Had We Never Loved (36 page)

The skies were brightening to dawn now. Trethaway, seated in the stern of the longboat, was clearly distinguishable, turning to wave a mocking farewell, and flourishing the case that held the Comyn Pin.

In that same moment, beyond him, the majestic frigate was swept up on a great black wall of water. The sailors stopped rowing, their shrill cries rising above the howl of the wind as the monstrous wave rushed upon them. Trethaway whipped around, and half stood in the extremity of his terror. An instant, the wave towered over the longboat. Then, Glendenning had a brief glimpse of oars tossed like matchsticks, of arms and legs flailing, and the longboat hurtling into the air, end over end. The horrifying scene was blotted out as the wave raced on to thunder against the clusters of rocks, sending great columns of spray high into the air. When its fury had subsided the only things to be seen between shore and frigate were a few splintered oars, some oilcloth capes, and what looked to be a gentleman's tricorne.

A sobbing groan was torn from Glendenning. The Comyn Pin could never be recovered now. His last faint hope was gone.

*   *   *

The apothecary was a fussy little man with a high-pitched voice, a perpetual sniff, and the manner of someone whose presence is anxiously awaited elsewhere. Despite these affectations, he stood at the table in the private parlour of the Black Sheep, and bandaged the viscount's lacerated wrists with swift efficiency. He ignored his patient's questions, however, vouchsafing instead the information that three bodies had been washed up from the sunken longboat; all seafaring men. “Should never have attempted to row to shore in such weather. But I fancy when gentlemen drop sufficient gold into a captain's hands…” He glared at Glendenning accusingly.

“I am sorry for the tragedy,” said the viscount. “But why does my friend not regain consciousness? On the cliff he revived for a minute or two, and you said the blow to the head did not look to be of a serious nature.”

“The fact that he regained consciousness for so short a time is a very bad sign. Besides which, although it grieves me to own it, I am but a mortal man, and mistakes can be made. The last unfortunate I thought to have sustained no serious injury, died the following day. Of a heart seizure.”

“The devil!” exclaimed Glendenning, paling. “Do you say Lieutenant Morris—”

“I say he took no serious hurt. I also say he was evidently severely wounded at some fairly recent date, and has not recovered sufficiently to have gone jauntering about through a stormy night, getting himself soaked to the skin and thoroughly exhausted. If you are his friend, sir,” he added, with another of his accusing upward glances, “I wonder you did not deter him from such a scatterbrained course of action.”

‘A fine friend I am,' thought Glendenning, and said, “I wish to God I had! But regrets will pay no toll now. An he has rest and good care, will he—”

“He
might
be lucky enough to escape the pneumonia. I doubt it. Were you robbed of all your possessions?”

Divining the reason for such a question, Glendenning also wondered why nothing had been taken. “Fortunately, my purse was in my saddlebags,” he lied, adding dryly, “Never fear. You will be paid.”

“Good. I've donated a small fortune to young bucks who get themselves knocked up because they've not the sense to—”

“Are you finished? I'd like to go up and see him.”

Irritated, the apothecary renewed his denunciation while securing the bandage.

“Enough,” said Glendenning, one hand lifting authoritatively. “Your philosophizing delays me, and I've to be in Windsor by four o'clock.”

The apothecary's tight mouth sagged. “You're—
mad
!” he gasped unequivocally. “You should be laid down upon your bed for a day or two. Besides, 'tis half-past ten now, and it must be eighty miles at least to—”

He spoke to empty air. Tossing a guinea onto the parlour table, Glendenning limped to the stairs.

Morris lay very still in the small darkened bedchamber. Walking softly to the bed, Glendenning looked down at him. “Poor old fellow,” he murmured. “The blight that is Glendenning caught you up well and truly!”

“Now, now, sir,” put in a quiet voice. “Doan't ye be blaming of yourself.”

A very stout little lady extricated herself from the chair by the fire and came to smile at him comfortingly. “I be Mrs. Goodstone, and a foreigner in these parts, being as I were born in Sussex. But I wed Goodstone twenty years agone, and I know the folk hereabouts well enough to know why gents risk the marshes on stormy nights. If Owlers bring the riding officers here, they've no call to worrit. Goodstone and me, we've a fine cellar and no questions asked.”

So she thought he was a Free Trader. His heart heavy, Glendenning wished that were so. Lord knows it would be a lighter burden than the bitter one he carried. He returned her smile and assured her that no excisemen were after him. “The thing is, I've urgent business that won't wait, and have no choice but to leave my friend here. He must have the best of care and attention. I'll pay in advance for tomorrow, and send people after him.”

“'Lor' bless ye, sir. He'll have the best we got, I promise you. You go along—though you'd be a sight better off to keep to your room. It appears to me like you could do with some sleep yourself, sir.”

Glendenning thanked her, asked for pen and paper, and these being provided, wrote a brief note.

Jamie—

You are the best of men and, owing you so much, I must now desert you here, and ask yet more of you.

Please see that Miss Consett is taken to Tony Farrar's home. It is called The Palfreys, and is located near Romsey, in Sussex.

Dimity, Lady Farrar, will care for her.

Tell her to remember always what I said when we parted.

My humble thanks. God bless you.

Tio

He folded the note and left it on the table, under Morris' watch.

Outside, the wind drove clouds across the pale sky, and from the east came the constant booming of the surf. An ostler led out his horse. The animal looked rested and eager to run. Patting the warm neck, Glendenning muttered, “You'll get your chance, my lad.”

He rode northeast to Folkestone, and from there took the Tonbridge Road, but traffic impeded his progress and, whenever he dared, he cut across country at the gallop. The rain began again. The wind buffeted horse and man, and the muddy roads were treacherous, but he pushed on relentlessly. When the horse was too tired to gallop, he stopped and hired a fresh mount. The lack of sleep began to tell, and by noon he was fighting a fatigue that increased with every mile. Many travellers on that stormy day looked wonderingly at the man who rode at such reckless speed. One irate gentleman opened his carriage window as the viscount raced beside him, and bellowed that he was a heedless young fool who might spare a thought for his horse, if not for himself!

Glendenning did not even hear him. His mind was closed to everything but this race against time. This race he must not lose, even though death would meet him at the finish.

CHAPTER XIV

The Earl of Bowers-Malden tried not to hear the tall case clock strike four. Seated in the vast withdrawing room, he felt, for the first time in his life, small and powerless. He tightened his arm about his wife, and said gently, “You are very composed, my love.”

Lady Nola did not move her head from his shoulder. She said in a far-away voice, “I am quite terrified, Gregory. For … for the children, you know.”

The dreadful prospect of the fate that awaited them loomed again in all its horror. His dear wife. Marguerite's youthful loveliness. Michael's fine young manhood. He was not a man who prayed often, but he prayed now, silently, intensely. ‘Dear God—don't let it happen.
Please,
Lord! Don't let them suffer shame, torture, dismemberment, to pay for my own son's reckless folly.' He said with an effort, “I would have thought Marguerite might have kept with us this—this last hour.”

Lady Nola uttered a muffled sob, and clung to him. “Oh, my love! Perhaps Horatio—”

“No! Do not speak his name! I'll not have—”

There was a commotion in the hall. Agitated voices, and the sound of hurrying footsteps. Farrier! How like that merciless hound to be early! Well, he'd not find the Laindons weeping and whimpering before—

Darrow sounded frantic. “Sir—
no
! I beg of you! Do not go in—”

He
begged
…? Bristling, the earl stood.

The door burst open. Coated with mud, his eyes red-rimmed and sunken, his face a mask of exhaustion, my lord Glendenning reeled into the room.

With a muffled imprecation the earl stamped forward. “
Damn
you, sir! How
dare
you set foot in my house?”

The countess stood also, and said brokenly, “Tio! Oh, my dear, were you able to get it back?”

“I tried, Mama. God knows, I tried! But—”

Concealing his own brief and now shattered hopes, the earl thundered, “Of course he didn't get it back! Had you really expected such a care-for-nobody to rescue us? Egad, but you're a dreamer, madam!
Out,
my lord! Or must I throw you out myself? By God, but I
shall
!”

So spent that he could hardly stand, Glendenning gripped a chairback. “Trethaway is drowned, but … took the pin with him. I must … must speak to you alone, sir.”

The earl said nothing, but his lips drew back in a snarl, and he advanced purposefully.

Glendenning sank to one knee.

Lady Nola uttered a muffled sob.

The earl, taken aback, said, “You may well grovel!”

Glendenning looked up at him and his mouth twitched into a rueful smile. He said faintly, “Purely … involuntary, I'm afraid, sir.”

The earl grunted, and marched to the bell pull.

“I could not bring you the—the Comyn Pin,” said Glendenning. “But I've brought you the way out of this. I—implore that you hear me. Fa— my lord, when I've done, you can … throw me out. But first, if you care for your wife and her children, you
must
see me … alone.”

Bowers-Malden paused. There could be no doubt but that Glendenning had been through some kind of hell. The ruffles fell back from the hand he held out revealing that the wrist was bandaged, and there was a look of abject humility in his eyes. Too late for that, of course. But, whatever else, he'd come back. He was man enough not to have run to save his own skin. Drawing a bitter consolation from that fact, he growled, “You may steal two minutes of the few I've left to share with my dear ones. Lady Nola, if Michael has returned pray desire him and Marguerite to come to us.” He added implacably, “When Lord Glendenning has left this room.”

The viscount sighed and started to drag himself to his feet.

The countess looked helplessly from one to the other of these men she loved. Then, with her handkerchief pressed to her lips, she left them.

Glendenning's struggle to stand drained his remaining strength, and he could get no farther than a footstool. His head seemed to weigh a ton, but he managed somehow to bring it up. A glass of brandy was being thrust at him.

Beyond it, the earl's face was sternly contemptuous. Glendenning took the glass with a hand that shook, and the powerful brandy burned away some of the crushing weariness. “I found Templeby, sir. He was injured, but not seriously, I think. I have arranged that he not come here.”

He spoke with quiet steadiness, and suddenly, to see him thus, muddied, and too exhausted to stand, so wrought upon the earl that he was obliged to turn away. He walked to a nearby table and took up a rare paperweight. Examining it, but with not the slightest notion of what he held, he said, “I shall hope he has the good sense to obey you, in which case one of us, at least, may be spared. I granted you this interview, Glendenning, only because you had sufficient backbone to come back and face your punishment with the rest of us. Now—”

Quite aware of how his sire hated to be interrupted, the viscount interrupted. “Well, that's it, isn't it, sir?” He fought his way to his feet. “The punishment must be mine. Only.”

The earl's hand tightened upon his paperweight. “Your sense of responsibility is apt, if several years late in dawning. Has this wondrous new comprehension also inspired you with the solution?”

“I should think that would be obvious, sir.”

His eyes fixed upon the object that now dug deep into his palm, Bowers-Malden said, “You mean to confess your guilt to Farrier?”

“If I thought that would serve, I'd not have come back here. It won't. He would still claim that you had shielded me.”

The earl's leonine head lifted slowly. He met his son's eyes, and for an instant felt so sick that he was unable to speak. Then he said in a voice that shook, “Do you … dare … to saddle me with—with—”

Glendenning saw horror in the strong face of this man he loved, and he started forward instinctively, but drew back. “It still wants forty minutes to five o'clock. I have sent word, in your name, to Hilary Broadbent, desiring that he bring a troop here at once. He should arrive in ten minutes. You must denounce me the instant he comes. With luck, Farrier won't reach—”

“Luck…?” Bowers-Malden's face was white. The paperweight thudded to the floor.
“Luck?”
he whispered. “Do you call it
luck
that … that a father must … send his only son to a traitor's hideous—to public execution and—and—” Unable to continue, he covered his eyes with a trembling hand.

Glendenning staggered to his side and, daring his wrath, gripped his shoulder. “Sir, you
must
! Only your public repudiation of me, your demand that I be arrested for treason, will save all—all those—” His voice broke, and suddenly he was blinded by tears. He gulped, “Those I … love.”