Trevelyan Family: The English Witch Part 2

Of course he didn't see. How could he? "My governess was rather a bluestocking," she explained. "Consequently, I do not handle my needle very well, and my watercolours are appalling, and-"

"Good heavens! You aren't about to tell me you don't play the pianoforte?"

This being uttered in horrified incredulity, she couldn't help but giggle, even as she admitted she could play no instrument-at least, not very well.

"You poor, benighted girl. What can you do?"

"I can, as Papa will tell you, talk a blue streak."

"Then talk, by all means, Miss Ashmore. It is, after all, the only safe thing one-or two, rather-can do upon a horse."

Deciding it was best to ignore his innuendoes, she invited him to choose a subject.

"Tell me of Albania. Tell me what you've discovered about Byron's 'rugged nurse of savage men.' "

She complied with his request, and he was a little surprised at what she said. She'd read neither Hobhouse's Travels in Albania nor Byron's Childe Harold, for those books had been published while she was travelling with her father. Thus, her perspective was all her own, with the focus on politics though she drew a.n.a.logies from both literature and history. It wasn't a typical bluestocking speech-or at least, certainly not like that of any bluestocking he'd ever known. Her turn of mind was interesting, and her voice very pleasant to hear. Her letter, Basil supposed, had promised something, but this was more than he'd hoped for. He thought better of his aunt as a result, and the time pa.s.sed more quickly than he'd expected, considering that it was not whiled away with dalliance.

They did not, as Basil had predicted, have to ride all night, though he guessed it was well past midnight when they reached the edge of the village to be met by Sir Charles, Mr. Burnham, and the Albanian servants. Alexandra, half-dead from exhaustion, gave herself over to Lefka's care and was lead away to a tiny cottage.

Meanwhile, Basil was set upon by the two Englishmen, who immediately began questioning him. Yes, he told them, Miss Ashmore was quite unharmed. No, he a.s.sured them, there would be no more trouble.

"But I must beg your pardon, gentlemen. It has been such an interesting day altogether that I am like to drop from fatigue. I a.s.sure you I cannot put another answer together tonight. We will talk more tomorrow. If you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of a comfortable mound of earth-or a stump or a rock-and topple me onto it, I should be very much obliged."

Chapter 3.

The following morning, after being ungently wakened by the faithful Gregor, Basil betook himself to a mountain stream for a rather chilly bath. Then, clean in body-though his travel-stained garments distressed his fastidious soul-he found Sir Charles and took him aside for private conversation.

Having upon awakening become painfully sensible of a fragrance of goat about her person, Alexandra was making her own morning ablutions about the time the two gentlemen were having their chat. Lefka, who stood guard nearby, persisted in making the most indecorous remarks regarding the beautiful young man who'd rescued her charge. As a result, Miss Ashmore was not only ravenously hungry but unrefres.h.i.+ngly hot and fl.u.s.tered by the time she joined the others for breakfast. One look at her father's face told her there was more aggravation to come.

"I'd like to have a word with you, Alexandra," he announced.

"Can't it wait until after breakfast, Papa? I haven't eaten a thing since yesterday morning-"

" Breakfast can wait."

She looked longingly at the table set under the grape arbour: thick slabs of bread, fruit, two kinds of highly aromatic cheese, and thick black coffee. But her father led her inexorably back into the little cottage.

"I've just had a startling conversation with Mr. Trevelyan, Alexandra."

Abruptly, one of Lefka's most lurid suggestions came back to her. She blushed furiously.

"Oh, my dear, your face tells me that it is true. But why did you never confide this thing to your Papa?" His words sounded sorrowful, but the creases were settling into his forehead.

She collected herself, speaking carefully. "Because I couldn't think you'd like it, Papa. He had nothing when I met him, and though I believed in him, I couldn't expect that you would."

"No, and I don't like it now." He then proceeded to remind her at interminable length about obligations, filial devotion, and the superior character of Mr. Burnham.

Since she'd heard all of this several hundred times before, there was no need to attend very closely. Instead, she concentrated on how best to manage her stubborn Papa. When he finally paused for breath, she answered as though she'd considered all he'd said very seriously. "Of course, that's all true, Papa. But you don't know Mr. Trevelyan yet, do you? Hasn't he made something of himself-starting with nothing-in only six years? And hasn't he been true to me all this while? With his background he might have had his pick of brides in England, but instead he's worked and sacrificed-all for me. Even if I did now have some doubt of my feelings-for I was only eighteen when I met him-I must esteem him for his courage and devotion."

This was doing it rather brown-especially the part about being true to her, when she strongly suspected that Mr. Trevelyan had about as much notion of fidelity as a tomcat. Nonetheless, Alexandra would have cheerfully committed any extravagance that promised freedom from the ghastly Burn-hams.

Sir Charles, however, was not to be won over so easily. "Yes, dear, I daresay the young man has behaved admirably. But really, what choice had he, if he had, as you say, nothing? And what of Mr. Burnham's patience? He has waited several years, never complaining."

Well, of course he wouldn't complain. He didn't care one way or other about it. Summoning up all her patience, Alexandra dutifully endured her father's anxieties about the Burnhams, who even now must be preparing for the wedding. "And what of Society?" he persisted. "Everyone knows you're promised to Randolph. No one knows anything of any attachment to Mr. Trevelyan. You'll be labelled 'jilt.' And everyone will think that the Ashmores have no sense of honour."

Bother your honour, Alexandra thought. And to talk of Society-as if he'd ever in his life cared what Society thought about anything, as if anyone in Society had ever heard of the Burnhams-was the height of absurdity.

Squelching a sigh of vexation, she answered ingenuously, "I don't understand, Papa, how it's less dishonourable to abandon a man who's sacrificed so much on my account and trusted me all these years to keep my promise to him."

The baronet was growing exasperated. He couldn't in all honesty claim that she had no obligation to Mr. Trevelyan. Sir Charles was beginning to feel cornered. "This is merely a childish infatuation, Alexandra. As I'm sure you and Mr. Trevelyan will soon find out. People change in six years. What seems romantic at eighteen looks very different at four-and-twenty."

She gazed at him as though struck by what he said. Then, in a slow, thoughtful voice, she answered. "Well, to tell the truth, I hadn't thought of that, Papa. I was so overjoyed to see him again-and as my gallant rescuer. I suppose it was very romantic."

Her father nodded, looking obnoxiously complacent. But his complacency began to fade as she went on.

"In that case, I don't see what you're alarmed about. For if it is, as you say, only infatuation, then we'll discover it soon enough, won't we? Very likely, by the time we're home again-or soon after, surely-Mr. Trevelyan and I will have taken each other in dislike. And everything will settle itself peaceably with neither dishonour nor hurt feelings. How perceptive you are, Papa."

Papa being, as they say, hoist with his own petard, could produce no answer for this. He had to content himself with grumbling about childish infatuations and wondering why he and Randolph should have to put up with such behaviour. However, as it turned out, he hadn't time to annoy himself or his daughter much more on that subject. They'd no sooner left the house and joined the others near the grape arbour when they heard in the distance a dull thundering.

This gradually resolved itself into the pounding of hooves, and then in turn became a lone figure on a brown stallion. The figure came to a halt some yards from where the group now stood, watching in alarm.

"Ah, the rejected swain," Basil murmured, moving quickly to Alexandra's side and putting a protective arm about her shoulders. Though the gesture filled Sir Charles with ineffable disgust, he had sense enough to hold his tongue.

The rejected swain was soon before them, looking so humble and abashed that Alexandra's heart, which had been pounding in concert with the horse's hooves, swiftly settled itself to a mere fluttering.

"Zotir Ashmore," said the young man quietly. "Zotir Tri-Tri-Vasil." He looked at Alexandra and heaved a great sigh. Then, raising himself very tall, very straight, he launched into a long, beautiful-nearly poetic-apology. While it was not nearly so poetic in English, the tone alone impressed his listeners. He had shamed his family and disgraced himself. His behaviour was madness and inexcusable. He despaired of obtaining their forgiveness.

The speech made Alexandra feel ashamed of having deceived him with her make-believe fiance. Dhimitri was obviously sincere, and now, standing there so tall and sad and dignified, he was, she thought, n.o.ble.

Good heavens! now he was saying that he must go with them to Prevesa to make what small amends were in his power. He would personally see to their comfort and safety during their "perilous journey." He had friends and relatives in many of the villages along the way, who would make them all welcome.

"Would you tell him, Alexandra," Basil responded, when Dhimitri's offer had been translated, "that we accept his apology. His offer, however, is too generous. There's no need for him to accompany us."

Zotir Vasil was also generous, but the thing must be done. If Dhimitri could not bring his family a.s.surances that the English had reached their destination safely, he could not go home at all.

It soon was plain that the offer must be accepted.

Sir Charles so counselled Basil in a low-spoken aside. "The boy comes of a good family, Mr. Trevelyan, and they're very proud. He must redeem his honour, and we could use the protection-though I must say it is deuced awkward, under the circ.u.mstances."

"Well, then, he must come, I suppose. Alexandra, my love"-she saw her father start at this-"I hope you have not too many other beaux between here and Prevesa. Otherwise, I fear we'll soon swell up into a great army and have Ali Pasha quaking in his slippers by the time we reach our destination."

"You see the difficulty."

"Ay, that I do, my lady." Mr. Henry Latham accepted a cup of tea from his hostess. "Burnham's a very close man with his affairs. My people have learned nothing that isn't plain and aboveboard. The situation may very well be as he says, you know. As the match means a step up in the world for them, it's worth a good deal more than the gold."

"Then you agree it's futile to attempt to communicate with him?" Lady Bertram asked.

"Oh, yes. A waste of pen and ink. And not only on account of this," he added. "George, you see, is preoccupied lately, due to problems with his labourers."

Lady Bertram smiled faintly. "Is he now?"

"Yes. And I expect it's going to get worse before it gets better. As things always do." Mr. Latham expressed this pessimistic opinion with the utmost amiability, as he carried a tea cake to his plate. "It's what comes of not paying an honest day's pay for an honest day's work. Your labouring cla.s.ses like to get paid fair for what they do. It's a queer thing, but there it is. Human nature, my lady."

"You are a student of human nature, sir," the countess remarked drily.

"In my own modest way."

"Then what do you make of the other matter?" Mr. Latham made it out, apparently, while he disposed of the tea cake. After it had vanished into the depths of his plump, genial countenance, he answered, "It's one thing to study human nature and another to predict it. I'm a businessman, not a prophet. But as a businessman-" He paused. "I'm always eager to hear your views on business, sir."

"Well, then, as a man of business I can give you a fair idea of what s.h.i.+ps are scheduled to cross the Mediterranean. Always allowing, of course, for the complications of this unfortunate unpleasantness on the continent. With good information and a little patience, I expect we can manage to be on the spot when that particular s.h.i.+p comes in."

"The information I leave, as always, to you. As to patience-only point me to the port, Henry, and I shall wait there, patiently as Job, though it take a twelvemonth."

Was it not enough that he'd done three years' penance in vile climates among villains whose treacheries made his own attempted "crime" a mere boyish prank by comparison? Was it not enough he'd been nearly murdered some dozen times? Apparently, the Furies were not done tormenting him. He must now spend all his waking hours with one of the most desirable women he'd ever met-and have to keep his hands to himself the whole blessed time.

The Devil himself must have fas.h.i.+oned her to make men demented. Small wonder that Dhimitri, perceiving Mr. Burnham's profound and incomprehensible want of interest, had tried to carry her off. Even the jaded Mr. Trevelyan would like to carry her off to some private place.

The Devil, surely, had designed her long-legged slenderness, so exquisitely curved, and woven her dark chestnut curls to glint copper in the bright sun. He'd sculpted the soft, full lips; and then, for Old Nick hadn't any conscience at all, he'd drawn those startling green eyes with their flecks of gold like speckled sunlight in a cool forest. Nor was that yet enough. She must move with sensuous, provocative grace and speak in that husky, intimate timbre. Even her unfas.h.i.+onably tanned skin must seem the palest golden silk, rising to a warm rose in her cheeks. All that, and Basil could do no more than look.

For one, she was the daughter of a gentleman. For another, she was obviously innocent; and for a third-and this carried by far the greatest weight-she was Aunt Clem's G.o.ddaughter. He wouldn't even have to compromise Miss Ashmore to be forced into marriage. She had only to become infatuated with him and confide it to Aunt Clem, and his bachelor days would be over. He needed to repeat this lecture to himself often as the days pa.s.sed, for she made him very... restless.

Basil was not used to resisting temptation of any kind. When in his life had he l.u.s.ted in vain? But then, when had he ever l.u.s.ted after a gently bred virgin? Never. His problem was simply that he'd been too long without feminine companions.h.i.+p and wasn't used to controlling himself.

Still, they must keep up a show for the Argus-eyed Dhimitri. Therefore, Mr. Trevelyan was forced to sit very close to Miss Ashmore when they ate their modest meals. He must, certainly, engage her in conversation, though it only made him more restless. The more he talked to her, the more he wanted to talk to her.

It was partly because she was well educated and articulate. But there was something else, too, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. More than once he'd heard her render her intellectual Papa speechless with frustration after one of her exercises in twisted logic. What truly surprised Basil, however, was that he found himself, more often than he liked, at point non plus.

Though he didn't mean to flirt with her and knew it was dangerous, sometimes he'd forget about Aunt Clem and the life of idle dissipation awaiting him in England. He'd lapse into his coaxing ways, and she'd seem to respond as sweetly as he wished-until he realised that her tender glances and soft words were a precise imitation of his own. Every time, instead of taking offence, he'd end up laughing at himself and, in the next minute, making the most candid confessions.

Afterwards, when he thought about it, he felt uneasy. He wasn't used to being managed and objected to it on principle. Yet while it was happening it was, well, so refres.h.i.+ng. Anyhow, he rea.s.sured himself, it was a good idea to be candid with her. Knowing what he was, she'd be intelligent enough to keep on her guard against him.

Though it was only about forty miles or so from Gjirokastra to Saranda, the poor roads made it a journey of several days. As the time pa.s.sed, Sir Charles grew more and more frustrated. The infatuation showed no signs of diminis.h.i.+ng. On the contrary, his daughter and Trevelyan had too much to say to each other. They talked constantly, starting at breakfast and not leaving off until they retired for the night. Sir Charles would have preferred to keep them apart, but with Dhimitri present he didn't dare. Even Gjergi, who had spoken with the rejected swain at length, warned the baronet. Dhimitri had given the girl up only because he was convinced that she and Vasil were fated to be together. It was kismet.

Kismet, indeed. Well, they were a pair, those two, with their glib answers to everything. It would serve them right to be shackled to each other for the rest of their days. Looking now at Randolph-who rode along calmly, quite oblivious to the various tensions and countertensions of the party-the baronet remembered the debt he owed and decided to drop his a.s.sistant a hint.

In response, the conscientious Mr. Burnham, who'd rarely troubled to say more than two words a day to Miss Ashmore, began obediently to seek her out for conversation.

On the third afternoon of their journey, Mr. Trevelyan remarked to Miss Ashmore on this strange development as they sat, a little apart from the others, eating grapes.

She chuckled at this, and said, "He's courting me, Mr. Trevelyan. Can't you see? Papa must have told him to do it-and probably has hinted what to say, as well."

"You laugh, Miss Ashmore? I'm shocked. Still, with three men breaking their hearts over you, what else would a cruel girl like yourself do?"

"Three hearts? But you told me only yesterday you hadn't any heart at all."

"I never said any such thing."

"You implied it when you spoke of Almacks."

"I said only that I was looking forward to the experience."

"Yes, but you said it in such a self-satisfied way that I knew you were picturing all the lovely young ladies wanting you to notice them."

"You make me sound a perfect c.o.xcomb. What a cruel construction to put on my innocent remarks."

"Then you mustn't let your eyes glitter so wickedly when you speak of such things, Mr. Trevelyan. I can quite read your mind."

For half an instant, he believed she could. He went on amiably to insist he did have a heart. "True, it's very small and very hard. Nonetheless, it exists and may, therefore, be broken."

"Well, I wish you wouldn't break it just yet, or between that and the other two you tease me of, we shall leave a deal of rubble behind us."

"Point taken, Miss Ashmore. I shall refrain from littering this lovely landscape. Still, I do worry that Mr. Burnham will steal you out from under my nose."

"Do you worry, poor man? But you're young and resilient. I daresay you could reconcile yourself to the loss quickly enough."

He immediately looked such a picture of wounded innocence that she nearly choked on the grape she'd popped into her mouth. She looked at him in wonder. "I declare you were meant for the stage. However do you manage those expressions?"

"Practise, my dear," he answered, with an odd little smile. "Practise."

According to Mr. Burnham, who was dutifully, if not altogether effectively, attempting to distract Alexandra from her Other fiance, Mr. Trevelyan also had considerable practise in deceit.

As they left Delvina and began their descent to the plain of Vurqu, Randolph had-in the politest way-replaced his rival at Miss Ashmore's side. A tad annoyed to see Basil give way so easily and go on so amicably to join her Papa-with whom he was now engaged in lively conversation-Alexandra gave Mr. Burnham a dazzling smile and asked him what he meant.

He was not in the habit of eliciting warm acknowledgement from Miss Ashmore. When she regarded him at all, and when he noticed, both of which were rare happenings, she did so mainly with profound weariness. So taken aback was he by this display of warmth that he smiled automatically in return.

It occurred to Alexandra that he wasn't a bad-looking man. Randolph's clear blue eyes, when not glazed over in their customary scholarly abstraction, were, at least, honest ones. You could believe what you saw there.

"I only hope he will not deceive you," said Randolph, coloring slightly.

"What makes you think he will, Randolph? I thought you'd never met him before."

He hesitated briefly, then admitted that he hadn't.

"Then to what do you ascribe your concern?"