Scoundrel Of Dunborough. Margaret Moore

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       Chapter Five

      It was not Gerrard. A thin man wearing a dark brown cloak over a fawn-colored tunic cinched with a tooled leather belt stood on the threshold. There was something about his narrow face, pale blue eyes and long nose that nudged the edge of her memory, but she couldn’t come up with a name.

      “Good day, Celeste! Or I suppose I should say, Sister! Welcome back to Dunborough.” A sorrowful frown came to the man’s homely face. “Although naturally we’re all upset at the reason why. Your dear sister will be much missed.”

      His name came to her. “Norbert, isn’t it?”

      “Indeed, indeed!” he cried with delight. “To think that you remember me!”

      He wouldn’t have been so pleased if he knew that she remembered him as a skinny young man several years older than Roland and Gerrard, a nasty fellow Audrey called “Nosy Norbert.” Since he was the first of the villagers to come to call, she suspected that name would still apply.

      “How delightful to have you back home in Dunborough!” he exclaimed as he stepped over the threshold, although she hadn’t invited him to enter. He half turned and made a swift, impatient gesture for someone on the other side of the door to enter, too.

      The slender, pockmarked youth who’d been taking down the shutters of the shop sidled into the house, his head bowed, his cheeks aflame with a blush. His cloak was of a lesser quality than the older man’s and frayed about the edges. His short tunic exposed lean legs and knobby knees, and his boots looked old enough to be castoffs.

      “This is my son, Lewis,” Norbert said. She recalled that Norbert’s father had been a chandler and the shop that the young man had been opening had been full of candles. Clearly Norbert had become a candle maker, too.

      “I’m pleased to meet you, Lewis,” she replied, hoping to dispel some of the lad’s obvious embarrassment.

      Lewis raised his head and bright blue eyes met hers. His gaze was unexpectedly intense before he looked down again and mumbled, “Good day, Sister.”

      Disconcerted by the boldness of that swift glance so at odds with the rest of his demeanor, she turned toward his father.

      “Forgive him, Sister,” Norbert said, regarding his son with displeasure. “He’s a shy lad. Takes after his late mother that way.”

      That glance had been anything but shy. Nevertheless, Celeste let the remark pass. “It’s a pleasure to meet a modest young man. So many are not these days.”

      “That is sadly true,” Norbert agreed. He came farther into the house. “I hope, Sister, that you have not had any impertinence from that young rogue in the castle.”

      She certainly wasn’t going to tell Norbert about her dealings with Gerrard. “If you mean the garrison commander,” she replied, “he has been courteous and accommodating.”

       Most of the time.

      “I’m glad to hear it, Sister, very glad!” Norbert cried. “When I heard you’d spent the night there, I confess I feared...”

      He fell awkwardly silent, and she wasn’t about to ease his discomfort.

      “If you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to,” she said. “I thank you for coming, Norbert, and I’m happy to have made your acquaintance, Lewis.”

      “Anything I can do to help, you have only to ask,” Norbert replied. “I was a good friend of your sister’s. A very good friend.”

      Celeste doubted that, given what Audrey used to call him.

      “Ah, Norbert! Trust you to be first to pay a call on a lovely lady!” a voice boomed from the doorway.

      A middle-aged man dressed in a fur-lined red cloak and long black tunic strode into the house. He had a belt of silver links around his broad middle, and his hair was cut in the Norman fashion.

      It was not a flattering style for a man with such full cheeks, and his eyes above his wide nose were beady and rather too shrewd.

      Nevertheless, she smiled in return. “Greetings, sir.”

      “You must forgive me for not waiting to be introduced properly,” he declared. “I came as soon as I heard you’d returned to the house.” His gaze darted to Norbert, who did not hide a scowl. “I wanted to express my condolences. I cared very much for your sister.”

      “Thank you...?”

      “Ewald!” he bellowed. “Ewald of York, and Dunborough, too.”

      “He deals in hides and tallow,” Norbert clarified, his tone implying that Ewald’s profession merited disdain.

      “Indeed I do! Best hides, best tanning, best tallow, although this fellow won’t agree.”

      “Most expensive tallow,” Norbert retorted, “and not worth the cost.”

      Ewald’s eyes narrowed until they were mere slits. “Plenty of folk in York disagree, but then, they make better candles.”

      Celeste noted Lewis edging his way toward the door and didn’t blame him. “Please, gentlemen, I must ask you both to excuse me. I have much to do.”

      “No doubt, no doubt!” Ewald agreed, giving her a sympathetic smile, though his tone was no milder. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to sell the house quickly and get back to the convent?”

      “I shall be wanting to sell the house, yes.”

      “I’m your man for that!”

      Norbert stepped in front of him. “If you wish to sell the house, Sister, I wouldn’t deal with this fellow.”

      “Who should she deal with? You?” Ewald demanded as he elbowed Norbert aside.

      “Better me than you,” Norbert retorted, shoving him in return.

      Ewald tried to ignore him. “About this house, though, Sister, should you wish to sell it, I shall be more than happy to—”

      “His offer will be far too low,” Norbert interjected.

      His thick fingers balling into fists, Ewald glared at the chandler. “Shut your mouth, you—”

      “Gentlemen!” Celeste hurried to interrupt before they came to blows. “I am not yet ready to discuss the sale of this house.”

      Ewald loudly cleared his throat and straightened his belt. “Of course. You need to take an inventory of the furniture and other goods first. I understand. Take as long as you like.”

      “How magnanimous!” Norbert sneered, fairly trembling with rage. “She has no need to deal with you at all, you...you scoundrel!”

      “And I suppose you came here because of your vast sorrow over Audrey D’Orleau’s death? I’ve heard you denouncing her more than once in the Cock’s Crow because she owed СКАЧАТЬ