Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 06] - The Noblest Frailty (17 page)

Five minutes later, the shed door tight closed, his head
comfortably settled on two of the folded sacks and the rest disposed
over him, Tyndale smiled into the darkness. It was not the Clarendon,
precisely, but it was no worse (a sight better!) than many a night he'd
passed with Timothy Van Lindsay and his maniacs. Thunder bellowed,
closer this time, and lightning shone through the many cracks in the
dusty old shed. Tyndale grinned and yawned sleepily. "Just like Spain,"
he thought. "Good old… Tim…"

Devenish awoke to the touch of watery fingers creeping down
his neck. He swore and sat up. The roof of the barn had a large hole,
this flaw revealed by the glare of lightning. "A fine thing!" he
snorted indignantly. The two cats who had curled themselves up beside
him opened yellow eyes to blink through the gloom. "
Madame et
Monsieur
," he said, "I regret the necessity to disturb you,
but—" The light words ceased, and he stared in stark shock at a fourth
inhabitant of the old barn. A small figure, cuddled so close against
his back that he'd not seen it when he awoke. "Well, here's a fine
start!" he exclaimed. "Who the deuce asked you to attach your—" He
ceased to speak as lightning flashed again. His breath was held for an
instant, then released in a slow hiss. He'd noted a lantern hung on a
nail against the wall, but had made no attempt to light it for fear of
betraying his presence. Now, he stood cautiously, groped his way to it
and was lucky enough to discover a tinderbox lying on the workbench.
When he had ignited the wick, he turned the flame very low and tiptoed
to the intruder, lying just as before and breathing with deep, soft
regularity. He bent, and held the lantern closer. The shirt was too
large for the child, the breeches tattered, and the thin sandals
frayed, but it was not these that widened Devenish's eyes. During the
night, the stocking cap had shifted and a strand of hair had escaped. A
long, dark, curling strand. He uttered a faint moan, reached down, and
gently pulled the cap away. Thick, dark, matted curls tumbled down.
"Oh, my God!" he groaned "A female!"

She had not been as fast asleep as he supposed. The long
curling lashes flew open. Great eyes at once becoming wild with terror
gazed up at him. The pale lips opened in a scream the more horrifying
because it was soundless, and she sprang up. Devenish put down the
lantern hurriedly, and leapt after her. He caught her at the door; a
small, writhing madness.

"No!" she sobbed. "Oh, no! Let me be! Gawd! Let me be!" And
between sobs and cries and entreaties, came a thin keening shriek that
he swiftly muffled.

"Quiet!" he hissed. "I will not harm you, child! Just be
quiet, or we'll be put out in the rain, to say the least of it!"

He glanced down when she ceased to struggle. Her eyes were
half closed, the thin features like paper. "Egad! Am I suffocating
you?" he gasped, removing his hand.

"Let… me… be," she whispered threadily. "Do not—oh, do not
touch me!"

She looked on the verge of a swoon. What in heaven's name
would he do if she committed so dreadful a thing? He released her
hurriedly. "Just
please
do not scream," he
implored.

She did not scream, but she swayed, an awful moaning escaping
her. In a burst of sympathy, Devenish forgot her plea, put an arm about
her bony little shoulders, and led her back to the pile of straw and
the two cats. "Sit here," he urged, drawing her down beside him.
"There—-that's better. Poor creature, Was it a nightmare? I've had a
few of them m'self."

Those haunted eyes watched him with a sort of dulled pleading,
and he smiled his kindest smile and added, "I will not touch you.
Promise."

Still looking straight at him, she began to weep; a helpless,
undisguised sobbing that smote him to the heart, but when he edged
back, horrified, the thin claw of a hand came out to clutch his own,
and she gulped, "And—and you ain't like— like Akim… or Benjo?"

"I most certainly hope not, if they affect a little girl in
this way." A frown crept into his eyes. He asked in a different tone,
"Is that why you ran away? From Akim and Benjo?" The tangled, greasy
curls bounced as she nodded, and teardrops splattered. Devenish's jaw
set. "Are they little boys?"

She shook her head. "Men. And I be eleven—I think."

Eleven. She looked no more than seven or eight… Dreading the
answer he might receive, he asked, "What did they do?"

'They started to… to look at me." Crimson swept over the
pinched cheeks, and she threw grubby hands up to cover her eyes.
"And—and one day Benjo catched me washing of myself in the stream. He
took hold of my hair when I tried to cover up myself. And—and he
laughed and said… he said they'd get a good price for me soon, from…"

"From whom?"

"From… Oh! From one of the
Flash Housesl"
Her eyes, agonized, were fixed on him, and Devenish gritted his teeth
over the oaths that surged into his throat. By thunder, but was there
anything lower than some men? He'd never been in a Flash House, but
he'd heard of those hellish traps in which girls scarcely having known
childhood were forced into prostitution and kept thereafter more or
less permanently drunk to ensure they continued their trade; a trade
from which they reaped only the benefits of food and warmth while their
soulless procuress grew rich and fat at the expense of their
degradation. Boys fared little better in those dens of vice: if they
refused to steal and deliver up their spoils, they were cast out into
the street, penniless, where the chances were that they would be hauled
off to gaol, flogged, and thrown into the streets once more to begin
the whole vicious circle over again.

A small cold hand creeping into his own recalled Devenish from
his bitter thoughts. The child was watching him beseechingly. He looked
into the tear-streaked face of this helpless piece of jetsam caught in
a relentless tide that must only lead to— Cutting off that terrible
strain of reasoning, he demanded harshly, "What is your name? Have you
no parents?"

"They call me Tabby. And I don't know about me mother or
father. I was stole."

He looked at her clinically. Her hair was very dark, but he
saw now that her skin was extremely pale beneath the dirt, and her
eyes, although dark also, had flecks of hazel in them. She was a dirty,
wretched, plain little girl, all skin and bone, but he saw the same
promise in her thin form that Akim and Benjo must have seen, and his
rage at those crude spoilers grew. Forcing himself to speak calmly, he
asked,"Why Tabby?"

" 'Cause I scratched 'em when they tried to touch me like—
like Akim did once. And they said I was a wildcat, and after that they
all laughed, and teased me, and—and called me all kinds of horrid, ugly
things. I hates 'em all." The bony fists clenched. She repeated through
her teeth, "I
hates
'em! So I didn't say nothink,
but last night when Akim's mort was asleep and Akim and Benjo was
drunk, I creeped away. And I'm
never
going back!"
Her angry flush died away, her lips began to tremble pathetically, and
her eyes blinked up at him, aswim with tears. "You won't make me go?
Oh, please—
please
!" She knelt, cowering before
him, hands upstretched in supplication. "I'll do anything! I'll cook
for you and scrub your floors when you get some. And when I grows up in
a year or two, if you likes me a bit, I'll—"

Devenish gave a gasp and pulled her to her feet. "Hush! Poor
child. Now, sit properly and do not even think such things."

Trembling, she whispered, "It would be better, sir… than a
Flash House, but— Oh! Now I've gone and made you cross again! You do
get very awful cross, mister…"

"Devenish. Alain Devenish, at your service, madame!" He rose
and swept her the most stately bow of which he was capable with his leg
throbbing so. The child was delighted, laughter returned to her eyes,
and her hands clapped joyously. "Now," said Devenish, "we must find a
name for you, for Tabby I will not tolerate."

"A name? A new name? Oh, sir—do that mean as you will keep
me?" And she clasped her hands before her thin breast with such an
intensity of hope that he feared to hear those fragile bones snap.

"I cannot keep you, child," he pointed out gently. "It
wouldn't be proper, for I've no lady wife to care for you, but—"

Undismayed, she said, "Well, if you don't got a wife, you
prob'ly have a—"

"No! I have not one of those, either! Now—what am I to call
you?" He ran through his mind the names of every lady he could recall.
"It must be a pretty name…"

She said timidly, "If I was to think of a speshly lovely name,
p'raps
then
you might keep me?"

"No. But I shall see to it that you've a decent chance in
life. One of my aunts, or cousins—some kind lady will take you in, and
perhaps train you for her abigail. Would you like that?"

The child tried to answer, but could not. And to his horror,
flung herself down and began to kiss his muddy boots.

"Good God!" he gasped, again hauling her up. "Never do such
things!"

She dragged one torn sleeve across her small nose, and
sniffed, "I can't help it. You be so good to I. Does you like 'Josie'?"

He said dubiously, "Josie? Why? Do you like it?"

"I don't know." She shrugged. "It—sort of comes into my head
sometimes."

Devenish had been considering the merits of Antonia but—
"Well, it's better than Tabby!" he said. "Very well, Josie it shall
be." He looked about as a sudden flash was followed by a great rumbling
bump of thunder. "Josie Storm! How's that?"

"Lovely!" The newly christened Miss Storm hugged herself
ecstatically. "I feel new all over! Josie Storm…
oooh
!"

"I was sure they would be here for breakfast, Aunt," said
Yolande, her worried glance travelling for the hundredth time around
the emptying coffee room of the hotel. "I wonder if we should not send
one of the outriders in search of them? Or perhaps call in the
constable?"

"Yes, and a pretty figure we should cut when they were
discovered roistering in some ale house!" her aunt sniffed. "The host
told you, my love, that neither Devenish nor Tyndale—or whatever he
calls himself—signed the guest register."

"No, but they stabled their horses here, and they were still
here when we retired, for I sent Peattie downstairs to enquire. You
know how Dev loves that mare. And Craig values Lazzy most highly."

"Goodness only knows why, for a more unattractive beast I
seldom beheld. Oh, mercy, here is dear Mr. Garvey! Perhaps he can set
your mind at ease."

James Garvey, looking very well in a dark brown riding coat
and buckskins, came to join them, his grave "May I have the honour?"
drawing an immediate and dramatic "Oh,
pray
do,
sir!" from Mrs. Drummond, and a welcoming smile from her niece. His
polite enquiries as to their night's rest were brushed aside, Yolande
replying almost impatiently, "Very nice, I thank you. Mr. Garvey, have
you seen anything of my cousins Devenish and Tyndale? I hope you will
not think me foolish, but I am becoming most anxious for them."

He rested an appreciative gaze upon her. "Your concern does
you credit, dear lady. As does your gown. Dare I be so bold as to
remark how pleasingly that shade of peach becomes you?"

Irritated by what she considered a pointless digression,
Yolande was also struck by the thought that Dev would have said
carelessly that her dress was orange, if she'd asked him, and Tyndale
would probably merely have observed that she looked charmingly. She
smiled politely, but decided she would soon find Mr. Garvey's suave
manners a dead bore. Yet—how kindly he was regarding her, and only
think how willingly he had spared them from what must otherwise have
been a dull journey. "What a wretched, ungrateful girl I am!" she
thought penitently.

Her aunt had willingly jumped into the pause resulting from
Yolande's brief hesitation and was exclaiming over Mr. Garvey's
unending kindnesses. As soon as she paused to draw breath, Yolande cut
into this welter of gratitude. "I echo my aunt's sentiments, sir," she
said warmly. "You have been too good."

He looked a little solemn then. "I do have some news," he said
with marked reluctance. "I trust it will not distress you. The head
ostler tells me that your cousins have departed, ma'am. They came to
the stable late last night, apparently, claimed their mounts, paid
their shot, and rode out."

Stunned, Yolande stared at him. She had, she knew, been out of
reason cross with both of them. But could Dev have been so offended he
would leave in such a way? Would Craig take himself off without so much
as a farewell—a note, at least? A pang pierced her heart, and suddenly
she felt miserable and betrayed.

"Typical!" snorted Mrs. Drummond. "It would be asking too much
of you, dear Mr. Garvey, to enquire if they left a
billet-doux
at the desk, perhaps?"

"I did so, ma'am. That is, I asked of the clerk. There was
nothing."

Mrs. Drummond cast her niece a smug "I told you so!" look.

Yolande pulled herself together. "How foolish in me to have
worried," she said, striving not altogether successfully to sound
lightly amused. "Well, dear, you were very right to tease me. I expect
Sullivan has given Socrates his exercise by this time, so perhaps we
should collect our cloaks and be upon our way."

Sadly in need of a shave, and looking considerably tattered
and weather-stained, Devenish lay back against the tree trunk and
sighed beatifically. "How strange it is," he mused, "that a dinner of
bread and cheese eaten in town would be plain fare, but bread and
cheese eaten under a tree is always so dashed magnificent."

Bathed in the golden rays of the late afternoon sun, Josie
scratched her head and regarded her protector doubtfully. "Does that
mean as ye liked it?"