Cynthia Bailey Pratt (25 page)

“Not quite,” piped a third voice. Hammond and Jocelyn looked around, startled. Tom and Arnold stood side by side in the doorway. “We’ll help,” said Tom. In their eyes Jocelyn saw with alarm that sparkle of recklessness that seemed a peculiarly Luckem attribute.

Tom said, “I’m sure to get plenty of others along. Just tell us where to go and what to do.”

“Tom,” Jocelyn protested. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“There’s some sort of dustup coming, am I right? Well, my friends and I are always ready for that kind of sport. Horse racing and such is fine. I like it. I’m good at it. It’s just grown a trifle old.”

“All right, then,” Hammond said. “I’ll tell you the story.”

The boys came in and sat by Hammond, watching the older man with fascination. An exchange of looks, the words “Is that so? Well, the old devil,” and a low whistle were their only response to the information that the vicar of their community had turned out to be a thoroughgoing scoundrel. Inwardly Arnold rejoiced. At the very least, this meant no more boring sermons until Libermore found a new vicar.

When Tom again offered himself and his friends, Hammond asked for information about the building where the prince’s dinner was to be held. Tom pulled out several books about the university, one of which contained a map of the Radcliffe Camera, a famous and unusual octagonal structure.

“Nobody’s been allowed near the place since preparations began last week. Philly Munro told me he passed by the other day and saw crates and crates of gold plates being carried in. It’s across from the Bodleian Library and All Souls, and Brasenose is right down the way so they can’t keep students away from there altogether. Of course, they pulled all the books out of Radcliffe and piled them into Bod. Father complained about the trouble he was having finding what he wanted.”

At this Jocelyn made another effort to reach her cousins through their excitement. “Tom,” she said. “What will your parents say?”

“Oh, that’s a good idea. You should talk to them, Mr. Hammond. Mother’s a bang at military tactics, from her studies.”

“I don’t think we need trouble them.”

Jocelyn sat down in the armchair again, defeated. “Won’t it be dangerous?” she said, half to herself.

“Yes,” Hammond said, not looking at her. “Fain could be very dangerous. That’s why I’m going to use Tom to spot him and not you.”

“What?” Jocelyn exclaimed.

“I’ve only seen the man from the far end of a church. I don’t know him near to, and he may be disguised. Tom will spot him for me, won’t you, boy?”

“Yes, sir.” Tom’s expression was mingled seriousness and delight in the fun of the thing.

“You can’t!” Jocelyn exclaimed. “I’ve been beside you since the beginning. You can’t push me out with a pat on the head now.”

“It will be too dangerous for you, and I want you to stay here. Please, don’t argue, Jocelyn. I won’t be able to do my duty if you’re in danger.”

Jocelyn found it difficult to press her point when the reason for his viewpoint was so flattering. She found herself left with nothing to say.

“What about me?” Arnold said, sitting up straight in an attempt to look older.

“You’re to stay and protect your cousin.” The boy looked as if he were about to explode in protest. A stern glance from Hammond silenced him.

Tom looked between his cousin and the stranger with narrowed eyes. It looked to him as if Mr. Hammond were flirting with Jocelyn. He didn’t exactly disapprove, but he didn’t want them to do it in his rooms. With relief, he heard a knock at his door. “That’ll be Grassmore with the tea,” Tom said, going to let his fag in.
They couldn’t possibly flirt and have tea, he thought innocently. “Mr. Fletcher!” he said, falling back into the room.

“Helena!” Jocelyn said, standing up and holding out her arms to her friend.

Helena released Mr. Fletcher’s hand and embraced Jocelyn tenderly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was wrong to frighten you so. I can’t tell you what I must have been thinking. It was like some horrible dream where every friend is an enemy. Please say you forgive me.”

“Of course. Please sit in this chair. Really, Tom,” Jocelyn said, turning on her cousin and wiping away moisture from her eyes. “You should keep your room in better trim. Where are we all to sit?”

“This will do for me,” Mr. Fletcher said, sitting on the worn rug near Helena’s small feet. He took her hand, and she smiled down on him. Hammond cleared his throat.

“Then ... all is well between you?” Jocelyn said hesitantly.

The look of pure happiness on both faces told her that their problems were settled. “I was so foolish,” Helena said. “It’s all been made clear to me now. My bro— Mr. Fain is no relation to me after all.”

“No relation?”

“No. He is only my stepbrother. I didn’t know that. I was only a baby when my mother married his father. I don’t remember Mr. Fain, my stepfather, at all. He died when I was four years old. Besides, this is war, in a way, isn’t it? Though I wasn’t born here, I now feel English to the core.” Mr. Fletcher kissed her hand passionately.

“How do you know all this now?” Jocelyn asked, much moved.

“Lord Ashspring told me.”

“Who?” Hammond asked of Fletcher.

“You know,” Fletcher said cryptically.

Hammond’s eyebrows went up as his eyes opened wide. “The Old Man,” he whispered reverently. “Thank heaven. Where is he? I have news to give him.”

“He’s down in his coach. The stairs were too much for him. Hammond, he doesn’t look very well.”

“He’s all but indestructible, and you know it.” Hammond started for the door.

“Oh,” Fletcher added as an afterthought. “Remember he’s a lord now.” Hammond nodded as he went out.

Jocelyn said, “Is that the ‘Lordship’ you mentioned before, Mr. Fletcher?”

“Yes, Lord Ashspring. The man who has done more for England these last twenty years than all the army and navy blokes, for all their bombast.”

“And more for us,” Helena said gently, squeezing Mr. Fletcher’s shoulder.

Arnold’s eyes were nearly out of his head with wonder at the revelations before him. Tom, never Mr. Fletcher’s pupil, tried to look blasé but only succeeding in appearing disgusted.

In the doorway stood a thin young man with broken glasses, a tea tray trembling in his hands. Jocelyn smiled at him and with another swoop of her arm cleared off the low table in the center of the room. “Set it here, dear,” she said.

“Grassy,” Tom demanded. “Get more cups.”

“Yessur,” his fag replied, his eyes never leaving Jocelyn.

“Show me where they are,” she said. “I’ll help you wash them out.”

When she saw him on his way upstairs, three cups hanging from his hooked fingers, Jocelyn went outside. She crossed the green quadrangle and passed under an arched doorway. The dark coach was drawn up a short distance down the street, horses weary in the shafts. Hammond stood outside it, nodding at someone inside. She approached quietly. “Yes,” she heard Hammond say. “That’s best. Thank you, my lord, thank you.”

He sounded very happy. Jocelyn sighed. He evidently was receiving the recognition and reinstatement he craved. She wished that the thing she wanted was so easily expressed and so readily granted. It was useless now even to attempt to make it clear. Hammond would be on his way shortly to defend Britain’s interest abroad, and whether he went to France or the Kingdom of Peking, she would have no place in his life.

Jocelyn walked to the end of the street. She didn’t want Hammond to think she spied on him. When she came back, passing the carriage for the second time, she heard a voice call from inside it. “Young woman.” She paused, not certain if she heard correctly. “Young woman, come closer.”

Approaching warily, Jocelyn stopped before the crested door. She could not see the occupant but remembered the tiredness conveyed by the single glimpse she’d had of him at the inn.

“What is your name?” the voice asked, rising a tone as if under some stress.

“Jocelyn Burnwell, sir.” Jocelyn peered in the window and saw only an outline of her interrogator, as the curtains on the far side of the coach were drawn.

“So.” That was all. Just one thin breath that scarcely reached her ears. Yet Jocelyn felt a shiver go through her at the sound. It was as if the man inside knew everything about her and was made unhappy by the knowledge. She wondered what Hammond had said and how she could correct the mistaken impression the man in the coach must have of her.

“Oh, please . . .” she began.

The man inside the carriage did not listen. He said, “Tonight I am to attend His Royal Highness at his festivities. There are few things I would dislike more. However, when a sovereign, or someone who might as well be a sovereign, singles you out for honors, it is best to seem grateful. Although no women are to be allowed to join the main party, I am given to understand there is to be a gallery arranged for spectators. If you would like it. . . if it would please you . . . I can arrange for you to be there. It will be tedious, I am certain, but women, especially young women, admire such spectacles. You may bring your young friend Miss Fain, if she wishes it.”

“Thank you. I’d like that very much, my lord.” She rarely did such a thing, but Jocelyn curtsied deeply to the man in the carriage.

“I suppose your mother taught you that.”

“Yes, sir. She did.”

“Some day . . . some day you shall tell me of her.” A cane thumped the carriage floor. The driver shook his reins, and Jocelyn stepped back.

Chapter Sixteen

Above the crowd rose the vast columned roundness of the Radcliffe Camera. The people were waiting to see their prince and the foreign czar accompanied by his fierce, legendary guards, the Cossacks. Between the crowd and the building stood a circle of students, their strong young arms linked. Despite the eager pushing of the raucous crowd, the circle remained unbroken, for an arm that can lift fifty pounds of books can resist pressure for a long time. In their black gowns they looked like a circle of pre-Roman monoliths. At least, so remarked Mr. Luckem to Mrs. Luckem as they looked out of the library’s windows across the bay.

The road to the Camera was open and empty. Occasionally a member of the crowd would be forced off the pavement and step onto the street, but he quickly rejoined the others. Anyone who wanted to approach the building more closely would have to walk up that single, unblocked street and pass the man and boy who waited at the head of the crowd. Spectators, the lucky few allowed to watch the royal dinner from inside the building, passed the stern-eyed monitors only after showing them an official invitation. Even with the cream-colored paper, each spectator underwent a gaze so intense the innocent flushed like the guilty.

Security was not lax inside the building, either, for two guards with a list of guests stood just inside the door crossing off the names of those who entered. It must, however, be confessed that those inside felt more concern for the golden dinner service than the health of the royalty about to arrive.

 Though on occasion madmen shot at the Prince Regent, no one had succeeded in murdering a ruler of England since Richard III died on Bosworth Field. The stewards in the rotunda were not about to fuss over the outside chance that the future George IV would be next. They did not think about Czar Alexander at all.

Mr. Fletcher tried very hard to get them to think about the Czar. Polite bureaucrats kindly did not let him see that they thought of him only as another maniac. Between his exhaustion and their passivity, Mr. Fletcher felt as if he were swimming uphill in a syllabub. Even invoking the names of Lord Ashspring and the Lords of the Admiralty did not move the smooth faces of the officials. They seemed to feel that czars and such should take care of themselves.

“I mean to say,” one gloriously uniformed and bemedaled individual said, “he’s a foreigner or something, isn’t he?”

Jocelyn did not ask Helena if she would go with her to see the royal party that evening. She could think of no polite way of asking if Helena would like to watch while Nicholas Fain was arrested. She knew Jocelyn wanted to go, for she overheard her friend telling Hammond of the kindness of His Lordship.

When Jocelyn came over to her, Helena said, her face hidden as she rummaged in her bag, “I’ll help you to freshen your dress. I can pull the ribbons off this nightgown. We’ll put them in your hair. You shouldn’t wear a hat, I think. I’ll brush my cloak and you can borrow that, too. Just don’t take it off. That dress ... not at all the right thing for such an occasion.”

Jocelyn found it hard to concentrate on clothes while Hammond, Mr. Fletcher, and Tom made plans for the protection of the Czar. She tried once to tell them that Mr. Fletcher could identify Mr. Fain, though it might not be tactful for Fletcher to do it, considering the relationship he’d conceived with Helena. Tom was not necessary to their plan. The men only brushed her logic aside, Tom throwing her a glance that told her he did not appreciate her help.

When the men left to make arrangements, Helena went to work on her friend. “You must look your best. Someone important might take notice of you.”

As Helena attempted the nearly impossible task of taming Jocelyn’s curls, she said, “I’ve been meaning to do this for an age. I don’t think your hair can be as difficult to manage as you think.” She tugged hard at a knot, and Jocelyn shrank away from the comb.

“I shouldn’t go, Helena. It’s wrong to leave you alone. Especially tonight.”

Her eyes focused obstinately on the top of Jocelyn’s head, Helena said, “I shan’t really be alone. Not with Arnold here. I can’t give way to self-pity and tears with him around, can I?”

Arnold, lying on the floor with a large book spread open before him, lifted his eyes at this mention of his name. Seeing the two women employed on girlish matters, he kept reading.

Jocelyn reached up and silently patted Helena’s hand in sympathy. Helena went on more softly, “When Mark comes back, he’ll take me to the inn where Lord Ashspring is staying. He bespoke rooms for us. He’s very kind.”

“He seemed a little abrupt to me.”

“I’m sure he has many things to occupy him . . . now.” Helena worked in silence for another moment. “There, that is very prettily done.” She looked around the small room. “You can see yourself, more or less, in the window. Why don’t men ever have looking glasses? Oh, wait. Here’s a knife. It’s covered with crumbs. Let me clean it off.”