Morris laughed heartily, and breaking away from Rossiter’s hold, exclaimed, “And you accusedmeof mixing my metaphors! Is the fellow a shark, or a scorpion?”
“Both, you idiot! I fancy he’ll demand satisfaction of each of us sooner or later, but—”
“But in the meantime,” said Morris, “I may contrive to at least rest these old orbs upon the incomparable Miss Katrina! Farewell, dear boy. And God speed!” With a wave and a grin, he drove home his spurs and galloped off on the road that led westward to Maidstone and Sevenoaks.
Frowning after his rapidly diminishing figure, Rossiter shook his head worriedly. Jamie was a fair shot at best, and as for swords—he shuddered. Still, Falcon would be unable to fight anyone until that arm healed, which would require at least two weeks. He would call on the fellow and arrange a meeting. If he could disable Falcon, it might be a considerable time before Morris would have to face him. At the moment, however, his first duty must be to his father.
He reined around and joined the ever-increasing traffic following the London Road. He missed Jamie’s cheerful presence. Naomi’s lovely face came into his mind’s eye, bringing with it that terrible ache of grief for something that had been very beautiful and was now destroyed. All these years—all this wasted time! He had been a proper fool… Shakespeare had said something about time and a fool… How did it go? “Love’s not Time’s fool…?” something of the kind. Perhaps it was not love, but the lover who was time’s fool. Certainly he must be a classic example of such folly.
Well, the time for foolishness was done, and he must start again. First, he would make a push to set things to rights insofar as Papa’s difficulties were concerned. If worst came to worst, they could all live at the country house his grandmama had bequeathed to him. Emerald Farm was a lovely and peaceful old place, and although Newby could be counted upon to despise it, little Gwendolyn would likely be happy there.
Dear little Gwen… He found himself very eager to see his sister again, and spurred his horse to a faster gait.
***
Naomi walked into Collington Manor with eyes that saw nothing of the arched entrance hall, the grand sweep of the central staircase in the second hall, or the fine ceiling paintings. She felt crushed and dispirited and dreaded facing her father. Pawson admitted her, his dark eyes blank as usual. Relieved when her enquiry elicited the information that his lordship was closeted with “a gentleman,” her spirits picked up even more when Pawson added mournfully, “Miss Falcon has called, and is waiting in your ladyship’s private parlour.”
Miss Falcon, a picture in pink and white, was sitting in the window seat engrossed in theLondon Gazette.She looked up, smiling in response to her friend’s delighted welcome, and said absently, “Hello, love. They say there will be a treaty signed to end this ridiculous Austrian war. I have never understood it, have you?”
“No,” said Naomi, stripping off her gloves. “And I fancy most of the soldiers have no least idea of what they’re fighting for—or against. However, I would not refine upon there being a speedy end to the war, dearest. There will always be wars, simply because men delight in them.”
It was unlike Naomi to be cynical, and Katrina set aside the newspaper and looked at her in surprise. “Rich men perhaps, for the sake of trade. But do you think the poor men who have to fight, really enjoy it? Surely they cannot, when they see how many are killed and wounded.”
“Much they care,” said Naomi ferociously. “At all events, ’tis the officers who are first to be slain in every battle. Most of them are rich men’s sons and do nothaveto follow the drum. But they go anyway. Is in keeping with the male nature. Only l-look how… how little boys are always… fighting.” She dashed her gloves and whip onto the bed, and tearing off her hat, suddenly burst into tears.
“Good heavens!” Katrina flew up to hug her friend and lead her to the window seat, then sink down beside her, murmuring soothing endearments. When the storm eased a little, she said in her gentle way, “Men are hopeless, I own, my love. Never waste your tears upon them.”
“W-Well, they are!” wailed Naomi, groping for her handkerchief. “And—and they do enjoy to—to fight! Oh, how—stupid! Why am I crying like this?”
Katrina dabbed with care at the tearful eyes. “Because you are overwrought, my dear. And quite rightly so after what you have gone through. I doubt your grief had anything to do with the fact that gentlemen are prone to fight. Though I must admit,” she added with a sigh, “my brother fits that description.”
Naomi blew her nose daintily, summoned a tremulous smile, and crossed to tug on the bell pull. “What a ninny I am, to behave like a watering pot. I should instead be telling you how sorry I am that poor August was shot! And only for trying to protect me!”
Secretly disturbed by such an unusual display of emotion, Katrina said kindly, “’Twas not your fault. Certainly August does not hold you responsible. And, Lud! What a frightful experience! Were you quite distracted? I should have fallen down in a swoon, I know it.”
“No, you would not.” Naomi sat beside her again. “You appear so gently delicate, yet you have an inner strength and fortitude that awes me. Indeed I often marvel at how well you bear up under”—she broke off with a mental groan, wishing she had not spoken so impulsively—“under life’s buffets,” she finished lamely. Katrina’s grave little smile told her that what she had started to say had been guessed at, and she was grateful for the interruption when Maggie came in, bobbed a curtsy, and went scurrying off again when asked to fetch tea.
“Now,” said Naomi, “do pray tell me how poor August goes on, and why you are here. Never say you have abandoned him in that horrid little inn?”
“Of course I have not, you goose. The wound is painful, but the apothecary said ’twas not serious. But when Captain Rossiter came back last evening they immediately came to cuffs and—”
Shocked, Naomi interrupted, “Your pardon, but how can one come to cuffs with a wounded man?”
“The captain appeared to find no difficulty in doing so. Nor in wrenching my poor brother about in a most savage fashion!”
“Good God! Is the manquitewithout honour?”
“You may be sure I was furious and cried shame on him. As for August, he was practically berserk, and raged and ranted half the night, and this morning swore at the poor apothecary until he washed his hands of the entire case and went off in a huff.”
“I think the apothecary has my sympathy. Was he dreadfully inept?”
“I rather think he was not of the first stare, but ’twas because he refused to allow us to return to Town, that my brother became so angry. He soon repented, and suffered such pangs of contrition that nothing would do but I must go into the village and beg the apothecary to call again in the afternoon. Whilst I was gone, my sly brother bullied the landlord into finding him a coach and postilions, and off he went at the gallop for London!”
“A true feather wit!” said Naomi indignantly. “Leaving you to worry yourself into a proper pucker. A country apothecary would have been better endured than a long and bumpy ride to Town. Men!”
“Well, I did worry, because even if ’tis not serious, the wound is quite nasty and he will likely run himself into a fever.” She murmured thoughtfully, “Which may not be a very bad thing, now that I think of it… But I found myself quite out of charity with him, and was of no mind to follow him straight away to Falcon House as he no doubt expects me to do.”
“So you came instead to visit me.” Naomi swooped to embrace her. “Then ’tis my good fortune. But what did you mean by saying it will not be a bad thing if August frets his way into a fever?”
