A Loyal Companion (6 page)

I
was taught that honesty means I am not to sleep on the furniture, even if no one is home. Honesty means not taking food from the kitchen when Cook isn't looking, unless it falls on the floor. I am a good dog.

Human persons are different. They make laws about honesty and then they break them. Sometimes this is a crime, sometimes not. Poaching happens to be a crime, but it is also dishonest—and confuses the game animals. Squire Randolph was very strict with poachers, yet he had no scruples about telling lies: "Here now, Bossy, we're just going to borrow your pretty little calf." To excuse these moral lapses, humans call them social lies, white lies, flummery. For Spot's sake, even poor colorblind Bossy can recognize a faradiddle when she hears one.

They do it all the time, calling such falsehoods polite fibs: "Delighted to see you. So glad you could call. You are looking lovely. I adored your gift. Please come back soon." Miss Merkle explained that gentlemen and ladies bend the truth a shade here and there so no one's feelings will be hurt. When the knacker comes and they tell the decrepit old plow horse, "Here, boy, we're just going to take a little walk," you know something more than feelings are going to be hurt!

No wonder animals have learned to distrust men. Still, I say don't listen to the words, listen to the heart. An animal can tell the truth. Just like I listened to what Lord Ansel Berke didn't say.

I was waiting in the hall when company came, quiet so Marston would not notice. Having studied under Muffy, I was pretending to be a scatter rug. Not my finest role, but I was not dragged back to the kitchens. Miss Sonia spotted me right away—she always does—when she walked some of the departing guests to the door. As soon as Marston turned his back to fetch Baron Berke's gloves, hat, and walking stick, she introduced us. We shook hands. He patted my head and said, "What a fine dog, Miss Randolph. Smart and handsome." Then he wiped his hands on a cloth.

He did not commit a crime, like stealing eggs from a chicken coop, or a sin, like stealing the chickens. But he does not have a true heart. A dog always knows.

Miss Sonia deserved better, so I had to expand our horizons. Somewhere in this great city of London…

I had never been on foot beyond the park before. Always we went sightseeing in the carriage, and I waited on the box with the driver outside the Tower or Westminster, marveling at mankind's achievements and wondering why they bothered. I could only sniff at the passing strangers from my high perch; now I would be down among them. I was looking forward to exploring on my own while Miss Sonia had her final fittings. Tippy the turnspit dog says there are rats as big as cats!

I saw one myself, a surly fellow with a half-chewed ear. He wouldn't give me the time of day, much less any hints as to where I should begin my search. Muffy was right, city folk aren't as friendly, for even the horses didn't stop when I asked directions. The heavy workers were short-tempered beasts in a great rush to get nowhere that I could tell. The fancier cattle were all twitchy nerves and bunched muscle, ready to explode. I stopped asking. I kept going, following my nose as it were, and oh, the smells! And the sights and the noise and the traffic. Even the air had myriad tastes. And men, hustling, bustling, busy. A few glanced my way, one tried to kick me, another held out a cup—and it was empty! Mostly they were in a hurry. I may have been a tad optimistic about my search.

I always knew where I was, of course. Hadn't I been carefully marking my way? Much too soon, though, I had spent every penny, out of sheer excitement, I suppose, so I decided to return home. But there were buildings in the way and high fences, and alleys no dog should walk down by himself. The smoke was so thick, I could not even sniff my own scent in the air, and a pair of livery horses pulling a hackney poked fun when I asked my way back to Grosvenor Square.

" 'Ere now, who's 'e think 'e is, some poodle wot gets 'is blinkin' toenails painted?"

"Oi say 'e ain't no gennlemun's dog, 'e's one of those baa-baa baby-sitters. Ya wants th' sheep pens out Marlybone way, ya 'airy botfly."

I wished them high hills and heavy loads, then I showed them my heels. Did Diogenes ever get lost?

"Damn and blast! First those fools at the surgeon general's and now this!" The curricle was stuck in traffic, between a mail coach with a bunch of unruly schoolboys on top and a barouche whose high-pitched occupant was obviously no better pleased than the officer at the curricle's ribbons. Most likely some high-priced cyprian en route to her lover, he deduced from the garish red and gold trim on the outside of the expensive turnout, and the unladylike expressions coming from within. The officer cursed again, that he'd have time to listen to the high flyer's entire repertoire before this mess was cleared.

Gads, how he hated the city! He hated everything about it, including those clunches at the War Office who wouldn't send him back to Portugal without the medicos' approval. They, and that popinjay from the Cabinet, wanted him to sell out now that he'd come into the title. As if England needed another blasted nobleman more than the general needed him at the front. As if he ever asked to be earl in the first place. He cursed his brother Milo for up and dying. Well, he'd told them he wasn't selling out yet, and he wasn't using that damned title while he was in uniform. Major Darius Conover, Lord Warebourne whether he acknowledged it or not, was barely holding his high-bred cattle in check, and his temper not at all.

His batman, Sergeant Robb, got down to soothe the impatient bays, and to put a distance between him and the major's ill humor. The major liked to throw things when he was in a taking, and Lord knew, there wasn't much in a curricle to toss.

Church bells chimed the hour, and Major Conover whacked his driving whip onto the floorboards. "Dash it, I told my nieces I'd drive them in the park this afternoon. Now they'll hate me even worse!"

Thinking he might do better to soothe his employer after all, Robb said, "Here now, Major, them tykes don't hate you, they hardly know you. They're just upset, both parents poppin' off like that, and then bein' shipped to relatives what didn't want 'em, and now landin' back here with you. It's no wonder the little ones are confused."

"Confused? That's gammon. The baby Bettina cries if I get near her, Genessa in the middle tries to kick me—my bad leg to boot—and the eldest, Benice, is so stiff and polite, I'm afraid she'll shatter into a million pieces one day." He beat his cane against the curricle's rail. "My blackguard of a cousin Preston and his bitch of a wife set them against me. Confused? I'm the one who should be confused. I've never been around children in my life!"

"You're doin' fine, Major. It just takes time."

"I don't have time, Robby. I want to go back and see Boney put down at last. And it's not as if I'm doing the girls any good here. I even thought of marrying to get them a mother, so I could go back and get myself killed. But no respectable female would have me, with my name as black as mud."

"Not with the army, sir. Why, you're one of the heroes of the Peninsula, Major. I 'spect that's because you'd go back to all that mud and heat and poor grub, if you had your druthers, rather than stay here and be a nob." The sergeant's dour expression conveyed his own opinion. Lord knew he'd follow the major to hell and back, but Robb figured they'd already been to hell. "I don't see what's so bad about two country properties," he said with the familiarity of shared battlefields, "a huntin' box, the London town house, and a healthy income. Why, you could take a seat in Parliament if you wanted, sir, and get the army boys better rations. So what if some Tulip cut us in the park? At least we don't have to go forage for food."

The major didn't throw his cane. He didn't want to scare the horses. "Stubble it, Robb. Go see what the devil is holding us up."

While his man was gone, Major Conover tried to shut out the bawdy ditties
from the mail coach and the less frequent screeches from the barouche. What was
so wrong with being an earl? How about dragging up all the old scandal, or not
being admitted to his brother's clubs, or his nieces thinking he was so
terrible, he ate children for breakfast? How about not being trained to
administer those vast holdings? How about worrying about the succession? He'd do
anything in his power, including giving up his commission and his career, just
to keep Warebourne and the girls' inheritances safe away from Preston. Tarnation, he'd even marry the lightskirt in the barouche.

He threw his gloves as far as he could. An urchin scooped them up and ran away. Good, let someone benefit from this hellish day.

When the sergeant returned, he related a mingle-mangle of stunning dimensions, even by London standards. A racing phaeton, it seemed, had been tearing down the crowded road at a high rate of speed. The driver, a young cawker who was more than a little on the go, started to take the corner where an organ-grinder and his monkey were working. A dog came out of nowhere and ran between the horses' legs, barking. The spirited horses took exception, but the choice spirit at the reins lost control, so his carriage veered, into the path of an oncoming barrel wagon. The drayman pulled his brake and managed to avoid the curricle, but the barrels started rolling out the back of the wagon. Some split open on hitting the cobblestones, but others rolled merrily along. One hit a vegetable stall on the sidewalk, another exploded a newspaper delivery cart. One barrel headed for the chaise behind, which overturned, dumping out an irate cast from the Italian Opera House. The phaeton and its castaway driver, meanwhile, had continued on out of control, scattering pedestrians and other vehicles until coming to rest, sideways, alongside a poultry cart, with foreseeable results. Beggars and street urchins and nearby residents were all in the road, grabbing up the fallen bounty while shopkeepers and lorry drivers got into fistfights. The local fire brigade was called out to catch the chickens, and the Italian Opera Company decided to conduct an alfresco rehearsal. And the monkey…

"Oh, and the barrels were full of pickled herring. But most of the action was over when I got there," the batman concluded with regret. "They should have it cleaned up in a shake, leastways enough for us to get through. I 'spect they'll be fightin' over who pays for what for the next two years."

They eventually made their way through the scene of the devastation, holding their noses and turning down offers for fresh-killed chickens and kippers wrapped in newspapers. They had to travel slowly around the debris of wagons and carriages, slowly enough for the major to spot the black dog lying in the gutter. He pulled the curricle to the side, receiving one last vulgar imprecation from the passenger in the barouche, which now had to negotiate around them.

"What are you doin', Major? We're late as is."

"Here, take the ribbons. I'm going to see if the dog is alive."

"I 'spect they would have killed it," Robb said, indicating the knot of angry men still arguing with the Watch. "If the horses and barrels and wagon wheels didn't." He took the reins and shook his head as the officer got painfully down from the curricle and limped to the animal sprawled on its side in the filth. Conover pulled a sticky newspaper away from the dog's face and felt its chest for a heartbeat, then ran his hands over the animal's legs. He lifted its eyelids and looked in its mouth.

"Is it dead then?" Robb called.

"No, just in shock. And it's a male. He's got a broken leg, but nothing else I can find. Hand me down the carriage blanket."

"B'gorm, Major, you can't mean to take on some broke-up mutt. It's nothin' but a stray. There's a million of 'em in London."

"Stow it, Robb. Look, he's got a collar, and he's got too much meat on his ribs to be a street dog. Someone took good care of the poor chap once. Now it's our turn."

"But, Major, sir, you wasn't thinkin' of takin' the poor sod home with us, was you? For all you know, it could be mean, or have rabies. Leastways fleas."

Conover was already wrapping the dog in the throw, taking care not to jar the broken leg. "I would have died alone out in that field if those peasants hadn't taken me in. He deserves the same chance. Besides, the children might like him. We always had pets when we were growing up. At least maybe they'll understand why I didn't keep our appointment."

Robb could only shake his head while the major carefully lifted his burden to the carriage seat, then slowly climbed up. "You drive, I'll hold the dog steady," Conover said.

The batman made one more plea for sanity. "But what if he up and sticks his spoon in the wall then? How are those little tykes goin' to feel if somethin' else dies on 'em?"

The major held the dog firmly, stroking his head. With the same tone of voice the officer used to command his men to hold the ranks, to take that hill, he ordered: "He will not die."

"She's the prettiest dog I ever saw. Let's call her Beauty."

"No, I want to call her Bess, after the queen."

From the baby: "Me. Me."

"Beauty."

"I say Bess. Maybe Queenie."

"Mimi! Mimi! Mimi!"

"Ah, sweethearts, those are all good names, but the dog is a, uh, gentleman dog."

Six-year-old Genessa gave him a dirty look. "You're just saying that because you don't like girls."

"I like girls, Gen, truly I do. But the dog is a boy." The major was mopping his brow. Robb was smirking, leaning against the table in the kitchen, where the dog lay on blankets in front of the fire, his leg splinted and wrapped.

"How do you know?" Genessa challenged.

Conover mopped harder. "I just do," he said, in a voice loud enough to make Bettina, the two-year-old, start crying.

Ten-year-old Benice solemnly declared, "If Uncle Darius says he's a boy, Gen, then he must be." But she didn't sound convinced.

Genessa moved to kick her sister, but the major got in the way. "Ouch. Boy dogs are… bigger, sweethearts, and have broader chests and—"

Genessa had already rolled the unconscious dog over. Conover hastily threw another blanket over him.