Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (14 page)

The inner door opened and Mitchell exited briskly closing the
door behind him. "Come on, Andy," he said, striding past. "Cannot wait
all day."

"Andy!" thought the Sergeant furiously, standing and thumping
after him.

Their driver had taken his hack for a walk up and down the
street; a logical enough procedure yet one that put a small crease
between Mitchell's brows as they hastened to the vehicle. He snapped
something to the jarvey and sprang inside. Climbing in after him,
Anderson barely had the door closed before the hackney plunged forward.
Flung down, he glared at Redmond as he righted himself. "Where we orf
to now?"

Mitchell ran long white fingers tenderly over his right wrist.
"Into the country," he murmured. "London's noise distresses me."

Anderson's disgust was as eloquent as it was silent, but it
was also very brief, for as they rounded the corner they all but
collided with a black, enclosed carriage racing past at great speed. He
peered after it curiously. "Bow Street. Looks like the Runners is after
a hot one." Mitchell made no reply, and glancing to him, Anderson asked
indifferently if he had hurt his hand.

"Think I must have sprained it," Mitchell yawned. "Probably
picked up something too heavy."

The Sergeant snorted. "A book, most likely."

Mitchell's response to this barb was to appear to go to sleep,
not stirring again until they had left the metropolis behind. Rousing
at length, he looked absently out of the window but, feeling his
companion's scorching stare upon him, enquired, "Have you ever noticed,
Andy, how magnificent a creation is a tree?" Well aware of the
tightening of that grim mouth, he went on drowsily, "I know of few
things more restful than to watch the flutter of the leaves."

"Flutter of the leaves…" muttered Anderson,
sotto
voce
. "Luv a duck!"

"You prefer to contemplate birds? Well, you've a point. Ducks,
though… " Mitchell wrinkled his brow. "I'd not thought…"

"Gawd!" snarled the Sergeant. "What we a'doing of in this
ruddy, stupid wilderness, Mr. Redmond, while Sir Harry's up to I dunno
what all by himself?"

"But you said he was with Jeremy Bolster. And if ever there
was a fighting fool, it's old Bolster. I remember once…"

He continued to remember in lazy detail while they headed
northwest towards the hillside cluster of habitations that was
Hampstead. It seemed to the infuriated Anderson that the driver wound
about as fancy took him, and they came at last to a charming district
of large homes set along winding, tree-lined lanes. Leaning from the
window at the junction of two such lanes, Mitchell murmured,
"Tranquillity Avenue—is it not delightful? Stop here, driver." He
opened the door and sprang down, not troubling to lower the step. "I
think I shall take a short stroll—you may wait here, Anderson. Just
look at that acacia! I simply must have a closer view of it…" And he
was gone, leaving the Sergeant to glare after his tall, slim figure and
consign him, his Tranquillity Avenue, and his perishing acacia to the
hottest area of Hades. Within a few moments, however, rather cramped
from the drive, Anderson also alighted from the vehicle. There was no
sign of Redmond, but the air was warm and fragrant, the lane inviting,
and the beauty about him not lost upon Anderson, despite his
frustration. He began to wander along, admiring the fine houses in
their spacious, well-landscaped grounds. He was not the only one thus
engaged; a buxom nursemaid, her perambulator at a standstill, was
staring at a dwelling of Grecian design with a fine portico across the
imposing front. Following her gaze, Anderson's eyes became fixed and
glassy. High at the side of the house, a gentleman clung precariously
to a vibrating trellis. Even as he watched, Redmond launched himself
sideways and barely caught the edge of a second-storey windowsill.
"Gawd!" gulped the Sergeant. The nursemaid turned a pale face and
shocked eyes towards him. He touched his hat. "No n-need to be alarmed,
Miss. He's a student and a bit forgetful-like. Always losing his
doorkey. And—it's the butler's day orf."

She recovered sufficiently to gasp out, "Cor . . !" and
hastened along her way, her journey marked by many a backward glance.

Anderson held out little hope of escaping arrest but sped
across the lane and made his horrified way to the criminal. "Mr.
Mitchell!" he cried in scandalized accents. "What in the devil is you
about?"

"Do be quiet, Andy!" And hanging by both hands from the window
ledge of the residence of Mr. Sprague Cobb, Mitchell pointed out, "You
are attracting attention!"

Between badly blistered heels and the recalcitrant kitchen
pump of a kindly farm wife, it took Harry two days to reach Tunbridge
Wells again. His success with the pump earned him a fine breakfast and
the loan of a farmer's razor, but otherwise it was a lonely two days,
affording all too much time for contemplation of Past, Future, and—more
depressingly—Present. He passed the first night under a haystack, and
the second less successfully, discovering that the leaves and bracken
he piled over himself provided neither warmth nor protection from the
drizzle which, by the time he awoke from a fitful doze, had become a
steady downpour.

He reached the Wells in mid-morning, in so disreputable a
condition that it was doubtful any friend or acquaintance would
recognize him even did they chance to be abroad before noon. Encouraged
by this thought, he ventured into the Constable's Office and reported
the theft of Lace. His story created a sensation. He was compelled to
remain and add his impressions to a pile of sketches and descriptions
of Devil Dice that were as diverse as they were inaccurate. His
hilarity over one lady's tale of the dashing young highwayman who had
kissed her hand even as he gently slid the rubies from about her throat
irked the stern minions of the law. An indignant Harry was interrogated
at great length. It was obvious that his appearance and lack of
identification caused them to doubt his veracity and he was required to
dictate a detailed account of his experience to a dim-witted youth who
seemed barely capable of discerning one end of a pencil from the other.

It was late afternoon before he escaped and continued upon his
journey, eating the roast beef sandwich he had purchased from a small
but clean ordinary. And although the rain continued drearily and his
heels hurt, it was not these discomforts that gradually caused his
spirits to become depressed. On the Peninsula he had cheerfully endured
conditions a hundred times less pleasant, with lashing rain and icy
wind; bones that ached with exhaustion; a stomach cramping from
near-starvation; and the deadly crack of rifles echoing across the
Spanish hills. But also there had been the merry laughter of comrades;
the badinage of fellow officers who would die before admitting their
own misery; the cheerful profanity of the rank and file, their courage
undaunted by hardship, their loyalty fierce and inflexible. He sighed,
wishing he'd not told Diccon to go on and not wait for him at
Maidstone. He'd been so sure Barney would be able to provide him with
many answers… poor old Barney. Now, he must get to Chichester—a matter
of sixty miles and more, and the munificent sum of two shillings and
threepence halfpenny could not be stretched to include a warm bed en
route. Once at Chichester, of course, he would be very close to the
unfailing hospitality of Lucian St. Ciair's Beechmead Hall, or the Earl
of Harland's Hollow Hill Manor. But regretfully, he knew he could not
go to either of those gracious homes, or to Lord John Moulton's lovely
old Greenwings. His friends would press him to stay. They would look at
him with affection—and sympathy. And sympathy he found he could not
endure.

He scowled and pulled his sagging shoulders erect. What a
gudgeon to be lumping along like this! Fate may have dealt him a
leveller, but although he could not call on them he
was
blessed by friends! Many, loyal, and good friends. And he had Mitch and
Mordecai and the numerous other members of his family. He walked on at
a brisker pace; and because the wind was colder and blew the trees
mournfully, because the rain grew ever heavier and the leaden skies
were no whit gloomier than his prospects, he whistled cheerily.

The hoofbeats that came up behind him were those of a single
animal and proceeded at a leisured pace so that he knew he would
neither have to jump for his life as the mail coach flashed past, nor
guard against the sheeting mud and water flung up by racing carriage or
chaise wheels. With luck it might be some good-natured carter, willing
to let him ride along for a while. But even as he started to turn
around, he heard the hooves quicken to something almost approaching a
canter, while a great rattling and clanking was accompanied by a shout,
a feminine squeal, and an outburst of wild braying. Harry's heart gave
a joyous leap, and he ran to meet as royal a welcome as ever he had
known.

Mr. Fox brayed and butted at his ribs; Diccon swung down from
the cart to seize him in a hug; and even Miss Nanette, shielded from
the rain by a man's greatcoat and with a piece of oilcloth held over
her head, exclaimed with apparent enthusiasm chat it was like meeting a
long-lost comrade and urged him to get into the cart, "For you look,"
said she, "like a drowned rat."

Harry's protests that it would be too much of a load for Mr.
Fox were overruled. Diccon insisted that he had been riding all day and
it would do him good to stretch his legs. He waved Harry to the driving
seat beside Miss Nanette while he went to Mr. Fox's head, and they
started off once more.

"How glad I am that we met again," said Harry with real
sincerity. "Does Diccon take you to Devonshire now?"

"Yes, for he has no more trading to do for a little while and
promises we shall go straight there. Indeed, we thought we would have
come up with you before—" She checked, then finished rather lamely,
"Unless you got a ride."

He raised the flap of the oilcloth Diccon had tossed him and
eyed her curiously. "You were looking for me?"

Miss Nanette's attempt to reply evidently imposed a severe
strain, for her eyes slid into the crossed position once more, and
Harry turned quickly away, feeling sorry for the poor little chit that
so simple a question should overwhelm her. "Not… exactly," she managed
at length. "But Diccon plans to go through Chichester, so we—that is,
Diccon, thought—"

"Does he? Oh, but that is famous! We can all go on together!"
His exuberance faded and he finished humbly, "At least, if he don't
mind… "

"How should he mind?" she said, her pertness restored. "The
time it hang heavily on his hands when he has nor to occupy himself
tending to your cuts and scrapes."

Harry laughed, and she laughed with him. Diccon turned and
grinned back at them, and Mr. Fox emitted a small bray for pure
companionship's sake.

And if the rain pattered down as dismally as before, and the
breath of the wind was as cold, Harry noticed neither and thought only
how much brighter was the world than it had been these past two days.

"Oh, my lor'… Oh, let me die! Quick!" Trappped in the small
cabin of a packet that wallowed in heavy seas, Sergeant Albert
Anderson, who had uttered not a whimper when his leg was amputated, now
clung to the rail of the bunk and moaned cravenly.

Mitchell, sitting on the other bunk, feet braced against the
side, scarcely heard the heartfelt wails, his full attention upon the
unfinished letter he had purloined from Sprague Cobb's deserted house
in Hampstead.

"My Dear Old Coot
," (this read)

"
I scarce know how to tell you what I learned
yesterday by purest chance. If it is truth, then you and I
—"
This half-sentence was lined through heavily, and the letter went on: "
You
have by now heard of poor Barney Schofield's tragic death. I wonder if
your thoughts, like my own, have
—
But perhaps it is
best that I do not set my fears onto paper. I leave today for Dinan. I
will come to see you as soon as I return. If I find
—"

Here, the disjointed missive had been abandoned, and an echo
of the Sergeant's anguish penetrating his consciousness at last,
Mitchell looked up. "Poor sailor, are you, Andy?" he asked
sympathetically.

"Ain't… sailor… 'tall!" gulped the unhappy sergeant. "And what
in the name of… What I'm a'doing of in this lot… I dunno . . !"

"I told you," Mitchell explained patiently. "It is quite
typical of Sir Harry to go charging off to Brittany like this, but—"

"Don't know as… he has…"

"I think it highly probable. And when you went round to Lord
Bolster's flat they said his lordship feared Harry might've gone after
Sanguinet, don't you remember?"

"Don't remember… me own… name!" Anderson groaned, looking
wretchedly away from the porthole and the grey seas that heaved upward
until they blotted out the sky.

"Poor fellow. It is Anderson, and you—" Here the Sergeant's
baleful glare deterred him. "I'm sorry," he smiled. "But you surely
know how hot at hand Sir Harry can be. I must stop him before he gets
into trouble. But there was no need for you to— Oh, dear!" He crossed
swiftly to hand the sufferer a bowl. "You need this, I fear," That he
was right was unhappily evident, and a short time later, wiping the
Sergeant's pallid features with a wet rag, he said, "Think I'll take a
turn about the deck. Always did love a storm at sea."

"Yus," moaned Anderson, eyeing him without delight. "You
would. Sir."

Mitchell turned back and pointed out that he should have
stayed in England, a sentiment Anderson fervently echoed, but then
observed he'd not dared to let Mitchell come alone. "Not once I found
what a horrid streak… y'got in yer, sir."