Never Call It Love (35 page)

Seeing
the exultant faces at those parties, hearing the triumphant toasts, Elizabeth
felt mixed emotions, relief that the war soon would be over, and yet sorrow at
her homeland's humiliation. And she felt something else— fear. The grim
exultation in Patrick's face convinced her that in his heart he had never
surrendered the cause for whose sake he had been forced into exile. Even now,
she was sure, he was speculating as to how England's defeat might be translated
into Ireland's freedom.

The
wet season, with rain clouds boiling up almost every day to drench the island,
gave way to clear skies and balmy trade winds, almost as steady and gentle as
the wash of waves on the island's pink beaches. Then, one January afternoon,
something happened that for a time drove the war and even Moira Ashley from her
thoughts.

She
came out of the mercer's shop onto the square's sidewalk that day, a package
containing fifteen yards of yellow muslin in her arms. She placed the bulky
package in the gig. About to climb into the driver's seat, she
glanced to her
left. A slender young man was coming toward her along the sidewalk, a
portmanteau in his hand, shoulder-length ringlets pale and shining in the
sunlight

After
a stunned moment she felt a rush of gladness, and then terrified dismay. It
couldn't be Christopher, not here on St-Denis.

He
stopped short, and then broke into a run. "Liza! Darling Liza!"

Stiff
with shock, she allowed him to draw her into his arms and rain kisses on her
face. "Oh, Liza! I was just about to start asking people where to find
you."

She
regained her power of speech. "In God's name, Christopher, why have you
come here? If Patrick finds out—"

"Is
that your gig?" he rushed on, as if she hadn't spoken. "Oh, Liza, do
take me home with you, so that we can talk."

She
said, very pale, "Perhaps there is some ship sailing today..."

"There
is not. Except for a French battle frigate, the Netherlands ship I came on is
the only one in the harbor, and it will be here for a week. Oh, Liza! Don't
look like that. Everything will be all right Now, let's go to your house."

Still
dazed, she let him help her into the gig. He got onto the seat beside her. As
she drove along one side of the square, she said, "I suppose Mother told
you where I was."

"Yes,
the letters Mama sent to me in Paris told me all about how you and Patrick had
had to leave Ireland. Oh, my poor Liza! You must have had such dreadful
times!"

She
said grimly, turning from the square onto the road, "Never mind about
me." Now that he sat beside her, she saw that his face had changed.
Although still strikingly handsome, it had a slightly puffed look, which made
her think that perhaps her young brother had become overly fond of the bottle.
"Why did you leave Paris?"

"Oh,
Liza! Cordot's Emporium failed. I lost my employment."

The
only failure had been Christopher's—a failure to manage his bookkeeping
adroitly enough to cover up his small but frequent embezzlements. Informed by
her manager that her accountant and bedmate had been stealing from her, Yvette
Cordot had gone to the police. Fortunately for Christopher, the outraged
manager first had told the culprit of his intention to inform Madame Cordot.
Thus Christopher had been able to slip aboard an Amsterdam-bound vessel before
the police could lay their hands on him. In Amsterdam he had waited, in the
cheapest lodgings available, until he could board a ship for the West Indies.

"Liza,
I did not want to go back to England, not after... what had happened there. I
tried to find other employment in Paris, but could not. And now I have no
money."

That
last was true. For perhaps the hundredth time, he cursed himself for not having
saved the money he took from the emporium. But each time the sum was small, and
each time there had been something he wanted to spend it on—some pretty harlot,
or a fling at the gaming tables, or wine of a quality that that tight-fisted
Yvette would not buy for her own table. And so by the time he fled Paris he had
scarcely enough money to get to Amsterdam, keep himself there for several
weeks, and then buy passage to St.-Denis.

Elizabeth
said desperately, "We'll have to find a place where you can stay until you
leave here. There is a small settlement on the other side of the
island..."

"Liza,
Liza! Surely by now you have been able to convince Sir Patrick that I had
nothing to do with his ward's death."

"I
have tried to convince him of nothing." And besides, she wanted to cry out
to the youth sitting beside her, his
hair gleaming palely as they traversed
the stretch of jungle-walled road, you and those other degenerates did ravage
that poor young girl and send her plunging to her death.

But
even in her frightened dismay over his arrival, and her loathing of what she
was sure he had done, she still was conscious of the irresistible child he once
had been. Whatever else he was, he was her young brother, and the adored son of
that frail woman back in England.

"But,
Liza! Even if he still has doubts about me, surely he loves you enough that for
your sake alone he would restrain himself. How could he help but love you, as
beautiful and good as you are. And happy people are not bitter and vengeful.
Surely he must be a happy man now, even if he has lost his Irish properties. He
has you. And Mama wrote me that in your letters you said the distillery was
doing very well." He paused. "It is doing well, isn't it?"

She
said distractedly, "Yes." Perhaps she could persuade Patrick to give
her a sum of money, enough to pay Christopher's passage back to Paris. No, that
was unlikely. Straining every nerve to make a success of his enterprise,
Patrick would not pay for anyone's voyage of several thousand miles, especially
Christopher Montlow's.

"Liza,
don't you see that if I had done... what he thought I had, this island would be
the last place in the world I would come to? Can't you see that
he
will
realize that?"

She
looked at him, her belief in his guilt momentarily shaken. Then she reflected
that his coming here proved nothing. Perhaps he had counted upon them
considering his arrival as evidence of his innocence.

She
said, unable to think of any other solution, "All right, Christopher. Even
if you went to the other side of St.-Denis, or to another island—"

"I
can't!" he cried. "I told you! I don't have money for a half-dozen
decent meals, let alone passage to—"

"I
was going to say, Christopher, that even if you went
to another
island, he would soon hear about you. You are not an inconspicuous person, you
know. So I will plead your case with Patrick. Until then, stay out of his
sight."

When
they reached the house, Elizabeth drove back to the stable. Christopher helped
her unhitch the pony and then followed her through the kitchen and along the
hall to the parlor. He said, looking at the wicker furniture, the straw rug,
the bouquet of scarlet hibiscus on a stand set against the white wall.
"How charming you have made this room, Liza!" Obviously, he was
thinking. Patrick Stanford must be plowing what profits he made back into his
business. Certainly he had not spent much on this pokey little house.

He
said, "The walk up from the hill made me thirsty. Do you have wine, or
perhaps a little brandy?"

"I
have both," his sister answered grimly, "but you will have none of
it, not now. When you talk to Patrick, you will need all your wits about
you."

She
was watching from the kitchen window when Patrick rode his roan gelding back to
the stable. He emerged almost immediately, which meant he had left the horse
saddled. Obviously he intended to return to the distillery after supper. She
opened the door and hurried down the walk to meet him.

He
looked at her through the rapidly fading light. "What is it?"

"It's...
it's Christopher," she said past the fear tightening her throat. "He
lost his situation in Paris. He had only enough money to pay his passage to
St.-Denis, and so..."

Terror
made her stop speaking. Patrick's face had taken on the murderous look she had
seen there one February afternoon when he had stared through Old Bailey's murky
lamplight at Christopher standing in the dock.

"You
mean he's here?" His voice was thick. "In my house?"

He
moved past her. Whirling around, Elizabeth clutched his arm with both her
hands. "Patrick! Don't you see? If he were guilty of that girl's death, do
you think he would have come here?"

"I
think that is what he counted upon my thinking."

She
said desperately, "Don't harm him. For my sake, don't harm him."

Enraged
heartbeats gradually slowing, he looked down at her upturned face, pale as
death in the gathering dark. Once she had relinquished a chance for vengeance.
She could have remained at Stanford Hall, fairly confident that the English
would treat her gently. She might even have been awarded some share of his
confiscated lands. Instead, she had chosen to go with him into exile.

He
owed her a debt, and he always paid his debts. He would have to forgo what he
had longed for these past two years—the feel of his two hands around
Christopher Montlow's white neck, squeezing until he felt the windpipe
collapse.

Dizzy
with relief, she sensed that at least momentarily he had checked his desire to
kill. She said, "I know that paying his way back to France is too much to
ask. But if you could send him to another island—"

"And
have him turn up back here as soon as he runs out of money or has to flee the
authorities? Better that he stay here, where I can keep an eye on him. All
right" he added abruptly, "where is he?"

When
Patrick and Elizabeth entered the parlor, Christopher was standing in the
middle of the room, shoulders drooping, face humble and defenseless. Even
though Elizabeth's quick smile told him that he was in no immediate danger, it
was only with an effort that he met Sir Patrick's gaze. What terrible eyes the
Irishman had, cold eyes that seemed to look straight into your thoughts.

Wisely,
Christopher remained silent After a moment Patrick
said,
"Elizabeth has told me that you are without funds."

"That
is the case, Sir Patrick. But if you will allow me to remain here—"

"Not
under my roof, "Patrick said harshly. "You will stay at the
inn."

Christopher
bowed his head. "Very well." As if he wanted to stay here! While his
sister had watched for her husband from the kitchen window, he had made a
soft-footed inspection of the house, including the small second bedroom. Surely
he would be more comfortable at the inn, as well as freer.

He
went on, "As for my employment, sir, if you could recommend me to some
merchant in the town..."

"There
is no merchant," Patrick said dryly, "whom I dislike to that extent.
You will work at the distillery."

Eyes
widening, Christopher recoiled from a vision of himself in a cooking shed,
standing in one hundred and twenty degrees' temperature over one of those huge
vats he had heard about.

Patrick
gave a short laugh. "No, you won't get your hands dirty. You can help with
the accounts. But keep in mind that my brother, who has a sharp eye indeed,
will inspect all your figures."

The
matrons of St.-Denis found Christopher Montlow a welcome addition to local
society. Now, while their husbands clustered around Lady Moira, they had a
handsome
young bachelor to dance with them, admire their gowns, and murmur compliments
to even the plainest of them.

None
of these women, though, would have welcomed Christopher as a suitor for a
marriageable daughter. There was a rumor, perhaps started by Lady Moira, that
he had been involved in some dreadful scrape in London, something that had
resulted in the death of a seventeen-year-old girl. Some even maintained that
the girl had been Sir Patrick Stanford's ward. That part, of course, could not
be true. Otherwise, Christopher would not even be on St.-Denis, let alone
keeping the accounts at Sir Patrick's distillery. In fact, when Christopher
looked at them from those gentle, candid blue eyes, they could not believe that
any of it was true. Nevertheless, they were glad that at parties and balls he
treated their daughters with distant politeness, not even seeking them as
partners for the gavottes and polkas.

What
they did not know was that Patrick had issued him a stern warning. "Stay
away from respectable young girls. If you want a girl, there are plenty of them
on Harbor Street."

With
amusement Christopher recalled those words one night, about a month after his
arrival in St.-Denis, as he lay beside Moira Ashley in a bedroom of her
secluded house. He smiled, head resting on his elbow-propped hand, face and
naked torso illumined by a swath of moonlight.

She
asked, "Of what are you thinking?"

"My
esteemed brother-in-law. He warned me away from the maidens of St.-Denis. I was
to confine my attentions, he told me, to the Harbor Street whores."