''Which I warned ye would be the case," said the Scot grimly. "So what are we tae do, then? Wait here for the Swiss and his mountain tae come and slaughter us? They know ye're here, mon! That thieving varmint who brrroke in here was Monteil's spy, else why was nothing taken?"
''Probably because you interrupted him before he'd the chance. No, Mac," Diccon waved his fork to cut off MacDougall's indignant response. "I mean to stay here. Lanterns is my heritage and it's been abandoned and neglected for too long.I can all but hear my ancestors demanding that I restore it. This is a beautiful spot—"
''And a beauty up the hill," muttered MacDougall under his breath.
Ignoring that shot, Diccon went on, "—And I intend to make the manor beautiful also."
MacDougall dared to say with heavy sarcasm, "Planning on spending a deal o' the rrrready, are ye, sir?"
''Of which I have very little, is that what you mean, damn your impudence?"
''Och aweigh, I'll own I shouldna hae' said it," mumbled the Scot repentantly. "There's times, just noo and then, ye mind, when I'm drrrriven tae forgetting me place. I ask y'r pardon, my—"
''Do not dare throw that blasted title at me! And as for your 'place'—you need not be acting the part of a humble servant, for once!"
MacDougall looked injured, and maintained a stiff silence while slamming dishes about, and Diccon returned his attention to his breakfast.
But they had been together for a long time. On a few occasions they had fought side-by-side, and if the Scot had not been allowed to accompany Diccon on his more desperate adventures, he'd never failed to rush to his bedside when he was hurt or ill. After the manner of old family retainers, MacDougall exercised the right to a little judicious bullying. Sometimes, more than a little. But no one knew better than Diccon that his courage never wavered and his loyalty was beyond question. Which presented a problem. He'd been an eighteen-year-old ensign and the Scot twice his age when the man had become his batman. So Mac was now past fifty. He was still hale and hearty, but this particular kettle offish was liable to be very nasty.
''Besides," he said, holding out his mug to be refilled. "Business may—er, pick up."
"Business!" snorted MacDougall, wielding the coffee pot.
Diccon said quietly, "Because I choose the rural life is not to say you must. You prefer Town, Mac, and I know many gentlemen who'd be more than glad of your services. Do but say the word, and I'll send off some letters at once."
MacDougall, who had stood watching him from under frowning brows, drew in his breath with an audible hiss, banged down the coffee pot, and stamped from the room without a word.
Diccon could all but hear the skirl of Highland pipes accompanying that regal exit. "Phew!" he muttered.
The Scot had likely guessed why he would never leave here, and just as likely thought him all about in his head. He sighed. Which he was. Who'd ever have suspected that the long perilous years would culminate in his coming to his own estate and finding the lady who might well have been fashioned from his dreams? Or that Fate would be so unkind as to give her some quite logical reasons to despise and distrust him? That she'd not been snapped up by some fellow in Town did but prove what a silly, empty-headed lot they were. But at any day a sensible man of wealth and position might come along and see her sweetness and courage and beauty. And, worshipping her, would be able to offer all that she deserved. Which was, he thought miserably, as it should be.
These past two days had been dreary stretches of emptiness. He missed her so much that it was a continuing ache in his heart. And he missed the boy also. He'd not gone near the dower house, but he had looked that way often. Very often. And he'd caught not so much as a glimpse of Mrs. Gillespie, or the tail of Friar Tuck. Of course, it had rained most of the time, the greyness adding to his gloom. He'd kept busy, inspecting the house and grounds, and making plans for repairs, but he could not banish Marietta from his thoughts. What was she doing at this very moment? Helping Mrs. Cordova replace "Dora Leith's" head? Singing in her soft pretty voice as she dusted or polished? Worrying over those damnable bills? Did she ever think of him at all? And if he did come into her mind, was he remembered with disgust or—
''What ye mean!" snarled MacDougall, erupting into the kitchen red-faced and wrathful, "is that ye're packing me off oot o' harm's way, as ye've done before and before! Ye think tae sit here alone, eating your hearrrt oot for the bonnie lassie up yon, and waiting for Monteil and his mountain tae come and put a perrriod tae ye!"
''Devil take you, Mac!" exclaimed Diccon, starting up guiltily, "I—"
''Well, I'll nae have it, d'ye hear?" roared his man, banging a clenched fist on the table and causing all the dishes to jump. "If ye mean tae be such a muckle fool as tae bide in this godforsaken glummery, then I'll bide too, so dinna be trying tae be rrrid o' the MacDougall!" And with another soundless skirl of the pipes he marched out, pausing before he slammed the door behind him to add a provocative, "Your lorrrdship!"
Diccon shook his head and shrugged into his coat. He'd tried. "Thimblewit," he muttered fondly, and went out to visit his less belligerent four-legged friends.
The sky was mantled with heavy grey clouds but the rain had eased to a drizzle. Orpheus was grazing in the deep grass of the paddock behind the stables. He cantered to the fence to exchange greetings with his master, then went off at full gallop, tail and mane flying. The little donkey was indulging his morning sulks in a corner of the old barn where the roof was still intact. Diccon went into the stall and handed over the letter that Mac had brought from the village post office yesterday, and Mr. Fox closed his eyes and digested it with appreciation. Taking up the currycomb, Diccon went to work, chatting with the animal as was his habit.
''I hope you are taking note of what you're chewing. It's from Smollet. He has another little bit of business for me, and I'll tell you frankly, I don't like the smell of it. I sometimes think I missed my calling. I should have followed a respectable trade. Been a parson or a diplomatist or some such—"
A trill interrupted him. Mr. Fox snorted and peered at the ginger-and-white intruder that was wrapping itself about his master's boots.
''Well, well," said Diccon, putting the comb on the rail and picking up the visitor. "I thought pussycats didn't like rain."
Friar Tuck purred and rubbed his whiskers against the fingers that scratched so competently behind his ear.
''Why did you run 'way?" enquired a small, accusing voice.
Diccon turned to confront a bedraggled outlaw. One did not advise 'Robin of Sherwood' that his tunic was soaked or that his feather was sagging. "I expect Miss Marietta told you why," he evaded cautiously.
''Friends don't go 'way an' not say g'bye, even if they do got work to do," said Robin. "I missed you."
''I'm very sorry, old fellow, and I'm glad you came to see me. If it's allowed."
''Outlaws does things what's not 'lowed. That's why they're called outlaws. 'Sides, Aunty Dova keeps forgetting her part. Yest'day she was 'sposed to be Queen Guin'vere an' she started being Merlin instead. What good is that?"
''I'm sure she tried. But we mustn't worry your—your family. I'd better take you back."
The small face fell.
''Soon," Diccon added quickly. "But we'll have some hot chocolate first, if you don't mind. I'm rather cold. And we never did finish our hold-up, did we?"
''No. An' you said you'd got some d'livers for The Dancing Master."
''So I did! And I still have them. Come along, and I'll deliver them now. Or perhaps you could be The Dancing Master on the way home."
Arthur thought about it, but said with proper integrity that he didn't have the highwayman's mask.
''Oh, I think we can make one," said Diccon.
''What about Friar Tuck? I 'spect he'd like some milk."
''We'll steal some for him from the Lord of the Larder."
''A'right." A small hand slipped trustingly into his own. "Is he a terr'ble genie sort of lord?"
''Dreadf
ul! With a great fierce voice and big boots that make the floors shake."
Arthur sighed contentedly. "Good. I knowed you'd make everything all right, Sir G'waine."
To love and be loved, thought Diccon, did not make life easier.
MacDougall's scolding was reserved for private moments with his employer, and he was all polite deference as he hung Robin Hood's tunic before the kitchen stove, wrapped the boy in a blanket, set out a dish of milk for Friar Tuck, and prepared the hot chocolate. He saw nothing untoward in Arthur's awed eyes and subdued behavior and would have been surprised to know that the boy thought him very fierce indeed.
They had a merry visit. Diccon could not in honour ask the questions he yearned to have answered, but Arthur chattered on gaily, so that he did learn something of the activities of his beloved. She was always busy it seemed, and thought "a lot of big thoughts" because when people spoke to her she didn't sometimes answer. The Widow Maitland had called and gone down to Papa's workroom, but had started screaming.
Diccon exchanged a surprised glance with MacDougall. "Do you know why?"
Arthur said solemnly that the widow had tried out his father's new invention without permission and—here, he lapsed into shrieks of laughter—"It got caught in her hair!"
Diccon could picture the scene and joined in the boy's mirth, and MacDougall warmed to Arthur to such an extent that he went off and returned with his bagpipes. When the first wailing howls rang out, Arthur's hand sought out Diccon's in terror, but the Scot was a notable piper, and the impromptu concert ended with them all marching from end to end of the great manor, with Diccon playing his violin and Arthur 'drumming' on a bucket. They made, as the boy said exuberantly, "A jolly good noise!"
It was past time to take the child home, and, very aware of a small and drooping lower lip, Diccon told MacDougall to saddle Orpheus. He thought it would be a treat for the boy to ride in front of his saddle, but Arthur tugged at his sleeve and put in a request that they walk. "To ride would take quicker," he said.
It was still drizzling when they set out, Arthur swamped in a seaman's jacket that Diccon wore when on a voyage with Yves and his crew, and Friar Tuck cleaning one paw on the back step and paying not the slightest attention to their departure. Arthur was busily occupied with keeping the sleeves under control, but between bursts of hilarity he imparted the news that Mrs. Gillespie had gone to a fair at Lewes and had seen a giant; that Mrs. Maitland had visited the great Madame Olympias and had been very cross because of something she'd been told; and that Mr. Coville was always at the dower house. "I 'spect you know that, though," he added. "Oh, there goes Friar Tuck! Look at him run!"
Diccon glanced at the cat which flashed past and up the slope at a great rate of speed. "Why would I know that Mr. Coville was there?" he asked.
" 'Cause he comed down here to see you, a'course. Is you coming back, Diccon? He can't play, you know. He just talks to Etta and to Fanny."
So Coville had visited Lanterns. Looking for Lady Pamela no doubt, thought Diccon with a grim smile. If so, it had been a covert search; certainly, he'd not come to the front door.
''… do you?" asked Arthur.
''Er—your pardon? Do I—what?"
''Like him. I don't. He's always patting me on the head an' telling me to 'run along like a good boy.' An' he smiles a lot, but he doesn't laugh. Not even when Friar Tuck chased a mouse all round the kitchen 'fore dinner las' night, an' Aunty Dova an' Fan screamed an' screamed. Papa an' me, we laughed."
''I expect you did, you rascal. What about Miss Marietta? Did she laugh?"
''Yes, but she opened the back door an' Friar an' the mouse runned out. Mr. Coville just smiled. Papa likes him. I heared him tell Aunty Dova he's a fine fellow. An' Fanny says he's very han'some an' that he's payin' Etta interest, or something."
Diccon scowled, but said quietly, " 'Fixing his interest,' perhaps?"
''I dunno. Oh, here comes Etta now. I found Sir G'waine, Etta!"
Marietta was walking down the hill towards them, her cloak billowing in the wind. Diccon's heart convulsed painfully. He halted, watching her. The wind had blown her hair into a tangle and painted a becoming glow on her cheeks; raindrops sparkled on her dainty nose, and she looked predictably cross. But she had come herself, not sent Lem Bridger or Mrs. Gillespie to fetch Arthur home.
Longing to see those stern lips curve into her enchanting smile, he said, "Good morning, ma'am. I was just bringing him home."
''Yes." There was no smile and after a brief cold glance, she avoided his eyes. "Thank you."
''This is Major Diccon's seafarin' jacket," said Arthur importantly. "Isn't it fine, Etta?"
''It was very kind of the Major to let you borrow it, dear. But I brought your coat, so you must give it back now."
''Let me wear it home, Etta. Please do. I want to show Papa, an' Sir G'waine can take it back when—"
''No, dear. Major Diccon is very busy, and Papa told you not to come to Lanterns any more. You disobeyed him, after you promised to do as he said. That was naughty."
He said rebelliously, "I crossed my fingers, so it wasn't a real live promise. An' 'sides, he's not busy, are you, Sir G'waine? He likes me to go there, an' so does Mr. Fox an' the Lord of the Larder, an'—"
Marietta blinked. "Who?"
''MacDougall," supplied Diccon.
''Oh."
''An' he played the pipes, an' I drummed, an' Diccon played his fiddle, an' we marched all 'round the house!" Arthur jumped up and down in his enthusiasm, shouting, "It was such fun, Etta!"
Marietta watched him fondly, marvelling that this was the same child who had for the past two days been so listless and silent. The hurt look of bewilderment and loss was banished from his face now. He was a happy little boy again, bursting with energy and enthusiasm. How perverse was Fate that her little brother should have taken such a liking to this treacherous individual, and that so ruthless and deceitful a man would spare the time to be kind to a child he scarcely knew. And how could she, loving the boy so much, fail to be grateful to anyone who had given him such joy? She said smilingly, "It sounds lovely, dear. That was kind in you, Major. Even so, you will understand that he must obey my father."
''Yes, of course. You see, old fellow, we cannot always do what we want to." Diccon met Marietta's eyes and said, "Even if we want it more than—more than anything in the world. And an honourable gentleman doesn't break his promise, young Warrington."
''I 'spose not." Arthur looked crushed, then said brightly, "Thass all right, Sir G'waine. You can come an' see me. Can't he, Etta?" He tugged at Diccon's hand. "I'm not too busy. Come now, an' after lunch you can tell me one of your stories 'bout—"
''I'm afraid I won't be able to do that. For a while. But—"
''You're goin' 'way!" Arthur peered up at the tall man in new anxiety. "Don't go, Major. Please don't go 'way. You're my bes' friend, an—" His voice broke. He said scratchily, "Can't I come an' see Mr. Fox, even?"
Diccon touched the tumbled curls and looked regretfully at the tearful little face.
Marietta thought miserably, 'Oh, if only he was a different kind of man! Someone Arthur could really look up to and respect!' But "if onlys" paid no toll, and smothering a sigh, she reached out. "Come, dearest."
Arthur turned on her, his eyes gemmed with tears. "It's your fault!" he sobbed. "You taked 'way Harry Rogers, an' Spotty Bill, an' the milkman, an' now I've found a new bes' friend you're making him go 'way too. You don't want me to have friends! I don't—I don't love you… no more!"
Diccon said sharply, "Arthur! You mustn't—"
But the boy was gone, running madly towards the dower house, the jacket sleeves flapping and his sobs echoing after him.
Distressed, Marietta said, "Now see what you have done!"
''Yes. I'm very sorry. I didn't dream—"
Turning on him, she interrupted, "What? That you might become fond of him?"
''That he would become fond of me. I suppose I should have sent him away, but
—" He gave a rueful shrug.
''Only think, my lord. Had you told a few truths instead of very many untruths, this could have been averted!"
She looked vexed, but she was talking to him, and she made no move to follow her brother. He said, "Perhaps, it could have been averted had you not been so willing to believe ill of me."
Her little chin tossed upward. "How should I not believe what you yourself admitted, sir?"
''That I am Lord Temple and Cloud, for instance?"
''Among other things—yes."
''No."
She stared at him. "But, you said—"
''Your pardon, ma'am. You asked if that was my ancestral title. It is. The thing is, you see, that I don't want it."
Her eyes widened and the rosy lips formed a pretty 'O.' She echoed in astonishment, "You won't use—the title? Good gracious! Why ever not?"
He shrugged. "Pride, I suppose you might say. I like to earn my honours. No, really, Miss Marietta, why on earth should I expect other men—men probably more deserving than I—to bow and scrape and call me 'my lord' because of something my grandfather-several-greats-removed did? I won my military rank on my own merits, but—"
Recovering her wits, she interrupted, "Which is what, exactly? Sergeant? Or major? Or is it perhaps sergeant-major?" And fearing that she might again be judging him too harshly, she asked quickly, "You were not really promoted at Waterloo?"
''No, Miss Marietta. I was awarded my majority in 1813."
''I suppose you will claim that you have renounced that, also."
''I'll own I've almost lost it a few times. But my demotion at Waterloo was—er, a matter of expedience."
Intrigued, she asked, "Are you allowed to speak of it?"
He hesitated. "Yes, if you will keep it to yourself, ma'am."
She nodded, and to his delight raised no objection as he began to walk up the slope beside her.
'There was a clever thief about Town," he explained, "who specialized in safes and strong-boxes. My superiors had reason to believe that during his illicit pursuits he had come upon some particularly vital information. The robbery was not reported by the victims, but he'd been identified and was hunted. He had no idea of the importance of what he had seen, or why he was so relentlessly pursued, and when an attempt was made on his life he became very frightened and hid himself in Rifle Green. We never dreamed then that Bonaparte would really strike, and I was sent in to try and smoke out our man, as it were. But I'd never have managed it as an officer."
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns Page 13