Ask Me No Questions (7 page)

His tired eyes brightened. "Did you, indeed? I have seen the Albertini frescoes. They are magnificent! But I'd no idea—" He broke off and regrouped hurriedly. "I cannot but be impressed, ma'am. But nothing could sway my decision. This, you see, is a bachelor establishment. My eldest son resides here, for the present at least. And it would be considered quite shocking were I to allow an unmarried lady to share our roof."

"But, sir, might I not take rooms nearby? I would never expect to be allowed to live on your beautiful estate, but surely there is a farmhouse where I might find accommodation? Oh, Sir Brian, if you would just give me a chance. I do not ask for charity. I promise you I can work as hard and as long as any man. Only give me a chance to prove my ability. I have brought some of my work, if you would but look at it."

She was, he thought, a pretty creature, in spite of her severely dressed hair and rumpled gown. And she appeared so desperate, poor thing. Deeply troubled, he took up Falcon's letter and made a mental note to have a few words with that young madman in the very near future. For the present, however, he must be firm. He said, "Alas, 'twould be pointless, Miss Allington. However, I shall set my steward to try and find a suitable—ah, post for you. Though I'll confess myself astonished that the daughter of a fine artist must be reduced to earning her own livelihood. You have family, surely?"

"My brother was lost at sea," she said truthfully. "And Mama went to her reward years since. Papa was all I had. He was successful, as you say, and had an adequate fortune, but he was of the artistic temperament. Which is to say," she added, feeling shockingly disloyal, "that he was a brilliant man, but with no least concept of business matters. His investments proved to have been poor, and he borrowed unwisely. Indeed, I believe 'twas worry over what should become of us that—that brought about his death." The memory of her beloved father overcame her at this point, and she pressed her handkerchief to her lips.

Sir Brian squirmed in his chair and prepared to end this unfortunate interview at once, but Ruth recovered herself and swept on before he could administer the
coup de grace
.

"I am not a foolish woman, sir, and I was sure I could manage quite well when we were left all alone, but—"

"We?" he intervened keenly.

'Bother!' thought Ruth. "My—cousin. I have always cared for her because she is a— Well, she is not quickwitted."

'Good God!' thought Sir Brian.

"But," she went on hurriedly, "I have had all I could do to pay our creditors. I knew that my dear father would want that. He was always so—so moral a man, you see. And now, the house has been swallowed up, and—" She bit her lip and for a moment her voice was suspended.

Sir Brian rushed into the breach. "My poor child," he said, standing. "Rest assured I shall do whatever—" He blinked, shattered by the tragic despair in two lovely grey eyes framed by tear-wet black lashes. "Truly," he faltered, feeling the ultimate villain, "I wish I could—"

The door opened and the man who had looked in earlier started to enter, then hesitated. "Your pardon, sir," he said, eyeing Ruth curiously. "I had thought you were talking to the applicant for the restoration."

"Quite correct." Sir Brian gave an inward sigh of relief. "Miss Allington, allow me to present my son, Mr. Gordon Chandler."

Even as Ruth stood to make her curtsy, her heart sank. There was a kindness in Sir Brian. She had sensed it, and sensed also that he had been touched by her plight and that with a little more time she might have persuaded him. But now he was all cool control again.

Gordon Chandler's bow was perfunctory. He said in faintly incredulous amusement, "A
female
applicant? No, really, sir, I think you quiz me."

'Brute!' thought Ruth, and sinking into the chair again tore open her valise and thrust her sketchbook across the desk. "If you would but look at some of my work, Sir Brian."

"Oh, come now, Miss Allington." Chandler's grey eyes were suddenly alight with mirth. "This task will be arduous and is not for a lady. You cannot really expect that my father would consider such an arrangement."

"Surely, Mr. Chandler," she persisted, her soft voice at odds with her murderous thoughts, "Sir Brian will want to engage a person of skill and experience? I can offer him both."

His lips twitched. Clearly, he was struggling not to laugh out loud. In the manner of one addressing a tiresome child he said, "Yes, I've no doubt you can, but—"

Sir Brian, who had been sorting through the sketchbook exclaimed, "By Jove, but these
are
good! Gordie, only see how—"

The smile in his son's eyes faded. He said austerely, "If ever I heard of such a thing! 'Tis not to be thought of, Papa, and we must not be so unkind as to raise the lady's hopes. Now, if you've a moment I'd like your decision about the new steward."

Sir Brian said with a trace of petulance, "I was not displeased with Durwood."

"But—sir, I told you how his books were—"

"Yes, yes. I know you never liked the man."

"I'll own it. But that has nought to do with—"

"I am engaged at the moment, Gordon. We will discuss the other matter when I am free. You know, I believe that 'tis
never
my wish to be unkind."

Sir Brian's voice was silken, but suddenly the air was full of tension and Ruth held her breath. For a moment the two men looked at each other, then Chandler's eyes fell. "Of course, sir. My apologies."

"Very good. Now, spare me a moment from your busy schedule and look at this extraordinarily fine sketch. 'Tis of the Villa Albertini in Milan, as you can see. We were there in… forty-three, was it?"

"I have never been to Milan, sir."

Sir Brian's head jerked up.

His son said expressionlessly, "You took Quentin."

A look of infinite sadness chased the frown from the handsome features. There was the impression of a sigh restrained, then he nodded. "Ah, yes. Memory plays me false at times." He returned his attention to the sketch, but the enthusiasm had gone from his voice when he said, "Still, you must agree this shows a marked degree of skill."

Chandler glanced at the sketch. "Charming. Papa, it grows late. If Miss Allington is to catch the afternoon stagecoach…"

Sir Brian stood and began to gather the sketches together. "Quite so."

Ruth said imploringly, "But, sir. You like my work, and—"

"My father is tired, ma'am," said Chandler, the frigid tone forbidding further discussion.

"And so is the lady," said Sir Brian gently. "I'faith, but you look much too wearied to travel back to Town tonight,

Miss Allington. My son will arrange for you to be conveyed to Dover and obtain rooms for you, and a ticket on the morning stagecoach. Truly, I am sorrier than I can say to be obliged to…"

He went on speaking in his kind courtly voice while he came to offer her her sketchbook.

Ruth scarcely heard him. She had failed. Despite all her lies and prayers and pleadings, she had failed. The abominable Gordon Chandler had seen to that. Whatever would become of Thorpe and Jacob now? Would they all be thrust into debtor's prison? The thought of those two dear little boys in such a ghastly place as Newgate made her knees grow weak. She'd had too many worries and not enough sleep and it was many hours since she had eaten. The room began to grow dim…

From a long way off, she heard Sir Brian's voice raised in a near scream…

Only a moment must have passed when she opened her eyes. She was in the big chair behind the desk. Sir Brian was bending over her, slapping at her hand gently, his face white as death and his eyes terrified.

She put up a hand and touched her brow dazedly. "Oh… my dear sir… I am so sorry! Whatever must you… think."

Inexpressibly relieved, he drew a trembling breath. "That you are worn out, poor child. And have not eaten since— when?"

"I… do not recall… That is— Oh, I feel so stupid…"

"You are not in the least stupid. I should say rather that you are very brave. Your situation must be desperate indeed. If I cannot offer you employment, I can at least see to it that you have a good meal before sending you off."

She could hear Mr. Chandler's voice, upraised and wrathful, in the distance, and she sat up, trying vaguely to tidy her hair. "No, no. I thank you sir, but—" She glanced fearfully to the door. "I quite understand why you must refuse me. Pray believe that not for the world would I bring your son's anger down upon you."

He stiffened. "Nor will you do so, I promise you! There is but one master in this house, ma'am."

'Hah!' thought Ruth. But she peered at the portrait on the wall and enquired timidly, "Is the other gentleman your son also, sir? He looks very like you. Such a handsome man."

He glanced at the portrait and said rather heavily, "Yes. That is Quentin, my younger son."

Quick to note the wistfulness that again came into his eyes, she murmured, "He does not much resemble his brother. Is he— I mean, does he have the—er, same temperament as Mr. Gordon Chandler?"

Sir Brian laughed. "Oh, no. Quentin is a most amiable young fellow."

"Well, well." His face a thundercloud, and having obviously heard his father's comment, Chandler was coming back into the room. He was accompanied by a middle-aged lady carrying a glass of water, whom he introduced as the housekeeper, Mrs. Tate. "What a remarkable recovery, Miss Allington," he went on. "I trust my return was not too prompt for you?"

Yearning to rap the tray over his dark head, Ruth reached for the glass with a hand that shook, and whispered, "Thank you, ma'am."

"I think there is no cause for such a remark, Gordon," said Sir Brian sharply. "Mrs. Tate, pray ask Chef to prepare a warm meal for Miss Allington."

"You are too kind, sir," said Ruth, keeping her eyes, suitably awed, upon Chandler. "But—but I think it best—"

"Nonsense. Now you must not be frightened by my son. He has a sharp tongue at times, but I promise you his heart is kind. Ain't that so, Mrs. Tate?"

From under her lashes Ruth saw a muscle ripple beside Chandler's jaw, and could all but hear his teeth grinding.

The housekeeper, a poised woman with grey-streaked auburn hair under her neat cap, said in a beautifully modulated voice, "Very true, sir. Perhaps the young lady would be the better for a short rest while Chef prepares her meal."

"By all means." Chandler added sarcastically, "I'd not be at all surprised does Miss Allington find herself too weak to return to Dover tonight, eh ma'am?"

Ruth said nothing, but shrank a little closer to Sir Brian.

"I thought so," said Chandler. "You must let her stay here, sir. I feel sure you can arrange suitable accommodations, eh, Mrs. Tate?"

The housekeeper looked quickly from Sir Brian's tight lips to his son's angry eyes. "I think 'twould be improper, sir."

Gordon Chandler had suffered a frustrating day on several counts. He was quite aware that his sire was displeased with him, but his temper overbore his customary good judgment. "How so?" he demanded. "Why, 'twould take no more than three or four hours to open, clean, and prepare one of the cottages so as to show our hospitality to so— ah, talented a lady."

"That will not be necessary." Sir Brian turned to Ruth, and added smilingly, "However, I have reached a decision, ma'am, and you may thank my son that I am enabled to accept your application. Had it not been for his quick wits I'd not have thought of it, but he is quite correct. While you work here the blue cottage will both provide you with comfortable accommodation and protect your reputation. Especially, if you bring your cousin to serve as chaperone."

Momentarily overwhelmed, Ruth was too choked with emotion to thank him, and tears slipped down her cheeks.

"There, there," said Sir Brian. "Never upset yourself, little lady." He smiled at his housekeeper. "I leave her in your care, Mrs. Tate."

His face grim, Gordon Chandler stalked over to open the door. He bowed as the housekeeper guided Ruth from the room, and through his teeth murmured, "One can but hope, madam, that you ply your brushes as well as you play your cards!"

Three days later Ruth stood very still in the centre of the withdrawing room at Lingways, listening to the tall case clock strike eleven, and savouring the delights of this loved and lovely old house. The scent of woodsmoke that still faintly permeated the air; the thick carpets and tasteful furnishings; the heavy maroon velvet of the draperies; the pale gold bar of sunlight that slanted through the mullioned windows to accent the brass peacock in the hearth. It had been sad to say good-bye to the house on Mount Street. It was wrenching to have to leave Lingways. She sometimes thought she cared more for the Essex estate than had Thomas, though it had been in his family for almost two centuries. Thomas, bless his gentle soul, had not been a man to concern himself with belongings; nor indeed with anything save the ancient Greeks and their writings, which had, he believed, been so erroneously translated.

She could almost see him, half-buried behind piles of mouldering volumes, blinking at her over his spectacles, and murmuring absently, "You must do whatever you wish, my dear. Whatever will make you happy." Always, he had wanted only to make her happy, but it had never seemed to occur to him that a bride so much younger than himself might have wished him to share in that happiness. Proud of her, never belittling her accomplishments, delighting to see her clad in the latest fashions and enjoying her friends, he had denied her nothing—except himself. For, dwelling so much in his own world, he had kept the door to it firmly closed, and all her attempts to lure him into walks or conversation, or into accompanying her to social functions had been not so much refused, as simply not noted.

She smiled faintly. In his way, he had loved her dearly. And she had loved him. He had left Lingways to her when he died, and after a while Johnny had come with the twins, and Lingways had become home to them all, until—

"Dear Mrs. A. This must be so hard for you."

Holding some squares of paper and a pencil, Grace Milford had come into the room and stood watching her sympathetically.