Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (2 page)

Anderson's lips tightened and he turned up his collar.

"Here!" Redmond tossed his coat and said solicitously,
"Mustn't get wet."

To his sorrow, the Sergeant instinctively grabbed the garment.
He now held it at arms length and looked with disgust to his sodden
waistcoat, to the puddle the coat was rapidly depositing on the floor,
to Redmond. "Oh, dear," sighed that promising young scholar. "Well, it
kept my books dry. That's the important thing, isn't it?" His smile was
dazzling; his long grey eyes alight with mischief.

An answering smile was not forthcoming. Sergeant Anderson's
response, fortunately, being lost as he thumped out into the rain.

Whatever his personal opinion of the younger Redmond, Sergeant
Anderson was devoted to the elder. He knew all too well what would be
his Captain's reaction was his brother neglected, and knowing also that
Mr. Mitchell was subject to inflamations of the lungs, lost no time in
seeing to it that a roaring fire was lighted in his room, a hot bath
provided, and the wet clothing removed. Nor was Mrs. Thomas idle, and
Mitchell, shivering no longer, was seated before the fire, warmly clad
in Harry's new quilted green satin dressing gown, and finishing a bowl
of Flemish soup and a mushroom omelette, when a familiar whoop sent up
his dark brows and caused him to lay his fork aside and come to his
feet in surprise.

The door burst open and Sir Harry Redmond, natless but still
wearing his wet greatcoat, ran in. "Mitch! You slippery cub! Where in
the deuce have you been?"

They shook hands heartily and scanned one another with
undisguised affection. They were much alike, and each a splendid
example of British manhood. Mitchell, some five years the younger, was
rather startlingly handsome, but to a lesser degree Harry also enjoyed
the lean good looks that had characterized their late father, having
slightly curling dark locks, a firm chin, somewhat hawk nose, and a
generous, sensitive mouth. They both stood a shade under six feet, but
Mitchell's was the lighter build, his posture already inclining to a
scholarly stoop, while Harry's broad shoulders and well-shaped legs
proclaimed the athlete. The main difference between them was most
clearly expressed in the eyes; Mitchell's being grey, well opened, and
full of dreams, and Harry's slightly narrowed, perhaps from long
exposure to the Spanish sun, but of an intensely vivid green, and full
of the laughter that concealed his underlying strength. "You missed the
wedding, you clodpole!" he grinned, pounding at his brother's shoulder.
And all too aware of Mitchell's exasperating absent-mindedness, asked,
"Did you forget it was to be today?"

"Forgot today was the fifteenth," Mitchell admitted wryly.
"And then I got on the wrong stupid coach when we stopped to change
horses at High Wycombe, and was halfway to Bath before I discovered I
was on the stage—not the Royal Mail!" He assisted his brother out of
his great coat, flung the garment carelessly over an armchair, and
said, "You may be done laughing now,
mon Sauvage
,
and tell me how the wedding went off."

"Jolly well." Harry removed the coat from the chair, hung it
on the floor, and occupied the chair himself. "Lucian is hopelessly
besotted, you know, but acquitted himself quite well. Deirdre, of
course…" he kissed his fingertips, "looked angelic. Ain't at all sure
he deserves her. Neither is he."

Turning his chair from the table, Mitchell sprawled in it and
said, "What, after that incredible fracas he stirred up last autumn?
I'd say he'd well earned his reward! D'you know the Dean himself asked
me to tell him of it, and remarked Lucian had brought the war home with
him—though I doubt even Wellington could have conjured up such a
witch's brew."

Harry smiled reminiscently. "Ironic, isn't it? From Talavera
to Waterloo with hardly a scratch, and after he returned to England he
was ambushed, damn near blinded, shot, and forced into a duel with the
Devil himself."

"From which you rescued him," said Mitchell, and as his
brother burst into a shout of laughter, added, "at least, that's what I
told the Dean."

"Single-handed," Harry nodded. "Only for lord's sake don't
ever let Vaughan, or Rich Saxon, or Bolster hear you say that! I'd
never live it down! And—why the Mail, cub? You should have hired a post
chaise." Mitchell, who had risen as he spoke, was searching anxiously
through his valise, and Harry added with a grin, "What've you lost this
time?"

"Don't say that! It's something I bought for Deirdre. I found
it in a little shop in The High. The most fantastically wrought piece
of jade I ever…" He paused, frowned, and murmured, "No… come to think
on it, I put it in my coat pocket… Only—Anderson turned my pockets
inside out when he took my clothes away… " His dismayed gaze lifted.
"Jove! Not
again
. . ! "

"It's likely in Bath by this time," chuckled his brother. "I
vow it astonishes me you've not walked onto a ship bound for Tasmania
or some such place long since! 'Ware Mitch! You'll wind up in some
chieftain's cooking pot yet!"

"No, really, Harry, this is dreadful! Whatever will Lucian
think?"

"Nothing he don't already! But—I wish you
had
come in time, Mitch. It was a grand wedding. All the girls were asking
for you, and Mandy said—"

"If it was so grand," Mitchell interposed, returning to his
chair, "why are you come home at this ungodly hour?"

His grey eyes were keen all at once, and for the briefest
second Harry's green ones fell away before that searching look.
"Grief," he said brightly. "Cannot bear to see a good friend become a
benedick. And instead of your having the unmitigated gall to loll about
in my new dressing gown and question the actions of the Head of your
House, be so good as to tell me the meaning of the letter your tutor
directed to me." Seeing that his evasion had increased the suspicion in
his brother's eyes, he went on hurriedly, "He says you shall have to
cram hard, old lad, if you're to cavort off to Italy this summer. What
the deuce you do with your time up there I cannot imagine. Or I could,
did I think you the type to hang about the fancy houses!"

"What makes you suppose I am not?"

There was a deep bond between them and Harry had long since
discerned the shadows beneath Mitchell's eyes and the slight hollows in
the cheeks. The smile left his eyes as he said, "I'm inclined to think
if you've been in bed, it has been very much alone."

It was Mitchell's turn to look away, but he stood considerably
in awe of his brother and he knew that grave stare too well to
dissemble. He admitted that he'd had "a spot of bother" with his chest
again. "Put me on my back for upwards of a month, and they wouldn't
allow me to study. Curst nuisance."

"And why," demanded Harry, his long fingers tightening a
little on the arm of his chair, "was I not told of this?"

"Don't tell you everything," replied Mitchell indistinctly,
around a piece of the omelette. "No more'n you tell me…"

They locked glances for an instant. Harry got up, walked to
the chest of drawers, and poured himself a glass of the sherry Anderson
had left there. Sipping it appreciatively, he threw a thoughtful look
at his brother. "And what am I to gather from that remark, my bantling?"

Instead of objecting to a form of address that never failed to
irritate him, Mitchell shrugged, "I've heard a few things. Funny sort
of rumours." He pushed the remaining piece of omelette around his plate
with careful precision and murmured, "Not in the basket, are we?"

"Lord—no! Who the devil told you such a Canterbury tale? My
father left the estate practically untouched—he never was a gamester,
thank God! Moire Grange awaits you, child, whenever you will."

"It does?" Mitchell captured his much-travelled piece of
omelette and conveying it to his mouth, mumbled, "I'd thought perhaps
you intended to occupy the Grange yourself. With your lady…" He glanced
up from under his lashes and, seeing Harry's smile bland and his eyes
very empty, said, "You
are
—fond of the fair
Dorothy, aren't you, old fellow?"

'Course I am! I've been pursuing the lady any time this last
year and more. Whatever did you think I was about? She's a lady of
quality."

"Pursuing… yes. But somehow I wasn't sure you—ah… wanted to
catch up." Mitchell flushed under his brother's sardonic grin and said
awkwardly, "All right, I don't know much about such things, but—it
didn't seem to me you had the same look. Not like old Lucian, I mean.
Or Damon, come to that."

Harry laughed. "Silly gudgeon!" he said.

"Here…"

Sergeant Anderson was startled to find Mrs. Thomas removing
the empty cup from one hand and the spoon from the other.

"Good gracious, Sergeant," she smiled. "You are in a state.
Whatever is the matter? Is it because Mr. Mitchell has come home?"

He had thought he was concealing his worries and apologizing
for his inattention, confessed he'd known there would be trouble the
minute Mr. Mitchell "showed his pretty face this evening! He's always
trouble, that one is!"

Pouring him another cup, Mrs. Thomas said carefully that he
seemed a tiny bit prejudiced. "If I may say so, Sergeant, I thought him
a fine-looking boy. Very much the gentleman. And Sir Harry would, I
have gathered, lay down his life for him without an instant's
hesitation."

"And da— er, very nearly did!" growled the Sergeant. He
accepted his tea with a mutter of thanks, and glared down at it in
silence. So she thought he was prejudiced, did she? He scowled. "You'll
mind I was the one what found him after the Battle of Ciudad Rodrigo,
ma'am?"

"I was not at this situation then, Sergeant, and never have
presumed to ask about it. But Mrs. Langridge once told me that poor Sir
Harry's back was fairly riddled!" She shook her head, her eyes
reflecting sincere distress.

"Not quite that bad," said the Sergeant. "But the Captain was
proper mauled by two shell fragments. His horse was all cut up, which
is why the beast bolted. Me and the Captain's men searched every inch
of that bl— er, that miserable town for him. Everyone said he was
killed. Blowed up with poor Colonel Mackinnon, they said, or been
buried accidental-like. Some of the men took it awful hard." He stared
blankly at the spoon in his powerful hand. "But—I found him…"

"In a farm, was it not?" prompted Mrs. Thomas gently. "And the
dear man near death? How very fortunate that those people helped him."

"Been lying there for days," Anderson nodded, his eyes bleak.
"And he'd had precious little in the way of help. You wouldn't believe
that filthy hovel! And him in such pain he couldn't even talk to me.
But—held out his hand, he did. And give me a grin."

Mrs. Thomas gasped a faint, "Oh… my . . ! Poor soul! So you
were able to bring him back after all, Sergeant. How very grateful his
papa must have been."

"Yus," said the Sergeant, himself rather overcome by that
harrowing memory. "Sir Colin thought the sun riz and set in the
Captain. It was months though 'fore we dared put him on a ship, and
months of illness after he got home, but never a whimper out of him. We
was at Moire Grange, a'course, and Mr. Mitchell come down for the Long
Vacation. A fat lot he cared for his brother! Always had his head stuck
in a book. Sir Harry was on the mend, and fidgety. Always asking me for
news of the war. One morning he says to me, sad-like, "We should be
back in Spain, Andy. With the old 43rd…" The Sergeant clenched his fist
and growled, "I should've kept me eyes on him. He got to feeling so
sprightly he asked Mr. Mitchell to go for a ride with him. Mr. Mitchell
said later that he heard what he said, but "it didn't really sink in!"
Anderson drew a deep breath, his disgust very evident. "I don't think
you've never been to the Grange, Mrs. Thomas. From the time he was a
little shaver, Sir Harry loved to gallop through the high meadow and up
around a path that skirts the Home Wood. The path takes a sharp turn
around the edge of the trees, right at the top of the hill, and there's
a wooden footbridge over a place what got washed away in a storm once.
Well, there'd been heavy rains again that past winter. A whole piece of
the hill had give way and took the bridge with it." He said fiercely,
"Mr. Mitchell
knowed
how dangerous it was. Only
he
didn't bother
to warn his brother!"

"My heavens! Didn't Sir Harry see the bridge was gone?"

"Wasn't no way he could've, ma'am. If he'd been riding slow—
perhaps. But Sir Harry don't ride slow. The mare broke her neck. The
Captain was set back where he'd been months before. Had to go through
all that misery—all over again . . !" He stared at his spoon, his eyes
very angry.

Mrs. Thomas was well aware of the Sergeant's devotion to his
'Captain'. She hesitated and, choosing her words with care, ventured,
"How awful! But—have you never been so lost in a book, Sergeant, that
you did not hear what was said to you?"

"Can't say I has, ma'am. To my mind there ain't no excuse for
what he done. No matter how interested he was in that there book, his
brother shoulda come first! If he'd really cared, something in his head
would've woke him up. Truth is, Mr. Mitchell don't care for nothing nor
no one, 'cepting Mr. Mitchell!"

"Is the Reverend from home, Baines?" Shivering in the stark
and chill hall of the Rectory, Harry allowed the elderly butler to
assist him in the removal of his wet coat and hat, and appropriate his
whip and gloves.

"The Reverend is composing his sermon," announced Baines, his
tones so ponderously singsong they might have emanated from his
mistress rather than himself. "If you will step into the withdrawing
room, Sir Harry, I shall pour you a glass of wine and then advise him
of your arrival."

Harry accompanied the faithful retainer with impatience rather
than the boredom this large, dull house and its solemn occupants
usually aroused in his irreverent breast. "My aunt is well, I trust?
And the children?"