Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind (5 page)

They were extraordinarily fine eyes, he had to admit. Gray, with just a touch of green to them. Like a stone statue overrun by a creeping moss. But not dead-looking, never that. These eyes were alive; they sparkled with wit, flashed in great gleams of anger, danced and capered in the sunlight.

What was wrong with him? He was turning into a cursed poet, making odes to eyes and the like. Sir Anthony turned his thoughts to the road and the sound of his uneven pacing along the dank earth. The sun was setting and it was growing dark. He began to worry about Ginny, alone, in the shadows, with only Nan for protection. The thought was appalling. His ankle pained him and, in the dark, it would take him longer then he had already been gone to get back. He must return soon.

And then what? They could carry Nan back to the Swan and Flute. He could just imagine their arrival, wild-eyed, filthy, their clothes in tatters, sagging with fatigue. Between them would be the fevered Nan, looking half dead. That ought to clear the place in a hurry. If they were lucky. Otherwise, it would be a long night with no sleep, watching guard.

That is, if Ginny was still there. Anything could have happened to her by now. He should not have left her. Having reached the crossroads, he was about to turn back, but hark? What was that? The jingle of a harness, perhaps? Sir Anthony strained to determine which direction the sound had come from. If his ears did not deceive him, a one-horse conveyance should approach the crossroads in a matter of moments.

Ah! There it was, a pony-drawn cart driven by a round-faced man. In his profound relief, the pony looked the veriest high-stepper; the cart, sturdy and spacious; and its driver, an honest fellow dressed in the first stare of fashion.

“Hail, sir.” Sir Anthony waved his linen handkerchief, no longer white, over his head.

The driver pulled on the reins, bringing the cart to a halt inches short of Sir Anthony’s injured ankle. Unfortunately, the back wheel rolled across the toe of his other foot. It hurt like the devil, but no matter. He had transportation. Once he was on that cart and down the road, someone could amputate both feet and he would be glad of it.

“Needin’ a lift?” the young man inquired. His glance flicked from Sir Anthony’s dusty hair to the mud on his trousers, the hole in his hat, and then lingered on the pocket of his waistcoat where his watch should have been. “Can you pay?”

Sir Anthony felt sadly lacking under his scrutiny. “Why, no. I don’t have any money. That is, not on me. That’s why I’m wishful to be taken up” Something about the way the lad was eyeing him made him hesitate to mention Ginny and Nan. “I had a carriage wreck a ways down the road. Where are you headed?”

The boy, as Sir Anthony could now see, gathered the reins in one hand and pulled a cheroot from his pocket with the other. “The Swan and Flute”

With a sinking feeling Sir Anthony had to own that he was not surprised. “My things are down the road in that very direction if it would not be too much trouble to take me up”

“I will, in exchange for somethin’ valuable.” The boy’s eyes fell again to Sir Anthony’s waistcoat. “Somethin’ you might be havin’ about your person, if you knows wot I mean.”

“Sorry, my dear fellow, but some of your friends have already relieved me of everything I had on me” All of a sudden this fellow didn’t look quite so honest, his cart not so large, and his pony not so sharp.

“You don’t say? Well, in that case, I’d be willin’ to trade you a ride for that fine-lookin’ waistcoat you gots on. Bang up to the mark, that one is.”

“What!” Sir Anthony ran a hand over the silver threads of his favorite waistcoat. It was the only article of clothing on his person that had not suffered irreparable damage. Even one of his boots was scarred from the encounter with the cartwheel.

“I have an eye for fine clothin’,” the boy confided. “From wot I can see, that’s about all you have worth taking off ya”

“Very well,” Sir Anthony said with a cold smile. He jerked off his overcoat, easily done without the aid of his valet due to the rents in the shoulder seams, and tossed it into the cart.

“Don’t be so hasty with the waistcoat,” the boy demanded. “Don’t wants no tears in it.”

Sir Anthony glared at him, then removed the waistcoat and handed it to the boy, who whistled a low coo, slipped off his own tattered coat, and donned the waistcoat with the greatest reverence. As the boy replaced his own attire and tilted his hat at a jauntier angle, Sir Anthony realized the lad’s entire wardrobe seemed to be made up, piece by piece, from various others.

With a growl, he jumped onto the cart and took the reins from the boy, who whistled a happy tune. Sir Anthony flicked the reins and the cart went into motion. Thankfully, the boy soon ceased his infernal whistling and fell to rubbing his very dirty hands over the dovegray stripes.

The cart groaned with every turn of the wheel, the pony nickered and neighed if induced to go faster than two miles per hour, and the grubby boy eyed Sir Anthony’s fine lawn shirt. Sir Anthony contented himself with thoughts of his success. Ginny would be relieved when he returned with transportation. It was a little slow-moving, but there was room for Nan to stretch out on the seat, with some to spare for their things. Once he dropped the boy at his destination, there would be room for Ginny up on the box.

He supposed the boy would ask for his shirt in return for payment of the horse and cart. He hoped Tubbins would vouch for him, assure the boy that he would return with money when he could. Not that the vehicle was worth more than a few shillings.

After what seemed an interminably long time spent imagining Ginny’s relief at his return, Sir Anthony turned a bend in the road. It was all that stood between him and Ginny’s rescue. He was surprised at his own relief when he saw her standing by the landaulet, peering inside. It seemed to have grown in the dark. Surely it was never so elegant, even when it was new. He was about to shout out in greeting when he saw the crest on the door, vividly gold against the shining black, and he knew the dusk had played a trick on him.

The moment of triumph he had imagined turned into a nightmare when two man-sized shadows detached themselves from the carriage. They moved toward the landaulet, which Sir Anthony could now clearly see a little farther down the road. They removed something from the backseat, which must have been Nan, and placed her inside the waiting coach, then helped Ginny step up to disappear into the inky blackness.

“Ginny, no!” he shouted, but the carriage was already in motion. His voice could not be heard over the rattle of the wheels.

Inside the carriage, Ginny thanked providence the Barringtons happened by. If left much longer in her predicament, she felt sure she would have had to succumb to a fit of the vapors. Hysteria was not Ginny’s weakness, but she had had enough of wringing her hands.

“It is wonderful to see you my dear, wonderful!” Squire Barrington reached over and patted her hand. “How are your roses this season?”

Ginny suppressed a sigh. How could she have forgotten the man’s obsession with Dunsmere’s roses? He rode over nearly once a week to discuss pruning tactics and talk sweet to Grandaunt Regina. No matter how often the squire hinted, Grandaunt refused to allow him a single cutting. Nevertheless, the squire persevered and made it known far and wide that his fondest wish was to have her famous roses growing in his own garden.

“To tell the truth, she is a bit anxious about them. I’ve left them too long to the gardener’s sole care” Ginny did not add that the gardener was more than qualified to tend the roses. Grandaunt felt better when one of them supervised his actions, and Ginny treasured her tranquil afternoons amongst the blooms.

Squire Barrington clucked his surprise. “You were in London? I didn’t know, didn’t know. I hadn’t realized. Well then. .”

It was amusing to see his face fall when the luckless squire realized his misfortune. Three whole weeks when he could have pilfered his own cuttings with no one the wiser! Not only was he conveying the source of this wondrous opportunity but also the instrument of its demise. Ginny could almost taste his disappointment.

“Whatever are you doing here then, and whyever were you standing, simply standing about in the road?” the squire demanded.

“I was waiting for Sir Anthony.” Ginny peered out the window, hoping to spot him.

“Crenshaw? Sir Anthony Crenshaw?” piped in Mrs. Barrington. “Why, isn’t he your aunt’s grandson? One would think we would bump into him more often, living only fifteen miles from Dunsmere as we do, but we haven’t laid an eye on him in ever so long. Is he very much changed?”

Ginny smiled at Mrs. Barrington. “If by that you mean, is he less top-lofty and stylishly dressed, no, he is not.” Ginny turned again to the window. “Oh, there he is now. Do stop.”

“Of course. We wouldn’t think of anything else,” the squire spluttered. “After all, he’s the grandson of a duke” He signaled the driver to stop and open the door for the new arrival.

Mrs. Barrington stepped over Nan and crowded to the window. “Lucinda will be so pleased. She has had to miss her very own come-out-lingering spots, you know-but to have Sir Anthony land on her very own doorstep! Well! She will have stolen a march on-” Her gush of words came to an abrupt halt.

Puzzled, Ginny followed Mrs. Barrington’s gaze out the door. In the road was a pony cart, the reins held by a chubby lad smoking a cigar. His ill-fitting clothing lent him an air of gentility in spite of the bawdy tune he was singing at the top of his lungs. It was the man stepping gingerly down from the box who claimed everyone’s profound attention. The hole in his hat was indiscernible in the dark, but the moonlight picked out every other defect in Sir Anthony’s ensemble in glaring detail.

Ginny was surprised to see the decline in Sir Anthony’s apparel. She felt sure the look of utter amazement on Mrs. Barrington’s face was for his lack of a coat of any kind, the stains on his trousers, and the scar in his Hessians. If she had known him better, she would be amazed as well by the fury in his face when he caught sight of Ginny in the carriage.

“Sir Anthony?” Squire Barrington’s voice was tremulous and unsure. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing the grandson of Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Marcross?”

Sir Anthony froze. A cool smile replaced the jaw tight with anger, and a wash of color flooded his features. “I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of meeting you before, sir.” The polish of his reply was in jarring contrast to his appearance.

Ginny knew he must be humiliated. A part of her wanted to laugh at his plight, but her disappointment at the quick recovery of his facade overpowered the giggle in her throat. That whitelipped look of fury had brought the beginnings of a wild hope to her heart, but it had gone too quickly. If there was a true man under all that protocol, Sir Anthony would never let him out.

The squire threw a look of dismay into the carriage before rising to address Sir Anthony. “I am Squire Barrington. We have property halfway between here and Dunsmere, where we have met on more than one occasion.”

“Ah, yes, of course, I beg your pardon. It has been a long time.” Sir Anthony moved as if to lift his quizzing glass, but his grasping fingers found only air. He flicked an accusing glare at Ginny through the window. “I have reason to believe you have found my charge along the road. Would it be too much trouble to speak with her?”

“No, not at all, not at all. Just … just a moment” Squire Barrington brushed his wife away from the window and sat down, closing the door behind him. “Sir Anthony wishes to speak with you, Miss Delacourt.”

“Of course. It will just take a moment.” Ginny reached for the door but was stopped by the squire’s hand on her arm.

“Miss Delacourt, this is a delicate question, a delicate question, indeed. You wouldn’t be running off with him, would you?”

Ginny hoped she looked as shocked as she felt. “No! We .. ” She felt herself blush. “We had every reason to believe we would be home before nightfall. It has been the most dreadful afternoon. You can’t possibly know how grateful I am that you happened by”

“Oh dear, oh dear, and what if we hadn’t? We are in the middle of nowhere” Squire Barrington seemed much struck by the role he had played in Ginny’s rescue. He gave her a broad smile. “Well then, glad to be of service, aren’t we, my dear?”

Mrs. Barrington’s reply came small and indecipherable through the handkerchief she held to her nose.

“There, you see, you see, my wife agrees. Poor dear, she has suffered a bit of a shock, I fear. Yes, oh yes,” the squire said with a sad shake of his head. “The Sir Anthony we were acquainted with very little resembles the Sir Anthony of today.”

Ginny laughed. “The Sir Anthony you see very little resembles the Sir Anthony of this morning, even”

“Oh my, yes, well, a very dreadful afternoon, indeed. In that case, we should invite him up, wouldn’t you say so, my dear?”

Mrs. Barrington pressed herself into the squabs with alarm. Her eyes above the handkerchief grew very wide.

The squire’s smile faded. “Perhaps, Miss Delacourt, it would better if he sat with the driver. Very little room in here, what with your girl and all”

“I will just get out now and ask him,” Ginny managed to say. It was all she could do to keep from laughing, especially when she stepped down and faced Sir Anthony. He smiled at her as if he were dressed in knee breeches and tights, a glass of Almack’s orgeat in his hand.

“Miss Delacourt,” he purred. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

“Is it?” Ginny asked with a knowing smile. “It seems to me that you would much rather consign me to the devil.”

“Whatever gives you that impression?” Sir Anthony gazed at her through wide eyes, every inch himself in spite of his sad reverses in attire.

“Pray, don’t be angry. I would never have simply left. We stopped for you, after all”

“Angry? What purpose would it serve to be angry?” He forced his lips into a tight smile.

Ginny cocked her head to one side and narrowed her gaze. “I think I have caught glimpses of a true person in there somewhere. If you are lucky, one day someone shall come along and set him free.”