"Awake, I see, and feeling the pangs."
Johnny turned his head. "Where am I?"
The man in the doorway was in shirtsleeves but his dress otherwise indicated that he was an
ordinary English gentleman. Not a Portuguese muleteer or a Spanish priest.
"I'm Richard Falk." The stranger surveyed Johnny with quizzical hazel eyes. "You fell in front of
the right house."
"But... Oh." Memory flooded back. "I set out to find your house. I meant to call if you were at
home, leave my card. I must have slipped on the cobbles."
"So we deduced. When we discovered you in possession of your purse and watchfob, we
concluded you weren't the victim of footpads."
"I wonder how I came to be so clumsy. " Johnny licked dry lips.. "I only drank one glass."
Falk's smile was wry but not unkind. "I daresay you hit a patch of ice. You've broken your
leg."
"Oh, no!"
"Yes. The shinbone. Neatish break, nothing fancy. But you had a bad bout of fever from lying out
in the cold. The surgeon thinks you'll be up in a month."
"A month!" Johnny groaned.
The election. All the preliminaries would have been set in train within the month. He had meant
to be at Clanross's side well before March. What curst luck. He reopened his eyes to find Colonel Falk
watching him with a slight frown.
"Kicking against the prods? I fancy you're hungry, but let's make you comfortable first."
Johnny was surprised to find that he was hungry. Other even more urgent needs were also
beginning to press. To his embarrassment Falk attended to them with despatch and no comment.
Presently, when Johnny was feeling more the thing and had been propped in a half-upright
position, he said haltingly, "I'm grateful to you, sir, but oughtn't you to leave sickroom chores to your
servants..."
Falk handed him a facecloth. "I thought I was uncommon deft for a one-handed
paperhanger."
"I didn't mean..."
"Scrub."
Johnny scrubbed, hoping his face did not betray the extent of his humiliation. His beard
prickled.
"My man, McGrath," Falk mused, "is just now escorting my daughter to her school and the
housekeeper to the fishmonger's. His wife, who is the children's nurse, is upstairs with the baby and Harry.
The baby is colicky and Harry has a cold. Phillida--that's the housemaid--is paring something, and, in any
case, she would drop a basin on you or fall across your leg. Phillida is a trifle awkward. We do not permit
her to enter sickrooms. So I rather think you're stuck with me. Unless you'd like me to summon Emily? My
wife," he added, removing the cloth and handing Johnny a comb. "She fixing your tray."
"I beg your pardon, sir. I've been a great deal of trouble to you."
"You've caused us some anxiety, I'll allow. And I'm glad you've come out of the fever. Even with
the splint in place, we had the devil of a time keeping your leg still. Especially, for some reason, at four in
the morning."
"Good God, how long was I out?"
"Three days. And nights."
Johnny shut his eyes, mortified. "You'll be wishing me in Jericho."
"Not at all. I wish you right where you are. When you're feeling more the thing, I mean to put
you to work."
"Even so..."
"Come, Dyott, it was an accident."
Johnny bit his lip. "I know, but..."
Falk smiled at him. "Only fancy what I'd be thinking if you'd taken a notion to break your right
arm
."
In spite of his embarrassment, Johnny had to return the smile.
Falk tidied the cloth away. A china pitcher and basin sat on the low chest of drawers by the head
of the bed. "We'll rig a lap desk for you--"
"Clanross!" Johnny interrupted, appalled.
"I've writ Tom. And we found your traps at the Pelican."
"How?"
Falk had finished tidying the basin. He sat on a straight-back chair near the door. "I sent McGrath
round to all the likely inns. And then to the unlikely ones. Did you know that the Pelican is a den of piety?
Country curates and rural deans. No one else uses it."
Johnny felt his cheeks flame. He was blushing like a maiden, and why not? The whole situation
was damnably embarrassing. "My father is dean of Lincoln cathedral."
"And he recommended the Pelican. I see. All our mysteries cleared up." Falk looked mildly
disappointed.
Not quite. "There was a boy."
Falk's eyebrows rose.
"When I woke. A little boy. He looked Spanish."
"My son Tommy. His mother was Spanish." He rose and went to the desk.
Johnny digested that. "I spoke to him but he didn't answer. I thought I was dreaming. When he
vanished..."
"Tommy does not hear."
"He's deaf? Good God, I heard he'd been ill. He is Lord Clanross's godson, is he not? I am
sorry."
Falk was fiddling with the standish. "I posted him to warn me when you woke."
"Does he not speak?"
Falk straightened the pile of papers on the desk. "He does, but not often. I think being unable to
hear his own voice confuses him."
Johnny turned that over in his mind. "I daresay it must be frightening for him."
"Yes."
"How long..."
Falk looked up. He was frowning painfully. "The children--all of them but the baby who was
newborn-- fell ill in July. It was just measles. My wife was still rather weak and I didn't like to expose her or
the infant, so I kept Emily from the sickroom. The McGraths and I nursed them. We were more anxious
for Matt than for Tommy at first. Matt ran a high fever." He straightened and went to the bookcase,
opening the glass front. After a moment he closed it again without removing a book. "When they
recovered, we found that Tommy had lost his hearing."
"I'm sorry," Johnny repeated, troubled by the older man's contained distress. "Measles!"
Falk gave a short, unmirthful laugh. "That's what's so stupid. If it had been smallpox or scarlet
fever or something more threatening..."
He is afraid he could have done something to prevent his son's deafness,
Johnny thought. What
an appalling burden. He groped for something to say. Phrases about God's will his father surely would have
found efficacious entered his mind--and stuck in his throat.
Nothing,
he thought grimly,
will
induce me to become a clergyman.
After a moment Falk left off his restless pacing and resumed his seat by the door. "I have been
teaching Tommy his letters. He could read a little and write his name before he fell ill. I thought if he could
read and write with ease..."
"That he might not lose his grasp of language? I see."
Falk took a. deep breath. "He does very well, and he's beginning to understand what is said by
watching the speaker's mouth. That is very encouraging, but I wish he would speak more often. His speech
has lost something of clarity."
"Still, if he understands... I see why you need help with your correspondence," he burst out.
"Your work must have been seriously interrupted."
Falk smiled a little. "That is one way of putting it. I've kept up with the correspondence relating
to Tom's charity, but I'm behindhand with my blasted history. My publisher is squawking."
"History? I thought you were a novelist, sir."
"I am, by preference. Murray asked me to write a three-volume history of Marlborough's
campaigns. In a moment of mental aberration, I agreed."
Johnny felt his spirits rise. He had balked at wasting his time over a mere novel, but a history was
a more respectable undertaking. "Surely you must find such work more gratifying--"
"Must I?" Falk rubbed his forehead.
"To be dealing with so important an event as the War of the Spanish Succession! Marlborough!
Blenheim!"
"Malplaquet! Close order drill! Lady Marlborough!" Falk was mocking him. "Frankly, I find it all
exceedingly dull."
Johnny stared.
"I am a satirist, not an historian, but the climate for satire is not healthy these days. The thought
of spending months in durance vile for taking the odd jab at Lord Liverpool gives one pause." Falk's mouth
twisted in a wry grimace. "My publisher fancied he--and I--would be safer rehearsing pointless marches and
countermarches where the outcome was known and the politicians safely dead. It appears that the publick
have a boundless thirst for dead campaigns. I cannot imagine why."
"I see," said Johnny, though he didn't, precisely. "But a history..."
"I daresay mine will be the two hundredth recapitulation of the battle of Blenheim," Falk said
flatly. "The only positive consequence of publishing three fusty volumes of the stuff will be their effect on
my overdraught."
"I cannot believe that, sir."
Falk's mouth relaxed in a grin. "You will when you've copied a few chapters?"
"My word, it's early days to be speaking of copying, Richard." A lady in a lace cap and striped
spencer appeared in the doorway. She carried a tray, and she had brown curls and merry blue eyes.
Falk had risen. He said dryly, "Mrs. Falk. Dyott. If you were in any doubt."
She advanced with the tray held before her like a guerdon. "Do help the boy up, Richard. Two
more pillows, I think. How do you do, Mr. Dyott? You must call me Emily because I fully intend to call
you Johnny."
Her gentle chatter washed over Johnny, very soothing. Falk's ministrations were less
soothing--the leg ached abominably--but in the end Johnny squirmed to a position that would make feeding himself
possible. The effort left him limp. Colonel Falk took his leave. Johnny ate. Emily Falk watched him
critically.
When he had finished she removed the tray, set it on the chair, and swept up a few errant crumbs
of toast. The beef broth had been excellent.
"Better?"
"Much. Thank you."
She smiled. "But your leg is hurting again and you have a strong desire for solitude. I shall leave
you in peace, but first you must take a glass of the apothecary's vile potion. It is mostly laudanum, I fancy,
and should ease the pain."
Johnny considered protesting. Laudanum would also put him to sleep. He did not like to be
quacked, but he felt quite exhausted, suddenly, and the leg did hurt. "Very well, ma'am."
"Emily," she corrected gently. She measured a spoonful of medicine from a small brown bottle
into a glass of water. The water turned milky. "I am glad to see you awake at last."
Johnny drank the potion.
She beamed at him. "There. That should make you more comfortable in a trice."
Johnny blinked. "Thank you..."
But she had disappeared as suddenly as she had come.
The Falk family does
a good line in vanishing acts,
he thought rather crossly.
Prestidigitous.
Presently he drowsed off with visions of Blenheim and Peninsular urchins floating in
his fuddled head. Clanross was saying something earnest about Reform. Johnny strained to understand his
point but couldn't help thinking how odd his employer looked in a long curled wig.
Jean stared at the young man and her heart thumped in her throat. For a shaming moment she
thought she might faint.
Owen Davies was beautiful. Why had no one said how beautiful he was? Not above the middle
height, he was proportioned like a marble Mercury, but he moved with the grace of some sleek cat of the
mountains. He wore Hessians, and his primrose inexpressibles clung to his thighs, moulding the long
muscles. The conventional bottle green coat and grey waistcoat did little to tame the wild abandon of the
carelessly knotted kerchief he wore in place of a cravat. His fair hair hung long and tousled, with just
enough curl to tip under where it met his collar, and his mouth was exquisitely carved, mobile and
sensitive. Though he affected no jewellery, his agate green eyes glowed with a light of their own.
"Lady Jean Conway," Elizabeth was saying. "My sister."
Jean's hand floated up of its own accord. When Mr. Davis touched her fingertips, her arm tingled
to the shoulder with electrical warmth.
He bent over her hand, brushing her knuckles with his lips. As he straightened, he met her eyes.
A wordless message passed between them. Then he was making his bow to Maggie and the sensation
passed. But Jean knew her life had been transformed.
Owen Davies. A librarian? Nonsense. He was a poet, with the soul of a poet in his speaking eyes
and all the wild music of Wales in his light tenor voice. He was murmuring civil phrases to the
others--Maggie, Miss Bluestone, Cecy Wharton who had come from Hazeldell to take tea--but Jean heard only the
music of his voice, not the sense.
Stiffly she reseated herself on the sofa and watched as the party reassembled with Mr. Davies on
Elizabeth's right, a place of honour he assumed with no unbecoming hesitation. He accepted a glass of
sherry from the tray Fisher offered, and sat sipping and listening, with a faint curl of his sculpted mouth, a
faint droop of his eyelids, as Elizabeth spoke of his parents.
The Davieses of Earl's Brecon could not be his parents, not the catarrhal rector and his prim wife.
So splendid a creature must have sprung from another race entirely. Jean had been rereading McPherson's
Oisin
. Vague images of the riders of the wind, the pale, unearthly Sidhe, flickered in her mind's
eye. A changeling? Perhaps that was not the right term. A figure certainly from another time, his alabaster
skin still tinged from exposure to the chill air outside and his hair touched by the snow-laden wind.
Jean shivered deliciously.
"...and you must take your mama a packet of my tisane of birch leaves. She asked for it when I
last saw her," Miss Bluestone was saying with dreadful, prosy cheer. "I meant to send it by Jem any time
this sennight but I kept forgetting. I daresay your father is feeling more the thing by now, however"
"Yes," Mr. Davies said, eyes half-lidded. "I believe papa goes on very well, ma'am, but you must
pardon me. I've told my parents I must be about my work. They cannot expect me to call on them
often."