Page 53 of Miss Delectable
So Upchurch had discussed the situation with his wife. The fair Melisande had chafed against military life, then settled down to become the consummate officer’s helpmeet. She’d enjoyed the attentions of all the gallant young officers, but the marching, mud, and battle hadn’t appealed to her at all.
“Would Melisande consider buying her champagne from me?” Rye asked, half ashamed of himself for the question. “My business does not, alas, prosper. I bottle the finest champagne to be had in London, and increasingly, nobody wants it at any price.”
Upchurch looked at him for the first time in the entire exchange. “Your business is suffering?”
“I am not French enough for the customers who want the cachet of a French merchant for their fine wines, and I’m not a loyal enough British subject for those whose snobbery runs in a different direction.”
“You were always loyal.” Upchurch made the words a grudging admission rather than a ringing endorsement.
“I remain loyal.”
“Perhaps that’s the problem.” Upchurch gathered up his reins. “Have you considered a remove to France, at least until the talk dies down? Retreat can be the wisest course, Goddard. Live to fight another day.”
“As far as I know, nobody’s trying to kill me.” Kill his reputation, his business, his ability to support his dependents, and—worst of all?—his chances of more than a passing liaison with Ann Pearson.
“Nobody is trying to kill you yet,” Upchurch said, “but if some hotheaded lieutenant gets to drinking and misremembering, or some old general who sat upon the board of inquiry takes to spreading gossip in the wrong places, you might well find yourself challenged.”
Had Upchurch heard something Rye had not? “Challenged over what?”
Upchurch glanced around, though this corner of the park was deserted by all save the birds and squirrels. “You recall the ambush of that patrol scouting along the Bidasoa river?”
“Of course.” Every single soldier had been taken prisoner. The war had ended within a year, and all of them had made it home—Rye had made sure of that.
“They were your men, Colonel. Scouting parties explore the terrain assigned to them.”
“They were ambushed attempting to cross the river. That’s a notoriously exposed moment in any mission.” And Rye hadn’t told them to cross the river, only to locate places where it might be safely forded by mounted forces.
“Every man on that patrol fell into French hands, and most of them yet live to tell about it. Perhaps they are the source of your troubles.”
Rye instinctively rejected that theory, though he’d have to examine it in detail later. “You could put a stop to the speculation, if that’s the case.”
“No, Goddard, I cannot. If I protest too loudly in your defense, you will only look that much more guilty. I cannot abide that a loyal officer is being subjected to slander, but trust me, towering indifference is your best weapon against this foe. That, or a timely remove to your French holdings.”
Agricola stamped a hoof, apparently ready to return to his stall and the pile of hay awaiting him there.
“If I abandon London now, I lose what custom I have remaining and gain no orders for next year’s Season. Autumn and winter are when I most need to be tending to business, or by summer, I will be in dire straits.”
“Conduct your business by correspondence.”
Rye had tried that. His letters generally went unanswered or merited only a pro forma response doubtless drafted by a clerk.
“If I knew why I am the object of such aspersion, I might more readily stop it.”
Upchurch nudged his horse a few steps away. “Goddard, you were a fine officer, so perhaps you can consider this by way of a direct order: Give it up. Somebody has nothing better to do than fan the flames of gossip where you are concerned. Don’t dignify that campaign with return fire. March right past and continue on to France.”
“If I do that,” Rye said slowly, “I confirm my guilt. I abandon the land of my birth and appear to seek safety in the society of my vanquished enemy.” Would the boys adjust happily to France, the boys born and left to make shift on London’s streets? Would they abandon Hannah, so new to her apprenticeship, to ramble around the French countryside?
Rye did not want to abandon Hannah, did not want to abandon Jeanette when he and she were so new to their rapprochement, and most assuredly did not want to abandon his prospects with Ann Pearson.
“You won’t leave England, even for a time?” Upchurch asked.
“I cannot. I am only recently returned from a prolonged visit to France.”
“Then I will continue to do my duty by you, Colonel, discreetly of course, and Melisande will add her quiet word or two in your favor. I wish you a pleasant day and every success with your vineyards.” He touched his hat brim and spurred his horse into a brisk trot up the path.
Agricola swung his nose around to sniff at the toe of Rye’s boot.
“I’m as puzzled as you are,” Rye said, giving the horse leave to walk on. “Upchurch makes sense—he’s always made sense—but he also knows more than he’s saying.” And Upchurch had ever been one to ignore troublesome realities—men brawling outside the mess tent, a lack of adequate grazing where he’d chosen to make camp, Melisande’s more determined admirers…
