Carla Kelly (9 page)

“
Fair’s fair,” agreed Omega. “Angela, let us withdraw now and
leave these gentlemen to their port and cigars.” Angela shuddered.
“Do not remind me of that mean Señor Platter!”

The two of them
went to the river and sat there in pleasant companionship, watching
the water and the occasional sparkle as a fish jumped. Angela
sighed, and edged closer to Omega.

“
Soon
we will have to say
adiós
to Jamie, won’t we?”

“
Yes,
I fear so. And you and Hugh will find a place to work and I will
teach English grammar to spoiled little girls who couldn’t skin
rabbits if their lives depended on it. Oh, botheration, let us
return to the gentlemen.”

Hugh and Jamie
had borrowed armfuls of cut timothy grass from the nearby field and
arranged it around the fire. The soldier spread out the heavy sheet
from his rucksack over one pile and motioned toward it as Omega and
Angela came into the clearing again. Angela sank down in the soft
hay at once, patting it until the lumps were distributed to her
liking.

Omega sat down
beside her, her ears tuned to the pleasant rustle of the hay. I
must store all this in my memory, she thought as she poked and
prodded the hay. I must remember the River By and the porridge in
the cattle byre and the good feeling of rough sheet on bare skin.
Most of all, when I am lonely this winter, I must remember these
people. Tears came to her eyes unexpectedly and she brushed them
away.

Angela leaned
closer. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“
Gracious no,” said Omega. “I must have ... must have gotten
some grass in my eye. It’s gone now.”

She lay down and
Angela cuddled next to her. After a moment’s hesitation, Omega slid
her arm under Angela’s neck. Angela sighed and nestled in the
hollow of Omega’s arm.

“
Omega, tell me a story about a handsome prince.”

“
I
don’t know any stories like that,” she replied, looking up at the
stars that winked through the leafing branches overhead like random
sequins on a dark gown. “There really aren’t any handsome
princes.”

“
I saw
one once,” said Angela. Her voice was drowsy. “He was William,
Prince of Orange. The soldiers called him Little Frog, but I
thought he was handsome.”

“
I’ll
tell you a story about a prince,” Omega said suddenly. “A prince
with red hair and—”

“
Princes don’t have red hair,” Angela interrupted. Her voice
was faraway.

“
This
one did,” said Omega firmly. “Dark, dark red.” She sighed. “And it
was gloriously straight,
unlike
my own. And he had brown
eyes and absolutely no freckles.”

“
Was
he wealthy?”

“
Oh,
yes.” She giggled. “Rich as Croesus.”

“
Was
there a princess?” asked Angela, long after Omega thought she was
asleep.

“
Well,
no, not really. There was a lady who loved him
fiercely.”

“
Such
a strange word,” murmured Hugh Owen. Omega looked over at him,
aware for the first time that someone else was listening besides
Angela.

She didn’t look
at Hugh. She hadn’t the courage. She stared straight up at the
stars overhead. “It is the correct word,” she said softly.
“Fiercely. Not jealously, not even protectively, for he could take
care of himself. Fiercely.”

“
Like
a fox with kits?”

“
Yes,
I suppose.” Omega considered. She would gladly have died for
Matthew Bering without a whimper.

She was silent
then, until Angela jostled her in the ribs. “What became of the
prince?”

“
I do
not know. One day he disappeared—”

“
Was
he a soldier?”

“
No,
no. He was what I suppose you could call a country
gentleman.”

“
And
the lady?”

Omega pulled her
arm out from under Angela’s head and sat up. Angela rested her head
on Omega’s lap and the woman stroked Angela’s black hair. “He left
her at the altar. Just standing there holding her little Bible and
bunch of flowers.”

“
Good
God,” said Hugh in a low voice.

“
And
that’s
all
?” asked Angela in disbelief.

“
I’m
afraid so. That’s the ending.”

“
Well,
it isn’t much of a story,” said the girl. “I can tell you a better
one. Prince William came into our encampment one night in Brussels
and I sewed a button on his shirt.”

Angela’s words
recalled Omega to the present. “Imagine!” she exclaimed.

“
Yes.
It was so cold he did not take off the shirt. I just stood right
next to him and sewed on the button.”

Hugh laughed.
“And blushed the whole time, I own!”

“
I did
not!”

“
She
did. And when she finished, Prince William bowed and kissed her
hand and she swore a mighty oath never to wash the spot again,”
teased Hugh.

Omega hugged
Angela to her. “That’s a much better story than mine. From now on,
you are appointed to tell the bedtime tales.”

“
But
not now,” said Hugh. “Why don’t you follow Jamie’s lead and go to
sleep? We still have a march before us tomorrow.”

Angela was
silent. Omega feared she was sulking, but soon she heard the even,
deep breathing of the girl. Gently Omega lowered her head back to
the timothy-grass bedding and covered her with a small corner of
the blanket.

Hugh was quiet
then
,
too. Omega thought
he had drifted off, but then he spoke. “You see why I could not
leave her in a Brussels orphanage.”

“
I
envy you,” she said simply.

When Hugh spoke
again, he sounded much closer, as if he had raised himself up on
one elbow and was leaning toward her. “Come with me down to the
river.”

She rose and
followed him. They sat at the edge of the water. Omega took off her
stockings and shoes and put her feet in the water. Minnows darted
about and tickled at her feet.

“
He
just left you at the altar?”

Omega managed a
laugh, but it was devoid of any humor. “That was for dramatic
purposes. I suppose I must be accurate. I was standing in the back
of the church, waiting for Matthew and his best man to walk out by
the altar so my father and I could proceed down the aisle. We
waited there an hour, until Papa and Alpha escorted me out of the
church.”

“
Did
you ... did you know him very well?” Hugh cleared his throat.
“There probably isn’t a way to ask such things nicely, I suppose,
and see here, probably you would prefer that I get my nose out of
your business.”

“
No,
no.” Omega paused. There really wasn’t any way to tell Hugh that
she was relieved for the opportunity to talk. She sensed, somehow,
that he understood that fact without having to be told. “Matthew
was—or is ... I don’t know—from one of England’s finest families.
All of Papa’s connections told him how lucky I was.” The word stuck
in her throat. “How lucky
 
...”

Hugh touched her
hand. “I cannot imagine a worse thing to befall a lady.”

Omega laughed
again. “Oh, that was nothing; a mere diversion, Hugh. Two weeks
later I found my father hanged by the neck in his dressing room.”
She paused to let that sink in. “It seems there had been serious
reverses on the Exchange that Alpha and I were blissfully ignorant
of. Papa killed himself.”

Her voice broke
then and she was silent, waiting for the tears to form so she could
brush them away and get on with it. Hugh said nothing.

“
Alpha
was finishing his third year at Oxford—thank the Lord for that—and
he always had a scholarly mind. As soon as everything we owned was
sold at auction, he was able to secure a position as a lecturer of
English and composition.”

No need to tell
Hugh of her own solitary ride to Plymouth in answer to an
advertisement in the
Times
for a teacher in one of the
shabby-genteel schools for the daughters of ship’s captains. And
the fear that even in that less-exalted hall of learning someone
would mention Deardon Chartley and his suicide and the scandal at
St. Alphonse’s that was the continuing gossip of that London
Season.

“
But
that was eight years ago,” she said, “and we have done well enough
since then. Alpha married the perfectly lovely daughter of a vicar
at Banbury, and he is now head of English at St. Andrew’s, near
Amphney St. Peter.” She smiled to herself in the dark. “And there
are three little Chartleys, each as smart as their
papa.”

“
And
their aunt, I vow.”

“
I
have managed,” she said simply.

Hugh took her
hand and held it this time. “And you never heard from Matthew ...
Bering, is it?”

“
No.
Not ever. Not a word. Alpha and I speculated at length. All we
could come up with was that somehow he had gotten wind of Papa’s
financial misery before we knew of it, and cried off in time to
save himself from marriage to a penniless girl without a sixpence
to scratch with .... Oh, do excuse my language.”

Hugh chuckled.
“Nor a feather to fly with?”

She could smile
at that. “Not a single one.” And then her voice was serious again.
“I’ve certainly gotten over whatever silly
tendre
I may have
had for that man. I don’t expect to see him again. But I do wish
... I just wish I knew what it was that so disgusted him about me
that he could not bring himself to face me again. I would like to
know that.”

Hugh let go of
her hand. “I imagine you would. What does he look like? If I ever
see him, I promise you I’ll draw his cork for you.”

“
You
wouldn’t!” she exclaimed, hugging her arms around her knees. “He’s
tall. I come up to his shoulder, but barely. And I already told you
he has wonderful red hair. He’s a serious man, but he could be so
diverting. There’s something marvelously original about his mind.”
She sighed. “But that was so long ago. And he’s older than I am by
eight years. I suppose he would be thirty-four now.
Goodness.”

“
He is
probably bald and fat now and loosens his pants at the dinner
table.”

She laughed, and
this time her humor was heartfelt. “I hope so!” She dried off her
feet and put on her shoes.

They walked back
to the clearing. “I have a question for you, Hugh, and it’s quite
impertinent.”

“
Fire
away.”

“
How
is it that your English is so good? We had a Welsh gardener once,
and he was so singsongy ... oh, and his grammar!”

“
My
mama was English, and she had been raised in the home of an earl.”
He shook his head at the memory. “She would wallop me good if I
ever talked like one of the colliery boys. ‘How can you amount to
much if you sound like a Welshman?’
 
” he mimicked.

“
I’ve
never met anyone quite like you,” Omega said, “but now, good night,
sir.”

“
Good
night, Omega Chartley,” Hugh said. “You’re a charming lady and
certainly deserving of a swift change of fortune.”

“
The
same to you,” she said obligingly. “I own that we deserve some good
fortune.”

When Omega waked
in the morning, Hugh Owen was already busy at the fire. One-handed,
he had managed to start a fire, and was kneeling in front of it,
blowing on the flames. He next went to the river and returned with
a canister of water, into which he dumped last night’s rabbit bones
and set it on the flames.

As the rabbit
water turned to broth, Omega marveled again at their good luck in
falling in with such artists. She said her morning prayers, and
woke Angela and Jamie.

They breakfasted
on rabbit soup livened with a scraping of salt, and turned their
attention to Byford.

“
We
should be there soon enough,” said Hugh. “I have an idea. Jamie,
you walk with me, and, Angela, you stay close to Omega. If Mr.
Timothy Platter is about, he’ll be concentrating on a woman with a
boy and a soldier with a girl. It isn’t much, but it might allow us
an avenue of escape.” He grinned. “My captain, God rest his soul,
would call that a master stroke.”

“
And
so would I,” agreed Omega. “I shall force my curls under a cap, so
Mr. Platter will not call me a wild woman.”

“
And
do try to stand taller,” said Hugh. “Add three or four inches, if
you can. Add a stone or two to your weight, and you’ll escape all
notice.”

A morning’s walk,
and then Byford spread before them, cupped in a small valley. The
remnants of a wall around the town indicated the age of Byford, as
did the squat-looking Romanesque church set stolidly in the middle
of the village.

“
Well,
let us march,” said Hugh. He put his arm around Jamie. “You and I
will go in first to reconnoiter. Omega, you follow in five minutes
with Angela.”

The man and boy
walked ahead. Angela sat down, while Omega continued to look over
the fields and houses of Byford. The village was tidy to a fault,
with a preciseness that appealed to her sense of order, that sense
so badly scattered in the past few days. To the south, a mile or
more beyond the village, was a large stone house, far larger than
anything in the adjacent neighborhood, shaded well with tall trees
that had probably been mere seedlings when Ceasar’s Roman
legionnaires encountered the blue-faced folk of early Britain. To
say that the house was large did not quite put it in the category
of an estate. It was stone and two-storied, with white shutters and
ivy twining up the walls.