Lanterns

by Patricia Veryan

  “In Italy,” he muttered. “But I am still liable to … prosecution if he ever … should press charges. I wanted you to know, in case.… I’d like you not … not to think too badly of me.”

  Dr. Avebury came in. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave now, Miss Warrington.”

  She looked up at him, her face tear-streaked and full of dread.

  He smiled, and patted her shoulder. “There’s a young gentleman in the corridor who needs you.”

  She bent over Diccon and kissed him full on the mouth. “God be with you, my brave one,” she said.

  CHAPTER XIX

  “But—yesterday you said he came through the surgery splendidly.” Holding Fanny’s hand tightly and sitting very close beside her on the drawing room sofa, Marietta asked anxiously, “Is it a relapse? He is—oh please say he is going to live.”

  Dr. Avebury pursed his lips. “Temple and Cloud, or Major Diccon as you call him, has kept himself very fit. But he is no more immortal than the rest of us, my dear ma’am. For the system to suffer such a shock, and relatively soon after the other surgery is—um—a risky business.”

  Marietta started to shake, and Fanny put an arm about her. “Now, dearest, don’t fly into the dismals. Dr. Avebury hasn’t said Diccon is failing.”

  “No,” whispered Marietta, the tears very close. “But—oh, Fan! I don’t think I could bear it if—”

  “And I don’t like it when people put words in my mouth,” scolded the doctor gently. “As I told Sir Lionel, we have to expect the Major’s condition to worsen before it improves. I’ll not sugar coat matters; for a week or so he’s going to have a nasty time of it. But I have installed a competent nurse, and with you charming ladies pampering him, I don’t see how he can help but make a recovery. Just don’t expect too much, too soon.” He saw tears beading Marietta’s lashes, and came to his feet. “Enough of my blathering.” He took her hand. “Keep him in your prayers, Miss Warrington. It’s the best remedy I know.”

  Marietta said something in a scratchy, unintelligible voice, and the doctor turned to shake hands with Sir Lionel. “You must be very grateful that your little son was spared to you, sir.”

  “Yes.” Sir Lionel’s smile was wan. “I am, of course. Only … I have another son, you see.”

  Marietta exchanged a quick glance with Fanny, and Vaughan frowned. The doctor decided there were murky waters here, and took his leave, promising to call in the morning.

  His prognosis proved all too accurate. Diccon’s life became a dreary ordeal in which his only escape from pain was to plunge into a dark world of searing heat and the re-living of the most nightmarish episodes of his past. His moments of full consciousness were plagued by fears of life with one arm, and his mind seemed determined to conjure up every possible difficulty that might face him. Longing to see Marietta, he dreaded to see her eyes full of pity. Loving her with every breath, he shrank from the thought that she might consent to be his wife only out of a sense of obligation. He knew from experience that such anxieties would not help him, but was too weak to overcome them.

  After a long and exhausting period of hopeless confusion he roused to the awareness that he was very ill indeed, and to a sense of indignation. What was left of his arm was aching fiercely, his head pounded, he felt as if he was on fire, and as though he were not sufficiently miserable, something was tickling his nose. He lacked the strength to brush away whatever so tormented him, but managed to open his eyes. The room was dark except for a shaded lamp that provided a soft circle of light at the foot of the bed. Someone was sitting there, reading. Closer at hand, two big green eyes stared into his own.

  He said in a croaking voice that shocked him, “Get your whiskers off … my nose, Friar!”

  A pair of disembodied hands came to take up the cat. Mrs. Cordova scolded, “Oh, you wretched creature! How did you—”

  “Please.” Diccon sighed. “Don’t take him away.”

  “Of course, my dear,” she said gently, restoring the miscreant to the bed. “Whatever you wish.”

  Not finding a hand on one side, Friar Tuck sought out the other. It failed to bestow the caress that was his due, but he was an accommodating animal. He squirmed and nudged and wriggled until the fingers, if they did not exactly stroke him, at least curved around his back. It would do, he decided, and snuggling closer, began to purr.

  Diccon smiled faintly, and fell asleep.

  * * *

  Sitting gingerly on the side of the bed, Vaughan was heartened by the fact that Diccon had improved sufficiently to ask questions. “Tuesday,” he answered. “Or to be more exact, eight days since you decided to play the hero.”

  Feeble but indignant, Diccon said, “Damn you, Joss! What a wretched thing to say! Had you been in my shoes you’d have done exactly the same!”

  Today there was a tinge of colour in the drawn face, and although it was all too clear that the poor fellow was still miserably uncomfortable, his spirit was evidently undimmed. Vaughan said slowly. “I hope I would. The thing is, you did, and never think people are going to let you forget it. Your lady, especially.”

  Diccon closed his eyes. Vaughan thought he slept again and was preparing to creep out when his friend asked, “Did Ti Chiu come and help? Or did I dream it?”

  “He came. As nearly as we can work it all out, Monsieur Imre Monteil’s one-man brigade met young Arthur while the boy was searching for Friar Tuck, and took a liking to him. Ti Chiu showed fear when he ran away from Mrs. Cordova’s flying “friends,” and by his standards his honour was besmirched. To restore it he must defeat in battle someone he respected. Odd reasoning, I grant you. But in the long run it saved you and the boy. He was the only man could have held up that damnable beam long enough for us to get to you.”

  “What you mean is that you risked your neck to crawl in there and haul us out. And you’ve the unmitigated”—Diccon shifted restlessly—“unmitigated gall to name me a—”

  “You see?” interposed Vaughan hurriedly. “You’re hurting yourself and if I cause you to fall into a fever again my life won’t be worth living, so behave, or I’m off.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. But I’ll thank you, just the same, Joss. No, don’t go—please!”

  “All right, all right! Don’t fly into the boughs. Two more questions, is all though, I warn you.”

  “What about Ti Chiu? Any more sign of him?”

  “No. When he trundled off he appeared to think his honour was restored. Smollet’s had men combing the entire area and patrolling the coast. Monteil’s nobody’s fool, and likely took ship from some lonely spot in the west country.”

  “How has Sir Lionel taken all this? I don’t think he’s dropped in to chat.”

  Vaughan hesitated. Luckily, before he was obliged to answer, Diccon fell asleep again.

  * * *

  Marietta awoke when Vaughan shook her gently. She had sat down in the kitchen for a moment, and dozed off. She sprang up with a frightened gasp. “What is it? Is he worse again? Is—”

  Vaughan smiled and put a finger across her lips. “He’s going on much better, so Avebury tells us. Smollet has come. He’s in the withdrawing room with Sir Lionel. I thought you might want to see him.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” She said nervously, “I must run upstairs and tidy my hair. You’re sure Diccon is all right?”

  “Your aunt and the nurse are with him.” Vaughan’s eyes twinkled. “Mrs. Cordova tells me that someone is coming. No, don’t start worrying again. She didn’t say it was someone wicked.”

  She reached out impulsively. “Joss, you’ve been such a tower of strength through this terrible time. I don’t know how we would have gone on without you!”

  “I’m glad.” He pressed a kiss on her hand. “Because I don’t mean to give you the chance to try.”

  She gave him a misty smile, then hurried away.

  Fanny came in from the scullery, and went to Vaughan, and he slipped an arm about her. She said, “It’s been almost two weeks. Has he sa
id anything?”

  “No. I’ve thrown out a few hints and he either pretends to go to sleep, or changes the subject. I’m afraid…” He frowned.

  Fanny said indignantly, “I’m not! He adores her. You know he does!”

  “Oh, yes. And I know him. He has a fierce pride, Fan. Coville stole his inheritance and even if that could be proved, the lying bounder would doubtless claim that it all went on medical costs for Lady Pamela. All Diccon has left is a good deal of back pay and this estate. And now, he’s lost an arm.”

  “Poor dear man. But he’s taken it so bravely. Not a trace of despair or self-pity.”

  “No. But he probably regards himself as a considerably less than excellent matrimonial prospect.”

  “What stuff! He saved my dear brother’s life! Marietta could not wish for a finer husband! Besides, he cannot be penniless, surely? He must have had a fine return from his free-trading activities?”

  “All of which went to pay for his mother’s care and her little house in Italy. That’s the only reason he went back into the trade, you know. To provide for her.”

  Mrs. Cordova danced in from the dining room. “You must come! You must come! General Smollet has something to tell us!” She danced out again, singing, “‘Love makes those young whom age doth chill, And whom he finds young, keeps young still.’”

  Curious, Vaughan and Fanny followed her.

  In the drawing room, the stocky little general stood with his back to the fire, a glass of Madeira in his hand. A thin, blushful lady of middle age sat in an armchair peeping curiously at the effigies. Sir Lionel, very proud and haughty of aspect, presented Vaughan and Fanny to Miss Deerhurst, who blushed fierily and twittered some incoherent half sentences.

  Smollet wrung Vaughan’s hand. “I hear you pulled Major Paisley out of that hell-hole. It was well done, Lieutenant!”

  “Thank you, sir. I couldn’t have done it without that rascally Chinese colossus.”

  “Possibly not, but you did splendidly, just the same.” The General turned to bow over Marietta’s hand as she hurried to join them. “Ah, we’ve met before, ma’am. Am I correct in believing you are betrothed to Paisley? He’s a dashed lucky man if that’s the case.”

  From the corner of her eye Marietta saw her father’s irritated scowl. Before he could comment, her chin lifted and she answered, “I fear you are a little previous, General. But I hope very soon to confirm your belief.”

  Smollet blinked and looked somewhat taken aback, but Miss Deerhurst dabbed a handkerchief at her eyes and murmured, “Oh, how very affecting!”

  The General’s expression softened as he looked at her. “I think you are unaware of my relationship to this lady,” he said. “I am very proud to announce that she is soon to become my wife.”

  There was an outburst of surprise and congratulations. The ladies pressed in upon the even more blushful Miss Deerhurst, who twittered happily. The General jerked his head to Vaughan, and the two men slipped out.

  Beaming, Mrs. Cordova said, “Is it not romantic? And—we are responsible, my dears!”

  Marietta asked, “How so, Aunt?”

  “Why it was my clever brother here who recommended to the General that he lodge at Beachy House in Eastbourne. The proprietor chances to be a friend of Miss Deerhurst, and—”

  “And we met at her gate in a most dreadful thunderstorm,” interposed Miss Deerhurst excitedly. “We have had such a horrid wet summer this year, have we not? I slipped on a leaf and was rather shaken, and the General was so kind. He carried me to my house, and my uncle invited him to dinner.”

  “Miss Deerhurst is an exceptional cook,” put in Mrs. Cordova merrily.

  “Well, yes, I am, if I say so—” The newly betrothed lady paused, and asked in bewilderment, “But how could you know that, ma’am?”

  Her eyes dancing, Fanny said mischievously, “Yes. How could you, Aunty?”

  Unabashed, Mrs. Cordova said, “Madame Olympias told me.”

  “Oh! Do you consult that wonderful lady, also?” Her eyes alight, Miss Deerhurst said, “She told me that this was going to happen! She said a gentleman was going to come who would change my life, and he has, oh but, truly, he has! To think that she would know! She looked into her Magical Window—”

  “Mystical Window,” corrected Mrs. Cordova absently.

  “Yes, that’s right. Her Mystical Window Through Time, and—she knew! Isn’t it marvellous? She must be indeed a very great mystic!”

  All earnest admiration, the newly betrothed lady was rather offended when Sir Lionel gave a whoop of laughter.

  * * *

  Diccon had been permitted to sit up in a chair on this late autumn afternoon. The mellow sunlight slanted across the room and illumined the voucher in his hand. He blinked at it speechlessly.

  Watching him in amusement, General Smollet said, “Too bright in here, is it?”

  Diccon looked up at him uncertainly. “If I seem dazzled, General, it’s because I think there’s been a mistake made. I’m more than grateful for my back pay, but—Jove! It doesn’t amount to this, surely?”

  “Interest,” said the General with a bland smile, drawing a chair closer. “If ever a man deserved compensation, you do. Prinny’s well aware of your devoted service to your country, and of how often your life was at risk while your warnings were ridiculed. This is his doing.”

  “With your prompting, eh, sir? To say thank you, seems inadequate.”

  “I accept it, just the same. Now, are you going to wish me happy? The old war horse settling down at last, is that what you’re thinking? You’re right. I’ve never had a lady to care for me; to give a tinker’s damn whether I lived or died, or see that my neckcloths were clean, or my cook capable. And what a run of cooks I’ve suffered from, Diccon!” He patted his ample middle and declared, “Indeed, it’s a wonder I’m not a wraith! Well, I’ve found a lady who must be the best cook in the world! And who has a kind and gentle disposition. Oh, she’s not one of your beauties, I suppose, but then, neither am I!”

  Diccon put out his hand, and as it was taken and wrung strongly, he said, “Then you have indeed my heartiest congratulations, sir!”

  “Thank you. I think we shall deal well together. Now, what of you? There’s a stunningly beautiful girl downstairs who is ready and eager to be your wife unless I mistake it. Why do you back and fill? Don’t care for the lady?”

  Diccon stared unseeingly at the bank draft in his hand. “She is grateful, sir, because I was able to help her little brother.”

  “What matter her motives? She’s a diamond of the first water! Were I you, I’d strike while the iron is hot, and before she has time to think on it! Why not?”

  Diccon said slowly, “Perhaps, because … she is a diamond of the first water, sir.”

  Stamping down the stairs a few minutes later, Smollet paused, glaring at the inoffensive front door until Marietta’s lovely face came into his field of vision.

  She smiled up at him. “I like your lady, sir.”

  “What it is,” he grumbled, “he’s too full of pride!”

  Startled, she asked, “Who, sir? Diccon?”

  “Aye, Diccon.” He continued down the stairs to seize her hand and declare fiercely, “But England will never cease to need such prideful fools. Or to find them, I pray God! I’ve recommended his promotion to Lieutenant Colonel. He’s a rare human being. And stubborn as his donkey!”

  * * *

  Towards the end of October there came, as if to make amends for the storms of the past, a season of warm, sunlit days, brilliant sunsets, and brisk, clear evenings. Diccon was allowed to go outside, and on a golden afternoon lay on many pillows in a garden chaise as he had done once before, and watched the graceful movements of Marietta’s hand as she sat beside him busied with her sewing.

  She said with a smile, “How very nice it is to see you looking comfortable and contented. Did Yves bring good news?”

  “He brought a letter from my mama.”

  “Is she hap
py in her new home?”

  “Very happy. And, thank heaven, she sounds far more at ease in her mind.”

  “Poor lady. She must be very grateful to you.”

  “So she says.”

  Marietta resumed her sewing. “Gratitude,” she said, with an oblique glance at him, “is good for people. I mean, it is only right to be grateful for—good deeds. Such as yours, for instance.”

  A pause. Then he pointed out, “You made a knot.”

  “Yes.” She tucked her needle into the shirt she was repairing, and folded her hands. “It was a nice place for one. As I was saying, gratitude is—”

  “Good for people,” he drawled. “But a poor substitute for love.”

  “It is rude to interrupt,” she said sternly. “And anyone who could mistake the one for the other must be quite blind.”

  “My thoughts exactly. It would be almost as bad as—as confusing pity with love.”

  She gritted her teeth. “Mallory Diccon Paisley—”

  “Lord Temple and Cloud,” he prompted, his lips twitching.

  “Do not try to change the subject.”

  “I thought we’d exhausted it. Do you like the future Lady Smollet?”

  “She is very kind, and will be just the wife for him, and as you know very well—”

  “No, ma’am. Your pardon, but I’ve never met the lady.”

  “—As you know very well,” she persisted, fixing him with a steady stare, “we all are grateful to you. And there is not a bit of use your pretending to fall asleep, for you look perfectly able to take Orpheus out for a gallop!”

  He said with a smile. “My thanks to all of you for your gratitude. You did mean all of you, did you not?”

  He meant Papa, of course, who was crushingly polite to this man to whom he owed so much. With an inward sigh she took up her sewing again. “My father would have been heartbroken if we had lost Arthur. And Eric is—is safe away.”

  “No thanks to me. Had I been willing to abandon my principles, he would not have to live away from England.”

  It was a painful subject, even now. She poked her needle at the shirt and said slowly, “He brought it on himself, and I suppose, sooner or later, he would have been caught at all events.”