Cherished Enemy (11 page)

“I have no need for consolation,” said Rosamond. “Such sentiments are stern perhaps, but to my mind, perfectly well justified. Do you fancy ladies to be unpatriotic, sir?”

“I—ah—if this is your foul hound, madam, nothing would surprise me!”

She levelled her sweetest smile at him. “What a
very
charming house this is.”

“And the garden is enchanting,” declared Mrs. Porchester. “Everything so tastefully planned and laid out. Beauty wherever one looks! You are to be commended, sir. To be commended! 'Tis a joy to the eye and a delight to the soul.”

“Which is more than I can say, madam,” growled the proud home owner with slightly less venom, “for that repulsive—”

“Now, now. You must not blame Dr. Victor,” interposed Rosamond demurely.

Victor gave her a level glance over the leafy spray he had taken up. “Only look at this, ma'am,” he said, pointing out the pink-and-white bloom.

“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Porchester, ecstatic. “
What
a dainty plant! How is it called, Mr.—er…”

“Whipley, ma'am. Egbert Whipley. Commodore. Retired.” He glanced from the blossom Mrs. Porchester admired to the bland smile on the face of the young fellow, and a speculative gleam crept into his fierce eyes. “That is a fine example of ah,
Cothurnus paradigma.
”

“
Cothurnus
 … echoed Mrs. Porchester uncertainly, and turned to Dr. Victor. “Do pray enlighten us, dear Doctor, for I know you speak Latin like a native. Like a native! What is a—er, co-thingumajig?”

The commodore levelled a challenging glare at the physician.

Meeting that glare steadily, Victor murmured, “I believe it means—Twining—er, Splendour. Extreme rare, is it not, sir?”

“Extreme,” the commodore confirmed, tugging at his whisker while continuing to stare hard at Victor. “And exceeding costly. Your dog, sir—”

“Quite. Wherefore, I shall insist upon recompensing you for any damage.”

“Har-rumph,” said the commodore and mumbled that he hoped he'd not been over-hasty, nor upset the ladies.

“It has been most instructive,” said Estelle, earning a sidelong glance from Victor that brought a twinkle to Rosamond's eyes. “And you
will
allow us to buy some cuttings of your—er, Shining Splendour, will you not?”

“Interested in gardening, are you, ma'am?”

“Passionately! I delight to assist my brother in the care of our flower-beds, is that not so, Rosamond? I delight in it!”

“You most certainly do,” agreed Rosamond, her eyes brighter than ever.

“Well…” said the commodore, pursing his lips. “I
might
allow you to buy some, though I usually refuse to part with any of my stock. But—I warn you, they're costly. Very.”

Sitting on the bench in the shade of the apple tree a short while later, Rosamond was beginning to be drowsy and to feel the heat of the mid-afternoon. She looked up as the doctor came out of the house carrying a tray with a pitcher and glasses. His limp still seemed more pronounced than when they first had met, which caused her to feel a pang of guilt.

“Lemonade,” he announced, setting the tray on the seat and pouring her a glass. “The old boy's housekeeper sent it out. Shall I take some to your aunt?”

She glanced to where Estelle and the commodore had their heads together over a box of cuttings of the Something Shining. “I think 'twould be best to leave them in peace,” she said. And as Victor sat beside her she added
sotto voce,
“The lull before the storm.”

He looked at her curiously. “Your aunt really enjoys to garden? I thought she was merely winning him over.”

“She is almost as rabid as my father. There will be battle royal when she plants her—whatever it is.”

“Scarlet Splendour,” he murmured, pushing away Trifle, who was trying to drink out of his glass. “I suppose I must now beg a bowl of water for you, you misbegotten—” He glanced at the girl and stopped.

She chuckled. “I am really sorry for all the trouble he caused you. He is a wretched dog. I had noticed you limp a little. Did he bite you very badly?”

“Lord no. My limp is a souvenir from—another encounter. And I am amazed to hear you speak of that creature as a dog, ma'am. I think of him more in the light of an unmitigated disaster!”

She wondered what he meant by “another encounter” and, watching him, thought it unfair that this vexing individual should have that particular way of concealing a smile, so that the suggestion of a dimple quivered beside his mouth. And that the sunshine seemed to have banished the storm-clouds in his eyes and awakened such a dance of laughter there. ‘What nonsense!' she told herself, and said hurriedly, “You likely think we
all
are unmitigated disasters.”

He looked thoughtfully at her face, softly splashed by light and shadows. “Not exactly—
unmitigated,
” he demurred, then laughed at her indignation.

5

Their departure from Rye, already late, was further delayed when neither chariot nor coachman could be found. Billy was eventually discovered in a run-down tavern, engaged in uproarious song with two dragoons. He clearly resented Victor's stern scold and asserted sulkily that he was not a man to keep his horses standing, so had repaired to the nearest trough.

“Aye—an ale trough!” snapped Victor. “Outside and on the box, man, before I throw you in the
horse
trough as you deserve!”

Since Billy was taller than the doctor, Rosamond held her breath for an instant, but the inept coachman went whining off in search of his horses and they were soon on the road once more.

Through the late afternoon their way led westwards along the coast. The sea spread like shimmering blue glass toward distant France, the gentle swells bearing no resemblance to the great waves that yesterday had battered the packet so remorselessly. Once past Crowhurst they turned inland across the jut of land that culminated in Beachy Head, progressing steadily through a pastoral tranquillity of rolling turf, the scattered farms and hamlets drowsing under the orange rays of the lowering sun. Yet here also were military to disturb the idyll, and twice they were stopped and asked the same interminable questions, while the coach was searched.

It was dusk by the time they pulled into the yard of a hedge tavern a mile or so east of Lewes. It had been a long day, for they had been up since dawn. Rosamond was stiff and tired, and Mrs. Porchester had been softly snoring for the last hour. Victor dismounted rather wearily and swung open the door.

“Why this place?” asked Rosamond, as he handed her down the steps.

“Because all these delays have brought us in later than I'd hoped, Miss Albritton. Another inspection by dragoons and it would be dark before we reached Lewes, and we might not find accommodations. Better we stay here.”

Mrs. Estelle and Trifle, both yawning, left the chariot, and Victor called to Billy Coachman to take charge of the dog and be ready to leave early in the morning.

The tavern was called The Galleon, and the host was an ex-sailor with a friendly, weathered countenance, one sleeve pinned up, and a plump wife who sent her maids running to fetch hot water and pots of tea to the rooms of the new arrivals.

Estelle had been refreshed by her nap in the carriage, but Rosamond was more tired than she had realized, and was glad to lie down on the soft feather bed in the pretty chintz-hung chamber with the door opened to the tiny parlour between the two bedrooms. Estelle's immediate concern was to provide her box of cuttings with water, as the heat of the afternoon had dried out the soil. She set the box on the floor in a shady corner and peered anxiously at the leaves. “They were so very costly,” she murmured, “I do hope they don't wilt before we get home.”

Rosamond asked sleepily, “How much did Dr. Victor have to pay our fine commodore for the damage Trifle caused?”

“Ten guineas,” said Estelle. “I reimbursed him, of course, but—ten whole guineas! Plus another two for these.”

“Good heavens!” Rosamond sat up. “That
wretched
dog! And I never heard of a few cuttings being so costly!”

“'Tis because they are excessive rare, so the doctor said, and indeed they are so pretty I can well believe it.”

“Well, I hope Papa agrees. And I hope even more that you do not mean to exasperate him, dearest, by planting those solid-gold shrubs where you know he will not like it.”

Mrs. Estelle giggled. “Wherever I plant them will annoy your dear papa, my love. Wherever I plant them. So it makes no odds.”

By the time Rosamond had enjoyed a cup of hot tea, washed, and changed into a cooler gown of pale green muslin, she was feeling much restored. Estelle complained bitterly of the hardships to be endured without a maid, but Rosamond assisted her with her hair and they went down to dinner congratulating themselves that they had managed very well.

Victor had secured a table near a window that opened onto the garden. The mild evening air wafted in, heavy with the fragrance of flowers, and far off they could see lights on the hill where was historic old Lewes town. There were few other diners and they were served promptly with good, if plain, fare. When the second remove was brought in, Victor was called to the stables, where there had been some difficulty with the team. He returned looking stern and with Trifle prancing beside him as full of vigour as though the puppy had not put in a day that would have stretched most full-grown hounds upon the boards. It appeared that one of the horses had thrown a shoe and Billy Coachman had taken it to a smithy to be shod. Not a major problem to Rosamond's way of thinking, but Victor was evidently put out, and as soon as the meal ended he went off to see if the coachman had returned.

Mrs. Porchester decreed they should go early to bed. Trifle had disgraced himself in the stables, so accompanied the ladies to their small suite, where his sleepy owner proceeded to change into her night-rail and open her pots of creams and lotions.

Rosamond, however, was wide awake and, lighting a branch of candles, she sat at the desk and began to record the day's events in her diary. She had only progressed to the scene on the deck of the packet when a piercing shriek made her jump so badly that the quill pen shot into the air, leaving blots all across her neat page.

Trifle had discovered the box of Twining Splendour.

*   *   *

“I had no intention of taking him for a walk,” said Rosamond, strolling with The Arrogant Physician along the winding lane that was obligingly illumined by a low-hanging full moon. “But he—er, made it apparent that he wished to—” She broke off with a shocked cry as she was seized in a steel embrace and whirled around. The great plume of water that shot up when Trifle bounded exuberantly into the ditch missed her by a whisper. Her protector was less fortunate and she could all but hear his teeth grind as he set her down, took out his handkerchief and began to wipe mud from his cheek.

“I put it to you, Miss Albritton,” he said grimly, “that The Unmitigated Disaster might not do irremediable damage to Lewes were we to slip away and leave him.”

Rosamond had to choke back a laugh as he gingerly removed a very muddy weed from the side of his neck. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she gulped, “I
am
so sorry!”

“Are you. Yet there is a certain unsteadiness about your voice, madam, which causes me to question—”

At this she burst into a merry peal of laughter. She saw his grin gleam and took the handkerchief from his hand. “You
do
always seem to bear the brunt of our disastrous puppy. Pray turn around and let me see…”

The back of his gold velvet coat was liberally splattered. Smothering a moan, she did the best she could and meekly returned his muddy handkerchief.

He enquired sardonically, “Shall I be readmitted to the inn?”

“It is—not quite that dreadful,” she said, avoiding his eyes.

One long finger lifted her chin and he scanned her face narrowly. “I prefer,” he informed her, “not to be cushioned 'gainst tragedy.”

She chuckled. “Very well. Straight from the shoulder, sir. My papa will accept full responsibility, I promise you.”

“A very sly evasion, ma'am. I think you mean that my coat is ruined. And—if this keeps up, your sire may have more to accept … than…”

It was very quiet on the lane, the moon's mellow light painting a silver glow around them as they stood there, facing each other. Somewhere, a nightingale began to sing with exquisite purity, and a soft breeze stirred Rosamond's ringlets against her snowy neck. She thought numbly, ‘'Tis a magical moon. Beware, Rosa!' She reached up to remove Victor's finger from her chin, but did not step back. His hands slipped to her shoulders. He bent lower, and she saw that his eyes were dark and full of wistfulness that for some ridiculous reason caused her heart to start galloping. “You're a disturbingly lovely lass…” he murmured.

‘How dare he?' she thought, not making the slightest attempt to break away. This wretch—this wicked creature she did not even like, meant to kiss her! As if she would permit such outrageous behavior.

He drew her closer, and bowed his head. She lifted her face—only to rebuke him, of course. And the shot rang out. Close and deafening. A hideous shattering of that enchanted moment that sent birds flying up with a whirring of wings, drew a frenzied burst of barking from Trifle, and caused Rosamond to utter a cry of shock that was partly born of a guilty conscience.

Victor jerked Rosamond behind him and spun about in a blur of movement, a long-barreled pistol seeming to leap into his hand as he crouched, facing the direction whence had come the shot.

They heard drums then, in a rapid tattoo, and a confusion of shouts and the sounds made by a large and excited group of men. Frightened, Rosamond shrank closer to the doctor. He grasped her arm and pulled her roughly into the dense shadow of the hedge.