Ask Me No Questions (6 page)

"What a pretty fellow." The gentleman reached out. "May I stroke him? I am very fond of cats."

It was the start of a long exchange into which the worried man and his son entered. The kitten was made much of and, as is the way with small creatures, was the catalyst that drew the passengers into friendly conversation. Ruth listened, fascinated. She was glad to see that the sullen look had vanished from the youth's face, and his father seemed less troubled. She found herself imagining the scene when grandmama opened the basket and gave the kitten to the little girl. Jacob and Thorpe had so wanted a puppy, but it had become all too apparent that their future was uncertain, and she'd not dared— Sighing, she glanced up. Opposite, the gentleman's smile was ready, managing to impart such mocking familiarity that her aversion deepened, and for the rest of that long journey she contrived to avoid meeting his eyes.

They reached Dover at a quarter past three o'clock, having been delayed in Maidstone by a splitting wheel which had to be replaced. The farmer, who had snored through the last hour of the journey, woke up and made it clear to everyone within three hundred yards that he meant to lodge a complaint with the ticket agent. The door was swung open and Ruth smelled the fresh tang of the sea. She had hoped to be assisted by the guard, but the smiling gentleman forestalled him, springing nimbly from the coach so as to help her down. His hand was gloved and didn't linger, but she was not reassured and having murmured her thanks she went at once to the rear to find her valise.

The yard was almost as busy as had been the one at the Blue Boar. The air was chill and a light drizzle had made the cobblestones slippery. Shouting to one another, ostlers shot and skidded about at reckless speed, unpoling tired teams and poling up fresh ones. A loud dispute added to the din as the coachman and the ticket agent responded with vigour and volume to the continuing bellows of the displeased farmer.

Serene amid the uproar, the old inn soared above them in all its Tudor dignity, lamplight glowing from some casements despite the early hour, and smoke rising languidly from its many chimneys. A door was opened, and the tantalizing smell of hot food drifted out. Ruth had boarded the stagecoach at eight o'clock that morning, and the stops had been too brief to allow her to buy luncheon, besides which she'd shrunk from the prospect of the smiling man's assistance, which she was sure would be offered. Yearning to delay long enough to at least purchase a cold pastie, she dared not. Lady Buttershaw had said she would be met, but of course, Sir Brian Chandler's servants would be looking for a male passenger and she must be vigilant lest they leave without her.

There were several vehicles standing about, obviously waiting for travellers. The thin little grandmother called her good-byes and waved as she made her way to a waggon where a small girl was jumping up and down on the seat, squealing excitedly. A donkey cart was drawn up at one side, but Sir Brian would not have sent such a vehicle, surely, even for a prospective employee? Ruth eyed a light travelling coach hopefully until a dowager with enormous hoops left the inn and was ushered to it by two servants. The luxurious carriage waiting near the entrance Ruth judged unlikely, but she watched as a footman clad in cream and brown livery left it and approached the stagecoach.

Someone touched her elbow. The smiling gentleman offered her valise and lifted his tricorne respectfully. Quite proper. Perfectly polite. Yet her dislike suddenly became fear. Poor Thomas had been wont to state that she was beautiful, but in her candid way Ruth knew that although she was attractive, hers was not the kind of beauty to dazzle strange gentlemen. She had consistently snubbed this man. He could not fail to be aware of her reaction, yet he persisted. He must see that she was a respectable lady.

What did he want of her? Was he—horrors!—a superior type of bailiff? Or a special constable? She had tried so hard to pay all the bills, but there had been so many. Were some still outstanding? Did he mean to serve a summons upon her, or have her arrested for debt? A mental picture of being weighed down with heavy shackles and hauled away before everyone caused her to feel faint for a moment.

"Beg pardon, sir. Would you by any chance be Mr. R. Allington?"

The footman had come up and was addressing the smiling man, who shook his head and then turned aside to collect his luggage.

'Resolution!' Ruth reminded herself. The footman was looking about. She tried to sound firm. "I believe you are looking for me."

The man appraised her in one swift and supercilious glance. "Thank you, madam, but I am to meet a gentleman."

"My name is Miss Allington. I have an appointment with Sir Brian Chandler, and was told I would be called for."

The man's jaw dropped. "But," he gasped, scandalized, "you're a—
lady
!"

"Quite true." She smiled and handed him her valise. "Is that your coach?"

"Yes. But— I do not— Miss—"

She paid no attention to his spluttering bewilderment and despite shaking knees walked to the waiting coach, the footman trailing after her.

The coachman, a powerful-looking man with powdered hair and greying bushy eyebrows, leaned from the box, grinning broadly. "Hey! Mackey!" he called. "You ain't brung the proper party."

Ruth looked up at him. 'To the contrary, he has indeed brought the proper party."

His pale blue eyes became very round and he gawked at her speechlessly.

The footman stammered, "Lady says she's M-Miss Allington, Dutch. What you think—?"

Ruth turned and stared at him until he gave a gulp and sprang to open the door and hand her inside. When the door was slammed, shutting out his aghast countenance, Ruth sank back against the squabs feeling limp with relief.

There came the muttering of voices, capped by an irked, "All right then. But what the master's goin' ter say, I dunno. I just dunno!"

The carriage jolted and began to roll out of the yard. The persistent stagecoach passenger stood in the drizzle and watched their departure. Smiling. Then they were out on the street and in bustling traffic.

Ruth closed her eyes and gave a shuddering sigh. The first hurdle was past!

Unlike the stagecoach, Sir Brian Chandler's carriage was well sprung and luxuriously appointed. It moved smoothly and rapidly and the picturesque old town was soon left behind. They followed a north-easterly route along the top of the cliffs. Through the right-hand windows Ruth could see the Strait and two ships, their sails hanging motionless in the still air. After a while the carriage turned inland. The road narrowed into a lane, edged with trees. Even in this grey misting drizzle it was beautiful country, with lush well-kept fields and occasional little clumps of thatched and whitewashed cottages. Soon, the cottages dwindled and were gone and the carriage bowled along through open country.

In spite of her dread of the coming interview, Ruth was warm and comfortable, and her head began to nod. She jumped when the footman blew up a hail on the yard of tin. They were slowing. Shouts were exchanged. Then, they went on again through wide iron gates, passing the gatekeeper's lodge and a tall man in dark green livery who stood holding the gate open and craning his neck to peer into the carriage.

The drivepath seemed to go on for miles. They traversed a strip of woodland, then a wilderness area, followed by a spacious park, its neatly scythed lawns dotted with great trees. The drivepath curved into a loop, and Ruth gave a gasp as she saw Lac Brillant for the first time.

A large lake spread in a sheet of silver at the foot of a low broad-shouldered hill. Near the top, was the house. It was unlike any great house she had ever seen, for, instead of a massive and dignified mansion, three semi-circular white buildings with red tile roofs were spaced in a wide crescent shape and separated from one another by flower gardens. A short distance away the tower of a small and apparently ancient chapel peeped from a grove of beeches. Little pools and streams were everywhere, and in the centre of the crescent a winged horse reared from a great fountain, which sent feathery sprays high into the air. Except that the central structure was larger, the houses were identical and looked, thought Ruth, more like a collection of Italian villas than the country seat of an English aristocrat. Fascinated, she forgot her problems as she gazed at low yew trees, neat box hedges, colourful flowerbeds threaded by meandering pathways. Urns, benches, and statuary added their charm to the scene, as did the rock gardens and enchanting topiary. Quaintly balustraded little stone bridges crossed the streams and miniature waterfalls, while rising behind house and gardens like a verdant frame, loomed tall graceful trees.

The carriage pulled up outside the central building. Ruth gathered her courage again. His eyes as disapproving as ever, the footman swung open the door and followed her up the steps, carrying her valise. She hesitated, wondering whether she should go to the servants' entrance, but the panelled front doors were already opening.

The butler, a rather stout but dignified individual in a pigeon-wing wig and a black habit, directed a startled glance from Ruth to the footman.

Ruth said quickly, "I have an appointment with Sir Brian Chandler. My name is Miss Ruth Allington."

The butler's dark eyes returned to her. They were without expression now, but for a moment he was motionless. Then, he gestured to a lackey to take Ruth's valise, sent the footman off with a nod, and murmured, "This way, if you please, miss."

They crossed a superb great hall with beautifully carved ceilings, floors of gleaming marble, and a graceful curving staircase. The butler turned into a wide corridor where thick rugs were spread on parquet floors. He opened a door, ushered Ruth into a spacious room whose high windows overlooked the fountain court, murmured a polite request that she wait, and sailed off.

Her palms wet with nervousness, Ruth looked about her. There were bookcases on the panelled walls, and a large mahogany desk stood at the centre of the room, a leather chair behind it. Above a charming marble fireplace in the right-hand wall hung a portrait of two young men, somewhere in the early twenties, she thought. Neither wore a wig or powder, and the firm chins, well-shaped lips, and lean features were sufficiently alike that she guessed them to be brothers, but that they were very different men was obvious. The taller of the pair was extremely good looking, with thick auburn hair rather carelessly tied back, and a winning smile. One slim hand rested gracefully on the parapet beside them, and Ruth's trained eye admired the detailing of a dragon's head ring he wore, and the way the artist had captured a gleam of mischief in his brilliant green eyes. There was something in the look that reminded her of Jonathan. 'A dashing rascal,' she thought wistfully. Although a comely man, his brother, whom she judged to be the eldest, was darker, his hair more severely dressed; there was no smile on the lips, which were set in a stern line, and the grey eyes reflected a trace of impatience, as though he had resented the time spent in posing for the portrait. Always interested in others, Ruth decided they must be Sir Brian Chandler's sons, and she wondered if they lived here, and if they were friends.

A door slammed somewhere, and she sat down hurriedly on a straight-backed chair facing the desk.

The door was flung open. A deep voice said irritably, "Papa, an I do not leave now, I—"

Ruth jerked around as the elder of the men in the portrait strode into the room. He was clad in riding dress, and he paused, one gauntletted hand on the latch as he stared at her.

"Oh," he said. "Your pardon, ma'am. I had thought Sir Brian was in here."

She started to tell him that Sir Brian was on his way, but the door was already closing.

"Most ill-mannered," she advised it. The portrait, she thought, must have been painted about a decade since, for he looked closer to thirty than twenty. He also looked even more unamiable, and one could but hope he was visiting merely, and did
not
dwell here.

She turned the chair slightly, so that she would be prepared next time the door opened. The minutes slid past and her nerves tightened again. Suppose Sir Brian did not mean to come? It would be simple for him to refuse to see her, and if his health was poor, as she'd heard, that would be the logical thing for him to do. Especially if his nature was as forbidding as that of his son. She sent up a quick prayer. 'Dear God—
please

"Miss Allington?"

She pulled her head up. A tall thin gentleman watched her from the doorway. Suddenly, her knees were weak; they shook as she stood and made her curtsy.

He came into the room and offered a slight but polite bow. Ruth scanned a careworn face and weary green eyes that also reflected incredulity. He looked far from hearty, but he was not as elderly as she had supposed; certainly not much above sixty. He must, she thought inconsequently, have been an exceeding handsome man in his youth. And there followed another thought. 'He is sad, poor old gentleman. I wonder why.'

In a kindly and concerned tone he said, "I am Sir Brian Chandler, and my dear lady, I fear there has been a dreadful misunderstanding. Indeed, I do not know what Mr. Falcon can have been thinking of when he wrote to me in your be-half. The position I have to offer requires an experienced artist. A
male
artist. I am sorrier than I can say, but—"

Ruth gripped her hands together and interrupted desperately, "I beg of you, sir. Do not set your mind 'gainst me. I
am
an experienced artist. I worked closely with my father, whose work is greatly admired in—in Europe."

The poor girl looked distraught, he thought uneasily. And how pale she was. "Pray be seated," he said, and walked around the desk to occupy the big chair. "I am unaware of an artist by that name, but you must understand, Miss Allington, that were your father to have been a great man with the skill of—of a Greville Armitage, for instance, I could not hire you."

Ruth crossed the fingers that were hidden by the folds of her gown and slid deeper into deception. "My Papa worked with Greville Armitage, Sir Brian. 'Twas Mr. Armitage taught me all I know of art." (That, at least, was no lie!) She saw that he was impressed, and hurried on. "I helped him often. In fact, Papa and I worked with him on the restoration of frescoes in the Villa Albertini, outside Milan."