Practice to Deceive (9 page)

Turning to her frowningly, Sybil said, “Stay! What is that you have?”

Penelope's breath froze in her throat.

Daffy gave a little squawk. “Wh-what, ma'am?” she asked in a thin, piping voice.

Much shocked, my lady exclaimed, “Did you remove that sheet from your mistress's bed? Good heavens! The thing is in rags! Really, Penelope, one might suppose you to have time for a little simple mending! Oh, go
on,
girl, do!”

Daffy tottered out.

Penelope wielded her hairbrush with a shaking hand.

“You should get rid of that girl,” said my lady bodingly. “It's my belief she's short of a sheet.”

“N-no, ma'am,” stammered Penelope. “I feel sure she took it all.”

Quite lacking a sense of humour, Sybil said an impatient, “Do not try to be clever, niece, it don't become you! You know perfectly well what I mean. The girl is little better than a halfwit. And only look at your bed—one might think three men have slept in it, rather than that she has newly changed your linens!”

“Yes, aunt,” said Penelope meekly. “But Daffy has been with me for years, and we pay her so little, I doubt—”

“Lud! Do we
pay
the creature? One might suppose she should pay
us
for being allowed to live here in the lap of luxury.”

Having recovered somewhat, Penelope said nothing, but looked deliberately around the shabby room.

My lady saw that look and had the grace to blush. “I did not come to bandy words with you.” Diamonds glittered as she reached up to adjust a ringlet that had strayed from its appointed place. “Your uncle tells me you intruded upon his privacy this evening. I distinctly told you—”

“So you did, ma'am,” Penelope interrupted daringly. “What you neglected to tell me was that my uncle and his friend were busily torturing a helpless—”

My lady sprang to her feet, her face pale beneath its paint, her great brown eyes flashing. “Keep your tongue between your teeth, my girl, or you will rue it, I promise you!”

Penelope stood also. “Do you not mean, ma'am, that my uncle may rue it? Were the authorities to learn—”

Sybil gave a gasp. “Wretched, wretched girl! Your uncle is a
patriot!
He sought only to—to wrest the whereabouts of—er, other traitors from that Jacobite vermin! And if you breathe a word—a single
word,
Penelope Anne Montgomery…”

Killiam had laid Quentin on the small truckle bed that was Daffy's occasional resting place, and was listening intently to this conversation. He would have done better to have kept his attention on the Major, for at this point Quentin tossed restlessly, and a faint resultant groan escaped him. The Corporal whipped around, his big hand clamping over the wounded man's lips.

Lady Sybil stiffened. “What was that?”

“Oh, my,” said Penelope, having no need to pretend fright. “I pray it was not that horrid mouse again.”

My lady frowned uncertainly. “It did not sound like—”

Desperate, Penelope was inspired and gave vent to a gigantic sneeze.

Her aunt harboured no fear of mice and was not, in fact, a timid woman. Of one thing, however, she went in mortal terror—disease. She received the full benefit of the sneeze, and she jerked back with a cry of disgust, dabbing at her cheek with a wisp of cambric and lace. “How
revolting!
I should have known better than to come into this filthy room, only to see how you went on. You have got a cold. And you spread your beastly germs all over me!”

“I ab i'deed sorry,” said Penelope, sniffing realistically. “I got so wet this afterdood—but, had Captain Otton not delayed me, I—” She checked, began to wheeze, and let out another horrendous sneeze as my lady sprinted for the door.

In the dressing room, the Corporal bent over Quentin and held a warning finger to his lips. Eyes intent, Quentin nodded.

“Keep to your room!” commanded my lady shrilly, retreating to the hall with her little handkerchief clasped to her nostrils. “Wretched girl! We cannot have everyone in the house stricken with a putrid cold—especially now! Oh, I pray I may not have contracted it!” She slammed the door, wailing, “Simmonds! You must make me a poultice! And I shall take a paregoric draught.
Simmonds!
Do you hear me…?”

The querulous voice faded.

Penelope fairly flew to the dressing room.

Quentin was rational again, but the flush of fever highlighted his gaunt and battered features, and as soon as he saw her he demanded fretfully, “
Now
do you see why I cannot stay here?” He struggled on to one elbow. “Penny, in the name of reason, let Rob help me to—”

“To your death?” she said, smiling as she crossed to his side. “No, sir. I cannot think that at all reasonable. And, do you know, I believe we shall go on famously now that my aunt thinks I've a bad cold. In fact…” she added thoughtfully, “were I to become quite ill, she would avoid me completely, and no one would think it odd for Daffy to be running up and down the stairs with hot soup and an invalid diet.”

Obviously unconvinced, Quentin again tried to speak, but she laid cool fingers across his lips and said gently, “Never worry so. This little room has its own window, as you see, so you will have fresh air and not be obliged to suffocate when the door is closed. I own it will be inconvenient for you, but—”

“
Inconvenient!
What fustian you speak! Madam—
will
you listen? I am—”

“You are weak and tired and ill, sir. If it is the—the proprieties that concern you, never fear. Corporal Killiam will protect me.” She slanted a blushing glance at the dour man and surprised a look of admiration on his face. “And I have my maid, who will chaperone me most respectably. No, no, Major. It is not the least use your scowling so. Your brother has gone,
and
your horses, so—like it or not—here you stay.”

*   *   *

Joseph Montgomery had viewed with indifference the ousting of his niece from the luxurious bedchamber she had previously occupied. In the matter of Geoffrey's room, however, he was adamant. He lost no opportunity to inform guests that he “still mourned the boy.” And, he would add sadly, although his wife often requested that the bedchamber at least be tidied (for “dear Geoff,” one had to admit, was never known for neatness), he forbade it. Aside from one or two Holland covers, the room must remain exactly as his gallant nephew had left it. True, months had passed since word of Geoffrey's death had been received but—and here the new Lord Delavale's voice would break—but there was always hope. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that an error had occurred. These things
did
happen in battle. Suppose the poor lad had been badly wounded, perhaps to the point that his mind was impaired? Suppose he should suddenly recover and come home, only to discover that all his familiar belongings had been disposed of and his room beautifully restored but thus rendered quite foreign to him? Such a shock it would be! No—my lord would not hear of it! Not until a full year had elapsed would he admit the folly of optimism. Not until September had come and gone would he abandon the hope that his “beloved nephew” might still return to reclaim the title and the inheritance which Joseph would “so joyously” relinquish.

Depending upon the nature of his hearers, his lordship might be obliged at this point to turn away and blow his nose. It was a moving performance and one that had caused several kindly souls to admire such unselfish devotion. The first time Penelope had chanced to witness it, she had been so astounded she had laughed, shocking the company and earning for herself a later reprimand so furious that she had retreated to her chamber and wept. She had never again commented upon the little drama although it had been frequently re-enacted, but that Joseph should bother to stage so hypocritical a scene, being fully aware of how Geoff had loathed him and his wife, disgusted her.

Tonight, for the first time, she was grateful for her uncle's duplicity, and she sent Daffy to commandeer one of her brother's nightshirts. The abigail scurried off and came back in a few minutes with a nightshirt and dressing gown hidden amongst a pile of sheets and blankets. “To be mended, miss,” she said with a conspiratorial wink.

Killiam answered Penelope's scratch at the door. “How is he?” she asked, as Daffy handed him the bedding.

“I got him stripped down and bathed, ma'am.” Killiam eyed the nightshirt uneasily. “I still think as how it'd be best was he fully dressed, just in case.”

“Are his clothes wearable?”

For answer he excused himself, closed the door briefly, then reappeared holding the clothes Quentin had worn. Penelope flinched as she took those dirty bloodstained rags. “We shall certainly manage to find something better than these,” she promised in a rather cracked little voice.

He thanked her, but after he had closed the door she still stood there, staring down at the rags she held.

Watching her, Daffy's loyal heart sank. She was deeply fond of her young employer and scarcely a night passed but that she asked St. Francis to please send Miss Penny a good husband. Someone in heaven must have become muddled. She'd put in a request for a strong, kindly, reasonably well-circumstanced man—not for a hunted, badly hurt fugitive with no future but the gallows. The sooner Major Quentin Chandler left Highview, she thought, the better for all concerned.

Penelope looked up, saw her abigail's concerned expression, and smiled rather lopsidedly. “Dare we burn these, do you think?”

“I don't think we got much choice, miss. Here—I'll do it. You get ready for bed. Proper wore out, you look.”

“No, I'll be all right, but the Major must have food. Gruel would be best, but—do you think you could bring something?”

Daffy said staunchly that she could bring up a suckling pig did she set her mind to it, and hurried out.

Not until the abigail mentioned bed had Penelope realized how tired she was, but she could not prepare for sleep yet. She carried the rags to the grate and poked up the few coals that glowed there, contriving to awaken a flame. She had to dangle the garments on the end of the poker to get them to burn, and the shirt slid off at one point, smothering the fire and sending a great gout of smoke billowing into the room. She was still coughing and rubbing her reddened eyes when Daffy came back, carrying a laden tray.

“Oh, crumbs,” she exclaimed, setting her burden on the small table. “You got 'em to burn all right, didn't you, miss? Best open the window a minute.” She hurried to do so, admitting a cold blast of air, and flapping her apron at the smoke.

Penelope investigated the contents of the tray, discovering a large bowl of soup, several thick slices of bread and butter, a plate of sliced cold pork and mustard pickles, two pieces of gooseberry pie, and a pot of tea. “How splendid!” she cried. “However did you manage it? No one suspects?”

Daffy gave a disdainful snort. “That lot? There's a new kitchenmaid named Betty who's a nice little thing, but the rest of 'em got more hair than wit. They're all conflummerated because the word's got out there was a rebel in the house. Most of the men are out hunting and hoping to get rich, and Mrs. King's so busy making eyes at Hargrave she don't see anything else! I told 'em that you was feeling poorly, and that milady was fearful of your germs, so you'd be like to keep to your bed for a day or three.” She closed the window and turned with a grin. “That Bessie Simmonds come upstairs with me, fetching a poultice for her la'ship. She heard you coughing, miss. Lor', but you should've seen her run! Fair galloped past your door, she did, like you'd got the bucolic plague rather than a cold.”

“Oh—
what
a piece of luck,” exclaimed Penelope, overlooking the medical lapse.

“Aye, miss, and about time!”

They delivered the soup and half the food to the Corporal, who received it gratefully, then returned to the small fire to share their supper. They had not quite finished when a knock sounded. Daffy gave a squeak and sprang up, snatching her apron to her mouth as was her habit when distressed. Fearing her uncle had returned, Penelope also started up in alarm, then realized the knock had come from the dressing room, not the hall. Weak with relief, she called, “Come in,” and the Corporal entered cautiously, apologizing for disturbing the ladies and expressing the hope he'd not startled them.

“Oh, no,” said Daffy with heavy sarcasm as she pressed one hand to her bosom. “Me poor heart jumped right up into me head, is all!”

“Likely more room for it up there,” the Corporal allowed, his interested gaze on the affected area. Daffy's flood of indignation brought a twinkle into his blue eyes, and he said to Penelope, “Major Chandler sends his respects, ma'am, and would take it kindly could you look in on him for a minute—seeing as he's presentable now.”

When Penelope crept into the tiny room, however, Quentin had dozed off. The truckle bed was too short for his height, and his feet stuck over the end. She crept closer, scanning him anxiously. The thick auburn hair was still wet from the Corporal's efforts and clung in damp curls against his forehead. Suffering and hardship had etched deep lines beside his nostrils and between his brows; he looked older, and so ill and exhausted that her heart twisted. Who would have dreamed, she thought sadly, that the dashing carefree youth of five years ago could be reduced to this frail and helpless fugitive? He was certainly a far cry from the dauntless hero she'd dreamed would ride up someday to claim her for his bride.… And yet, if anything she loved him the more and could only be grateful that she had been here to help when he so needed her.

As though he sensed her presence he opened his eyes, and the immediate frown of pain eased into a warm smile. He stretched out one thin hand and, grasping hers, touched it to his lips, murmuring such an abject flood of gratitude that she warned him to desist before she was obliged to have such a pest removed from her room.