Lanterns

by Patricia Veryan

  “Is that so?” growled Sir Lionel, linking this remark with Major Diccon’s questionable character. “Well, I’m not surprised.”

  Fanny hurried to put the lid over her stew, then turned to scan her aunt uneasily.

  Also recognizing the signs, Marietta asked, “What else did you see in your Mystical Window, Aunty?”

  Mrs. Cordova gave her a tragic look. “‘Something wicked this way comes.’”

  “Is it the widow?” cried Sir Lionel, with the air of a cornered rabbit.

  “I must warn his lordship,” muttered Mrs. Cordova worriedly.

  “Egad!” exclaimed Sir Lionel. “Is she after him too? He’s too young for her, by more’n a decade I’d think.”

  Marietta entered this fragmented conversation to ask sharply, “Which lordship?”

  It was a question not destined to be answered. From the side yard came a clattering of hooves, and an exuberant shout of “House, ho!”

  For an instant nobody moved. Then they heard Arthur scream, “Eric!”

  “By George!” exclaimed Sir Lionel, springing up. “The boy’s home!”

  The back door burst open. Eric Warrington, a tall, good-looking young man with abundant chestnut hair and a pair of merry blue eyes, hurried in to be embraced, kissed, slapped on the back, and welcomed with an outpouring of love and joy. As usual, the heir brought with him a vibrant aura of energy and enthusiasm so that the household seemed stirred to a new excitement. Arthur was swept to his brother’s shoulder. All the ladies were pronounced diamonds of the first water, Sir Lionel was “looking very fit,” and Eric announced that he had “squeaked away from Cambridge” to attend to a pressing matter of business. Yes, this was a new coat, and they would like to see his new jacket, the tails were more sloping now, and most fellows wore pantaloons these days. But never mind about all that, they must come outside and see something. “And,” he said with glowing pride, “one or two little surprises.”

  In the yard a large surprise awaited. Lem Bridger was admiring a team of matched bays harnessed to a neat and fast-looking closed chaise. They all stared, struck to silence.

  Marietta was first to recover her voice. “What a dashing coach. Have you hired it, dear?”

  “No such thing! It’s mine! Ain’t it splendid? Do come and see!”

  Bewildered, they gathered in the rain to admire the coachwork, the springs, the large wheels, the luxurious red-and-white interior, thick rugs, and fat squabs. “Tooled it down here myself,” said Eric, ignoring their astounded expressions and adding with a fine nonchalance, “But I mean to take on a servant who will also be my coachman. How do you like the hacks, sir? Bought them off a poor fellow who had a beastly run of luck at the tables and has the tipstaffs after him.”

  Agreeing that the team was also splendid, Sir Lionel asked uneasily, “On tick, m’boy?”

  “No, sir! I owe not a groat. It’s all paid for! And only see what we have here!”

  The rug was folded back to reveal a pile of gaily wrapped parcels. “For all of you,” cried Eric, beaming. “Come, help me carry them. See to the team, please, Lem. You’ve some real bloodstock to care for again! The thing is,” he went on gaily, handing out parcels to be carried to the house, “I had the most fabulous piece of luck on a race between Galen Hilby and Freddy Foster. You likely heard of it. I chanced to have some inside knowledge, and risked every penny of my summer earnings. And I won! Oh, I can scarce wait to show you what I’ve brought! Hurry and let’s get out of the rain!”

  Following the others to the steps, laden, Marietta said happily, “How glad I am that this is not the ‘something wicked’ you spoke of, Aunty.”

  Mrs. Cordova, who doted on her eldest nephew said, “And I, my love. Bless his heart, he fairly radiates joie de vivre. But we must keep our wits about us, Etta, for the wickedness is coming. Oh, yes. It surely is coming!”

  * * *

  Marietta hummed softly as she stood before the cheval-glass in her bedchamber and surveyed her reflection. The white taffeta gown trimmed with pink embroidery fit perfectly, and the bell-shaped skirt was in the very latest style. She added the matching pink manteau; lined with white silk, it fell to her ankles and had wide pink ribbons to be tied in a bow at one shoulder. Taking up the dainty circular fan of white lace with gold sticks, she fanned herself gently. “You look very fine, Miss Warrington of Warrington Hall,” she advised, with a curtsy to the mirror. There were elbow-length white gloves also, and a beautifully embroidered reticule. She touched the reticule with one fingertip and sat on the bed, gazing at it.

  The day had been almost like Christmas-time. Over luncheon Eric had answered their eager questions about friends and the famous in London. Afterwards, he had presented his gifts, and enjoyed their excitement. Fanny had been radiant, promenading around the drawing room displaying her exquisite shawl of Norwich silk and the pearl necklace and matching ear-rings and bracelet. There had been a hat of the very latest curly brimmed style, and a fine new tool set for Papa; Arthur had been rendered speechless with delight by a large box of toy soldiers and an hussar’s uniform, complete with a plumed helmet; Aunty Dova had declared she was ready to swoon with joy when Eric presented her with a lilac silk parasol trimmed with black lace, and a most fetching lilac bonnet over which three large feathers waved proudly.

  At dinner, when Arthur was in bed, Eric had told them more about his wonderful wager, and had thrilled them with a description of the horse race which sounded to have been rather a desperate affair. Later, in the drawing room, he’d regaled them with amusing anecdotes about University life and had made them all laugh by describing the plight of the hapless students cramming for their examinations and of his noble forbearance when they were “so stupid as to defy belief.” Clearly, he had much to discuss with his father, and very soon after tea the ladies had gone up to bed to admire their various treasures in private.

  It had been a long and eventful day, and Marietta was sleepy, but she did not change into her night rail, crossing instead to open the casement and look into the darkness. The air was cold and it was raining steadily. She knelt in the window-seat and leaned out a little so as to feel raindrops on her cheeks. Her windows faced south and she thought to see a little light far down the slope, near the cliffs. It would seem that Major Mallory Diccon Paisley was still up. Her thoughts drifted to their encounter this morning; the firm clasp of his hand; the light eyes that could be so cold or so tender or suddenly take on that devastating glow. The memory made her shiver.

  The curtains billowed.

  Eric said softly, “Small wonder you’re cold. Are you wits to let, my best of sisters?”

  He closed the door, and she pulled the casement shut then ran to hug him and thank him once more for her “lovely finery.”

  “It becomes you,” he said with a fond smile. “I’m glad you modelled it for me. Did you know I meant to come up to talk?”

  “I thought you might, as you were used to do.” She took off the manteau and laid it on the bed carefully, then sat beside him at the empty hearth. “It’s so wonderful to have you home again, dearest. I suppose we must not hope that you mean to stay for long?”

  “No, I cannot. But long enough to give you what I really came for.” He said boyishly, “Close your eyes and put out your hands.”

  Obeying, she protested, “Not another present? You’ve given me too much al—” The feel of what now reposed in her cupped hands silenced her. She opened her eyes and stared at a thick pile of banknotes. Looking into her brother’s solemn face wonderingly, she faltered, “Why—there must be…”

  “A hundred pounds,” he said with an emphatic nod. “And there’ll be more, Etta, I promise you! I would have given it to Papa, only—well, where money’s concerned, I’d sooner you were the one to dole out the dibs.”

  She gazed down at the notes she held. There would be enough now to pay the many bills she’d had to shuffle about, and to complete the tuition fees for Arnold. To be given such a sum was providential, but—�
��I—I don’t know what to say. You are so good.” And with a searching glance at him, “How can there be more? Surely, wagering must be extreme risky business?”

  He laughed, took the notes and went to put them on her dressing table. “I knew that was coming. My Etta. Always the sensible one, yet you manage to look so pretty that a fellow would never guess you’d a brain in your head.” Sitting down again, he pulled his chair closer. “No, I do not mean to gamble anymore. I’ve been offered a chance to make a good deal of money handling the investments of several gentlemen. You know I was always quick at arithmetic. I’ve a little capital left from my wager, and soon I’ll be able to invest on my own account.”

  Impressed, she said, “It sounds a wonderful opportunity for such a young man. But what of your studies? Shall you continue at Cambridge?”

  “For a while.” He looked thoughtful. “Till I am more sure of where I stand.

  Marietta said intuitively, “You’re worried. There’s something wrong with all this, I can feel it! Dearest, if there’s a danger—”

  “Of course there’s danger. There’s always risk where large amounts are involved.” As though her words had irritated him, he jumped up and paced to the window and stood there, gazing broodingly into the rainy darkness. When he spoke it was in a harsh voice she scarcely recognized. “Did you ever think how I felt, Etta? To see my father whistle our fortune down the wind? To watch our home, our carriages, our horses—everything! swept away. To lounge in the calm detachment of University life, doing nothing to help, whilst you were reduced to living down here in poverty, scrubbing and slaving, with no servants, no social life at all!” Returning to stand with his back to the hearth he gave an impatient gesture that silenced Marietta’s attempt to respond. “I know how brave you are, and that you will tell me it’s not so bad here. But do you think I don’t see your pretty hands? Look at them, Etta! Work-roughened, the nails broken. Do you remember that ode Vespa writ for you, called ‘Lovely Hands That Hold my Heart’? What would he think could he see them now?”

  Marietta promptly hid the offending articles by sitting on them. She well remembered Jack Vespa, who had adored her. One of Wellington’s dashing captains, his grand sense of humour and a courageous ability to pull himself up again however Fate crushed him had made him her dearest friend and most favoured suitor. She had not, she believed, ever known the mystical elation of being ‘in love,’ but she had loved Jack and would probably have been quite content to marry him. However, his countless offers for her hand had been sternly rejected by Papa on the grounds that he could not support her in the manner to which she was accustomed. She stifled a sigh. Poor Jack. He would have been even less able to support the whole family!

  “And our beautiful little sister,” continued Eric. “With so much promise. Toiling over that stove like some hapless kitchen-maid, instead of having a proper Season and making the brilliant match she deserves! Gad! It fairly makes my blood boil!”

  “Yes, because you are so good, and you love us and want to help. I honour you for that, dear. But you have only to look about Town to see fine old families brought to ruin. Sad as it is, such tragedies happen every day. I won’t pretend it was not rather—terrible—at the time, or that I don’t miss our lovely home and the jolly life we were used to lead. But only think how fortunate we are. This is such a lovely place, and by exercising caution with our funds—”

  “Funds?” He snorted disgustedly, “What funds? You had to sell nearly everything we owned to pay my father’s debts.”

  “But I’ve been able to put a little in the bank, and you have worked so hard to help with school expenses, and Aunty Dova does quite well with her readings.”

  “You mean she hornswoggles the gullible into paying for her flim-flams and fancies! That’s called charlatanism, Etta!”

  “No, no! Never say so! Truly, she has a gift!”

  “Aye! The gift of losing herself in delusion. Even as my father loses himself in his foolish inventions and leaves to you the task of struggling with the bills and somehow managing to keep us afloat!”

  Distraught, she sprang up and ran to throw her arms around him. “Do not! Oh, Eric, you must not say such things! You know how Mama’s death broke his heart and his spirit. But he loves us, my dear one, and we shall never be loved in just that same way by anyone else.”

  “I know.” He sighed and kissed her, and, still holding her, asked gently, “And does he keep out of mischief, Etta? I stopped at the Seven Seas before I came home, and I heard some talk of a widow with ambitions in his direction. The lady must not be of very good ton, for I gather she has a brother who has boasted that he holds some sort of note from my father. Is it truth?”

  “Oh, dear.” She sat down again. “I’d not realized the gossip-mongers had it. That wretched Mr. Williard! I admit Papa is—is not always very wise, but—”

  “A masterpiece of understatement! Gaming again, is he? My God! And I have not the authority to stop him! Do you wonder that I search for a way to help? I mean to see you all back in Town, Etta. In our own home, if possible. And one way or another I’ll do it, by heaven but I will!”

  He looked so determined. ‘He has grown up,’ she thought, ‘and I never noticed—never dreamed he was so bitter!’ She said, “Not if it means taking risks, I beg you! Besides, I have some news also. I’ve an admirer, brother dear! Three, in fact! One is rich and handsome. One is rich and—and not so handsome. And one is poor and nice-looking.”

  He straddled the dressing table bench and grinned at her, once again her youthful, fun-loving brother. “And you mean to accept the rich and handsome one, do you? Is he the one you care for, love? Or is it a matter of expedience?”

  She blushed and said shyly, “Well, to say truth he hasn’t offered yet. But if he does, our problems will be over, and you won’t have to worry about restoring our fortunes.”

  “Jolly good! Who is this young money-bags?”

  “His name is Blake Coville.”

  “Sir Gavin Coville’s heir?” His eyebrows lifted and he whistled softly. “Well, well! I’ve seen him about Town. He’s quite the non-pareil, but—lots of handkerchiefs have been dropped for that one, Etta. ’Twould be a real feather in your cap if you could snare him. Does he call on you down here?”

  “Yes. Quite often. We hired this house from Sir Gavin’s steward, you will recall.”

  “So we did. I’d forgot. The owner’s Lord Temple and Cloud, though, is he not? I wonder you haven’t set your cap in that direction. Or is he a loathesome old reprobate who lurks and leers amid his ruins?”

  Marietta looked at her hands. “No, dearest. He’s not a loathesome old reprobate.”

  * * *

  The tinkling of the little bell hanging over the door awoke Diccon. As always he was fully alert the instant he opened his eyes. Something had disturbed the long cord he’d strung from the old wing all the way to his bedchamber. Perhaps Friar Tuck was paying a nocturnal visit. Perhaps an enterprising rat had called. Or perhaps the rat was of the two-legged variety. And although he’d been dubbed “a revolutionary,” he was sufficiently conservative to prefer to be aware of the identity of guests; especially those who arrived, uninvited, in the middle of the night. Flinging back the covers, he pulled on his breeches, snatched his new flintlock pistol from the bedside table, and hurried into the corridor. It was very dark save for the glow of the broad candle on the landing, and he raced towards that flame, the floorboards icy cold against his bare feet. Unless this was one of Imre Monteil’s assassins it was unlikely that the intruder would come into the new wing, but he paused at the top of the stairs, ears straining and eyes narrowed against the gloom. There was no slightest movement, and not a sound other than the occasional flurries of the wind.

  The treads of the stairs were prone to creaks, but there was a quicker method. He slid soundlessly down the banister rail and was across the great hall running to the door leading to the old wing. It was shut. He set the hair trigger on the pistol that Tathum and Eg
g had made for him, then lifted the latch and eased the door open. The hinges, newly oiled, did not betray him. Moving with the soundless speed for which, in some circles, he was renowned, he was inside, down the steps, and had flattened himself against the wall. It was doubtful if the glow from the ‘new’ stairwell would have been seen when he opened the door, but he again paused, listening intently. He heard nothing, but his keen sense of smell detected the faintest hint of difference in the air; the acrid scent that signalled the presence of an oil lamp where there should be none. So his suspicions were justified. He moved on, progressing more cautiously here, feeling his way over the debris but swearing in soft anguish as he stubbed his bare toe on a fallen chunk of masonry. He sensed rather than saw that he’d reached the original great hall. At the far end a gleam of light came and went at the top of the stairs above the minstrel gallery. Someone, he thought grimly, was searching for The Sigh of Saladin; someone who was undeterred by ghostly rumours or the tales of mysterious lights and wailings.

  Faint as it was, the glow helped him to avoid the few pieces of furniture. He crept up the stairs, passed the minstrel gallery, and climbed to the first floor. Now the light was moving about in one of the upper rooms. This was the lantern he’d smelled, and the fact that the beam was narrowed must mean the intruder was aware that the new wing of the manor was occupied. He heard an odd, smothered sort of snuffling, as of some large beast rooting about. A familiar sound. His foot touched something small that rolled across the floor. The noise was barely perceptible but at once the lantern was extinguished and the darkness became absolute.

  There was a thudding of boots, a grunting, a sense that something vast was rushing at him. There was no time to shout a warning. He fired blindly, the retort shattering the silence. A howl rang out, terrifying in its depth and fury. He was caught up in a mighty grip and swept off his feet. The arms about him tightened savagely, driving the air from his lungs. Struggling frantically to break free before his ribs were crushed, he managed to strike out with the pistol and felt it connect hard. A bestial roar and he was hurled aside. He crashed against the wall with stunning force. From a long way off Arthur’s voice echoed in his ears. “Mrs. Gillespie seed a giant at the fair in Lewes.” His last conscious thought was a disgusted, ‘Stupid! Stupid.…’