and dressed like a
hag besides.
"All
the same," he went on, "I think you would not deny His
Grace a fair hearing. Would you not at least tell him what you did
and didn't want?"
"Did
he tell Napoleon his strategy?" she answered calmly enough,
though her mind was neither calm nor clear, and she wasn't sure what
she wanted.
"Miss
Oldridge, I am not trying to conquer the world," he said. "I
only want to build a canal."
She
became aware of movement, and glancing past him, noted, with mingled
relief and vexation, that the young ladies were casually meandering
this way. "Your fleet draws nigh," she said.
He
didn't look away from her. "Tell me what's wrong," he said.
"Better yet, show me: what you've invested, what you stand to
lose. Show me what you were talking about to Captain Hughes."
"You
could never understand," she said.
"Suppose
I cannot? What will it cost you? A few hours of time?"
Saturday
21 February
CREWE'S
cough this morning was low and tragic, telling Alistair that his
valet was in the throes of another one of his famous Forebodings.
He'd
had one the night before the battle of Waterloo, and blamed the
ensuing catastrophe on his master's riding out to battle without him.
Ever
since then, Crewe had been convinced he possessed clairvoyant powers.
The
tragic cough did not dampen Alistair's mood, which was cheerful,
despite his having arisen at the uncivilized hour of nine o'clock. He
saw nothing inauspicious about this day. At present, he stood shaving
in a pool of sunshine, recalling his after-dinner encounter with Miss
Oldridge with the first real pleasure he'd experienced in—Well,
he couldn't remember how long it had been.
He
remembered the moment of surprised pleasure last night, though, with
perfect clarity. He'd gone all stiff and sensitive about his curst
fame and his famous dratted injury, and she—But he didn't know
how to explain, even to himself, what she'd done. She'd meant it to
be a setdown, he supposed, reminding him that he was not the only one
who'd fought at Waterloo, not the only one injured, and certainly not
the one who'd lost or suffered most.
Even
his family, usually brutally direct with one another, tended to skirt
the subject of Waterloo when he was about. Only Gordmor, of all his
friends, referred easily and comfortably to the lame leg.
Miss
Oldridge was the first woman he'd encountered who didn't pretend he
wasn't lame and didn't get starry-eyed about his so-called heroics.
She
didn't seem to pretend much of anything or to be easily rendered
starry-eyed.
Crewe's
poignant cough called Alistair back.
"Crewe,
do you not see the sun pouring through the window?" Alistair
said patiently. "Did you fail to notice that this morning dawned
fair, with temperatures well above the freezing mark?"
"I
wish I could take heart in the weather, sir," Crewe said. "But
after such a dream." He shook his head. "It was so very
like the one I dreamt the night before Waterloo."
Alistair
paused in his shaving. "Do you mean the one where the footpad
cuts my throat and you find me in the alley as the last drops of
blood are oozing from my body? Or is it the one where I pitch off the
cliff into the sea, and you jump in to save me, but you're too late,
and I drown?"
"The
cliff, sir," said Crewe. "The sky darkened suddenly, as
before a storm, and the remaining light had a peculiar quality. It
was as if the sun hung behind a great, green glass. I remember the
light in particular as the same I dreamt before that fateful day in
June of 1815."
"I'm
not riding out to battle," Alistair said. "I'm merely
touring Longledge Hill with Miss Oldridge. You may be sure we'll have
a servant in attendance. Even in this wilderness, a lady does not go
out without protection. Doubtless she'll bring along a large groom of
menacing aspect. Should exposure to so much raw nature arouse my
passions, he will discourage me from attempting her virtue. Should
the scenery produce a similar effect upon her, I reckon I can
hag besides.
"All
the same," he went on, "I think you would not deny His
Grace a fair hearing. Would you not at least tell him what you did
and didn't want?"
"Did
he tell Napoleon his strategy?" she answered calmly enough,
though her mind was neither calm nor clear, and she wasn't sure what
she wanted.
"Miss
Oldridge, I am not trying to conquer the world," he said. "I
only want to build a canal."
She
became aware of movement, and glancing past him, noted, with mingled
relief and vexation, that the young ladies were casually meandering
this way. "Your fleet draws nigh," she said.
He
didn't look away from her. "Tell me what's wrong," he said.
"Better yet, show me: what you've invested, what you stand to
lose. Show me what you were talking about to Captain Hughes."
"You
could never understand," she said.
"Suppose
I cannot? What will it cost you? A few hours of time?"
Saturday
21 February
CREWE'S
cough this morning was low and tragic, telling Alistair that his
valet was in the throes of another one of his famous Forebodings.
He'd
had one the night before the battle of Waterloo, and blamed the
ensuing catastrophe on his master's riding out to battle without him.
Ever
since then, Crewe had been convinced he possessed clairvoyant powers.
The
tragic cough did not dampen Alistair's mood, which was cheerful,
despite his having arisen at the uncivilized hour of nine o'clock. He
saw nothing inauspicious about this day. At present, he stood shaving
in a pool of sunshine, recalling his after-dinner encounter with Miss
Oldridge with the first real pleasure he'd experienced in—Well,
he couldn't remember how long it had been.
He
remembered the moment of surprised pleasure last night, though, with
perfect clarity. He'd gone all stiff and sensitive about his curst
fame and his famous dratted injury, and she—But he didn't know
how to explain, even to himself, what she'd done. She'd meant it to
be a setdown, he supposed, reminding him that he was not the only one
who'd fought at Waterloo, not the only one injured, and certainly not
the one who'd lost or suffered most.
Even
his family, usually brutally direct with one another, tended to skirt
the subject of Waterloo when he was about. Only Gordmor, of all his
friends, referred easily and comfortably to the lame leg.
Miss
Oldridge was the first woman he'd encountered who didn't pretend he
wasn't lame and didn't get starry-eyed about his so-called heroics.
She
didn't seem to pretend much of anything or to be easily rendered
starry-eyed.
Crewe's
poignant cough called Alistair back.
"Crewe,
do you not see the sun pouring through the window?" Alistair
said patiently. "Did you fail to notice that this morning dawned
fair, with temperatures well above the freezing mark?"
"I
wish I could take heart in the weather, sir," Crewe said. "But
after such a dream." He shook his head. "It was so very
like the one I dreamt the night before Waterloo."
Alistair
paused in his shaving. "Do you mean the one where the footpad
cuts my throat and you find me in the alley as the last drops of
blood are oozing from my body? Or is it the one where I pitch off the
cliff into the sea, and you jump in to save me, but you're too late,
and I drown?"
"The
cliff, sir," said Crewe. "The sky darkened suddenly, as
before a storm, and the remaining light had a peculiar quality. It
was as if the sun hung behind a great, green glass. I remember the
light in particular as the same I dreamt before that fateful day in
June of 1815."
"I'm
not riding out to battle," Alistair said. "I'm merely
touring Longledge Hill with Miss Oldridge. You may be sure we'll have
a servant in attendance. Even in this wilderness, a lady does not go
out without protection. Doubtless she'll bring along a large groom of
menacing aspect. Should exposure to so much raw nature arouse my
passions, he will discourage me from attempting her virtue. Should
the scenery produce a similar effect upon her, I reckon I can
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