A Rose in Winter (2 page)

Erienne closed the door and leaned against it as she frowned at Farrell. He had caught his good arm about the balustrade and was trying to steady himself while he tugged feebly at the ties of his cloak.

"Eriennie, give yer li'l Farrell a hand with 'is rebesh... uh... rebelush garment. It willn't leave me as I bid it." He grinned apologetically and lifted his crippled arm in helpless appeal.

"Fine time for you to be coming home," she admonished, helping him out of the recalcitrant cloak. "Have you no shame?"

"None!" he declared, attempting a gallant bow. His efforts caused him to lose his precarious balance, and he began to totter backward.

Erienne quickly caught a handful of coat and wedged a shoulder beneath his arm to steady him, then wrinkled her nose in distaste as the stench of stale whiskey and tobacco smoke filled her nostrils. "The least you could have done was to come home while it was still dark," she sharply suggested. "Out all night drinking and playing your games, then you sleep the day through. Have you no better pastime?"

" "Tis pure folly that I've been hindered from honest work an' from holdin' me own in this family. You can blame it on that Seton devil, you can. He did this to me."

"I know what he did!" she rejoined crisply. "But that's no excuse for the way you're carrying on."

"Cease yer harpin,' wensh." His words were more than slightly slurred. "Ye're gettin' to sound more like an ol' maid ev'ry day. A good thing Father has it in mind to marry ye off afore too long."

Erienne ground her teeth in mute rage. Catching a firmer grip on his arm, she tried to direct him into the parlor but staggered as he leaned heavily against her. "A pox on the both of you!" she snapped. "One as bad as the other! Marry me off to any rich man who comes along so you can carouse your lives away. A fine pair you are!"

"So!" Farrell jerked his arm free of her and accomplished an adroit quick step for several paces into the parlor. When he regained his footing on the treacherously heaving floor, he faced his sister and timed his sway like any seasoned salt to the slowing motion of the room. "You resent my sacrifice for your honor," he charged, trying to fasten an accusing eye on her. The task proved beyond his present capability, and he yielded to let his unruly gaze roam where it would. "Me and Father only wants to see ye fairly wed and safe from wayward rogues."

"My honor?" Erienne scoffed. Setting arms akimbo, she regarded her brother with something between tolerance and pity. "If you'd care to remember, Farrell Fleming, 'twas Father's honor you were defending, not mine."

"Oh!" He was at once apologetic and humble, like a small boy caught in a prank. "Tha's right. 'Twas Father." He stared down at his lame arm, swinging it forward to draw her attention to it so he might elicit as much sympathy as possible.

"I suppose in a small way it was also for me, because I bear the Fleming name," Erienne mused aloud. "And after Christopher Seton's slander of it, 'tis hard to ignore the gossip."

Thoughtfully she gazed once more at the rainswept landscape beyond the spattered panes, paying little heed to her brother, who was carefully weaving his way toward a whiskey decanter he had spied on a side table. Much to her disappointment, she saw the bridge was still intact, evidenced by the passing of the lone rider over its cobbled surface. The man appeared in no special hurry, but came steadily on, as if undaunted by the drizzle and assured of all the time in the world. Erienne wished it could be so with her. Heaving a sigh, she faced Farrell and immediately stamped a slender foot in vexation. He had set out a glass and was trying to work the stopper from the decanter with his good left hand.

"Farrell! Haven't you had enough?"

"Aye, 'twas Father's good name I was tryin' to defen'," he mumbled, never pausing in his labor. His hand was shaking as he slopped the glass full. Memory of the duel haunted him. Over and over he heard the deafening roar of his own pistol firing and saw the astonishment and horror on the judge's face as the man stood with the kerchief still in his raised hand. The sight was permanently impressed on his mind, yet at the time he had felt a strange mixture of horror and a blossoming glee when his opponent stumbled back clutching his shoulder. The blood had quickly seeped through Seton's fingers, and Farrell had waited in frozen expectancy for him to crumple. Instead, the man steadied himself, and the surge of relief Farrell had briefly known was abruptly washed away in a tide of cold sweat. The full folly of firing before the signal was given struck him when Seton's weapon slowly raised, for the bore of the pistol halted dead center on his chest.

"You challenged a man well beyond your experience, all because of a game of cards," Erienne chided.

The buzzing in Farrell's head forbade the penetration of his sister's words. Paralyzed by the scene that slowly unfolded in his mind, he saw only the gaping bore that had threatened him that early morn, heard only the thunderous beating of his own heart, felt only the gut-wrenching terror that now tormented his waking hours. On that chilly morn the sting of sweat had been in his eyes, but he had been too frightened even to blink, afraid that the slightest movement would bring a deathbound ball to slay him. The splintering panic had saturated him and torn at his nerve ends until with a bellow of helpless rage and frustration, he had raised his arm and hurled the empty weapon at his foe, never realizing that the sights of the other's pistol were already lifting to a point above his head.

Another explosion of sound had shattered the silence of that early dawn and buried it beneath an avalanche of echoes, turning Farrell's bellow of rage into a shriek of agony. The tearing shock that had seared through his arm had left a burst of white-hot pain throbbing in his brain. Before the smoke had cleared, he had fallen to the chilled, dew-laden greensward and there had writhed and moaned in utter torment and defeat. A tall, silhouetted shape had approached to stand just behind the kneeling form of the surgeon attending his arm. Through the haze of pain he had recognized his tormentor framed against the misty light of the rising sun. Christopher Seton's composure had done much to shame him, for the man calmly attempted to stem the flow of his own blood with a cloth tucked inside the shoulder of the coat.

Farrell had realized in the midst of his pain that by taking an unfair shot he had lost far more than the duel. It was a devastating blow to have one's reputation ruined so completely. No one would accept a coward's challenge, and he found no safe haven from the condemnation of his own mind.

" 'Twas the lad's own foolishness that caused the wound." Seton's words came back to plague him, drawing a whimper of despair from his lips. The man had stated it out boldly. "If he hadn't thrown his pistol, mine would not have discharged."

The judge had replied in a similarly distant and hollow tone. "He fired before I gave the signal. You could have killed him, Mr. Seton, and no one would have questioned it."

Seton had growled his answer. "I'm not a slayer of children man."

"I assure you, sir, you are blameless in this matter I can only suggest that you hie yourself from here before the boy's father arrives and causes more trouble."

To Farrell's way of thinking, the judge had been too forgiving. The desire to make it understood that he was not of the same gracious mood had roiled through him, and he had screamed a string of foul curses, venting his helpless rage on the man rather than face the truth of his own cowardice. Much to his chagrin, the insults had produced nothing more than a bland smile of contempt from his opponent, who had strode away without giving him further heed, as if he were a child to be ignored.

The torturous vision retreated, and reality returned with its hard facts. Farrell faced the full glass before him, but his trembling knees could scarcely bear his weight, and he could not afford to give up the support of his good arm long enough to lift the whiskey to his lips.

"You mourn your terrible loss." Erienne's words finally claimed his attention. "And you're ready to count your life done at two years short a score. You'd be far better off had you left the Yankee alone instead of playing the outraged rooster."

"The man's a liar, and I called him out for it, I did." Farrell cast about for a haven and saw a welcome chair nearby. '"Twas Father's honor and good name I sought to defend."

"Defend, bah! You're crippled for your effort, and Mr. Seton has not retracted one word of his accusation."

"He will!" Farrell blustered. "He will, or I'll... I'll..."

"You'll what?" Erienne questioned angrily. "Lose the use of your other arm? You'll get yourself killed believing you can go against a man with Christopher Seton's experience." She threw up a hand in disgust. "Why, the man is nearly twice your age and sometimes I think twice your wit. You were foolish to go after him, Farrell."

"The devil take ye, wench! Ye mus' think the sun rises and sets for yer lordly Mr. Seton."

"What do you say?!" Erienne cried, aghast at his accusation. "I've never even met the man! The most I know about him is some gossip I've heard, and I can't very well rely on that for accuracy."

"Oh, I've heard it, too," Farrell sneered. "Every li'l gatherin' o' twitterin' females is abuzz Trout the Yankee an' his money. You can see the gleam o' it in their eyes, but without it, he's no better'n anybody else. An' experience? Huh! I've probably had as much."

"Don't you dare brag about those two you nicked," she snapped back in irritation. "No doubt they were more scared than hurt and in the long run just as foolish as you are."

"Foolish, am I?" Farrell tried to straighten himself to display his outrage at such an insult, but a loud belch seemed to deflate his purpose, and he slumped toward the table again, mumbling in self-pity. "Leav' me be, wench. Ye've attacked me jn an hour o' weakness an' exhaustion."

"Hah! Drunkenness, you mean," she corrected acidly.

Farrell stumbled to the chair and fell into it. He closed his eyes and rolled his head on the padded back. "Ye take 'at rogue's side agin yer own brother," he moaned. "If Father could only hear ye."

Erienne's eyes flared with bright sparks of indignation. In two steps she was before his chair, catching the lapels of his coat. Braving the rank fumes that issued from his sagging mouth, she bent toward him.

"You dare accuse me?" She shook him until his eyes rolled in confusion. "I will tell you simply, Brother!" Her words were spat out in a half-hissed, half-snarled torrent of verbiage. "A stranger sailed into these northern climes, setting everyone's eyes agog with the size of his merchant ship, and the third day after his arrival in port," she jerked the coat and Farrell in it to underscore her facts, "he accused our Father of cheating at cards. Whether true or false, he had no need to bleat it aloud for all to hear, causing such a panic among the merchants of Mawbry and Wirkinton that even now Father fears they'll throw him into debtor's prison for the notes he cannot pay. Aye, and 'tis for the ease of this predicament that he seeks to marry me off. The wealthy Mr. Seton can hardly care about the havoc he has brought upon this family. I will indeed hold the man responsible for all he's done. But you, my dear brother, are an equal fool, for a heated denial and a failure to enforce it only strengthen the other's cause. Such men are better dealt with in calm deliberation, not youthful bravado."

Farrell stared at his sister in stunned amazement for this attack on his person, and Erienne realized he had heard nothing of what she had said.

"Oh, what's the use!" She pushed him back in disgust and turned away. There seemed to be no effective argument that would point out the folly of his ways.

Farrell eyed the brimming glass of whiskey and licked his lips, wishing she would bring him the drink. "You may be a couple years older'n me, Erienne." He was extremely weary. His mouth was cotton thick, and it took an effort to speak. "But tha's no cause to rant at me as if I were a child." Tucking in his chin, he mumbled glumly to himself, "Tha's what he called me... a child."

Erienne paced before the fireplace, seeking that elusive rationale with which she could affect her brother's reason, until a soft sound halted her, and she turned to find Farrell's head lolling limply on his chest. The first low snore quickly deepened into a rich, sonorous example of the art, making her crushingly aware of her blunder in not seeing him directly to his room. Silas Chambers could arrive momentarily, and her pride would pay a heavy toll beneath his scornful smirk. Her only hope would be her father's speedy return, but that too might prove to be a double-edged sword.

In the next halting moment, it dawned on Erienne that the leisurely clip-clop of hooves that had sounded outside for the past moment or two had ceased in front of the cottage. Erienne waited tensely for some indication of the rider's whereabouts, and doom descended when a heel grated on the step, closely followed by a loud rap on the door.

"Silas Chambers!" Her mind leaped apace with her nerves. Glancing wildly about, she wrung her hands in distress. How could his arrival be so ill-timed?

In frantic haste she ran to Farrell and tried to rouse him, but her best effort failed even to interrupt his measured snores. She caught him under the arms and attempted to haul him up, but alas, it was like trying to hoist a loose bag of heavy stones. He slumped forward and slid to the floor, sprawling in a limp, disorganized heap as the room echoed again with the caller's insistent knock.

Erienne had no choice but to accept the obvious. Perhaps Silas Chambers was not worth her concern, and she'd even be grateful for the blighting presence of her brother. Still, there was a reluctance to lend herself and her family to the ridicule that would surely follow his visit. Hoping at least to hide her brother from the casual eye, she pulled a chair around in front of him and spread a shawl over his face to soften the snores. Then with calm deliberation she smoothed her hair and gown, trying to squelch the anxieties that remained. Somehow it would all work out for the best. It just had to!