Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 06] - The Noblest Frailty (12 page)

"So we were. And although you may think Jester is young and
inexperienced, and only a country doctor after all, for I agree he is
not to be thought of in the same breath as Lord Belmont, still, I do
not doubt his ability to recognize measles when he sees it. It was so
silly of Nurse to frighten us all by saying it might be the Pox! Why, I
knew very well that could not be, for I distinctly recall that when I
was a child…"

Again, Yolande's attention drifted. The journey had been slow
and although they had left Park Parapine before noon, they had not yet
reached Tunbridge Wells. The carriage was cumbersome and not speedy at
best, and their stops at various stages to change teams did not, it
would seem, coincide with the needs of Socrates, thus making it
necessary that more stops be undertaken. At this rate, it would take
well over a week to reach Grandpapa's great house. That prospect did
not particularly distress her, but she felt oddly heavy-hearted,
probably because of leaving her friends and family; or perhaps because
Aunt Arabella was not a very enlivening companion. She closed her ears
to that lady's unending stream of chatter and at once her thoughts
flashed to her new cousin. They did so of late with a frequency that
was most disquieting. Therefore, instead of resolutely striving to oust
him from her mind, she decided to assess the matter. Dispassionately.
And thus reduce it to the proportions it deserved.

Mr. Craig Winters Tyndale, she concluded, had little to
recommend him. Aside from his gallantry in having come to her rescue,
and the fact that he was a superb horseman, he had a fine athletic
figure, an excellent leg, and a pair of shoulders that would probably
cause most tailors to exclaim with joy. But, even were Devenish not so
well featured as to cast any other man into the shade, Mr. Tyndale
could not be termed handsome. She thrust away the image of a pair of
long-lashed grey eyes and hastened to the next point in her evaluation.
Tyndale was of a more reserved nature than his ebullient cousin. He was
also, to a great extent, an unknown quantity; why, one did not even
know where the Colonial gentleman had gone to school! As for fortune,
Papa had said he could aspire to a modest competence left him by the
grandfather he had never met, and an estate in Scotland, dominated by a
castle that had stood lonely, and largely unoccupied, since Stuart
Devenish's tragic death there. She had never been inside the castle,
but she had seen it often and it had always seemed to her to be a
fairy-tale place, soaring as it did at the cliff edge, its conical
towers rising high above the battlements and sometimes the only parts
visible above the mists that drifted in from the sea. She sighed
dreamily. What a romantic setting for a deeply in love couple starting
their married—

Shocked by a sudden awareness of such impractical digressions,
she returned to her clinical appraisal. Cousin Craig had burst into her
life like a comet. A rather blinding comet, although one had to face
the fact that her initial attraction to him had been founded in
gratitude and admiration. (Hadn't it?) She frowned at an inoffensive
hayrick they were passing. She
was
attracted to
him. And that was perfectly dreadful and must not be encouraged! Much
as she might yearn for romance, she was not a foolish girl. She was
bound by invisible but very real ties to a man she had known all her
life. Devenish was not vastly wealthy, but he had inherited the
respectable fortune his papa had not lived to enjoy. He owned a large
and beautiful, if somewhat neglected, estate in Gloucestershire that
could, with very little effort, become a showplace. He was both loved
and approved of by her parents, to whom the match represented the
culmination of years of joyous anticipation. Mrs. Alain Devenish… Her
eyes softened. Dear Dev; so staunch and fearless for all his
harum-scarum ways. How many girls adored him? How many men thought him
the best of good fellows? And he was! Despite his swift temper and
fierce jealousies, he loved her with all his honest heart, and would
care for and cherish her all her life. If she allowed him. And if,
being such a romantic figure (as Mama had pointed out), he had no
thought of romance, why it was a small fault surely. If one truly loved
a man.

A pair of fine grey eyes again played havoc with her precise
common sense. Eyes so full of tenderness… She thought in desperation,
"Very well, dear sir. If intrude you must—what have
you
to offer me?"

The answer was immediate. An inevitable duel between him and
Devenish, with consequences that could not be less than disastrous for
all concerned. More tragedy for Colonel Alastair, and the dear man had
already known too much of tragedy. Grief for her parents, who hoped she
would make not only a good match but one that would not be tainted by
scandal. And as for herself, removal from the family she loved and the
only way of life she knew; a new home which, despite her romantical
imaginings, actually consisted of a mouldering castle perched on a
cliff and (understandably!) rumoured to be haunted; and a future in
which loneliness and poverty went hand in hand. She had a mental
picture of herself, a bucket in one hand and a mop in the other,
toiling at an endless flight of clammy stone stairs, while Craig dug
turnips from the stony ground, preparatory to entertaining Grandpapa to
dinner. Horrors! she thought, shuddering.

"Why, you naughty little puss! Here have I been prosing on and
on, and I do believe you've attended me for not one single minute!"

Seldom had Yolande been more relieved to be wrenched back to
the here and now. She sat up straighter and turned a repentant face.
"Oh, but I assure you, Aunt, I heard all you said I do apologize for
allowing my attention to wander, but—er, it is this black chaise that
comes up so quickly behind us. I have been watching it reflected in the
brass of the lamps. Do you suppose the driver means to pass? He seems
very impatient."

Mrs. Drummond turned to the window. "Good heavens! I trust he
has not that intent, for the road is much too narrow. But—oh, my!
Indeed, it seems he does mean— A gentleman, driving his own chaise. No!
He must not! Oh, sir! Stay, I beg!" These dramatics were accompanied by
alarmed little gestures, culminating in a desperate flapping of her
muff at the approaching driver, who paid her not the least heed, but as
he drew level, glanced with sardonic amusement into the carriage.

The glance became an intent stare. He removed his tall beaver
and bowed his dark head with patent admiration.

Yolande ignored him, and the chaise shot past, pulling in
before them just barely in time to avoid the Royal Mail that thundered
around the bend of the road and made its stentorian way southwards.

"How very rag-mannered," Mrs. Drummond exclaimed with
justifiable indignation. "Did you know him, Yolande?" And,
contradictorily, "He doffed his hat to us. Such pretty curls. I was
ever fond of a dark-haired gentleman, and especially one so well
favoured. He looked familiar. I wonder who he can be."

"Now how can this be, dear Aunt?" Yolande teased. "The
gentleman is one of Prinny's particular cronies and was, until her
recent betrothal, most assiduous in his pursuit of Lisette Van Lindsay."

"What? That high-in-the-instep creature? I vow I was never
more amused than to hear she is to wed Justin Strand. I can scarce wait
to meet her starched-up mama and offer my felicitations. Everyone
knows
the poor girl was as good as sold to that nobody on account of her
papa's debts. Ah! Now I have it! Our Mr. Impatience is no less than Mr.
James Garvey, no? A most desirable
parti
for any
lady of the
ton
, and if I dare be so bold as to
venture my humble opinion, my love, a far more appropriate suitor for
you than young Devenish. And I will own I could not like the way Mr.
Winters, or Tyndale, or however one is now supposed to address him, was
looking at you when I came upon you both in the small saloon the other
day. Not that there could be anything to
that
, of
course, for the man is beyond the pale, entirely. Nonetheless, dearest,
I must caution you against ever giving cause to be thought fast." She
glanced to each side as though eager dowagers clung to the exterior of
the carriage, ears straining to hear what went on inside. "I know your
dear mama," she said, for once picking up the threads of her monologue
where she had left them, "has done all in her power to instruct you,
but—"

A stormy light had begun to gather in Yolande's green eyes, so
that it was perhaps fortunate that Socrates chose this moment to sit up
and by means of a series of piercing yelps, yowls, and shrieks, make
known his desire to alight. Mrs. Drummond sighed that she also would
appreciate a respite from this eternal driving, and since Yolande was
beginning to feel the pangs of hunger, it was decided to stop for
luncheon at a charming old posting house called The Little Nut Tree
that lay just ahead.

Mine host hurried onto the front steps of the thatch-roofed
structure to greet so luxurious a carriage, and when he perceived the
three outriders and liveried coachman and groom, his eyes lit up. The
arrival of the second carriage which conveyed the luggage and the
abigails of the ladies, brought visions of enormous largesse, and mine
host was happy indeed.

The Little Nut Tree was a welcoming establishment that shone
with cleanliness. The ladies were shown to a bright chamber under the
eaves, where they refreshed themselves before going down to the private
parlour where Yolande had required that a light luncheon be served. At
the foot of the stairs, the host awaited them, all apologies. His good
wife, quite unbeknownst to himself, had already promised the parlour to
another traveller. It was unforgivable, beyond words distressing, but
the coffee room was unoccupied at the moment. There was a pleasant
corner from which the ladies could observe the gardens, and he would
see to it that they were not in any way disturbed during their luncheon.

At this point, a cool voice intervened, "Nonsense, host. I am
acquainted with these ladies."

Yolande turned to encounter a pair of eyes as green as her own
that smiled down at her. "Mr. Garvey," she murmured, inclining her head
slightly and holding out her hand. "I believe you have not the
acquaintance of my aunt. Mrs. Drummond, allow me to present Mr. James
Garvey. The gentleman who swept past us at such a rate a little while
ago."

Mr. Garvey was delighted to meet Mrs. Drummond, and made her
an impressive bow. He was, he vowed, devastated to think that he might
have startled two such lovely ladies by driving very fast along the
highway. It was his habit; admittedly reckless. And as for their being
compelled to dine in the coffee room, such a thing was not to be
thought of. Save for his servants, he was travelling alone, and they
would be granting a solitary gentleman a great favour would they
consent to share the parlour with him.

Yolande hesitated. She knew Mr. Garvey only slightly, but they
moved in the same circles, and she had from time to time attended
functions at which he was also a guest. No one could deny that he was
of the first stare: His birth was impeccable, his close friendship with
the Prince opened useful doors to him, he was extremely good-looking,
still a bachelor at five and thirty, and his fortune far from
contemptible. Indeed, one wondered that the Van Lindsay family, in dire
financial straits, had not jumped at the chance when he had shown an
interest in their daughter. The fact that they had instead chosen a
wealthy young man of dubious lineage had puzzled Yolande, and she had
wondered at the time if some whispers anent Mr. Garvey's reputation
were well founded. Mrs. Drummond suffered no such qualms. She was
charmed by his smile and what she later described as a most insinuating
address, and she signified in a lengthy speech that they would be very
willing to accept Mr. Garvey's generous offer since a common coffee
room was not a proper place for Miss Drummond of Park Parapine to sit
down to luncheon.

Yolande waited patiently through the ponderous monologue.
Looking up, she found Mr. Garvey watching her with an understanding
twinkle in his eyes. She had known from the start, of course, that her
aunt was not going to be an altogether salubrious companion, and it
occurred to her that their having met up with this polished gentleman
might not be such a bad thing, after all.

With hands loosely clasped between his knees and head down
bent, Alain Devenish sat on the bench in the shrubbery and contemplated
a very small yellow caterpillar that was busily engaged in inching its
way up a strand of grass. He had known there was tragedy in the early
deaths of his parents, but he'd not dreamed how stark that tragedy was,
nor that it had touched so many lives. He was not a young man much
given to introspection, being quite willing to travel whatever path
Fate offered, and accepting good-humouredly, if not resignedly, any
buffets that came his way. He was not insensitive, however, and his
heart was wrung by the picture of his young and lovely mother grieving
herself into an early grave following the loss of her husband. "Poor
little soul," he thought, and could not but wonder how his life might
have been changed had she lived. The influence of a gentle lady might
have softened his nature. Perhaps he would not now be scorned as a
person of "undisciplined impetuosity and swift rages." He flinched a
little. Devilish accurate with his lances was the Old Nunks. His tiny
acquaintance had by this time found its way to the top of the strand of
grass, and stopped, "Now what are you going to do, foolish creature?"
Devenish enquired. "There is nothing for it but to go down again. Had
you a single brain in your head, you would know that!" The caterpillar
paid him no heed. Probably, he decided, because it had
no
brains in its head. It was better off in such a deprived state. If one
had brains, one cared about people. And just when one least expected
it—just when one might, in fact, have felt in need of a little sympathy
and support—those same people turned on one like angry serpents. "I
have struggled these twenty years and more… I have watched your
irresponsibility drive you from one disaster to the next…" The fair
head ducked lower. It was true, of course. And Uncle Alastair had been
angry before. Very angry. But had not glared with such a look—a look
almost of… contempt…