Give All to Love (19 page)

“She loves you,” said Guy. “Do not be the proud fool, Alain. Seize with both hands your happiness and thank
le bon Dieu
for it.”

His voice barely audible, Devenish muttered, “She's grateful, is all.”

“This, there is, of course. But more. So very much more.”

“No,” said Devenish, still in the low, repressed voice. “She's a child, Guy. She thinks she knows what she wants. How can she know, when she has seen so little of life and the world?”

“She has seen more than you think,
mon ami.
And she is widely admired, much courted. Me, I shall be surprised if she have not receive offers more than she may have tell you.”

“I am much too old for her. Near twice her—”

“Never! I would say—”

Recovering his poise, Devenish looked up and interposed with the faintest hint of boredom, “Yes, I am sure you would. But you mistake the matter in one sense, Guy. Josie has a special place in my heart. As my loved daughter. But when I marry, it will be a lady of sophistication and elegance, and—some awareness of the world.”

“Ah. Such as the lady who just have leave? The beautiful Isabella?”

Devenish's chin lifted. “Why not?” He stood. “Shall we join the ladies?”

Sighing, Guy commenced the struggle to stand. “I have not mean to put my nose into your business,” he said rather diffidently.

“Let's say you gave me back my own, rather,” said Devenish with his usual carefree grin, and waited until his friend hobbled around the table to come up with him.

At the door, Guy gripped his arm. “Alain—
mon cher ami
—you
cannot
over my eyes drag the wool!”

“Why should you think I would do such a thing?” said Devenish, amused.

“Because—ah, how can you not know it? You kiss each other—with your eyes—each time you meet. It is very clear to see.”

Stunned, Devenish opened the door, and said not a word.

*   *   *

The three-quarter moon was often hidden by racing clouds, and the wind was chill, but long after the great house was quiet, Devenish wandered slowly across the pleasure gardens, both hands thrust deep into the pockets of his driving coat, the many capes fluttering in the wind. Coming to the terrace, he sat against the low balustrade, shoulders hunched, staring blindly across the wide park to the distant darker loom of the hills. After a few minutes he fished out his pipe and filled it, then took out his tinder box and struck vainly at the flint.

A faint whiff of
Essence de Printemps;
slender white fingers that took the tinder box from his hand. Devenish glanced quickly at the half-seen little face and looked away again.

“Here,” said Josie, handing him the lighted flint.

“Thank you.” He lit his pipe and puffed at it. Blowing a cloud of smoke skyward, he risked another glance at her. “You may go to bed now you have performed your good deed, little one.”

She said nothing, continuing to lean against the wall beside him.

“It is too cold for you,” he observed.

“Then why are you outside?”

“For peace and quiet.”

“Which I disturb?”

“Very much.”

She laughed softly and leaned nearer. “Do I so disturb you, oldest of the old?”

He did not answer, and she shrugged and informed the moon, “When the gentleman says nothing, it is because he dare not speak his thoughts.”

“You would not like it if I did so, and I will not risk your anger twice in one day.”

“You do not, sir, for I have not yet abandoned my first anger.”

“Hmmmn.”

“How much,” she said to the moon, “is meant by that grunt. I believe it must be one of those elusive ‘cryptic remarks' one hears about. There is the ‘hum!' when he is thoughtful, the ‘huh!' when he is irked, the ‘hah!” when he is ready to fight, the ‘hmmmn' when he is troubled or does not agree with what is said, and that becomes ‘hmmmnnnn' when his admired future bride wiggles past.”

He laughed. “What a summation!” And, humbly, “Am I forgiven, then?”

“You were horrid,” she said in a stern voice.

“Yes. I told Guy.”

“Oh!” She sprang up, whirling on him in a flame. “You never did!”

“But, of course. Did you think I would say something like that behind his back and
not
tell him?”

“I suppose you think that honourable!” She threw an exasperated glance at the heavens, so that her hood fell back and all her curls bounced. “Do you not know how cruel it is to be truthful?”

“That'll teach me. Now I'm in the suds again.” He sighed heavily.

Fuming, she sat down again and asked after a pause, “What did he say?”

“He said…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She gave a superior little snort. “So much for truth!”

“But you just said it is cru—”

“Oh, never mind!” She was still for a moment, while he smoked in silence. Then she burst out, “I suppose now that you have broken poor Guy's heart and made me utterly miserable, you are in a very ecstasy of joy!”

“I did nothing of the kind,” he protested, indignant. “Had you not done your level best to ensnare that—to ensnare my lord the Viscount, he'd not have gone slithering up to tell Little that Guy was our guest also.”

“Good heavens!” Aghast, she took his arm, looking up at him, all great eyes and anxiety. “Is that why they left in such a rage? You said Sir William was upset because Pan caught him cheating at cards.”

He pulled her cloak closer around her. “Did you expect me to say, ‘They have all run off, Guy old chap, because they refused to stay under the same roof with a pariah and anarchist such as yourself'?”

“Wretched man! They never said such things.”

“Oho, did they not? I wonder you did not hear Little, he was so explosive.” He drew her hood up over her curls, having first straightened a very frizzy one that had become left out when the others settled down. “You're shivering. Come along, my girl. Into the house with you!”

“No.” She nestled closer against him. “I like it out here. Please, Dev.”

He gazed down indecisively at the bundled little shape.

“If you could spare an arm, Gaffer,” she said demurely. “I need not be so chilled.”

He hesitated, then slipped an arm around her. “One might suppose us a case of—Spring moon,” he said gruffly.

“Instead of which, we are an old gentleman and a young lady who are very cross with each other.”

Devenish made no response, and in a moment she murmured. “Ah, that's better. My brain is thinking again.”

He chuckled. “Had it stopped?”

“Yes. It does when I freeze. I remember when I was with the gypsies—”

At once, his hand was across her lips. “No,” he said flatly.

“Very well.” And, worrying, “Dev…”

“Yes, my Elf?”

“Do many patriots hate poor Guy, as Elliot Fontaine does?”

“Huh! Fontaine is no patriot, do not delude yourself!”

“Then why did he look at Guy in such a horrid way?”

“Heigh-ho! My head goes onto the block again! He hates Guy for the same reason, or perhaps one of the reasons, he hates me. Guy is a—flawed being. A cripple.”

She wrenched away, and stood to stamp her foot at him. “Beast! You
limp
slightly. You are not—Oh!
Now
see what you almost made me say!”

“Even so,” he argued, standing also, “many people feel that way, m'dear. Were I like Guy, not one of the ladies you claim have dropped their handkerchiefs would waste one second on me. Nor should I blame them.”

She said huskily, “I would love you just as much. More.”

For a moment he could not speak, then he said unevenly, “Because you are my—very loved daughter, and would be willing to sacrifice your youth and beauty to minister to my feeble uselessness.”

Josie caught her breath audibly, then stepped a few paces distant and stood with her back turned.

“Egad,” he said with rather forced lightness. “I only meant—”

“You only trample, poor old man. Very much the bull in the proverbial shop, carelessly destroying that which is pure and beautiful.”

Mute, Devenish gazed at the proud tilt of her head, at the gleam the moonlight awoke on that one rebellious curl that had again escaped her hood. And then she gave a sudden thin little scream.

With an involuntary leap, he was beside her. “Dear God! What is it?”

Paper-white, she said threadily, “Something is … crawling around my ankle. Oh, Dev! Oh …
Dev…!

He dropped to his knees and groped under her skirts. “Please—
please
do not faint. It is likely only one of the kittens, or— What the … Oh, it's all right, love. It's only a garden snake. See—”

“Aaah!” she screeched.

“Hush, dear, please hush,” he implored, glancing apprehensively at the dark sprawl of the house. “Look here,” he held up a long, narrow shape that coiled itself around his arm. “It won't hurt you. Only think how friendly it was to have—” He detached the snake quickly, dropped it among the shrubs, and leapt to support Josie's swaying figure.

“It's all right, my babe,” he murmured urgently, holding her close and pressing a kiss on her curls as she clung to him. “It's all right now. He's gone home. You are quite safe.”

Shuddering, she gasped, “He was … crawling up my leg! Oh,
Dev!
” She began to weep hysterically.

“Now, now—where is my brave girl? It was only a very trusting small snake who forgot to go to sleep for the winter. He'd not hurt you for the world, sweetheart, I swear it. There, there, never weep so. Hush, little one.”

After a moment, between diminishing sobs, she said in a scratchy voice, “What … did you call me?”

“Little one.”

“No. Be-before that.”

“Er—oh. Sweetheart. In a—fatherly way, of course.”

She sniffed. “And—when you … kissed my hair. Was that a—”

“Yes,” he said hurriedly. “Of course it was.”

“Oh,” said Miss Josie Storm.

Chapter 9

Preparations for the ball went ahead at full speed. Guy spent many hours in the company of Mrs. Grenfell, inspecting, selecting, and supervising the repair and cleaning of the usable tapestries. He was driven into Cirencester to arrange for frames to be constructed and, upon his return, remarked with proper nonchalance that he had chanced to encounter Mrs. Bliss and that she sent her compliments to Josie and Devenish together with thanks for all their help and the information that Sir William was much improved and now able to sit up and occasionally to take a few steps.

Josie was often busied with Mrs. Robinson, allocating rooms to the various guests who would overnight at Devencourt, and inspecting these apartments, many of whose furnishings had been under Holland covers for years.

Devenish conferred with his head groom and his steward regarding the clearing of unused parts of the stables, coach house and barns, and ensuring there would be space for the carriages and feed for the mounts that would soon descend upon them.

Due to the late notification of a major entertainment at a time when holiday parties were already under way, plus the rather remote location of the estate, most of the popular caterers had declined the commission. The one establishment willing to take on the catering for Miss Storm's ball sent out an extremely supercilious young exquisite, who chanced to encounter the party working on the road. The wagon carrying supplies to the workers had fallen afoul of one of the potholes and lost a wheel. Devenish, arriving a few minutes earlier, had dismounted to lend a hand. The catering company representative, deducing from his dress and his educated accent that Devenish was a step or two above the other workmen, supposed him to be the foreman and indulged himself with a few snide remarks anent woodenheads who decided to hold a ball three weeks before the event. He discovered his mistake when Devenish's hot temper flared, and much to the amusement of the workers, he was—as the foreman later related—“cut down, chopped up, and sent packing in jig time!”

As a result, Wolfe became much courted by local merchants, a steady stream of grocers, bakers, butchers, dairymen, fishmongers, greengrocers, and florists beating a daily path to his door from as far away as Cheltenham and Bristol. Exultant because the house was to have a great party again and himself entrusted with most of the details, the old gentleman reeled about, snapping out conflicting orders to his underlings, playing the overworked martyr to Mrs. Robinson, assuring Devenish that everything would run so smooth as any top, and thoroughly enjoying himself.

A Gloucester registry office had undertaken to provide temporary servants, and these individuals, uniformly complaining of the remote location, began to arrive to be interviewed. Devenish came into the Great Hall one afternoon and found it occupied by a small group of menials being conducted on a familiarization tour by Cornish. He retreated, only to collide with a flying seamstress, her arms full of pink velvet and having several pins in her mouth. She became shrilly convinced that she had swallowed one of the latter, and although this was found to have lodged in her ruff, Devenish was unnerved and fled the house.

Acceptances were coming in, and one foggy afternoon a week before the date of the ball, Josie was seated at her small desk in the bookroom, going through her lists, when large hands swooped from behind to cover her eyes.

“Oh!” she squealed, always excited by a game. “Let me guess! Uncle Alastair?” The hands were not removed. She went on eagerly, “Tristram? Oh, I know—Jeremy! No? John…?”

“John who?” growled an irate voice.

“Lyon!” She spun around and jumped up to hug and be hugged. “Our famous surgeon!” she exclaimed, as he released her, then kissed each hand in turn. “Oh, Lyon,
do
tell me—was it a success? Were you pleased? What did Lord Belmont say?”