Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (3 page)

"Mrs. Langridge is in Harrogate, sir. Visiting of her sister,
this being May. Master William and Miss Martha went with her and have
since, so I understand, contracted measles."

"Dear, dear!" Sir Harry had a mental picture of his aunt Ada,
who enjoyed her own imagined ills to the hilt, being suddenly visited
by her sanctimonious sister and two sick children. He suppressed a grin
and remarked that he trusted Lady Edgar was bearing up under the
strain. Mr. Baines fixed the young baronet with a reproving glance and
responded that since Mrs. Langridge had taken along some copies of her
husband's more recent sermons, he rather suspected they would provide
the needed inspiration. He shook his head at Harry's amused wink, and
made his dignified way from the room having first placed a glass of
sherry beside the sinner's cold hand.

Harry sipped the wine and grimaced; it was of a poor vintage,
and sour, and the oppressively over-furnished room like ice. He paced
to the fireplace and stirred up the wretched remains with his booted
foot, then bent to add another log and poke hopefully at it.

"Waste not…" came the mournful intonation from behind him,
"want not!"

"Afternoon, Uncle." Harry straightened and put out his hand.
"You're likely right, but it's freezing in here. With Aunt Wilhelmina
sporting about in Harrogate, I'd think you could live a little more
comfortable."

The Reverend Mordecai Langridge was what Harry had once, in a
moment of total frustration, described to Mitchell as a 'neither man'.
Neither fat nor thin, tall nor short, dark nor fair, young nor old,
clever nor stupid. "In short," he'd grumbled, "a compromise in every
possible direction!"

"Until," his brother had smiled, "you come to 'strong nor
weak'," and they had both laughed, if perhaps with a twinge of
conscience at such harsh criticism. In his youth, Mordecai Langridge
had taken a tall lady of unexceptional birth and moderate fortune for
his bride, deeming her lofty moral values an asset to his calling. As
the years had passed, however, his Wilhelmina's preoccupation with
morality had become an obsession to which had been added a frugality
bordering on the nipcheese and a self-righteousness that had deepened
into pompous sanctimoniousness. Despite these questionable attributes,
she was not one to stint herself at table, with the result that girth
had combined with height to render her a formidable figure. She was
possessed of a sharp tongue, a booming voice, and a growing scorn for
her gentle and ineffectual husband. Sir Colin Redmond had been wont to
remark that there was good stuff in 'poor old Mordecai,' did he only
exert it. And that if he should ever do so it would be better for both
of them. Harry and Mitchell, fondly tolerant of their parent's
unfailing ability to find the good in everyone, had exchanged amused
smiles at such kindly observations, and privately chuckled to think of
'Maude,' as they irreverently dubbed him, daring to stand up to his
terrifying spouse.

Now, Langridge drew closer to the fire, holding out his pudgy
hands to the warmth and, for an instant forgetting himself, murmured,
"Baines watches me like a hawk, y'see, and—" He stopped abruptly,
pulled his heavy woollen jacket closer about him, adjusted the knitted
shawl he wore over it, tugged at the nightcap on his head, and said a
hurried, "I do not find it in the least bit chill. But how generous in
you to visit me. You knew perhaps that I am lone and lorn?"

"Are you going to shake my hand or not, sir?" asked Harry
briskly.

"What? Oh." The Reverend obliged, his grasp neither strong nor
limp, and, shaking his head, mourned, "How swift you are to take
umbrage. Pride, Harry, goeth before—"

"Goeth before mystification in this case, sir. Your pardon if
I am unmannerly, but—might we sit down?"

"Oh dear! We are upset. We are rude and angry. And anger, my
dear boy, is such a wasted emotion. I used to tell your poor father…"

Since his uncle was now seated on one of the straight-backed
red velvet chairs beside the fire, Harry eased his own long length onto
a similar monstrosity and, having waited dutifully but unavailingjy for
the sentence to end, said, "Uncle Mordecai, my father—"

"My own dear sister's husband! God rest his poor sinful soul!"
groaned Langridge, clasping his hands and casting an anguished look at
the ceiling.

"I have little doubt, sir," Harry bridled, "but that my
father's soul was well-received!"

His uncle's gaze drifted sorrowfully downward, and he was so
moved by what he saw in that stern young countenance that he clasped a
hand over his eyes. "Poor boy! The innocent victim! Truly—the sins of
the fathers…"

"For heaven's sake, Uncle!" Harry sprang to hs feet. "My
greatest regret, and my brother's also, is that our father is not alive
today! As for sins—I've no doubt he had some, being human, but he was a
great-souled, warm hearted gentleman, with not an ounce of prim and
prosy hypocrisy about him!"

"You seek to come to points with me," sighed Langridge. "And I
had so hoped we might talk together. That I might, at last… "

Again Harry waited, nerves taut. Exasperated, he at last burst
out, "Sir, what in the
deuce
is my bank about? I
particularly wish Mitchell to take that Italian tour this summer. He
had the bronchitis twice last year, and again only recently. A few
months in a milder climate might do him good. I sent funds up to Oxford
to cover the costs, and the draft was returned from the bank together
with a note explaining that my account is closed!"

"One cannot expect a great banking house to deceive, my boy,"
the Reverend sighed. "I have protected you for as long as I could. Now
you must—"

"You… have… what… ?"

Langridge jumped. "How like him you are." He shook his head
chidingly. "Poor Colin… Poor Harry… How may I tell you? What can I say?"

"You can start by telling me what the devil all this
Friday-faced ranting is about! And why my bank claims my account closed
when my father left me very well to pass!"

The Reverend stared up into that green blaze and, thinking to
read accusation there, his mouth fell open a little, a tide of crimson
suffusing his features. He stood also, and cried dramatically, "Do I
detect base suspicion, sir? Do you dare to accuse a gentleman of the
cloth of—thievery?"

Despite his seething frustration, Harry was struck by this
pose. Poor old Maude looked so totally ridiculous striking an affronted
attitude while swathed in all his wools and with that awful nightcap
sagging about his flabby face… "Of course I do not, sir," he said with
considerably less force. "But something very odd is afoot, and I want
to know what it is. Wherever I go I am the recipient of what I'd swear
are sympathetic looks; Mitchell also has heard what he termed 'funny
rumours'. I've been courting a charming lady for over a year, with her
brother's full knowledge and sanction, yet he has suddenly decided I am
not worthy of her hand." He scowled and muttered half to himself,
"Though Reggie Haines-Curtis was ever a starchy court card, I'll own."

"And—the Lady Dorothy?"' enquired Mordecai timidly. "Has she
promised to remain—constant?"

Harry flushed. The Lady Dorothy Haines-Curtis had, in point of
fact, wept distractedly but announced that although she was
"excessively fond of him and ever would be" she intended to wed Roger
de Tornay—a man twice her age, with a perfectly vile reputation, but
also possessed of an earldom and a vast fortune. And because that
rejection still smarted more than he cared to admit, he evaded, "I put
it to you, Uncle, that here's too much smoke for there to be no fire. I
demand to be told the truth."

"The truth! Dear Lord!" Outrage faded into anguish and,
wringing his hands, Langridge paced to the fire, stood surveying the
squandered log apprehensively for an instant, then swung about. "My
dear boy, your— But—no! I must not rush my fences! The truth is…" And
rushing to his fences with a vengeance, he blurted, "Far from leaving
you very well to pass, your father gambled away everything he owned!
You and poor Mitchell are— absolutely
destitute
!"

For a second it seemed to Harry that the walls dissolved, that
the two of them stood in a limbo wherein colour ceased to exist save
for a jet black and blinding white. He put out a hand and groped for
the mantle, thinking with a terrible wrench of fear, "Moire!"

"Don't be so… so damn ridiculous!" he stammered. "My—my father
never gambled… in all his days!"

"Ah—but that was the trouble, you see, lad. Come now—sit down.
I'll send for some brandy. Poor fellow—you are pale as death."

"Devil take the brandy!" Harry stood very straight and,
man-aging somehow to control his voice, demanded, "Tell me what
happened. And with no fancy frills, if you please."

The Reverend sat down. Surely the boy would not strike him if
he was sitting down… "I want you to know," he began earnestly, "that I
investigated with the greatest of care, for it seemed so foreign to my
brother-in-law's character. Colin was not seen in Church as frequently
as I would have wished. But I do not believe he was a gamester, and a
more devoted husband and—"

"Dammit!" Harry exploded. "
Will
you come
to the point?
What
happened?
When
?
And
Where
? And why in God's name was I not told?"

"There is no call to bring the name of our Heavenly Father
into so sordid a mat—" Langridge here perceived from Redmond's
murderous expression that discretion was the better part of valour, and
said a hurried, "Your papa sat down to cards with some other gentlemen,
and—"

"Name them!"

"Wh-What? Oh—well, there was Sir Barnaby Schofield, Sprague
Cobb, Lord Howard Cootesby, and…" Langridge hesitated, slanting an
anxious glance at his nephew's white-faced rigidity. "And—M. Parnell
Sanguinet." Harry's scowl, which had deepened with the first name, did
not waver and, stifling a sigh of relief, the Reverend ventured, "Fine
gentlemen, all."

That was true of the first three, thought Harry. He knew
nothing of Sanguinet, but Cobb was often in White's, and
Cootesby—although something of a hermit—had a splendid military record.
Barnaby Schofield had been one of his father's closest friends—a fine
gentleman indeed, honest to a fault, soft-spoken, courageous, and next
to his adored wife had rated Colin Redmond highest in his affections.
Had anything been wrong, good old Barney would have put a stop to it at
once. "Go on, if you please, sir," he said frigidly, feeling as though
the ground was being cut away from beneath him.

"Yes…" muttered the unhappy cleric. "Well, as I said, Colin
became very—er—inebriated— I am sorry, Harry! But I
swear
it is so!"

"The hell it is!" snarled Redmond. "My father seldom drank
heavily!"

"I know—but, dear boy—they all testified—"

"Then they lied, damn them! They were likely bosky themselves,
and—"

"Lord Belmont was not bosky, " Langridge interposed
desperately. "He is one of the finest surgeons in London, you will
admit. His examination proved your papa to have been very drunk, and he
swore at the Hearing, that—"

"
Hearing
?" Harry fairly pounced on the
word. "
What
Hearing?"

Langridge moistened suddenly dry lips and croaked, "The
Hearing I demanded. As—as your papa's representative."

"My papa's
representative
," Harry
thundered, "was
me
! Why in the devil, sir, was
I
not called?"

Groaning, the Reverend left his chair and began to wander
distractedly up and down. "If you but
knew
how I
strove with my conscience! It—it all happened so fast, dear lad. You
were barely recovered from a long and painful illness, and had already
suffered one relapse. When word came of your papa's… death…" He drew a
hand across his sweating brow. "I feared that alone was enough to send
you into a final decline! Had you learned about— about his losses, as
well!" He shook his head, his eyes fastened pleadingly upon his
nephew's livid face.

Harry uttered a clipped, "I should not have shouted at you. I
collect you meant…" How could he say the man had meant 'well'… ? He
felt choked with rage and grief but, unwilling to abuse his uncle's
calling by resorting to the barracks-room language he was burning to
indulge, instead rasped, "Be so kind as to tell me what transpired at
this alleged Hearing from which my father's sons were barred."

"Harry—do not . . !" beseeched Langridge. "Your regimental
surgeon and Dr. MacBride both said you were in no condition to
withstand such a double shock. Mitchell was under age and, besides
would certainly have told you. Be reasonable."

Reasonable
! Were he reasonable he'd
likely choke the life from this blundering, addlepated doddipoll! Harry
closed his lips tightly over a boiling response, but reading his
expression correctly, Langridge stepped back a pace and went on
miserably, "I have no doubt that is why poor Colin had the… accident.
You will recall how he would sometimes attempt to jump the stream at
the wall beside the old ruins. So foolhardy… When he—went down, his
hunting rifle was fully loaded on the saddle, and—but you already know
that part."

"To my sorrow. Let us have the part I do
not
know, if you please."

Flinching to the brittle tone, Langridge responded, "Each of
the gentlemen who took part in the game was called upon. And they each
testified under oath that at the time of the play my brother-in-law was
very foxed. That they sought to prevent him from continuing, but even
Schofield's efforts were in vain." Harry interjected a low and
scornful, "What gammon!" but the Reverend swept on, "Finally, Monsieur
Sanguinet was the only other player. Your papa lost heavily. He tried
to recoup, and put up first his ring… then his horses. And finally," he
shrugged helplessly. "Everything. Moire… all the furnishings… the
acreage and farm… the carriages… Everything!"