gently, you fool," he growled, reaching up to stroke the sweating neck of the big bay. "Easy now, poor fellow. Easy."

Ungently, the bay bit him.

Ten minutes later, the uproar having quieted, the coachman followed Mr. Chandler's piebald mare and strove to obey the gentleman's terse orders to keep to the disastrous tracks he'd wrought in his initial journey.

Watching Chandler's rigid back with no small apprehension, Ruth called, "I am truly sorry, sir."

He turned in the saddle. "Your arrival, madam," he advised pithily, "has not been propitious."

The two women looked at each other.

"Oh dear," sighed Ruth.

The blue cottage was a delight; a fairy tale house much larger than Ruth's perception of a cottage, with the same red-tiled roof as the main buildings. On the ground floor were a small entry hall, a cozy sunken parlour, a dining room, kitchen, and a small bedroom. The charming spiral staircase led up to two larger bedchambers, each with dressing room; and there was also a study equipped with well-stocked bookshelves and a writing desk. The furnishings were tasteful, the walls were hung with fine old prints and watercolours, and, much to Ruth's relief, each of the casement windows was provided with heavy draperies calculated to keep out the cold winter winds. These were pulled back at present but when closed would keep out prying eyes.

They were all pleased with their new home, and it was swiftly decided that the boys would share one of the upstairs bedchambers, Ruth taking the other, and Grace occupying the smaller downstairs room. The twins rushed about exploring every nook and cranny, and discovering such wonders as a tiny bedroom cupboard evidently intended for shoes, a frigid little pantry off the kitchen, and some deliciously creaking floorboards. Even the fastidious Grace was satisfied that the wardrobes, drawers, kitchen cupboards, and shelves were immaculate, and she at once went to work to unpack and put away their belongings.

After a preliminary and pleased inspection of the rooms, Ruth washed, tidied her hair, and changed her dress as quickly as possible, but the shadows were long across the gardens when she hurried down the path to the main house. The sun was going down in a blaze of crimson and purple, the fiery glow painting the exterior walls pink. Candles had already been lit inside, and the windows glowed a mellow amber. The air of early evening was mild, birds were sharing the day's news as they settled into the trees, and the stream gurgled and chattered over its stony bed. Beset as she was by anxieties, Ruth could not fail to be struck by the beauty all about her, and when she came around to the front of the building her steps slowed and she paused briefly, looking out over the charming prospect.

"So here you are, Miss Allington. Sir Brian wondered when you were going to come."

The housekeeper stood at an open casement. She was bathed in the warm light, but her tone was cold and she did not return Ruth's smile. It was not to be wondered at, Ruth acknowledged glumly. Mr. Chandler had undoubtedly relayed the news of her disastrous arrival, and during her first visit here she had gained the impression that Mrs. Tate was devoted to him.

She hurried to the door, which was already being held open by a liveried footman. Mrs. Tate glided across the hall to meet her, the dark grey bombasine of her gown whispering.

"I was not quite sure," said Ruth, "whether I should use the back door."

"But you came to the front." Mrs. Tate's dark eyes were expressionless. "Sir Brian is waiting. He desired that you join the family for dinner. We shall send a tray down to your cousin."

"Oh, but—"

"This way, if you please."

Ruth followed, willy-nilly. If Sir Brian had invited her to dine with the family he must not consider her hopelessly far beneath them, nor could he be too angry over her unfortunate arrival.

Mrs. Tate led her across the great hall, past the graceful sweep of the fine old staircase, and opened one of double doors into a wide and wainscoted withdrawing room.

"Miss Allington," she announced, and went away.

Sir Brian rose from a sofa and turned, smiling. With him was a clerical gentleman of about forty, with a high forehead, the gentle eyes of a dreamer, and beautifully chiselled features. Advancing to shake Ruth's hand, Sir Brian presented his chaplain, the Reverend Mr. Nathaniel Aymer, who was, he added, "a most distinguished scholar."

Mr. Aymer's rather grave smile told Ruth that he did not approve of lady restorers, but she betrayed no awareness of his reaction. Sir Brian drew up a chair for her, and she answered his polite enquiries by saying that their journey had been pleasant and the cottage was a joy. Her cautious attempts to refuse the dinner invitation were brushed aside. She must not deny three lonely gentlemen the pleasure of a lady's company for once, and Sir Brian promised faithfully that he did not mean to "talk business."

At this point, Gordon Chandler arrived. He had changed his clothes and looked quite well, thought Ruth, trying to be fair, in a plum-coloured coat, the great cuffs rich with silver braid. A diamond sparkled amid the laces at his throat. His hair was powdered and drawn back severely, and the glance he rested on Ruth as he made his bow was also severe.

"Here you are at last, my dear boy," said Sir Brian. "You see, you were not 'the last act to crown the play,' Miss Allington, though crown it you do. Perhaps, Gordon, you will be so good as to offer the lady a glass of ratafia."

Chandler went over to a credenza and filled two glasses, one of cognac.

"Now, you must give me your opinion, ma'am," said Sir Brian, with a twinkling glance at his son's broad shoulders. "What do you think of this room?"

"I think that, like the rest of your estate, sir, 'tis very beautiful."

The lace at Mr. Chandler's wrist shifted as he offered the glass of ratafia and Ruth gave a shocked gasp.

"You do not think all this panelling a touch gloomy, perhaps?" prompted Sir Brian.

Appalled by the lurid bruise on his son's wrist, Ruth stammered, "Sir Brian—I must apologize for—"

"My father asked, your opinion of this room." Chandler's dark face was forbidding. Strolling to take a deep chair near Sir Brian, he raised his glass in salute to him and said with fond mockery, "I am very sure he waits your verdict with bated breath, ma'am."

Mr. Aymer chuckled. "You place the lady in a most difficult situation, Mr. Gordon," he remarked in an unexpectedly high-pitched tenor voice. "She is scarcely able to be anything but complimentary."

"No, no, that will never do," protested Sir Brian. "When I ask a question, Miss Allington, I want only the truth. However unpalatable it may be."

There was clearly more here than met the eye. Ruth wrenched her mind from its preoccupation with Mr. Chandler's damaged wrist, and glanced around the room. It was spacious, richly furnished, and panelled throughout in oak, and she said with genuine admiration that she could find nothing to dislike. "Truly, I have never seen such superb carvings as those on the heads of the panels."

Chandler laughed softly and again raised his glass to his sire.

'He manages to look human when he laughs,' thought Ruth.

"Alas, we are outnumbered, Sir Brian," said Mr. Aymer with a rueful smile.

"Oh dear," said Ruth. "Never say I have committed another faux pas?"

"To the contrary." For once the ice in Mr. Chandler's grey eyes had been replaced by a look of approval. "Your judgment must only be excellent, ma'am, since my brother and I share it."

Sir Brian smiled. "You agree with me, at least, Nathaniel. And you should, Miss Allington, for had I not stripped all the gloomy wood from the chapel walls, our fresco might have stayed unrecovered for another two centuries."

"Instead of which, we have a mouldering fresco and a cold chapel," his son murmured into his wineglass.

Mr. Aymer explained, "Mr. Gordon holds that walls covered with plaster and paper admit draughts, ma'am. And that panelling keeps a room snug."

"With all your many virtues, Gordon, you have been denied an appreciation of art." Sir Brian gave a start as his son waved a gesture of acknowledgment " 'Pon my soul! What a'plague have you done to your hand?"

Chandler looked vexed and shook down the laces at his wrist. "A small accident, merely. 'Tis of no consequence."