The Moon by Night (30 page)

Shiloh felt vast relief now that Cheney wasn't focusing that doubtful expression on him, as if she thought he were lying. “That's a long sad story. Not 'cause the dogs hurt their paws. The two o' them seemed like they were havin' a big ol' time. It was sad 'cause me and Balaam and a cabbie and his horse had a really tough time corrallin' 'em. They didn't wanna be corralled.”

“They didn't?” Cheney said with amusement. “Funny, they don't seem at all upset to be cooped up on our best sofa.”

“Yeah, well, that's probably their favorite thing to do next to chasin' the cabby's poor horse,” Shiloh said, eyeing them darkly. They seemed supremely indifferent, but he noticed with interest that their eyes shifted back and forth between him and Cheney, focusing on the speaker.

“But, Shiloh, who was this cabbie with the unfortunate horse?”

“Oh, just a cabbie,” he answered vaguely. “With a hansom cab.”

Cheney cast a knowing eye at him. “Oh, Shiloh, are you telling me that you tried to hire a hansom to bring home the dogs?”

“Well…yeah…”

“And they jumped out to chase the poor horse pulling the cab?”

“They rode a little while,” he said defensively. “But I guess they got bored.”

“Oh, Shiloh, you are priceless,” Cheney managed to say as she collapsed into giggles again.

“Yeah, that's me,” he grumbled. “Priceless.” But he looked extremely pleased.

Jauncy came in with the tea tray and set it on a side table by the door. Bowing, he asked, “May I pour, Mrs. Irons-Winslow?”

“Thank you, Jauncy, that would be fine,” Cheney answered. “Oh—is that pound cake? Sketes made pound cake today?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Jauncy answered. “Also we have black-currant muffins and fresh sultana biscuits.”

“That means raisin cookies in American,” Shiloh said in an aside to Cheney.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling. She sat up straight and waved to the big hassock. “Here, Jauncy, just put the tray here.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He moved the tray to the hassock and set it down. Both of the dogs perked up, lifting their heads. “No, sir, I don't think so,” Jauncy said in a murmured warning. Abashed, they put their heads back on their paws and watched with tragic longing in their eyes. Jauncy prepared Cheney's tea.

“Anyway, Doc, they seem to be pretty well behaved in the house,” Shiloh said, picking up the conversation about the dogs. “Good enough for tonight, anyway. I'll take them up to the orphanage tomorrow. They're just old mutts, I know, but—what is it, PJ?” Jauncy had rattled Shiloh's teacup, almost dropping it as he handed it to him.

“Er—sir, about the dogs,” Jauncy said uneasily as Shiloh took the cup from him. “Um…you don't really think they are
old mutts,
do you? That's just another peculiar American figure of speech, is it not?”

Shiloh and Cheney glanced at each other, mystified. “Well, I guess you could say it's low slang,” Shiloh answered.

“No, no, sir, I didn't mean—what I mean is, you do know what kind of dogs these are, don't you?”

“All kinds, I thought,” Shiloh joked, then saw that Jauncy wasn't smiling. “What do you mean, PJ?”

“Sir, these dogs are not mutts. They're Irish wolfhounds,” Jauncy said mournfully. “And they are not old. They are puppies.”

“Oh, my goodness!” Cheney exclaimed. “And that means that they are only—what? Half grown?”

Shiloh looked at the dogs, shocked. They were about twenty inches high at the withers, maybe thirty-five to forty pounds. “Half grown?” he gulped. “What in the world is an Irish wolfhound? I've never heard of 'em.”

“They were bred in Ireland, sir,” Jauncy answered tentatively, “to…er…hunt wolves. Which they did, quite successfully.”

“You know about the breed, Jauncy?” Cheney asked.

“Yes, ma'am, the Rawlings baronets have them. They run any large game quite successfully.”

“Yeah, like horses pulling hansom cabs,” Shiloh rasped. “I thought they were just big ninnies showin' out.”

“Since they didn't actually bring the horse down,” Jauncy said with assurance, “they probably were…er…just
showing out
. All Irish wolfhounds may display pack behavior if there is more than one of them, but not all of them actually hunt. From what you told me, these puppies were aboard a ship with their mother. They were obviously never trained to hunt, or they would have killed all the livestock on board the ship. In that case I doubt very seriously whether the captain would have allowed any of the dogs to stay aboard at all.”

“They're
puppies,
” Cheney repeated in disbelief. “I've heard of the breed, Jauncy, but I've never actually seen one. How big do they get?”

With a hesitant glance at Shiloh, who looked, if possible, even more guilty, he replied, “Well, the males get to be around thirty-two inches at the withers.”

“Thirty-two—but that means the top of his head will be almost four feet!” Shiloh blurted out.

“Yes, sir,” Jauncy said helplessly, “and I would expect them to weigh between a hundred ten and a hundred twenty pounds.”

“Oh my,” Cheney breathed.

The dogs, who seemed to sense that the people were talking about them, looked from one to the other with fretful expressions. The male lumbered off the couch and went over, trailing his long stocking, to plant his head against Jauncy's knees. With a half smile Jauncy stroked the dog's head. “Foolish old thing,” he murmured. Turning to Shiloh and Cheney he asked, “Would you like me to take them down to the kitchen now?”

Shiloh and Cheney glanced at each other. Then Cheney said carelessly, “No, Jauncy, they're all right. I suppose we can leave them here. For tonight, anyway.”

“Just for tonight,” Shiloh agreed.

“Yes, sir,” Jauncy said knowingly. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Mm…no. Guess not,” Shiloh answered. “I guess you and Sketes and Fiona can go on back to bed.”

“Madam won't require Fiona tonight?” Jauncy asked as he gave the dog a final pat and a firm shove toward the sofa.

“No, tell the poor girl to go on back to bed. What did you wake her up for, Shiloh? I figure she must be terrified of the dogs.” Fiona was shy and easily intimidated.

“Actually, she treated them like great big babies, toweling them off and rubbing ointment on their paws and fussin' over 'em while Sketes fixed them something to eat, which, by the way, was the cold roast beef I was going to have for a late snack tonight. But the cake's good. I'm just surprised Sketes didn't already give it to the dogs. Anyway, I was going to wrap their paws, but Sketes and Fiona insisted that they should wear the socks they just bought.”

“Oh, so they're Sketes's and Fiona's stockings,” Cheney said. “I remember now. Their last day off they said they'd gone to A.T. Stewart's and spent all their money on good heavyweight cashmere hose. I just didn't know they'd bought such daring red ones.” Suddenly her face shadowed, and she stared off into space with empty eyes. Automatically she raised her teacup and took a sip.

“What, Doc? What's the matter? You have a tough day?” Shiloh asked.

She thought of her day: of strong, stubborn Henry Norton's setback because of influenza, of the difficulty of dealing with Dr. Pettijohn, of Rebecca Green's unceasing pain and her hopeless prognosis. Cheney had never told Shiloh that she and Dev hadn't managed to remove the entire tumor in that ill-fated operation. She hadn't told him that Rebecca Green was going to die. She hadn't even told him about the wreck Cornelius Melbourne had been in and the critical emergency surgery she and Dr. White had performed.

Suddenly the memory of Cornelius Melbourne caressing her face and kissing her—and Dr. Pettijohn observing it—came flooding back. In the eventful hours since the afternoon, Cheney had forgotten all about it. Her cheeks burned crimson, and her sharply indrawn breath was clearly audible to Shiloh, who frowned darkly as he watched her.

“Doc?” he repeated. “What is it?”

She turned to him and said in a grating voice, “It's nothing, Shiloh. Nothing at all. Just another long, rather tiring day.” Ducking her head, she took another sip of tea. Then she turned back to him and asked brightly, “So. We can't keep just calling them the male one and female one. Why don't we name them?”

“Who?” Shiloh asked absently. He was still worrying about Cheney's odd mood.

“The dogs, silly!”

“Oh. Yeah. I was gonna name 'em something like Mutt and Other Mutt, but I guess that's not exactly fitting for
royalty,
” he said, brightening up at Cheney's smile. “What do you think, Doc?”

“Mm…well, I don't think they're quite royal enough for anything like Ferdinand and Isabella or Victoria and Albert,” Cheney joked. “Since they're wee Irish babies, how about Sean and Shannon?”

“Perfect!” Shiloh said enthusiastically. “Sean and Shannon.” He looked at them, and Sean wagged his long tail, making a loud thumping sound on the sofa. “We'll take 'em to the orphanage tomorrow, of course,” Shiloh added.

“Of course,” Cheney agreed. “Tomorrow.”

In spite of the fact that they were both tired and it was very late, they stayed up for another hour, laughing and talking and munching on Sketes's wonderful sweets. Sean and Shannon came down three times to nose the tea tray, and Shiloh shooed them away, but Cheney fussed at him to give them “just a few little nibbles. They're just wee leprechauns” in a broad Irish brogue.

But for the first time in their married life, both Shiloh and Cheney were worried when they went to bed, and both lay awake, lost in their own contemplation and doubts.

Why did she lie to me?
Shiloh worried.
I don't know what it was about…something at the hospital. But I know the doc, and I know that she's not telling me something, something important. It couldn't be—no, no, it couldn't be anything really bad…like about another man or something. Cheney loves me, and she's a virtuous woman. She'd never in a million years…

Then what is it? What's so important that she choked up about it but won't tell me?

He lied to me,
Cheney thought sadly.
For the first time since I've known him, he lied. I know it. I could tell it…anyone could tell it. No wonder he doesn't lie. He's awful at it. But why in the world would he try to hide something from me? Something about the dogs? No, he honestly didn't know they were going to turn into big Irish giants, but it was something about the way he got the dogs. Oh no, it couldn't have been that some woman was involved! Shiloh would have told me!

Wouldn't he?

Cheney stewed for what seemed like hours, though she began to drift off to sleep after about twenty minutes. Her last thoughts were not dark, however. As her body relaxed, her mind let go of the niggling worries about Shiloh's evasiveness.

He's such a good, honest man. It can't possibly be anything bad. I'll never believe it. I trust him. I'll trust him forever….

Shiloh sensed she had fallen asleep, so he turned and propped his head up on his hand to watch her. Gently he pushed a curl from her face.
No, I'll never believe she would do anything at all improper with another man. I trust her. I'll trust her forever….

****

The bell on the door rang as Phinehas Jauncy followed Shiloh into Harrigan and Hart, Tailors. He looked around with approval. It did not have the vulgar air of a shop or the bourgeois busyness of a department store. It had the dusty, dim atmosphere of a men's reserved service establishment, which was exactly what a good tailor should be. A rack on one side held sample men's coats, and on the other side was a small display case with cuff links, stickpins, ties, and handkerchiefs. The back wall was a floor-to-ceiling navy blue velvet curtain, with gas lamps lined up high above two massive mirrors. Jauncy expected the typical tailor: small man, exquisitely dressed, eyes squinted from taking precise measurements and from long hours of cutting and stitching, with a somewhat fawning demeanor except when it came to the customer's clothing, at which time he would become an unbearable autocrat.

Sure enough, the drape was yanked aside, and the tailor came out. But to Jauncy's surprise, this was a young man with dark hair curled and styled in the latest beau monde fashion, with flashing dark eyes and a bright boyish smile. He was slender and of only average height and build, but his clothes were—Jauncy had imagined at least this correctly—the height of immaculate taste and fit. He wore a dark navy blue coat, black breeches, and a crisp white shirt with a black tie neatly folded under sharp collar points. His waistcoat was a tartan plaid of black, brown, and blue, and his gold watch chain was hanging at exactly the correct arc.

“Shiloh!” he said as he bounded out of the workroom. “It's about time, my friend. I'll bet your knees and elbows are getting threadbare! Good day, sir,” he continued politely to Jauncy. “Welcome to Harrigan and Hart.”

“Brad, may I present my valet, Phinehas Jauncy. PJ, this is my tailor, Bradley Harrigan. And no, Brad, my knees and elbows aren't getting threadbare, because your clothes are so good they don't wear out, and also because I hardly ever wear front-door clothes.”

Brad—in the annoying manner of tailors and valets—was circling Shiloh, brushing one shoulder, yanking on the tail of his coat, eyeing the length of his breeches critically. Grandly ignoring Shiloh he remarked to Jauncy, “I believe these breeches are perhaps a half-inch too short, don't you think, Mr. Jauncy?”

Jauncy's big brown eyes widened with surprise and pleasure. “Why, Mr. Harrigan, I was saying that exact thing to Mr. Irons-Winslow, that exact thing as were getting dressed! Didn't I, Mr. Irons-Winslow, remark that your breeches were perhaps a hairs-breadth short?”