“Oh! Do have a care!” she exclaimed.
He had driven to where the street widened outside the Seven Seas tavern and turned his team neatly but at a pace that caused a sturdy man in smock and gaiters to jump for his life.
“Look before you leap!” shouted Coville laughingly. “Egad, Miss Marietta, how do you bear this bucolic wilderness? The dim-witted yokels alone would drive me berserk!”
“That particular dim-wit is Jed Westmere. He was near blinded by a mine blast at the Battle of Badajoz, and probably did not expect anyone to be driving on a narrow street at such a rate!”
“Oh, dear!” He gave her a quizzical look. “Then I beg his pardon. Come now, lovely one, do not pinch at me when I’ve missed you so.” She still looked stern and he added cajolingly, “I’ve brought you a little surprise from the metropolis.”
Marietta glanced at the small package he placed on the seat between them, and realized that her feelings for Blake Coville had undergone a subtle change. She felt vaguely disloyal to be in the curricle beside him because, charming as he may be, he was Diccon’s enemy.
“Come now, open it,” he urged. “You’re never going to forbid that I give you a very small token of my—regard?”
His eyes were full of laughter, the high crowned hat was set at a jaunty angle on his thick hair, and his coat emphasized the breadth of those fine shoulders. He was undeniably a very handsome man, and the eyes of every female they passed followed him admiringly. ‘Which he knows,’ thought Marietta. But after all, he would be a fool not to know it. And, besides, she was not betrothed, and was under obligation to no one. Impatient with herself she took up the little box and unwrapped it.
The brooch was of gold filigree around a central oval on which was painted a picture of old London Bridge, as seen from the river. The detail was extraordinary for such a miniature work and Marietta exclaimed, “How lovely it is! Oh, but I cannot accept, Mr. Coville. You are too kind, but you must know it would not be—”
“Now pray do not say it would not be proper! You will note it is a poor gift really, for I chose with care and there are no jewels, and the gold is likely brass! Furthermore, it is a used piece that I came upon in Town and hoped might not offend.”
“Poor gift, indeed! It is an antique and I suspect valuable! And as for the gold being brass—” She broke off, for he was watching her with a broad grin. “Oh, but you are teasing me. No, sir, truly I am most grateful, but—”
“You must consider me a poor friend if so simple a gift cannot be accepted. Have I offended, Miss Marietta? Or is it, perhaps, that my step-brother has been turning you against us? He is very cunning and can twist truths to suit—”
“Please stop, Mr. Coville! Major Paisley has been very kind to us and—”
“Whereas I am unkind and too evil to dare present a little gift?”
“No! I did not mean that at all, but—”
“If you will not accept the brooch, ma’am, what else am I to believe? I had hoped you were beginning to think of me as—more than a friend. In spite of the depth of my own feelings, I’ve taken care not to move too fast, but you must know what my intentions are.”
Suddenly, her mouth was dry. Again, she searched his face. The boyish grin had vanished. He looked sad, and she knew she had hurt him. So he really meant to offer for her. That was surely the highest tribute a man could pay a lady. It was what she had hoped for, wasn’t it? Papa would be ecstatic with joy. Any sensible maiden would at this point lower her lashes and tremble and flutter her fan while stammering shyly that she did not know what he meant, so that he would be obliged to declare himself. She heard herself saying instead, “How could I think you either unkind or evil, when you and Sir Gavin have been our good friends? I promise you that Major Diccon Paisley does not speak of your quarrel. Certainly, I do not wish to distress you. The brooch is delightful and I will accept it most gratefully.”
He gave a whoop of triumph. “Splendid! And you will wear it? Not take it home and hide it away in your jewel box?”
She laughed. “I will put it on now, if you wish.”
He did wish, and drew the team to a halt while she pinned the brooch to her shawl. “There,” she said, turning for his appraisal. “Does it look nice?”
His admiring gaze was not on the brooch but on her smiling face. He said huskily, “No. It looks fairly breathtaking!”
CHAPTER XII
Lem Bridger climbed down from the box of the old coach and handed Madame Olympias out. “Coming on to rain, marm,” he said in his crisp London voice. “What time shall I call for you?”
“Oh, dear! I don’t know!” She scanned peaceful meadows and the rich loom of the encircling woodland, and murmured, “What a bother this is! Were we followed, do you think?”
“I don’t, marm. Likely we might be on the way back, for Miss Marietta’s right, and folks is curious, no use denying. They want to see where I go to meet up with Madame’s coach.”
Mrs. Cordova sighed. It was all Isolde Maitland’s fault. The wretched woman had cornered Fanny after Church and demanded to know how Madame Olympias arrived at Lanterns, and where she came from. Fanny’s inventive mind had not failed her. Madame, she’d said, had been born a gypsy but had married into a noble house. Sadly, the family had fallen upon bad times, and when she was left a widow, Madame had found herself very short of funds. She had resumed her occupation of telling fortunes, but in the strictest secrecy, for, however impoverished, her late husband’s family was proud and would be horrified if they discovered the source of her income. To preserve her secret she occasionally borrowed her sister-in-law’s coach, but instructed the coachman to set her down at some distance from Lanterns. Sometimes, she would walk through the woods to her caravan. Sometimes, she would send a message asking that Bridger call for her at this or that hedge tavern. After Mrs. South’s remarks, Marietta had thought it necessary to reinforce this tale, and Bridger had driven out in the coach this morning with Madame Olympias hiding under the seat. Once they were sure they were not followed, he’d detoured into a wooded area and when he drove out again Madame Olympias had been “picked up” and was conveyed to her caravan.
She consulted the letters in her reticule. “I’ve Miss Deerhurst coming at half past eleven,” she said. “A Monsieur Gistel at one; he’s new and by his writing I think an elderly gentleman. Then there’s old Mrs. Middlewich. And I’d not put it past Isolde Maitland to call without an appointment! You’d better come at four o’clock, Bridger.”
The coachman nodded, carried a well-supplied picnic hamper into the caravan, and went away.
As soon as she was inside, Madame Olympias brightened. This cosy little place was all her own; she felt stronger here and quite sure of her powers. When she lit the solitary lamp she saw that The Mystical Window Through Time was dusty. She wiped it off with the soft piece of flannel she kept for dusting, but the crystal looked no clearer and she peered at it uneasily. If it refused to cooperate she might have a troublesome time with her new client, this Monsieur Gistel. She wound her little clock and put it on the bookcase, then sat in the impressive bishop’s chair, rested her elbows on the round table, and prepared her mind to receive her clients.
Miss Deerhurst arrived punctually, as always. A tall, stringy, twittery spinster, she lived with her uncle in a fine house outside Eastbourne that had been promised to her if she cared for the gentleman for the balance of his lifetime. A good cook and a meticulous housekeeper, she was keeping her part of the bargain, but she mistrusted her crochety old uncle and had confessed that she was often sleepless at night, dreading the prospect of what would become of her when he went to his reward. It would be nice if there was something encouraging to tell the poor woman, but thus far the only indications were that the house would be left elsewhere and Miss Deerhurst’s future would not be bright. No point in telling her that. Time enough for sorrow when the blow fell. Therefore, Madame Olympias listened patiently to her fears, told her some entirely spurious stories of ladies sh
e’d known in similar circumstances upon whom Fortune had smiled, and after consulting the Mystical Window Through Time, sent Miss Deerhurst home twittering with excitement because of the ‘stranger’ who would soon appear to change her life.
There was now plenty of time for a leisurely luncheon, but the rumble of carriage wheels and a shrill female voice announced the arrival of the Widow Maitland, even as Madame Olympias had anticipated.
“I care not if you’ve other appointments,” announced the unscheduled client, sweeping into the caravan with a rustle of petticoats and a snap of her hard dark eyes. “They must wait! I was most displeased with my last sitting. At the rates you charge, Madame, one is entitled to expect satisfactory results. No! I do not wish to hear excuses! You were not, I am assured, concentrating properly, or else your Mystical Window was clouded or something. It certainly looks murky now,” she added snidely as she seated herself across the table. “Most murky! And you need not bother with all your Jupiter in the ascendants, or Moon in transportation, or such fustian. I am not easily gulled, I promise you. I expect to be married within the year, and I wish to know if it is truth that the gentleman in question may soon be rescued from his financial, er—embarrassments.”
‘The horrid woman is afraid Lionel will slip through her clutches if one of the girls marries well,’ thought Madame. “’Ave I not tell you at your last consult this gentleman is not for you?” she purred, slipping a hit in under the widow’s guard.
Mrs. Maitland scowled. “You told me almost nothing! I require more details. Look into your Mystical Window if you please, and tell me by what means this change in his finances is to be accomplished.”
Madame Olympias first demanded her fee, plus the amount the widow had neglected to pay after her previous visit.
Mrs. Maitland quivered with rage, but fumbled in her reticule and tossed the coins onto the table.
‘Two guineas wrest from the miserly clutch-fist,’ thought Madame Olympias gleefully. However, she really tried to give value for her fees and she concentrated upon her Mystical Window. It was still clouded, which was worrisome, but she said with high drama that she saw nothing worthwhile in Mrs. Maitland’s present romantic interest. “A male is in your future, but yes. Another gentleman. This male, he is not. For this male there is much trouble.” To her inner dismay the last sentence came involuntarily.
Abandoning her interest in “this male” Mrs. Maitland demanded to know more of the other “gentleman” and Madame Olympias painted a glowing if unidentifiable portrait of good looks allied to rank and fortune so that her client finally departed with far less antagonism.
As the door closed Mrs. Cordova sighed with relief, but the unscheduled consultation had taken almost an hour and there was little time now for anything but a hasty nibble at her bread and butter and sliced cold pork. She was sipping a glass of milk when the caravan rocked. A cow or some large animal must have brushed against the steps. Glass in hand, she went over to pull aside the window curtain and peep out. She stared, transfixed. A very tall individual was sauntering towards the steps watching a groom who, although not above average height, seemed to her to be gigantic. Immensely broad, with chunky legs and long powerful arms, his features were of an Oriental cast and as if hewn from solid rock; the mouth a narrow slit and the eyes deep-set and almost hidden under the heavy overhanging brow. He had evidently circled the caravan, and he approached the tall man and appeared to make a brief report. His employer nodded and the groom turned and strolled towards the carriage that waited in the shadow of the trees.
Emma Cordova flew back to her little table and whisked her lunch from sight, wondering with considerable indignation whatever this Frenchman had expected that he must be so cautious. To be ambushed by gypsies, perhaps? To be set upon and robbed by a gang of thieves of which she was the ringleader?
In response to a firm knock she called harshly, “Be pleased to enter.”
He came in, stooping so as not to bang his head on the lintel. Straightening, he said in perfect English, “Henri Gistel, madame. I am expected, no?”
The smile that curved the full red lips was not reflected in a pair of very dark eyes that were strangely dull and devoid of expression. He removed his hat politely, revealing lank black hair that emphasized the extreme pallor of his long, narrow face. His demeanour was respectful and mannerly, his garments of excellent fabric and superb tailoring. He seated himself in the opposite chair and Mrs. Cordova’s resentment was forgotten. She sensed power, and a threat that caused her heart to flutter. Struggling against a strong compulsion to run away, she stammered, “I regret, Monsieur Gistel, but my crystal it—er, is today clouded. In fairness I—I will postpone your appointment.”
His smile did not waver, nor did he make any attempt to rise but instead began to strip off his gloves. “Perhaps Madame would be more comfortable did we converse in French?”
It was blandly said, but his eyes mocked her. “Madame is comfortable,” she lied defiantly. “You make the other appointment, yes?”
“But—no, ma’am. I have no time to waste. Your crystal seems clear enough. Perhaps you did not look closely.”
She forced her reluctant gaze to The Mystical Window Through Time. It was clear and gleaming. By the very force of his presence this strange man had enhanced her psychic abilities.
The chink of coins broke through her astonishment. Monsieur Gistel had placed five guineas on the table, one after another in a straight line. ‘Five guineas!’ she thought, and said, “Monsieur is also, I have think, a psychic.”
He shook his head. “I was a priest at one time. I am now many things, and at present an art collector. But I will admit to a deep interest in mysticism. You are rumoured to possess a genuine gift, Madame. That is what brought me to you.”
And five guineas was five guineas! “Do you desire that I look into the past, Monsieur? Or is it your future that—”
An impatient gesture silenced her. He folded his hands on the table. They were well-manicured hands and so white that the black hairs stood out in sharp relief. Leaning forward, his eyes seemed to bore into hers. “I am interested in a certain work of art called The Sigh of Saladin. I wish to know if, in fact, it exists.”
She bent over the crystal for fear that she might betray her excitement. She had at least part of the answer to his question. If she could discover some more he might even add to his already enormous largesse.
She gazed deep and deeper, the minutes ticking away while Monsieur Gistel waited in a tense and obviously hungry silence. Never had the crystal seemed so clear. “Ah,” she intoned in her best mystical voice. “I see a knight … a knight in armour. From long ago. He comes home bearing a gift for his bride. It is … magnifique!”
“Then it really does exist! Can you see it? Where is it now?”
“I see a small picture wrought in … in gold and gems. Very old and dirty. But beautiful still. It is there … at the manor house.”
“Ah!” he said eagerly. “You mean Lanterns, yes? Well, go on, go on! Whereabouts, exactly?”
Another interval of peering silently. She said, “Many have search. For centuries they seek. But no one has found. It … stands up straight. And it is with … music. Alas, it is fading. I can no longer see.”
She spoke truly. The bright clarity of the crystal had faded. Monsieur Gistel continued to question her, but she replied erratically, for now there was in the depths of her Mystical Window a swirling mist that came very seldom and was invariably of great significance. She held her breath, hoping she was to be given the location of the treasure. Instead, she caught a glimpse of something that had nothing to do with the legendary Sigh of Saladin. The vision was brief but quite clear, and it made her very frightened indeed.
* * *
“Did it work?” Diccon raced up the stairs and into the northernmost bedchamber and the table that had been set before the open window.
Vaughan turned, his eyes alight with triumph. “See for yourself!”
A
broad-based candle lay on its side in a tray that had been the breastplate of a suit of armour. The flame was extinguished but a thin spiral of smoke hung on the air.
Diccon gave a whoop and clapped Vaughan on the back. “Did it stay lit until after it landed?”
“Yes. I blew it out. Not much doubt that it will ignite the powder, but we’ll have to take care not to use too much. Don’t want to burn down your—”
“Why are you playin’ with the candle?”
The two men turned quickly.
The Scourge of the Spanish Main watched them from the doorway, the skull-and-crossbones drooping in one hand and a forlorn expression in his blue eyes.
“Well, if it isn’t Captain Detestable Dag,” said Diccon with a flourishing bow. “Lieutenant Vaughan told me you were going off to scourge a few seas. Did you sink any merchantmen?”
“We din’t go. Eric forgot.”
The resignation in the small face caused the two men to exchange a quick glance.
Arthur asked, “What’re you doing, Sir G’waine?”
“Building a signal.”
“Why?”
Vaughan said, “If thieves should come Major Diccon might need help, and since he—”
“Diccon wouldn’t need no help with thieves! He’d kill ’em all dead!”
His dark eyes twinkling, Vaughan said, “Don’t doubt it a bit.”
“The thing is,” said Diccon with a smile, “if there was a—er, gang of the bounders, Detestable, even I might need help.”
“Even you!” snorted Vaughan.
“Oh,” said Arthur dubiously. “Well, how’s a candle goin’ to help you?”
Diccon lifted the small impromptu shelf they’d fashioned on top of the table. “You see how the front of the shelf folds down unless I hold it up?”
“Yes. Why has it got that long piece of string tied to it?”
“Because,” Vaughan fed the string over a rough frame they’d erected across the desk and pulled it tight and the shelf was held securely in place.
Lanterns Page 20