Fallen Angel (56 page)

"She disna? Then what does she do?"

"She asks them to leave, politely, of course."

"That's all ye ken! I told ye no lies, though I didna mayhap tell ye the whole of it. It was no polite party yer faither put on that night but a drunken orgy. And thae were no ladies o' quality yer mother took her whip tae, but, if ye'll excuse my French, barques o' frailty."

"What?"

"Ye ken, bits o' muslin."

"D'you mean 'lightskirts?'"

"Doxies, trollops, Cyprians, every last one o' them," said Janet with the merest trace of smugness on her thin lips.

Maddie's face was a picture of incredulity. "You're pulling my leg! Papa wasn't
that
sort of man. I don't believe he would have served Mama such a turn."

Janet answered at her bluntest. "Every man is o'
that
ilk, given the opportunity. Yer mither was wiser than ye are. She made damn sure that Donald Sinclair was never again presented wi' temptation. Maddie, ye ken fine what yer faither was afore he wed yer mammy. Aye, and became again, once she was gone. But I swear tae ye, in a' the years o' their marriage,
he made her as happy as any woman has a right tae be. She kent that it's the woman who
maun
make sure that* her man keeps tae the straight and narrow."

Maddie digested this homespun philosophy as she absently nibbled on a piece of shortbread. At length she asked, "Did Papa ever take up with any married ladies?"

Janet's laugh was more like a cackle. "Only the wicked ones wi' complacent husbands. Och, but yer mammy put a stop tae his philanderin' frae the minute she got his ring on her finger."

"Men!" interjected Maddie with obvious revulsion. "Why, Papa was no better than . . ." She almost gave herself away.

"Aye," said Janet, her shrewd eyes regarding Maddie steadily, "no better than Lord Deveryn."

Maddie suddenly realized that she was down to her last bite of shortbread. She studiously chewed on it and affected an interest in the remaining crumbs on her plate.

At length, she offered, "My mother was an exceptional woman."

"Aye. Things might have been different if the Good Lord had spared her."

The words, though sad in themselves, opened the door to happier reminiscences. Thoughts of Deveryn faded, and Maddie conversed happily and easily about earlier days when her mother was alive and it seemed that all her memories were bathed in sunshine.

They talked long past bed-time. There had been only a few changes in neighbouring families to occasion much interest. "Hatches, matches, and dispatches," as Duncan referred to them with a smile when he entered later to bank up the kitchen grate with several blocks of peat.

The intelligence about his purse from the prize fight he had won occasioned only a tepid interest. It would buy a few luxuries. But what was there to spend it on? Drumoak was their lives. Maddie gave a careful accounting of every last penny she had spent to finance their trip to Scotland. It was accepted, as she knew it would be, without demur. On her diffidently applying for a small loan to tide her over for a short stay in Edinburgh, Duncan instantly and gratifyingly assented. Janet looked as if she might argue the point.

"With or without the loan, I am accepting Miss Maitland's invitation to stay until Founders' Day," Maddie informed Janet with an uncompromising set to her little chin.

Janet sighed. "Ye've no been listenin' tae a word I've said."

"Dear Janet," said Maddie, lifting the other's calloused hand and putting it to her cheek. "I have been listening to your every word, and believe me, I understand perfectly what you are trying to say. It's just that . . . well. . . there are things you know nothing about. Besides," she said more briskly, "in my book, it's the knight who's supposed to fight for his lady— not the other way round."

"Fairy tales," said Janet with a dismissive shake of her head. "That were yer mammy's doin'."

"I like happy-ever-after stories," responded Maddie with a teasing gleam in her eye. "As a child I went to sleep well content having listened to tales of King Arthur and his knights. Whereas, your Highland tales of magic kept me awake long after bedtime."

"So ye'11 no bide till Lord Deveryn gets here?" said Janet, bringing the subject of their conversation ruthlessly round.

"You know, he may not come."

"He'll come."

"I'm not keeping my direction a secret. Miss Maitland's Academy is not so very far away."

"Ye'll be makin' him go the extra mile? And I thought that ye were a good Christian lady, as yer mother brought ye up tae be. Ye've grown hard, Maddie."

Janet's parting words revolved in Maddie's mind, nagging her relentlessly in moments of solitude. She contrived to put them from her when she led Banshee out the following morning and rode at break neck speed along the soft sands at the edge of the receding tide. For the hour that she rode, with Kelpie at her heels, unrestrained, racing the wind, exulting in the feel of blood and bone beneath her, she contrived to banish all unpleasant thoughts. But the moment she dismounted and began the slow walk home, they rushed in to plague her.

"I wish I
were
hard," she confided in Banshee's ear. "If it were true, I'd be a far happier girl. D'you think I'm hard?"

Banshee's ears pricked and she nuzzled Maddie's shoulder.

"Well, of course, even murderers have been known to be kind to animals," she went on, retrieving a lump of sugar from her pocket and offering it to Banshee's eager lips. "I'm afraid, in a court of law, your opinion wouldn't count for anything. Have I been hard on Deveryn, d'you think?"

She stopped to watch the spectacle of Kelpie trying to shepherd a flock of seagulls. "I'm too soft on that dog. She's getting fat. She ought to be put to work."

She put two fingers to her mouth and whistled. Kelpie came streaking back on the instant.

"Good girl," said Maddie approvingly as the ball of black fur came to a stop at her feet. Alert brown eyes gazed up at her, waiting for the next command. Maddie looked into the distance, noted the piece of driftwood, and pointing with one finger gave the command, "Fetch!"

Kelpie took off.

"I've done a good job with you two," said Maddie thoughtfully. "What a happier place the world would be to be sure if only husbands could be so easily trained." She sighed, then sighed again. "D'you think I'm at fault for not keeping my husband on the straight and narrow? You'll be telling me next that Cynthia was one of those wicked married ladies that Janet mentioned, and that Deveryn did no more or less than my father would have done in his place. You know, I don't think, deep down, I like men very much. But then, as I've said before, liking and love are two different entities. Now if only men could be more like women, the world would be . . . You're right. It would be different and not nearly so interesting. Perhaps I should try to become more like my mother."

Banshee whinnied softly and nudged Maddie's pocket.

"Oh, so you think that note I left Deveryn was cold and unfeeling? You may be right. But you must own that the provocation was great. 'Do your worst!' Those were the words e flung at me. And I did. I don't think that proves that I'm hard, necessarily. It's just this beastly temper of mine! Was it my fault that I could not turn the boat around and go back to him? Oh, you think it was? Deveryn very likely agrees with you! Good girl, Kelpie. What an interesting piece of driftwood."

She stopped to admire what had evidently been the branch of a tree, and Kelpie, impatient for more fun, cocked her head to one side and barked ferociously. Obedient to her dog's command, Maddie flung the driftwood from her.

"I can always count on you and Kelpie coming to me when I whistle," Maddie said confidingly to Banshee. "If only I could be as sure of Deveryn." She placed thumb and ring finger in her mouth and emitted a piercing whistle. "D'you think he heard me call for him? I hope so. And if he comes—
when
he comes—what should I say to him?"

But on that subject, both Banshee and Kelpie were distressingly silent.

As Maddie had hopefully surmised, Lord Deveryn reached Drumoak the day after she took up residence in Miss Maitland's Academy. The report reached her through the good offices of Janet who sent Duncan into Edinburgh on the pretext of procuring the freshest cod and oysters to be had for his lordship's dinner.

Cod's head,
conjectured Maddie.
That will please the servants. They'll eat like royalty on the leavings as long as Deveryn is in residence.

In the course of conversation, Duncan guilelessly let slip that a large party of Deveryn's friends was expected to reach Leith the following week, conveyed in his lordship's private yacht, no less, which was normally docked at Deal. The house was a beehive of activity. Extra staff had been taken oil; beds and bedding were being aired; the stables were to have a fresh coat of whitewash; a ton of coal had been ordered; and, in short, Drumoak was preparing for its first house party of any significance since Donald Sinclair's marriage to Cynthia.

"To what purpose?" asked Maddie, catching a glint of something under Duncan's lashes which she did not like.

"A betrothal, I think," he said with marked uneasiness.

Maddie caught her breath. She could not believe that Deveryn would be so base as to pay her back in such coin.

"Whose betrothal?" she demanded through set teeth. But to that pointed question, Duncan would not dare give an answer.

The exchange with Duncan left Maddie shaken. Fortunately, however, there was little time to be wasted on useless speculation, for Miss Maitland had arranged matters so that Maddie was fully occupied in the preparations for Founders' Day.

A full rehearsal of
Medea
was scheduled for that afternoon.

Though Maddie thought that the girls did an excellent job, she was not surprised that the interpretation of the play was strictly conventional.

Miss Maitland, eagle-eyed, erudite, and, when the occasion merited it, appallingly eloquent, was in attendance.

"Well, what d'you think?" she asked in her no-nonsense style.

There was never any point in euphemisms with Miss Maitland, thought Maddie, and liked her the better for it. "Very, very competent, and . . . a dead bore." She spoke in an undertone so that the sharp ears of the girls could hear nothing.

Miss Maitland's slow smile softened what was essentially a face as no-nonsense as her innate character. On the wrong side of fifty by a year or two, she had only one vanity that Maddie was aware of. Her pale green, almost transparent eyes were fringed by the longest curling eyelashes that Maddie had ever beheld. They were thick and sooty by virtue of the fact that Miss Maitland darkened them. At the end of the day, the blackening had a tendency to weep and form puddles. This entirely human and feminine trait made the lady irresistible.

"They're all yours," she said to Maddie cheerfully. "I have the supremest confidence in your ability."

At the door, she turned. "A word of advice, my dear. I know you won't mind my mentioning it. You sound as though you have a pebble under your tongue. Spit it out, there's a good girl. There's no excuse for less than perfect diction, you know." Miss Maitland never saw the need to keep her conversations private. The girls' ears picked up every word. Maddie was aware of a few commiserating glances.

"Too many cooks spoil the broth," said Maddie darkly, but when she addressed the girls, she rewarded them with a brilliant smile. "Very, very competent," she told them with as much warmth as hanesty. "Miss Maitland has prepared you well. Bear with me a little as we try, together, to effect something a little different."

"Medea," she said, addressing the girl who played the role of Euripides's unhappy heroine, "you are a very pretty girl, very feminine and look to be a heart-breaker." "Medea" did not mistake Maddie's comments for flattery. At Miss Maitland's, there were never any gratuitous compliments.

"But don't forget that when this play was first performed, all the parts were played by men. In fact, you would have been, quite literally, a man in woman's clothing. Moreover, Medea had those attributes which were essentially thought to be masculine. Well, can you imagine Medea domesticated and at her embroidery?"

Her faint sally was greeted with gurgles of laughter.