Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (20 page)

Her mouth fell open, her arms dropped, and for an instant of
sheer terror he thought she was about to faint. Then, "How much?" she
demanded feebly.

"What?" gasped Harry. "But—ma'am, it's torn, and dirty. And… "
he peered at the bloodstain Nanette had been unable to remove from one
lapel. "I doubt your husband would want—"

"Not
that
one, my dearie! I can take
that all to pieces and make a pattern to sew my Hezekiah a jacket what
was designed by the chap what tailors for the Prince. Oh, my! Won't he
be took!" She gripped her hands and, seeing how Harry's eyes flashed to
the muslin gown, beamed, "Sir—I be very sure as how we can help one
another."

The five Corinthians at the large table were very loud and,
although it was not eleven o'clock, appeared to have consumed more than
their share of wine this morning—unless they'd been at it all night,
which Harry deduced was more than likely. He sat in a far corner of the
fragrant little coffee shop, a steaming mug before him, waiting
impatiently for the clock to strike the hour. His thoughts were on the
little shrew and the surprise that would light her expressive face when
she saw her presents. He straightened the clumsy parcel on the chair
beside him. Mrs. Hawthorne, overjoyed with his jacket, had next
convinced him to trade his top boots. Harry had found her husband's old
shoes loose and strange to his feet and had warned the proprietor of
the dress shop that Mr. Hawthorne might find Hoby's handmade boots
impossible to get into. "Fer something as elegant as them," she'd
asserted, "Hawthorne'll curl his toes up!" The trades had been
sufficient for Harry to purchase the muslin gown and ribbons, plus a
small silver locket in the shape of a heart for Nanette, and a used but
finely wrought enamelled snuff box with a hound embossed on the lid for
Diccon, and still have some few shillings left over.

His sleeve looked dreadful, the ill-fitting brown corduroy
jacket rendered the more hideous by its unhappy conflict with his grey
pantaloons. Amused, he stretched out one long leg and peered down at
that awful shoe… Good old Bolster would split his sides if— Again, his
musings were interrupted by the uproar, and he glanced at the noisy
group. The aura of Town hung about them, and if they were here in an
effort to win the reward Diccon had mentioned, they weren't working
very hard at the task.

"My turn! My turn!" One of the young men had jumped to his
feet, waving a sheet of paper. "Now listen, you bosky booberkins!" He
cleared his throat and, as they quieted, watching expectantly, he read
in a slurred, nasal voice:

 
"The maze of Parnell Sanguinet was really very
clever.
But Mitchell Redmond liked it not,
To Sanguinet he gave his shot
—"

Here, the grinning poet was interrupted by shrieks of
hilarity, while Harry sat rigid and stunned with shock. His voice
cracking with suppressed mirth, the poet resumed,

"
To Sanguinet he gave his shot—
And made that maze so blasted hot
That it will grow back
—
never
!"

He collapsed into his chair, chortling gleefully as his
friends whooped and howled and beat upon one another.

Harry sprang up, and his chair went over with a crash. The
poet turned to him and the laughter died from his face. "What ails you,
fellow?"

With a tremendous effort, Harry held back the floor of
questions that trembled on his tongue. It was very apparent from their
haughty stares that they judged him a bumpkin. If he behaved like an
equal he'd likely get tossed into the street and learn nothing. With a
hand that shook, he touched his brow and said respectfully, "If you
please, sir—I served with Cap'n Harry Redmond. Be that his brother you
was a'speaking of?"

At once a smile lit the flushed face across the room. "Yes, my
good man. Mr. Mitchell Redmond fought a duel with a gentleman named
Sanguinet a few days back."

Harry's heart seemed to stop. He clutched at the table and
could feel the blood draining from his face.

The poet peered at him curiously. "Loyal fella, ain't ya?
Don't worry. Your Captain was not involved. Still—pity it—" He was
interrupted, encircled, and swept away by his friends. All talking at
once, laughing uproariously, they reeled toward the door. Cold with
dread, Harry snatched up his parcel and followed them into the pale
morning sunshine. Mitchell
could not
have called
out Sanguinet! Pray God, not! He didn't know one end of a pistol from
t'other!

He was so consumed by apprehension that all thoughts of either
Nerina or the little shrew were swept from his mind. He dogged the
erratic steps of the rowdy group past whitewashed shops and
half-timbered cottages, so intent upon them that he failed to note a
closed carriage sweep past, slow, pull to the side of the cobbled
street, and stop. The inebriated gentlemen ahead were turning into the
smithy. Harry was almost to the open door when a small boy overtook
him, thrust a folded paper into his hand, then ran off.

Bewildered, Harry stared from the departing urchin to the
letter he held. The inscription was to himself and the familiar scrawl
that of his brother. Apprehension gripping him, he broke the seal,
spread the page, and read:

My Dear Sauvage
—

Since you read this, I can only beg your
forgiveness, for I have deserted you in time of trouble, and you must
now be the last, and undoubtedly the most worthy, of our noble line.

Harry's throat seemed to close, and for an instant the words
before him blurred. He was unaware that the parcel had slipped from
beneath his arm, or that across the street a window of the carriage had
been let down and pale eyes, lit with sly laughter, watched him. He
fought away the terror that was making him shake, and blinked his eyes
into focus once more.

…
our noble line
.

Reflection convinced me, best and most honoured of
brothers, that you were not only scorched but had deemed me not quite
up to the rig. And so I left my 'little schoolhouse' and came home. You
had already departed, and I discovered my suspicions to have been
correct. I shook the truth from old Frye (what a beastly little worm he
is!) and bullied Andy into accompanying me to Brittany. (Incidentally,
Harry, your old campaigner has become quite a bookworm. You may have to
watch his selections, though. Frightfully racy stuff!)

I have just met Sanguinet. I cannot say I like him.
Nor can I say, however, that I believe he cheated my father: for him to
have done so lacks all reason, and I honestly do not think him capable
of such perfidious conduct. He has an unfortunate mouth withal, and I
find my temper shorter than I had supposed. I challenged the fellow,
and I write this as we prepare to face one another at twenty paces.

With the knowledge that you will be given this
letter only in the event of my death, I am emboldened to say what under
other circumstances I would not dare,

I have always loved and respected you—far more than
you know. I am aware you love me also and cannot wish you will not
mourn me. But I beg that you will seek no redress from Sanguinet. He
has behaved quite properly and with scrupulous honour. Live for both of
us, Harry. Make it a good life, and be happy. You deserve happiness. If
you have a son, and I pray you will, you might perhaps keep in mind the
name of a silly chap who let you down, but counted himself extreme
fortunate to have been,

Your devoted brother
—
Mitchell

Mitchell was dead… He had always thought somehow that he would
sense it if something happened to his brother, that their closeness
would warn him if Mitch was hurt or in trouble. But it hadn't warned
him—and Mitchell… was dead…

Harry's steps slowed, and he realized with dull surprise that
he was in the country again, and wandering dazedly along a lane whose
hedgerows blazed with a glory of wildflowers. He had a vague
recollection of a small girl picking up his parcel and handing it to
him and then running back to her mother, calling, "The poor man! See,
Mama—he's crying!" But he did not remember leaving Alfriston, and had
no notion of where he was now…

He heard the clip-clop of hooves on the lane behind him, a
rattle of wheels turning slowly on the uneven surface. But it was not
these sounds that brought the frown into his stricken eyes but the
laugh that, soft and merciless, wound through them.

He knew. Even as he whirled about—he knew!

Parnell Sanguinet leaned from the open window of the luxurious
carriage. "Good morrow,
mon ami! En effet
I had
no thought when into my hands that letter came that I should be so
fortunate as to deliver it in the person! Such a pleasure to be of
service… On a walking tour are you?" With a dance of enjoyment in his
bizarre eyes, he leaned back, taunting, "What a pity your brother
cannot be here… with you…"

And before the enraged Harry could move, the coachman whipped
up the team and the four magnificent white horses plunged straight at
him. He made a desperate dive for the ditch, was half-stunned by a
violent impact, and hurled aside. The rear wheel missed him by a
hairsbreadth as he rolled helplessly in the dust. Sprawling, the breath
knocked out of him, he heard the sounds of the wheels and the pounding
of sixteen polished hooves fade… until all that was left was the echo
of a sneering laugh.

"Get ye gone! Gert horrid hound that ye be… get ye gone!"

The quavering tones were very familiar. Harry lifted his head
and as the whirling landscape gradually righted itself, was able to
discern the erratic approach of a very tiny man and a very large dog.
The man was extremely old and frail, and retreated so often that he
tottered almost as much to the rear as he advanced. But the dog seemed
quite pleased with this slow progress and leapt and pranced about him,
barking joyfully.

The old man halted and turned to stand almost eye to eye with
the dog—a well-cared-for animal, having a thick and glossy coat and a
waving plume of a tail. One trembling arm was brought forth from behind
the man's back. Clutched in his hand was a piece of wood that might
once have been a hammer but was now headless, and he brandished this
potential weapon threateningly. The dog, however, very obviously placed
a different interpretation upon this demonstration and, uttering a bark
of joy, turned around three times so as to be ready.

Finding his voice, Harry came to one elbow and called, "Mr.
Chatham…"

The dog gave a bark of pleased recognition, bounced over, and
proceeded to jump about on this good friend, delighted with the game.
The ancient one, however, had given a small and startled leap at
Harry's call, and thus launched, he tottered back the way he had come,
gasping out, "What be ye a'doing of—a'wallerin' in the dirt, S'Harry… ?
the last words fading with distance.

Roused by necessity, Harry restrained the exuberance of Lord
Lucian St. Clair's hound with a stern, "Homer! Down, sir!" He then
managed to regain his feet and gladly accompanied by Homer, pursued the
departing figure, coming up wih him a scant instant before Chatham
toppled into the ditch. Having flung one arm about that frail form,
Harry guided the old gentleman to the low wall that replaced the
hedgerow nearby, eased him onto it, and sat beside him.

For a few moments there was silence between them. A
comparative silence, that is, broken by the gasps and wheezings of the
venerable Mr. Samuel Chatham, whose faded blue gaze was fixed upon his
companion's drawn face. "Ye been… piping yer eye," he observed at
length.

"Yes," said Harry simply.

"Ain't nothing t'be ashamed of," comforted Chatham. "Me father
done it when me ma went to her reward, God rest her soul." He pondered
for a moment, then added a reinforcing, "I done it meself a time or
two." He thought again and, leaning closer, lost his balance and all
but fell into Harry's arms so that it was necessary that he be tilted
to a less precarious angle. He ignored these procedures while
continuing, "Told a lie about 'ee 's marnin'. If anyone in these here
parts knows as who's here and who ain't—it do be I. An' I said as how
you
wasn't. But that," he added with a disappointed glance at Harry, "was
a'cause it never would've occurred to I to go a'looking under hedges
for a barrernet o'this here realm!" He shook his head chidingly. "Never
would've thought it of'ee, S'Harry. Ain't in keeping with your
position. Not atall!"

"No, I don't expect it is," Harry apologized and, striving to
be rational, sighed, "I didn't have much say in the matter. Was someone
asking for me?"

"Ar. 'S marnin'. Could'a goed to Jarge Brown, 'ee could. Jarge
were a'standing there, an' Jarge allus thinks as how '
ee
knows all there is t'know. But yer man com t'me, and asked if ye be up
to the Hall, or over to Greenwings. I allus allowed as how your
Sergeant had a good head on his shoulders. Though I'm powerful
disappinted in him.
Powerful
disappinted! Snails
be bad enough. But—
live worms
… ?" He shuddered.
"It don't bear thinking on!"

Allowing the incomprehensibilities to sift past, Harry seized
upon the one pertinent fact. "Sergeant Anderson was
here
!
Looking for me?"

"Ar. Rushing about like a headless duck, he were. Turble
upset. Still, 'twarn't no excuse fer 'ee t'tell a trusting old man such
a horrid tale!" He placed one near-transparent hand on his middle.
"Fair turned me stummick!"

There could be little doubt as to why poor Andy had been so
'turble upset'. Or why he was so desperately trying to find him. Harry
stood and said dully, "If you will excuse me, sir. I'd best seek him
out."

"Ar." Chatham floundered about but with little success until
Harry leaned down to slip a gentle hand under his arm and assist him to
his feet.  " 'Ee do have goed t'see yer friend what has them
funny-coloured eyes—that there Markwiss of Damon. 'Course, they folk in
Dorset be a strange lot altogether. And so I told'un. Your gentleman'll
have goed to Lunnon, says I. Wouldn't listen, a'course. Dicked in the
nob 'ee do be, I fancy. Poor chap."