“Rankly ineligible?” With a prideful smile, Craig said, “She was fair as the morning, my father used to say. A tall, softly spoken, serene lady. The daughter of a—Yankee merchant.” He heard a muffled exclamation from Colonel Tyndale and went on scornfully, “She was everything any man could ask in a wife, but my father knew well what his family would think. The daughter of a foreigner. Worse, a foreigner engaged in trade. No background; no title; no ancient name! He was already in deep disgrace. It was more than he dared do to acknowledge his marriage at that time; his father would have cut him off without a penny. Always, he hoped to redeem himself. He used to tell my mother that if he could win the old gentleman over, he would broach the marriage to him, gradually, and that once my grandfather met Mama, and me, he would have to acknowledge us.”
“But…” faltered the Colonel, “the—duel…?”
“A rascally acquaintance of my father’s discovered that Mama was, as he thought, Papa’s mistress. My mother had been sent to Paris for ‘a European finish’ prior to wedding a wealthy man of her father’s choosing. The aunt to whom she was entrusted knew of the marriage, but had agreed to keep it secret.” He frowned, and said thoughtfully, “I think she was not very wise. Be that as it may, this rascal threatened blackmail. When Father threw him out, he came to England. My mother was beside herself with fear. She was sure the old gentleman would disown him, and if they were both cut off, she did not know how we could live. Her terror enraged my father. He followed the man to England and, before he could speak with Grandfather, called him out and shot him. It was a fair fight, sir. You may remember that my father was wounded in the encounter?”
“Yes, I … good heavens!” said the Colonel, still amazed by these disclosures. “Then—you must have been … three years old when Alain was born?”
“About that, sir.”
“All very interesting,” put in Devenish, brusquely, “but I’m damned if I see what it has to do with your belief that he was innocent of my father’s murder.”
“After we went to Canada,” Craig explained, “he was a man tormented. Often I heard my mother striving to comfort him. The truth was kept from me, but I did know that he had been forbidden ever to return to England, or even to use his family name, and as boys will, I imagined all manner of terrible crimes lurked in his past. Mama knew, but she never spoke of it to me. I watched my father age long before his time. Always, he was homesick and flayed by conscience. I suppose it proved more than the poor man could bear. He took refuge in drink, and I—all prideful intolerance—despised him for it. The lower he sank, the deeper was my mother’s grief, and the more I— May God forgive me! If only I had known!”
The Colonel shook his head. “You were not to blame, boy. Do not scourge yourself.”
“I could have been more understanding,” Craig muttered. “He had so many fine qualities, I should have reasoned that—” He cut off that useless grieving and drew his shoulders back. “In some things, we do not get a second chance, do we, sir?”
“No,” the Colonel sighed. “Is this why you feel Jonas was innocent? Guilty men can be flayed by conscience too, you know.”
“True. But once, in one of his bad moments, I heard him tell my mother repeatedly that he was not guilty of something. I knew from his manner that it must have been something very bad.” He hesitated, as if reluctant to continue, then added, “I do not know how it was in his youth, but all my life I found him a deeply religious man. I—I confess that it disgusted me. To see him in his cups on Saturday night, and at church first thing on Sunday. I did not—understand. But I do know that he believed in God, and felt that there is another life beyond this one. I was in the room when he lay dying, and the Vicar asked him to repent his sins. My father roused and said, quite proudly, ‘The worst sin of which I was ever accused, I did not commit.’”
Craig paused, looked into his uncle’s intent face, and said earnestly, “I suppose, naïve though I was, I loved my father, and could not bear to see him—as he became. But, I did know him, sir. And I know he would not have lied at such a moment. I will take my oath that my father did not intentionally cause his brother’s death, Devenish—” He stopped. Devenish was gone.
Chapter V
“I CAN ONLY BEG OF YOU,” said Mrs. Arabella Drummond, absently stroking the dog who sprawled beside her on the rocking carriage seat, “to put the matter quite out of your mind. I believe Dr. Jester to be a very fine man. You will recall, my love, that when I took that horrid chill last winter, he was so obliging as to come to the house in the middle of a most frightful storm.”
Her nerves rather strained, Yolande pointed out, “He thought you had the pneumonia.”
“Yes.” Her aunt giggled. “It was naughty of Sullivan to give him that impression, though she was motivated by loyalty to me, you know, and I am sure that as a physician and healer, he must only have been glad I had instead nothing worse than a cold. I think I must have been close to pneumonia, however, for I suffered so that poor Sullivan thought it would put a period to me. But Dr. Jester’s medicine—though it tasted ghastly! I wonder why medicine must always taste ghastly…? Not that that is either here or there, of course. The medicine was most efficacious, and I particularly recall that the doctor was not in the least irked, in spite of being so young a man, and having drove such a distance. And only think, my naughty boy bit him when he came up to my bed!” She pulled the fox terrier’s ear, and cooed, “What a scamp you are, to be sure!”
Socrates opened one eye and peered around to discover if it was time to eat. Disappointed, he lay down his head and went back to sleep.
Her attention having wandered, Yolande made no comment. Mrs. Drummond slipped her hand into her muff once more, tilted her head, and frowned. “I do not think that was quite the point I had meant to make.”
“We were speaking of Rosemary,” said Yolande, stifling a yawn.
“So we were. And although you may think Jester is young and inexperienced, and only a country doctor after all, for I agree he is not to be thought of in the same breath as Lord Belmont, still, I do not doubt his ability to recognize measles when he sees it. It was so silly of Nurse to frighten us all by saying it might be the Pox! Why, I knew very well that could not be, for I distinctly recall that when I was a child…”
Again, Yolande’s attention drifted. The journey had been slow and although they had left Park Parapine before noon, they had not yet reached Tunbridge Wells. The carriage was cumbersome and not speedy at best, and their stops at various stages to change teams did not, it would seem, coincide with the needs of Socrates, thus making it necessary that more stops be undertaken. At this rate, it would take well over a week to reach Grandpapa’s great house. That prospect did not particularly distress her, but she felt oddly heavy-hearted, probably because of leaving her friends and family; or perhaps because Aunt Arabella was not a very enlivening companion. She closed her ears to that lady’s unending stream of chatter and at once her thoughts flashed to her new cousin. They did so of late with a frequency that was most disquieting. Therefore, instead of resolutely striving to oust him from her mind, she decided to assess the matter. Dispassionately. And thus reduce it to the proportions it deserved.
Mr. Craig Winters Tyndale, she concluded, had little to recommend him. Aside from his gallantry in having come to her rescue, and the fact that he was a superb horseman, he had a fine athletic figure, an excellent leg, and a pair of shoulders that would probably cause most tailors to exclaim with joy. But, even were Devenish not so well featured as to cast any other man into the shade, Mr. Tyndale could not be termed handsome. She thrust away the image of a pair of long-lashed grey eyes and hastened to the next point in her evaluation. Tyndale was of a more reserved nature than his ebullient cousin. He was also, to a great extent, an unknown quantity; why, one did not even know where the Colonial gentleman had gone to school! As for fortune, Papa had said he could aspire to a modest competence left him by the grandfather he had never met, and an estate in Scotla
nd, dominated by a castle that had stood lonely, and largely unoccupied, since Stuart Devenish’s tragic death there. She had never been inside the castle, but she had seen it often and it had always seemed to her to be a fairy-tale place, soaring as it did at the cliff edge, its conical towers rising high above the battlements and sometimes the only parts visible above the mists that drifted in from the sea. She sighed dreamily. What a romantic setting for a deeply in love couple starting their married—
Shocked by a sudden awareness of such impractical digressions, she returned to her clinical appraisal. Cousin Craig had burst into her life like a comet. A rather blinding comet, although one had to face the fact that her initial attraction to him had been founded in gratitude and admiration. (Hadn’t it?) She frowned at an inoffensive hayrick they were passing. She was attracted to him. And that was perfectly dreadful and must not be encouraged! Much as she might yearn for romance, she was not a foolish girl. She was bound by invisible but very real ties to a man she had known all her life. Devenish was not vastly wealthy, but he had inherited the respectable fortune his papa had not lived to enjoy. He owned a large and beautiful, if somewhat neglected, estate in Gloucestershire that could, with very little effort, become a showplace. He was both loved and approved of by her parents, to whom the match represented the culmination of years of joyous anticipation. Mrs. Alain Devenish … Her eyes softened. Dear Dev; so staunch and fearless for all his harum-scarum ways. How many girls adored him? How many men thought him the best of good fellows? And he was! Despite his swift temper and fierce jealousies, he loved her with all his honest heart, and would care for and cherish her all her life. If she allowed him. And if, being such a romantic figure (as Mama had pointed out), he had no thought of romance, why it was a small fault surely. If one truly loved a man.
A pair of fine grey eyes again played havoc with her precise common sense. Eyes so full of tenderness … She thought in desperation, “Very well, dear sir. If intrude you must—what have you to offer me?”
The answer was immediate. An inevitable duel between him and Devenish, with consequences that could not be less than disastrous for all concerned. More tragedy for Colonel Alastair, and the dear man had already known too much of tragedy. Grief for her parents, who hoped she would make not only a good match but one that would not be tainted by scandal. And as for herself, removal from the family she loved and the only way of life she knew; a new home which, despite her romantical imaginings, actually consisted of a mouldering castle perched on a cliff and (understandably!) rumoured to be haunted; and a future in which loneliness and poverty went hand in hand. She had a mental picture of herself, a bucket in one hand and a mop in the other, toiling at an endless flight of clammy stone stairs, while Craig dug turnips from the stony ground, preparatory to entertaining Grandpapa to dinner. Horrors! she thought, shuddering.
“Why, you naughty little puss! Here have I been prosing on and on, and I do believe you’ve attended me for not one single minute!”
Seldom had Yolande been more relieved to be wrenched back to the here and now. She sat up straighter and turned a repentant face. “Oh, but I assure you, Aunt, I heard all you said. I do apologize for allowing my attention to wander, but—er, it is this black chaise that comes up so quickly behind us. I have been watching it reflected in the brass of the lamps. Do you suppose the driver means to pass? He seems very impatient.”
Mrs. Drummond turned to the window. “Good heavens! I trust he has not that intent, for the road is much too narrow. But—oh, my! Indeed, it seems he does mean— A gentleman, driving his own chaise. No! He must not! Oh, sir! Stay, I beg!” These dramatics were accompanied by alarmed little gestures, culminating in a desperate flapping of her muff at the approaching driver, who paid her not the least heed, but as he drew level, glanced with sardonic amusement into the carriage.
The glance became an intent stare. He removed his tall beaver and bowed his dark head with patent admiration.
Yolande ignored him, and the chaise shot past, pulling in before them just barely in time to avoid the Royal Mail that thundered around the bend of the road and made its stentorian way southwards.
“How very rag-mannered,” Mrs. Drummond exclaimed with justifiable indignation. “Did you know him, Yolande?” And, contradictorily, “He doffed his hat to us. Such pretty curls. I was ever fond of a dark-haired gentleman, and especially one so well favoured. He looked familiar. I wonder who he can be.”
“Now how can this be, dear Aunt?” Yolande teased. “The gentleman is one of Prinny’s particular cronies and was, until her recent betrothal, most assiduous in his pursuit of Lisette Van Lindsay.”
“What? That high-in-the-instep creature? I vow I was never more amused than to hear she is to wed Justin Strand. I can scarce wait to meet her starched-up mama and offer my felicitations. Everyone knows the poor girl was as good as sold to that nobody on account of her papa’s debts. Ah! Now I have it! Our Mr. Impatience is no less than Mr. James Garvey, no? A most desirable parti for any lady of the ton, and if I dare be so bold as to venture my humble opinion, my love, a far more appropriate suitor for you than young Devenish. And I will own I could not like the way Mr. Winters, or Tyndale, or however one is now supposed to address him, was looking at you when I came upon you both in the small saloon the other day. Not that there could be anything to that, of course, for the man is beyond the pale, entirely. Nonetheless, dearest, I must caution you against ever giving cause to be thought fast.” She glanced to each side as though eager dowagers clung to the exterior of the carriage, ears straining to hear what went on inside. “I know your dear mama,” she said, for once picking up the threads of her monologue where she had left them, “has done all in her power to instruct you, but—”
A stormy light had begun to gather in Yolande’s green eyes, so that it was perhaps fortunate that Socrates chose this moment to sit up and by means of a series of piercing yelps, yowls, and shrieks, make known his desire to alight. Mrs. Drummond sighed that she also would appreciate a respite from this eternal driving, and since Yolande was beginning to feel the pangs of hunger, it was decided to stop for luncheon at a charming old posting house called The Little Nut Tree that lay just ahead.
Mine host hurried onto the front steps of the thatch-roofed structure to greet so luxurious a carriage, and when he perceived the three outriders and liveried coachman and groom, his eyes lit up. The arrival of the second carriage which conveyed the luggage and the abigails of the ladies, brought visions of enormous largesse, and mine host was happy indeed.
The Little Nut Tree was a welcoming establishment that shone with cleanliness. The ladies were shown to a bright chamber under the eaves, where they refreshed themselves before going down to the private parlour where Yolande had required that a light luncheon be served. At the foot of the stairs, the host awaited them, all apologies. His good wife, quite unbeknownst to himself, had already promised the parlour to another traveller. It was unforgivable, beyond words distressing, but the coffee room was unoccupied at the moment. There was a pleasant corner from which the ladies could observe the gardens, and he would see to it that they were not in any way disturbed during their luncheon.
At this point, a cool voice intervened, “Nonsense, host. I am acquainted with these ladies.”
Yolande turned to encounter a pair of eyes as green as her own that smiled down at her. “Mr. Garvey,” she murmured, inclining her head slightly and holding out her hand. “I believe you have not the acquaintance of my aunt. Mrs. Drummond, allow me to present Mr. James Garvey. The gentleman who swept past us at such a rate a little while ago.”
Mr. Garvey was delighted to meet Mrs. Drummond, and made her an impressive bow. He was, he vowed, devastated to think he might have startled two such lovely ladies by driving very fast along the highway. It was his habit; admittedly reckless. And as for their being compelled to dine in the coffee room, such a thing was not to be thought of. Save for his servants, he was travelling alone, and they would be granting a solitary ge
ntleman a great favour would they consent to share the parlour with him.
Yolande hesitated. She knew Mr. Garvey only slightly, but they moved in the same circles, and she had from time to time attended functions at which he was also a guest. No one could deny that he was of the first stare: His birth was impeccable, his close friendship with the Prince opened useful doors to him, he was extremely good-looking, still a bachelor at five and thirty, and his fortune far from contemptible. Indeed, one wondered that the Van Lindsay family, in dire financial straits, had not jumped at the chance when he had shown an interest in their daughter. The fact that they had instead chosen a wealthy young man of dubious lineage had puzzled Yolande, and she had wondered at the time if some whispers anent Mr. Garvey’s reputation were well founded. Mrs. Drummond suffered no such qualms. She was charmed by his smile and what she later described as a most insinuating address, and she signified in a lengthy speech that they would be very willing to accept Mr. Garvey’s generous offer since a common coffee room was not a proper place for Miss Drummond of Park Parapine to sit down to luncheon.
Yolande waited patiently through the ponderous monologue. Looking up, she found Mr. Garvey watching her with an understanding twinkle in his eyes. She had known from the start, of course, that her aunt was not going to be an altogether salubrious companion, and it occurred to her that their having met up with this polished gentleman might not be such a bad thing, after all.
* * *
With hands loosely clasped between his knees and head down bent, Alain Devenish sat on the bench in the shrubbery and contemplated a very small yellow caterpillar that was busily engaged in inching its way up a strand of grass. He had known there was tragedy in the early deaths of his parents, but he’d not dreamed how stark that tragedy was, nor that it had touched so many lives. He was not a young man much given to introspection, being quite willing to travel whatever path Fate offered, and accepting good-humouredly, if not resignedly, any buffets that came his way. He was not insensitive, however, and his heart was wrung by the picture of his young and lovely mother grieving herself into an early grave following the loss of her husband. “Poor little soul,” he thought, and could not but wonder how his life might have been changed had she lived. The influence of a gentle lady might have softened his nature. Perhaps he would not now be scorned as a person of “undisciplined impetuosity and swift rages.” He flinched a little. Devilish accurate with his lances was the Old Nunks.
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