Never Call It Love (11 page)

She
gave him time to embrace and kiss his mother, and then threw her own arms
around his neck. "There is a carriage waiting in the alley," she
whispered. "It will take you to Southampton." Reaching into the
pocket of her cloak, she took out a small pouch of soft leather and put it in
his hand. "Here is money. Take the first ship out Write to us. I will tell
you when it is safe for you to come back to England."

His
blue eyes, looking down into hers, held no questions, only a vast relief. He
too had read the death sentence in the Irishman's face.

The
bribed bailiff had opened the door. "Go!" she whispered fiercely.
Without a word Christopher turned and went through the door. The bailiff closed
it, and then stood with his back to the panels.

Mrs.
Montlow said, bewildered, "Where has Christopher gone? Isn't he free to
come with us?"

"Of
course he's free, Mother. It's just that there are a few formalities to be gone
through." She added hurriedly, "Sir Archibald is coming toward us. We
must thank him."

As
she spoke, she glanced swiftly to her left. Patrick Stanford stood halfway back
in the rapidly emptying room, his grim gaze fixed on the small crowd near the
prisoner's dock. Obviously he had not yet realized that Christopher was no
longer a part of the crowd.

Sir
Archibald bowed an acknowledgment of Mrs. Montlow's
tearful thanks.
"My son will thank you too, as soon as he comes back."

"Comes
back?"

Elizabeth
said swiftly, "He went through that door there. He said there were some
matters he had to attend to."

Sir
Archibald looked at the door where the bailiff stood, barring the way. When his
gaze returned to Elizabeth, it held admiring comprehension. "Ah, yes.
Certain matters. Perhaps a warden is here, with personal property Christopher
had with him in prison."

Again
Elizabeth turned her head and looked at the tall Irishman. His gaze still
searched the crowd, but there was the dawn of understanding in his face now.
For an instant his cold, furious gaze swung to Elizabeth. Then he turned and
strode rapidly toward the courtroom's front entrance.

Elizabeth,
drawing a sharp breath, looked at Donald. Without a word he too strode toward
the entrance. Mrs. Montlow said, "Now, where is Donald—"

"It
is all right, Mother. He will join us at Aunt Sara's. So will Christopher. You
will tell him we have gone on, won't you, Sir Archibald?"

"Of
course."

After
a few protests, Mrs. Montlow accompanied Elizabeth and Mary Hawkins from the
courtroom, across Old Bailey's forecourt, and into the windy street. They had
almost reached Sara Finchley's house when Elizabeth heard rapid footsteps
behind them. With a stab of fear she halted and turned.

To
her relief, she saw it was Donald. He gave her a slight nod and a smile.

So
Christopher's carriage had gotten away in time. Now there was only one task
left to her, one she dreaded. She had to tell her mother that it might be some
time before she saw her adored son again.

In
Sara Finchley's parlor, with a fire snapping in the
grate, the two
sisters wept joyfully in each other's arms. Then Aunt Sara's maid-of-all-work,
a thin and not very bright girl of seventeen, brought in the tea cart. Mary
Hawkins moved beside her, carrying small glasses and a bottle of sherry on a
tray.

Fully
a quarter of an hour passed before Mrs. Montlow said, "What on earth can
be keeping Christopher?"

She
might as well know now, Elizabeth realized. She crossed to her mother, removed
the teacup and saucer from her hand, and placed them on the cart. Then she sat
down on a footstool beside her mother's chair.

"Christopher
won't be here today."

"Won't
be here!"

Elizabeth
took her mother's hands in her own. "Don't look like that. He's all right,
Mother. But he must stay out of England for a while."

"Stay
out of England! Elizabeth, have you lost your—?"

"Listen
to me. That girl's guardian. In spite of everything, he believes Christopher is
guilty. I saw it in his face."

Mrs.
Montlow had turned pale. "Yes, I saw him looking at Christopher in that...
dreadful way. You mean, he intends to... harm my boy?..."

"If
he can. Donald and I have tried to make sure that he cannot. Christopher is on
his way to Southampton now. I told him to take the first ship leaving
port."

Mrs.
Montlow said, in an anguished whisper, "But where...?"

"We
won't know where he has gone until he writes to me. Perhaps he will have time
to send us a message from Southampton before he boards a ship. Perhaps not.
Anyway, he has enough money to last him several months. By that time, surely
Stanford will have gone back to Ireland."

Surely
by that time, too, he would have abandoned the murderous resolve she had seen
in his face. Not even
an Irishman's vengefulness could stay at white-hot heat indefinitely.

Mrs.
Montlow shuddered and buried her face in her hands. "That man! That
dreadful man." Then she lowered her hands and asked, "Couldn't we
have him arrested?"

"Upon
what charge, Mother? He has done nothing so far. He hasn't even said anything.
You cannot have a man arrested because of an expression on his face."

"You
ought to be able to!" Mrs. Montlow cried. She was silent for a moment or
two, and then said feverishly, "We must go to the Hedges at once!"

"Very
well, Mother."

"We
must be there. Christopher may send a message." She stood up. Then she
swayed, and would have fallen if Donald had not stepped forward and caught her
in his arms.

He
carried her to the sofa. Taking a vial of smelling salts from her reticule,
Elizabeth knelt beside the sofa and held the vial to her mother's nostrils.
With terror she looked at the closed eyes, the white face, the bluish lips. She
heard her aunt cry distractedly to the little maid, "Run, Agnes! Fetch the
doctor."

After
a moment Agnes said, "What doctor, mum?"

"My
doctor, of course. Dr. Quill. You know where he lives. You fetched him only
last week."

"I
don't know as I rightly remember, mum."

"He
is across the street and four houses to the left. Now, hurry!"

For
what seemed like half an hour, but was probably only ten minutes, Elizabeth
stayed there beside her mother, watching the uneven rise and fall of her
breathing. Then the front door opened and closed, and footsteps sounded along
the hall. Dr. Quill came in, a thin, middle-aged man who, Elizabeth noted
fleetingly, lacked the pompous air of most of his colleagues. He looked down
at Mrs. Montlow
and then said quietly, "Will you please leave me alone with the
patient?"

Twenty
minutes later Elizabeth and Aunt Sara and Donald were sitting in the dining
room, with Agnes and Mary Hawkins hovering anxiously beside the doorway, when
Dr. Quill joined them. "The lady needs rest and quiet," he said.
"If possible, she should remain right here for at least a week or ten
days."

"Of
course it is possible!" Sara Finchley said. "All of you can stay
here."

"Not
all, I am afraid." He looked at Elizabeth. "Your mother wants you to
return to your home. She became quite agitated in her insistence. Apparently
she is hoping her son will send some sort of message."

Appalled,
Elizabeth thought of leaving her mother here, with no one but
rheumatism-crippled Aunt Sara and dim-witted Agnes to care for her.

Mary
Hawkins stepped forward. "Please, Miss Elizabeth. Let me stay here. I know
it will be lonely for you in the country, but your mother needs me."

"Let
you,
Hawkins! Why, I will be more grateful than I can say."

Dr.
Quill gazed with approval at the tall, competent-looking woman with the graying
hair and concerned face. "A splendid arrangement." He turned to
Donald Weymouth. "And now, sir, if you will help me take the patient
upstairs..."

It
was four o'clock by the time Elizabeth said good-bye in an upstairs bedroom to
Mrs. Montlow, still weak of voice, but now with a little color in her face.
Thus, darkness had fallen when the carriage Donald had hired for Elizabeth and
himself passed the last of London's straggling outskirts and then moved north
through a silence broken only by the clop of hooves over the frozen road, the
barking of a dog in some isolated farmhouse,
and the occasional sound of their own
voices. Most of the time they rode with hands clasped, not speaking.

They
were within a mile or so of the Hedges when Donald said, "I received a
letter from my uncle yesterday. My parents had sent it on to me. He wants me to
come down to Bath again."

"When
will you leave?"

"I
don't intend to go at all. He says that he has more matters concerning his
estate to discuss with me. But I feel that all he really wants is to argue more
about philosophy. The old man has been reading Bishop Berkeley, you know, and
he keeps demanding that I refute that silly argument that no one can prove the
existence of anything except his own mind."

"Still,
if he wants you to come..."

"But
I want to see you every day. You will be lonely enough as it is."

"Nonsense.
I have been there alone before. Twice when Mother and Hawkins went into London
for the season, I stayed behind for a few days to cover the furniture with dust
sheets and tidy up the garden. Besides, my dearest, your uncle is an old man,
and you are his heir. Thanks to him, we will have many years of comfort and
happiness together. Surely you can spare a few days in which to argue with him
about Bishop Berkeley."

Donald
was silent for a moment. Then he smiled, drew her to him, and kissed her.
"That's my Elizabeth. Warm of heart, clear of head. All right, I will
leave tomorrow and stay in Bath for a week. The sooner I go, the sooner I can
return."

When
they reached the Hedges, they left the carriage waiting and walked up the path
to the house. He took the heavy key she gave him, unlocked the door, and then,
inside the hall, struck a flint and lighted the tallow lamp on its narrow
table.

They
smiled at each other through the upward-striking
light, aware of the silence
around them. She did not ask him to linger, nor did he indicate he wanted such
an invitation. They were both aware that for a betrothed couple very much in
love, an evening in a house empty of everyone but themselves might constitute
too strong a temptation.

He
kissed her gently. "Good night, dearest I will write to you as soon as I
reach my uncle's."

When
he had closed the door behind him, she not only turned the key in the lock but
also shoved the bar into place. She lit the candle standing in its holder
beside the lamp, carried it into the side parlor, and kindled a fire in the
grate. Then, with a second candle in her hand, she went to the kitchen,
assembled bread and cold meat and fruit preserves on a tray, and carried the
tray back to a small table in front of the parlor fire.

Despite
her brave words to Donald, she was aware as she ate her supper that she did
feel lonely. She thought of her mother, lying ill in a bedroom fifteen miles
away. She thought of her young brother—a fugitive now, not from the law, but
one man's murderous intent—riding through the darkness toward Southampton. How
could it be that within a few short months the lives of the Montlows had
changed so disastrously?

She
realized that her thoughts were veering toward self-pity, and that would not do
her or anyone else any good. In the morning she would be in better spirits. If
the weather moderated, she would work outside in the garden. There was no
chance of digging those dahlia roots, not with the ground frozen hard. But
perhaps she could pull up some of those long-withered flower stalks. And
certainly she could trim that neglected boxwood.

How
silent the world was when you were alone in winter. No insects bumping against
the terrace doors, no nightingale singing, and tonight, no breath of wind
whispering through bare-branched trees. Even the fire burning
in grate no
longer snapped, but made only soft, hissing sounds.

She
stood up, lifted the tray, and started to turn toward the door into the hall.

From
the corner of her eye she saw movement, over there beyond the glass doors to
the terrace.

She
stood motionless for an instant, heart thudding painfully, and then turned her
head. Weak with relief, she realized that what she had seen was her own moving
reflection in the glass panes.

She
carried the tray back to the kitchen. What was she so afraid of, her in this
house, this peaceful countryside, where she had lived without fear all
twenty-three years of her existence? Patrick Stanford? He would not be here.
Perhaps he was pacing up and down his lodgings somewhere in the city. Perhaps
he was in some tavern, trying to drown his frustrated rage. Far more likely, he
was galloping along a road leading out of London, hoping to overtake
Christopher. But he would not be seeking his quarry on the road to Southampton.
He would have of course concluded that Christopher would flee to the nearest
port, Dover. It was for precisely that reason that she had arranged for her
brother to be taken to much-more-distant Southampton. No, whatever else he
might do, Patrick Stanford would not waste his time coming here.