Give All to Love (23 page)

“No. No, I quite understand. Oh, I
do
understand, but—” Her face crumpled. “But—I
don't
understand.”

And somehow, they were both laughing and holding hands.

“How could he not court you?” asked Josie. “Didn't he bring you gifts?”

“Indeed he did. I remember one of his last offerings. It was a fox kit he had found. It was full of fleas, bit one of the maids, and wrecked the kitchen. But—it wasn't only that, of course. Not the unromantical gifts. It was just—everything.” She sighed nostalgically. “He loved me as—as something he owned. Not as a sister, I mean. But as though I were a requisite part of a picture he had painted. He was in love with the
picture,
do you see? He was in love with—with love. Not with me.”

Josie sat very still, her eyes wide.

Yolande said gravely, “I asked him once what he most wanted from life. He said he wanted to prove himself. He never fought on the Peninsula, nor felt he had served his country. Then, he said, he wanted to make his uncle proud of him. And, of course, he wanted a complete life: a home, children, and—me.” She smiled wryly. “I came in a rather poor last. And the worst thing was—he didn't even realize what he had said because loving me—fitting me into his picture—had become a habit. His battles with that dreadful Claude Sanguinet satisfied his first two wishes. When the time is right, he will find the rest of his happiness, and it will be a much deeper joy than ever he could have found with me. He knows that now.”

Josie whispered, “He—knows?”

“He admitted to me quite some years ago that I had been perfectly right.” Yolande gripped the hand she held. “And so—if
he
has forgiven, do you think—you might…?”

Josie threw herself into the arms of this woman she always had despised. “Oh, yes! Yolande, thank you! Thank you!”

*   *   *

They sat down forty-two to dinner that evening and, looking down the long line of distinguished gentlemen and lovely ladies, Josie thought with a surge of pride that all these noble aristocrats were come to do her honour. Certainly, they knew of her lack of background; assuredly, they all had received other invitations they might well have accepted for this weekend, most being closer to home than an isolated estate in Gloucestershire. Yet—here they were. And even if they were really here out of respect and affection for Dev, they were pleased with her, or seemed so. Surely, he must be just a little proud of her?

At the far end of the table, she saw his fair head tilt a little, the better to see her around the enormous glitter of the epergne. Even at that distance she could see a trace of anxiety in his face. He lifted his wineglass and inclined his head very slightly. She smiled at him, and a slow smile answered her, and she knew she was forgiven.

The musicians, who had played softly during the meal, later moved into the ballroom, and a small dance party ensued. It was Josie's weekend, and she was the undisputed centre of attention. Her more youthful swains were cast into the shade by the magnificence of the Duke of Vaille, the fame of Lord Mitchell Redmond, the charm of his dashing brother, Sir Harry, the shy gentleness of Lord Jeremy Bolster, all in good-humoured competition for her hand in the dance.

It was very late when she stood at the foot of the stairs with her guardian to bid goodnight to their guests, and she saw his surprised expression after she hugged Yolande and wished her sweet dreams.

“Thank you, Elf,” he murmured.

“Do not take the credit, sir,” she said airily. “Yolande and I have sorted out our differences. She is the one you should thank, and—Oh, Dev! She is the dearest creature! No wonder you love her!”

There was no time for more, the Duke of Vaille leading up his beautiful Charlotte and telling Devenish he must get a good night's sleep was he to do full honour to Mistress Storm on the morrow.

Devenish and many of the younger gentlemen stayed up, but Josie soon went to bed in a daze of happiness, knowing that her success tonight was only a prelude to the splendour that was to come.

She was more tired than she knew, and almost fell asleep while Fletcher was brushing out her curls. The night was very cold, and a strong wind had come up that set the shutters to rattling, and sent occasional puffs of smoke down the chimneys. Fletcher had placed a warming pan between the sheets at eleven o'clock, and by midnight Josie's bed was snugly warm. She curled up under the blankets, but would not allow Fletcher to draw the bedcurtains in spite of the draughts, saying she wanted to awaken with the first ray of light.

She was asleep almost at once, but during the night the wind grew louder, disturbing her slumbers, and the eiderdown slipped so that she shivered and tried, half-waking, to get warmer …

A powerful hand gripped her arm bruisingly. She could smell gin and dirt and sweat. A crude voice snarled, “Thought ye'd get away, did yer, Tabby? By goles, but I'll whip some sense inter yer!” Evil, narrow eyes glinted. A cruel face, stubbled by whiskers, thrust at her. A muscular hand holding a sapling branch whizzed down. She screamed shrilly and fought to get away. “A nice little shape yer gettin'—all ready fer the Flash House. A good price ye'll bring, dang yer claws!” She screamed again, frenzied, fighting, but the iron grasp tightened inexorably …

“Josie! Little one! It's all right! It's all right!”

Gasping, terrified, her heart thudding madly, she opened her eyes. The door to her bedchamber stood wide. By the light from the hall lamp she saw that Devenish, a dark blue dressing gown over his nightshirt, sat on the edge of the bed, holding her, trying to calm her. Sobbing and incoherent with fear, she threw herself into his arms. “Dev … it—it was—”

“I know,” he said soothingly. “Akim and Benjo. You dreamed they had you again. But they do not, dearest. You're safe. You're quite safe.”

She clung to him, shuddering, sobbingly telling him how ghastly it had been, how real it had seemed that this time, for sure, she'd be sold into—

“Hush, my babe. It's all gone. Easy now. It was just a dream. Too much excitement for my little girl.”

Her head was comfortably on his shoulder; his strong arms held her safe and close; his deep voice murmured reassurances until her sobs eased to spasmodic little gulps.

Fletcher, who had come running when she woke to that terrible screaming, stepped forward, and Devenish laid his ward back upon her pillows, dried her tears very gently, and bent, smiling, to kiss her forehead.

“Dev…” she pleaded, clinging to his hand as she'd done so often down the years, “you won't—go away?”

“My room is not so far distant,” he said. “And Maisie will stay with you.”

She smiled a grateful smile, and he patted her hand, then left her.

And closing the door, turned to come face to face with Lyon, his dark eyes holding a fierce accusation, his mouth a down-swooping line of fury.

*   *   *

Sitting up in bed, his hair tousled, his eyes grave, Guy Sanguinet watched the youth who paced like a caged beast at the foot of the bed. “Truly, it is that I am growing old,” he muttered. “My room she is as far as Dev's, yet I heard not the sound.”

“No,” snorted Lyon. “And I should not have disturbed you, for you were tired out. I'm a thoughtless dolt.”

“
Mais non.
You were upset and should come to—”

“Upset!” Lyon ran a hand through his hair. “I was
revolted!
I still am! Of all the disgusting—” He closed his lips and resumed his pacing.

Guy thought, ‘Me, I knew that this sooner or later it must come.' And he asked, “What did he say to you?”

“Some nonsensical bilge about Josie having a nightmare. I pushed him aside and got away from there. By God, but I think I would have struck him had I not done so! If you'd
seen
it, Guy! The way he
looked
at her! And her so sweet, so trusting! Never dreaming—
Damn
his nasty soul! He
wants
her!”

“She is his daughter, and he loves her as—”

Lyon whirled about to hold the end bedposts, one in each powerful fist, and lean over the foot of the bed, saying through his teeth, “As a
father?
” He threw back his head and laughed bitterly. “That's rich! The affection in his eyes was not
parental,
I can tell you!” He turned away and, Guy remaining silent, muttered, “All these years I've admired him as one of the bravest men I ever knew! I looked up to him! And all these years he's been posing as that dear girl's father—while he kept her shut away in this lonely place. Gloating over her!” He rammed one fist into his palm and swore savagely, the crude gutter oaths of the slums he was born in.

Guy intervened angrily, “He is the very soul of honour! I am sure—”

“And so am I! When I offered for her, something she said made me suspect that he did not mean her to marry—ever! I have never been more shocked! I fancied he intended to keep her here to wait on him, so he would not be left alone in his old age. But I was wrong!”

“Of course you were. His is too generous the nature for such—”

Eyes blazing, Lyon snarled, “But not too generous to
desire
that fresh-souled, glowing young girl. At
his
age!”

“One moment, Lyon! Alain is but three and thirty, and—”

“And has claimed that she is—what? Seventeen, perhaps?
Half
his age!” He began to pace again, fanning his rage to white heat. “Damn his dirty slyness! How
dare
he? He warned John Drummond off, I know, for John told me!
John
is not too old for her! Neither is he crippled! I wonder he does not—” The rush of angry words died in his throat. He swung to stare in horror at his benefactor, and with a groan bowed his face into his hands. “Oh, God! Sir … I am so sorry!”

“There is not the need,” said Guy, but his voice trembled and he was without colour. “It is the reaction
naturellement
from anyone young and—and undamaged, for someone who is not—”

“No, no! Do not say it! I never meant—I only—”

“You only saw,
mon fils,
what I have seen—what others have seen these many years.” Lyon's abased head jerked up. Guy smiled faintly and moved his hand in the way that only the French can do effectively, and that said, “It is useless to fight it; it was inevitable; there is nothing to be done,” all in the one comprehensive gesture. “It was,” he said, “the case of the act charitable, that became, I think, a delight; a child growing up, filling his lonely days with laughter and busy-ness. Stealing away his heart before ever he knew it.”

“He knows it now,” said Lyon in a sibilant hiss that appalled Guy. “If
you
knew, why did you not warn me?”

“For several of the very fine reasons,
mon cher.
First—it is not my right to interfere. Second—you mistake emotion for resolution.” Lyon continued to glare at him. He sighed, and went on, “The fact that my dear friend have love his little ward, does not mean he intend to claim her for his own. Indeed, I think this is just what he means
not
to do.”

“Why?”

“Because, my fierce young gallant, it is in my mind that all of the so-bad things you have say about him have been already said by Alain to his own self. He thinks himself too old for her. That he is not—the whole man. That she is too young her mind to know.” He sighed. “Is sad, this.”

Lyon took a turn about the room. Returning to gaze down at the man who had given him his chance in life, he asked soberly, “And you? What do you think?”

Guy hesitated, then replied slowly, “I think, my Lyon, that no matter what I think, or you think, or Devenish thinks—our Josephine she have the strong little chin. And she will do—exactly as she please.”

*   *   *

The wind had blown away the weather, or so Cornish cheerfully advised Josie when she went downstairs at half past ten o'clock the next morning. By that hour every servant in the house knew that Miss Storm had suffered a violent nightmare the previous evening, that her guardian had rushed to calm her, and that Dr. Cahill had glared bloody murder when he found Mr. Devenish sitting on Miss Josie's bed in his night rail, holding her in his arms. The regular servants, knowing the principals in the case, had little to remark, and what they thought was kept among themselves. The new servants sniggered, and one temporary footman was so unwise as to make a coarse jest, in consequence of which he lay on his back in the servants' hall, with his legs kicking in the air, and the aged butler cackling with glee as he complimented Klaus on a “flush hit!” The new servants ceased to snigger and no further reference was made to the incident. At least, not between the two factions.

“It's a bit nippy outside, miss,” Cornish added, thinking that the young lady looked a trifle heavy-eyed. “Be nice and clear though, fer Oliver.”

“Oliver…?”

He jerked a thumb upwards. “The moon, miss. Be 'andy ternight!”

Despite the chilly weather, Devenish led those of his guests who fancied a ride on a tour of the estate, leaving Josie to welcome any early arrivals, although most of those coming on the day of the ball were not expected to appear until dusk. Even so, the number in attendance had swelled considerably by the time luncheon was served. This was an informal meal, with people arriving and leaving as the fancy took them, and servants bustling about, bringing in new platters and bowls as supplies diminished. Signor della Casa, the culinary craftsman below stairs, had arranged a selection of cold fowl, ham, and roast beef, platters of sliced cheeses, bowls of fresh fruit from the succession houses, fragrant hot breads and scones, muffins, nutmeats, cakes and jellies, and delicate pastry baskets filled with lemon curd, strawberry preserves, or caramel creme.