Feather Castles by Patricia Veryan

murder. He smiled, cynically amused by such a hopeful and ridiculous thought. “What stuff!”
    He’d not realized he spoke aloud until Rachel uttered a startled, “ What did you say?”
    â€œOh—er, nothing of import, mademoiselle.”
    â€œNothing of import!” She rose, her hands clasped, her eyes alight with excitement. “But—you spoke English! And with no trace of an accent!”
    He blinked at her stupidly. “I … did?”
    â€œAnd still are!” Continuing in the same language, she cried, “Oh, sir! Can it be possible that you are English?”
    â€œI remember speaking French.” He pressed a hand to his temple in bewilderment. “So—I thought—that is, I was sure…”
    He looked mystified and distressed, and fearing his struggle for recollection might precipitate another of his exhausting attacks, she said hurriedly, “Do not worry at it now. You must be very tired.” She walked to the door, becoming aware that La Hautemant was behaving in a less violent fashion, and that the storm must be drifting away. Pausing, she turned back. “I will ask just one more question, if I may. Sir—do you think in English? Or in French?”
    He considered for only a second. His eyes widened and he exclaimed, “In English! I do, by George! I think in English! ”
    â€œOur mystery is quite definitely solved!” she laughed. “None but an Englishman could say ‘by George!’ in just that way!”

Chapter 3
    From the depths of the bolted-down armchair in her stateroom, Sister Maria Evangeline wailed, “Come in, child,” and as Rachel closed the door and hurried to her, she went on in that voice of affliction, “Can you understand it? The flowers and beasts and birds; the wonders of sunshine and moonlight; so many lovely things. But—why a storm at sea? I ask and ask, but am granted no answer!”
    Smiling fondly, Rachel crossed to dampen a towel at the washbasin and returned to dab it at the good Sister’s greenishly clammy features. “Why disease?” she contributed. “Why famine and flood; or flies; or such savageries as the Spanish Inquisition, wrought in the name of religion?”
    The nun raised a drooping hand. “One thing at a time, my Rachel. I am still arguing with Him over a storm at sea, and must not confuse the issue by inserting all these other matters.”
    â€œYour arguments must have been well taken, dear one,” Rachel laughed. “We have passed through the storm and are even now standing off the Dover Tidal Basin.”
    â€œWhat?” Hope lit the pale face. “Have I truly lived through this unspeakable ordeal? Father—I thank You! When shall we land, child?”
    â€œThe Captain seems to have been told we may have to wait for some while. There are so many ships bearing wounded from the battle. They are calling it the Battle of Waterloo—did you know?”
    â€œI had heard La Belle Alliance.” The nun waved away the towel and, tottering to the porthole, expressed her profound sympathy for the tortures the wounded must have endured on so frightful a crossing, interrupting herself to cry ecstatically that she could see the cliffs. “Oh, for solid ground under my feet! Did the Captain—” She turned about, and said in startled accents, “The Captain? You never went up to the bridge alone, Rachel?”
    â€œOh, it was safe enough, I assure you. I am a good sailor, and—”
    â€œI had not thought of it in just that way.” The nun returned to her chair. “Sit down, child. I am feeling more the thing now, and we should talk. But, first—who is with our gallant murderer?”
    Rachel seated herself obediently, experiencing the nervousness that had gripped her in years past when she had been sent to Sister Maria Evangeline’s tiny office at the Seminary and had stood with quaking knees