Thus, when Peggy's black-avised husband rode up one fine May evening leading a
fat, intelligent looking pony, Matt and Amy were galvanised with joy.
"Eustachio!" they cried with one voice.
Part II
Tom Conway
1813
7
Tom Conway felt slack and dull with too much sleep. If he lay still the pain was a mere
nagging below his left shoulder blade. Except for the crackle of the fire and the dripping of rain off
the eaves the room was still. He could hear the sound of Richard Falk's pen scratching across
foolscap. Tom turned his head.
Richard, in shirt-sleeves, his deplorable French coat thrown carelessly across the back of
his chair, bent to his task.
"'Scribble, scribble, scribble, Mr. Gibbon.'"
Richard's hand stilled before he went on with his writing. After a few minutes of steady
application he stopped, sanded the page, and stood. He held the sheet to the light of the flickering
candle, scowling at it. Then he set it down and picked up the candle. "I take it you've decided to
rejoin the living."
Tom drew a sharp breath as unwelcome recollection came flooding back. "Temporarily.
You're a damned provocative sort, Richard. From anyone else I'd take that as a slip of the
tongue."
"From me it had to be deliberate." Richard's face, momentarily illumined by the unsteady
light of the candle, was drawn and tired. A smear of ink decorated one cheek bone He set the
candle on the small table by the couch upon which Tom lay, and went to the scullery. There was a
clanking noise and presently Richard returned minus the smear and bearing two half filled
glasses.
"If I drink another brandy," Tom said dreamily, "I shall puke on your boots."
"Not for the first time."
"I was devilish seasick, wasn't I?"
Richard's rare smile lit his face. He put the glasses down and sat on the rickety chair by
the bedside. "Epically." He stretched, arching like a cat, and pressed the heels of his hands to his
eyes.
"Epically. Is that what you're working at?"
Richard cocked a quizzical eyebrow. "My latest epic? It's finished. I was just copying the
last chapter for the printer."
"When did you find time to write it?"
"Not aboard ship, to be sure." Richard took up his brandy, warming it in his hard,
capable hands. He took a swallow, and leaning his head against the high back of the chair, gazed at
nothing.
What a clump of contradictions he was. Tom closed his eyes, drifting. A cross-grained,
sour-tongued, inconsistent bastard. He opened his eyes, staring at the freshly limed ceiling. The
timbers were heavy black bars across the white. Black and white. Life and death. Death. Bastard, he thought, and realised with a clutch of dismay that he had spoken the word aloud.
Richard said quietly, "Now who's provoking?"
"How long have we been here in Rye?" Tom turned his head to look at his friend, then
looked away. There was no use apologising. With Richard there never was. Son of a
whore.
"Nearly a fortnight. Tomorrow you are going to walk with me along the strand."
"Delightful. What if it's still pouring rain?"
"In the teeth of a gale, if necessary."
"Why?"
"Because you're beginning to resemble one of the lower vegetables. I find that
disturbing."
Tom took another careful breath and was surprised to find that the pain stayed at the
same level. It could almost be called an ache. "Very well." Realisation struck him. "A fortnight! My
God, Richard, how much time do you have left to you?"
"Eight days. I can stretch it to nine. Time to walk to Deal. Or we could make a
sentimental pilgrimage to Shornecliff. Do you recall the delights of Shornecliff? Running up sheer
bluffs in full gear. Prancing about in a December surf--"
"What about your children?"
"Flourishing, I trust."
Tom twisted and regretted the movement. "You will board the mail coach
tomorrow and set out for Hampshire. For Christ's sweet sake," he gasped, "you've not seen them
in two years!"
"Twenty months." Richard's voice was calm. "Lie back, you lout. You'll rip something
open."
Tom obeyed,
fat, intelligent looking pony, Matt and Amy were galvanised with joy.
"Eustachio!" they cried with one voice.
Part II
Tom Conway
1813
7
Tom Conway felt slack and dull with too much sleep. If he lay still the pain was a mere
nagging below his left shoulder blade. Except for the crackle of the fire and the dripping of rain off
the eaves the room was still. He could hear the sound of Richard Falk's pen scratching across
foolscap. Tom turned his head.
Richard, in shirt-sleeves, his deplorable French coat thrown carelessly across the back of
his chair, bent to his task.
"'Scribble, scribble, scribble, Mr. Gibbon.'"
Richard's hand stilled before he went on with his writing. After a few minutes of steady
application he stopped, sanded the page, and stood. He held the sheet to the light of the flickering
candle, scowling at it. Then he set it down and picked up the candle. "I take it you've decided to
rejoin the living."
Tom drew a sharp breath as unwelcome recollection came flooding back. "Temporarily.
You're a damned provocative sort, Richard. From anyone else I'd take that as a slip of the
tongue."
"From me it had to be deliberate." Richard's face, momentarily illumined by the unsteady
light of the candle, was drawn and tired. A smear of ink decorated one cheek bone He set the
candle on the small table by the couch upon which Tom lay, and went to the scullery. There was a
clanking noise and presently Richard returned minus the smear and bearing two half filled
glasses.
"If I drink another brandy," Tom said dreamily, "I shall puke on your boots."
"Not for the first time."
"I was devilish seasick, wasn't I?"
Richard's rare smile lit his face. He put the glasses down and sat on the rickety chair by
the bedside. "Epically." He stretched, arching like a cat, and pressed the heels of his hands to his
eyes.
"Epically. Is that what you're working at?"
Richard cocked a quizzical eyebrow. "My latest epic? It's finished. I was just copying the
last chapter for the printer."
"When did you find time to write it?"
"Not aboard ship, to be sure." Richard took up his brandy, warming it in his hard,
capable hands. He took a swallow, and leaning his head against the high back of the chair, gazed at
nothing.
What a clump of contradictions he was. Tom closed his eyes, drifting. A cross-grained,
sour-tongued, inconsistent bastard. He opened his eyes, staring at the freshly limed ceiling. The
timbers were heavy black bars across the white. Black and white. Life and death. Death. Bastard, he thought, and realised with a clutch of dismay that he had spoken the word aloud.
Richard said quietly, "Now who's provoking?"
"How long have we been here in Rye?" Tom turned his head to look at his friend, then
looked away. There was no use apologising. With Richard there never was. Son of a
whore.
"Nearly a fortnight. Tomorrow you are going to walk with me along the strand."
"Delightful. What if it's still pouring rain?"
"In the teeth of a gale, if necessary."
"Why?"
"Because you're beginning to resemble one of the lower vegetables. I find that
disturbing."
Tom took another careful breath and was surprised to find that the pain stayed at the
same level. It could almost be called an ache. "Very well." Realisation struck him. "A fortnight! My
God, Richard, how much time do you have left to you?"
"Eight days. I can stretch it to nine. Time to walk to Deal. Or we could make a
sentimental pilgrimage to Shornecliff. Do you recall the delights of Shornecliff? Running up sheer
bluffs in full gear. Prancing about in a December surf--"
"What about your children?"
"Flourishing, I trust."
Tom twisted and regretted the movement. "You will board the mail coach
tomorrow and set out for Hampshire. For Christ's sweet sake," he gasped, "you've not seen them
in two years!"
"Twenty months." Richard's voice was calm. "Lie back, you lout. You'll rip something
open."
Tom obeyed,
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