The Elsingham Portrait - By Elizabeth Chater Page 0,18
anyone knows about the situation in America, Burke does.”
After Lord John had taken his leave, the two friends regarded one another gloomily.
“Parliament!” Randall sighed in exasperation. “It’s my belief Johnny’s touched in his loft.”
“Poor Johnny.”
“That cursed female!” Randall said bitterly. “She’s made his life a hell. He hasn’t been his own man since he married her. Damme, it’s like witchcraft!”
“Being Johnny, he has to give her every chance,” said Lord Peter. “What d’you suppose she’s up to now?”
“She’s wicked, Peter. She even cast out lures to me—her husband’s best friend! I told her I’d as soon embrace a cobra. She hasn’t spoken to me since.”
Peter was forced to smile. “You’re a little diplomat, aren’t you?”
“You know what she is! How can we help her to ruin Johnny’s life?”
“And who,” said Lord Peter lazily, “says we are going to help her?”
Five
At exactly two o’clock on the following day, there was a discreet rap on milady’s bedroom door. Bennet rose from the chair where she had been reading her Bible and went quietly to open the door, trying not to waken the woman who was asleep on the great bed.
A footman whispered importantly, “Lord Peter Masterson, Mr. Randall Towne, present their compliments to her ladyship. Beg to wait upon her.”
Bennet’s first impulse was to deny the intrusion. Then she recalled that these gentlemen were his lordship’s closest friends, and as such might feel it incumbent upon them to inquire after Lady Elsingham. And there had been pitifully few sympathy calls. Her beautiful charge had no friends in London. A kindly gesture might encourage her, lift her from the depression into which she seemed to have sunk. So, finger to lip, she considered the situation. After a moment she replied, “I shall see if her ladyship is awake.”
When she reached the bedside, her charge was regarding her through eyes wide with alarm.
“Oh, what is happening, Bennet? Is it more trouble?”
Bennet’s soft heart was wrung with pity. “No, no, milady, ¼tis only two good friends of his lordship’s, come to pay their respects. Are you well enough to receive them?”
Kathryn sighed with relief. “Lord John’s friends? Of course I’ll see them. Who are they, Bennet? Do I—know them well?”
As she raised the beautiful shoulders, plumped up pillows, straightened the covers and smoothed back the glorious hair, Bennet was worriedly considering that very problem. Strange and terrible as milady’s story was, Bennet had become a believer. She had encountered nothing remotely like this situation in all her quiet, God-fearing life. Considered sensibly, the story was impossible. Worse, it smacked of witchcraft and the forbidden arts. But Bennet had looked deep into the strange green eyes, and listened to the tortured voice, and something inside her accepted the fact that this woman believed she was telling the exact truth. Bennet hadn’t got any further than that. She prayed every night, and served her charge every day, exactly as she had loved and served and prayed for Lord John when he had been a small boy and her special responsibility.
She answered Kathryn’s question. “Yes, you know them. But it is said in the servant’s hall that you don’t like them very much.”
“Oh, dear! How do I address them, Bennet?”
Bennet surprised herself. “Milady, I think you should begin as you mean to go on. If you intend to maintain your story, you must be—yourself.”
This startled a small laugh from Kathryn. “No compromise! ‘Full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes!’ That’s a quotation from Admiral Farragut, and it’s good American, Bennet. Bless you!”
“Full speed ahead,” acknowledged Bennet, confused but loyal, “and—er—damn the torpedoes!” She returned to the door, and flinging it open with quite a fine flourish, told the startled footman, “Her ladyship will see the gentlemen.”
What Kathryn saw as the visitors entered her bedroom was, first, an enormous bunch of flowers carried by a man even taller than Lord John and reassuringly pleasant of countenance. His attitude as he advanced toward her was easy and open. And then she saw that the eyes, a hard dark gray, were scrutinizing her face intently. She turned to look at the other man with a sense of escape.
The second man was younger, dark, almost sullen-looking. He seemed to be avoiding her glance. Instead he addressed himself to Bennet. “What ho, Mistress Bennet! It is good to see you again!”
Kathryn turned to the big man, who was proffering his flowers. He laid them gently on the coverlet. “My lady. I hope we see you much improved,” he said, formally.
“Yes, indeed, sir. Dr.