Coming up with Devenish at the foot of the steps, Drummond exclaimed, “By God, but this is a fine haul! There’s a deal more here than brandy and perfumes and the like!”
And indeed, there were innumerable boxes, bales, and barrels of every shape, row upon row of them, stored very neatly by their various sizes.
“No wonder there were so many of them,” muttered Devenish.
“D’ye see any of the rogues? Be damned if I do!”
They quickened their steps, but when they had run across that great storage room and passed through the open door, they encountered a misty, deserted cove, with only the fast-diminishing sails of a yawl to vouch for the hurried flight of the Free Traders.
Devenish cursed bitterly. “They’re safely away! And I’ve not one witness to attest to the fact that I did not shoot my wretched cousin!”
“Tyndale will attest to it,” said the General. “The wound did not look to be serious. Not much more than a deep score across the base of his throat. D’you know which one shot him?”
“Yes.” Devenish said reluctantly, “The leader of that unsavoury crew was a lout named Shotten. He fired at me. Tyndale ran to push me clear, and so took the ball himself.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed the General, eyes kindling. “That was well—”
“Sir!” called one of the grooms, his voice ringing with excitement. “Come and have a look here!”
They went back inside. Several of the crates had been broken open, and the grooms were busily unloading bottles of rum and cognac from one large barrel. “Let that stuff alone, men!” Drummond ordered crisply. “The Excise people will want to find it undisturbed.” His eyes fell on a bottle of ’71 port. He amended hurriedly, “Or relatively so,” and grinning into Devenish’s stern face, murmured, “Finders keepers—eh?”
Devenish shrugged and wandered to a clear area of the room. It had very obviously been occupied recently. There were scratches and grooves in the rocky floor indicating that heavy objects had been dragged across it, and from the disposition of dust and straw it appeared that many large crates must have been removed. “I’d give a good deal,” he muttered, “to know what was stored here.…”
The General nodded briskly. “Likely a cargo bound for London markets. And more likely, there’s many a gentleman will be the better of a case or two of duty-free brandy before another week’s out. Oh, well—this haul alone must be worth a fortune. There may be a reward, m’boy. You’re liable to become famous. But you cannot stay here alone. You must come and rack up at Steep Drummond for a while.”
With bleak control, Devenish thanked him. “I will impose on you sir, only until I can be assured of my cousin’s condition. Then, I must get home.”
The General slanted a compassionate glance at him. “Of course,” he agreed understandingly. “Only natural you’d want to go.”
* * *
Yolande closed the bedchamber door softly and trod her weary way down the hall. Reaching up to push back an errant strand of hair, she stopped, her heart contracting. Devenish had been sitting beside an ornately carven old chest, but came to his feet when he saw her, and waited, his face pale and expressionless. She reached out to him tentatively.
He did not take her proffered hands, saying in a voice she did not know at all, “How is he?”
She blinked, allowing her hands to lower again. “Not very good, I’m afraid. The gunshot wound is slight, but—but it seems he struck his head when he fell. He keeps going off into unconsciousness, and the doctor … just—” Her voice scratched a little. “He does not really know…”
He had not expected this and, shocked, stepped a pace closer, peering at her in the dim light of the one lamp that was lit and asking, “He must have come around, surely?”
“He spoke twice. You are quite exonerated, Dev.” Tears blinding her, she said pleadingly, “Oh, Dev … dear Dev. I am—so sorry. I wish—how I wish I had not said it!”
He did not answer, and she dashed her tears away, impatient because she was so very tired and distraught and could not seem to see him clearly. He had moved over to the window and stood looking into the night, his back very straight, his hands loosely clasped behind him. Humbly, she begged, “Can you please tell me what has been happening? I heard people coming and going all night long, I think.”
“Oh, yes. There has been a very great fuss. Your grandfather sent riders to Kilmarnock, and the Constable came and Sir Hugh somebody-or-other called out the militia, who are guarding the castle until the powers-that-be arrive. And—” The clasped hands gripped tighter. His head tilted upwards as though he was bracing himself. He asked hoarsely, “Do you— Yolande, do you mean to wed him?”
She bit her lip, her heart aching for him. But said firmly, “Yes. If he lives, I will marry him.”
“If he lives!” He spun around. “There’s no question of that—is there?”
“I … I don’t know. He has been unconscious for hours now.” Her lip trembled and she said with unknowing pathos, “I am—very frightened.”
How strange that the sight of her grief still had such power to move him. How strange that, even now, he loved her, worshipped her, wanted so desperately to make her his wife. And yet somehow, he heard himself saying, “He saved my life again, you know. The bullet that struck him down would likely have caught me in the head, had he not pushed me aside. I … I suppose you must resent that fact.”
With a muffled whimper, she shrank, turning from him, her face buried in her hands. “Do not … oh, please, Dev. Do not hate me!”
“Hate you!” He stepped closer to seize her shoulders, pull her against him, and press desperate kisses on the cool silk of her hair. “I adore you! I always have—you know it. Yolande—for the love of God—think! What are you doing? We have been promised all our lives! Do you really—”
“I know!” She wrenched free and faced him. “I feel sick and ashamed. But I cannot change my heart. I have broken my promise to you. But—but at least our betrothal was never made public. You will not have to suffer that humiliation.”
“It is no less binding because it wasn’t published! You gave me your word!” And knowing he could choose no worse time to plead his cause, driven by desperation he plunged on. “You said you would name the day when I came back from the castle.”
Her eyes fell. She wrung her hands and admitted miserably, “I did. Oh, I know how I have hurt you. I—I cannot tell you … how I wish I might not.”
“I can tell you!” Again, he took her by the arms, gazing into her strained upturned face, and demanding, “Admit to yourself that he is not for you. Could you adapt to his way of life? Could you give up everything you have ever known? Home, family, friends, even your country. Admit you will break the hearts of all who love you! Can you do it? Yolande—can you? And not care?” She was weeping openly now, but he shook her a little and rasped, “Think, love! Stop and think what you are doing!”
“Dev … oh, heaven, how … how frightful it is…! How can I make you understand? I love my family … my friends—my country. But … I love Craig more. I—I would follow him … to the ends of the earth.”
He flinched as if she had struck him. A groan was torn from him, and he again turned from her. Sobbing, she took his arm and leaned her cheek against it. And despite himself, his hand went out to caress her bowed head. Despite the aching anguish within him, he soothed, “Never weep, my—my dear one. What a—a dolt I am. Just as … clumsy as ever, you see.”
“No … you are not at all…”
“I should not have spoken. You are too upset to think clearly. I do apologize. But, Yolande—” he looked down at her, forcing a smile. “It will pass. You’ll see. It is just an infatuation.”
She stiffened and drew away. Her sobs eased as she stood there, gazing at him in silence. Then she said with a quiet resolve that terrified him, “No, Dev. It is not infatuation. I know now that from the first moment I met him, I have loved Craig. And that I always will love him. The only thing ever to com
e between us will be—death.”
His face convulsed. With typical abruptness, his mood changed and he looked so maddened that for the first time in her life, Yolande was afraid of him. Fists clenching, eyes narrowed and blazing with passion, he snarled, “Then, I pray to God he dies!” And strode rapidly away, leaving her to gaze after him, her eyes wide with shock and an emotion that would have further enraged him—pity.
* * *
The days that followed were busy ones for all concerned, which was perhaps as well. The authorities from Glasgow arrived and were soon superseded by the authorities from Edinburgh. Writers from several newspapers and periodicals descended upon Steep Drummond and infuriated the General by conducting understanding and sympathetic interviews, then writing articles that grossly misrepresented the facts. Devenish said nothing of Sanguinet’s part in the matter, nor would he until he had reported to the Horse Guards. But the newspapermen promoted the smugglers to “Bonapartists”; Drummond and his men had galloped to the rescue of his “headstrong young nephews,” arriving in the nick of time, and driving off the ruffians by means of a pitched battle during which half of the castle had been burned to the ground. The ultimate offence was a piece by one writer describing Drummond as “a peaceable little old gentleman,” which so infuriated the General he all but foamed at the mouth. Devenish was questioned interminably, praised lavishly, and then depicted in the newspapers as having sadly mismanaged the affair. It was, it appeared, very obvious that had the authorities been “properly notified,” the criminals could have been seized and brought to justice. Instead of which, thanks to Devenish’s ineptitude, not only had they escaped but war hero Major Craig Tyndale now lay at death’s door.
Devenish read this with fuming resentment and joined the General in calling down maledictions upon all newspaper writers. Even Mrs. Drummond was offended. “It is not,” she sniffed, as they sat in the drawing room after dinner one evening, “as if Devenish did not do all that he was capable of doing. They surely must realize he is not a big strong fellow. And he certainly did not mean Major Tyndale Winters to be hurt.” She turned curious eyes upon the seething Devenish and murmured, “Now, did you, Alain?”
“I must own, ma’am,” he answered with a brittle smile, “that I’d not had the wit to consider it.”
Arabella blinked at him, uncertainly. Mrs. Fraser uttered a faint snort and took up her embroidery. General Drummond fixing Devenish with a stern eye, said, “I understand you’d a letter from Alastair Tyndale today. Does he mean to come up here, may I ask?”
“He did not say so, sir. I had written to tell him of what transpired, of course, and of Craig’s condition. He asks that I remain until— Well, one way or the other. If this goes on much longer, I shall take myself to the Gold Florin in the village. Lord knows you have been more than kind to allow me to stay here, under the circumstances.”
“The circumstances,” the General said with deliberate emphasis and a darkling look, “have changed. You have redeemed yourself. In my eyes, at least.” He noted Devenish’s faint, cynical smile, and frowned. “The lass is properly in the boughs now, and little wonder. She is grateful to Tyndale, and is besides a good girl who would bend every effort to help anyone in so wretched a condition.”
Mrs. Fraser did not look up from her embroidery, but her scornful, “Hoot toot!” was quite audible.
Devenish said politely, “Thank you, sir. But I think that is not all there is to it.”
“It had best be! Your cousin has shown himself a right gallant gentleman. What’s gone before cannot be changed, nonetheless, and I’ll not give my approval to my granddaughter’s marrying into such a house. No more, I doubt, will her parents.”
“She is of age, sir.”
“Aye, she is that. But if you think she would wed over the objections of her family, I do not. And besides—whatever else, Tyndale is a gentleman. He’d neither propose marriage to a lady he well knows is already promised, nor allow her to go against the wishes of her family. Give her time, lad. She’ll come to her senses!”
For the next five days and nights, however, Yolande rarely emerged from the sickroom. Her grandfather had installed competent nurses to care for the injured man, and the devoted Montelongo seldom left him, so that her help was not needed, but she dreaded lest Craig regain consciousness and did not find her at his bedside. Often, during those weary days, she would think his awakening imminent, for he would begin to toss about and mumble, and sometimes he tried to get up, shouting incoherently. Always, hers was the only hand that could quiet him. But always, he sank back into the depths without having recognized her.
The nurses who shared her vigil were kind and capable, but uncommunicative. The doctor talked to her gravely of Tyndale’s splendid constitution, but of the often bewildering effects of concussion, and the fact that only last year Craig had almost died of wounds received at the Battle of Waterloo. “’Twould be a shock tae any man’s system, ma’am,” he observed, nodding his white head ponderously. “We must gie the body time tae recover!”
But it seemed to Yolande that her love was not recovering. Each day, he appeared to her anxious eyes to become more gaunt and thin. The periods of activity were fewer, and on several terrible occasions she feared he had ceased to breathe. When she begged the doctor to do something to help him, he patted her shoulder and said kindly, “Ye gie me more credit than I deserve, lassie. Better you should broach the subject tae the good Lord. And be willing tae abide by His decision.”
Those ominous words sent a shiver down Yolande’s spine. She sank to her knees beside the bed and prayed as she had never prayed before. The nurse, coming silently into the room following a quiet consultation with the doctor, saw that sad little scene, and her heart was wrung. She went quickly into the adjoining dressing room where they had set up her trundle bed and offered up a few prayers of her own.
* * *
There was a hill on the General’s estate from which one could obtain a very fine view of the surrounding countryside and, on a clear day, see all the way to the Isle of Arran. It was a pleasant spot, the thick turf providing a soft blanket underfoot, and several large old trees offering sprawling patches of shade if the sun should prove too warm. Josie and her friend Maisie had sometimes brought their dolls up here, and the hill had served variously as the afterdeck of a great galleon deliciously pursued by blood-thirsty pirates, or as the topmost parapet of some mighty castle from which the two “ladies” had watched their knightly lords set forth to battle oppression and tyranny, with an occasional dragon thrown in for good measure.
To this peaceful retreat on a warm afternoon some eight days after the confrontation at Castle Tyndale came Alain Devenish, head down bent and heart as heavy as his dragging steps. He strolled to the tree that was closest to the western side of the hill and settled himself down with his back propped against the trunk. The valley between this hill and the one whereon stood Steep Drummond stretched out lush and green below him, smoke wound lazily into the air from two chimneys of the great house, and, far off, the sea, incredibly blue under the azure bowl of the heavens, stretched into a misty distance.
The young man’s brooding gaze saw none of this beauty, but saw instead a slim girl on her knees in the vast hall of Castle Tyndale, her great eyes, hate-filled, flashing up at him.… Down in the meadow, a small disgruntled creature named Socrates came upon a placid milk cow and hurled himself into battle, barking shrilly. The sound travelled all the way to the hilltop on the warm air, but Devenish heard only a beloved voice railing at him as it never had railed before. “Murderous savage … May God forgive you! I never shall!” And he thought with longing that was a pain, “Yolande … Yolande…” Her face, fondly smiling now, was before his eyes, wherefore he closed them and leaned his head back.
Perversely, it was Tyndale he saw then. Tyndale, standing astride him during the fight with Akim and Benjo; laughing when he was staggered by a blow, and fighting on dauntlessly; Tyndale, looking so confoundedly magnificent in
his Scots regalia, with that uncertain grin on his face. Tyndale, shouting a warning and leaping forward to push him clear, thus taking the ball that had been meant for him … Somewhere at the back of his bedevilled brain a soft voice whispered, “Greater love hath no man…” He swore and bowed his head into his hands, and though he would fiercely have denied it, his grief was not entirely for his lost love, but some was for the man he had come to like and admire; and who had betrayed him.
For a long time he remained thus, trying to form some plan for the future; trying to envision a future in which there was no sparkle of laughing green eyes, no soft, teasing, musical little voice, no warmth of hearth and home—and children.… But gradually he sensed that he was not alone and, looking up, found a small figure kneeling beside him. When the wistful dark eyes encountered his own, the child said nothing, but thrust a small, rather wilted bouquet of tiny daisies at him. Touched, and faintly smiling, he took it, and she sighed, murmuring regretfully, “I got nothing else to give you.”
“This is just right,” he said. “Thank you.” And, with an attempt at lightness, “But it is not my birthday, you know.”
“I picked ’em for you ’cause you was hurting so bad. I’d have bringed hundreds of roses and great big dailies, if I could. Or I’d have made him better for you. I asked God to make him better, so p’raps He will.” A small grubby hand was placed comfortingly on Devenish’s immaculate sleeve. “Don’t you never grieve so. If God needs him in Heaven, you shouldn’t ought to argify about it.”
He looked away from her earnest face, flushing slightly. “I expect you are right.” Her eyes seemed so piercingly intent. There was no telling what might be going on in her funny little head. Hurriedly, he asked, “What have you been up to these past few days? I fear I’ve neglected you. Have you been playing with your friend?”
“No. Her mum wouldn’t let us. Don’t you remember?”
The Noblest Frailty Page 29