Ask Me No Questions (11 page)

"Of no consequence!" Mr. Aymer sprang to his feet and seized Chandler's arm. "What a frightful bruise! There may be bones broke, which can be deadly dangerous, and I'd not be surprised—"

Watching his father's alarmed face, Chandler jerked his arm away. "Such a pother you make, Aymer. You will have my father thinking me a block because I took a simple toss."

Still uneasy, Sir Brian exclaimed, "You were unhorsed? Which animal scored that rare victory? When did it happen?"

Darting a stern glance at Ruth, Chandler answered, "My piebald mare was the culprit. In the woods this afternoon. Something spooked her and I was woolgathering." He shrugged. "That'll teach me."

"Mr. Chandler is not being entirely honest, I fear," said Ruth.

Sir Brian and the chaplain jerked around to face her.

Chandler said irritably, "Oh, let us have done with this! There's no cause to make so much of a stupid—"

"Be still!" Sir Brian raised one hand autocratically. "Pray go on, Miss Allington."

" 'Twas entirely my fault, sir," she said, as she had rehearsed. "I did not properly recall the way, and we followed the back road onto your lands. In my confusion I failed to correct my hired coachman when he mistakenly turned onto a footpath."

"A—
what
!" Sir Brian's face darkened. "Do you say that you brought a carriage up
behind
the blue cottage? Not across my lawns, I trust."

"The coachman was a fool," said Chandler. "I was a—er, trifle short with him, which frightened my mare into a buck that caught me by surprise. No harm done."

"Except to my lawn," grumbled Sir Brian.

Ruth said humbly, "I am truly sorry."

Sir Brian was not appeased, and his tone was chill when he said that he trusted his gardeners could rectify matters.

Feeling a depraved criminal, Ruth lowered her eyes to the hands folded in her lap and kept silent.

"The gardens of Lac Brillant are famous, Miss Allington," said Mr. Aymer reprovingly. "We all treat them with the greatest care and are exceeding proud of them."

"And I am exceeding ravenous," said Chandler. "Has that fool of a chef expired?"

Almost as he spoke a gong somewhere sent out a sonorous peal. Sir Brian offered Ruth his arm. As she rested her hand on it, he said, "If that wrist starts to swell, Gordon, we must have Keasden out to look at it."

Chandler muttered something about an "old curmudgeon," and Sir Brian led Ruth into what he told her was the breakfast parlour, used for dinner when they did not set out very many covers.

It was a good-sized room wherein a long table was spread with snowy linen. Candlelight awoke answering gleams from silver and crystal. Lackeys stood ready to pull back chairs. The casements were open to the balmy evening air, the food was delicious, and to add what should have been the final touch of delight, a harpsichordist in an adjacent room began to play familiar old airs.

At any other time, Ruth would have been enchanted, but although Mr. Aymer kept up a stream of obviously well-meant but rather inane chatter in which Mr. Chandler occasionally joined, Sir Brian's countenance was austere and he scarcely spoke. Ruth sensed that she was in disgrace, and her heart sank.

The meal seemed interminable, and when it was over she declined Sir Brian's polite offer to take tea in the withdrawing room, and begged to be excused.

"Of course. You will be tired," he said. "My son will see you back to the cottage."

They all stood. Ruth offered her thanks and said her good nights, and was soon very gratefully walking across the lawns with Chandler pacing beside her. She made a few nervous attempts at conversation, but his replies were curt and monosyllabic.

Most of the curtains were drawn when they reached the cottage, but a lighted lamp brightened the parlour windows. Ruth turned on the top step and said firmly, "I know you do not wish to speak of it, sir. But I must thank you for trying to shield me. I fear Sir Brian was very provoked."

"Had you not persisted in talking out of turn, Miss Allington, he would have had no cause to be provoked. An I attempted to shield anyone, it was him. My father is not a well man. We all of us do everything in our power to spare him distress. Pray bear that in mind. For the short time that you are with us." And with a brief inclination of the head, he was striding off again.

Mortified, Ruth watched his tall figure blend into the night. "Horrid… brute!" she hissed, and went inside.

At the darkened upper window two fair heads turned, two small boys exchanged looks of outrage.

"You were right, Jake," whispered Thorpe. "He's a bad 'un."

"Awful bad! Did you hear the way he spoke to Aunty?"

"I think she was piping of her eye."

"If I was a man I'd—I'd grass him!"

"I wouldn't," said Thorpe with ferocity. "I'd say— '
confound
you, sir!' An' I'd jolly well call him out!"

Jacob looked around uneasily, and with the authority of being thirty minutes his twin's senior said, "That's swearing! You shouldn't say swearings."

"I'll do more'n that if he's rude to Aunty Ruth again! I'll cut out his heart an' feed it to the frogs! Like the pirates do."

Jacob sighed. "I wish we
was
pirates," he said, the notion of murder and mutilation apparently less offensive than an oath. "But we're not, so I 'spect he'll keep on being bad. Unless…"

"Unless—what?" Eagerly, Thorpe accused, "You're brewing, Jake!"

"Well, if you or me was't' speak to a lady like he did, we'd be punished. An'
I
think that if Mr. Chandler don't mend his ways,
he
oughta be punished."

"Oooh," said Thorpe, titillated. "Could we?"

"Aunty Ruth says you c'n do anythin' if you try hard 'nuff."

As they climbed into the canopied bed, Thorpe enquired, "D'you think frogs really eat hearts, Jake? Has they got teeth? You'd have to have teeth to eat a heart, wouldn't you?"

" 'Course, silly. We'll catch a frog an' see." A short silence, then Thorpe murmured sleepily, "Still, this is not so bad for a little house. An' I'm glad we c'n all stay together."

"So'm I. But it wasn't
him
what 'ranged it. I heard Aunty Ruth tell Miss Grace
he
tried to stop it. The old gentleman 'ranged it."

"Oh." Thorpe yawned. "Then it's not un-hon'rable if we have to punish him."

"No. Hon'rable, in fact. A man's's'posed to take care of his ladies. That's what Papa said."

"Oh." Another yawn. "Jake, d'you 'member Papa?"

"Not much. But that's what Grandpapa said he said. An' he said Papa was a fine gentleman 'cause it was in the blood. So that's what we'll be, Thorpe. Fine gentlemen."

"Righto. We better catch a frog't'morrow…"

The next morning Ruth resisted Grace's attempts to dress her hair less severely, insisting the tight plaits be wound behind her ears, with no curling tendrils allowed to escape.

Grace sighed. "Your beautiful hair! All scrinched flat. How can you hope to win the old gentleman over when you look such a dowd? And that plain old brown dress…"

"Let him once suspect I am an Armitage, and we're finished. Goodness knows, he may send us packing as it is, for he was most huffy with me about the lawn we spoilt. I mean to try very hard to please him, you may be assured. Now, all my tools and paints are in this box. Sir Brian will send a footman to carry it to the chapel, so when he comes, be sure to behave as if you're exceeding nervous. And for heaven's sake, keep the boys hid! I've told them they've to pretend the grounds are full of spies searching for them. Keep the doors locked and the curtains drawn, and if the windows are open, they must speak very quietly, just in case there are busybodies about."

"But if anyone should come they'll think it monstrous strange, Mrs. A. Nobody locks doors, or closes curtains in the summer time."

"Which is why we're so fortunate that you are of a—er, retiring disposition."

"You mean ripe for Bedlam," sighed Grace.

At the main house a footman directed Ruth to the chapel, where Sir Brian had attended early morning service. Her enquiry elicited the information that Mrs. Tate also attended service when she was able to get away, and Mr. Gordon sometimes did so, but not today since he was gone up to Town "for a indefinite time." This news lightened Ruth's spirits considerably, and the sun seemed brighter when she went outside again.

It was cooler today, and seagulls were wheeling overhead, uttering their piercing calls. She paused for an instant, looking up at them.

"Good morning, Miss Allington." The housekeeper approached, a crochetted shawl drawn close about her shoulders. "I trust you slept well."

The words were polite, but her eyes reflected no more interest than if she had addressed the stone bench set in a recess of the path beside them.

"Very well, I thank you," replied Ruth.

"Have you an interest in birds, ma'am?" There was just a hint of mockery in the question. Ruth was tempted to give the woman a set-down and had to remind herself that she was not the mistress here, but only a hired worker, and one regarded with disapproval. She said, "My late brother believed that seagulls go inland when a storm is coming. You've an interest in music, I believe. I heard you playing last evening, and you have a lovely speaking voice. Are you Welsh, perhaps? If so, I fancy you sing—no?"

Briefly, surprise flickered across the impassive features. "I am from Aber Tawy, madam, which you would call Swansea. My singing is unremarkable, but I am so fortunate as to sometimes play for Mr. Chandler's affianced when she is here. Lady Nadia has an exquisite soprano voice." Unsmiling still, she went on past.

It was such a pity, thought Ruth, that the people here must be so unfriendly, when the estate was so beautiful. Still, it was early days, and at least the individual who most resented her would not be a problem for a while. So his bride-to-be was called Lady Nadia, and was "an exquisite soprano." The ethereal type, no doubt, who sang in the church choir and was a model of gentle kindliness. Poor girl.

Just before she had left Lac Brillant on her first visit, Sir Brian had delegated to his son the task of conducting her to the chapel. Chandler had left what sounded to have been a contentious meeting with the steward, and had begged the patience of the half-dozen men waiting to see him. Obviously seething with impatience, he had rushed Ruth across to the chapel, jabbed a finger at the dingy fresco, and barely allowed her to take three steps towards it before remarking that the carriage waited to convey her to Dover.

This morning, the ancient little structure was chill but bright. The deep, richly carven rafters imparted a medieval elegance to the chapel and the rose window high in the east wall gleamed like a multi-coloured jewel in the early sunlight. Sir Brian was seated in a rear pew, deep in converse with Mr. Aymer. They ceased their discussion at once, and rose, to greet Ruth. The clergyman's manner had thawed considerably, and she was glad to see that Sir Brian's distinguished face wore a good-humoured expression. 'Is a gentleman of moods,' she decided.

The chaplain left them alone, and Sir Brian led Ruth to the fresco, which was situated between two more stained-glass windows on the south wall. It was not a work of great size, being roughly six feet wide and four feet high with the lower edge approximately six feet above the floor. A sturdy platform had been erected before it for her use, and Sir Brian assisted her up the steps to this edifice.

After only a brief inspection she realized that the work must be much older than she had at first thought. The surface was dark and cracked. It appeared to be a landscape, but it was difficult to make out details, and there was no apparent signature nor any indication as to who the artist might have been.

Watching her, Sir Brian said, "I brought an alleged expert down from London. He said it was the work of a nobody, and not worth the expense of restoring. Do you agree?"

"The gentleman must possess much keener eyesight than I do," she replied carefully. "He might very well be correct, but at this stage 'tis practically impossible to tell either who painted it, or what its intrinsic value might be. Is very old, certainly, and were this my home, I would value it excessively as part of my family history."

Obviously pleased, he said, "My own thought, exactly. My son disagrees with me. My heir, I should say. Although my younger son was much excited when I wrote to him of the discovery, and urges me to proceed with the restoration. You think it can be saved?"

"I think it well worth the attempt. It would be much more badly damaged had it not been covered by panelling for—how long a time, sir?"

He pursed his lips dubiously. "So far as I can determine, about two hundred years. One of my ancestors evidently took a dislike to it. Or perhaps, as Gordon says, sought to shut out the draughts by having the panelling installed. You think the wood protected it?"

"Not from damp, sir. But 'gainst the smoke from candles and braziers. Have you any idea of when it was painted, or what is the subject of the work?"

"This chapel is all that remains of the original pile, and was erected in the early thirteenth century. Perhaps the fresco dates back to that time. It may very well be a Biblical study. There is a hill there, do you see? And in the foreground, some figures. Many early family records were lost when Puritans stormed and burned much of the original house during the civil war, else we might have more knowledge of the work." He leaned closer, and peered up at the fresco. "I am forced to agree with Gordon that it shows little of either colour or promise."

"Take heart, sir," said Ruth with a smile. "In a few weeks you might be pleasantly surprised."

"Jupiter! Do you say you'll complete the work in so short a time?"

"That will depend on how you wish to proceed, Sir Brian. Also, if your fresco should begin to appear to be of great importance, you might be advised to call in experts from Italy. There is an exceptionally gifted gilder in Florence who would—"

He laughed. "Who would cost me a fortune, I've no doubt! No, no, my dear lady. This painting is of personal value to my family, but I doubt would warrant a major outlay of funds. Certainly, Gordon, who has a good business head on his shoulders, would put up a great to-do if I proposed such a course." He drew back, gripping his hands together, his eyes glinting. "Bless my soul! I begin to be excited. But what did you mean when you said your progress would depend on how I wanted to proceed? You are here, and ready to begin—no?"