The English Witch (4 page)

"Well, then?"

In answer she laughed again.

Basil's survival instincts appeared to have deserted him as he contemplated a few responses that would make her stop laughing—and rather abruptly, at that. He was, in feet, about to take steps towards that end when she spoke in more serious tones.

"Whatever Papa expects, I am not so hen-witted as to marry a perfect stranger simply to be rid of someone else."

"I will not be a perfect stranger by the time we're in England," was the huffy retort.

"Oh, so you mean to make me fall in love with you? That would be asking for trouble."

"That is not at all what I meant, wicked girl."

"Then what
do
you mean?"

He collected himself. Something had gotten in the way of his intellect. Lust, probably. "I meant, my love, only that this is a risky enterprise. I must trust you absolutely to jilt me once we are back, for I cannot, as a gentleman, jilt
you.
If I do, I will be driven away in disgrace—" He was about to say "again," but thought better of it. "My family would never forgive me."

"Yes, of course. There's an etiquette to these things." Her voice was a little tart, but recollecting that he was the only rescuer she had at the moment, she added hastily, "At any rate, I shall not lure you to the altar, Mr. Trevelyan. I solemnly promise to jilt you. In the meantime, if you don't want to give me the wrong idea, I suggest you save your 'my loves' for the appropriate audience."

He took her reproof with more of his natural composure and obediently turned the topic. They settled between them the story that would be told to Sir Charles. Then Mr. Trevelyan's curiosity had to be satisfied.

"How does it happen," he asked, "that we never met? Aunt Clem has godchildren over half of England, it seems, and I'm forever stumbling over them. Why, I'm sure she's brought out half a dozen goddaughters at least.''

"Yes. She wished to oversee my comeout as well. She wanted me to stay with her, from time to time, long before that. But Papa refused. He—well, he said he didn't believe in that foolishness." She hesitated.

"Foolishness? Oh. I see. Why put you on the Marriage Mart when he already had a husband for you?"

"Well, that was part of it." She felt a tad uncomfortable discussing family affairs with a stranger, even if he was Aunt Clem's nephew.

"And the other part?" he prodded.

"Really, you're the most inquisitive gentleman, Mr. Trevelyan."

"I want to know. I want to know what evil curse has kept us apart all these years."

She turned to look at him again, and he smiled.
What a lovely, lazy smile,
she thought. It made one feel so peaceful and relaxed, even while one's instincts warned one otherwise.

"No evil curse," she answered. "Only he hated Mama's friends, and has always believed London Society to be shallow, vain, stupid, and vicious. He did agree to a Season when I was eighteen, but until then, Mama lived in London, he was off travelling, and I stayed at our house in the country."

"Ah, I see. He didn't want you to turn out like the rest of Society's debs, so he kept you hidden away from evil influence."

She nodded.

"And what did you do in your rustic haven?"

"I read."

"I see."

Of course he didn't see. How could he? "My governess was rather a bluestocking," she explained. "Consequently, I do not handle my needle very well, and my watercolours are appalling, and—"

"Good heavens! You aren't about to tell me you don't play the pianoforte?"

This being uttered in horrified incredulity, she couldn't help but giggle, even as she admitted she could play
no
instrument—at least, not very well.

"You poor, benighted girl. What
can
you do?"

"I can, as Papa will tell you, talk a blue streak."

"Then talk, by all means, Miss Ashmore. It is, after all, the only
safe
thing one—or two, rather—can do upon a horse."

Deciding it was best to ignore his innuendoes, she invited him to choose a subject.

"Tell me of Albania. Tell me what you've discovered about Byron's 'rugged nurse of savage men.'"

She complied with his request, and he was a little surprised at what she said. She'd read neither Hobhouse's
Travels in Albania
nor Byron's
Childe Harold,
for those books had been published while she was travelling with her father. Thus, her perspective was all her own, with the focus on politics though she drew analogies from both literature and history. It wasn't a typical bluestocking speech—or at least, certainly not like that of any bluestocking he'd ever known. Her turn of mind was interesting, and her voice very pleasant to hear. Her letter, Basil supposed, had promised something, but this was more than he'd hoped for. He thought better of his aunt as a result, and the time passed more quickly than he'd expected, considering that it was not whiled away with dalliance.

They did not, as Basil had predicted, have to ride all night, though he guessed it was well past midnight when they reached the edge of the village to be met by Sir Charles, Mr. Burnham, and the Albanian servants. Alexandra, half-dead from exhaustion, gave herself over to Lefka's care and was lead away to a tiny cottage.

Meanwhile, Basil was set upon by the two Englishmen, who immediately began questioning him. Yes, he told them, Miss Ashmore was quite unharmed. No, he assured them, there would be no more trouble.

"But I must beg your pardon, gentlemen. It has been such an interesting day altogether that I am like to drop from fatigue. I assure you I cannot put another answer together tonight. We will talk more tomorrow. If you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of a comfortable mound of earth—or a stump or a rock—and topple me onto it, I should be very much obliged."

The following morning, after being ungently wakened by the faithful Gregor, Basil betook himself to a mountain stream for a rather chilly bath. Then, clean in body—though his travel-stained garments distressed his fastidious soul—he found Sir Charles and took him aside for private conversation.

Having upon awakening become painfully sensible of a fragrance of goat about her person, Alexandra was making her own morning ablutions about the time the two gentlemen were having their chat. Lefka, who stood guard nearby, persisted in making the most indecorous remarks regarding the beautiful young man who'd rescued her charge. As a result, Miss Ashmore was not only ravenously hungry but unrefreshingly hot and flustered by the time she joined the others for breakfast. One look at her father's face told her there was more aggravation to come.

"I'd like to have a word with you, Alexandra," he announced.

"Can't it wait until after breakfast, Papa? I haven't eaten a thing since yesterday morning—"

"Breakfast can wait."

She looked longingly at the table set under the grape arbour: thick slabs of bread, fruit, two kinds of highly aromatic cheese, and thick black coffee. But her father led her inexorably back into the little cottage.

"I've just had a startling conversation with Mr. Trevelyan, Alexandra."

Abruptly, one of Lefka's most lurid suggestions came back to her. She blushed furiously.

"Oh, my dear, your face tells me that it is true. But why did you never confide this thing to your Papa?" His words sounded sorrowful, but the creases were settling into his forehead.

She collected herself, speaking carefully. "Because I couldn't think you'd like it, Papa. He had nothing when I met him, and though I believed in him, I couldn't expect that you would."

"No, and I don't like it now." He then proceeded to remind her at interminable length about obligations, filial devotion, and the superior character of Mr. Burnham.

Since she'd heard all of this several hundred times before, there was no need to attend very closely. Instead, she concentrated on how best to manage her stubborn Papa. When he finally paused for breath, she answered as though she'd considered all he'd said very seriously. "Of course, that's all true, Papa. But you don't know Mr. Trevelyan yet, do you? Hasn't he made something of himself—starting with nothing—in only six years? And hasn't he been true to me all this while? With his background he might have had his pick of brides in England, but instead he's worked and sacrificed—all for me. Even if I did now have some doubt of my feelings—for I was only eighteen when I met him—I must esteem him for his courage and devotion."

This was doing it rather brown—especially the part about being true to her, when she strongly suspected that Mr. Trevelyan had about as much notion of fidelity as a tomcat. Nonetheless, Alexandra would have cheerfully committed any extravagance that promised freedom from the ghastly Burnhams.

Sir Charles, however, was not to be won over so easily. "Yes, dear, I daresay the young man has behaved admirably. But really, what choice had he, if he had, as you say, nothing? And what of Mr. Burnham's patience? He has waited several years, never complaining."

Well, of course he wouldn't complain. He didn't care one way or other about it. Summoning up all her patience, Al
exandra dutifully endured her father's anxieties about the Burnhams, who even now must be preparing for the wedding.

"And what of Society?" he persisted. "Everyone knows you're promised to Randolph. No one knows anything of any attachment to Mr. Trevelyan. You'll be labelled ‘jilt.' And everyone will think that the Ashmores have no sense of honour."

Bother your honour,
Alexandra thought. And to talk of Society—as if he'd ever in his life cared what Society thought about anything, as if anyone in Society had ever heard of the Burnhams—was the height of absurdity.

Squelching a sigh of vexation, she answered ingenuously, "I don't understand, Papa, how it's less dishonourable to abandon a man who's sacrificed so much on my account and trusted me all these years to keep my promise to him."

The baronet was growing exasperated. He couldn't in all honesty claim that she had no obligation to Mr. Trevelyan. Sir Charles was beginning to feel cornered. "This is merely a childish infatuation, Alexandra. As I'm sure you and Mr. Trevelyan will soon find out. People change in six years. What seems romantic at eighteen looks very different at four-and-twenty."

She gazed at him as though struck by what he said. Then, in a slow, thoughtful voice, she answered. "Well, to tell the truth, I hadn't thought of that, Papa. I was so overjoyed to see him again—and as my gallant rescuer. I suppose it was very romantic."

Her father nodded, looking obnoxiously complacent. But his complacency began to fade as she went on.

"In that case, I don't see what you're alarmed about. For if it is, as you say, only infatuation, then we'll discover it soon enough, won't we? Very likely, by the time we're home again—or soon after, surely— Mr. Trevelyan and I will have taken each other in dislike. And everything will settle itself peaceably with neither dishonour nor hurt feelings. How perceptive you are, Papa."

Papa being, as they say, hoist with his own petard, could produce no answer for this. He had to content himself with grumbling about childish infatuations and wondering why he and Randolph should have to put up with such behaviour. However, as it turned out, he hadn't time to annoy himself or his daughter much more on that subject. They'd no sooner left the house and joined the others near the grape arbour when they heard in the distance a dull thundering.

This gradually resolved itself into the pounding of hooves, and then in turn became a lone figure on a brown stallion. The figure came to a halt some yards from where the group now stood, watching in alarm.

"Ah, the rejected swain," Basil murmured, moving quickly to Alexandra's side and putting a protective arm about her shoulders. Though the gesture filled Sir Charles with ineffable disgust, he had sense enough to hold his tongue.

The rejected swain was soon before them, looking so humble and abashed that Alexandra's heart, which had been pounding in concert with the horse's hooves, swiftly settled itself to a mere fluttering.

"Zotir Ashmore," said the young man quietly. "Zotir Tri—Tri—Vasil." He looked at Alexandra and heaved a great sigh. Then, raising himself very tall, very straight, he launched into a long, beautiful—nearly poetic—apology. While it was not nearly so poetic in English, the tone alone impressed his listeners. He had shamed his family and disgraced himself. His behaviour was madness and inexcusable. He despaired of obtaining their forgiveness.

The speech made Alexandra feel ashamed of having deceived him with her make-believe fiancé. Dhimitri was obviously sincere, and now, standing there so tall and sad and dignified, he was, she thought, noble.

Good heavens!
Now he was saying that he must go with them to Prevesa to make what small amends were in his power. He would personally see to their comfort and safety during their "perilous journey." He had friends and relatives in many of the villages along the way, who would make them all welcome.

"Would you tell him, Alexandra," Basil responded, when Dhimitri's offer had been translated, "that we accept his apology. His offer, however, is too generous. There's no need for him to accompany us."