Cherished Enemy (18 page)

Howard Singleton hurried in, his sober face brightening. “Did you so, Doctor?” he asked eagerly. “My—my elder brother died there, you know.” Briefly, stark anguish darkened the hazel eyes, then he went on, “By Jove, but I'd be proud to shake you by the hand!”

For the barest instant, Victor eyed him without expression, then came the smile that was so heart-warming, and he returned the handshake.

*   *   *

When Rosamond entered her bedchamber the new abigail looked nervous and unhappy as she bobbed a curtsy. She was a tall young woman, thin and large-boned, so that she seemed all angles and lumps. Her movements were clumsy, and very obviously she did not know what to do with her long arms, holding them rigidly to the sides, gripping her red hands in front of her, whipping them out of sight behind her back, all in the first moment that her new mistress came into the room.

Sorry for her, Rosamond held out her hand. “How do you do,” she said kindly. “I am Miss Albritton. You may call me Miss Rosamond. I believe you are to work for me.”

The big hand that met hers was wet with perspiration and shook pathetically. “Aye, m-miss,” quavered the abigail in a deep, gruff voice that also shook. She gulped and added, “If so be as I can please ye.”

There was a slight lilt to the voice and Rosamond tensed. “Are you Scottish?”

A spasmodic nod, while the brown eyes watched her in terror. “But—I been doon here long and long, ma'am—I mean Miss Rosamond. I never did no harm to a body in all me born days. I dinna hold with war and—”

Rosamond had heard someone else say “dinna,” and wondered fleetingly where, and who it had been. “I see,” she said. “Then—you were not in sympathy with Prince Charles and the Stuart cause?”

“Lots on us wasn't, ma'am. But we got hated just the same. And—”

“And you did not answer me, I think.” She frowned a little, hesitating, then said gravely, “I shall be honest, and expect the same courtesy from you. A most gallant young gentleman I knew all my life and whom I was to have married was killed by Jacobites at the Battle of Culloden.”

“Och … aweigh…!” whispered the abigail, horrified.

Rosamond went on, “I have known Scottish people in the past for whom I have had liking and respect. But I feel sure you will understand that—that to have any slightest dealings with one of the people responsible for his death—to so much as
speak
with a Jacobite sympathizer would be, of all things, utterly repugnant to me. If you were so involved, I do not ask you to place yourself in jeopardy by owning it. I do ask that you simply go away now, and pack your belongings. I give you my word you will be given a month's wages and no steps will be taken against you. But you must leave this house at once. I could not allow that you work for me.”

The knobby face flushed; the eyes flickered and fell. “I—I need work awfu' bad, ma
____
miss. The reverend were so good as to give me name to Miss Seddon.” Her eyes crept apprehensively to meet Rosamond's grave regard, then she lifted her chin, clenched her fists, and said, “Me mother and father and me wee sister and brother went oot to America, but I didna wish tae—to leave Britain, so I found work in England. I thought the Prince a fine handsome gentleman, and I loved him fer bein' a Scot and a brave mon, but—I does not hold wi' war, Miss Rosamond, and I couldn't think he'd much chance o' winning. I swear I'm not a Jacobite, but—I'll own one o' me brothers was. He—fell at—at Culloden Moor. When a letter came telling me of it, I”—she gave a small, helpless gesture—“I was grieving him so, and the lady I worked for began tae—to suspect.” Tears came into her eyes and her lips trembled. “She found me letter and turned me oot on the spot, saying I was fortunate she was a Christian woman or she'd have handed me over to the authorities as a Jacobite spy.”

“Oh, poor creature,” cried Rosamond, gathering the tall girl into a hug. “How dreadful! What a sad time you have had. I am so sorry!”

For a moment she was clung to, then the abigail stepped back. Gripping her hands in desperation, she declared, “I'd serve ye well, Miss Rosamond, if ye would but give me a chance. I'm no a bonny girl, I ken—I mean I know. And I'm not clever, but I—I'd be that grateful! I've one brother left, y'see, only he's unable to find work, and I've tae earn for the both o' us.”

Rosamond drew her to the sofa and made her sit down. “Where is he—your brother? In England?”

“Aye, ma'am. A rare man he is wi' a horse, and had a fine position with a English lord, but he was trampled by a stallion and milord dismissed him.”

“If ever I heard of such a thing,” exclaimed Rosamond, indignant.

The wide mouth twitched into the closest approach to a smile that had yet evidenced. “Jock canna use his left arm, and milord said he was of no further use. He'd've died save for my wee bit savings that paid for the doctor and medicines. But now—there's precious little left for his food and shelter.” She shrugged, and said as if impelled against her will, “Even so, now that I know 'bout your affianced, Miss Rosamond, and how sadly you lost him, I can understand if ye'd no want me aboot.”

For an aching instant Rosamond saw Hal's kind smile. The Scots girl noted the look of sorrow, and despair came into her face.

Rosamond patted her hand. “I will accept your given word. Besides, my brother recommended you to Miss Seddon, I think you said, and I never go against Mr. Charles's wishes. Let us try how we suit each other, and—oh, I do not know your name.”

For a moment it seemed she was not destined to learn that vital piece of information, the abigail being so overcome she was obliged to lift her apron and use it to make fierce little dabs at her tearful eyes. “'Tis—Addington, miss,” she gulped hoarsely.

Rosamond stood. “I shall call you Addie, if you've no objection. And now—I must change my dress or my papa will be most upset. The colonel is very strict about punctuality.” She crossed to the tall press and opened the door. “I wonder,” she said thoughtfully, “if I should wear the new blue velvet with the white trim…”

Hurrying to join her, Addington eyed the gown in no little awe. “Och, 'tis awfu' pretty, ma'am.”

“Yes. I think so, too.” Rosamond smiled and wondered whether the enigma that was Dr. Robert Victor might share her opinion. “Definitely, the blue,” she decided.

By the time she had washed and changed clothes, she was pleased with her new servant. Addington was clumsy with details such as buttons and fastening necklaces, but she had a fine eye for colour and was skilful at styling the hair. Rosamond, her thick locks piled high on her head and nicely powdered, a cleverly crafted blue silk rose nestled among her curls, and her mother's pearls about her throat, surveyed her reflection with approval.

Addington ran to open the door and Rosamond thanked her and went to find her aunt. Mrs. Porchester was busy reading a letter and gave a shocked squeal when she realized what time it was. Promising to try and keep her father's mind occupied, Rosamond left her.

At the half-landing she paused for an instant, looking down into the wide entrance hall with its handsome teakwood table that Papa had brought back from India, the branch of candles waking a great bowl of chrysanthemums to a vivid splash of colour. How pleasant it was to be home where everything was so dear and familiar … With a faint smile she went on down the stairs. Cobham, their solitary footman, bowed and advised that the gentlemen were in the withdrawing room.

The storm had died away now, but rain still pattered down, and the air had become cooler. The doors to the large room stood slightly ajar, and a fire was blazing on the hearth. Rosamond walked in and paused, glancing fondly at her brother, who was in the process of lighting a branch of candles. Her father, cousin Howard, and Dr. Victor stood around the fireplace, glasses in hand.

Howard Singleton was saying in a shy, diffident way, “… would not mind perhaps—when you feel more the thing, Doctor—to talk with me about Culloden. The—the accounts we've had were garbled at best, and—well, I'd be grateful to know some of the true facts from someone who was actually there.”

“And I'd be only too glad to oblige,” Victor said graciously. “Perhaps—”

“Ah!
Here
's my lass at last!” exclaimed the colonel, setting down his glass and holding his arms wide. “Come, child, and give your papa a buss!”

Moving obediently to greet her loved ones, to be exclaimed over, told how pretty she was tonight, hugged and heartily kissed, Rosamond was inwardly dismayed. Dr. Victor had been more or less forced to tell Captain Holt he had fought at the Battle of Culloden Moor, but surely there was no need to continue that deception here, under her father's roof? Whatever did he mean to tell poor Howard, already so pathetically wounded by his brother's death? How calm and assured he looked, and how easily he reeled off his falsehoods, as if 'twas second nature to him to lie and deceive. It was all too probable that he had also lied about his
tendre
for her. Certainly, one would be unwise to place much dependency upon anything the man said, however sincerely he said it!

The awareness made her feel miserable, but she knew also that for several reasons she was beginning to be afraid of the man who called himself Dr. Robert Victor, and that, as soon as may be, she must have a private talk with Charles and find out just how well he knew this disturbing individual.

*   *   *

It was very dark and raining steadily at half past one o'clock, when Robert Victor crept stealthily down the back stairs, opened the door next to the flower and potting room, and slipped into the night. Charles had spoken at dinner of his “private suite,” which apparently consisted of a pavillion in the garden that had been enclosed and furnished as an office where he retreated to study, and compose sermons and handle his correspondence. ‘And et cetera,' thought Victor with a faint grim smile.

He peered about, straining his eyes against the darkness, and after a minute or two was able to discern a distant gleam of light. He turned up the cape of his cloak and made his way cautiously towards that glow. Dinner had been an ordeal, with Mrs. Porchester chattering vivaciously and trying to turn the colonel's curiosity from the well-being and whereabouts of his niece, Deborah. Victor's lips twisted cynically. A fine shock the colonel had in store did he ever discover the truth about
that
young lady! Not that she was of his immediate family, but he'd apparently appointed himself the guide and protector of the Singletons. An impressive individual was Colonel Albritton, and Victor liked the man despite the fact that his scorn for his clergyman son made it uncomfortable to listen while he sniped at the poor fellow. Victor thought of his own father and stifled a sigh, wondering if ever again he would see the dear old boy or his beloved home …

The pavilion loomed up. He had glimpsed it earlier from the window of his bedchamber and thought it charming. Of octagonal design, it was a good size, topped by a pagoda-shaped dome, and with broad steps encircling its base. He started up the steps, peering for the entrance, then blundered into something, which he discovered to be a handrail suported by vertical iron bars. He saw then that there was another railing a few feet distant, evidently forming an approach to what was now the front door. He vaulted the railing and groped his way up six steps, knocked softly at the door, then opened it a crack. “It's Rob,” he whispered.

Albritton called, “Come in, Doctor.”

Victor entered a room that was much larger than he had anticipated. Six of the walls were lined with crowded bookcases, a seventh contained a tall walnut wardrobe, and the eighth had evidently been designed for devotions since a plain cross hung above a shelf holding a Bible, and below was a small hassock. A deep chair sagged on one side of the fire that burned on the hearth, a long wooden settle facing it. Backing the settle was a fairly clear reference table, and closer to the door, a huge, rather battered desk was cluttered with papers and books. Many more books were piled in heaps about the floor. On top of one such pile, a big Persian cat sat with paw upraised, having interrupted its toilette so as to inspect the newcomer.

Victor wiped a hand across his drenched hair and turned, smiling, only to encounter a searing blue glare. “What the—” he began.

“You dirty lying blackguard!” ground out the clergyman. His fist whipped back and struck home so truly that Victor staggered, tripped over a pile of books, and fell heavily.

The Persian cat took up where it had left off and resumed the cleaning of its paw.

8

Rosamond opened her eyes to find an excellent set of pointed teeth grinning in her face. Before she could gather her wits a pink tongue, seemingly at least a yard long, wiped around her chin.

“Oh!
Wretched
beast,” she spluttered, pushing Trifle down and wiping her face with her handkerchief. The room was cold, the fire had gone out, and the candle was guttering. When she stood to light another, Trifle voiced an enthusiastic endorsement. She bent to him and hissed, “Be quiet! Bad dog!” which he evidently interpreted as a term of affection, for she once more received the dubious benefit of the yard of tongue. Moaning, she lit a new candle, blew out the old one, and crossed to look at the clock on the chest of drawers. It was twenty minutes past two o'clock. Dismayed, she exclaimed, “Oh,
Lud!
”

She had sat reading in the chair until midnight, by which time she was sure Papa would be safely asleep. Victor's presence in the house, however, had evidently changed her father's schedule, for when she had crept to the landing a burst of male laughter had drifted from the downstairs hall. Howard had gone home when she and Aunt Estelle had retired, but Papa was probably chattering happily with the pseudo-captain on military matters. She'd thought, ‘Poor Charles!' and had returned to her room to find Trifle comfortably ensconced on the bed. Her attempt to oust him from the room had precipitated such an uproar that she had swiftly abandoned it and allowed him to settle down before the fire while she sat in the chair again, yearning for her bed, but knowing that so sure as she lay down she would not wake until morning.