Feather Castles (5 page)

Buchanan said kindly, “Sir, when we knew Tristram was down—well, I started to search that night. But—being a Staff Officer, you know, he was galloping all over the field. Next day, the men who had served under him were wild with grief. They searched every inch of that ghastly field. I would give my life not to have to say it, but—Tris must have been already … buried.”

Eyes sparking, Leith sprang to his feet. “Gammon! If my son still had his uniform they'd not have buried him! He was a Colonel!”

“He likely didn't have anything but his skin, sir,” said Buchanan, fearing to encourage an optimism that sooner or later must be cruelly shattered. “There were looters everywhere. Murdering swine with less Christianity than a snake!”

“Even stripped to the buff, no man could take Tristram for anything less than he is—an aristocrat!” Leith's head was upflung, pride making him show almost as impressive as the broad-shouldered young Adonis he so loved. “No! He is alive! Were he slain I would
feel
it! Perchance he crawled to a remote cottage and they are caring for him. The same thing happened to young Redmond after the Siege of Ciudad Rodrigo, do you not recall? They mourned the boy as dead for days, but his horse had bolted with him and his sergeant found him, miles away in some wretched farmhouse, badly wounded, but alive.” His eyes were shining to new purpose, and the two who watched him were mute, neither quite able to bring himself to shatter this forlorn hope. “I must go to Brussels at once,” Leith muttered. “I shall hire men to seek at every cottage and house for miles around. No matter how long it takes, we will find him! First though, I must to Town and tell my poor little Sally before some well-meaning fool breaks her heart. She loves her brother so. You will pardon me, my dear fellows? I've to warn my valet. No—please do not leave! I shall return directly, and we will dine together. Do you mean to go home tonight, Buck? I take it Stephanie knows you are come home safe? If you are downpin you should sleep here and we could ride together in the morning.” And full of energy, he chattered his way from the room and closed the door behind him.

In the sudden silence, Buchanan tore his incredulous gaze from the door and found Hawkhurst regarding him with a twisted smile. “By thunder!” gasped the Captain. “He's—”

The door swung open. His lordship's dark head was thrust around it. “By the bye,” he said cheerily. “Who won?”

Hawkhurst's smile widened. “We did, sir. Bonaparte's thoroughly beaten.”

“Oh, that's good, then,” said Leith, and closed the door.

Staring after him, Buchanan finished his interrupted sentence. “… All about in his upper works!” he decreed.

*   *   *

Hurrying across the Great Hall, Lord Leith paused under the portrait that hung in the place of honour. Long, well-opened dark eyes smiled down at him; thick, slightly curling dark hair, near black, tumbled over a fine brow. The eyebrows were heavy but well shaped, the cheekbones high in a lean planed face with a firm nose, wide, sensitive mouth, and squarely strong jaw. Clad in full regimentals, Tristram Leith had been so impressive that a newly presented debutante had once swooned at the very sight of him. Yet despite his looks and his commanding height, he'd never been one to give himself airs, thought his father wistfully, and like many large men was more inclined to be shy than aggressive. An heir to be proud of. But—if it
was
true—if dear Tris was gone … Leith sighed, and his shoulders sagged. If it was truth, then he had no heir.

In the salon, Hawkhurst turned to greet his wife, who had come into the room from the terrace. “What were you about, love?” he asked.

“Looking for Sally, but I learned she was with her Aunt in London. I went into the garden and broke the sad news to a—er—guest who was walking in the shrubbery. She asked that I tell Leith she has returned to London, but,” her voice quavered, “I could not bear to see him just then. Oh, Garret, did you tell him? Has he accepted it bravely?”

“Bravely?” her brother snorted. “Blithely might be a better word!”

Much shocked, Euphemia cried, “Simon!”

“The man's intellect has become disordered!” Buchanan persisted.

“My heavens!” Horrified, Euphemia searched her husband's face. “Garret, has it so affected the poor soul?”

“No, no,” he said comfortingly. “You know Leith. He simply refuses to believe that Tristram is killed. God grant he has the right of it. His optimism is fairly astounding, and even should it prove unjustified, may give him the time to more easily adjust to—”

Again, the door opened. His lordship rushed in, looking utterly distraught. Euphemia shrank against her husband's strong arm, and Buchanan gave the appearance of thoroughly regretting his earlier indictment.

“Do you know, Hawk,” Leith demanded with great indignation, “who it will be?”

The three young people stared at him speechlessly.

“Glick!” he uttered. “Glick! Glick!”

Buchanan took an uneasy step backward.

“No, by God!” exclaimed Leith. “I'll not have that whelp here!”

Understanding returned the smile to Hawkhurst's fine eyes. “Herbert Glick?” he mused. “See your point, sir. Dreadful slowtop!”

The light dawning, Euphemia said sympathetically, “Is Sir Herbert next in line, then?”

“He is! Revolting little Macaroni! I'll not have it!” Fire in his eye, Leith started for the door again, but returned to take Euphemia's hand and kiss it gracefully. “Your pardon, child. I've not expressed my very deep thanks for your kindness in coming here. But you see it is not so sad a duty as you had feared. My son is missing, but not slain. I am sure of it!”

Holding his hand in both hers, Euphemia, her warm heart aching, said, “But—dear sir, forgive me—what if it
is
so?”

For an instant his eyes held an unspeakable desolation. Then he said in an awed tone, “By Jove! Then, I collect I would at once prepare myself. If—if it is indeed truth, I shall have no choice.” He looked at them one by one in the manner of a faithful hound fearing to be put out on a stormy night. “I should have to—to settle down; take myself a wife, and get another heir.” His voice sank almost to a whisper. “Egad.”

They were all regarding him with frank incredulity, and he asked, “Do you not think anyone will have me?”

Finding his voice, Hawkhurst stammered, “Wh-why, dear sir, you've never had the least difficulty in finding—ah—fair companions.”

“No,” Leith agreed. “But—this will be different, don't y'see? Marriage. A lady young enough to—” His shoulders drew back and the light was in his eyes once more. “Well, if I must—I must! None shall say Kingston Leith failed what was due his name! Glick? No, by God! Tristram
will
come home—never doubt it. But, just in case, I mean to start looking around.” He shook his head and his voice dropped. “Marriage. Good God!”

*   *   *

Rachel's progress along the companionway was erratic, and as she reached the door to the soldier's cabin, the vessel gave such a lurch that she was compelled to seize the handle to keep from being swept past. Righting herself, she dragged the door open, and went inside.

The soldier lay on his back, eyes closed and brows knit in a deep frown. The cuts on his cheek had begun to heal, and although he still looked pale and ill, the grey tinge was gone from his skin. Rachel closed the door and moved to stand beside him. As if he sensed her presence, he looked up. The frown was banished by the smile that came into his dark eyes, but she had seen a dulled look of pain and speaking his native French, scolded gently, “You have been trying to remember again!”

“No, no,” he protested, brightly if inaccurately. “I have been resting here, just as your physician instructed, mademoiselle. If I was thinking of anything at all, it was of your kindness in allowing me to sail with you.”

Undeceived, she observed, “I must be less kind, do such deeds cause you to break out with perspiration, sir.”

“To tell you the truth,” he said with an irrepressible twinkle, “it has been something of a tussle to stay in the bunk.”

She laughed softly. “I quite believe you. Our Captain was certain it would be only a little rough, yet here is my poor Agatha laid down upon her bunk, convinced she will never see England again. Thus, assuming her duties, I am come to see how her patient goes on.”

The soldier had become quite fond of the plump little abigail. She had fussed over him very kindly during the interminable carriage ride to Ostend and confided that she dreaded the sea voyage. Despite her fears, she had boarded the yacht without complaint and remained dutifully beside him until they left the dock. No sooner had they started across the open sea, however, than she had begun to look miserably unwell and had finally all but galloped from the cabin. He was grateful to the comely woman and had no wish for her to endure the evils of
mal de mer,
but he could not totally regret her indisposition since it had resulted in this visit from the enchanting Miss Strand.

“How very fortunate for me that you are not similarly afflicted,” he said, watching that vivid little face and wondering if any lady in his past could possibly have been half as lovely. Her eyes flashed to him. Fearing he had offended, he hastened to add, “I hope your little sister is not made ill?”

“Have you met Charity, then?” she asked, surprised. “I do not seem to recall.”

“She was so kind as to come and see me for a moment while we were in Brussels. I could not but notice how frail she is.”

Almost it was an apology, thought Rachel. As though he felt he'd overstepped the bounds and been called to account. She had not intended to imply disapproval and said lightly, “And so you worry about her? But how kind in you. She is the dearest girl with the sweetest nature imaginable.”

“She seemed a very gentle lady. Forgive me if I presume, but—has she always been confined to an invalid chair?”

Rachel sighed regretfully. “No. You would not guess it to see my sister as she is now, but when she was younger she was a dreadful tomboy. Three years ago, her pony fell with her. She almost died and, when she recovered, was unable to walk.” She checked, her face bleak, then went on, “She had such a terrible time, but at last, thanks to a friend, we found a fine surgeon who was able to help her.”

“And does he think she will walk again?”

“He says it is possible.” She clasped her hands and said intensely, “How I pray she will! But even if that cannot be, I am beyond words grateful that she is at last freed from suffering. She is so brave, and never complained, but until she had the operation I don't think she knew a day without pain. To see her now, happy and laughing again…” She blinked and smiled rather unsteadily. “She is on the bridge at this very moment, doubtless to the delight of the Captain. One of the advantages, you see, of travelling on a private yacht.”

“Yes. Er—do you often sail in her?”

“Only when we bring my sister to see the surgeon. M. Sanguinet has been so good as to allow us to travel in this way. It is very much more comfortable for Charity.”

“M. Sanguinet.” Clearly, she was, at the very least, fond of that gentleman. Understandable, thought the soldier, glumly. On their first evening in Brussels, he had awoken to find himself in a luxurious bedchamber and had been puzzling at that circumstance when the dynamic young Frenchman had come in to grip his hand and say a fervent, “I am greatly in your debt, M. le Capitaine, and if there is—” He had interrupted, involuntarily, “But, I am not a Captain, sir,” only to be at once devastated by a siege of pain so intense as to preclude any further conversation. The snatches of memory that were granted him were always costly, but this particular punishment had been exceptionally frustrating because he'd been most anxious to have a few words with Guy Sanguinet, and had not seen him since. It was apparent, however, that whatever the man's relationship to the sisters, it must be a close one. Perhaps Rachel was his betrothed. He was certainly a fine-looking fellow and if he was also rich enough to maintain so large a yacht, must be a good catch. Stifling a sigh, he said, “I see. Then M. Sanguinet is the gentleman I've to thank for my passage.”

“Yes,” nodded Rachel, a dimple peeping by reason of the dejection in his eyes. Standing, she amended, “But not
this
M. Sanguinet. Guy's elder brother, Claude, owns
La Hautemant.
He sent Guy to escort us to Brussels, since he was unable to come himself, but I know he will want to thank you personally, because—”

The yacht rolled into a deep trough. Rachel's hold on the end of the bunk had relaxed. Taken off balance, she was thrown forward, and would have fallen had not the soldier grabbed for and caught her.

Gradually, the vessel righted herself, though every board in her seemed to creak a protest. The wind howled through the rigging. From the hold came muffled crashes that spoke of cargo broken loose and tossed about by the violent movements of the yacht. Yet the uproar seemed remote, the cabin suddenly very quiet as blue eyes met eyes of brown. The soldier made no move to loosen his grip on Rachel's arms, nor did she seek to pull away. For a timeless space they regarded one another, he, leaning on one elbow, holding her so closely that he could breathe the sweet fragrance of her; she, astonished by the power of the hands that had caught her, and hypnotized by the ardent admiration so plain to read in the long, deep eyes.

He became aware suddenly, that his weight rested on his injured arm. He caught his breath and released Rachel hurriedly.

Recovering her scattered wits, she exclaimed, “Oh, my goodness! Again, you have hurt yourself while coming to my rescue!” She took a small bottle from the drawer of the washstand and peered at it uncertainly. “I wonder how much laudanum Agatha was giving you…”