Mathieson suddenly fell to his knees before her, and reaching out, took her by both arms. In a strained voice, he said, “You told me once that—that when you were young, you admired Muffin. Did you—love him?”
A dark flush stained her cheeks. Frightened, but still proud, she demanded, “Let me go at once! How dare—”
He shook her but very gently. “I dare! And you blush, madam. Did you?”
“Well—w-well … I do not see—”
“You did! Ah, my lady, do you remember how it felt? You did not marry him, so you must have been separated against your will. No, do not hide your eyes! Look at me! Ma’am, if you remember how it felt to be denied your heart, Je vous en supplie—do not inflict that on us! I worship her! I dare to think she loves me. I know … God help me, I know I am unworthy! But—” His voice broke, his head bowed, and suddenly the agonized face was concealed against her skirts.
She stared down at him for a moment. Such ungentlemanlike loss of reserve both shocked and touched her. But his words had taken her back to youth and its heartbreaking disappointments, so that her hand went out gently to touch the thick dark hair. She laughed rather shakily and murmured, “How much of your poor mama is in you! What Englishman would resort to such emotional behaviour?”
“I know,” he said, his face still hidden and his voice muffled. “I am quite unused to—to loving, you see. I apologize for causing you such embarrassment.”
“I find it refreshing, rather than embarrassing. Would that more of our men had some of that hot Latin blood! Our ladies would be better loved, I think.”
Mathieson lifted his head and gazed up at her. His face was haggard, but hope had crept into his eyes.
She said gently, “Yes. I do remember. At the time I thought … I surely would die of grief. And I do pity you, Roland. But—oh, poor boy, I cannot help. You see—I love my granddaughter very much.”
He seized her hand and pressed it to his lips. “And, I am not what you want for her. Of course not. But my lady, you can help! How much you know—how much you have heard of me, I dare not guess. I only swear to you, here on my knees, that I will change! I shall not ask her to wait. For the time all I ask is to be allowed to be near her—to try and guard her from harm. And to—most humbly beg that—that you will not close your mind to all hope for us. That you will give me a chance to prove myself. Lady Clorinda … is there anything—anything I can do to win your favour?”
She shook her head in a troubled way, but said, “Well, to start with, I would have you get up, for I fear you are hurting that ankle quite badly. No, do not utter polite platitudes. Now—be silent, and let me think if I may in the slightest degree give you any hope …”
Obediently, Mathieson dragged himself awkwardly to his feet and limped to the door again, his nerves quivering, horrified by this second lapse in conduct, and waiting in quivering apprehension for the verdict of this proud and invincible grande dame.
“I have your task,” said Lady Clorinda after a few moments that seemed to him to stretch into an eternity.
He returned to stand very still before her, scarcely daring to breathe.
“You have told MacTavish you mean to help us get clear,” she said gravely. “You may think that, of itself, should be sufficient. Alas, it is not. Fiona must have a husband who is honourable as well as brave. Whose devotion is not a fly-by-night thing, but will endure. Who can offer her an adequate fortune and a gracious home. Who can command the respect not only of those who have cause to be grateful to him, but of—the finest man I know.” She saw his right hand stretch out, then tighten into a fist, and she finished, “Yes, Roland. When you can come to me and tell me Muffin has forgiven you—then I may consider your request to pay your addresses to my granddaughter!”
Mathieson did not move, but his heart thudded into his boots. He thought, ‘La tâche hors de accomplissement!’
My lady saw the despair in his eyes and prepared herself to resist his appeal.
He surprised her. With a commendably bland smile, he murmured lightly, “Merci bien, my lady. Now—what must I tell our poor Heywood?”
So the English side of him was in control again. There was the feeling that his outburst was unprecedented and had dismayed him as much as it had startled her. How calm and assured he appeared now. And who would dream that behind the lazy smile, the faintly bored and mocking air, dwelt such a volcano? Lud, but one could not fail to be titillated, nor to marvel that Fiona, dear as the minx was, had managed to attach so fiery and tempestuous a heart.
Stifling a sigh, my lady stood. “Tell him to come and speak to me himself,” she said, standing and walking to the door with him. “He will not find me unsympathetic.”
He bowed and murmured his thanks. And leaving her, knew she was a formidable antagonist, indeed.
13
The village of Sandipool was not blessed with a town hall, so the Avon Travelling Players were to present their performance in the Vestry Hall of the church. St. Peter’s was located atop a steep hill, and late in the afternoon of their arrival, the two property waggons toiled through the cold drizzle to the old church, escorted by every boy within a radius of five miles who had been able to escape his parents, and a motley crowd of dogs. The excitement rose to fever pitch when the hastily repaired set pieces, each swathed in oilcloth, were wheeled down the makeshift ramps. Many willing hands made short work of trundling the tantalizing objects into the Vestry Hall, but the joyous uproar stilled to a hushed silence when the red coach made its resplendent way across the cobblestones and the five female members of the Avon Travelling Players alighted. Three of these ladies were so dazzlingly beautiful that the curate, who had come out to quiet the children, completely forgot his errand and stood gawking in a manner that the vicar subsequently informed him was particularly unsuited to his calling.
There was a great deal of hammering and shouting inside the Vestry Hall. There had been no stage available, but when MacTavish had first spoken to the Squire as to the possibility of presenting the play in Sandipool, the local people had been so excited by such a prospect that they had undertaken to erect a stage themselves. This structure was now nearing completion, and my lady, Mrs. Dunnigan, and Moira went off to inspect the results, while Fiona and Elizabeth instructed Japhet, Pauley, and Freemon Torrey as to the disposition of their costumes and cosmetics.
A curtained-off area adjacent to the new stage was used by the choirboys to change into their robes. This had been hurriedly partitioned into two separate temporary dressing rooms, one for the men and the other for the ladies, with screens arranged so as to leave a short inner corridor by which it was possible to access the stage while out of view of the spectators. The large box of costumes having been carried in, Torrey and his two helpers departed, and the caravans soon went rumbling back down the hill.
Fiona and Elizabeth busied themselves with the proper disposition of the various garments, and in setting up the two travelling mirrors.
“Thank goodness the rain became no heavier,” said Fiona, hanging up her “dairymaid’s” apron. “I doubt this drizzle will keep many people at home, do you?”
“As if we cared,” whispered Elizabeth, with a cautious glance at the curtain.
“Oh, I know.” Lowering her voice also, Fiona said, “How worrying ’twould be was this really our livelihood. But—it is rather fun, do not you think? I vow that despite all the nuisances and discomforts, I never have enjoyed anything more!”
“That is very apparent,” teased Elizabeth, then laughed at her cousin’s blushes.
Fiona made a fast recover. “And what of you, pray?” Turning to seize Beth’s hands, she said, “Poor Thaddeus! He is so battered, but fought for us so bravely.” Her eyes became wide and haunted. “Do you know what I was thinking before I went to bed last night? I thought—how very close we came to—to—”
“I know!” Elizabeth hugged her, trembling. “I cannot get it out of my mind. I was—so terrified, Fiona—so very frightened!”
Elizabeth smiled. “I thought I was—until I looked at you! Oh dearest, do you know how often you sing to yourself? How often you smile at some secret thought?” And trying not to betray her fears for her cousin’s future happiness, she asked, “Is it not wonderful that love has come to us both at once? Has Captain Mathieson offered yet?”
“No.” Fiona picked up the gown she wore aboard the pirate ship and hung it on one of the clothes trees that had been provided for the purpose. Carefully arranging the voluminous skirts, she said, “I’ve scarce had a word alone with him since yesterday afternoon. Is very difficult, you know, when—” Sensing a difference, she glanced up. Elizabeth had gone.
A gentleman stood beside the hall screens, watching her. A tall gentleman, rather portly, but dressed with great elegance. An elaborate periwig was upon his head, the long curls hanging down on each side of his face and flowing to his shoulders. His complexion was florid, his lean features marred by a sinister scar stretching from his left eye to his chin. A half-moon patch adorned his right cheekbone, and another, diamond-shaped, was beside his mouth. He made her a fine leg and when he straightened she saw that the diamond-shaped patch was quivering suspiciously and that the eyes he had kept modestly lowered now watched her and that they were exceedingly handsome eyes, black, and alight with laughter.
“Roly!” she squeaked, clapping her hands, and dancing over to him. “La, but I scarce recognized you!”
“I should hope not.” He surveyed her through an ornate quizzing glass. “I am neither Roly, nor Captain Jack, but—” He leaned closer and hissed malevolently, “Sir—Roger! Beware pretty maid!”
“Splendid!” Ignoring this advice, she took his arm. “But—where is your cane?”
He reached to a long be-ribboned staff that was propped against the screen. “Voila! Madam—will you walk?”
“No, for you should not! And how you will essay the duel, I cannot guess. Even without your damaged ankle, that—er, protuberance would get in the way of your sword, I’d think.”
“We are going to have to manage without a duel. Furthermore,” he drew himself up, “can it be that you refer to my manly physique, ma’am?”
“No.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously at him. “To your monstrous stomach, sir. Roly, I know you cannot play Firebrand tonight, but why must you make yourself so silly-looking, when—”
He drew her towards the side door that led to the churchyard. “Because I mean to make Sir Roger into a really despicable villain—as only I know how. I can scarce blame your reluctance to trust yourself to stroll among the gravestones with such a menace.” His lips curved into a leering smile, but his eyes were a caress.
Fiona’s heart began to beat very fast. She glanced nervously to the stage, but they were already concealed from view by the curve of the curtains. “We should not,” she said, without a great deal of resolution. Then added with her beaming look, “But I suppose that is no obstacle for a ‘really despicable villain.’”
“Oh, none.” He opened the door and bowed. “What they say about forbidden fruits is all too true.”
“Just for a minute then, Sir Roger. But I would not have you think ’tis my practice to be so naughty.”
“Whatever your practices, dear my Mite, I cannot but adore them.”
She drifted beside him, her hand confidently on his arm. How the cloak came about her shoulders, she did not know, but when they walked in silence to the side steps he contrived to lift the hood over her head. She turned to smile up at him, and his answering smile seemed to kiss her heart.
The rain pattered lightly onto the flagstones of the path they followed. The sullen wind had no power to chill them. Neither spoke, yet each was blissfully content. Limping along beside her, Mathieson scarcely felt the ache in his ankle, but when he drew her to a halt, Fiona scanned his face with an immediate anxiety. “Are you all right? You must be very tired. Perhaps we should—”
“I am all right until you look at me like that.”
“Oh,” she said, blushing and lowering her eyes.
“In fact,” he went on, “were you any other lady, I would certainly have kissed you by now.”
“Oh. Well—well, I grant ’tis bold in me to walk out alone with you, but this is a public place, and—”
“And this particular public is so—buried in its own concerns …” Her enchanting little laugh sounded. He said, “Only look at that obligingly large angel on the pink marble pedestal. Now—an you dare risk a few more steps beside me, my sweet—”
“Captain Mathieson!” she exclaimed with a prim mouth and dancing eyes.
“Sir Roger, Miss Bradford.”
The tall angel offered an excellent screen. Mathieson tossed the staff down and took Fiona in his arms. “My most adorable sweeting,” he said, low and huskily.
“Wicked creature,” she chided, joying in the nearness of him. “Oh! This horrid cushion!”
He laughed and began to unbutton his waistcoat. “I will remove it at once.”
“No! Roly—they will see us!”
“Much we care!” He cupped one hand about her blushing cheek. “Besides, we have a guardian angel.”
“Of course we care. Foolish boy, do not pretend to scorn the proprieties, when you have so often lectured me upon my lack of them.”
“I was a fool indeed,” he breathed, running his lips down her temple. “You should have paid no heed to my nonsense.”
How gentle, yet inexpressibly thrilling was the soft touch of his mouth … Fiona seemed to float; her senses reeled to an ecstasy she had never known before. He loved her. He was too honourable a man to say such things, to embrace her like this and not love her. And, dear Lord, but she loved him so very much! What a glory to surrender passionately, completely, to so adept a lover …
“My dearest darling girl,” he whispered in her ear, “what am I to do? I must either run mad—or kiss you.”
“Well,” she gasped, “I certainly would not wish to be accused of causing you to run mad, sir …”
Even as she spoke his arms became steel bands that crushed her tight against him. Her pulses leapt. Without a trace of maidenly modesty she lifted her face, and his lips found hers.
Mathieson’s boast that he had never forced an unwilling girl was largely true. Only once, inflamed by desire, had he kissed a lady against her will, and she had not only refused to kiss him back, but had soundly boxed his ear for his pains. Thus, with this girl alone had he known the kiss of innocence. The soft, yielding body, the tremblingly inexperienced lips, the shy sweet eagerness, wrought on him to such effect that when he lifted his head he was as dazed, as enraptured, as she. “Fiona,” he gasped, and with an unparalleled lack of originality, “Oh—Fiona …” He bent to her again.
After a blissful interval, she found the strength to push at his chest. “Roly—my dear, I must go back.”
“Another moment—I beg you. We so seldom have a chance to be alone together.”
“I dare not. We will be missed and—and I know you’d no more hurt my dear papa or my grandmama than you would shame me.”
He sighed and let her go, asking wistfully, “Do you feel shamed because I dared to kiss you, beloved?”
“No, ah no!” She stretched out a hand which he promptly seized. “Proud, rather,” she said. “Though I dare not guess what your obliging angel must think of us.”
He had been pressing more kisses into that warm pink palm, but at this his head lifted, and he stared rather blankly at her. For another instant her eyes, soft with love, gazed into his, then with a swirl of petticoats she had turned and was running quickly back up the path to the Vestry Hall.
Mathieson stood staring after her. Then he sat on the angel’s marble pedestal and gazed numbly at a small golden leaf that floated on a nearby puddle. How wonderful, how incredible, that he had found
her. That of all the many places in this great world where he might have been, he had instead been so blessed as to have ridden through that miserable storm and found the one, the only lady he would ever love … Stretched out at his feet and covered with mud.
He stood and began to wander slowly back to the church, smiling fondly to himself. He must have been blind not to have seen, mud and all, how exquisite she was. He had been blind. A blind fool. It was all ignorance—ignorance and arrogance combined! Not long ago he had laughed at the heartbreak of a friend whose lady had left him. “You’re the type wants one woman for eternity,” he had sneered. “From which may the good Lord deliver me!” Well, the good Lord had instead sent that imp Cupid after him, with a whole quiver-full of arrows marked with his name. A fine marksman was the imp, and he was caught for all time, even as Muffin had warned.
Lady Clorinda knew Muffin. She knew him well enough to know that the task she had set was impossible of achievement. Mathieson’s jaw hardened. She was a brave and resourceful woman, and one he could not but admire, but she had underestimated her opponent. He had every intention of keeping his vow; of helping these people achieve their goal, of becoming a more honourable man, for the sake of his precious lady. But also he would fight for his happiness and resort to whatsoever he must to ensure it. A sneer crept into his eyes and his lips curved to a smile that was not pleasant. He had beaten my lady at her own game. Nor had he been obliged to break his word to her. Not exactly. All he’d done was kiss Fiona. He chuckled. A girl of her upbringing and moral beliefs would consider that they had plighted their troth with that kiss. She would wait. Whatever Lady Clorinda Ericson or Mr. Mervyn Bradford, or anyone on the face of this earth said. She would deem herself betrothed, and she would wait.
A faint voice whispered, “Despicable!”
Alarmed, he jerked his head around. He was alone in the cemetery, save for a few grieving angels and a cluster of impudent sparrows who perched on the statuary and scolded him for having come calling without breadcrumbs.
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