Had We Never Loved (10 page)

“You're quite sure you are all right, sir?” Florian steadied Glendenning and peered into his pale, set face anxiously.

The viscount clung to the young gypsy until the room stopped spinning. “Perfectly fit, thank you,” he managed breathlessly.

“Perfectly fit is just what you ain't, sir. Lor', but when Amy comes back she'll have my ears for shaving you and helping you to get up and dressed so soon.”

“Well, it's done now, so she can't stop us. If you'll hand me that walking cane you brought, I'll try and get over to the table.”

The cane Florian gave him was of oak, the handle cleverly carved into the shape of a dragon. It was a fine piece of work, and Glendenning wondered rather grimly if it had belonged to anyone he knew.

He felt much stronger this morning, although to thrust his bandaged foot into the riding boot had been beyond him. He refused Florian's help, however, and with the aid of the cane and some dogged determination he managed to hobble as far as the table and back. He was very glad then to sink onto the stool Florian pulled out for him, but he was also jubilant, and he panted, “Excelsior! What d'you think of that, you rogue?”

“I think you've got more pluck than wit, milord,” said Florian with a grin. “But you're well enough that I can be on my way now, so long as you promise not to—”

“No such thing!” Glendenning hooked the youth's arm with the handle of the cane and pulled him back. “You will instead sit down and keep me company. And firstly, you can tell me why you're here, and what you know of Miss Consett.”

Florian hesitated, then sat on a corner of the table, and said reluctantly, “I was with the tribe, milord. So was Amy.”

This boy had always seemed to Glendenning to have a faintly foreign air. His features were delicately molded, as were Amy's, but his skin had a more olive cast than did hers. His dark eyes were large and bright with intelligence, and although his accent was not cultured, he enunciated his words clearly and his grammar was good. Intrigued, Glendenning demanded, “What d'you mean, you were ‘with' them? Are you not a gypsy?”

The slim shoulders shrugged. “I don't know. Amy says I was brought into the tribe when I was about five years old.”

“Then you are not related to her?”

“No, sir. But she has been as good to me as if I was her brother. The bigger boys made fun, because I was small and very frightened, and cried all the time. Amy was about seven then, and afraid of nothing, and she used to take my part when they beat me. After Absalom adopted her, she helped me whenever she could, but always I was in trouble, because I did not like to steal. I was very miserable and tired of their ways and their life. I knew Amy would be safe with Absalom, so I ran away. I lived in the cart, and if I sold one of my baskets, I bought food.”

The words were quietly uttered, but the picture they conjured up appalled Glendenning. He muttered, “And then Mr. Cranford rescued you. Hmm. Do you remember nothing of your childhood before you were stolen?”

The youth considered, and said slowly, “I remember a big bed, and a dog, and a white pony. And a tall, very kind man, who told me stories at night. But … I do not think he spoke to me in English, sir.”

“Do you know which language he did use?”

Florian shook his head. “But I could read English. Not much at first, but Absalom helped me. He is such a fine man. When I ran away he let me borrow his donkey and cart, but the tribe said I'd stolen them. I've got a horse of my own now, and I brought back Uncle Ab's donkey and cart.” His eyes flashed. “As if I'd steal from
him
!”

“No, of course not. He would appear to have been a very good friend to both you and Amy. You said she would be safe with him. Safe from what? Did someone threaten her?”

“She started to grow up,” said Florian simply. “And she was pretty. Absalom adopted her to keep them from selling her to a Flash House, but the
chals
—er, the young men, were always fighting over which one would buy her for his wife. She would have none of them, and she has her little knife, but Absalom was often away, and they gave her no peace. She caused much trouble, and by the law of the tribe, sooner or later she would have been forced to take one of them for her mate. So Absalom bought her out of the tribe and they came here to live.”

“They
live
here?” Glendenning looked around at the stark chamber, the few pieces of rickety furniture, the single window high up in the cold rock wall. “Good God!”

The youth smiled mirthlessly. “This is a fine place for such as us, sir. It is dry, and there is another room we use for a kitchen, and where Absalom sleeps when he's here.”

“'Tis a blasted ruin! It was the cellar of some old house, I'll warrant.”

“Yes. The main part of the house was on the hill. It burned down long ago, and was abandoned. Nobody comes here now because it is said to be haunted. But this cellar is partly below ground, and quite hidden away, and we built a fireplace, so it's not too cold in winter.”

“And why are you here now? Did the Cranfords turn you off?”

“I hope not, milord. Amy can write.” He said it as though it rated a twenty-one gun salute, and, quite aware of the effort that must have gone into such an achievement, Glendenning said gravely that he thought that splendid. The youth beamed, and went on. “She sent a letter saying that Absalom was ill, and she couldn't manage. So I had to come. He is better now, and will be off, and I must go back.” His teeth flashed in a white grin. “Mr. Peregrine Cranford cannot go along without me, you see.”

Glendenning stared at him. “What d'you mean? Where will Absalom be off to?”

“He'll be off about his business,” growled Absalom, coming in the door holding a bulging sack. “And you need not be thinking as ye can—”

“What's all this?” Following him in, Amy frowned. “You shouldn't be up so soon, lordship! Florian, I told ye plain—”

“You see?” said Florian, laughing. “Good-bye, milord. Good-bye Ab. I'm away!” He seized Amy, gave her a quick kiss, and was gone.

“Wait, ye young care-for-nobody!” Absalom thrust the sack at Amy, and hurried after Florian.

Amy eyed the viscount anxiously. “How are you this morning? You must be fair daft to—” She faltered, and smoothed her windblown hair, her cheeks becoming pink. “Why d'ye stare at me so?”

Yesterday, after she had dressed the infected wound above his right ankle, he had been exhausted and had slept most of the rest of the day away. With the instinctive reaction he'd developed when he'd been a hunted fugitive, at some time during the night a faint sound had jerked him awake. Moonlight had been flooding through the upper window, and by its soft radiance he had seen Amy creep in, wearing a long white nightgown daintily embroidered with tiny flowers and butterflies. Her long hair hung like a shining mantle about her shoulders, and she had watched him warily, very obviously ready to take flight if he showed any sign of wakefulness. Afraid of frightening her away, he had feigned sleep while she crept closer. He'd felt her cool fingers on his cheek, then she had cautiously pulled the blanket higher about him. When he'd opened his eyes, she was gone.

In his half-dazed state she had seemed as if surrounded by a glow, and he'd thought her angelically lovely. In the cold light of day, he decided that illness and moonlight had clouded his common sense. Amy was indeed beautiful, but there was little of the spiritual about her. She had a bold and challenging way of looking at one; her skirts were of a length Lady Nola would certainly judge vulgar, revealing as they did her ankles (very neat ankles one must admit); and what angel went with a knife in her garter and did not scruple to whip it out with not a vestige of modesty? And what an ungrateful wretch to be criticising her when she had cared for him!

“My apologies an I was staring,” he said humbly. “You are very lovely, Amy. And you've been more than kind to me.”

She smiled and began to remove the contents of the sack. “We prigged yer purse, don't forget. Look at this! Two fine hens for dinner!”

He glanced at the hens disinterestedly. They were plump birds, already plucked and dressed. “I retrieved my purse,” he pointed out. “You had spent very little.”

She took out a loaf of bread. “Didn't waste no time counting it, eh? Just as well. Never can tell what thieving gypsies will do!”

“Do not bristle. Certainly, I have caused you to buy more food. You must let me help with your expenses.”

“Lor',” she said, her mouth curving scornfully. “Don't you never think o' nothing else? I don't want yer silly money!” She saw the amused upward twitch of his dark brows, and before he could make the obvious comment, she added, “I know what you're thinking, but I didn't know ye when I—borrowed yer purse. Besides, that were business. I don't take money from folks I knows.”

“You mean from friends, which is quite proper. Even so, you must be sensible. You cannot afford to buy extra—”

“Extra—what? I ain't bought noth—anything.”

He grinned. “Thank you. ‘Anything' is better than ‘nothing.'”

“Yes, 'tis. So ye can enjoy yer dinner, 'cause if I hadn't of prigged them cacklers you'd have nothing!”

“What? You never did?” Dismayed, he reached out and caught her wrist. “Do you know you could be transported for stealing two hens?”

She laughed and danced away, saying pertly, “They got to catch me first. Can't transport what ye cannot catch, eh, me noble lord?”

“Keep on like this and soon or late they
will
catch you! Surely you understand that, quite apart from punishment or whether or not they catch you, what you did is wrong. You took something belonging to someone else. Someone who may need it more than you do.”

Her smile died, to be replaced by a stormy look. “La, how the aristo doth preach,” she jeered, slamming the hens back into the sack again. “They couldn't need it more'n me, because they'd got it, and I didn't!” Taking up the sack, scowling darkly at him, her face flamed. “And don't you never look at me so high and mighty. Lor', but you'd think as I'd murdered someone!”

With her upbringing, poor chit, how could he blame her? “I suppose,” he began, “you have never been taught—”

“Then you can s'pose again! And don't be thinking as I'm a iggerant gypsy trollop!”

“As if I would! Do not say such things!”

“You says I ain't been taught,” she said fiercely. “Ye think I cannot do nothing—don't know nothing! Well, I
can
do things! All kinds o' things what
you
couldn't do! Like … like finding food when there ain't none. And getting fires to burn when the wood's wet. And how to turn a shirt so it'll last twice as long; and how much to pay them as asks five times what they ought for a loaf of bread!”

‘Poor little creature,' he thought. ‘What a dreadful life she has led.' And he asked gently. “How much would you pay them, Amy?”

At once the flashing eyes were softened by mirth. A dimple peeped, and she said mischievously, “Nothing, of course! I'd prig the loaf.” Her amusement faded. “And there ye go, looking down yer nose at me! Well, I'd like to see yer fine ladies go on living without no roofs over their heads, or if there wasn't no one to wait on 'em hand and hoof, and kiss their—” She saw Glendenning's covert grin and broke off, biting her lip. Before he could comment, however, she went on proudly. “I can write, too! Writ a letter I did!
And
sent it off! And I can read! Look here…!” With a swirl of skirts she ran to the piled crates where were her brush and comb and the little mirror. She pulled open a makeshift door on a lower crate, revealing several books neatly propped with a brick. She took out a much worn and dog-eared Bible and flew back to flourish it under Glendenning's nose. “Open it! Go on! Open it anywhere, and I'll read it!”

“Amy, my dear child, I did not mean—”

With an exclamation of impatience she opened the Bible, closed her eyes, and stabbed a finger at the page. “There! Now ye cannot say as I chose a bit I knows by heart.” She bent her head and began to read slowly and with a painful care that he thought ineffably touching.

“‘Let him that stoled steal no more, but ray—ra-ther … let him … la-bour—'” Belatedly, the meaning of the words dawned on her. Moaning, she stopped reading.

Glendenning struggled to contain his hilarity.

Amy lay down the Bible, put both hands over her face, then peeped at him from between her fingers.

He was undone, and shouted with laughter. “If ever … I saw justice … meted out.”

She tried to keep a sober face, but his mirth was contagious and soon her clear peals were mingling with his deeper laugh. How it came about, she could not have told, but somehow she was perched on his knee, his arm around her waist.

“Well now, Mistress Consett,” he said. “And are you properly chastised?”

She smiled into his laughing face. “Ye won that hand, all right.”

“Perhaps. But although you were hoist with your own petard, you proved your point, ma'am. You can read. Your uncle warrants a medal for teaching you so well.”

Her eyes searched his face. She said with sudden desperate intensity, “Ye ain't a'mocking of me, lordship? Did I read it right?”

“You did indeed.”

“Ah, but I made mistakes, didn't I?” She sighed, and said disconsolately, “‘Stoled' didn't sound just right, and I said ‘rather' wrong at first.”

“Yes. But you corrected yourself.”

She sprang up, and said passionately, “If
only
I knowed how to read better!”

“‘Knew,' pretty one. Not ‘knowed.'”

“There! You see! But 'tis cruel hard. There's so
much
to learn!”