Lanterns

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Lanterns Page 13

by Patricia Veryan


  His lips tightened. He said stormily, “If you will stop firing off accusations at me, and listen for—”

  “Stand away from him, ma’am!”

  Mrs. Cordova had gone. Blake Coville stood alone on the steps, a long-barrelled duelling pistol aimed steadily at Diccon’s back.

  Horrified, Marietta cried, “Don’t! Oh, for pity’s sake—do not!”

  Without so much as a glance at Coville, Diccon said, “Never fear, Miss Marietta, it’s just so much bravado. He’d not dare shoot me.”

  “Do not refine on that,” said Coville grittily. “If you don’t tell me what you’ve done with Lady Pamela, I’ll be more than justified to—”

  “To shoot me in the back? And before ladies?” Diccon swung around and began to walk slowly towards that deadly muzzle. “You’re very free with your unproven accusations. Now try if you’ve the gumption to shoot an unarmed man while you look him in the eye!”

  Coville set his teeth and took aim.

  Watching his face, her breath held in check, Marietta suddenly ran forward and threw herself between the two men.

  Startled, Coville’s grip tightened instinctively.

  Diccon threw Marietta aside even as the shot fragmented the silence. The ball burned a hole through his sleeve. With a leap he was atop the steps. His left hand smashed the pistol from Coville’s grasp; his right, in a hard backhanded swipe, sent the man sprawling. “Murderous carrion!” he snarled, and ran to help Marietta to her feet, then grip her shoulders and shake her hard. Through his teeth, he said, “Do not—ever—do such a stupid thing again! Are you all right?”

  Shocked and enraged, her voice was shrill as she answered, “No thanks to your silly heroics! Accusing me of stupidity, when you walked straight at a loaded gun! If ever I heard of such—”

  “What a’God’s name are you about?” Sir Lionel burst from the kitchen followed by his sister-in-law and a white-faced Fanny. “Fighting before ladies? Have you quite forgot your manners, gentlemen?”

  Running to throw her arms about her sister, Fanny asked, “Are you hurt, dearest?”

  Marietta shook her head, but clung to her, trembling from the reaction.

  Over-riding Diccon’s attempt to respond, Sir Lionel shouted, “I will ask that you leave my house at once, Major!”

  Coville picked himself up and said, “You’d best have a care, sir, or his lordship might revoke your lease.”

  Sir Lionel stared at him.

  Mrs. Cordova danced down the steps and sang in her shrill wavering voice, “Our Diccon is a baron; an old name and proud. Our Diccon, brother dear, is Lord Temple and Cloud.”

  “Wh-what…?” gasped Sir Lionel, his eyes goggling.

  “And his lordship is just leaving,” said Marietta.

  Diccon scanned her scornful face and, without another word, mounted up and rode from the yard.

  * * *

  “I never trusted him,” declared Fanny with vehemence. “Never!”

  Marietta, who was already tired of that remark, said nothing.

  “That is because you are afraid of him,” said Mrs. Cordova, knowingly. “You have something of me in you, my love. You can sense the danger of the man.”

  A small fire had been lit in the drawing room and the three ladies were gathered around the hearth. Blake Coville and Sir Lionel were still in the dining room, lingering over their wine and cheese. Coville had blamed his loss of control on his anxieties for Lady Pamela Coville, and admitted shamefacedly that he should never have brought the pistol outside with ladies present. He had not meant to shoot, he insisted, but the hair-trigger needed only the slightest pressure and when Marietta had run in front of him, the shock had caused his grip to tighten just sufficiently to make it fire. He knew his conduct had been reprehensible and could easily have resulted in a tragedy. The very thought unmanned him, and he’d apologized so humbly to Marietta that tears had come into his eyes. He had been forgiven and invited to stay for dinner, an invitation he’d accepted gladly.

  Marietta had been petted and praised, becoming quite the heroine of the deadly incident. In private she was congratulated because Mr. Coville had returned apparently as enamoured of her as before. But, although her nerves were calmer now, she felt depressed and unhappy. Her aunt’s words irked her, and she said, “Why either of you should be afraid of the Major, I cannot think. He deceived us certainly, and told the most dreadful untruths, which is past forgiving. But I won’t believe he meant us harm.”

  “He harmed Arthur,” said Fanny stubbornly.

  “You know that was unintentional, and he has since made the boy very happy. Indeed, what we are to tell the little fellow, I do not know. He’ll miss Diccon so.”

  Mrs. Cordova nodded. “Yes, he will. You can’t deny that, Fan.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Fanny. “But I’m very glad Mr. Coville is here again, so that Etta can put the wicked creature out of her mind.”

  “The ‘wicked creature,’” said Marietta, “probably saved my life this afternoon! Had he not pushed me aside when Mr. Coville fired, I might very well have been hit.”

  Fanny had been unaware of that fact. Dismayed, she exclaimed, “Then I owe him an apology, and my most fervent thanks. But—oh, dear! I still cannot like a man who has kidnapped his poor mama.”

  Marietta said, “I don’t believe for a minute that he has done such a thing!”

  “Then you believe that Sir Gavin and Blake Coville are lying?”

  “Say, rather, that I think they must be mistaken.”

  Fanny sighed, and said dubiously, “But consider all the fibs the Major has told us, and how skillfully he evades an issue if he doesn’t wish to answer.”

  “Evasions, yes,” admitted Marietta. “He has many faults, I admit. I’ll just not believe that murder is among them. Don’t you agree, Aunty?”

  Mrs. Cordova pursed her lips, leaned to whisper in “Captain Cameron’s” ear, then said gravely, “I have no doubts at all, my love. He has killed. Oh, yes. Our noble landlord has killed!”

  “Aunty!” cried Marietta, taken aback. “I thought you liked him!”

  “But I do, child! I like him very well. Only Fan is perfectly right to be afraid of him. We all should be. He is a very dangerous man—even as his step-brother told us!”

  * * *

  “Ye’ve got three bullet holes in ye, aside from that musket ball you hauled around in your back for yearrrs!” MacDougall’s accent was very broad as he slammed a plate of perfectly cooked eggs and juicy pink slices of ham onto the kitchen table. “Ye’ve been knifed and beaten and had a great rogue horse trrrample ye half tae death—” As if to emphasize this unhappy inventory a bowl of buttered toast and a pot of jam joined the plate. He turned to the coffee pot that was hissing fragrantly on the hob. “And for—what?” he demanded, snatching it up. “What hae ye tae show fer all that meeserrrry? Is there never tae be an end of thumbing yer nose at Fate?”

  Diccon reached for the damson jam, his thoughts on a certain idyllic tea party. “What would you suggest?” he asked absently.

  “I’d suggest,” growled MacDougall, dashing coffee into a mug, “that ye turrrn yer back on the whole ungrrrrateful parcel of ’em! May they rot! I’d suggest,” he went on, thrusting the steaming mug in front of his employer, “that we go back tae Toon, kick yon parrrasites oot o’ your fine hoosie, and that ye take your place in Society as is your rrright and bounden—”

  “You know how I feel on that subject,” interrupted Diccon, an edge of impatience to his voice. “As for the town house, my hands are tied. I cannot prove my right to it without leaving myself open to immediate arrest.”

  “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 wav
ed 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 of fish 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?”

  “Dreadful! With a great fierce voice and big boots that make the floors shake.”

  Arthur sighed cont
entedly. “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!”

 

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