“My apologies, Miss Drummond! Yes. Puff.”
“And have I a necklace today? Or ribbons in my hair?”
He was sure there had been no ribbons, so said triumphantly, “You wear a necklace. A blue necklace. To match your eyes.”
“Oh!” With a cry of chagrin, Yolande spun to face him. She wore a gown of palest green muslin, the deeply scooped neckline having a demure inset white yoke laced together with matching green ribbons. The sleeves were tiny little puffs, as he had said, nor did she wear ribbons in her rich tresses. Horrifyingly, about her white throat was a necklace of jade beads. Which emphasized the green of her eyes.
“Oh— Lord!” Devenish clutched his fair curls in despair. “I am sunk quite beneath reproach!”
“Be assured of it! I could have forgiven you the colour of the dress, and my necklace, but—have you known me all my life and never noticed that my eyes are green?”
“I am the complete gudgeon,” he admitted, peering at her from under his hand. “You would be perfectly right to reject me entirely.”
She hesitated, but the mischievous quirk beside his lips brought a frown to her brows, and she tossed her head and started off alone. Devenish hastened to come up with her. “Yolande—for heavens sake! I do not see what difference—”
“Oh, do you not!” She halted, the better to glare up at him. “Considering, Alain, that you are so deep in love with me—”
“Dash it all! You know I am!”
“I know nothing of the kind! Does a gentleman truly care for a lady, he most certainly knows the colour of her eyes!”
“Yes—and I do, now.”
She sniffed and started off again, and Devenish said with disastrous honesty, “It is only that I’ve known you so long, I simply did not notice.”
“Not … notice…?” She turned back, frowning in that way he thought particularly delicious. “I will have you know, Devenish, that there have been odes writ to my eyes.” The twinkle that came into his own deeply blue eyes vexed her into adding a defiant and rather inaccurate, “Dozens!”
“Oho!” What a whisker! Only show me two and I shall rush home and write one myself!”
“How exceeding generous! But I would not so tax your abilities for worlds. Thank you very much, just the same!” Flushed, her head held high and haughty, she walked away, raging. And in a little while, finding that he did not follow, uttered a muted, “Huh!” and paced on. But she was deeply fond of him and gradually it dawned on her that they had been quarrelling like two foolish children, rather than lovers. The knowledge troubled her, as she had often been troubled of late, and she glanced back. Devenish was standing where she had left him, staring at the ground, hands thrust into his pockets. A pang that was as much remorse as sympathy went through her, and she retraced her steps, pausing before him.
The bowed, fair head was raised. The humour had left his face, and for a moment they stood looking at one another in a shared and yet subtly disparate distress.
Devenish stretched out one hand. “Yolande, my apologies. Truly, I did not mean to vex you. But—what do you want of me?”
“I do not know.” She sighed and with a wry little shrug put her hand into his. “I—I suppose I want you to be more steady. To have a purpose in life, and not be always rushing off, helter-skelter.”
They began to walk again, and Devenish said defensively, “I do not rush off! My uncle kicked me out when I was obliged to resign my commission, and—”
“You do! You know you do, Alain. Only look at—well, today, for example. You said you were off on a walking tour.”
“And so I was.”
“You did not walk to Park Parapine, you rode!”
“Oh, don’t be a widgeon, Yolande! I changed my mind, is all.”
She shook her head at him, then asked curiously, “Why? I thought you had really meant to go.”
They had come to a stone bench, one of several grouped about a fountain, and she sat down. Devenish rested one booted foot on the bench and leaned forward. “I did, but—” His brow darkened. “Of all the bird-witted starts! I’ve to play nursemaid to some puling infant of a cousin I never even saw!”
Yolande stared into his indignant face, then broke into a silvery gurgle of laughter. “You? Oh, no! Who is it?”
“A Colonial.” He took down his foot, dusted the bench carelessly and inefficiently with his riding whip, and sat beside her. “Some Canadian brat.”
“But—how can that be? I thought I knew all the children in the family. Am I related to him?”
“Must be, I imagine. He is the son of my deceased Uncle Jonas.”
Her eyes widening, Yolande breathed, “What, the black sheep? Oh, how fascinating! I must tell Mama. Now, let me see. The child is your uncle’s son. And my aunt on Papa’s side of the family married a cousin of your mother, so that makes me…” Her brow furrowed. “Oh dear, I do get bewildered by these family relationships.”
“It will be much simpler when we are shackled,” he pointed out. “You will be his cousin, too.”
“Shackled! How I despise that odious expression!”
“Egad, how you take me up. Very well—united in the bonds of holy matrimony.”
“Thank you. When is he coming? Or have you to go to Canada, Dev?”
“Hey! Would that not be famous?” Eyes alight, he said eagerly, “A great continent to be civilized. A whole new land to be cultivated and—”
She intervened dryly, “You have a great estate to be cultivated,” and then, seeing the grimness come into his face, added, “You never have told me why you do not like Devencourt.”
At once, he grinned boyishly. “Because there is nothing to tell, madam. I positively dote on the place. But I can scarce toddle off and leave the Old Nunks, now can I? Poor fellow would likely fall into a deep decline were he deprived of my scintillating companionship and left lone and lorn.”
“But he will not be lone and lorn. Your little cousin will be here. Oh, Dev!” She tightened her clasp on his arm. “Mama will be so titillated! When does he arrive?”
“Any day, I collect. Uncle Alastair wants me to take charge of him and get him settled down. If he stays, I fancy he’ll be off to school so soon as he’s old enough.”
“Stays? Dev, is he to stay with you? At Aspenhill?”
“Well I fancy he is. Dash it all, Yolande, the brat’s an orphan. Cannot very well have a Tyndale on the Parish—now can we?”
She laughed, but then said in her warm-hearted fashion, “Poor little fellow. How strange everything will seem to him. Do let us go and tell Mama. Dev, I can scarce wait to see the child!”
Chapter II
MRS. ARABELLA DRUMMOND carefully replaced the luxurious furred pelisse in its large box, folded the silver paper over it, and took the lid Yolande handed her. It was a trifle difficult to put this back on, for the landaulette, although very well sprung, jolted erratically over the rutted surface of the lane. “I really think it a sad extravagance,” mourned Mrs. Drummond, as she tied the string about the box. “Likely Rosemary will be better in plenty of time for your mama to accompany you, and you won’t need me at all. What a waste!” She shook her head over the new pelisse, and sighed heavily.
“But it looked so nice on you dear,” said Yolande, squeezing her arm encouragingly. “Besides, even if you do not come to Scotland you need a nice warm pelisse. You feel the cold so in the winter time.”
Mrs. Drummond wiped away a tear. “Oh, I do, and how kind in you to remember that, dear child. But were I not required to chaperone you on your travels, I could not have allowed your papa to purchase so costly a garment for little me.”
“Well, do not worry about it now.” Yolande looked up at blue skies, flying white clouds, the lacy branches of trees overhead, and the tall hedgerows that hemmed in the open carriage on either side. “Is it not a glorious morning?”
“It is indeed,” agreed Mrs. Drummond, but added lugubriously, “I wonder if we shall have any sight of the sun whilst we are in Scotland. I do trust
the weather is not too inclement. Rain is so lowering.”
“It has been several years since last I visited my grandfather,” said Yolande, struggling to remain cheerful. “But it seems to me that the weather at that time was delightful, and when I came home Arthur said it had rained in Sussex almost the entire time we were away.”
“Dear Arthur,” murmured Mrs. Drummond. “I pray for him every night. Only think how wonderful it will be does he come safely home.”
Yolande blinked at her. “Good heavens! Why ever should he not? The war is over now. Arthur is unhurt and, to judge from his letters, does not find service with the Army of Occupation an unpleasant task.”
“No, for he never has been one to complain. However miserably he may be circumstanced. And only think, my love, your poor brother was deep in that horrid fight at—er—”
“San Sebastian.”
“Yes. Such a frightful ordeal! And then—that hideous Waterloo.”
“Yet came through both unscathed, Aunt.”
“Exactly so! And is it not just like Fate, that having lived through such murderous encounters, a man may slip on a cobblestone, or trip on a stair, and—when ’tis least expected—” She broke off with a shriek.
Yolande had a brief impression of a horseman hurtling over the hedgerow to land directly in their path. The horses neighed shrilly the coachman shouted, the landaulette lurched, swerved, and plunged into the ditch. Clutching desperately at the side, Yolande caught a glimpse of Aunt Arabella sailing into a clump of lupins. She thought they would surely overturn, but with a muddled sense of surprise discovered that the team was still running. The landaulette bounded and rocked. The wheels hit the lane once more, and the vehicle fairly flew along. For a moment Yolande was too stunned to notice anything more than that they were moving very fast. Then, with a gasp of horror she saw that Tom Bates no longer occupied the driver’s seat. She was alone in the vehicle! Her teeth jolted together as the wheels hit a deep rut and the landaulette bounced into the air. Still clinging to the side, she leaned as far forward as she dared, but the reins were far out of reach, trailing in the dirt beneath the pounding hooves of the thoroughly panicked team.
The rush of air past her face had already torn the bonnet from her head, and the curls, which her maid had styled into a pretty tumbling about her face, had whipped free and were blowing wildly. She gave a gasp of fear as they shot around a bend in the lane. Two elderly gentlemen, taking an equally elderly spaniel for a dignified stroll, glanced around, saw disaster bearing down upon them and, with surprisingly agile leaps, followed the spaniel into the ditch. The team rushed past and passed also the turn that led to Park Parapine. A scant mile ahead was the approach to the busy London Road. To enter that crowded highway at this speed could only mean death. With a sob of terror, Yolande peered ahead. Her only chance was to find a clear patch of grass and leap from the speeding carriage. But there was no clear patch of grass, only the hedgerows flashing past in a dark blur, and the ditch beside the road that was at best rutted and uneven, and in places strewn with rocks and fallen branches.
Fighting for the breath that the wind snatched away, she screamed, “Whoa! Whoa!” But her voice, shrill with fear, served only to further alarm the terrified animals. With flying manes, rolling eyes, and pounding hooves, they galloped ever faster along the narrow lane. Far ahead now, Yolande could glimpse the signpost pointing to the highway. Once they reached it, there would be no possibility of stopping in time. She would be doomed! Her horrified eyes fastened on that fateful sign. The pointing finger seemed to leap towards her. She could see the letters. Beyond now were the shapes of wains and lumbering wagons; the swifter passage of a mail or stagecoach … “God!” she sobbed faintly. “Oh—my dear … God…! Help me!”
The thunder of hooves seemed to deepen until it filled her ears. Then, she saw with a thrill of hope that a horse raced alongside. A tall grey horse with an unlovely hammer-head, eyes starting, and gaping mouth foam-flecked. But it was gaining slowly. It was level. Surely the man bent low over the pommel could not hope to stop the maddened team? But just the knowledge that someone was trying to help comforted her. She caught a glimpse of a grim face, light brown hair, whipped back by the wind, and broad shoulders. But—dear heaven! The signpost was here! And past! Even above the rattle of wheels and the beat of twelve racing hooves, Yolande could hear the sudden frantic clamour of a coachman’s horn.
The man on the grey horse leaned far over and with reckless daring grabbed for the trailing reins. Squealing, the panicked bay beside him swerved. The landaulette rocked perilously. The would-be rescuer was all but torn from the saddle, and fought to right himself. Yolande sobbed. “He cannot regain his seat now,” she thought. “He will fall and be killed … with me!”
But somehow he managed to drag himself up. Again leaning to the side, he kicked his feet free of the stirrups, his narrowed eyes judging the distance, then launched himself at the bay. Incredibly, his gloved hands caught the harness. A lithe twist, and he was astride the terrified horse. Another instant and he had recovered the reins.
Yolande clung to the seat of the landaulette, numbed, and too afraid even to pray, for the London Road was dead ahead.
A stagecoach driver, his scared gaze on the runaways, was heaving at the reins, cursing the carter ahead of him and the stream of traffic to his right.
The man astride the bay made no effort to halt the team. Instead, he bent forward, gripping the reins with one hand, stroking the foam-splattered neck with the other.
The stagecoach seemed to leap at them. A welter of sound—shouts, wheels, neighing, snorting horses—filled Yolande’s ears. The carter glanced back over his shoulder and saw the flying team and the rocking carriage. His eyes rounded with shock. He cracked his whip belatedly, with the result that his frightened horses promptly plunged off the road. In the same instant, Yolande’s would-be rescuer succeeded in turning the team. They raced along beside the welter of traffic, but now the carter’s heavy wagon was directly in their path. To have been so close to safety only to be faced with death again brought a choking sob from Yolande. Tears blinded her and she closed her eyes. She heard a male voice screaming profanities and a keening squeal as the wheels of the landaulette scraped those of the wagon. The wild, headlong gallop went on, but the seconds dragged past and there was no shattering crash, no hideous shock.
Opening her eyes a crack, she saw trees about them again. The cacophonous roar of traffic had faded. He had turned the team! Somehow, he had avoided the carter and the tragedy that had seemed so inevitable.
She knew a great surge of relief and at once also experienced an almost debilitating weakness. With an effort she relinquished her grip on the side of the landaulette. Her fingers were white and cramped, and she was temporarily unable to straighten them.
The horses slowed and stopped, and the gentleman who had mastered them swung from the back of the bay and strode to the vehicle. “Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked, scanning Yolande’s white face anxiously.
He looked to be about eight and twenty. His hair was windblown and untidy about his tanned face. It was a strong face with a jut of a chin and a Roman nose that had evidently at sometime been broken. The mouth was wide and well shaped, the brow high and intelligent. A pleasant-looking person, she thought vaguely, whose best feature was a pair of long, well open grey eyes under shaggy brows. He had asked her a question, but she could not seem to reply. Concern came into the grey eyes. They were decidedly nice eyes, she confirmed, and very kind. She closed her own, and quietly fainted.
* * *
Something icy cold splashed into Yolande’s face. She sat up, gasping.
“No! Please lie back, ma’am.”
She was sitting on the rug from the landaulette, which had been spread out in the field beyond the lane. Her rescuer knelt beside her, water dripping from the handkerchief he held as he watched her with fearful anxiety.
“Oh, dear,” said Yolande. “You have lost your hat, I’m afr
aid.”
He bent to slip an arm gingerly about her shoulders. “It is of no importance,” he declared in a deep, slow drawl, gently pulling her back down.
She struggled, protesting, “I do not want to lie down!”
Nonetheless, she was lowered to the rug. “Ladies who faint,” he said firmly, “should always lie flat for a time, otherwise they become sick.”
“You are very determined, sir!” She frowned a little. “And I do not faint. Usually. This is my first time, in fact.”
A gleam of amusement crept into his eyes. “The more reason you should obey me, ma’am. I have had some experience, for my mama suffered from poor health and fainted frequently.” He raised one hand to quiet her attempted response. “You are exceedingly pale. I do trust you are not hurt, or badly bruised?”
“Oh!” she gasped, memory returning with a rush. “What nonsense I am talking! You saved my life!”
“Having first very stupidly endangered it,” he said gravely, sitting down facing her and resting one arm across a drawn-up knee.
“You? You were the idiot who came leaping into the lane?”
He inclined his head. “Idiot, indeed. I wish I might deny it. I cannot tell you how sorry I am. I’d no idea there was a lane—thought it was just a hedge.”
Incredulous, she stared at him. “But—you must have known! You are certainly aware that hedgerows—” And she stopped, the wry lift of his brows alerting her. Aside from a hint of the military about the cut of his coat, he was dressed as one might expect of a well-bred young man out riding. There was nothing of the dandy about him; his shirt points were not exaggeratedly high, his cravat was, if anything, rather carelessly tied, and the dark blue jacket that hugged his broad shoulders did not give one the impression that two strong men had struggled for half an hour so as to insert him into it. His light brown hair was a little longer than was the current fashion and, although it showed a slight tendency to wave, it was neither curled nor had it been brushed into one of the currently popular styles. A typical enough young Briton, yet—there was the faintest suggestion of an accent in his speech.
The Noblest Frailty Page 3