Undercover Cavaliere Read online

  "I won't wear it."

  "Come winter you might be glad you have it."

  "Come winter I won't be able to see but half of it."

  "Merlin, are you blind?"

  "No. No sir, I ain't. But I'm half blind."

  "No, son, you're not. Blind is one of those things you are or you aren't. As long as you can see, you are not blind. Maybe you can't see as well or as wide as you used to, but you can, by God, see. You can still shoot, and you can still farm, and someday, God willing, you can still love a woman."

  Regina had stifled the sobs that rose in her throat then, because it wasn't often she saw her Pa weep. But when he'd put his arms around Merlin and her brother had hugged Pa for all he was worth, there had been tears on Emmet Lachlan's cheeks, too.

  Was having only one leg different from having one eye? Could a man be half-crippled, or was it like blind? He was either crippled or he wasn't.

  Merlin and Gabe had been close, once. Maybe she should write to her brother and ask his advice.

  No matter what Merlin told her, she knew what she must do. She must ask Gabe if he was crippled.

  Could he still shoot, still serve the Coalition's cause, still love a woman?

  Did anyone ask him?

  If they haven't, I will.

  When Jonathon came back in from seeing Gabe off, she said, "Where can I find a tutor in Italian?"

  As she told him her idea, he began to grin. When she finished, he laughed aloud.

  For the first time since she'd been snatched off a Parisian street, Regina felt as if the future held promise.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Regina had a contract, so she returned to her classroom that fall, after arriving home, tired and still inclined to tears, the day before school opened. Had it not been for her traveling companion, she would have been prostrate with exhaustion.

  The long journey from England had given her time to think. Time to make up her mind. The decision she had finally reached would require some planning and scheming, and worst of all, considerable delay before it could be implemented.

  She got through her first day's lectures as best she could, and was exhausted when the dismissal bell rang. She still had to make certain her supply cabinet was stocked and the laboratory was ready to receive students. The next morning she arrived well before the first class and requested a meeting with her principal.

  "I have read my contract carefully, and see that there is no clause allowing for a leave of absence," she told him. once the social niceties had been disposed of. "Therefore I'd like to tender my resignation, effective next May."

  Dr. Stafford's jaw dropped. For a moment he seemed stunned, then he said, "Y-y-your resignation? Why?"

  It was none of his business, but she decided to tell him anyway. Surely word would get out and he'd learn her reason sooner or later. "I'll be moving to Italy temporarily, possibly permanently. I'd prefer to go at the end of the first term, but since that's not possible, I'll fulfill my contract."

  "But why?"

  "Dr. Stafford, my reasons are my own. They have nothing to do with you or the school. I've been happy teaching here and I think I've been a good instructor. But it's time for me to make a change. I feel I can do that more completely in Italy." Again she proffered the folded letter. "Of course, if you are able to find someone who can take my place, I would be happy to resign before the end of the year."

  She and Dr. Stafford had trod carefully around each other since he had taken over as principal of the normal school two years past. He had been unconvinced that a woman, no matter her qualifications, could adequately teach any scientific subject, particularly something as esoteric as the physical sciences. More than once he had been a silent presence in the back of her classroom and her laboratory, watching as she attempted to insert scientific principles into the resistant minds of students who would rather be doing almost anything besides analyzing mechanical forces, mixing smelly chemicals or exploring the anatomy of lower creatures.

  Eventually he had stopped monitoring her classes, but had never retreated from an excessively polite suspicion. For her part, she mostly ignored him.

  He took the letter. "I appreciate your giving us so much notice. Naturally I hope you will remain through the year. It can be difficult for students to adapt to a new teacher mid-term."

  She could almost read his mind. He was already running through a mental list of male science instructors who had applied for positions. With any luck, she would be on her way to Italy before Christmas.

  * * * *

  Mr. and Mrs. Tomlinson replied to her request for a meeting with an invitation to dinner. She arrived at their home to discover the Witherspoons also present. The heavy lump of dread that had sat in her belly since she'd watched the steamer carry her young charges away became even heavier.

  Do they really believe that I did all I could to protect Minerva and Pamela? She had asked herself that question a thousand times and was no closer to an answer than ever. At least they must give me credit for encouraging them to believe we would be rescued, even though I never convinced myself.

  Her heart was in her throat when she followed the maid to the parlor where both sets of parents awaited her.

  Mrs. Witherspoon jumped her feet. "There she is! Our brave heroine!" she clasped Regina's hands and squeezed. "Oh, Miss Lachlan--"

  Mrs. Tomlinson all but shouldered her guest aside and enveloped Regina in a scented hug.

  She in turn was pulled away by her husband. "Here, now, Philomena. Let her sit. Wine, Miss Lachlan, or brandy?" He guided her to a wing chair beside the fireplace.

  "Pour her some of that fancy French wine we had shipped back," said Mrs. Tomlinson. "Nothing but the best for her."

  She was no sooner seated than Pamela's father brought her a cut-glass goblet filled with golden wine. Speechless, she sipped while the four parents reseated themselves. They all leaned toward her, as if eager to hear her explanation.

  Since she had expected to be castigated for endangering their daughters, she had none ready.

  "Minerva told us--" Mrs. Tomlinson was clearly too overcome to continue. She held a lacy handkerchief to teary eyes.

  "Philomena, collect yourself. I'll do this." He motioned the Witherspoons to relax. "Miss Lachlan, we owe you a great debt. You saved our girls from a fate worse than death. Lord Bidens--a fine man, even if he is a lord--told us what could have happened."

  "To think that such barbarism still exists. And we thought the French were so civilized, too," said Mrs. Witherspoon.

  Her husband sat forward again. "Pamela says if she'd only minded what you told her--"

  "Our dear Minerva is just a tiny bit headstrong--"

  "Now, now, folks. Let me do the talking, as we agreed."

  Regina could tell Mr. Tomlinson was losing patience. She'd bet no one at his bank ever interrupted him.

  "Now then, we know there's not enough money in the world to pay for what you did, so we won't insult you by offering to reward you. What we've done is make a contribution in your name to this organization Lord Bidens told us about. He said it's funded by right-thinking folks in Europe and here in the States. Said your father's one of them. I had a talk with him a while back--wish I'd got to know him sooner--and he gave me a hint how to get the money into the right hands."

  "Anything we can do to save other innocent girls from what almost happened to ours. My word!" Mr. Witherspoon shook his head. "I had no idea. Shameful what happened, and right out in broad daylight, too."

  The ladies chimed in until Regina despaired of getting a word in edgewise. She decided not to tell them that she already knew about their generous contribution to the Coalition. At last she was able to say, "I did very little. Peter--Mr. Darcy--and his men are the heroes. If I had been watching--"

  "Nonsense. Both girls admitted they didn't stay close, as you'd told them to."

  "Minerva said you kept their spirits up something wonderful," Mrs. Tomlinson said, her voice still clogged with tears.


  "And Pammy, she told me you stood up to those awful men and got yourself beaten for it. She said your poor face was all black and blue."

  "Oh, well, yes, but--"

  Mr. Witherspoon broke in. "We learned about that poor Italian fellow who lost his leg. A shame, that. He was one of the agents, wasn't he?"

  Regina nodded, because she still couldn't speak of Gabe without bursting into tears.

  Dinner was announced just then, much to her relief.

  Minerva and Pamela joined them at table and added their praise to their parents'. By the time she was sent home in the Tomlinson's fancy carriage, she was wishing they'd all forget the whole episode.

  I'm just not hero material. Not like Gabe is.

  * * * *

  Letizia Loreto was the younger sister of a Coalition agent. She shared her elder brother's hunger for adventure. When asked if she was interested in traveling to America and acting as a tutor in the Italian language, she had not hesitated. She and Regina became fast friends within hours of their initial meeting. Having her as a traveling companion had kept Regina from moping all the way from England to Idaho.

  In the few weeks since their arrival in Boise, she had been accepted into the family. She was now called Letty by everyone. Much to Regina's chagrin, she was learning English much faster than Regina was learning Italian.

  "That is because there are so many for me to listen to," she said, when Regina complained about her own lack of progress after six weeks. "What you must do is learn to think in Italian. Only then will you learn to speak well."

  "How can I think In Italian when I am teaching students who can barely think in English?" she groused. But she did it in broken Italian, so she must be making some progress.

  "I thought you studied Latin in college," her mother said without looking up from her crocheting.

  "I did, but that's not the same."

  "You studied Latin?" Letty clapped her hands. "Oh, that is wonderful. Then you already have the vocabulary. All you need to do is change the words, the...pronouncement."

  "Pronunciation." Regina considered. "No, that won't work. What I have is botanical Latin, which is not the same at all."

  "Seems to me I recall a letter from you when you were in Massachusetts. It said something about not being able to imagine needing to know about Caesar's Gallic Wars," Pa said from behind his newspaper.

  "But--"

  "Regina, is your mind made up that you can't possibly?"

  When her ma spoke in that tone, Regina still felt like a little girl who'd disappointed her parents. "I guess I am." She sat back in her chair and smiled at Letty. "All right, then. I will speak no more English in this house. Does that suit you?"

  "Suits me," Pa said. "I wouldn't mind pickin' up a few words myself."

  "Eccellente. Si inizia," her mother added, hesitantly and with an atrocious accent. "Did I say that right?"

  "Perfetto!" Again Letty clapped.

  From that moment on, her Italian improved rapidly. Much to her chagrin, so did Ma's.

  * * * *

  Exhausted from the journey, Gabe wanted to do nothing for the first few days at Castello di Re.

  Dr. Ferguson had different ideas. "You will never learn to live normally if you let your muscles atrophy. You must be up and moving. The artificial leg will be uncomfortable, and you will find yourself using it only for special occasions, so you must learn to be agile on the crutches."

  "That's not what they told me back in England. From what the doctors there said, I'd be good as new as soon as I had a pegleg."

  "They are optimists. And they want to encourage new amputees to live with their situation. Would you have been heartened if they had said, 'You will never learn to walk as well on an artificial leg, and it will always be painful to do so'?"

  "Hell no!" He flopped back onto the couch. "I wish they'd let me alone. Maybe I could have beat the infection. It happens."

  "Yes, it does, but from what I've been told it would not have happened in your case. The infection had entered your blood. Had it not been stopped, it would have reached your heart. You would have died within a few days. Certainly less than a week."

  "I'd've been better off dead."

  "Don't even think it, man." For the first time, Gabe heard a faint touch of Scots in Ferguson's voice. "Giving in to death is the coward's way out. It takes a strong man to survive what you have. You'll need all that strength to put your life back together."

  "I think I've used it all up, David. I'm afraid that all that's left is the coward."

  He turned his face to the wall and closed his eyes. What have I got to live for?

  * * * *

  Just before Thanksgiving, Dr. Stafford came in as Regina was tidying up the lab at the end of the day. The mess eight young men and women could make with their chemistry experiments never ceased to amaze her.

  He stood just inside the door, rocking back and forth on his short, wide feet, until all was tidy. "Are you still interested in leaving before your contract expires?" he said, when she'd extinguished the last gaslight.

  The only light came from the well-lit hall behind him. He stepped aside as she approached and gestured her to go ahead. When she turned toward his office, he walked beside her.

  "I am, but only if it won't inconvenience the school. My plans are not at all urgent."

  "We have an applicant for your position. A Dr. Eustace Klein. He seems well qualified, but naturally we did not want to invite him for an interview until we ascertained that your decision was unchanged." Pausing before his office door, he laid a hand on the knob but didn't open it. "Is it?"

  I wonder why he couldn't have just asked me if I still wanted to quit. "Quite unchanged. I would be very happy to be able to depart for Italy before next June." In his last letter, Jonathon had passed on some words from Ferguson's most recent report. Gabe seemed to be coming out of his depression and taking some interest in life. She wanted to be there, ready to act, when he found himself again.

  "Very well. We will invite Dr. Klein for an interview. Good night, Miss Lachlan."

  He calls an unknown man 'doctor', but calls me 'miss', despite my doctorate. I wonder if Klein's qualifications are any better than mine. For perhaps the ten-thousandth time, she told herself that someday the respect afforded woman in academia would change, but not as long as there were men like Stafford in positions of power.

  How fortunate I am to have been raised in a family like mine. Where what we do is more important than what sex we are.

  * * * *

  When he was a boy, Gabe had hated farming. His fervent dream had been to get away from Cherry Vale and never to get dirt under his fingernails again.

  Limited in his choice of colleges because of his ancestry and his appearance, he had still gained a good classical education. But even in academia he had been a misfit, for he was mixed race in a way that few other students were. He wasn't just part Negro, he was part Indian.

  Part murdering savage. He'd been stunned the first time he'd encountered that particular prejudice. On sober reflection, he'd understood it, given the lurid accounts of massacres and Indian raids that filled the pages of Dime Novels. It took him longer to understand his own surprise.

  His schooling had been strict. He and his brother and sister had studied at the kitchen table, instructed by their parents, a situation not that unusual in country where settlements were few and far between, where isolated ranches were common. In summers they had shared lessons with their almost-cousins, the Lachlan children and, when he was not at sea with his parents, with Tony Dewitt. There had been no holidays in their education, save Sundays, when the lessons were taught from a different Book.

  Unlike the Lachlan children, Gabe had never lived in a town. His first semester at college had been more than difficult. It had been almost impossible. The worst part had been learning to live with a roommate, a stranger. Adjusting to the lack of solitude, the rigor of schedules and timetables and a structured life had been another cha
llenge. He'd done poorly until he learned that in the library he could find the silence his soul needed.

  The games other students played made no sense to him, although he had often participated in games when the family went to pow-wows held by his mother's relatives. Dressing up to play a game seemed a waste of time. Following rules designed to prevent bodily injury seemed to negate the purpose of the games, which should have been to train young men in warriors' skills.

  He attended one football game and came away puzzled. He observed a boxing match, and was mystified when the referee stepped between the fighters when one was knocked down. Wrestling made more sense, but again he found the rules of engagement baffling, for as soon as he pinned his opponent, he was forced to release him gently, instead of taking the hold to the point of extreme pain.

  He was the despair of the athletics department. A well-rounded gentleman should be athletic.

  And then, in the spring, he discovered Track and Field.

  Gabe was a runner. His long legs had carried him hundreds of miles through the mountains, across the high desert. His father was the same. When the family traveled, Mama, Lulu, and Micah rode the dappled horses the Kings raised and sold for a tidy profit. Gabe and his papa walked, trotted, or ran beside the horses, mile after mile, day after day.

  When he was shot in the leg, he had despaired, for the knee had stiffened and he no longer could run like the wind. He had still walked faster than many men could run, but ungracefully. His leg tired easily, and when it did, he became clumsy, awkward. He'd needed a cane then, or he'd have fallen over his own feet.

  Despite the doctors' opinions, he'd been sure that eventually he would train his leg to perform almost as well as it had before. To that end, he had pushed himself to the limits of his endurance.

  And for what? His right leg, stronger, less stiff, but not fully back to its normal function, lay rotting on a dung heap somewhere in England. The stump of it was red and sore, still too tender to be fitted to a wooden obscenity that he'd have to live with for the rest of his natural life.

  He threw back the covers and sat up. The light coming through the high window was pale, promising another overcast day. Or rain.