Practice to Deceive (16 page)

She heard a muffled laugh, and the Corporal grinned broadly.

“Who told you that, Penelope Anne?” asked Quentin.

“My aunt. And I know her well enough that she has no least idea you—loiter about my bedroom, sir.”

He chuckled and imparted that she was a sister in a million. Bristling, Penelope crossed to the window and seated herself in her battered but comfortable old rocking chair.

It was a pleasant afternoon, the breeze urging a cluster of small clouds across the sky so that they looked like so many hurrying sheep. Watching them, Penelope was reminded of how she and Geoffrey had been used to create faces or objects, or sometimes entire beings out of the shifting cloud formations. She tried to picture her brother perched on one of those celestial sheep, looking down at her perhaps, with loving eyes, but she found, as she'd often found in the past, that she could not associate Geoff with so saintly an occupation; that she could not, in fact, associate him with death at all. Which was ridiculous, for had he survived he would most certainly have been in touch with her long before this.

Her thoughts shifted to the venture ahead. The Corporal was right, alas; their chances of bringing Quentin safely away were terrifyingly slight. A dozen possible disasters chased one another through her bedevilled mind. If he was cornered, he would fight, she knew that. Suppose he was hauled away in chains to face a traitor's death? Whatever would she do? How could she go on living—without him? She began to tremble and put a very cold hand over her eyes, seeking to shut out such terrible imaginings.

A familiar and yet unfamiliar voice growled, “Madam—you are my prisoner! Do you surrender?”

With a gasp, Penelope looked up. An horrendous figure stood beside her. A lurching, leering creature with enormous black moustachios. A vivid neckerchief was tied around his head, a patch covered one eye, and an expression of depraved lechery glinted in the other.

Penelope's mouth fell open and she stared, too astounded to respond. Her wrist was seized in a surprisingly powerful clasp. She was jerked from the chair, whipped around, bent backwards, and, quite off balance, held in that undignified position while that one green eye laughed down at her. The moustachios appeared to constitute a considerable impediment to her captor, who was obliged to spit them out a time or two as he snarled ferociously, “Dast ye keep the Scourge o' the Spanish Main waiting, wretched woman? You are in me—me power! Ah, ye do well to shake in yer shoes! Anger me, and I'll have ye hung by yer thumbs from the yardarm, or keelhauled—or—er, something like that. Please me, and I'll shower ye with gifts, such as—”

At this point the Scourge of the Spanish Main was considerably startled to find himself showered with gifts. A muffled, gobbling squeak had preceded a most vigorous scratching, and now a hail of gravel, seed, and other debris rained down on the dastardly pirate. Astonished, the Scourge was so ill-advised as to look up. He received the second deluge full in the face. With a yelp of disgust, he released his captive and leapt clear, dragging a sleeve across his sullied countenance, thereby twisting his moustachios sideways. “Curst … little pest…!” he snorted, picking at his hair and blinking at Jasper with an expression of loathing.

Penelope was giggling hilariously. Scowling at her, Quentin realized he had allowed her to fall and, with a remorseful apology, helped her to her feet.

“Well you may mock, heartless girl. But that meagre luncheon has left me ravenous. I'm just primed to devour a roasted bird.”

“Never mind about your murderous plots, sir. I should like to know what in the world you think you are about.”

“Making you laugh,” he declared, his vexation promptly forgotten. “I remember what a particularly delightful little laugh you had, Penny, and I've heard not much of it.”

Rather hurriedly removing her hand from his warm clasp, she scolded, “So only for that you must needs endanger us all with your silly play-acting?” His grin faded, and he took off the patch and the sideways moustachios. Repenting her harsh words, she went on, “Besides, I might perhaps be able to explain the presence of an elderly gentleman in my bedchamber, but how on earth could I account for a villainous pirate?”

“You could say I was so sunk in depravity that as an act of Christian charity you felt obliged to throw me a lifeline. As indeed you did, dear little Penelope Anne.”

His lips were grave now, but the smile had returned to his eyes, causing them to crinkle at the corners and sending such a pang of yearning through Penelope that almost she was glad to hear rapid footsteps approaching.

Quentin heard, too. With a leap he was in the dressing room and had swung the door closed. Penelope straightened her gown and slipped into the chair and the door opened to admit the maid, Betty, carrying a tray laden with many covered bowls and tureens.

“Milady told me to be sure and bring you a nice lot, as you was very hungry, Miss Penelope,” she said in her soft, shy voice.

Penelope thanked her and lifted the lids. She uncovered baked chicken, sliced beef and ham, a piece of pork pie, green peas, beans with cream sauce, some chocolate gâteaux, fruits and nuts and cheeses. All the portions were large. Taken aback, she exclaimed, “Good heavens! There's enough here to feed me for a week!”

The girl blinked in rather bewildered fashion. “Did I do wrong, miss? I know your abigail takes her meals up here with you, so I thought…”

Penelope looked levelly at her. Betty looked back and ventured an uncertain smile. If she had been going to identify herself, this, thought Penelope, would have been the logical moment. She said, “I must admit I am very hungry. Thank you so much.”

Betty curtseyed gracefully and departed. Penelope carried the laden tray to the dressing room and tapped her shoe against the door. Killiam opened it and took the tray. His thick brown hair was neatly dressed. He wore a severe brown coat and beige breeches and on his feet were buckled brogues that looked familiar but that had certainly never belonged to Lord Hector. Standing beside the bed, watching her with a half-smile of anticipation playing about his mouth, Quentin was clad in a coat of cerulean blue velvet over a waistcoat of blue and silver brocade. White knee breeches fitted surprisingly well, and silver buckles gleamed on his high-heeled shoes. Leaning on an ebony cane with a carven silver handle, he said, “Now who's this pretty creature come bearing gifts for a poor old gentleman?”

Recovering her breath, Penelope admitted, “I'll own I'm tall, but I fancy our new maid has mistook me for Gargantua!” She managed to appear critical and added, “Daffy should be up soon, to add some years to you, Major. As it is now, you seem more likely to fence with that stick than to lean upon it.”

“It wouldn't be the first time,” he said, passing her one of the plates they had hoarded for their meals. “You'd be surprised, Penny, how well a man may defend himself with a strong cane.”

She answered that she prayed the need would not arise, and carried her plate to the chair by the windows. She had little appetite and had set the food aside, her nerves tingling with tension when the first carriage came bowling up the drive, to be followed in a few moments by a second vehicle. Penelope did not see the guests alight, since the entrance was on the west face of the mansion, but, leaning to the open casement, she heard a sudden flurry of laughing voices abruptly cut short and guessed that her conniving aunt had begged her guests to be as quiet as possible to spare her ‘ailing' niece.

Penelope glanced to the clock on the mantel. It was a small work of art, fashioned from gilded marble, whereon a talented artist had painted happy nymphs and shepherdesses in a sylvan glade. The colours and the superb craftsmanship brought a wistfulness to Penelope's hazel eyes. In the last days of her short life, Lady Hector had asked that the clock be kept for her little daughter. Together with a strand of pearls and a fine topaz-studded hair comb with matching earrings, it was all that Penelope had managed to keep of her mama's belongings once Joseph and Sybil Montgomery had descended upon Highview. She pushed nostalgia aside. The filigreed hands of the little clock informed the interested that the hour was a little past six. It was time to commence her plan.

Slipping to her knees, she pulled from under the bed the valise she had ordered Daffy to bring from the attic. She laid it on the bed and began to pack, selecting the articles with care. It was close to seven o'clock, and she was tucking her few cherished items of jewellery in amongst some undergarments when she heard someone coming. The valise was very heavy now, but she lifted it down and pushed it under the bed again.

Daffy hurried in, carrying the usual pile of laundry that served to conceal the many items the faithful girl was required to smuggle into this room. Closing the door behind her, she threw Penelope an anguished glance. “Oh, miss! Please say as you've changed your mind. Please do.”

Penelope shook her head. “No, dear Daffy. This is my chance. I mean to take it. But there is no reason for you to feel obliged to come with us.”

“'Course there is, miss. If you go—I go. Anyways, I've got two band boxes all packed, though it would take three or four trunks to get all your gowns—”

“My poor clothes are all out of the style, I fear. I shall have to manage as best I can. Now, tell me—when does my aunt lead her guests in to dine?”

My lady, said Daffy, had ordered dinner to be served at eight. She carried her cosmetics to the dressing room, scratched at the door and, having directed another worried look at her mistress, went inside to age Quentin as best she might.

Penelope changed into a black gown she usually wore only when journeying into Oxford or on rare trips to Town. She pinched some colour into her cheeks, but her fingers were like ice from nervousness, and she took down a warm cloak to wear outside. She then took up the unpleasant book she had rejected yesterday evening, and went back to her rocking chair, determined to compose herself. After what seemed an eternity she was no calmer, nor could she recall one line she had read, although she had turned several pages. She set the book aside and went over to look at the clock. It now showed twelve minutes past eight. Her heart gave a leap of excitement. Less than an hour until Gordon's Flying Dutchman would come. She prayed a short but fervent prayer that all would be well, pulled out the valise and tucked her precious clock inside, then returned to the window.

The sun was setting, throwing long shadows across the park and awakening golden gleams from the winding ribbon of the stream. Softened by the mellow light, the little bridge swooped gracefully over the hurrying water, and on every side the hills rose in darkening green sweeps against the blushing skies. A lump came into Penelope's throat. This was her birthplace; the only home she had ever known. Looking past the recent memories, she could call to mind so many happy moments—carefree days with Papa and Geoff. Squandered days, taken for granted because she had not dreamed how soon they would be snatched away. Her roots were here. Was she mad to risk everything, even her life, on this wild adventure? She heard a low chuckle from the direction of the dressing room and her pulse quickened. She had no roots, really. Papa and Mama and her brother were gone; she had no claim on the estate, and memory she could take wherever she went. Her only hope for happiness dwelt with the man who had just laughed. Her lips twisted wryly. The man who thought of her as the dear sister he had never known.…

Self-pity was revolting. She straightened her shoulders. Possibly, the pot of gold did not wait at the end of her rainbow. Possibly her only reward would be to have helped Quentin Chandler escape savagery and death. If that was her fate, she would have to accept it and be grateful that she had been of some small aid to him. She sensed rather than heard someone behind her, and spun around.

An elderly gentleman watched her. A proud gentleman clad in blue and silver, whose lined countenance was marked by the pallor of age, but showed no trace of cuts or bruises. Great grey eyebrows bristled ferociously over green eyes that sparkled with amusement and were decidedly too brilliant for those elderly features. Still, the gentleman bore so little resemblance to the pathetic fugitive they had carried in here on Sunday night that Penelope clapped her hands softly, and cried, “Oh, well done! Well done!”

Daffy gave a rather wan smile. “I did as best I could, Miss Penny. But I couldn't do a blessed thing about the Major's eyes.”

“Lord knows what you're grumbling about,” said Quentin indignantly. “Feels like there's five or six tons of twigs hanging over 'em! I cannot think how anyone could tell I
have
eyes!”

“Well, they can,” said Penelope. “And however well my clever Daffy may have worked her magic with the rest of your person, you would be well advised, dear sir, to keep your eyes lowered.”

“Was I to go about like this,” he said, hobbling along on his cane, his head twisted sideways and eyes drooping grotesquely, “people are like to think—”

“That you are well over the oar,” Penelope interpolated merrily.

He straightened, grinning at her. “Then you are simply going to have to put up with my ancient self, as it is.”

“And not for long, at that,” the Corporal put in. “Time we was getting downstairs, sir.”

Briefly, it was as though a blight had touched them, and everyone stood very silent and still.

His face unwontedly grave, Quentin stepped forward and took Penelope's hands. He said softly, “If this should fail, there are still no words to thank you for all you've done. But if, by the grace of God, I come safely away, so long as I live do you ever need help you've only to call on me and I shall come.” He bent and kissed her gently on the brow.

Penelope's heart turned over, and the room swam and faded into a rosy haze.

“Farewell, dearest of sisters,” said Quentin, drawing back.