Alicia (28 page)

* * * *

Since Rowland had few commitments in town, and the grave-eyed Mrs. Frazier was willing to receive him, he spent more than a little time at her house. She was currently under no one’s protection, and did not take offense at his curiosity or lack of knowledge. His fears of not knowing how, what, or when to pay were alleviated by her frankness on the subject and his own growing confidence.

One evening when he was about to leave for her house, Charles March stopped him, a worried frown wrinkling his forehead. “Rowland, m’father showed me a letter today. Well, I brought it with me. Understand, he does not believe a word of it, but I thought you should see it.”

Anxiously he delivered the paper into Rowland’s outstretched hand. While his friend read the letter, March nervously swung his quizzing glass back and forth. “M’father knows your uncle, Rowland, and has the greatest respect for him. Knows Tackar, too, for that matter, and has always thought the fellow a cad. Not a word of truth in it, you see, but still it’s a great pity.”

Rowland had developed an angry flush as he read, and when he arrived at the insinuations about Felicia he choked. “I will call him out for this!”

“I say, Rowland, can’t do that. Let your uncle handle it. He’ll know just how to go about it. Sure to.”

“There is nothing to know, Charles. Do you figure there are more of these?”

March eyed his friend warily, but confessed, “M’father said he knew of two other people who had received them. Probably more.”

After noting the address from which Tackar wrote, Rowland returned the letter to March as though it burned his hands. “It’s too late to leave tonight. I’ll be off first thing in the morning. Thank you for having me, Charles.”

 
“You can’t go alone,”
Charles protested. “I’ll come with you.”

“I doubt your father would like that.”

“Needn’t know, Rowland. Don’t see him all that often, you know.”

Rowland rubbed a hand thoughtfully over his chin. “I should have someone with me in case. Very well, Charles, if you are sure you wish to come.”

March was not at all sure he wished to dart off to France and possibly see his friend killed, but he was loyal and adventurous, so he replied firmly, “I shall be ready in the morning.”

“Early,”
Rowland urged, and left his friend without another word.

As had become her habit, Mrs. Frazier had Rowland shown to her sitting room, where she set down her book on his arrival. One look at his face convinced her that he was under considerable stress. “What is it, Rowland?”

He had not considered what he would tell her, beyond that he could not stay with her that evening. The grave eyes invited his confidence and he soon found himself pouring out the whole story. “So you see, I must leave for France immediately.”

“You would do better to let your uncle handle it.”

“My uncle has a family, two children, and he has already faced Tackar. I will not let the villain continue to spread his lies, ma’am. To wantonly blacken Felicia’s name in this way! As though he had not done enough harm to her already! I am no longer a child. This is my responsibility and I shall see that it is discharged.”

Mrs. Frazier watched him jump to his feet and pace about the room. “You have parents and a sister. And what of Felicia herself?”

“What good am I to her unless I act when she is presented with danger? How am I to hold up my head if I do not destroy such a man, who with a careless stroke of his pen could ruin her life?”

“She would not have you put your life in danger, Rowland. You are no good to her dead,”
she said gently.

“And l am no good to her alive if I do not go,”
he answered simply. The grave eyes continued to regard him mournfully. “I must do it, ma’am. I have no choice.”
Rowland raised her hand to his lips and murmured, “Thank you for being so good to me.”

“Godspeed, Rowland.”

* * * *

The journey, endured impatiently by Rowland, had been more successful than his confrontation with Francis Tackar. Tackar had refused to meet him.

Astonished, Rowland had stared at him for some time. “What the devil do you mean, you won’t meet me?”

“I cannot face every hotheaded young cub who takes offense at something I say,”
Tackar retorted.

“You have insulted my friends Lady Coombs and her daughter, as well as vilifying my uncle’s character. Your malicious lies are spewed forth in an attempt to ruin them all and I will not allow it to continue.”
Rowland coldly surveyed his opponent and drew his gloves restlessly through his hands.

“You had best go home to your mother,”
Tackar laughed. “She will be worried about you.”

Rowland struck him across the face with his glove. “You will meet me tomorrow morning or I will horsewhip you, Tackar.”

His eyes narrowed to glinting pinpoints, Tackar rasped, “Very well, Clinton. Have your second wait on mine this evening to arrange the details.”

Charles March had accomplished this mission and now he stood, heavyhearted, awaiting the signal. He had noticed the arrival of a lone rider, and for a moment had feared, and hoped, that it was the authorities come to put a stop to the duel. After dismounting, Stronbert stood perfectly still, not daring to utter a word that might distract his nephew’s attention.

Rowland stood pale and still. The white signal fluttered as it was dropped and in the soft quiet of the falling snow, two pistols roared simultaneously. Stronbert watched helplessly as his nephew fell and started running to him. He saw immediately that the ball which had struck him was embedded in the thigh, and breathed a sigh of relief. There should be a doctor, he thought, and looked around to see a man bent over Tackar, who was sprawled on the ground. The black-coated figure, who carried the bag of his trade, shook his head briefly and turned toward Stronbert.

Rowland, who had lain unconscious until now, opened his eyes and asked of no one in particular, “Did I kill him?”

“Yes, Rowland,”
Stronbert replied, “but I had rather you allowed me to do it.”

Rowland’s pain-filled eyes focused on his uncle and a slight grin twisted his mouth. “You had your chance, Uncle Nigel. It was my turn.”

When the ball had been removed from his thigh, Rowland and his second were taken to Stronbert’s lodgings. George Savile spoke to Stronbert exasperatedly. “Lord, Nigel, I have not eaten yet and you’re bringing wounded bodies to me.”

“I would like to introduce you to my nephew, Rowland Clinton, and his friend, Charles March. Rowland has just dueled Tackar.”

“And?”

“Tackar is dead.”

“Excellent. Now I hope I may enjoy my breakfast in peace,”
George grumbled. “When do we return?”

“When Rowland can travel comfortably.”

“I should rather leave immediately, Uncle Nigel. My parents are expecting me for Christmas.”
Rowland spoke from the depths of the sofa where his uncle had placed him, his voice calm but his eyes tortured with pain and wretchedness.

Stronbert rested a hand on Rowland’s shoulder understandingly. “Then we will arrange to leave as soon as George has had his lengthy breakfast. If you are comfortable, Rowland, I have an errand I should like to accomplish.”

* * * *

The return journey was of necessity slow. Rowland had a fever the first night and his uncle sat with him listening to the disjointed phrases which tumbled from the young man’s lips. Toward morning he was calmer and opened his eyes to find Stronbert pouring out a cup of coffee. “Have you been here all night?”

“Yes. Are you feeling better?”

“There is less pain,”
Rowland said carefully.

“From the wound.”
Stronbert poured a second cup of coffee and handed it to his nephew. “You did what you had to, Rowland. Do not torture yourself. I would have done the same.’’

“But I didn’t know how I would feel! A man is dead by my hand, Uncle Nigel—a rogue, a scoundrel, but still a man. How am I to live with that?”
He drew a shaking hand over his eyes.

Stronbert sighed. “It will be difficult. I thought about it when I took Tackar to Dr. Carmichael. Had he died, for all that he deserved it, I knew it would be a burden to carry with me. Remember that I would have done it if you had not, Rowland. And he aimed to kill you, I could see it in his face. I am grateful for snow,”
he said simply, “for I believe only that distorted his vision enough to spare you.”

Sipping thoughtfully at his coffee Rowland made no reply, but he determined to speak no more of the matter. No useful purpose would be served by lamenting his actions, and in many ways he did not regret them. If it took more courage to live with the outcome than it had to face Tackar, he would have to find that strength. “Do you suppose they have those exquisite rolls here?”

Stronbert had watched the struggle in his nephew’s face, and now he smiled. “I would not be at all surprised.”

Although there were frequent stops on the journey to relieve the agony of the jolting carriage, it was just over a week before Stronbert restored Rowland to his family. No mention was made of the duel; Rowland had sustained his injury in a driving accident.

“Really, Nigel,”
Stronbert’s sister protested, when she had him alone, “I had thought I could trust you to take care of Rowland when he was with you.”

“He is quite old enough to take care of himself, Mary.”

“Well, he does not seem to have been doing so,”
she muttered.

“With the care you will lavish on him he will be set right within the week.”

His sister smiled reluctantly. “Will you stay for Christmas, Nigel? There is hardly time for you to get home.”

“Thank you, my dear, but I must go. I shall look forward to seeing Rowland early in the new year. If you are up to the journey then, perhaps you will come, too, Mary.”

“I shall think on it. I have not seen Mother for some time.”

“Good. Now I must leave.”

“But you just arrived,”
she said helplessly.

“I know. But I have important business at the Court. Try to come, Mary.”
His eyes were gravely intent.

“I will,”
she said, accepting that it was important to him.

“Thank you. Happy Christmas.”

* * * *

Stronbert did not arrive at Tetterton until late on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. He came first to Lady Coombs’s shop, noting that the sign he had caused to be erected was in place. Mr. Allerton was leaving the shop at the time, and his employer was alone and ready to lock up as she left.

He stepped into the shop quietly and watched her reaction as she looked up at the ringing of the bell. She did not attempt to hide the pleasure it gave her to see him but approached with outstretched hand. He took it firmly in his and held it a moment before saying ruefully, “I have been so wrapped up in my concerns, Lady Coombs, that I have not had a moment to think of gifts for my household. I pray you will indulge me by keeping the shop open a while longer.”

“It is the least I can do for you, sir. Did you see the sign? I am so pleased with it, and I thank you for your thoughtfulness. Come, shall we start with Miss Helen?”
Alicia led him about the shop, with occasional suggestions for the dowager and his son, for Miss Carnworth, and the general. It took the better part of an hour to conclude the transactions, but Stronbert was well pleased with the results.

“My mother has invited you to the Court, has she not?”
he asked as he prepared to depart.

“Yes, she is sending the carriage for us.”

“Good. I will walk you to the cottage.”

Alicia pulled her green pelisse over her dress against the bitter cold of the December evening. “Felicia is doing some last-minute sewing, I think, in preparation for tomorrow. She keeps hiding what she is working on, so it must be a surprise.”

“How is she getting on? Does she see much of the Maple girls?”

“Yes, almost daily, and there are others in the neighborhood who have come to accept her and invite her to their homes. I am well pleased for her.”

Stronbert paused at the threshold of the cottage and Alicia invited him to step in for a moment, but he replied, “I have not been to the Court yet, and I can only imagine that my absence is bitterly lamented. I shall see you tomorrow.”

When the carriage came for the two women the following day, the world was an icy wonder. Icicles hung from the gables and coated the trees down to the smallest sparkling twig. The carriage horses were hung with bells in the spirit of the day and the sweet music rang along the lane, causing Felicia to run to the window. The stomping horses with their breath visible as white puffs about them came to a halt before the cottage, and the footman jumped down to escort the ladies cautiously over the frozen, slippery ground. The ride to the Court was beautiful, provided with its own music, and the women arrived pink-checked and cheerful. Helen rushed into the hall to greet them, and Matthew followed more sedately.

“I have something for you,”
Helen whispered to Felicia, as she put her arm through the older girl’s.

“Do you? Then it is fortunate that I remembered your package,”
Felicia murmured. “Shall you have it now?”

“No, for Papa expects us to bring you to the gold parlor now. What is it?”

“You must wait to see.”

Stronbert stood at the door of the room and wished them a happy Christmas before taking them to his mother. The dowager remarked that Lady Coombs’s gown was surely the most beautiful she had seen in some time and Alicia smiled and answered, “Felicia made it as a present for me.”
The dowager nodded and allowed them to pass on to greet the other members of the party. When Felicia and the children had finished their tea, they were allowed to leave the adults and follow their own pursuits. This led them to the schoolroom where Helen had carefully deposited Felicia’s present.

It was a lovely white fur muff on which Helen had spent hours of careful work embroidering Felicia’s initials. The older girl’s delight was everything Helen could have asked for. She had in turn received a very grown-up shawl that Felicia had made for her, and Matthew was delighted with his traveling chess set. “I have something for your papa, too,”
Felicia said shyly, “and for Miss Carnworth, as they have been so good to me.”