Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 06] - The Noblest Frailty (8 page)

"And you say there was instant antipathy?" muttered Sir
Martin. "How very strange."

Frightened, his lady scanned his grave features, then uttered
a bracing, "Not so strange, surely, Drummond? Two healthy young male
animals, snarling at one another over a lovely female."

"Perhaps." The Colonel nodded, accustomed to her frank ways.
"Indeed, I pray you may be right. But—if Yolande is attracted to
Craig—" He stopped.

"Lord!" Sir Martin muttered, half under his breath. "Add that
to all the rest… !"

Colonel Tyndale eyed him apprehensively. "What do you think,
my dear?" he asked, turning to Lady Louisa. "You, of all people, know
how Yolande's heart is engaged. Is she in love with Devenish?"

My lady bit her lip. "She loves him, I know," she said
haltingly. "She always has, but— Oh,
why
did
Craig have to arrive at this particular time!"

"I see. We have an undecided heart, have we?" Tyndale said
with reluctance. "I suspected as much. And what of young Craig? They've
only just met, of course, but—I've a suspicion the lad received a
leveller."

"Pshaw!" scoffed Sir Martin. "Love at first sight? I never
believed in it! Attraction perhaps, but nothing lasting. Not in the
wink of an eye! Fairy-tale nonsense! Do you not agree, my love?"

Again, Lady Louisa hesitated. "I feel sure you are right,
Drummond," she said quietly. But she avoided the Colonel's searching
gaze, and his heart sank. "Nonetheless," she went on, "I cannot but
think it would be best, Alastair, did Alain know the truth. If there is
already antagonism between them… It would be so dreadful if…"

Colonel Tyndale stared in silence at the brass dragon. Lady
Louisa did not complete her sentence, and Sir Martin looked from one to
the other of them gloomily.

"Aye," the Colonel sighed, at length. "You are probably in the
right of it, Louisa. But… heaven help me! How shall I tell him… ?"

Yolande started as her name was uttered in a shrill, horrified
screech. "Aunt!" she gasped, wrenching her eyes from Mr. Craig Winters
Tyndale. "How you startled me! Whatever are you doing up and about?"

"Why, I crept from my bed so as to let out Socrates, for with
little Rosemary so ill I would not dream of requiring anyone to come to
my
aid." Mrs. Drummond gathered her voluminous
dressing gown closer about her and, looking at the tall young man who
had risen respectfully upon her entrance, said, "Thank goodness I
did
come, dear Yolande. How shocking that you have been abandoned!"

Craig blinked. Flushed with irritation, Yolande responded,
"Scarcely abandoned in my own home, Aunt. You will have noticed the
door is wide, and Mama will be here directly, I am sure."

"I only arrived a few minutes ago, ma'am," said Craig,
colouring up. "At least," he turned a betrayingly warm smile on
Yolande, "I—er,
think
it was a few minutes ago."

A dimple appeared briefly and, he thought, adorably, in her
smooth cheek, but Mrs. Drummond moaned. He moved at once to her side.
"May I assist you to a chair, ma'am? You do not look—"

A small fox terrier, quite old and very fat, tottered into the
room and, upon perceiving this enormous individual reaching for his
mistress, gave vent to a piercing spate of barking, rushed forward, and
dealt Craig a hearty nip on the ankle.

The Canadian exclaimed an involuntary "Ow!" and stepped back
hurriedly.

"Socrates!" scolded Yolande.

"Dear little fellow," cooed Mrs. Drummond, bending to gather
up her snarling pet. "He was only protecting his mama, wasn't you,
love?"

Tyndale bestowed a smouldering look upon the "dear little
fellow." Hastening to him, Yolande asked a concerned, "Did he hurt you?"

A tall grey-haired woman in a flowing grey gown and snowy
white apron hurried into the room. "Is my lady here, miss? Oh! Excuse
me, sir!"

"Nurse," said Yolande anxiously, "is Miss Rosemary not
improved at all?"

"The fever gets higher, miss, no matter what I do. I fear she
is sickening for something. There is the beginning of a rash, and—"

"Oh! My heavens!" wailed Mrs. Drummond, sinking dramatically
into the nearest chair. "
Never
say it is the
smallpox!"

Entering in time to hear those dread words, Lady Louisa
blanched and clutched at the door-frame. "Smallpox? God in Heaven!
Nurse—it isn't—?"

"Of course not, Mama," said Yolande, crossing to support her.
"Aunt Arabella misunderstood."

"Oh, that poor… sweet, child!" cried Mrs. Drummond, a
handkerchief pressed to tearful eyes.

Nurse, having slanted a disgusted look at these histrionics,
vouchsafed that she could not tell what ailed Miss Rosemary, but she
doubted it was the smallpox.

"Nonetheless, I must go to her," said Lady Louisa. "Yolande,
pray ask your papa to send a groom at once for Dr. Jester."

Craig had moved quietly back to stand out of the way beside
the mantel and now came forward, saying with an apologetic smile that
he would take his leave and would gladly relay the message to Sir
Martin.

"Oh, dear!" Yolande exclaimed. "I have sadly neglected you,
cousin! How is your poor ankle?"

Mrs. Drummond's recovery was astonishing. "
Cousin
?"
she bristled.

"What happened to his ankle?" asked Lady Louisa, distractedly.

"Socrates bit him," Yolande supplied. "Horrid creature!"

"Mr. Winters may have brought great suffering upon us," Mrs.
Drummond said smugly, "but you really should not refer to him in such
terms, my love."

Craig grinned at this excellent shot, but Yolande was not
amused. She blushed scarlet and turned to her aunt with such anger that
Lady Louisa intervened with a vexed, "Really, Arabella! Cousin Craig,
my apologies, but—"

"But you must be wishing me at Jericho!" He took her hand,
patted it sympathetically, and said his farewells. His smile included
Mrs. Drummond and Nurse, in addition to the brief but meaningful
seconds during which it rested upon Yolande. Then he was gone.

An hour later, wandering onto the front porch in search of his
wife, Sir Martin found her staring after the doctor's departing gig.
"Are you coming in, m'dear?" he enquired. "Not worrying over a simple
case of measles, surely?"

"What? Oh, no, of course not, Drummond. Though the poor child
is so wretchedly uncomfortable. Yolande is with her, which she will
very much like, you know."

He nodded, closed the door, and walked across the hall beside
her. After a pause, Lady Louisa sighed. "She was right He really does
have very nice eyes."

My lady was in the habit of occasionally speaking her thoughts
aloud, sometimes to the complete mystification of her listeners. For
once, however, her apparently irrelevant remark did not confuse Sir
Martin. He was perfectly aware she did not refer to Dr. Jester.

Two days later, clad in a dark green fitted coat that closed
to the waist with large brass buttons, Yolande tied the grosgrain
ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin, surveyed her reflection
critically in her standing mirror, and turned to the bed to take up her
muff. "I cannot be easy in my mind about leaving you with Rosemary
ill," she worried. "Mama—perhaps I should stay."

"And be the cause of a full-fledged duel?" Lady Louisa handed
her an urn-shaped reticule of green velvet, embellished with pale green
beads. "How very pretty this is. And goes with your coat and bonnet so
nicely."

"Thank you. Mama, you do not really think… ?"

My lady smiled into her daughter's aghast eyes, and sat down
on the bed. "I think it would be as well for neither young gentleman to
see you just at the moment. You look awfully fetching, dear. Come now,
never be so worried, I was only teasing. They are likely the best of
friends by now."

"I doubt that," Yolande sighed, pulling on one small leather
glove. "Mr. Glick said that when he stopped to visit the Colonel
yesterday, Alain was in a tearing rage because he had discovered that
Cousin Craig had come here whilst he was in Tunbridge Wells!"

"Herbert Glick!" said my lady, with uncharacteristic
impatience. "The poor moonling! He likely exaggerated the matter out of
all proportion. I should forget all about it, were I you."

Considerably troubled, Yolande argued, "Mama, I
cannot
forget about it. I am—most fond of—of both of them."

Lady Louisa shook her head. She did not say anything, however,
but sat staring down at her clasped hands, her expression so pensive
that Yolande went and sat beside her. "Dearest, why have I the feeling
that you and Papa, and Uncle Alastair too, are terribly upset? Is it
because of my—my procrastinating? Shall I set the wedding date before I
leave? If it will put your minds at ease, I will gladly do so."

Her ladyship reached up to touch that loved and lovely face
and say with a wistful smile, "Fate is very strange at times."

"Oh,
dear
Mama! What is it? I have never
seen you so!"

My lady summoned her brightest smile. "Then I must be behaving
in a very silly fashion. Now—your papa would like to speak with you for
just a moment." Forestalling Yolande's next question, she said,
"And—no, it has nothing to do with Rosemary, I promise you. It is just…
it is something you should have been told of, long ago. Only—well, we
never thought it would come to this, do you see?"

"I am frightened," said Yolande, a shiver creeping down her
spine. "Is it very dreadful, Mama?"

Again, Lady Louisa looked down at her hands. They were gripped
very tightly. She unfolded them. "I fear," she said, a tremor in her
gentle voice, "that it really
is
—rather dreadful,
Yolande."

The morning was misty, lacking any trace of the warm sunshine
of the past two balmy days. There was a smell of rain on the cool air
and, as if glum in the face of more damp weather, even the birds seemed
disinclined to sing, so that a deep silence lay over the lush and
pleasant swell of the South Downs.

A large hare came hopping up the slope and at the summit
stopped, suddenly very stiff and still, ears upright and nostrils
twitching as it stared back the way it had come. It darted away then,
moving so fast that it was only a tan blur against the rich grasses,
swiftly vanishing. And in its wake came the sound that had frightened
the small, wild creature. A muffled tremor that at first barely
disturbed the air, growing to a distant throbbing, a rhythmic beat
swelling ever louder until it became a rapid tattoo of iron-shod hooves
racing headlong through the quiet morning. Up over the rise they came,
neck and neck, the ungainly grey gelding, the sleek black mare, the
riders flushed and breathless, leaning forward in the saddles, fair men
both, but one much fairer than the other, and both heads bare, for the
wind had long since snatched their hats, and neither would stop to
reclaim them. A thunder of sound, creak of leather and jingle of spurs
and harness; the earthshaking pound of hooves, the snorting breath of
striving horses. A buffet of wind at their passing. And they were gone,
plunging down the slope, the grey gaining a little as they started up
the other side.

They were out on the Downland now. A long hedge rose ahead,
and Devenish grinned and glanced at his cousin as Craig bent lower.
Lord, he thought, but the man could ride! And with a widening of that
impudent grin he knew the Canadian would have to ride like a centaur to
take this jump unawares. He leaned forward, patting the mare's sweating
neck, preparing her with hand and voice.

Tyndale, narrowed eyes fixed on the hedge, was sure this time
there was no lane, for there was not another hedge beyond, that he
could see. "Come on, Lazzy!" he cried, and felt the great muscles tense
beneath him as the grey shot into the air. Too late, he saw the gleam
of water below and knew that the jump was too wide. The grey snorted
with fear, landed with a mighty splash, and fell. Tyndale flew over his
head and landed hard on the bank.

Laughing, as Miss Farthing landed neatly on the far side,
Devenish glanced back. His laughter died. He swore, reined back, and
swung the mare in a wide circle, dismounting in a flying leap. He
staggered, gripped his right leg and swore at some length as he limped
to his cousin, who lay sprawled at the water's edge.

Thus it was that a moment or two later, Tyndale blinked into a
pair of disembodied blue eyes that gradually became part of features
that were almost too beautiful for a man, but set into an expression of
grim ferocity. "Jove," he breathed, with an unsteady grin. Then, in
sharp anxiety, "Is Lazzy… ?"

"Scraped one knee. No, lie down, you gudgeon! It's nothing
serious."

"Poor old fellow."

"Yes," grunted Devenish, furious with himself. "I should have
thought of that." His cousin slanted an amused glance at him, and he
flushed and reached down. "Here."

Tyndale disdained the proffered aid, and sat up.

"Why the deuce," exploded Devenish, "did you not slow down?
You surely must realize you ain't familiar with the lay of the land?"

"I also realize that because I am a stranger does not make you
responsible for me," Craig answered calmly, his eyes fixed on his grey.

"Don't be so damned patronizing!"

Tyndale said nothing, but the cool stare shifted to Devenish,
whose flush deepened. "Blast you!" he fumed. "I suppose I should have
warned you. I knew you could not hope to negotiate such a jump." His
angry gaze fell away. "It was—it was poor sportsmanship. I apologize."

It had obviously been a painful admission, thought Tyndale.
But it had been made. "Thank you," he said gravely. "But I do not very
often take a toss."

At once those fierce eyes lifted to glare at him. "It is very
well to brag, cousin. But had you broken your neck, only think of my
position. There'd be the devil to pay and no pitch hot, for everyone
would say I had done it deliberately because I dislike you."