Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (15 page)

"Me?" blinked Redmond, injured. "But I am a very quiet
individual. I love my books and my music, and to commune with nature. I
would never—"

"Never have the Bow Street Runners
and
the Watch arter us in one day? Wouldn't dream of it! Oh, no! I'm sure!"

"I cannot imagine whatever gave you the idea that the Runners
were—"

"Oh, can't yer! That there little wisp of a clerk of Mr.
Frye's goes—" Anderson groaned and tightened his clutch on the bunk as
the room tilted slowly to one side. "Goes shooting orf like a… scared
rabbit. And we hop it, just as the Runners comes tearing past! The next
thing I knows you've took to milling kens… breaking and entering!
Robbing houses what's got the knocker orf the door! And we're running
like hell with half of Hampstead's Watch, popylation, and dogs howling
arter us! And I'll tellya what else I think, Mr. Redmond! Oh, Gawd—oh,
fer dry land!… I think… as you hurt yer hand picking up that greasy
little Crosby Frye! I think… as you took him by the neck and shook him…
like a rat. And that's why there's prob'ly warrants out fer us, right
this here… minute!"

"Well, there you really
do
mistake it!"
Mitchell's tone was grave, but his eyes danced, nonetheless; and as
Anderson watched that sparkle suspiciously, he clarified, "Crosby Frye
is a weasel. Not a rat." Here, Anderson uttering another groan, he
said, "You really do have my sympathy. My brother's not a good sailor,
either. Must be awful. You know, Sergeant, what you should do is lose
yourself in a good book." He crossed to the small wall bookcase, opened
one of the glass doors, and threw up an arm to ward off the catapulting
volumes. He picked up
The Corsair
and glanced at
the rugged, if greenish features that were turned toward him. Lord
Byron and Anderson could have little in common. The next book, happily
a small one, was entitled,
The Treacherous Custom of Bathing
.
Intrigued, he turned the first pages and beheld the subtitle: 'Being a
Learned Humanitarian's Discourse on the Dangers and Frequent Fatalities
Resulting from the Ill-Advised Practice of Dabbling in Water.' He
grinned but set it aside. The third volume was entitled,
The
Mysteries of Udolpho
. He considered it thoughtfully. Ann
Radcliffe. Not the book he'd have chosen but undoubtedly the likeliest
of the three. He carried it to the sufferer and placed it within reach
of his palsied hand. The scornful snort that greeted this gesture was a
pitiful echo of the usually bull-like rebuff. "Try it," Mitchell urged
gravely. "It might take your mind off the—ah—heaving pitch and roll of
the seas."

Anderson informed him faintly that he was a vicious young
gentleman. Mitchell chuckled, fought his way to the door and, having
assured the Sergeant he would not be buried at sea, left him. The door
closed and drifted nauseatingly to where the ceiling had been. Outside,
the wind howled through the rigging, and spray splattered against the
port. His insides quaking, Anderson recalled Mr. Mitchell's sadistic
words, "… might take your mind off the heaving…" Desperate, he snatched
up the book. A romance! As if he wanted that tripe! He cast it aside
with loathing. The packet hung atop a giant wave, then slid down a
green wall into the trough. Shuddering, Anderson groped for Mrs.
Radcliffe. Anything, he thought, would be better than this!

The dark clouds were beginning to thin out, adding drama to a
magnificent sunset when Diccon announced they would stop for the night.
His choice of a campsite was excellent. They were sheltered by great
oak trees, a stream ran close by, and the rain having stopped at last,
their fire was soon bringing warmth and cheer to dispel the cold
dampness of the evening. Miss Nanette had become quiet and withdrawn,
and by the time Harry went to help Diccon put up the tent, her crossed
eyes and dull-witted expression had so repelled him that he was glad to
escape her. The exertion, however, brought on a recurrence of the
occasional blinding headaches he suffered since Dice had shot him, and
although he believed he was concealing his discomfort, Diccon's shrewd
eyes were quick to detect his deathly pallor. "That's done," he said
cheerily. "You
go
and rest a bit, Mr. Allison."
Harry's opposition was of a token nature only; but not until he
stretched out beside the fire did he realize how very weary he was, and
he raised few objections when he was refused permission to help with
preparations for dinner.

His philosophical musings on how terrible a thing was
loneliness were banished by amusement as he watched the girl. She
approached each task with an eager intensity—as though it were all very
new and exciting. Teasing her because she cubed the meat while holding
the tip of her tongue on her upper lip, he was flashed a sparkling
glance but begged not to disturb her until "this beef is subdued." Her
encounter with onions had her in tears which she found both
uncomfortable and hilarious, and her watery-eyed resolve that "this
beast of a bulb will be dealt with!" led to a spirited exchange that
left all three weak with laughter. Harry was convinced Miss Nanette
knew little of cooking, but her movements were graceful, her step swift
and light, and she had a way of coming abruptly from gravity to total
merriment that was really quite taking. Her affliction, together with
her belligerence, seemed less evident, so that he began to wonder if
both were not largely caused by nerves.

Dinner was a jolly meal. Harry's headache had abated, and Miss
Nanette joined eagerly in the conversation which turned often to Moire
Grange and the Redmonds. The subject seemed to enthrall her, and she
bombarded Harry with questions that he found rather pathetic by their
eagerness, leading him to suspect that her own unhappy childhood must
provoke this rampant curiosity regarding the lives of others. When the
meal ended, he insisted upon helping to wash and put away the dishes
but, claiming a reward for these noble efforts, asked that Diccon play
for them. The Trader hesitated, but Miss Nanette also pleaded until the
old fiddle was brought forth. When Diccon began to play, she exchanged
an astonished glance with Harry, then leaned forward, hands clasped,
listening with breathless concentration. Diccon played superbly and for
a moment, when he finished, neither of his audience moved. Then Miss
Nanette jumped up and ran to hug him. He was clearly taken aback by
this impulsive gesture, but if it was improper, Harry also felt it an
apt tribute, and said so.

It had been agreed between them that for so long as they
travelled together, Miss Nanette would occupy the tent. Tonight she
left them when Diccon's battered old watch indicated the hour of ten,
and the two men wrapped themselves in their blankets and settled down
beside the fire. For a little while they engaged in desultory
conversation, but Harry was too tired to be rational and fell asleep
listening to the girl singing softly to herself in her funny little
voice.

Some hours later a small but dismal sound awoke him. Diccon
snored softly, the wind had died down, and save for the occasional hoot
of an owl, or the rustling progress of some small creature through the
wet bracken, the night was quiet. Harry rolled over and glanced to the
tent. Miss Nanette's candle was extinguished, but his keen hearing had
not misled him, for soon he heard another muffled sob. He pulled
himself to one elbow and frowned at the tent uneasily. She was an odd
little thing, but he felt a kinship with her—perhaps because they both
faced so uncertain a future. She was undoubtedly of gentle birth, yet
there was not an ounce of affectation to her, and even in the brief
time of their acquaintanceship he'd come to fee! as comfortably at ease
with her as though she were a younger, and rather naughty, sister.
There was little wonder that she should weep. She had certainly led a
sheltered life up to now, and her present circumstances must evoke
fears that would be nigh crushing. If she were to be discovered before
Diccon could convey her to her aunt, or if the gossips learned of her
flight, she would be totally ruined and must consider herself fortunate
if the suitor she so disdained consented to wed her.

At this point, a shuddering sob so wrought upon Harry that he
started up, resolved to try and comfort her; but despite his
happy-go-lucky demeanor, he was not without sensitivity. Miss Nanette
was, he knew, trying very hard to be brave and resourceful. To reveal
that her weeping had been overheard might but add to her distress. He
lay back, torn between sympathy for her despair and vexation with her
foolishness. Frowning into the darkness, he could not but wonder how
many sheltered girls would have possessed the courage to take so
gigantic a step, however ill-advised. He wondered also if her father
was wakeful tonight, plagued with fears perhaps, and his heart breaking
for his errant daughter, poor old fellow… Determined that he would make
every effort to restore her as quickly as possible to the bosom of her
family, Harry fell asleep.

His resolve was heightened the next morning when he discovered
the eggs to be like nothing so much as rubber, the toast charred, and
the coffee boiled over. He ate lightly and, keeping a cynical eye on
Diccon's plate, saw it wiped clean, while not so much as a murmur was
raised over coffee in which grounds floated murkily. He was startled
when the Trader said they would rest today, and protested the waste of
time with vehemence. Diccon waited patiently through this tirade and
then pointed out that it was Sunday, and he never travelled on Sundays.
Harry felt like a clod and looked guiltily toward Miss Nanette. She was
staring at him with what he had come to think of as her witless look.
They had, she then remembered, passed an old church a mile or so back,
and perhaps Diccon would escort her there, since Mr. Allison was quite
obviously not a God-fearing type. This snide attack brought an
immediate protest from Harry, and he proceeded to recount how he and
his father and brother had rarely missed Sunday services. At once all
interest, Miss Nanette was full of questions which he answered
willingly enough for a while. Inevitably, however, such memories
engendered sad thoughts of his father and of the task in which he
appeared to be making very little progress. He fell silent and was
gazing despondently at the fire when he heard the mellow call of a
cuckoo.

"Listen!" Nanette tilted her head to one side. "How very
pretty it is."

"A bit early in the season, isn't it?" Harry glanced to
Diccon, but the big man no longer sprawled in his customary fashion
against an obliging tree. Instead, wearing a fairly presentable hat and
carrying a gnarled walking stick, he pronounced himself ready to escort
Miss Nanette to church. If, he added, she felt it wise. The girl, who
had started up brightly, hesitated, drew back, and shook her head.

"In that case, I'll be back soon. Keep a sharp eye on Mr. Fox,
Harry." A twinkle crept into the light eyes. "And I hopes as how you'll
both remember it's Sunday and a day of peace and rest. Let's not have
no trouble."

Not a little astounded by Diccon's purposeful stride, Harry
walked a little way with him and returned to discover the girl
industriously folding the blankets. His offer to help was rebuffed and
he was urged to instead shave himself because "your chin looks like my
hairbrush!" Amused, he began to gather his borrowed shaving impedimenta
but paused when Miss Nanette got into a terrible muddle with the
blanket. His chuckles set her cheeks aflame with mortification, but
again disdaining assistance she swept past him, her nose in the air,
only to trip over a trailing end. He sprang quickly to restore her.
Part of her bun had fallen over her eyes, and she knelt on hands and
knees amid a welter of blanket. She scowled up at him, but her chagrin
faded before his gallant attempts to restrain his mirth, and her own
lilting laugh joined his as he helped her to her feet.

Harry then retreated to a secluded spot beside the stream, but
shaving proved difficult. Attempting to maneouvre around the
half-healed cut on his lip, he raised his arm in such a way as to
wrench his bruised ribs, and swore.

"Would you wish
me
to help
you
?"
enquired a sweet, feminine voice.

Stiffening at this blatant invasion of his privacy, he turned
away and buttoned his shirt hastily while informing her in no uncertain
terms that she wanted for conduct. At once, her swift temper flared. "I
helped my brother once when he broke his arm and his valet was ill,"
she said hotly. "And as for conduct, your own is atrocious! Did you
perhaps imagine I creep down to the stream to view your body?"

He tried to picture Dorothy Haines-Curtis uttering such a
forthright remark and, a quirk tugging at his lips, admitted he had
indulged in no such flight of fancy.

"I came," she went on, "only because you are taking all day
and I thought perhaps you had difficulties. And instead I hear your
frightful swearing."

He pointed out that she would have heard a lot worse on the
Peninsula. At once sadness filled her eyes, and he probed curiously,
"Why did you want to go? An
affaire de coeur
?"

"
Affaire de coeur
, indeed! Love! Is that
all you men ever think of?"

He grinned. "Don't like us much, do you?"

"I hate men!" Her eyes flashed fiercely. "They are all the
same! Animals!"

Harry blinked before such vehemence and said with dry logic
that in that event he'd have thought the Peninsula the last place she'd
have wanted to be.

Her anger vanishing as swiftly as it had come, she knelt close
by and gazed down at a lupin she had plucked from the bank of the
stream. "My brother was there," she sighed. "Had I only been with him,
we could have had a little more time together."

"What was his regiment? Perhaps I knew him."