Bar Sinister (15 page)

On the heels of Major Conway's letter came a brief note of apology from Lady Sarah by a
curious young footman who also bore the three volumes of Don Alfonso.

Emily took the note and the novel and tipped the footman, whom she directed the new
groom to see off the premises. She sent no reply. If Lady Sarah were honest, as Emily was inclined
to think, the whole affair could only have been profoundly humiliating. If she were not, Emily did
not mean to reassure her.

March wore into April. The emperor of the French was reestablished in the Tuileries
making constitutions, and, one presumed, armies. The Duke of Wellington continued in Vienna. In
Brussels the Prince of Orange emitted nervous military noises in his temporary role as allied
commander. Richard Falk was still on the high seas.

The clash of nations interested Emily not at all. She was too absorbed in Falk melodrama.
For some reason the easing of her immediate vigilance made her jumpier than the original state of
siege. She slept badly. More than once she woke in the middle of the night sure that Amy and
Tommy had been smothered in their beds.

Feeling the fool, she nevertheless rose and assured herself that they were alive and safe in
the nursery. The third time it happened she had to explain something of her apprehension to Peggy
McGrath, who promised with almost all the holy vows of heaven to say nothing to the children.
Peggy's eyes gleamed with excitement, however, and she looked like a war-horse that has heard the
bugle. It crossed Emily's mind that the nurse relished a bit of action.

Presently Emily became hardened to apprehension herself and learned to sleep again.
Indeed, she slept so soundly that when Phillida woke her one wet spring night, the maid had to
shake her several times before her eyes blinked open.

"Oh madam, please wake up. He's here."

"What? Who?" Emily focussed her mind. "He?"

"Captain Falk."

"Major," Emily corrected, cross and half awake. Then the news sank in. She sat up and
tore off her nightcap. "Hand me my robe." She gazed blearily at the hands of the clock, which
showed half past twelve. "Where have you put him?"

"In the foyer. There's no fire in the withdrawing room. Oh madam, such a turn he give
me, knocking like that. I thought we was invaded for sure."

Emily struggled into her slippers and robe and ran a brush over her tumbled hair.
"Mmm...Very well. Make up the fire in the kitchen and put a kettle on. Leave me a light,
witling."

Phillida lit a candle with her own taper and scuttled out, muttering under her
breath.

Shielding her flame from the draughts, Emily walked as quickly as she dared down the
stairway. It had never seemed so vertical. She had time to rehearse one or two soothing,
explanatory, and reproachful speeches. Her heart thumped in her throat. Below in the unlit foyer
she could just make out Major Falk's dark presence. He seemed to be leaning on the hall table.
When he saw her light he straightened with a jerk. In the dim glow of the candle Emily could see
that his cloak was mud-splattered and his jaw unshaven.

When she reached the lowest steps and saw his eyes she abandoned her rehearsed
speeches. "They're all right. Truly. Sound asleep upstairs in their beds. Come, I'll show
you."

He followed her in silence. The subdued clank of his spurs assured her that he was just
behind her.

At Tommy's chamber he stood, stiff as a board, hands clenched, while she tucked the
little boy's covers about him. Tommy flung off the tickling edge of the quilt with an irritable grunt
and settled into his form like a hare. At Amy's door Major Falk did not wait for Emily. He knelt in
one swift motion by the edge of his daughter's cot, and very carefully, because his hand shook,
touched her brown curls.

That was too much for Emily. She set the candle by Amy's bed, went out into the dark
schoolroom, and had a good, albeit silent, cry. She had reached the stage of wiping her streaming
eyes on the sleeve of her robe, having somewhere misplaced her handkerchief, when Peggy stirred
in her nook by the fire and made an interrogatory noise.

"Hush," Emily whispered, sniffing. "Go back to sleep."

That only spurred the nurse awake. She climbed from her truckle and stumped over to
Emily, plaits flopping. "What is it, missus?"

"Major Falk."

"Himself!" Peggy did not shriek aloud, but she had no delicate scruples about intruding
on her employer's reunion with his child. She swarmed over him. It was a wonder Amy didn't
waken.

Presently he came out of Amy's room with the candle in one hand and his other arm
about Peggy's shoulders. "Yes. Be still, Pegeen." At least he kept his voice low. "McGrath is very
well, but I left him aboard the troopship. I came ashore at Falmouth."

Emily stared at the two of them illuminated in the puddle of light from the single candle.
Major Falk looked composed if exhausted, Peggy bright-eyed. Emily herself might have vanished.
Her employer was wholly absorbed in reassuring the servant, a kindness Emily must have approved
had she been less distraught herself. As it was she sniffed again, rather loudly.

Apparently he took in her indignation, for he gave Peggy a last tired hug and handed
Emily the candle. "Thank you." It was said with such simplicity that Emily's self-pity died in her
throat.

Major Falk had returned his attention to the nurse. "Go back to bed, Peg. I'll tell you
everything in the morning." To Emily's surprise, Peggy obeyed without protest.

When Emily and Major Falk reached the kitchen, he said abruptly, "I must see to my
horse. I left him tethered in front of the house. Is there a way out?"

Emily pointed. "Turn left. I'll cut some meat and bread for you. Wake the groom if you
need help." He disappeared and Emily sent the fascinated and protesting Phillida to bed.

Waiting for him, Emily had plenty of time to regret her tumbled hair, to wish that
someday they could meet in ordinary, civilised circumstances. Her thoughts were turbulent and her
acts domestic. She had cut and arranged quite a creditable midnight supper and brewed a very
strong pot of tea by the time he stumbled back into the kitchen with his saddlebags over one
arm.

He looked at the food and then at his hands. "Scullery?"

Emily pointed again. "I'll take your cloak and the bags." He handed them to her and
disappeared into the scullery.

Emily set the bags on a chair and hung the cloak by the fire. Phillida could brush the mud
off in the morning. It was the same cloak he had worn the year before. It had been threadbare then.
It now boasted what looked like a scorch mark and a three-cornered tear. McGrath could not be a
very efficient servant. The cloak was damp, but not soaked. Major Falk must have escaped the
rainstorm of the afternoon. Or, more likely, ridden through it and been dried off by the wind in its
wake.

He had removed most of the mud from his person. Emily watched him cross the flags.
His hair was wet and he was wearing faded regimentals. It was the first time she had seen him in
uniform. She did not like it.

"Falmouth," she murmured. "Three days' hard riding."

"Two and a night." He added, defensive, "There was a moon."

"Splendid. I daresay you remembered to eat now and then."

He took a long breath. "I got your letter and Tom's ten days ago. The ship came up to us
off Ushant with orders and mail."

"For heaven's sake, sir, sit and eat. I can wait for explanations."

"Then you are a rare woman."

"A pearl beyond price," Emily snapped. "Sit. Eat." He obeyed. He ate two slices of beef
and a piece of bread with a restrained ferocity that told Emily all she wanted to know about his
journey. However, he stopped at that and shoved the plate away. "Has Lady Sarah come
back?"

"No, and I don't think she will. Major Conway writ her a very strong letter."

"Where's Knowlton?"

"About seven miles beyond Mellings Magna on the London road."

"Very well," he said heavily. "I'll have it out with her tomorrow. God, today. What time
is it?"

"Past one o'clock, I rather think."

"Today then. I hope I've not left it too late." He looked at the fire, shivering a little. "I'm
posted to Brussels."

Emily repressed an automatic protest and poured two cups of tea.

His hands curved on the cup and he stared into the amber liquid. "I wish you will keep
the groom."

"I mean to." Questions hovered on her tongue but she bit them back. Not the hour for
lengthy explanations. She sipped at her tea. He did not, but sat warming his hands, head
bent.

Presently he looked up at her. "I'm sorry to bring this down on you. If I hadn't been fool
enough to trust Bevis's discretion they would never have heard of Amy and Tommy."

"They?" Emily said gently.

"The Ffoukes." He explained the legal problem tersely.

"Good God." For the first time Emily perceived his apprehension as having a basis in fact,
and the hair stood up on the back of her neck. "But that's--"

"Gothick," he finished, grim. "I know. I have to find out if Sarah has blabbed to the
duke."

"She assured Tom Conway she would tell no one."

He was silent.

"Will you know if that's true when you've spoken with her?"

He shrugged.

"I thought her candid," Emily ventured.

"Perhaps she is." He sounded so blue-devilled and withal so tired Emily rose and stalked
to the hearth.

"What are you doing?"

"Placing coals in a warming pan. Phillida has turned down your bed but the sheets want
warming."

He began to laugh, head in hands.

"I collect," Emily said with severity, "that you spent last night under a hedge."

"Only after the moon set," he said meekly.

Sir Robert Wilson was a plump middle-aged gentleman some years older and some inches
shorter than his noble wife. He had wed for love. She had not. In the seven years of their marriage,
he thought she had learnt to love him. Certainly she trusted him, and knowing her history, he felt
that to be a considerable achievement.

Twenty-eight when they wed, handsome, wealthy, and sophisticated, Lady Sarah Ffouke
had seemed an unlikely wife for a country gentleman. However, she had taken so contentedly to
the management of his household, to the small neighbourhood, and to the mixed pleasures of
maternity, that their annual London seasons grew shorter and shorter. She liked to keep in touch
with her old friends. Once or twice a year she invited parties to Knowlton, but she seemed happily
settled in the role of squire's wife. She had given him three sons. Sir Robert did not like to see her
troubled.

When the butler entered the breakfast room where they sat over a light nuncheon and
announced that one Major Falk wished speech with Lady Sarah, Sir Robert watched his wife turn
pale.

"Falk? Is that--"

"Richard." Sarah's hands fluttered to her throat.

"Shall I go to him first?"

"Oh, Robin, if you will..."

"You needn't see him at all, you know."

She stared at him, half shocked, half hopeful. "He's my brother."

"My dear, he is your mother's by-blow. No one would think it odd if you were to refuse
to see him."

She closed her eyes for a moment, still very pale, but said nothing.

"Well, Sarah, I'll go in to him and see what the fellow wants. If you don't come in a
quarter hour I'll send him on his way."

Her gaze seemed to follow him out of the room. Leaving the hall he encountered his
butler. "Where have you put Major Falk?"

"The red salon, sir. A stranger, is he not?"

"Yes. Thank you, Bowles. Tell her ladyship where we are, however. She will make for
the withdrawing room, I daresay."

The butler looked puzzled for an instant before his features reassembled into a perfect
blankness. He was a very correct servant. Wilson hesitated at the door to the red salon, which was
ajar. Then he pushed it open and entered.

Falk had not made himself at home. He was standing on the Turkey carpet and he looked
up from contemplation of its pattern when Wilson spoke.

"Major Falk? I am Robert Wilson. How d'ye do?" Wilson deliberately did not extend his
hand. No need to be effusive.

Apparently Lady Sarah's half brother agreed. "Servant, sir. Your man mistook me. I
wished to speak with Lady Sarah."

"But you will concede that a husband has the right to meet his wife's, er, acquaintances?"
Wilson spoke with an effort at coolness which sounded supercilious in his own ears. He was
startled and unsure why he should be so.

He had expected--what? The fawning vulgarity of a shirttail relation? Perhaps a slightly
shopworn copy of Lord George, or a blustering swaggerer like Lord John. What Wilson had not
envisaged was a thin, weather-beaten man of middle height who frowned at him from eyes the
exact shape and colour of his wife's.

Lady Sarah took after the Ffoukes, but her eyes were her mother's. Falk's features, with
allowance for a tropic tan and harsh lines of experience, hardship, and, Wilson thought, an
uncertain temper, were a masculine version of the dowager duchess of Newsham's. At sixty-five,
the dowager was still a handsome woman.

Wilson's question, as it was meant to, threw his unwanted guest off balance, and Falk's
frown deepened. However, the man said, noncommittal, "No doubt. I trust Lady Sarah is in good
health."

He does not know that I am privy to the relationship, and is willing to keep me in the dark in
case Sarah has not told me of it
, Wilson thought, again surprised. That argued a kind of
loyalty--and experience of the reception bastards were apt to receive of the respectable. Wilson felt slightly
ashamed of himself.

He cleared his throat. "Let us not hide our teeth. You are Sarah's half brother, are you
not, come to ring a peal over her? She received an impertinent letter from a gentleman who said he
writ at your behest. It cut up her peace."