It was possible that Jean said something in reply, but if she did Maggie didn't hear her.
The old king was dead.
He might have chosen better weather for it, Emily Falk reflected, peering out the window of her
small withdrawing room. The bells of the cathedral had finally stopped tolling.
What was keeping Richard? A gust of wind rattled the pane in the tall sash window. Emily let the
heavy curtain fall across the shadows of the lamplit street and retreated to her fire, shivering and glad that
she was not out in the cold.
With a sigh she picked up her knitting--prosaic grey wool. Keeping the boys in stockings was one
of the duller domestic chores. The dullness suited Emily's frame of mind. Grey wool, grey weather, grey
mood. She turned the heel with absent competence and brooded on life's overall greyness.
I wouldn't mind so much if I were home at Wellfield.
Her needles clicked. She thought of the
spacious manor house as she had seen it at Christmas, with the furniture shrouded in holland covers, the
carpet rolled, and the bare hallways echoing. Wellfield was a house that needed to be lived in.
It's not fair,
she thought, rebellious.
I should be at home, we should all be at home.
But Wellfield was not her husband's home and that was that.
Richard had leased the house in Winchester that September and moved his family before
Michaelmas, and though she understood his reasons and tried to put on a cheerful face, Emily could not
overcome her homesickness. The trouble with town life was that there was nothing to do.
That was nonsense, of course. She dropped a stitch, ripped out the row and began again. In a
household containing four servants and four children--five when her son, Matthew Foster, was at home as
he had been all the weekend--there was always something to do, but Emily was used to a much larger
scope. She had run her son's estate since her first husband's death, leaving most of the domestic chores to
her servants. Now she missed her tenants, her cows, and her ledgers.
I'm dull,
she thought with melancholy satisfaction,
dull and dreary.
At that point her sense of humour--or her sense of justice--caught up with her.
I always
thought I could be happy with Richard anywhere--in a cottage, on the high seas, on a desert isle. And here I am
complaining to myself because he has moved me a few miles from my native ground to a well-appointed town house not a
quarter mile from my son's school.
She pictured herself with Richard on a desert isle. The idea had merit. A tropical isle with no
snowstorms or cathedral bells or gossiping ladies.
But,
her less romantic self retorted,
you
would not be alone with Richard on a desert isle. You would be on a desert isle with Richard, Matt, Amy, Tommy, little
Henry, Sally, Mrs. Harry, Phillida, McGrath, and Peggy. And possibly Aunt Fan and Papa. And it would be a deal less
comfortable than Winchester, even Winchester in winter.
If we were still at Wellfield I should see Matt only during the holidays instead of every Saturday and
Sunday, and I should have the burden of Amy's education, too.
Her needles clicked with fierce energy.
Richard has done very well by me He was right to force the move. I'm ungrateful.
But I want to go home.
In spite of herself, she sniffled She let the mass of wool drop to her
lap and fumbled in the sleeve of her gown for a handkerchief.
The clock struck the half hour Startled out of her mood of self-pity, Emily jumped up. Her
knitting fell to the floor, as she again went to the window. Where was Richard? He had walked with Matt
the quarter mile to Winchester College, no great distance and on well-lit streets Perhaps they had
quarrelled again. Matt had been unnaturally civil all day.
Her breath fogged the window and she scrubbed at the pane with her wool sleeve.
Richard
cannot have gone for one of his walks in this weather. But if Matt cut up at him again...
Her stomach knotted.
Richard's usual response to Matt's resentments was a retreat to cool civility, but the boy tried his temper,
and when Richard was in a temper he walked. Miles, sometimes.
But not in the teeth of a winter
gale,
Emily's practical self advised her.
Probably he has stopped by the Wilbrahams for a look at the
major's maps.
This commonsense explanation soothed her, and she picked up her knitting and resumed her
station by the fire. Scarcely had she completed the heel, however, when she heard a pounding at the front
door.
Forgot his key,
she thought, relieved and tolerant. The pounding continued. After a frowning
moment she set the stocking on the worktable and rose.
When she reached the first-floor hallway she heard McGrath grumbling his way up from the
kitchen. Sometimes McGrath drank a little too much gin a little too early. He had been Richard's
bâtman and was unsuited temperamentally to the role of butler. Emily leaned on the cherry wood
bannister and peered down at the foyer. McGrath's balding head passed below her. He was shrugging into
his frock coat. The pounding became a tattoo, and she heard McGrath swear as he reached the door.
"Jaysus, hold yer horses... What is it, sor?" The truculence vanished in mid-sentence. He sounded
alarmed.
Emily grasped her skirts with one hand and the railing with the other and began to descend the
stairs rather more rapidly than was wise. What in the world? McGrath had disappeared outside leaving the
door ajar.
As Emily reached the landing halfway down, Phillida erupted from the direction of the kitchen,
followed closely by Mrs. Harry with a saucepan and spoon in her hand. When Phillida saw her mistress, she
slid to a stop and Mrs. Harry bumped into her.
"Drat you, Phillida, if ever I saw such a clumsy wench. What is it, ma'am?"
"I've no idea..." Emily broke off, staring as the door shoved open and McGrath and her husband
entered, bearing the limp form of a man.
Phillida shrieked.
"Be still," Emily commanded, darting down the last steps. "Good God, Richard, set him down.
Your arm..."
Richard and McGrath laid the young man--he looked very young and very still--on the bare
polished wood. "Careful of that leg," Richard muttered. "I think it's broken."
McGrath grunted and straightened the caped greatcoat, easing the boy's head down.
"Who is he?" Emily croaked.
Richard rose, grimacing. "I've no idea. He was lying on the pavement by the street lamp." He
rubbed his right arm He had been wounded in the shoulder at Waterloo and the joint had anchylosed.
Though he could raise the forearm as far as his waist, he was not able to lift anything heavier than a pen
without considerable pain. "Blankets, Phillida. At once." He jerked his head and the maid clattered off, still
exclaiming.
"Brandy, sir?" Mrs. Harry gestured with the saucepan.
Richard frowned. "Spirits of ammonia, I think. He's unconscious and I've no idea how long he's
been lying there. There's no one in the street;"
"Then you'll need smelling salts
and
brandy, sir." Mrs. Harry stumped off toward the
pantry.
"McGrath should go for the surgeon." Emily knelt and touched the still face. It was cold as
marble. "Is he dead?"
She heard Richard draw a long breath. "I don't think so. He groaned when we lifted him. Oh,
there you are, Jerry."
Emily turned. McGrath had evidently retrieved Richard's hat and stick from the street. Now he
stood in the door, his eyes on Richard.
"Will you fetch the sawbones? Take my greatcoat. No time to go for yours." Richard was
fumbling at the buttons. "It's damned cold out."
McGrath helped him out of the heavy garment and threw it over his own shoulders. "I'm off
then."
Richard closed the door behind his servant and leaned against it.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes."
"Where were you?"
"Walking. Don't move that leg."
Emily nodded. She undid the large, brass buttons of the young man's fashionable driving coat and
loosened the neat cravat. The right glove came off easily. The other resisted her. When she removed it at
last, she began chafing the boy's hands. "He's very cold. Do you think we ought to carry him to the parlour?
We could build a fire..."
"Better not move him yet... Ah, Phillida."
The maid dropped a mountain of pillows and blankets on the floor. "Oh, the poor gentleman, is
he dead? Oh, dear..." She sounded as if she were working herself up to a fit of tears.
Emily said sharply, "He's merely unconscious. Help me slip that pillow beneath his head... yes,
that one. Carefully, Phillida." She sat back on her heels. "The coat is wet, Richard. Phil and I can remove
it."
"Very well, but be careful." He knelt, too. "I think he whacked his head on the cobbles."
By the time Mrs. Harry had returned with the vial of smelling salts, they had contrived to remove
the man's greatcoat without jarring him too much and had swathed him in the blankets. Emily felt his head
and discovered in the crisp brown hair a bump the size of a plover's egg. There was no bleeding,
however.
She held the spirits of ammonia under his nose. After a still moment he turned his head and
groaned weakly.
"That's the dandy," Richard said, and, to Emily, "Try it again."
This time the man sneezed and blinked his eyes. He mumbled something.
"Brandy, sir." Mrs. Harry had poured a generous dollop in a wide glass. She handed it to Richard
and bent, slipping a broad hand under the man's head.
"Careful of that goose egg." Hastily Emily placed another pillow beneath him.
He choked on the brandy, most of which spilled on his shirt. "Wha--"
She made soothing noises. "A little sip more."
This time he swallowed and his eyes blinked open.
"You've fallen and cracked your head," Richard said. He handed Emily the glass. "But you're
quite safe and we've sent for a surgeon for your leg."
"Mmmn."
"Can you tell us your name, sir?"
"Mmmn... Ah... Johnny."
"Johnny what?"
"Dy..."
"No," Richard said firmly, "you're not going to die."
"Not die," the man mumbled. He blinked, considering. "Dyott."
"Johnny Dyott..." Richard rocked back on his heels and looked at Emily "I'm damned. Isn't that
the name of Tom's secretary?"
Emily stared. "I think so... Yes."
Richard snorted. "A great help
he's
going to be."
"Hush, Richard, he'll hear you."
Richard stood up and ran his hand through his hair which the wind had already thoroughly
disordered. He was grinning "Not a bit of it, my dear, he's out like a snuffed candle."
Emily swabbed the slopped brandy with the cloth Mrs. Harry had thoughtfully provided. Richard
had not been best pleased when he heard she had writ Tom of his need for a copyist. She said crossly "I
don't think it's funny, precisely."
Richard gave her a hand up. "Funny as a crutch."
Living with a satirist had its drawbacks.
* * * *
Johnny woke. Someone was watching him. Why?
He lay very still and brooded Where was he? London? No. He had reached Winchester, walked to
the quiet inn near the cathedral, inspected the room the landlord had readied against his coming. He had
seen his gear disposed and bespoken dinner at seven. Then he had gone down to the ordinary and drunk a
glass of hot punch to take the chill off.
The long coach ride had left him numb with cold, aching with it. He had drunk his punch by the
fire. Then what?
He opened one eye cautiously, expecting to see the low, black-beamed ceiling of his room at the
inn. Instead a clean expanse of white plaster stretched above him, and, at the edge of his vision, a plain
moulding. Both eyes wide, he lowered his chin and gawked round him.
He had never seen the room before. It appeared to be a study. The walls were hung with a grey
striped paper and the window to the right of his bed was covered with a heavy blue velvet curtain. It must
be day--broad day--because even with the curtain closed he could see plainly enough. But that couldn't be
right. Vaguely he recalled darkness and blown snow.
He stared, trying to make sense of his surroundings. There was a fire on the hearth. A modest
writing desk, no doubt to make room for the bed he lay on, had been shoved back uncomfortably near a set
of glass-fronted bookshelves. A stack of papers and a standish showed that the desk had been used recently,
though the candle in its pewter holder was unlit. Johnny's head began to ache. Where in the world...
He caught a flicker of motion in the corner of his eye and turned his head on the pillows.
A small boy, perhaps six or seven years old, regarded him solemnly from the door. Johnny stared
back, wondering if he had run mad. The child--he was thin with straight black hair and large, unwinking
black eyes--looked like any one of hundreds of Spanish and Portuguese urchins he had seen in the line of
march, and been haunted by since.
"Who are you?"
The child continued to watch him silently.
Johnny fought back panic, forcing his mind to take in the fact that the boy was not ragged, dirty,
or shoeless. In fact, he was dressed unexceptionably in nankeens, a white ruffled shirt, and a neat blue coat
with brass buttons. He wore white stockings and black kid slippers, and someone skilled had trimmed his
straight, blue-black hair. The child was not a refugee from Johnny's nightmares.
Johnny took a breath. "What's your name?"
Again the boy did not answer. After a moment, he turned and scampered off in a decidedly
un-ghostlike fashion.
Johnny found he had been holding his breath. He exhaled and, thinking to sit up, twisted to the
left. A shaft of pain shot up his right leg. He gasped aloud and sank back against the pillows. His head
whirled as much from bewilderment as from the ache in his leg. What had happened to him?