A Season for the Heart (2 page)

Somehow she did not feel alarm at the comfortable clasp in which the gentleman still held her. She said, in her clear soft voice, “I have just overheard two men in the next-to-last booth in the taproom discussing the robbery of Squire Rand’s carriage on its way to London tomorrow. They decided they would do the job between Bodmin and Launceston. Their names are Quint and—uh—Jib.”

The big man’s arms tightened a little and then released her. “You
are
serious, then. There is no denying the down-to-earth validity of such names as Quint and—uh—Jib.”

Although he was still teasing her, Pommy heard the note of decision in his deep voice.

“Suppose you continue to the kitchen or wherever you were heading so hastily to get help, and I shall reconnoiter the terrain. Meanwhile, say nothing to anyone.”

“May I not wait for you here?” pleaded Pommy. “It is too much to hope that Mrs. Appledore would not get it out of me, if I go to the kitchen now.” She said awkwardly, “She is a good woman, and has known me all my life.”

“You had better come with me, then. I do not wish you to be hanging about in this drafty passage. Did you not realize you are soaked to the skin? It is not at all the thing, you know,” the Stranger said sternly.

Pommy crept after his huge figure as it moved, cat quiet, toward the taproom. At her direction, they slipped into the rear cubby, still mercifully empty, and the Stranger leaned his head against the wooden settle back as Pommy had done earlier. For a long moment he waited, frowning, and was just turning away when his attention was suddenly arrested. He listened, then motioned Pommy back into the passage. Following her, he said quietly, “There is something afoot. Is your carriage in the stable—no, wet as you are, you did not come in a carriage. Did you ride or walk?”

“Walked,” said Pommy.

“Then return to your home at once. Do not mention this adventure to your family. I shall recruit Appledore and the village constable to deal with these bravos.” His handsome face broke into a wide grin of pleasure. “You have succeeded in brightening a day I had condemned as the most boring of my life, caught in this less than scintillating hamlet by the storm and a broken axle. My thanks, madame! No, I must know your name—if you please?”

“I am Melpomene Rand,” the girl said shyly.

“Your parents surpassed themselves,” complimented the Stranger. “Melpomene—one of the Muses, surely?”

“Patron of Tragedy and lyre playing,” explained Pommy. “My grandfather frequently said it had influenced my imagination to Romantic excesses.”

The Stranger smiled so warmly that Pommy’s heart began pounding again. “No home with you to safety, Melpomene Rand, and let your champion do battle for your family.”

Pommy hesitated.

“You prefer that I should not interfere in your personal melodrama?” inquired the big gentleman, smiling. “Perhaps I should have consulted you. What was it your intention to do about this challenge, had I not come upon the stage?”

“I had thought,” said the girl, “to save them all, and die in the attempt. That would teach them a lesson.”

“Indeed? But is that not rather extreme? Why would you not rather warn them of what you overheard, so that they might either postpone their journey or take enough servants to foil the attempt? Thus earning their undying gratitude?”

Pommy appeared displeased with these alternatives. “It would not do at all. To begin with, they would say it was just another of Pommy’s silly starts, and then, when it was proven true, they would say I should have warned them. It would do no good to remind them that I had done so. They would not believe me. In either case, gratitude would be the last emotion they would feel.”

“Had you considered,” inquired the Stranger in a rather less humorous tone, “that you might be killed in Act One, as it were, and never discover whether the other victims were impressed by your sacrifice, since they themselves might also be dead?”

Pommy considered this, and finally nodded her head reluctantly. “You are right, of course. It would have been selfish of me to expose them to danger just so that I might die and cause them remorse. In such case, also, the whole thing would be useless, since I should not be present to observe their grief, if any.”

“Not quite the
whole
thing,” objected the gentleman with what Pommy took to be irony. “The highwaymen at least would have cause to thank you. Perhaps if they Knew All, they might be persuaded to make you a member of the gang—
post mortem
.”

This startled her into a chuckle, which the Stranger heard with relief. “I see you are funning me,” Pommy said.

“On the contrary, I myself have frequently wished I might see some of my own relatives in a pickle. I must confess I had no thought of perishing in the attempt myself, however. One would surely choose to live to hate another day?”

“I don’t
hate
them,” explained Pommy sadly. “And I had not considered that they might be hurt. They are none of them the sort who would put up a struggle, you see! More likely to hand over the jewel cases in a hurry, and scream with rage later. I had the notion that I might be the one injured, so that they would be sorry they had behaved as they did to—a penniless orphan.”

Then seeing his faintly mocking smile, the girl continued in a low, anguished voice, “It is easily seen that you have never been cold shouldered, and mocked at, and set to do the most menial tasks, and never let to go to the parties or picnics! Much less had your appearance made fun of!”

“How do you know none of these admittedly very unpleasant things has ever happened to me?” asked the Stranger, his voice a little gentler.

“Anyone but a perfect goose could tell it after one glance at you,” retorted Pommy. “You are, first of all, a man, and if anyone did attempt to treat you so, you could walk out and get a position on a ship going to America or India, and make your fortune. Or sign on as a soldier and fight with distinguished courage in foreign wars—”

“We are temporarily at peace,” the man reminded her.

“Now you are laughing at me,” said the Blighted Heroine.

“Yes, I am,” agreed the Stranger, “and so would you, if you would give your mind—your reasoning faculty, not your imagination—to the problem for five minutes. I quite admit that a female could not follow either of the two colorful courses you named, but is it not true that there are situations open to a girl of your obvious breeding and education which might offer you some measure of satisfaction?”

“Name one,” requested the girl succinctly.

The gentleman hesitated. “Governess?”

“I am too young, and have neither the formal training nor the means of getting any. My education was given to me by my grandfather, and is solely classical and literary. A governess needs to excel in pianoforte, embroidery, china painting and deportment, as well as French and history.”

“Companion to an elderly lady of good family?”

“What elderly lady? Besides not knowing any such, nor having any person who would be willing to recommend me to one, I cannot believe that you yourself would be willing to dance attendance upon some ancient invalid who would, besides being cross as crabs, desire you to read sermons to her, walk her bad-tempered poodle, and spoon her gruel into her palsied mouth!”

Her companion cast her a revulsive look. “No,” he admitted, “I should not enjoy anything so Gothic as the activities you describe. But must all ladies desiring a companion be such crones? Surely there must be an employer—or even another occupation—less odious?”

Pommy raised one slender eyebrow.

The Stranger frowned.

After observing his cogitations pityingly, the girl finally spoke. “There is being a serving maid in some low tavern—”

“Must it necessarily be a
low
tavern?” protested the gentleman. “Mrs. Appledore would find you work, surely? You said she was kind to you.”

“And how long do you think Squire Rand would permit his orphaned niece to wait on tables at an inn within a mile of his estate?”

When the Stranger was unable to answer this question, Pommy went on, “Of course, I might run off to London—I have nearly three pounds saved—and become a kitchenmaid in a great house, having one afternoon off a month and sleeping in the attics with mice, or in the basement with rats.” She awaited his palliating comment upon this grim picture, but when he made none, she went on, “There is also the faint chance that I might be lucky enough to get a post as abigail to some young miss, and carry pots of hot water up several flights, help her dress for Balls, and wait up to help her undress and hear all about her triumphs and the fun it was—” Almost in spite of herself, the young voice shook a little.

“No,” said the gentleman harshly, “that solution does not really offer much attraction.”

“But we are wasting time! If we do not act quickly, the highwaymen will leave the inn and we shall have no hope of saving the day!” the girl cried.

The Stranger seemed to come to a decision. “Very well, Miss Melpomene Rand. Return home as I suggested, and have no fear. Between us, Appledore and I shall find a way to thwart the would-be Road Agents, I promise you. Go to London tomorrow. Who knows? Fate may have a brighter future in store for you than at the moment seems possible.”

Casting the obtuse but well-meaning stranger a glance of pity for his naiveté, and remembering to thank him politely for his assistance, Pommy turned and walked back to the kitchen, and thence out the door with just a wave to the harassed mistress and her busy maids.

When she had gone, Derek Masterson, the Earl of Austell, sought out his host and informed him of the conversation which had been overheard in his taproom.

“Oh, that’ll be Miss Pommy, poor child! She is forever discovering a mystery! But whatever was she doing in my bar, Your Lordship?”

“She had gotten herself drenched in the storm, and your good wife gave her a cup of tea and sent her in there to dry off. It seems she was waiting for the mail coach.”

“What can the squire’s family be thinking of, to send her out on foot in this weather just to pick up Miss Ceci’s cloak?” Appledore tutted angrily. “My wife and I had great respect for her mother; the vicar’s only child, she was, that married Mr. Edwin, Squire’s youngest brother. Drowned they both were, when Mr. Edwin’s yacht overturned. Miss Pommy was a child at the time. Went to live with Vicar, she did, and a high old time they had, poring over his books, and him teaching her what he knew about foreign languages. A real scholar was the Reverend Mayo—!”

“
Augustus
Mayo?” the Earl pricked up his ears. “I have two very fine books he wrote.”

“He’s dead now, and Miss Pommy’s up at Highcliff Manor with Squire Rand and his lady. They don’t value her as they should—” The host hesitated, aware that he was saying too much to a stranger. “Well, she is forever reading books, and thinking what she reads is the truth. That is why she made such a tale about the talk in the taproom, depend on it!”

“I also overheard the talk, and I am not a romantical miss,” the Earl advised him dryly. “The men’s names, by the way, are Quint and Jib.”

Appledore chuckled richly. “Those sots? Milord, around here it is only innocents like Miss Pommy Rand who do not have their measure. They are in here any night they can scrape together the cost of a bottle, drinking and spinning their totty-headed schemes. It will all be forgotten by the morning, lost in the screw of a bursting head and a queasy stomach.” He shook his own head in extenuation. “Their lives are very dull, Milord. Quint is one of Dr. Mannering’s grooms, and Jib is a farmhand.”

“You relieve my mind,” said the Earl dryly. “I had visions of seeking out the constable to protect Miss Rand’s family from highwaymen.”

“You’d have had far to seek and little to gain from that,” Appledore advised him. “Constable Swan is a dogged foe of poachers, and quite useful at finding strayed cattle, but as a thief-taker, well—” he shrugged and grimaced.

“We might send someone to relieve Miss Melpomene’s fears,” mused Lord Austell.

“Better not, Milord,” cautioned Appledore. “The squire and his lady are very niffy-naffy, and Miss Pommy has a hard enough time with them without us telling them this latest start of hers. They say she is a widgeon, what with her romantical ideas.” He shook his head regretfully. “It’s the fault of too much reading of them foreign books, Milord. Quite addled her wits, Squire says.”

The Earl knew a sudden illogical rage against this beef-witted Squire Rand—obviously a mutton-headed Philistine. He was tempted to make a comment quite alien to his usual detached arrogance toward chance-met persons of little breeding and less wit, when he caught himself short with a sense of shock. It was not his practice to encourage country innkeepers, nor to interest himself in the affairs of village maidens, no matter how literate. But he could not get the picture of the child’s great green eyes out of his mind. Green? No, rather a glowing gray-green-gold, like the sea in a storm. He was recalled to a sense of his surroundings when Host Appledore uttered a sharp exclamation.

“You addressed me, sir?” he asked, staring at the landlord who was now holding a large bundle in his arms.

“It’s poor Miss Pommy, Milord. She’s gone and forgotten the cape Miss Ceci sent to Plymouth for! No mistake, they’ll make the child sorry for it! Probably send her back here in the rain to fetch it.”