Feather Castles (25 page)

Shuddering, Rachel cried, “No! I
could
not! I am not brave—what if I should be seen? And the servants are everywhere. Monseigneur—in spite of everything, has done so much for my sister. Oh, do not ask it, Raoul. I
could
not!”

He stifled a sigh. She was, after all, a woman. One could not expect too much.

Chapter 11

It was a rather sultry mid-morning when Tristram and Devenish arrived at the cove where the yawl lay moored. They were greeted with reserve by Mr. George Kimble, and watched without enthusiasm by three taciturn men engaged in loading an apparently inexhaustible supply of barrels into the hold. The master of the
Ma Fille
was a stockily built young man with a ruddy complexion and blonde hair already beginning to thin. His countenance was pleasant, although he lacked the spectacular good looks of his cousin, the only trace of family likeness manifesting itself in the deep blue of his eyes.

“I've found a new slave for you, old George,” said Devenish blithely.

With his bland gaze steady on Tristram, Mr. Kimble declined the offer. “I am not,” said he, “in need of new crewmen just now.”

“The devil you ain't!” Devenish exploded, bending to snatch up Mrs. O'Crumbs who had waddled to join them. “Then you can do without me, either! And—”

“Look! Look!” shouted one of the men on the yawl. “A one-eyed duck!”

Yells of excitement arose. Kimble's jaw dropped and he stared, glassy-eyed.

And suddenly, it seemed he was indeed able to take on a new crewman. Tristram was assigned to help load the barrels, and Devenish and his cousin undertook a low-voiced and intent discussion. It was all a trifle smoky, thought Tristram, but since Kimble was again making the run to Dinard, it was much too providential to be questioned.

Two nights later, standing on the heaving deck and enjoying the feel of salt spray in his face, Tristram gazed toward distant France and wondered how Rachel would react when they met.

“I'm a man of my word, I'll own, friend,” remarked a quiet voice at his elbow. “But did I work you so hard you are too tired to eat?”

Tristram smiled and shook his head. “My lack of appetite has little to do with your demands of us, Mr. Kimble. However, I never dreamed so many barrels could be packed down below. Why in the deuce do you not tie up to a regular dock? I'd think the fees worth every penny, compared to what we went through.”

“Would you,” said Kimble speculatively, his eyes holding an amused gleam. “My cousin told me about your trouble with memory. You'll find no dock on the other side, either. You'll not forget you're promised to help us offload?”

“I'll not forget. It was pure luck for me that you chanced to be sailing to Dinard, and I'm most grateful you took me on.”

Kimble chuckled, his pipe glowing redly in the darkness. “It was purest luck the men decided it was a good sign. They might just as easily have held it to be a warning of imminent disaster.”

“A good sign? Oh—the duck, you mean?”

“Yes. My incorrigible cousin's feathered friend. The truth is that only her arrival won you passage.” Tristram's puzzlement brought another chuckle. “Never look so conflummerated. We pick up our cargo at an old tavern called
Le Canard Borgne.
”

“‘The One-Eyed Duck'? Gad! And to think I scolded Dev for bringing the creature along!”

“Do you journey far with him, it's probably the least you'll get. The boy attracts livestock like—” He broke off as the vessel lurched suddenly.

Tristram grabbed the rail. “We'll not encounter a really bad swell at this season, shall we?”

Kimble shot him a keen glance. “I see you've sailed these waters before. No, the worst of the tides are past, but I must leave you. This is a tricky coast.”

It was tricky indeed, for soon the sea was a churning race, with billows of foam roaring around the great rocks that loomed menacingly along the shoreline. Clinging to the rail, Tristram began to wonder if he'd ever reach the chateau at all, and, echoing his thoughts, Devenish struggled to his side, holding his frightened pet under his coat and shouting that at least she would be able to swim for it!

Quite suddenly, however, the violent pitching of the yawl eased, and they approached the darker bulk of the coastline over smoothly rippling waves. The beach was dark, and Kimble grumbled, “Yves is late again!” Tristram scarcely heard the anchor splash into the water, and at once the offloading began. This proved a simpler process than he'd anticipated, the barrels being secured together by ropes threaded through rings in their sides, then lowered into the sea and floated along behind the dinghy. The men worked quickly and quietly, but when one of the barrels slipped from Tristram's cold and inexperienced hands to land with a loud splash, Kimble's head jerked around and he rasped, “Quiet!” his face one big scowl. The recipient of several irked glares, Tristram muttered an apology, and his suspicion that Devenish had plunged him into a decidedly havey-cavey business was confirmed.

Soon, they were on the mist-shrouded beach, hauling in the barrels and stacking them neatly. This proved difficult work for Devenish, who was concerned lest Mrs. O'Crumbs wander off in the darkness and become lost. Irked by his cousin's slow progress, Kimble grated, “For lord's sake, Dev! Stick the dratted bird into one of the tubs and get to work!”

Devenish protested, but obeyed, and Mrs. O'Crumbs was safely, if indignantly confined to a small barrel.

Half an hour later, short of breath, Tristram said, “That's the last of 'em. How do we get them to the inn?”

“Why, we will be most happy to assist,” offered a triumphant French voice.

Tristram swung around. The biggest musket barrel it had ever been his misfortune to encounter was an inch from his nose.

“Excisemen!” roared a diminishing voice.

A shot rang out and the beach was suddenly swarming with struggling men, a few lanterns dimly illuminating the wild melee. From the corner of his eye, Tristram caught a glimpse of Kimble whizzing into the surf, a large man in hot pursuit. He and Devenish were hopelessly caught, however, unable to move with that musket held so steadily on them, the grimly smiling face beyond it leaving no doubt but that it would be fired if they attempted escape.

“So many times, messieurs,” nodded their sturdily built captor, “I am tricked; my trap it is sprung, my prey flits safely away. So many times, you land where I am not. This time, I ask myself where I would be the least likely to land with the tides as they are tonight.
Hein!
I think, I know where I would
not
be. So—here I am, and
violà!
Here are you, also!”

“How unfortunate,” said Tristram. “The barrels, you see, are empty. Is it illegal to bring empty barrels ashore, monsieur?”

“Aha!” Devenish cried gleefully, “He is right! You should have waited until they were full, my poor slowtop!”

The Exciseman glowered at him. “By the saints, but you're saucy rogues! And do not imagine yourselves reprieved. The tubs doubtless reek of brandy, however empty they may be.”

A cohort came up, holding a small barrel. “To judge from the weight, this one is not quite empty, Jean-Pierre.”

Devenish stiffened, his mouth opening. Tristram said swiftly, “Dev! Be silent!” And as his friend turned a startled face to him, added, “Admit nothing!” and winked the eye that was beyond the range of the Exciseman's sight.

Devenish's lips twitched. He shrugged, and hung his head as one totally dejected.

“I collect,” Tristram sighed, “that you fellows mean to sample—” He checked, and went on clumsily, “Er—I mean, take that with you.”

The two officials exchanged brief, conspiratorial glances.

“It is our duty,” said Jean-Pierre, importantly, “to sample the goods, no, Louis?”

Louis lost no time in seconding the motion. He wrenched the lid off, then raised the barrel eagerly to his lips.

Mrs. O'Crumbs was not in the best of humours. She had endured a horridly lengthy sojourn in a stuffy vessel, and to add insult to injury, had then been plunked into a reeking barrel. While her master had been kind enough to leave the lid off, she'd been able to bear it, but some fiend had come along and replaced the lid, after which she'd been half-suffocated. When the lid was again wrenched off she was at first too startled to give tongue. Propelled forward as the barrel was tilted, she gave more than tongue, and Louis uttered a scream of terror and pain as her strong beak clamped angrily onto the end of his nose. He flung the barrel aside. Fluttering her wings frenziedly, Mrs. O'Crumbs was launched at Jean-Pierre, who yelled and jumped back. Tristram sprang forward, and a clenched fist (which was later to be designated a sledgehammer) caught Jean-Pierre beneath his chin, silencing his outcries. Simultaneously, Devenish seized the barrel and applied it vigorously to Louis's downbent head. The two Excisemen sank quietly to the beach. A shout warned of more trouble. Devenish scooped up Mrs. O'Crumbs.

“Shall we toddle?” he suggested.

They did.

*   *   *

Dominer, situated upon a gentle hill in the Cotswolds, was widely held to be one of the loveliest estates in all England. It had been some time since Kingston Leith had visited the great house, and he had accepted Garret Hawkhurst's invitation with alacrity, partly in the hope that for a while it would help him to forget his growing fears for Tristram's survival, and partly because London was become rather uncomfortable. He was attempting to explain this strange phenomenon to Mrs. Dora Graham as they sat in the luxurious yet welcoming gold lounge, awaiting the arrival of the rest of the family in this pleasant hour before dinner. The day had been warm, and the sun had not yet gone down, the pink rays that slanted through the great windows lighting Mrs. Graham's auburn locks and sending little gleams dancing through the decanter and onto the mahogany of the occasional table. It seemed to Leith that Dora's hair was a trifle less red than in days gone by, but perhaps memory played him false. Besides, like himself, the dear lady was getting just a little past youth.

“The main trouble,” he said plaintively, “is Drusilla. Always was inclined to be fusty, y'know.”

“So is the Earl.” Her pale blue eyes fastened to his face, Mrs. Graham reached blindly for her wineglass, took up a small vase instead, and was startled when the rose it held invaded her eye. “Good gracious! Did you put a rose in my glass, Leith? How very romantic you are! Always was.” She removed the rose, then stared at the vase uncertainly.

Leith took the vase from her plump hand and said with a chuckle, “Dora, Dora! Absent-minded as ever!” Restoring her wineglass, and amused by this typical lapse, he went on, “You're right about Starchy, though. Dreadful bore.”

“Starchy?” she echoed dubiously.

“Palmer. My brother-in-law. The Earl of Mayne-Waring.”

She uttered a trill of laughter. “What a perfect name for him! And how shocked poor Drusilla would be! Leith, you're a rascal. But, oh how very good it is to have you here and chat about old friends, old times.”

“Old friends, well enough, Dora,” he said rather disconsolately. “It's the new friends tend to have the odd kick in their gallop. Or so m'sister holds.”

“How so?”

“Well, I've been—ah—looking about, you see. Not that dear Tristram ain't coming home. You know he will…” He searched her face anxiously. “Don't you?” Although inwardly appalled, she smiled and nodded with such assurance that he was heartened, and went on, “Thing is— Just in case— Well, there's young Glick. Cannot have him at Cloudhills. Wouldn't be fitting. Tradition's a funny thing, Dora. Much we may laugh at it, but still—what's due the family is—well, is due. So,” he sighed heavily, “there you are.”

She stared at him, her brows knit. “Perhaps you'd best fill my glass, Leith. My wits are no match for yours.”

He was only too pleased to oblige, refilling his own glass also. After taking a few sips, Dora seemed more able to comprehend that a new heir must be provided, and was suitably sympathetic regarding Drusilla's henwitted behaviour. “If she don't understand your 'sponsibilities, it's because of her gibble-gabble cronies,” she opined, nodding owlishly. “Been filling her head with windfalls.”

“Windmills,” Leith corrected, but he applauded this excellent verdict and extolled Mrs. Graham's understanding to the point that the blush on her smooth cheeks was not entirely the result of the rosy sunlight.

“She's all on end,” he confided. “Says I'm being too partic'ler in me attentions. Am I being too—'ticler, d'you think, Dora?”

“'Course not, Kingston,” she assured him fondly. “Always pleasure to have you. Pleasure, indeed.”

He patted her hand. “Too good. You always was, Dora. 'T'all events, there's safety in numbers, do y'not think?”

“Abs'lutely. ‘Speak low if you speak love.'” Leith stared in mystification, and she giggled, “That's what Army Buchanan used to say. Before he was wed, 'course.”

“Aye. What a wild young devil Armstrong was. Dora,” Leith edged his chair a little closer. “D'you remember that time when Army was walking beside your chair—along the banks of the Serpentine, I think. And—and,” he chortled gleefully, “some other beau come tripping 'long?”

“Oh, yes. Such a stately fellow he was, too,” she nodded reminiscently.

“Got to admiring you too pointedly, as I recall,” grinned Leith.

“It turned out eventually, he was a Cit, Kingston. Designed toothpicks!” This sent them both into whoops. “Poor Army,” Dora gasped. “But—it was the Seine, not the Serpentine.”

“And Army was just … just as wet!” he howled, slapping his knee.

Dora laughed until the tears slipped down her cheeks, and it became necessary for Leith to dry them for her.