Free Feather Castles by Patricia Veryan Page B

fate? Can you not build me a kinder past, Miss Strand?”
    â€œMay I?” she said eagerly. “Let me see now—Ah! I have it! You are wed, but to a reigning Toast. A glorious lady, delightfully accomplished, poised, and so charming you are the envy of all England!”
    â€œEuphemia,” he nodded, absently.
    Rachel asked a somewhat sharp, “Who?”
    â€œEr—your pardon?”
    â€œYou said—‘Euphemia.’”
    He stared at her in confusion. “No, did I?” Who in the deuce was Euphemia? And—dammit! Why were just these occasional scraps of memory so tantalizingly tossed at him? His smile a little forced, he went on, “Well, Euphemia sounds right for such a Fair, do not you think? It’s the Royal Mail to a wheelbarrow, that’s who I murdered!”
    â€œEuphemia?” Rachel gasped.
    â€œHer lover.”
    â€œLover? But—she’s your wife!”
    â€œAh, but you see I am away for long periods. Yearning for her. Counting the hours we are apart. At last, I’m given a leave. I rush home, gallop up the steps of our palatial mansion—and am trampled underfoot by the exodus.”
    â€œExodus?” she echoed, intrigued.
    â€œOf Euphemia’s lovers. Scads of ’em! No—don’t laugh, for after all she is a reigning Toast; all London kissing her little feet. It stands to reason there’d be more than one.”
    â€œThen—why,” she asked mirthfully, “why did you murder only one? ”
    â€œHmmnn—see your point. Well, I could probably catch only one—after being trampled like that. But I caught him by the ankle, flung him down, and put an end to the beastly rogue. And— that’s why I joined up! To hide myself in the anonymity of the rank and file!”
    He looked so triumphant that Rachel broke into a peal of laughter. “ What a tragedy! It is fairly heart-rending!”
    â€œThen we won’t have it! My apologies, Euphemia, but—farewell!” His smile faded. The words echoed strangely in his ears. “Euphemia—farewell…” And suddenly, he saw a pair of laughing, deep blue eyes; a charming female countenance, full of mischief; a tall girl, her hair a shining, coppery hue. A girl he had loved dearly. “By Jove!” he muttered. “So I am not wed, after all!”
    Rachel had seen his expression change, and now remarked with studied calm, “So there is a Euphemia. Do you know her last name? Perhaps you could find her and discover your identity.”
    He frowned and concentrated desperately, but it was useless. Apart from that glimpse of her face, and the brief recollection of how deep had been his sorrow when she’d chosen some other fellow, there was nothing. “Alas—I cannot recall. But—I’m not wed! That I do know!”
    â€œOh. Then you are reprieved, mon Capitaine! Your—horde of twins does not exist. At least, for the present.”
    Her eyes twinkled at him, and he knew that they evoked memories of just such another pair of eyes, and that he loved even more deeply now than he had then. “Yes,” he answered. And added, half to himself, “My past will trot itself out, sooner or later. The important thing now is my future—my golden dream.”
    â€œIt sounds delightful,” smiled Rachel. “I hope it may be realized.”
    Tristram gazed rather blankly at a cluster of daisies nodding white and yellow faces to the sun. For a moment he did not reply, then, lifting his eyes to hers, said gravely, “I pray it will, ma’am.”
    *   *   *
    At about the same moment that Tristram dropped his teacup in the garden, Agatha Summers opened the door to Miss Strand’s suite and admitted Sister Maria Evangeline. Her advice that her mistress was gone out for a walk in no way discomposed the nun, “for it is you I came to see, at all events.”
    Apprehensive,