Practice to Deceive (15 page)

“Right,” said Quentin, continuing to frown thoughtfully at the blurred message. “My ‘special day' baffles me, however. This is not my birthday.”

“Unless your brother means to imply it will
become
a special day,” suggested Penelope. “But—how is the Flying Dutchman involved?”

“He was our coachman. My father dubbed him thus because he was always losing his way.” Chandler sighed with faint nostalgia. “Such a very good fellow.… But—as for him having been
semper paratus
 … Gad!”

“What's it mean, Major?” asked Killiam. “Latin—is it?”

“Yes. And my Latin always so damnable.” Quentin turned ruefully to Penelope. “Dear lady, did you study Latin?
Semper
means ever—or forever—I think.…”

“Yes, I'm sure it does. But …
paratus
…” She clutched her temples in a desperate effort at concentration. “Oh, dear! I know it—but … I cannot recall…”

Frustrated, Quentin asked, “Dare we send Daffy down to your book room?”

“If I show me nose down there, sir,” said Daffy, “I mightn't be allowed to come back up. They're all of a state, getting ready for her la'ship's dinner party, and—”

“Ready!” Jubilant, Penelope interpolated, “That's it!
Semper paratus
means ‘always ready'!”

“Good girl!” He threw his good arm around her and gave her a strong hug, but released her rather abruptly, returning his attention to the letter, while Penelope prayed he had not noticed how her cheeks blazed around the edges of her applied pallor.

“What's this about you biting someone, Major?” asked the Corporal.

Quentin read softly, “‘Can't recall how old you were, but just today I was chuckling over the time you bit Mars.…' How old I was…” He thought back, his brow furrowing. “Must've been about—eight, I suppose. No! I was nine, for I'd just come home for the holidays. Mars was our dog—a silly great gentle animal, always more paws than brains. I tripped, trying to avoid him because he'd gone berserk when he saw me come back. I fell over the old fool and smashed my mouth on a chair. There was blood from here to breakfast—all mine. But my papa would have it that I'd bit the dog!” He grinned at Penelope. “To take my mind off things, you know.”

“Yes, how kind of him. But to what does your brother point, do you fancy? The dog? Or…”

“Oh, no. I suspect he means my age at the time. Let's try to put it together, shall we? Today … a coachman … the warning that I must be ready. And the number nine.” He looked gravely at their intent faces.

“Oh, my!” exclaimed Penelope. “Your brother is sending a coach here! At nine this evening!”

“Heaven bless us all!” Daffy said, marvelling. “Who'd have guessed that's what it really means?”

“No one else—I trust,” said Quentin, winking at her.

Distressed, Penelope cried, “How shall we ever stop him? Poor man—he will drive right into a trap!”

“Aye.” Killiam nodded dolefully. “The troopers'll get him and it'll be off to the block before the coach can run!”

Quentin said musingly, “I wonder…” They all stared at him, and he went on, “I'm very sure the troopers seek to keep me
out.
They may search the coach when it arrives, but I'll not be in it, don't you see? All I'll have to do is pop in once they've finished.”

“And—just how,” said Penelope, “do you think you can manage that without being seen?”

“It won't matter if I am seen—by the troopers at all events.” He paced restlessly to the window. “I could stroll nonchalantly around the side of the house after the coachman has made whatever enquiries he's been primed to make, and…” He swung around, his arm flinging out, his eyes bright as he started back to them. “My dear friends, never look so apprehensive. I'll only have … have to…” He checked, looking bewildered, then swayed.

The Corporal leapt to steady him, guide him to the bed, and sit with his arm about the thin, sagging shoulders. “Been on your feet too long. Whatever did ye expect?” he growled ferociously, scanning Quentin's white face for all the world like a concerned parent.

“Oh … no,” argued Quentin, faint but indomitable. “I'm just … a little tired, perhaps.”

Penelope filled a glass from the water pitcher they'd stood on the pile of books. “If you cannot stand for a few minutes, Major Chandler, I wish I may see you trip down two flights of stairs, walk around the back of the house, and”—she handed him the glass—“stroll nonchalantly to the coach.”

“Be flat on your face 'fore you'd come to the foot of the stairs,” said the Corporal, predictably.

Humbled by the concerned faces about him, Quentin drank the water and was silent.

“'Course,” murmured Daffy through the troubled pause, “if the Major's a touch weak in the knees and cannot walk … he could always totter. With a walking cane.”

They stared at her.

“What d'ye mean, lass?” asked Killiam in a tone Penelope had never before heard him use.

Blushing, Daffy answered, “I mean—was he to be … a
older
gentleman.”

They looked at one another speechlessly, scarcely daring to entertain the scenario those words suggested.

In a breathless voice that trembled with renewed hope, Quentin asked, “Daffy—you never could…?”

She all but pounced at him, eyes sparkling. “Yes, sir! Oh, yes, I could indeed!”

“Ye could make my Major into a old gentleman?” asked the Corporal, awed. “So as people would
believe?
”

“You may believe as they'd not know the difference,” she boasted.

“God love you, girl!” said Quentin, enthusiastically accepting her claim. “But—faith! What about clothes? Friend Otton's boots are adequate, but his flamboyant style would not befit an older man.”

Penelope said, “Never mind that. My papa's garments will serve, with little if any alteration at your present weight.”

The Corporal, who had developed a healthy respect for this girl's calm good sense, watched her curiously. “You've a thought or two in your head, I think, miss.”

She smiled at him. “Yes, I have. This is better and better. Quentin, my aunt gives a dinner party this evening.”

“Aha!”

“Just so. It is likely to begin at about five o'clock, though I doubt they will sit down to table until half-past seven, or eight o'clock. With luck we can get you downstairs by the time the coach arrives and an ‘elderly' guest can leave my aunt's party early.”

He asked intently, “How shall I get past your butler? Surely he will know who were the guests.”

“Yes. So we must manage to be at the side door before the coachman draws up, and we will walk out as though we had been strolling whilst awaiting him.” She clasped her hands and did a small, elated jig. “Oh, Quentin! How splendid if—together, we can bring it off!”

The adverb caused him a momentary unease, soon banished by his customary optimism. “By God, but we shall!”

Not until she and Daffy were back in the bedchamber did Penelope interrupt their busy plotting to say thoughtfully, “Whoever put that note in with my toast must know the Major is here.”

“Lawks!” shrieked Daffy, and vanished into her apron.

“It must be a friend,” Penelope went on, “else we'd have been arrested before this.”

“Why—that's so,” faltered Daffy, her eyes reappearing. “But—who can it be?”

“I think we should not try to guess. We have a friend who does not dare risk being identified. We must respect that wish.” And she thought, ‘And pray this is not all a trap.…'

VII

Much of the responsibility for their desperate plan rested on Daffy's shoulders. It was she who had to slip up to the attic where Lord Hector's trunks were stored, and she who must select suitable raiment for Major Chandler's proposed
alter ego.
His late lordship had been a conservative gentleman in many respects but, being possessed of an excellent physique, had enjoyed his clothes and had owned quite a nice wardrobe and several wigs that were still in good repair. Daffy filled a laundry basket with garments and accessories, threw a sheet around her spoils and delivered them to Penelope's bedchamber before going downstairs to resume her less criminal pursuits.

Fortunately, an iron was kept in the dressing room. Penelope lit the fire and soon had the iron heated. She set to work and spent the next hour pressing several of her late father's full-skirted coats, knee breeches, and half a dozen shirts. The pile of cravats and ruffles seemed endless but having completed this rather wrenching task, she left the dressing room so that Killiam could help Quentin try on his borrowed finery.

Penelope waited hopefully, but when at last the Corporal ushered in the prospective ‘old gentleman' for her inspection, her heart sank. The wig was rather out of the present style, having thick curls loosely arranged about the head and worn long at the back, tied in with a wide black satin bow. The blue satin coat and knee breeches fit well enough, but despite his drawn countenance and the silky white curls, Chandler contrived to look elegant, dashing, and not a year older. “We shall have to place all our reliance on Daffy,” Penelope sighed.

That skilled maiden, arriving a short time later with a tray containing their lunch, was not so much dismayed by the Major's youthful appearance as by his lack of qualms at wearing a dead man's clothing. “Does it not make you feel … crawly-like, sir?” she enquired, passing Quentin a slice of seed cake.

Patently surprised by the question, he answered, “Why, no. I liked Lord Hector in life. Why should I fear him in death? He was a most good-natured gentleman who'd not in the least object, I feel sure.”

“No more he might,” she said, tucking in her chin and looking solemn. “But—to wear his clothes! Even his
wig!
Lawks! 'Twould make me feel proper haunted.”

Quentin stared at her, then laughed so hard he was obliged to stifle the sound. “A—a haunted wig, by Jupiter,” he said merrily. “How shall I survive it?”

Watching him, her heart brightened by his mirth, Penelope thought, ‘Just survive, my dearest. Somehow … survive.'

She prevailed upon him to rest after their shared meal, so that he would be better prepared for the evening's activities, but when she left, although laid down upon the trundle bed, he was busily occupied in supervising the Corporal's selection of clothing. Killiam was determined to accompany Chandler in the guise of ‘the old gentleman's' manservant, and he was as convinced they must fail, as his Major was confident of a successful conclusion. Penelope closed the door upon Killiam's mournful listing of the odds against his attaining his next birthday, and went into the corridor.

Walking slowly down the stairs, for perhaps the hundredth time she considered her own schemes. She had confided these to Daffy and had so frightened that damsel that she could only be glad she had first secured a vow of complete secrecy. If a certain handsome young fugitive were to get wind of her schemes there could be no doubt of
his
reaction! Penelope smiled faintly. ‘Sufficient unto the hour,' she thought.

She was very sure she was in for a fine scold from her beautiful aunt and was mildly astonished, upon encountering that lady in the downstairs hall, to be met with a look of dismay, rapidly replaced by a veritable flood of solicitude, apologies for not having visited the sick room “as often as I should have wished, but you know how terribly susceptible I am to illness,” and the assurance that she looked “positively hagged” and must not even think about doing anything save to return to bed and rest. “You will likely be quite recovered by tomorrow,” appended my lady, remembering that the Curate meant to call and that she had no least intention of dealing with the questions the man would doubtless have to ask.

Penelope coughed her way through profuse thanks and said with noble martyrdom that she would just go to the kitchen and make sure that everything was in order there.

Lady Sybil's white hands flew to close in a remarkably strong grip about her niece's arm. She would not dream, she declared, of allowing “poor Penelope” to subject herself to so tiresome an endeavour. She herself would see Cook. “And I'd best not find her lollygagging with those wretched soldiers,” she muttered, frowning.

It was a golden opportunity, and Penelope seized it at once, exclaiming as though greatly alarmed, “Soldiers, ma'am? Oh—never say we are under house arrest?”

“For heaven's sake, why should I say such a thing?” her ladyship replied, throwing a nervous glance up and down the hall. “What
ever
will you think of next, stupid girl?”

“But—but why would soldiers be here, save to—”

“They are come to
guard
us,” hissed Sybil, irritated. “When he left, your uncle had the good sense to request protection—what with the neighbourhood positively swarming with traitors, and—” She broke off, eradicated her frown and pinned a rather strained smile to her lips. “At all events, it is nothing to worry about, and will allow us all to sleep at night without fearing to find our throats cut when we wake up in the morning! Get to your bed, girl, and I will tell Cook to send a maid up with a tray, so that you may have your dinner early.”

“You are too good.” Penelope sniffed loudly. “Faith, I do not know how it can be, but I am fairly famished.”

“An excellent sign. Now—run along, do.”

Penelope ‘ran along' at a slow, wearied trudge, marvelling at the lengths to which Sybil would go to conceal her illicit dinner party. Upon entering her bedchamber, she went at once to scratch on the door of the dressing room. The Corporal opened the door a crack and whispered that the Major was not dressed. Penelope called mischievously, “Well, you may tell him that the soldiers are here only to guard against his cutting my throat whilst I sleep.”