Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (29 page)

"The devil!" gasped Mitchell. "You do not think—the poor
woman…?"

"The devil, indeed." Harry's voice was harsh suddenly, his
eyes narrowing to slits and a look appearing on his face that Mitchell
had seldom witnessed. "I'd not put
anything
past
Parnell Sanguinet! Nothing whatsoever!"

Briefly they were silent. Then Harry looked up from his
efforts and nodded,—"You'll do. You would horrify the Bond Street
Beaux, but at least you look fairly civilized." The obvious retaliation
that of them both, Mitchell was by far the more presentable, was not
forthcoming. Something was being worried at in that scholarly mind.
"Wake up!" Harry urged. '"Breakfast awaits!"

They started off together, but Mitchell's steps slowed.
Stopping also, Harry turned back to regard him with the questioning
lift of one eyebrow.

"I rather suspect," said Mitchell in a hesitant fashion, "that
I have been sadly indulged all my life."

"And only proper you should admit it."

Unsmiling, Mitchell turned a rock with the toe of one dusty
boot and, watching this vital effort, observed slowly, "Habits—are hard
to break."

"Oh, egad! You're about to go from Piccadilly to John O'Groats
to reach St. James's! Get it said, Mitch!"

"It is only…" Mitchell was decidedly flushed, "that I do not
think I would care to be… all alone in the world, you know."

Harry stared at him, then teased, "Uppity brat! D'you think
you've sole hunting rights on the Sanguinet clan?"

Flashing a quick, shy glance at him, Mitchell said, "Jacques
de Roule was likely in the right of it when he said I had beginner's
luck. You—are not a beginner,
Sauvage
."

"No. But I am a pretty fair shot."

"And Parnell Sanguinet a very different article to his
brother, I hear. Harry—" One thin hand came out to clamp onto his
shoulder. "Is it irrevocable?"

Harry looked full into the grey eyes. "I'm afraid it is."

Diccon had left two of the smugglers' hacks for their use, and
it was decided that Harry and Mitchell would ride while Nanette and
Daniel drove in the cart. They were on the road by eight o'clock and
progressed cautiously through a silent and sepulchral world in which
hedgerows loomed like dark shadows through the rolling vapours, and
occasional travellers rushed upon them only to immediately vanish into
the encompassing drifts. Mitchell remained beside the cart, gratifying
Nanette's insatiable thirst for details of Moire Grange and their life
there; but Harry rode ahead, his mind grappling with his many problems.
As the miles slipped away, he formulated and rejected one plan after
another, arriving at length at the conclusion with which he had
started; Cootesby held the key to their future, for what he would tell
them must determine whether they launched a battle for revenge and
restitution or abandoned all ties with the past and built new lives for
themselves.

"What a snail's pace!" Mitchell spurred to his side. "Three
hours and more and I doubt we've gone fifteen miles! At this rate we
shall reach Chichester when Cootesby has removed to Brighton for the
summer!"

"I doubt Daniel could persuade Mr. Fox to move faster even did
he deem it wise. I know it's frustrating, Mitch. But it's safer for
Nanette."

"Oh. Yes, of course. How stupid of me," Mitchell was quiet
awhile, then murmured, "Do you suppose her papa really is the ogre she
paints him?"

"Diccon appears to believe her, and he's a deal more shrewd
than he appears."

Mitchell said nothing, but noting how that sensitive mouth
tightened, Harry said a noncommital, "Don't like him very well, do you?"

Mitchell shrugged. "He makes me uneasy. I could not say why."

Despite himself, amusement lurked in Harry's eyes and, knowing
him so well, Mitchell said resignedly, "Go on—laugh at my nonsense."

Harry did not laugh, however. Diccon had all but mocked the
boy, and it was scarcely to be expected that someone as youthfully
defensive and proud as Mitch could forgive that. Therefore, he merely
warned that such gloomy imaginings were doubtless the result of hunger,
and suggested that Mitchell ride on ahead and find a tavern where he
might purchase them all a luncheon. "I presume you still have some of
your ill-gotten gains?"

Mitchell grinned, nodded, and seconds later had disappeared
into the fog.

Reining back, Harry waited until the cart drew level then kept
pace with it. Nanette scanned him anxiously and asked how he was
feeling, and when he had answered her blithely, if inaccurately, that
he felt 'perfectly fit,' she said, "Whatever do you suppose has become
of Diccon?"

He turned to Daniel, but the gypsy youth was concentrating on
his driving and appeared not to have heard the question. "I doubt he
could find us in this murk," Harry replied easily. "Besides, he may
have had to lie low for the night since I hear Riding Officers are on
the prowl."

She giggled. "Poor Diccon. His smugglers were not a very
experienced set of rascals, were they ?"

"No, indeed." Both smile and voice held a caress. She gazed at
him, her own eyes soft, then shivered suddenly. Concerned, he said,
"Are you cold, my shrew? I'll fetch a blanket to wrap round you."

She shook her head. "It's just that I am—so very frightened."

"Little wonder," he thought. To banish the distress in her
sweet face, he told her some of Mitchell's adventures, winning her back
to gaiety until he mentioned the duel. He saw at once that he had erred
and sought to change the subject, but she questioned him intently,
becoming so pale at last that he teased, "Just like a woman! You abhor
duelling yet must know every last gory detail! Cheer up, little one!
The sun is coming out. Look—already the fog is thinning."

It was, and soon a brisk breeze blew away the remaining
wreaths of vapour. They were traversing a copse of sun-dappled young
trees when Mitchell returned, proclaiming exuberantly that he'd found a
likely looking tavern a few miles ahead with "some of the juiciest
looking roast beef you ever saw!" Having set all their mouths to
watering, he admitted he had not brought any of this deliciousness with
him since he'd been unable to locate his purse. By the process of
elimination they discovered he had last seen it after breakfast. The
thought of riding all the way back to the clearing infuriated Harry,
but since the purse held all that remained of their funds, he decided
the journey must be undertaken. Nanette, however, prevailed upon him to
first search the cart. For half an hour they waded through Diccon's
incredible collection of belongings and 'tradeables,' then suddenly
realized Mitchell was not among them. Harry tore around to the far side
of the cart and discovered his brother comfortably sprawled against a
wheel, engrossed in a translation of Virgil. All but gnashing his teeth
with fury, Harry advised him that they would bury the book with him!
"Does it not occur to you, hedgebird, that
we
have all been searching for what
you
were so
besotted as to misplace, while
you
lounged at
your ease?"

"But, I found it. Do you take me for a cocklehead? I had put
it where I'd be sure to find it—in the breadbox. Here!'" He shook the
fat purse under Harry's nose, then leapt to his feet and backed away in
alarm.

"Then why in the
devil
—" grated Harry,
advancing on him in a crouching menace, "could you not have the simple
decency to—"

Mitchell made a mad sprint for his horse, vaulted into the
saddle and, reining about, grinned, "Behave, gaffer, lest I bring you
porridge for lunch!"

"Dare you return with less than a splendid repast, and, by
God, we'll have roasted Mitchell!" Harry strode forward, but Mitchell
was away, riding like a centaur, his laugh floating back after him. The
irate Harry stood and watched him, hands on hips, unable to hold his
anger as he noted with pride what a splendid seat his exasperating
brother possessed.

A grinning Daniel took up the reins once more, Harry helped
Nanette to the seat, mounted his good natured but poorly gaited hack,
and they were off again, following the lane under a canopy of branches,
the sunlight turning the young leaves a pure yellow green. The air grew
warmer and was sweet with the fragrance of blossoms. They rounded a
curve and came out onto the rolling velvety slopes of the South Downs,
with just ahead a small stand of birches rising from a carpet of
bluebells. Nanette clasped her hands at the sight. "Oh, Harry! It is so
pretty! May we camp and eat luncheon up there by the trees?"

He agreed that this was a capital idea and led the way up the
rise, asking that Daniel keep a weather eye out for Mitchell. By the
time they had made camp, unharnessed Mr. Fox, and set him to graze,
however, there was still no sign of either Mitchell or their lunch. It
was long past noon, and knowing both Nanette and Daniel must be as
hungry as he was, Harry at last sent Daniel after his wayward brother.
"You'll probably find he spotted some likely looking tome through a
cottage window and is haggling with the owner over price!"

Daniel went riding off, and looking around at this pleasant
Down country Harry thought how lovely it was. But turning, he saw
something lovelier. Nanette was gathering bluebells. She was kneeling,
looking down at the bright blossoms she held, and he crossed to her,
tenderly watching the dance of one curling tendril of dark hair that
the breeze fluttered against her temple.

She gave a little cry and raised a distressed face. "Oh! How
thoughtless! I have no vase for them. What a wicked waste!"

"So few," he consoled. "And they grow wild, after all."

"They are perfect living things! I could not make one—but I
have destroyed them—needlessly."

Smiling, he went over to unearth a rather battered tin from
the can and pour into it some of the water from the bottle they
carried. Returning, he bowed, "A vase for my lady's bouquet."

Nanette was delighted and decreed that they should grace the
luncheon table, and when Harry had lifted the folding table from the
cart, she covered it with the oilcloth tablecloth' and placed the
'vase' in the centre. She stood back, eyeing the effect admiringly, and
he loved her the more because she was undismayed by the worn old cloth
and battered tin and saw only the beauty of the flowers. This, he
thought, was how she would travel through life— surmounting the heavy
ground with her steadfast gaze turned always to the new hope that
followed every sorrow. She looked to him for comment- Despite his
silence, his eyes were very eloquent; and because she had learned to
read his moods there, she became tongue-tied also. Then she noticed how
his hand gripped his injured arm and she all but flew to his side and
starred to unbutton his cuff. "Oh! I did not change the dressing this
morning, and it is paining you. No, do not pretend otherwise! I can
tell by the… the way... " And she stopped speaking, her busy hands
stilled by his strong clasp. Trembling, she gazed down at those long,
slim fingers, not daring to look up.

Harry touched the funny little bun on top of that so-precious
head and breathed, "You are sadly… unchaperoned. ma'am."

She raised her head slowly, her eyes meeting his with the
sweet shyness that whispered to him of a promise he must not
acknowledge. "Yes. Harry."

"And… all alone." he sighed.

"Yes—Harry."

Surely one little kiss would not be so very improper . . ? But
conscience said sternly that it would be most ungallant. wherefore he
muttered, "I must not—take advantage of you, little one."

"No… Harry," she whispered, her voice incredibly caressing.

"I… will not," he vowed taking her by the arms.

"Nor I… Harry," she breathed, lifting her face for his kiss.

He bent toward her.

"Sir Harry! Sir Harry!"

The familiar bellow blasted that enchanted silence. Nanette
jerked under his hands, her languorous eyes opening wide.

Astounded. Harry released her and swung around. "
Anderson
!"

The Sergeant was toiling breathlessly up the slope, a gig
drawn by a grey mare standing in the lane below him. He thrust out his
hand and, as Harry ran down to take and wring it gladly, gasped out,
"Oh, sir! How… how glad I is to see yer!" Puffing hard, his gaze
slipped to where Nanette had returned to the table and in some
confusion was toying with the flowers. Amazement and dismay chased one
another across his rugged features, but he said nothing.

"How in the devil did you find me?" Harry demanded. "I thought
you had gone to Cancrizans Priory. Did you receive my letter?"

"No, sir. I did go to Cancrizans but you wasn't there; and
Lord Bolster was fair aside of hisself, thinking as—Cap'n . . ?" he
scanned Harry's face anxiously. "You all right? You look a bit pulled."

"A small accident. Nothing much. Is the Marquis at the Priory?"

"No. And it don't look like 'nothing' to me," muttered the
Sergeant uneasily. "Lord Damon got it into his head you'd up and gone
to Monsewer Sanguinet's house in Kent, so he drove off yestiday like
the devil was behind him."

Well aware of Camille Damon's driving habits, Harry chuckled.
"Good old Cam! Did Lord Bolster go with him?"

"No, sir. I think
be
went to the Grange
to see if you was there. And I went to Beechmead Hall, thinking you
might've got there by now, or gone to Lord Moulton's house. But I'm
very glad—that is— I…" The honest eyes lowered. He snatched off his old
beaver and began to turn it, staring down at it wretchedly. "I don't
hardly know how to—to tell yer. You
knows
,
Captain, as I'd give all I got not to cause you no grief."

"Of course I do. But never grieve, man. If this is about my—"

Shoulders squared, the Sergeant drew himself to attention.
"Let you down, sir. Proper. I ain't never forgive Mr. Mitchell fer—fer
that there spill you took in '13." A bleak look frosted Harry's eyes
and his chin lifted slightly. The Sergeant's heart fell, but he went on
doggedly, "I allus held that no man could get so lost in a book he
didn't rightly know what was going on about him. But…" anguish crept
into the dark eyes. "
I
done it, S'Harry! I let yer
brother go orf with a pistol in his pocket! One o'your Mantons as he'd
told me just the day afore he didn't plan to pull the trigger of.
Pull
the trigger, sir! And that there duelling pistol with the finest
hair-trigger you don't hardly have to breathe on! It was a bloody
miracle he didn't get hisself killed calling out that Sanguinet! The
poor Count de Roule said as he done right well, but just the—"