Cherished Enemy (3 page)

She had been seen, and Mademoiselle Bournon, who was pretty but tended to gush, trilled her name and told her amid much giggling and coy flutterings of her fan that she was
too
naughty to have left them all for such a time, and that Madame her aunt was searching for her.

The earl's majestic figure appeared, large and dark against the glow of the doorway. Over his shoulder, he called, “
Mesdames et messieurs!
We may now be
à l'aise!
The lost one is found! Here is Mademoiselle Albritton!”

Rosamond turned to her companion. “My apologies, but—”

Her apologies were not needed. Mr. Fairleigh had slipped away.

*   *   *

Estelle Porchester was a widow, still young enough to be hopeful of changing her marital status, and sufficiently comely—in a tall, rather large-boned way—to render that not unlikely. A slightly untidy lady, with the fair colouring of her house, a generally amiable disposition, and the best will in the world to be obliging, she was somewhat given to stubbornness and had a way of repeating her remarks that, together with one or two other little habits, never failed to irritate Colonel Albritton.

As children, she and her sister Irene had been inseparable, and years later, when Irene, by then Mrs. Lennox Albritton, contracted pneumonia and died, Mrs. Porchester, lonely in her early widowhood, had acceded to the plea of her bereaved brother-in-law that she remove to Lennox Court and aid him in the upbringing of his three children. Much of that upbringing had devolved upon her shoulders, for the then Major Lennox had been often out of the country about his military duties. However, this responsibility did not overset her, for she was extremely fond of her niece and nephews, and well able to cope with them.

She had grieved when the eldest boy, William, had followed in his father's footsteps and gone with his regiment to India, and was heartbroken when he succumbed a year later to the ravages of cholera.

Charles, the younger son, rather baffled her. Colonel Albritton, who had sold out after William's death, was impatient with the soft voice and gentle manner of his new heir, and threw up his hands in despair when Charles—a brilliant student—declared a wish to enter the clergy rather than the Guards, or at least the Diplomatic Service. “He has,” the colonel had snarled to his sister-in-law, “no more backbone than a newt, and about as much manliness. Did ever you see him bear up in a discussion as a gentleman should? Did ever you see him best me in any argument? He is a weakling, madam!” Weakling or not, despite his father's stentorian objections, Charles had followed his chosen path and eventually had been ordained. This determination had surprised some, but not Mrs. Porchester. There were times when came a resolute set to the Reverend Albritton's mouth, a tilt to his chin and a gleam to his blue eyes that spoke of more spirit than he was given credit for. She noticed, and held her tongue, but Charles worried her, and she had, especially of late, spent a few sleepless nights over the boy.

Rosamond was a different matter. A happier-natured, more agreeable girl it would have been hard to find, which was remarkable in view of her beauty. When Harold Singleton had fallen at the Battle of Culloden, the entire family had grieved, for the fine young fellow had been beloved by all. As he was Rosamond's chosen husband, however, hers must have been the deepest sorrow. She had borne her loss bravely—far more bravely than even her brother, who knew her better than anyone, would have expected. Afterwards, however, she was changed. The colonel did not see it, and Charles, shuttled about from one parish to another as a sort of standby vicar, had not had much opportunity to remark it. But Mrs. Porchester saw. There was a look of loathing in Rosamond's eyes when Jacobites were mentioned; a mercilessness in her attitude towards the fugitives that was foreign to her customarily gentle nature. Mrs. Porchester could not find it in her heart to blame her. She thought of Rosamond as the dear daughter she had never had, and could see no fault in her, but even so, she was a little disturbed.

She was more than a little disturbed when Rosamond entered the private parlour on the second floor of the great mansion. On an elegant little brocade sofa, huddled amid the billows of her dark green satin ballgown, the Comtesse de Fontblanque wept miserably. Her son Jacques, exquisite in purple and lavender, stood beside his mama, looking more agitated than Rosamond had ever seen him, his large brown eyes filled with dismay, his sophisticatedly bored smile vanished.

“Good gracious,” exclaimed Rosamond, alarmed. “It must be very bad! Not—not dear Papa … or Charles?”

Estelle Porchester, who had been standing by the hearth systematically shredding a handkerchief, spun about. “Thank heaven you are come! Now do not dissemble, child. Do not dissemble. If anyone knows where she was—
you
do!”

With an uneasy sense of impending disaster, Rosamond stammered, “Where—where
who
was, dear aunt? Surely you cannot mean—my cousin Deborah?”

“She left Sussex in June,” said Mrs. Porchester tremblingly. “In
June!
”

“Yes, ma'am. With her abigail, and the escort of Zachary Troy, who brought her to you safely, Tante Maria, I—”

“They did not arrive here until—
August,
” wailed Mrs. Porchester.

“What?”
shrieked Rosamond.

“Is not my
fault,
” sobbed the comtesse.

“We'd a letter explaining she would not at once come—” put in the comte nervously. “We believed it to have been sent by your papa, Cousin.”

“Albritton never writ such a letter,” moaned Estelle Porchester. “Why would he have done so? He thought Deb was here! He thought she was
here,
Maria!”

The unhappy comtesse retreated behind a new flood of tears.

“But—but she
must
have c-come!” faltered Rosamond. “Mr. Troy is—is a man of honour. Besides, he is so excessively shy that I was amazed he would have consented to escort Debbie here, save for the fact that he thinks of her only as a friend of Charles's, and I honestly believe he is not in the least interested in her—romantically interested, I mean. And Debbie is deep in love with my brother, you know she is, Aunt Estelle!”

“I had
thought
she was,” said Mrs. Porchester gloomily.

“No, how
can
you doubt, when they are so obviously devoted? Oh, there must be some—
some
perfectly respectable explanation!”

Mrs. Porchester moaned and wrung her hands. “Well, I pray we may find it before I've to explain her long absence to your dear papa, for if we do not, he is like to call out Zachary Troy!”

“Good
heavens!
” gasped Rosamond, sinking weakly into the nearest chair.

“I thought everything was—was proper,” gulped the comtesse. “Oh—the
scandal!
”

Rosamond murmured incredulously, “Wherever
was
she? How could she have vanished for—for two months, almost…? She is in deep mourning for her brother. She would never—”

“There is a man b-behind it all,” said Mrs. Porchester, dabbing at her reddened eyes. “Mark my words!
A MAN
!”

2

The music box was of a fine mahogany, the lid inlaid with rosewood scrolls and having in the centre an exquisitely enamelled miniature of a mermaid sleeping in a shell. It was an old box and of great value and should, Rosamond told her aunt, have been left safely packed away, instead of being set out on the chest in their cabin.

Mrs. Porchester dealt with this remark succinctly. “Pish,” she said.

Straightening from the portmanteau, a dainty almost-completed night-dress in one hand and her small sewing basket in the other, Rosamond glanced out of the porthole. The packet was clear of the harbour now and heading into the open sea. She murmured uneasily, “Cousin Jacques thought the weather might turn, because his back was aching. The wind does seem to be coming up.”

Mrs. Porchester settled herself a little more comfortably in the berth and regarded her favourite niece without delight. “I place my reliance upon our captain. Upon our captain, who certainly would not have set sail did he think it unsafe. Your cousin Jacques may fancy that old wound a barometer, but to my mind he knows more of silks and laces than of the vagaries of wind and water.”

“Well, I hope you are right.” Rosamond was obliged to cling to the wash-stand as the cabin gave a lurch. “Perhaps 'tis just that we are farther from land now and encountering higher seas. I hope Jacques has arranged that our tea be served in here. It would be much easier, with Trifle to be considered.”

Mrs. Estelle pursed up her lips. “I do not at all rely upon Jacques,” she declared. “I do not at all
rely
upon him! He is excellent at waving a handkerchief—provided it is well edged with lace—or making a leg. For neither of which skills do we stand in pressing need.”

Rosamond laughed, but she was fond of her French cousin and argued, “Now, dearest, you know you do not really mean that. Jacques is a dear, and he did fight in the Low Countries. I sometimes think he is not so silly as he seems.”

“He is
very
silly. And so is your Tante Maria. Maria, indeed! She was plain Mary Albritton before she met that handsome Frenchman, and so I know, because we played with our dolls together. With our dolls! Which is neither here nor there. Now, this business with Debbie—”

Rosamond, who had begun to sew a tiny blue satin bow on her new night-dress, interrupted hurriedly, “Was Oncle Louis very handsome, ma'am?”

Mrs. Estelle's brown eyes softened. “Ah, but he was,” she said with a faint sigh. “But not of a firm nature. Not like your papa. Which is why he chose Mary, of course, for she was ever soft and clinging! Just the sort of feather-head to bring out the protective instincts in a gentleman. And I'll allow she looked like an angel from heaven the day they were wed … so very pretty. Who ever,” she went on, suddenly militant, “would have dreamt such a darling girl could grow into such a serpent? No, do not argue with me, Rosamond! Serpent I said, and serpent I meant! To steal your abigail out from under our noses, when she knew perfectly well—perfectly
well
that
my
silly baggage would not come because she is—whoops!” She made a wild grab for the side of the berth as she almost was precipitated to the floor. “My gel,” she went on, righting herself, “refused to leave Dover because she fears the sea. Fears the sea, indeed! Since when have Britons feared the sea, may I ask? What would we have done had Sir Francis Drake feared the sea? Suppose he had refused to leave his bowls when the Armada came jiggery-pokering across the Channel? You and I might well be Spanish ladies, instead of English, and then what would we do? What would we
do?
”

“Marry Spanish gentlemen, likely,” said Rosamond, her eyes twinkling as she set aside her work and crossed to take her aunt's slippers from the portmanteau.

“You may smile,” said Mrs. Estelle, “but I for one would find that very uncomfortable, being an English widow.”

“Now, Aunt, we cannot blame Tante Maria because her first footman fell in love with my maid and she decided to stay and marry him. Besides, Jessie was so very sleepy always that I cannot say I shall greatly miss her. Tante offered to let us borrow her little Fifi and you would not hear of it, so—”

“I most certainly would not! A hussy, if ever I saw one! If
ever
I saw one! Just the type to be fluttering her lashes and thrusting her bosom at the footmen and wiggling her—er, other charms at Charles and—”

“No, no, dear,” protested Rosamond, much amused. “Charles has eyes only for his Deborah!” She moaned inwardly, with an immediate inward wish that she had not mentioned her errant cousin. “And I feel quite sure,” she hurried on, “that Papa has—other interests…”

Mrs. Porchester darted a quick glance at her, and with a somewhat heightened colour said, “Such as?”

“Why, his garden, of course, dearest. Besides, he would never be in the slightest interested in a French maid, although I grant that Fifi is a pretty little creature. She speaks almost no English, and Papa cannot endure to have people jabbering a foreign language around him all the time. It makes him so uncomfortable. And speaking of being uncomfortable, ma'am, here are your slippers. Would you wish that I loosen your stays so you may put on your wrapper?”

“No, I would not,” replied Mrs. Estelle firmly. “And never think that because you can conflummerate all the silly gentlemen with your big eyes and that buxom shape and—”

“Buxom!” Glancing down at the rich curves of her figure, Rosamond protested, “Oh, now really, Aunt!”

“Well, your bosom is, at all events. And I may be obliged to cross the ocean with no abigail, but you need not think that I will allow privation to turn me aside! You have been very clever, but—”

The cabin rolled, and Rosamond squealed and made an unscheduled rush to her berth, landing with a swirl of voluminous skirts and the revelation of a pair of very neat ankles. “Oh my,” she cried, “we
are
in for a storm, I fear. And only see how your music box slid. Really, I should—”

“A pox on all this chit-chat about meals and maids and music boxes! A pox, miss! The box will be perfectly safe where 'tis, and I enjoy to hear its little song. Now—do not think to turn the subject again!” Mrs. Estelle bent a stern gaze upon her niece and declared, “I vow I was like to perish when Maria finally saw fit to let fall that dreadful remark—that
dreadful
remark!—that it had been so delightful to have had Deborah's company this past month. This
past month!
When I think of the little
minx
behaving so pure as any saint and looking so wan in her blacks, when we was seeing her off to France in June! Or thought we was! And all the while, slinking away to keep some romantic assignation, I'll be bound!”