Dedicated Villain (36 page)

Lady Clorinda had been quite sure when Mathieson limped to her caravan that he had come to find Fiona. They'd paused to rest the horses, and when she realized it was herself he had come to see, she sent Fiona hurrying back to the coach to discover how Rob went on. For a second, Mathieson's eyes had followed the girl betrayingly, but apart from that his manners had not slipped by an iota. His whole attention was on my lady, his considerable charm expended at length, and very persuasively in behalf of his friend.

Perched on the lower bunk, watching him thoughtfully, she said, “So you like Heywood, do you?”

“His kind are the backbone of this land. He is the type of man I wish—I had been.”

“Well! There's a compliment, indeed.” The warmth in her smile was unfeigned. “Yet we have reason to be thankful you are exactly the kind of man you are.”

He said with bland immediacy, “For the moment, at least.”

“Does that mean,” she asked, accepting the challenge, “you think us thankful only for the moment? Or that you are what you are only for the moment?”

“I suppose—both. When this is over, I fancy I shall be
persona non grata
with you, no?”

Despite the sardonic drawl, the black eyes held a wistfulness that could not fail to touch her heart. ‘Oh, you wicked creature!' she thought. “And—the second half of my remark?” she evaded.

Mathieson hesitated, then limped over to the door and stood looking into the rain. He'd had no intention of raising the business now, but perhaps it was as good a time as any. His pulse quickening and his voice low, he asked, “Do you believe a man can change, Lady Clorinda? Do you believe the love of a beautiful woman can make a worthless, unprincipled rascal into a—a worthwhile human being?”

“Oh, no,” she answered softly.

He spun around, frowning, and she felt a delicious little pang of fear. “Pray do not throttle me,” she said. “Perhaps I should qualify my verdict. For—it
is
a verdict, isn't it Roland?”

He paled, but gave a small bow.

“I do not believe the love of any woman can change a man. Particularly, if he is worthless and unprincipled and a rascal. I
do
believe that in rare—alas, very rare—instances, a man's love
for
a woman can inspire him to change. But—'twould be a long and hard road for such a man as you describe, and his love would have to be exceeding deep and faithful.”

“But if he were to take that long and hard road, and if at the end he was—might be—considered worthy. Would he then have some small chance?”

“I—rather doubt it,” she sighed. “Oh,
Lud!
Do not look at me so, dear boy! I vow you put me very much in mind of your
grandfather, for in his youth he was just such another creature! All fire and ice and terrifyingly intense passions!”

He gripped his impromptu cane so hard that it bit into the palm of his hand. A betraying muscle flickered beside his mouth, but he had no intention of losing his poise as he had done so disgracefully last night, and responded coolly, “My sincere apologies, madam. Perhaps—you would be so good as to explain … ?”

“But, my dear, it surely must be obvious. If the lady were beautiful, and the gentleman in question must follow a long, hard road, the chances are that by the time his metamorphosis was complete, she would have—married someone else.”

How white he was now, and how his eyes glittered with rage. He would like to pick her up and break her neck, beyond doubting. Poor lad—he was much more in love than she had guessed. Almost, she could be sorry for having been so cruel. But—sometimes, it was necessary. And, withal, kinder in the long run.

Mathieson said in a tight, controlled voice, “And—how if the beautiful lady is as deeply in love and as faithful?”

“Ah—that would be sad. For beautiful young ladies—of our class, at least—do not always have control over whom they will wed, do they?”

For an instant, again, she was almost afraid. Then the dark head was turned from her and she could breathe once more.

Mathieson stood very taut and still, looking blindly at the team behind them, but seeing instead a piquant, trusting face, the love in a pair of shining emerald eyes.

To spare him, and because of her own nervousness, Lady Clorinda said brightly, “But since we speak of Thaddeus Bri—Heywood, we need have no such qualms.”

“True,” he murmured. And then, with a sudden wild gesture, he swung up his cane and snapped it between his hands as if it had been a thin twig rather than a sturdy branch. His control broke also. “No!” he cried, and limped forward until he towered
over the tiny lady who leaned back on the bunk, looking up at him with wide, frightened eyes.

‘I wonder,' thought Lady Clorinda, ‘if his mind has given way? Is he going to strike me with those two pieces of his cane? Gregor has gone to talk to Pauley—if I scream, can he come back in time?' But she did not scream although she could not have told why.

Mathieson suddenly fell to his knees before her, and reaching out, took her by both arms. In a strained voice, he said, “You told me once that—that when you were young, you admired Muffin. Did you—love him?”

A dark flush stained her cheeks. Frightened, but still proud, she demanded, “Let me go at once! How dare—”

He shook her but very gently. “I dare! And you blush, madam.
Did
you?”

“Well—w-well … I do not see—”

“You
did
! Ah, my lady, do you remember how it felt? You did not marry him, so you must have been separated against your will. No, do not hide your eyes! Look at me! Ma'am, if you remember how it felt to be denied your heart,
Je vous en supplie
—do not inflict that on us! I worship her! I dare to think she loves me. I know … God help me, I
know
I am unworthy! But—” His voice broke, his head bowed, and suddenly the agonized face was concealed against her skirts.

She stared down at him for a moment. Such ungentlemanlike loss of reserve both shocked and touched her. But his words had taken her back to youth and its heartbreaking disappointments, so that her hand went out gently to touch the thick dark hair. She laughed rather shakily and murmured, “How much of your poor mama is in you! What Englishman would resort to such emotional behaviour?”

“I know,” he said, his face still hidden and his voice muffled. “I am quite unused to—to loving, you see. I apologize for causing you such embarrassment.”

“I find it refreshing, rather than embarrassing. Would that
more of our men had some of that hot Latin blood! Our ladies would be better loved, I think.”

Mathieson lifted his head and gazed up at her. His face was haggard, but hope had crept into his eyes.

She said gently, “Yes. I do remember. At the time I thought … I surely would die of grief. And I
do
pity you, Roland. But—oh, poor boy, I cannot help. You see—I love my granddaughter very much.”

He seized her hand and pressed it to his lips. “And, I am not what you want for her. Of course not. But my lady, you
can
help! How much you know—how much you have heard of me, I dare not guess. I only swear to you, here on my knees, that I
will
change! I shall not ask her to wait. For the time all I ask is to be allowed to be near her—to try and guard her from harm. And to—most humbly beg that—that you will not close your mind to all hope for us. That you will give me a chance to prove myself. Lady Clorinda … is there anything—
anything
I can do to win your favour?”

She shook her head in a troubled way, but said, “Well, to start with, I would have you get up, for I fear you are hurting that ankle quite badly. No, do not utter polite platitudes. Now—be silent, and let me think if I may in the slightest degree give you any hope …”

Obediently, Mathieson dragged himself awkwardly to his feet and limped to the door again, his nerves quivering, horrified by this second lapse in conduct, and waiting in quivering apprehension for the verdict of this proud and invincible
grande dame.

“I have your task,” said Lady Clorinda after a few moments that seemed to him to stretch into an eternity.

He returned to stand very still before her, scarcely daring to breathe.

“You have told MacTavish you mean to help us get clear,” she said gravely. “You may think that, of itself, should be sufficient. Alas, it is not. Fiona must have a husband who is honourable as well as brave. Whose devotion is not a fly-by-night
thing, but will endure. Who can offer her an adequate fortune and a gracious home. Who can command the respect not only of those who have cause to be grateful to him, but of—the finest man I know.” She saw his right hand stretch out, then tighten into a fist, and she finished, “Yes, Roland. When you can come to me and tell me Muffin has forgiven you—then I may consider your request to pay your addresses to my granddaughter!”

Mathieson did not move, but his heart thudded into his boots. He thought,
‘La tâche hors de accomplissement!'

My lady saw the despair in his eyes and prepared herself to resist his appeal.

He surprised her. With a commendably bland smile, he murmured lightly, “
Merci bien
, my lady. Now—what must I tell our poor Heywood?”

So the English side of him was in control again. There was the feeling that his outburst was unprecedented and had dismayed him as much as it had startled her. How calm and assured he appeared now. And who would dream that behind the lazy smile, the faintly bored and mocking air, dwelt such a volcano? Lud, but one could not fail to be titillated, nor to marvel that Fiona, dear as the minx was, had managed to attach so fiery and tempestuous a heart.

Stifling a sigh, my lady stood. “Tell him to come and speak to me himself,” she said, standing and walking to the door with him. “He will not find me unsympathetic.”

He bowed and murmured his thanks. And leaving her, knew she was a formidable antagonist, indeed.

The village of Sandipool was not blessed with a town hall, so the Avon Travelling Players were to present their performance in the Vestry Hall of the church. St. Peter's was located atop a steep hill, and late in the afternoon of their arrival, the two property waggons toiled through the cold drizzle to the old church, escorted by every boy within a radius of five miles who had been able to escape his parents, and a motley crowd of dogs. The excitement rose to fever pitch when the hastily repaired set pieces, each swathed in oilcloth, were wheeled down the makeshift ramps. Many willing hands made short work of trundling the tantalizing objects into the Vestry Hall, but the joyous uproar stilled to a hushed silence when the red coach made its resplendent way across the cobblestones and the five female members of the Avon Travelling Players alighted. Three of these ladies were so dazzlingly beautiful that the curate, who had come out to quiet the children, completely forgot his errand and stood gawking in a manner that the vicar subsequently informed him was particularly unsuited to his calling.

There was a great deal of hammering and shouting inside the Vestry Hall. There had been no stage available, but when MacTavish
had first spoken to the Squire as to the possibility of presenting the play in Sandipool, the local people had been so excited by such a prospect that they had undertaken to erect a stage themselves. This structure was now nearing completion, and my lady, Mrs. Dunnigan, and Moira went off to inspect the results, while Fiona and Elizabeth instructed Japhet, Pauley, and Freemon Torrey as to the disposition of their costumes and cosmetics.

A curtained-off area adjacent to the new stage was used by the choirboys to change into their robes. This had been hurriedly partitioned into two separate temporary dressing rooms, one for the men and the other for the ladies, with screens arranged so as to leave a short inner corridor by which it was possible to access the stage while out of view of the spectators. The large box of costumes having been carried in, Torrey and his two helpers departed, and the caravans soon went rumbling back down the hill.

Fiona and Elizabeth busied themselves with the proper disposition of the various garments, and in setting up the two travelling mirrors.

“Thank goodness the rain became no heavier,” said Fiona, hanging up her “dairymaid's” apron. “I doubt this drizzle will keep many people at home, do you?”

“As if we cared,” whispered Elizabeth, with a cautious glance at the curtain.

“Oh, I know.” Lowering her voice also, Fiona said, “How worrying 'twould be was this really our livelihood. But—it
is
rather fun, do not you think? I vow that despite all the nuisances and discomforts, I never have enjoyed anything more!”

“That is
very
apparent,” teased Elizabeth, then laughed at her cousin's blushes.

Fiona made a fast recover. “And what of you, pray?” Turning to seize Beth's hands, she said, “Poor Thaddeus! He is so battered, but fought for us so bravely.” Her eyes became wide and haunted. “Do you know what I was thinking before I went to bed last night? I thought—how very close we came to—to—”