The Riddle of the Lost Lover (22 page)

“Y-yes. And dash it all, C-Consuela, we shouldn't b-be!” complained Manderville. “Use your—your wits, Jack! The people on the quay know we're British! We'll be l-lucky to get away from here alive, l-let alone go farther inland!”

Troubled, Vespa turned to de Coligny. “Have I already put you at risk, Gaston?”

The chevalier shrugged. “Long ages past the Bretons migrated here from your land, did you not know it?”

Vespa nodded. “From Cornwall and Wales, I believe.”

“Yes. Which is why this peninsula was once called
Petite Bretagne
—or Little Britain. The common folk dislike foreigners, Parisians especially, for throughout our history France has often tried to conquer us. You will think it odd, but I believe my Bretons would be less likely to arrest you, or to blame me for your presence, than they would if you had come from Paris. Still, Manderville is right. To leave my area and travel inland will involve much risk for you,
mon ami.
”

“Perhaps. However, Miss Jones is dark-haired and part-Italian, which would, I believe, guarantee her safety and not endanger you or your family. Gaston—may I impose on you to guard her for me while I go on to Rennes?”

De Coligny looked thoughtfully from one to the other of their anxious faces. He said slowly, “I owe you my life, Captain John Vespa. And as I have said, I am a Breton. Even so, I fought for Napoleon. I will have one thing from you before I answer: your word of honour that your quest has nothing whatsoever to do with this war, and that for France it holds no threat.”

Vespa said fervently, “On my honour, and as God be my judge, I swear it!”

“In that case,” said the Frenchman with a smile, “my home is but three leagues distant, and I am very sure my wife will be delighted to have Miss Jones' company.”

Manderville threw up his hands. “You're
all
mad!” he declared. “S-stark, raving l-loobies!”

*   *   *

The drive to the Château de Coligny was far from comfortable. The road was poorly paved and full of potholes, and the terrain was very ridged. It seemed to Consuela that she was constantly either almost jolted from the seat when the coach was moving down some steep slope, or in danger of having Jack deposited in her lap when they were climbing one of the innumerable hills. The bumpy ride did not disturb Manderville; evidently tired from his impromptu swim, he soon fell asleep.

Vespa wanted to hear more about Consuela's meeting with de Coligny, and the chevalier told laughingly how he had been terrified by her threat to attack him with his own umbrella.

“My lady is an Amazon,
véritable,
” said Vespa, his eyes saying something very different.

Blushing because of that look, Consuela declared, “It was all because of Pierre. He told me
such
a story! He said Monsieur de Coligny was his wicked uncle, who had arranged to have him thrown overboard.”

“In order to seize control of his fortune, no doubt,” said Vespa, amused. “I wonder you believed the little scamp, Consuela.”

The chevalier shook his head ruefully. “He has too much of the imagination, alas.”

“He was certainly very convincing,” said Consuela. “And one does hear of such things. Only think of the little Princes in the Tower, poor boys. I remember when
Nonna
told me about them.…” The words trailed off into silence.

Vespa said gently, “You're thinking of your Grandmama.”

“Yes.” Her lips trembled. “She is—frail, you know. And she will be terribly worried.”

“So I thought, and I left a letter for her with Willy Leggett's brother. With luck it will be in her hands tomorrow.”

“Oh, Jack, how
very
kind.”

He leant forward to kiss the hand she reached out to him, and said with a smile, “I agree that Lady Francesca must have worried. But as for her being frail—never! She is resilient as steel, and I've no doubt that the moment she reads my letter she will have old Watts drive her down to retrieve Corporal.”

“You
found
him?”

“Say rather that he found us, and it is thanks to him that we were able to follow Monteil's coach.”

“Dear little fellow! Then
Nonna
will trust you to rescue me once again, for she will assuredly question Mr. Leggett. Thank heaven! Now I may be easy.”

She was indeed greatly relieved and her buoyant spirit reasserted itself. She was with the man she loved, and things were going so well. Her frightening ordeal in Monsieur Monteil's coach had turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Rennes was not very far away, and with luck, between them they would find Lord Kincraig and their troubles would be over.

It was typical of her to be undismayed by the fact that she was far from home, in an enemy country, and without a chaperone; that she had not so much as a toothbrush or a comb for her hair, and only the clothes she stood up in. She was in Jack's hands and he would take care of everything. Within weeks, perhaps, she would be his betrothed. The one shadow to mar her pleasant scenario was the presence in Brittany of Monsieur Imre Monteil. But once the silly man accepted the fact that the Spring Carpet of Khusraw—ah! She'd remembered the name!— Once he acknowledged that it was no longer in existence, he would take himself and his frightening servant away.

She glanced at her beloved. He and de Coligny were engaged in a low-voiced discussion about Brittany and the plans for its development. She listened drowsily, amused by the expertise with which Jack drew out his companion so that the chevalier did most of the talking. They would probably, she thought, become lifelong friends. Certainly, de Coligny was convinced that Jack had saved his life on the battlefield, and now he was taking a considerable risk in helping them. He was older than Jack by about a decade probably. He was very handsome and must have been hotly pursued during his courting days. If she had met him when he was single … She smiled to herself at such nonsensical thoughts. She liked him very well, but she found him a shade too stiff and rather studiedly dignified. There was no doubt but that he took himself very seriously. She pictured him sitting in judgment in the local
cour d'appel,
if they had such courts in Brittany. He would be grave and distinguished, and look splendid and all the ladies would sigh over him. She wondered what his wife was like, and if she ever did impulsive and reckless things that a lady should not do. Perhaps she was as dignified as her husband.

Glancing at Jack, her heart warmed. He was quick-tempered at times, and might not match the chevalier for looks or dignity, but he was blessed with an underlying strength and compassion. And he had besides a ready sense of humour. How glad she was that he was the man she meant to spend the rest of her life with.

She caught herself up. To be criticizing de Coligny while she sat in his carriage, en route to accept his hospitality, was surely the height of ingratitude. She turned her attention to the window and looked into the grey morning.

She was struck by a pervading impression of emptiness. For mile after mile the land appeared barren, with only sparse vegetation and stunted trees growing in the stony soil. Yet there was no shortage of water, for streams and busy little creeks were rushing about everywhere. Houses were few and scattered, and despite the fact that they were usually situated all alone in the middle of some field or meadow, they were enclosed by low walls with thick hedges growing from the tops as if jealously forbidding the approach of any invasive neighbour. These Bretons, one gathered, liked their privacy. Frequently, a cross loomed up atop some hill, but when she asked de Coligny where so many churches found their parishioners, he replied that most of the crosses indicated only a wayside shrine or small chapel. “They are convenient for travellers or country folk,” he said. “But the
bourg,
or village, churches are very well attended on Sundays.”

Manderville woke up and mumbled sleepily, “Is it Sunday already?”

They all laughed.

Peering through the window he said, “So we're off on Consuela's wild-goose chase, and my sound advice has been rejected. Much chance you have of catching Kincraig now. Don't say I didn't warn you!”

Consuela shivered. It was weak-kneed and silly, but sometimes she was afraid. Her every hope for happiness rested with a mysterious wanderer who was at the very least eccentric. If he should turn out to be hopelessly insane, or if he refused to acknowledge Jack,
Nonna
would never give her consent. To go through life without him … It did not bear thinking of, and she would not dwell upon such terrors. She thought resolutely, ‘We will find Lord Kincraig, and he will be a good and sensible—'

“What a jolly fine animal,” said Vespa.

A man riding a tall black horse came into view briefly, then was gone.

“He must be going in the same direction as we are,” said Consuela. “I saw him soon after we left the port.”

Manderville said, “I see three more riders over there.”

“Your people, de Coligny?” asked Vespa.

“No.” The chevalier looked grim. “They are robbers, most probably. This is not a very safe place to be riding alone.”

“Deserters?”

“Some, yes. But times are hard, the crops are poor, and there is little in the way of law and order here. But have no fears, Miss Jones. My servants are well-armed, and we will be on my preserves in but a few moments. I promise there will be wine and a warm fire, and for poor Manderville, a hot bath.”

“And some breakfast?” asked Consuela, who had suddenly become aware that she was ravenous.

The chevalier said with a smile, “This, too, there shall be.”

*   *   *

When first she saw the towers looming on the hilltop Consuela exclaimed, “Oh, my! It is a castle!” The estate road was better-maintained and they passed through wide fields where men and women laboured at weeding or digging out rocks. The men touched their caps respectfully, and some of the women waved, or bobbed a curtsy as the coach rumbled past. She heard Pierre screaming a demand to be allowed to blow up a hail on the yard of tin. His efforts were faint and discordant, and his father chuckled and said that his son's lungs must grow a trifle before they could master the art. A moment later a strong note was sounded, the coachman having evidently reclaimed the horn.

The carriage jolted into a cobbled courtyard and grooms came running to hold the horses and let down the steps. The walls of the château soared upward, grey and cold and somehow disdainful. A manservant, the butler no doubt, and a footman flung open the front doors. As Consuela was handed from the coach, a lady ran down the steps, and with a glad cry of “Gaston! Gaston! At last!” threw herself into the chevalier's arms.

Surprised that such a passionate embrace would be enacted in front of strangers and the servants, Consuela glanced at Vespa. He grinned, and winked at her. The chevalier looked embarrassed. He murmured something to his wife, and ushered his guests up the entrance steps and into a very large hall where he performed the introductions.

Madame de Coligny was a tall lady, slender and beautiful, with great brown eyes and lustrous dark hair. She responded politely, but she was clearly taken aback by the arrival of unexpected company. Her gaze held on Vespa a shade longer than was proper, then she turned to her husband and exclaimed, “But—Gaston! They are
English!
”

“Yes, my love,” said the chevalier. “Captain Vespa is the man who saved my life at Vitoria, and—”

“Ah!” She held out her hand to Vespa again and said throbbingly, “Then I must be ever in his debt!”

‘Hmm,' thought Consuela.

“I will tell you the whole later, Thérèse,” said the Chevalier. “But see, here is our Pierre, come home to us.”

He gestured, and the boy, who had been hanging back, came forward and bowed.
“Maman,”
he said politely.

Madame Thérèse looked at him appraisingly, and remarked that he had not grown at all. “Nor did your letters tell us very much,” she added. “Did you not like England?”

“More than here,” he said, with a defiance that spoke volumes.

It seemed to Consuela that little swords flashed in Madame's eyes. De Coligny looked annoyed and suggested sternly that his son would want to inspect his own room again.

Manderville sneezed and apologized into his handkerchief. Madame edged away from him uneasily. The chevalier gave orders that his guests be shown to suitable apartments and murmured an aside to his butler concerning the preparation of a hot bath.

Following the footman up the winding stone staircase, Consuela heard Madame Thérèse exclaim a shocked, “They are not
wed?
” She paused, frowning, but Vespa's hand caught her own, and she thought, ‘She does not understand. The chevalier will tell her what happened.'

En route to the first floor she looked about curiously. De Coligny could scarcely be a poor man, but the château had a stark look; walls were unadorned by paintings, and there were no works of glass or sculpture or pottery. The only decoration appeared when they turned on a half-landing where a large crucifix was hung on the wall. At the top of the stairs a long passage stretched out, silent and chill and grey. Vespa's strong clasp on her hand tightened and she clung to him gratefully.

The bedchamber into which she was shown was small and spotlessly clean, but rather dark, with only two tall narrow windows to admit the light. The bed had a medieval-type headboard that reached to the ceiling and was painted in dark greens, black and browns. The floor was bare of rugs, the walls were an unrelieved stone, and the one painting was a Calvary, the detail so gruesome that Consuela had to look quickly away.

“Good gracious!” she exclaimed involuntarily.

His eyes glinting with laughter, Vespa told the footman to go on ahead with Monsieur Manderville. He murmured as they walked away, “Yes, I know what you are thinking, my little rogue, but you will be safe here. And I may be at ease, for Gaston is a perfect gentleman, and will see that you are well cared for.”