Nina Coombs Pykare (19 page)

Again she had no answers. She seemed, she told herself angrily, to be always occupied with questions that had no answers, going in circles like the rounda-bouts at the fair, and never getting any-where. But where was she trying to go?

  She felt the sudden color flood her cheeks as the realization hit her. She was trying to go back into the past, where as the well-dowered daughter of a retired naval officer she could have responded in a very differ-ent fashion to the look in a certain pair of warm grey eyes, could, indeed, have been a fitting wife for a viscount. This realization did little to assuage the feelings of longing that haunted her. She must, she told herself, give up these yearnings to see the Viscount Haverford. No matter how he looked at her, no matter how he spoke of the Fates, he was a viscount and she was still a governess.

Mrs. Parsons groaned suddenly, a drawn-out, quivering sound that made Jennifer shiver. “I see her,” Mrs. Parsons said in that dull tone. “I see Abigail.” The little woman’s voice trembled. “She looks unhappy.”

Jennifer shot a quick look at Dupin. She did not want any harm to befall Mrs. Par-sons, who was, after all, a good-natured soul.

Dupin did not seem to be aware of any-thing but the woman before him. In the dimly lit room the tapers flickered fitfully. The muted, eerie tones of Henri’s violin were like music from some strange and uncanny world. In spite of herself Jennifer was affected by the eeriness.

  “Look closely at your sister,” said Mon-sieur Dupin softly but insistently. “What is she saying?”

Mrs. Parsons’s wide-staring eyes seemed to be focusing intently. It was rather a startling sight to watch someone strive harder to see what was obviously not there. Jennifer heard Mr. Parthemer shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Even he - one of the sanest, most strongminded of men - seemed to be feeling the strain in the room.

A long, drawn-out sigh issued from Mrs. Parsons’s lips. “She says she’s all right. Papa didn’t like having her called away. That’s why she looks unhappy.”

Dupin nodded. “Does she say any more?”

Mrs. Parsons seemed to be listening. Then she sighed. “No, she has to go back to Papa.”

Slowly Mrs. Parsons’s eyes lost their glazed look. “Oh, thank you,” she said to the Frenchman. “It was so good to see Abigail again. I miss her, you know.”

The usually cheerful voice quavered and was still. Jennifer felt a pang of remorse, remembering the last time she had evaded the old woman’s recital of her day. The poor thing was very lonely. And she knew no other way to reach people.

“Your sister is with your Papa,” Monsieur Dupin reminded her. “They are both well.”

“Yes, of course. I’m very grateful for that.” Mrs. Parsons’s usual cheerful smile re-turned. “Thank you. Monsieur, you have been a great help.”

Monsieur Dupin inclined his head in gratitude and Jennifer had to admit that he had handled the matter well. He under-stood people, did Monsieur Dupin. Perhaps he understood them
too
well. But this time, at least, no damage had been done.

Mrs. Parsons resumed her chair. Dupin’s eyes again traveled the circle, but there was only the shuffling of nervous feet. No one else, it appeared, wished to sit on that chair.

There were several long moments of si-lence and then the Frenchman spoke. “If no one else wishes to avail themselves of my services, I suggest we disband for this evening.”

The relief that went through the room was almost tangible, Jennifer thought, absently noting how very white Ingleton’s face appeared. But perhaps it was a trick of the lighting.

  She rose with the others and paused as Mr. Parthemer stopped beside her. “You haven’t exercised the little mare for a while. How about taking her out in the morning before breakfast? It won’t hurt the children to begin lessons a little late.” Mr. Parthemer beamed. “Capital idea that... having lessons in the pavilion. And Mor-timer....” He shook his head as though in wonder at the results of her work.

“Thank you, Sir,” Jennifer replied. “I’ll be glad to exercise the mare. She’s a beauty.”

And then Mr. Parthemer led his wife away and Lady Carolyn, attentively squired by Ingleton and Lord Proctor and trailed by a beaming Mrs. Parsons, also moved toward the door. Following them, Jennifer was brought up short by a hand on her arm. “Monsieur Dupin, I must attend to the children.”

The Frenchman’s black eyes gleamed. “The children sleep. And they have their Betty. It is you for whom I have the con-cern. You refuse my offers of help.”

Jennifer fought down an intense longing to run. She would not give the man that satisfaction. “Monsieur Dupin,” she replied carefully, forcing herself to meet those probing eyes, “I have told you repeatedly that I do not need any help. My heart is whole.”

Dupin frowned. “You do not tell me the truth. I know that your heart yearns for a tall fair man. This has been given me. And I wish only to help... to warn you.”

  Jennifer knew that she had flinched involuntarily at the mention of a man so like Haverford. But this knowledge, she told herself sternly, need come from no supernatural source. Someone could have mentioned seeing them on the road.

“I wish to warn you of danger,” Dupin repeated sternly. “Much danger surrounds this man. You must not be involved.”

From somewhere Jennifer summoned a laugh. It was rather brittle and forced, but it was the best she could do. “Monsieur Dupin, you are deceiving yourself. I am in no danger, nor do I care for anyone. And now, if you’ll excuse me....” She looked pointedly at the fingers that still grasped her arm.

“Yes, of course,” Dupin smiled blandly. “Mademoiselle must see to her charges. But remember....” His fingers tightened once more before he released her arm. “I have warned you. If you come to harm, the blame must be upon your own head.”

Jennifer laughed again. This one sound-ed a little more sincere. “So be it,” she replied, turning her back on him and forcing herself to walk slowly to the table in the hall where the candles waited.

  The dark stairs seemed even gloomier and darker than usual and Jennifer kept her eyes away from the shadows that seemed to have become suddenly malign.

This house, she reminded herself angrily as she reached the second stair, was a
new
house. It was extremely ridiculous on her part to start imagining lurking evil in a house that had no past to provide it. In spite of its Gothic appearance there was nothing in this house of evil - except Monsieur Dupin,

After what seemed an eternity, she reached the refuge of her room. This time she steadfastly refused to let her nerves push her into lighting all the candles in the room. And so by the light of a single flickering taper she slid hurriedly out of her clothes and into her nightdress.

Shadows were only that, she told herself. A mere absence of light. And she would not pay any more attention to them. She tied her nightcap and took up the candle. The moon was not as bright as the night be-fore, she thought, her steps taking her perforce to the narrow window. But even in its reduced light she could see the roof of the far-off pavilion. What was going on there? she asked herself.

  Had that really been Haverford that she had seen on the lawn that night? And what part did he play in all this? He
had
left the ball, right after Ingleton. But if the Vis-count were the spy and Ingleton were after him, why should the spy follow the govern-ment agent?

Jennifer’s heart leaped. A real spy would dispose of any agent that stood in his way. But Ingleton was alive and well.

Her brows drew together thoughtfully as she tried to remember exactly when Ingle-ton had returned to the ballroom. But she could not. She had only memories of their departure, of Lord Proctor and then Dupin accosting her; she had even more confused memories of the others after the Viscount’s return. All her concentration had been taken up with him and with controlling her feelings.

With a sigh Jennifer moved away from the window, blew out the candle, and slid between the curtains of her bed. She must not spend the night puzzling over imponderables. She must sleep, for tomorrow there was a great deal to do. She would rise early and take Ladyfingers for a nice ride - to the seashore perhaps. She fell asleep on the thought.

Chapter Thirteen

Jennifer rose early the next morning. The sun shone brightly and her spirits rose immediately. The phantoms of the night could not survive the brilliant rays of the sun. She slipped into her frayed green habit and moved quietly down the stairs. All around her the inhabitants of the house lay in peaceful slumber. Mr. Par-themer rose early but, since he preferred to breakfast with his spouse, most of the house servants were still abed. It would be another two hours before Betty roused the children and another after that before they would be ready to do lessons. Three whole hours for her ride.

A few minutes later she was hurrying toward the stables. The grooms, of course, were all early risers. And, since Mr. Par-themer had sent word by a footman the night before, the little mare would probably be ready.

  Her conjecture was right. The smiling groom that had warned her about using the whip on Red Rust stood holding Lady-fingers’s bridle. “Good morning, Miss. Nice day fer a ride.”

She nodded and smiled as she put her foot in his palm and was thrown neatly up. “Yes, it looks beautiful.” Hooking her right knee over the horn on the sidesaddle and adjusting the old green skirt, Jennifer trotted off.

A lark sent its trilling notes into the sweet-smelling morning air as Jennifer reached the road. The little mare was in high spirits, lifting her feet daintily and tossing her mane. Jennifer gave her her head and she broke into a happy canter. She gave herself up to the rhythm of the animal moving beneath her. There was nothing better than an early morning canter, with the dew still glistening fresh on the hedgerows and the world all clean and new. She smiled happily, for the moment all her worries were forgotten.

As she drew closer to the cliffs she reined the mare down to a walk. The sea, gleam-ing in the sunlight, seemed to beckon to her. She walked the little mare back and forth while she gazed down at its green-ness. A terrible longing swept over her - a longing to sit for a moment in that patch of sand that had been the scene of their memorable picnic.

  She glanced up at the sun. There was still time. This was the first time she had really had to herself in many long days. She would enjoy it to the fullest. She swung down and tethered the little mare. Gathering the folds of her habit in one hand, she made her way down the path.

There would be sand on her clothes, but she did not care. Her earlier happiness had vanished. She desperately needed to regain some measure of peace. There was no way she could banish the thought of the Vis-count Haverford from her mind, she knew, as her boots crunched on the gravel of the path. But perhaps down there, near the immemorial sea, she could force herself to face reality.

She reached the bottom of the path and paused for a moment to look out over the broad expanse. For thousands and thou-sands of years the sea had been there. Nothing could ruffle its immeasurable serenity. Even the fiercest storm touched only its surface.

She moved off across the sands to the shade of the great rock where they had eaten their lunch. Then she perched herself on it and gazed pensively out at the sea. A cool breeze was blowing inland and played with the tendrils of hair that during her ride had escaped the pins. She pushed at it futilely, her eyes filling with sudden tears.

  She had been foolish to come here, she thought, as the tears overflowed. Very foolish. Here the memory of Haverford was even stronger, her longing to be with him even more intense.

She dropped her head into her hands and let the tears come. Perhaps what she needed was the time and space for a good cry. At Seven Elms, always on call as she was, there was little time for giving in to such desires. But here by the sea no one would see or hear her. Perhaps with one really good cry she could get back a mod-icum of sanity. Once she had been a prac-tical young woman who, knowing her limitations, had made her accommodations with life. And now - now all that had been destroyed. Destroyed by the Viscount Haverford. The sobs shook her slender shoulders.

“I do not mean to intrude on your sorrow,” said a deep voice. “But I could not leave you like this.”

Jennifer raised a startled face. The tears blurred her vision but she did not need to see to know that the speaker was the Vis-count Haverford. She stifled a sob. She could not continue to cry so in his pre-sence. It was unthinkable.

  He extended a hand which held a clean white cambric handkerchief. Without a word she accepted it and dried her eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured, uncomfort-ably aware that her eyes must be red and her face splotchy.

“You are most welcome,” he said gravely. “Do you mind if I join you on that rock?”

“No. Of course not.” She felt the need to explain her presence in this place. “I... was exercising Mr. Parthemer’s mare.”

He nodded. “It was wise of you not to bring her down the path. You have not injured yourself, I trust.” His voice held concern.

“No, no. When I was a child we lived for a while near the sea. My father was a naval officer.”

The Viscount nodded. “I have heard of him. Wasn’t he at Trafalgar with Nelson?”

Jennifer nodded. “But how did you know that?”

“I was there myself,” he remarked, ab-sently rubbing at his shoulder. Then he smiled. “The old wound aches a little sometimes. When the weather changes. It makes a good forecaster, though. Always twinges before a real storm.”

Jennifer glanced at him as he settled on the rock beside her. “You were at Trafal-gar?”

He nodded. “Yes, but you needn’t be so surprised. Many men came back.”

  “Yes, yes. I know.” She felt a great rush of relief. If he had been at Trafalgar - if he had been wounded for his country - surely he wouldn’t have turned traitor.

His shoulder brushed hers as he turned toward her. Almost against her will she found herself turning too. His hand reach-ed out and loosened the pins in her hair. It fell in a great golden cloud around her shoulders. “The little one was right,” he said, fingering a golden strand.