The Duke's Messenger (23 page)

“Don’t worry,” he told her gently. “Trust me.”

She thanked him, and rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Tom would indeed take care of it, as he always had — except for the occasions when he was not to be found.

He knew of her love for Rowland, and he had assured her that her happiness was paramount with him. Trust him, he had urged her. She did not know exactly how he would manage, but in the morning, she was enlightened, and not with pleasure.

Tom was gone.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Tom gone! And Aston with him!

It was outside of enough. Nell had enjoyed just hours ago that intimate conversation with him, curious because it was perhaps the first time in their lives that the brother and sister had talked like adults — even like reasoning adults — without acrimony and without squabbling.

But even as gratifying as their closeness had been, he had not confided in her his intention to leave the little group behind. In fact, she had plainly indicated her expectation that he and his man Aston would join their party, thus decreasing its vulnerability to attack. And the wretch had said nothing about abandoning them to their fate!

What of the parcel?

He must have informed his aunt of his intentions. Nell swept into her aunt’s sitting room, her indignation apparent even in the swirl of her skirt. “Aunt, why did Tom leave? And without telling me?”

The room was small. In fact, Phrynie thought as she looked up from her
book
—
Waverly
,
or
’Tis
Sixty
Years
Since
, by an unknown author — the room was too circumscribed to contain the vigorous young lady who glared at her and demanded information.

“Did he not tell you?” said Phrynie. “No need to fly up into the boughs, my dear. He told me nothing. I wonder…” She pondered a moment. “He did come upstairs to see me last evening, before you came up. He was excessively restless, even for a man like him who has no fixed purpose in life. I should not have been surprised had he called for his horse on the instant. Like young Lochinvar, you know, riding out of the west.”

“What has
Marmion
to do with anything?” cried Nell, exasperated.

“I really don’t know,” mused Phrynie. “Only this new book by that mystery man —
Waverly
— and I was able to find a copy just before we left, for it is in great demand, and for some reason my mind runs along Scott’s long ballads. All right, I know that Tom is worrying you.”

“Doesn’t his unconscionable departure distress you in the least?”

“I think not,” mused Phrynie. “For you must know, I expected nothing from him in the first instance.”

“I did. I expected him to travel with us, as he intended from the beginning.” Phrynie laughed, and Nell, calmer now, had to smile. “I know — it was I who intended, not Tom.”

“From the beginning, Tom’s company was the vital part of your plan, you know, and I went along with the notion, even though of all persons I have ever been acquainted with, Tom is perhaps the least to be relied up. Unless, of course, one considers his father, but I admit I am prone to bias on that account.”

Nell, seized with fresh insight, could have told Phrynie why she had allowed herself to throw common sense out of the window and be persuaded to embark on this journey. Phrynie went along for the simple reason that she too found London dull and the prospect of the holidays in Essex quite without appeal. She longed for bright lights and music and dancing, and at this time only Vienna could provide such pleasures. She refrained from saying so.

“Well” — Phrynie sighed — “it’s not to be helped, I suppose. If Tom has gone, that is one more instance of his complete disregard for his family. I shall be relieved, Nell, when you are safely wed — and creditably too — and away from your brother’s authority. Although, to tell the truth, I never thought he had much.”

“You did not see him dealing with the innkeeper, arranging for Reeves’s care. I would, not have believed his competence myself, had I not seen it. He was quite a different person.”

“Unfortunately,” said her aunt, “his alteration did not survive long.”

Nell was desolate. “I did not think my own brother would abandon me.”

“One might think anyone out of their wits to stay in this inn,” Phrynie pointed out, “and I cannot fault Tom for departing. But I do feel he is much to be blamed for leaving us behind. When do you think we may ourselves leave?”

“I could drive the coach myself, if it were needed.”

“No, thank you, my dear,” said Phrynie firmly. “I do not choose to place my life and limbs at the mercy of a driving pupil of your father’s.”

“Our old coachman taught me!”

“Ah, yes, I recall you informed me so. And you did well in the emergency, I give you that. But nonetheless, child, I have the liveliest sense of what our friends in Vienna might say, were you to arrive in sole charge of a four-in-hand. It would take more than even my
cachet
to deliver us from such a
contretemps
.”

Nell relented. “He says he will be quite restored by tomorrow.”

Phrynie raised an eyebrow. She was troubled and did not quite understand the cause. Nell had subsided on the subject of Foxhall, and, equally, gave evidence of more time spent with their equivocal coachman than was seemly.

But soon they would arrive in Vienna, she thought with relief, and “dear Rowland” would bring Nell to her senses. She understood Nell better than the child thought. Phrynie recalled with some nostalgia, even from this distance in years, a certain groom who had been told to accompany her when she rode out in the moorings, even before her first Season in London. She could even yet bring to mind his chestnut hair, his tufty eyebrows, and those speaking brown eyes — much like, she mused, a crafty fox. Enough of memories!

“I shall visit Reeves myself,” said Phrynie. “There are a few questions I should like to ask him.”

Lady Sanford, with only a token rap on the door, swept into Reeves’s room. “Reeves, I hope I see you better?”

He was dressed and sitting in a chair. His pallor was pronounced, but his eyes were steady and without fever glaze. His glance slid past Lady Sanford, to find, with obvious satisfaction, the figure of Nell behind her.

He made a movement to rise, but Phrynie forestalled him with a gesture. “I am tolerably improved,” he said carefully. It occurred to Nell again that he walked a narrow line between broad country and butler, so to speak. His dilemma served him right — he gained much amusement from Nell, she knew, but her aunt was a different matter entirely, formidable and shrewd. Let him wriggle on that hook!

“Enough to take again to the road tomorrow?” He nodded. “Very well. Now, Reeves, I shall wish to know the full extent of your knowledge of the road ahead to Vienna.”

Reeves frowned. “Your ladyship is not pleased with our progress?”

“I have had the strongest suspicion, Reeves, that you do not know at any moment precisely where we are. We have fallen into low, despicable posting houses and eaten such dreadful meals. I am persuaded that you have for the most part been wandering at random, taking any track that appealed to you. Am I correct?”

Suddenly Reeves seemed transformed. It was clear that he recognized his employer’s right to be informed. His attitude now was that of one expert discussing a slightly knotty problem with another.

“Very good, my lady,” he said, pulling himself erect in the chair. “I believe — in fact I know — we have now joined a main road from the north. This village is at the crossroads. The route will cross the Danube River downstream into Austria. However, I believe the crossing is at least two days’ journey from here.”

Where was the “thankee kindly” of yore? wondered Nell.

“Then,” said Phrynie, “our journey should be much more comfortable henceforth.”

“Comfortable?”

“Now that we are on a main road.”

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but we shall not travel on the main road. I merely answered your inquiry as to where we are at the moment.”

A dangerous light flared in Lady Sanford’s eyes. Stuston would have driven the coach over the tops of the Alps had Lady Sanford instructed him to do so. Here was a mere temporary coachman, of whose virtues she was not convinced, telling her how she was to go on. It was not to be borne!

“And,” she said in a soft but minatory tone, “why not?”

He answered, apparently at a tangent. “This land we are crossing is cut up into small countries, provinces, some not so large as the holdings of some English landowners. I myself Oh —” He stopped short, as though he had caught himself on the verge of making a bad mistake.

“So,” urged Phrynie, “what of these provinces?”

“Well, my lady, each of them thinks it is a sovereign nation, so to speak, with its own government, and particularly its own customs.”

“Customs? Nonsense. We are merely passing through. What do the customs of the country have to do with us?”

“Not that kind of customs, my lady. These customs levy duties,
douanes
, geld whatever you wish to call them.” “I shall call them outrageous!”

“But I did not think,” continued Reeves, as though she had not spoken, “that it would be agreeable to two ladies of such quality to see their — pray forgive me — intimate apparel in the rough hands of rude customs officers.”

“I should say not,” agreed Lady Sanford, faintly.

“To say nothing of your ladyship’s jewels,” Reeves went on inexorably. “And many items, like gems or fine fabrics, are confiscated out of hand.”

“I should speak in very strong terms to my ambassador!”

“My lady, there is no English ambassador in these tiny countries. And traveling is excessively expensive as it is. I do not wish to hire additional cattle, for if I did, your ladyship would have to pay excessive
postgeld
, or horse hire. There would be
Schossegeld
to pay were we to travel on turnpikes, or
Schwagergeld
to pay the postilions. As it is, you have paid
Schmiergeld
for the greasing of the coach wheels at every inn stop. And
Trinkgeld
for the ostler to wet his throat…”

Lady Sanford was appalled. “I did not know this, Reeves. But let me understand this. You have taken us across roads that were no more than cart tracks, through forests full of wolves, installed us in hovels disguised as hostelries — I vow I have lost a stone on this journey — all to avoid customs?”

He bowed his head in agreement. At least, thought Nell, no customs men had opened their baggage, and the parcel, as well as the jewels, was still safe.

“You know suitable byways, then, to serve us the rest of the journey?”

“I shall do my best,” said Reeves.

*

Lady Sanford left then, presumably to return to Waverley, the Laird of Balmawhapple, and Bailie Macwheeble. Nell was thankful that the unknown author could spin a tale fit to beguile her aunt. The journey would have been unendurable for Phrynie otherwise, and she might well have passed her irritation on not only to Mullins but to Nell.

Nell recollected her aunt’s conversation at breakfast that very morning.

“I do not scruple to tell you, Nell,” her aunt had informed her, “that I shall endeavor never to embark on such another miserable, wretched journey for the remainder of my life!”

“Aunt! I was persuaded you were enjoying this gypsy life.”

“You thought no such thing,” retorted Phrynie. She lapsed into a reminiscing mood. “I admit there have been several points of some interest!” Suddenly she smiled mischievously. “Nell, to be honest, I wouldn’t have missed this for a good deal. We may be killed on the road, or — or savagely attacked by wild men or wolves — but at least it’s better than moldering away by the chimney nook.”

Diverted, Nell had asked with genuine interest, “Do you know what a chimney nook is?”

“Of course I do. Many of Sanford’s tenants, when they were old and their teeth were gone, mumbled’ all the day in the chimney nook of their cottages. Dreadful! I often thought I should quite probably leap off Westminster Bridge before I arrived at that condition.”

Nell reached to touch her aunt’s hand. “You’ll always be a great beauty,” Nell told her. “Something about the bones of your face, I believe.”

“Don’t flatter me,” said Phrynie, insincerely.

Now, Nell lingered in Reeves’s small room, loath to leave. “What will you do when we reach Vienna?” she asked.

“Would you be wanting a coachman on your return?”

“I do not know my aunt’s plan,” said Nell. Suddenly amused, she told him, “After we landed in Calais, from the ferry, you know, she said she would never again set out to sea. We may in that case never leave Vienna!”

“Would you like that?”

She hardly knew how to answer him. She had recognized along the way that given a preference, she would be content to abjure urban life forever. She liked, as did her aunt, amusement and music and the stimulation of witty companions — but in the long run, she knew they would pall. Someone like the Comte de Pernoud, for example, would repel her even in the short run.

She took so long to answer Reeves that he was moved to speech. “It did seem to me,” he ventured, “that you are more than ordinarily familiar with country ways. Miss.”

She nodded slowly. She recognized that this was a special moment — that Reeves was demanding that she look at herself more discerningly than she ever had. And for reasons that did not appear clear, she knew that she wanted — even needed — to be honest with him.