Rondo Allegro (55 page)

The tide of warmth glowed through her. “Good afternoon, Lord
Northcote,” she said, her voice betraying a tremor.

Everyone there saw his face lift, and pale, and then flush.
“You are here,” he said, reaching with one hand, his smile wide and boyish.

Anna stepped forward to close her fingers around his hand.
“I am here.”

Henry Duncannon had woken from his coma to discover that
he had lost his command, and gained a title.

The latter need not necessarily have precluded the former.
There were titled officers aplenty in the navy; of late, in fact, there had
been an effort made to promote from the upper ranks of society, the reasoning
being that like served better with like, and that the seamen all loved a lord.

Henry Duncannon did not pretend to agree. A good officer
might spring through the hawse hole, as the saying went—promotion of a topmast
jack whose intellects made him quick to learn and ambitious brought excellent
officers into being.

But this new title appeared to no longer matter. One of his
earliest visitors had been Lord Collingwood, whose voice had betrayed
exhaustion as he informed Henry that the
Aglaea
was wanted for other duties. There were not nearly enough whole ships for
everything that must be done, and so he had promoted the deserving Lt. Sayers
and dispatched him to watch the French again.

He finished, “And so my last order to you, by rights, is
entirely informal, but no less important. Your duties lie at home at present.
You are to recover your health, and put your affairs in order.” He had added
gruffly, after a short pause, “You will not be surprised to hear that rumor has
it your brother saw fit to leave things in lamentable state.”

Sayers visited briefly before departing.

“My wife?” Henry asked at the end of their conversation
about service matters.

“As you desired, she was sent to England.”

“To England,” Henry repeated, the sudden splash of happiness
taking him by surprise.

“Was that not right? You said to send her home,” Sayers
responded. “I recollect it distinctly.”

Henry’s mouth quirked sardonically, and there was the old
captain again. “You have done very well,” was all he said, but internally, he
reflected—not for the first time—on the many stupid years during which he
resentfully considered ‘home’ to be where his sea chest resided. “Thank you,”
he added. “I know you have been hard pressed, and I will not keep you the
longer.”

The creak of wood, a shift of a boot, and Henry knew he was
hearing Sayers rise and pick up his hat.

What more was there to say? Sayers wished to be gone,
exactly as he himself had done on his first appointment. The new captain wanted
to be doing, perhaps to win a prize, now that, at last, his own marriage looked
to be in the offing.

So they shook hands, and the last he heard of Sayers was his
quick step in departure.

After that he must possess his impatience. Sayers might have
sent Anna to England, but after his own scrub-like treatment of her, Henry
would not have blamed her a jot for taking his fortune and haring off to Italy,
or Sweden, or anywhere else in the world but Yorkshire.

But here he was, back at the house he had sworn once never
to set foot in again.

Everything had changed. It was now
his
house, his estate. Its affairs were his responsibility. His
family was here, only grown older (Harriet sounded quite grown up, something he
would have thought an impossibility), his mother wept . . . and
then came that low, beautiful voice, the French accent pronounced,
Good afternoon, Lord Northcote
.

For a moment the vertigo was back, worse than those first
few days.
Lord Northcote
was his
father, his brother . . . and
she
was here.

He sustained a sharp desire to hear her lips shape the words
‘Captain Duncannon’ again, and he almost laughed. He was not aware of reaching
until her fingers closed around his hand, and he heard the soft rustle of
feminine fabrics, and smelled the faint, elusive perfume he remembered so well.

Before he could find the wit to speak, another remembered
voice shocked him, “Welcome home, Henry.”

He stilled, the joy vanishing like smoke. “Emily,” he said.

Emily
, Anna heard
again, and recollected that morning in the captain’s cabin before the storm
struck. Her heart beat painfully.

The dowager had been watching. She heard the flatness of her
son’s voice on that word—
Emily
—and
stepped between Emily and her son, then reached to touch his free hand. “Henry,
dear, we have the tea things waiting. Are you hungry at all?”

His stomach was unsettled, and his head ached abominably.
Rocking in a coach from which nothing could be seen had rendered him far more
ill than ever the sea had in all its moods. But, like sea sickness, he was
certain that taking something would subdue the sensations. Besides, if his
mother had gone to this trouble, he must acknowledge it; he knew that he had
amends to make, and might as well begin now. “Thank you. I am sharp set.”

“Good. Cook has put a vast deal of effort into dishes that
should please you, though in course we do not know what you prefer anymore.
What kinds of foods did you eat on your ship? You must tell us all about it . . .”

With Anna on one side and his mother on the other, Henry
walked, distracted from his mother’s gentle words by familiar sounds, and above
all, familiar smells. How that furniture polish brought it all back!

Emily closed in behind, scolding herself out of the shock,
and the disappointment, of those bandaged eyes. It was not as if she had not
known. Though she disclosed little else, the foreigner had made it plain that
he had suffered a head wound that affected his vision. But in Emily’s mind
wounds passed off in a day or two, the way a rose thorn prick faded under a bit
of plaster.

She followed the three who walked arm in arm, Henry
appearing taller than she had remembered, his features from what she could see
more planed, with a terrible scar down one cheek. The dowager was
understandably delighted to receive her son once again, but there had been an
unexpected alacrity in her advance. What had she meant by that?

Harriet, watching from where she had sat on the bottom stair,
chin on her fingers, elbows on knees, eyed Emily, remembering bits of
conversations, angry looks, and the terrible day Henry departed, vowing never
to return. She had been a child, with little understanding. She had always
thought he had left because of John’s temper, though she had known about the
broken understanding. Had it been
more
than an understanding? Whom could she ask? No one here would talk to her . . .

“Nurse,” she breathed, and pelted upstairs.

o0o

Confound this bandage!

Henry had endured it as a necessity, but the moment he
stepped into the familiar sounds and scents of his home, he was nearly
overmastered by the desire to rip the thing free.

But he must wait. The physician in London had said not
before March, or he could not answer for the result.

He needed to see their faces: his mother, whose voice
trembled, Harriet, who sounded so grown, Emily, who sounded unchanged. But
above all he must see his wife. His wife! Those brief days aboard his ship
seemed a dream.

He possessed what patience he could muster as the familiar
voices made conversation on topics such as the weather, the state of the roads,
and the doings in London in preparation for the holidays.

“When your health permits,” Emily said, “my brother and
father will extend an invitation to dine. They talk of nothing else besides the
glorious victory, and wish to hear every detail from one who was there. And
if,” she added, “I may be permitted to add, they are not the only ones.”

“You did not ask my wife?” Henry said.

There was a slight pause, and Henry was possessed again of a
strong wish he could see the circle of faces.

Then Anna spoke in her distinctive accent, her voice
reminding Henry of the rush of a river, of the rustle of leaves, though that
was not quite right, either. It was a pure voice, soothing to the ear. “I could
not give them witness. You will remember I saw nothing from where I was
placed.”

Emily smiled her way. “Of course a lady would be kept safely
well away from the exigencies of battle. We did not think anything else.”

Henry said, “She was away from battle, but not from the
exigencies, as she was a mere deck below the waterline, sewing the ship’s
people back together again, she and her maid. When I was brought below, they
were both there, well covered in gore.”

His mother gave a tiny gasp, and Henry said quickly, “I will
forbear anymore description than that. But you must realize that the glorious
battle you read about from your comfortable distance is a sanguinary affair,
and any
detailed
account is going to
make reference to the butcher’s bill, that is, the cost in lives. Nelson, long
may he be remembered, was not the only casualty.”

They responded as he thought they would, demurring, except
for Harriet’s sigh, “
I
want to hear
it.”

His mother said, “For my part, I would be glad if you would
speak of our beloved Lord Admiral Nelson, before the terrible event. Was he
musical?”

“He had a passion for hearing music,” Henry said. “I do not
know that he played. I can tell you little beyond what was said at captains’
conferences, as I served directly under Fremantle. Our frigates were given a
different duty, until the very end.”

The dowager said, “Thank you, Henry. Perhaps we may continue
over dinner? You might remember,” her voice trembled again, “that we keep
country hours, though you may wish to change that.”

Henry said, “Sea captains dine even earlier. Do not change
the dinner hour on my account.”

The dowager rose, something she had never done before. With
dignity strengthened by the return of her son, she said, “Lady Northcote, I am
certain that Henry’s things have by now been shifted. Shall you take him
upstairs so that he has plenty of time to ready himself to dine?” If Emily had
hoped to gain a moment alone with Henry, her hopes were dashed when the dowager
added, “Henry, the rest of us will remain here by the fire, to stay out of the
way if you wish to reacquaint yourself with your home.”

Henry rose, hand groping unconsciously. Anna stepped forward
quickly to take his arm, and they exited the drawing room.

Neither spoke until he had negotiated the stairway. Once or
twice she felt the muscles of his arm tense, and his face lifted as he checked
his pace, but before she could speak he walked again.

When they reached the baronial suite, he heard from the
rustles and quiet footsteps that there were people in the room. “Perkins?”

“My lord. Your dressing room is this way.”

“That can wait.” To Anna, “You remember Perkins, do you not?
It transpires he was a first footman before he was impressed. I inherited him
from the previous captain of
Aglaea
.
He has been released from service, so that I could bring him with me. I’d as
lief have him to valet than some mincing caper-merchant who will try to stuff
me into stays, and cravats two yards wide.”

“How do you do, Mr. Perkins?” Anna said.

“Tolerable well, thank you, my lady, tolerable well,” he
replied.

“Perkins, we will dress for dinner in, say, a quarter of an
hour?”

“Aye, sir—that is, aye, my lord.”

Perkins had practiced the new address, but habit would
obtrude. Annoyed with himself, he motioned to the little housemaid who had
brought up the hot water and was busy tending the fire, and they retreated.

Henry waited until he heard the door shut, then he said,
with an attempt at humor, “Will you give me leave to call you Anna when we are alone?
‘Lady Northcote’ is still my mother. Needless to say, I never thought to be
brought to this pass.”

Anna said, “In truth, I would prefer it, oh, most
prodigiously.”

He heard a lilt of humor in her soft voice, and smiled.
“Thank you. Anna, will you take me around this room, that I may learn where
things are? The rest can wait. I am better if I learn a room at a time.”

She sprang to comply. At the first chair, he ran his hands
over the old-fashioned shape, sniffed, then said with a curious grimace, “This
is my father’s chair. I am to gather we were given all his old furnishings.
Well, well.”

They proceeded from there, Henry counting steps under his
breath. He interrupted himself from time to time by asking questions. First:
“Who gives the orders? I hope that you have begun as I would have you carry on.
Though I trust you would consult my mother when possible.”

Anna said, “I have been content to leave things as they are
while I make a study to learn the custom here, and until I know your wishes.”

He paused, his hands feeling over a little table. “There
will be a lot of changes. We will begin in here, but I want you to make
your
wishes known. I want you to be
comfortable.”

“Thank you. Everyone has been most kind.”

“Everyone?” He paused, the light on the angle of his
cheekbone sharp, his mouth compressed.

Anna could not guess at his mood, but she said, “Your
sister, Miss Harriet, has been generous with her time. She has put me in the
way of things. Your mother has been most welcoming.”

“I am very glad to hear that,” he said, noting the absence
of Emily’s name. He refused to introduce it between them. Things were already
devilish awkward, when he could not see anyone’s face. “And now, I will try on
my own. If you see me about to trip, sing out, but otherwise, I must make my
way.”

He moved about with a careful, sweeping step that argued a
good deal of practice, as he counted to himself. Twice she nearly spoke, but
his reaching fingers encountered the obstacles, and he let out a soft, “Hah.”
And then, “Perkins changes my bandages at night, with only a twist, and I keep
my eyes shut as instructed. But there are times when my eyes will open, and I
believe I catch a gleam of light beside my nose.” He touched one side. “Or it
may be only my imagination. There are sometimes quick flashes of light when I
would swear my eyes are closed—”