Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns

SUSSEX, ENGLAND Autumn, 1818

"No, I hasn't forgot what I promised." Arthur Warrington
peered through the gathering dusk and said in a half-whisper, "But it's
not quite dark
yet.
'Sides, the castle doesn't
frighten you, Friar, mighty warrior that you are."

They were very close to forbidden territory now. Lanterns
loomed up, a gloomy immensity, black against the darkening sky,
stretching from here to the very edge of the cliffs. Arthur scrambled
over a low and crumbling wall, then paused briefly before squaring his
slight shoulders and flinging his cloak back so as to come at his
sword. His companion sprang onto the wall and he hissed, "They've got
her in the Haunted Castle, sure's sure. An' we must come to the rescue,
y'know." The sword managed to catch itself in his cloak, but he
succeeded in wrenching it forth at last, and waved it in the approved
fashion while proclaiming "Forward!" in an unapproved whisper.

Misunderstanding, Friar Tuck leapt to engage the whirling
weapon. He was told sternly to stop "playing about," whereupon he sat
down and sulked.

"Come on," said Arthur urgently. "You mustn't d'sert me now,
Friar. I'm the bravest outlaw what ever was, but I can't fight all the
wicked Sheriff's men at arms all 'lone!" A thought striking him, he
muttered, "I wonder why they call 'em men at arms. Everyone's got
arms." He glanced at Friar Tuck who was now preening his whiskers and
added apologetically, "Well, almost everyone. Anyway, we'd best get on,
or Etta will fuss an' Aunty Dova's sure to blame—"

The sentence died away and would never be completed. Arthur
Warrington, aged almost five, was struck to terrified silence, and
Friar Tuck, of the ginger-and-white persuasion, shot back over the wall
without a thought for poor Maid Marion.

Somewhere amid the ruins of the Haunted Castle a door had
opened and closed again. Briefly, figures had been silhouetted against
a glow of light: two men, who now carried a shapeless burden across the
low bridge towards a coach and four that had waited in the shadows.

A deep voice said curtly, "You know what you are to do, Mac?"

"Aye, sir."

"You'll be careful? We want no witnesses."

The second man, who talked like Hamish who'd been their
gardener in London, said, "I well ken that, forbye!"

There was a faint sound. A moan perhaps.

Arthur's trembling knees seemed to melt under him so that he
slid down and crouched beside the wall. But despite his thundering
heart he peeped over the top.

"Whatever happens, she must never be found. You understand me?"

"Aye, sir."

The furtive pair had reached the coach, a spectral shape with
no lamps lit. Arthur could see only their outlines as a third man held
the door open, and they lifted their burden inside.

The Scottish voice grumbled, "This grim, glum, bogle-ridden
ruin isnae a safe place for ye tae bide, sir, and ye knows it. I've nae
wee joy in the Big Smoke, but I'd sooner see ye there! If Ti Chiu comes
sniffin' aboot—"

"London's too noisy," interrupted the first voice impatiently.
"And Ti Chiu would create less notice there, whereas here he'd stand
out like a sore thumb, as would his master. Be off with you!

Arthur ducked lower.

The carriage door slammed, the horses snorted and pawed eager
hooves at the cobblestones, and there was the sound of a window being
let down.

"But, how can ye manage tae—"

"Have done! Daniel—go!"

The crack of a whip. Heavy wheels crunched and rattled,
leathers creaked, and the hoofbeats became a steady and fading pounding.

Straining his ears, Arthur heard not the faintest sound of
footsteps, but when he dared to peep over the wall again the man who'd
stayed was nowhere to be seen.

It was a long time before he summoned the courage to creep
from his hiding place, and not until he was well up the slope did he
dare follow the example of the craven Friar Tuck, and make a mad dash
for home.

The dower house, a square and spacious dwelling, was situated
at the northwest corner of the Lanterns estate. Although more than a
mile inland, it had been built on rising ground and in good weather
offered an unobstructed view of the English Channel and the French
coastline. It was a far cry from the luxurious elegance of Sir Lionel
Warrington's London mansion, but his elder daughter, Miss Marietta
Warrington, blessed with the happy facility of making the best of
things, had come to think that they might have done a great deal worse
than to have settled here.

"No matter what you say, there is absolutely no reason for
them to call here so often," she remarked now, as she crossed the large
kitchen to set the teapot on the tray with gentle care.

The old silver tea service, besides being a thing of beauty,
was a relic of their former life and as such was to be handled
reverently. "What could Sir Gavin Coville possibly find to interest him
here?" she went on, keeping her voice low. "Our home is humble—"

"Now," put in Fanny, looking glum as she extracted warm scones
from a baking pan.

"—And he is not the type of man to have formed a
tendre
for dear Aunty Dova."

At this Fanny uttered a shriek of mirth, clapped a hand over
her mouth, then said between giggles, "She is in there now, you know,
and Sir Gavin is being very polite, but I can scarce wait for the day
when he sees her go into her dance. Already, he judges her ripe for
Bedlam!"

Marietta, who was deeply attached to her high-spirited younger
sister, tried to look stern but was undone by the sparkle in the big
hazel eyes and failed to repress an answering smile. "He can have very
little in common with my father, and he certainly must be aware that
Papa suffered a great loss on the Exchange."

"On the tables at White's and Watier's, more like," said Fanny
with a sniff. Noting Marietta's slight frown she knew she had been
disloyal to their beloved but disastrous parent and added hurriedly,
"Next you will say that our landlord has a
tendre
for me!"

Marietta hurried into the dining room, and returning with the
tea strainer, said rather tartly that she had no intention of saying
such a thing since Sir Gavin was merely acting for Lord Temple and
Cloud, who was really their landlord, even if he never showed his face
at Lanterns.

"And hopefully never will," said Fanny. "He couldn't live in
that awful old place and would likely want the dower house back, and
then where would we be?"

"Besides," said Marietta, continuing with her train of
thought, "Sir Gavin is too old even for your ancient spinster sister.
Why, he's likely the same age as my father! And even if Mr. Blake
Coville should have an interest in you, Fan—"

"Oh, do stop," said Fanny. "The reason why Sir Gavin and his
son come to see us is perfectly obvious to any idiot"—she thrust the
sterling silver cake plate in front of her sister's nose— "unless she
be blind as several bats."

Marietta glanced critically at the face reflected in the
highly polished surface. It was, she thought, a quite nice but
unremarkable face. The nose was slim, the cheekbones were high but a
trifle too broad. The mouth? Well, that was not too bad, and with a
pleasant curve to the rosy lower lip. But it was a resolute mouth, and
the chin below it could boast not the vestige of a dimple and was too
firm. The eyes, with their thick black lashes were, she had to admit,
very satisfactory, and a faint glow of approval stirred in their green
depths as she considered her hair. The soft near-black curls were truly
her crowning glory and shone like silk, nicely setting off her very
light and clear complexion. "Hmm," she said.

"Hmm, indeed," exclaimed Fanny, lowering the impromptu mirror
and filling it with small cakes and biscuits. "You never will admit how
lovely you are. Mr. Blake Coville's eyes light up when you come into
view. And small wonder."

Marietta added cups and saucers to the tray. "
Much
wonder," she argued. "Save for Jocelyn Vaughan, and Alain Devenish, who
has vanished into the country somewhere—"

"Like us," inserted Fanny with a sigh.

"Like us. Where was I? Oh, yes—Except for Vaughan and
Devenish, Blake Coville must be London's most eligible bachelor."

"And most handsome. Who is Jocelyn Vaughan?"

"Heir to Lord Moulton, and cousin to Lucian St. Clair. Do you
not recall when he came home from the war so badly wounded, and when he
recovered all the ladies were in a flutter for fear he would wed Alicia
Wyckham?"

Fanny shrugged, re-filled the kettle, and put it on the hob.
"For myself, I have no interest in highly born gentlemen," she declared
loftily. "They are all stupid. I shall marry a poor professor, or an
artist, or some plain and humble man with a
brain in his head. But I care for your sake, dearest. Despite your
looks, you—er—"

"I am four and twenty, and too old to attract an eligible
suitor." Marietta took up the tray. "But you are only nineteen," she
added, "and in spite of what you say I expect at any day to hear you
admit you have become interested in some dashing young Corinthian." She
laughed at Fanny's look of disgust. "Never fear, I don't mean to press
you. But I would very much like to help poor Papa, you know. Someone
must save him from the odious widow!"

Fanny crossed to open the door and murmured with a shudder,
"Heavens, yes! How selfish I am. One of us must marry well and tow us
out of the River Tick, as Eric would say. Please find a smile for Blake
Coville, dearest! You cannot pretend you are indifferent to the
gentleman."

Marietta turned away to hide the sudden rush of colour to her
cheeks. "You have been reading too many of Mrs. Meeke's romances! Bring
the cakes and the scones, Fan. And do try to remember that we are poor
as church mice and I have no dowry to recommend me to any gentleman."

Walking along the passage into the drawing room she refused to
judge it as any less than a most comfortable and welcoming chamber.
Because of the chill of the late afternoon air, she had told Bridger to
set a fire, and now the tangy aroma of woodsmoke hung on the air. Sir
Gavin probably judged the furnishings shabby, but they were also
immaculate, the woodwork glowing, and the rugs and several
objets
d'art
clearly having come from a gentleman's home.

A casual onlooker might have been surprised to note that when
she and Fanny carried in the tea trays only three of the several
gentlemen present rose to their feet. A closer look would have revealed
the fact that five of the other 'guests' were breathlessly still.
Indeed, they had never drawn a breath at all, for they were life-sized
dolls, carefully costumed and having surprisingly realistic features.

The Covilles were far from inanimate however. Both handsome
men, when entering a room side by side they'd been known to bring all
conversation to a halt. At forty-eight, Sir Gavin's figure was trim,
his dark brown hair was as thick and curled as crisply as that of his
son, and the touch of grey at his temples emphasized rather than
detracted from his good looks. His dark eyes were large, and some
doting ladies had described them as 'velvety,' but they were also
shrewd and intelligent. Blake Coville had inherited his father's height
and build and his mother's deep blue eyes, and a smile lit them as he
hurried to take the tray from Marietta and carry it to a low table.

His gaze flickered over her admiringly. He was aware that,
apart from their groom, the Warringtons could not afford to keep
full-time servants, and that they maintained only one old and
antiquated coach and three hacks. Even so, the various family members
still contrived to keep up appearances and dressed well. This afternoon
Miss Marietta looked charming in a gown of primrose silk, beautifully
embroidered above the hem. Following Fashion's edict, the skirt was in
the new slightly shorter length which allowed a glimpse of shapely
ankles (and Miss Warrington's ankles were very shapely indeed), while
the neckline was cut higher to the throat than had formerly been judged
stylish. If either that creation, or Miss Fanny's pale green muslin
gown was self-made, as his father believed, Blake could only suppose
that somebody in the household must be an exceptional seamstress.

He wondered that they could find the time for dressmaking, for
they seemed always to be working. If one chanced to pay an early
morning call, Miss Marietta might be found dusting or mending or
helping the village woman who came in twice a week. Miss Fanny was
likely to be rolling out dough or preparing vegetables in the kitchen;
and Sir Lionel would be puttering about in his basement workroom busied
with one of his "inventions." As for the widowed aunt who lived with
them, it still made Blake uneasy to find that lady, who must be at
least fifty, digging industriously in the vegetable gardens and holding
merry conversations with the products of her labours. Peculiar, was
Mrs. Emma Cordova, no doubt about that.

"You should not have gone to so much trouble, Miss Marietta,"
he now said in his pleasant voice. "Uninvited guests need not be
catered to, you know."

Sir Lionel Warrington was always delighted to receive callers,
and he beamed expansively. When he had married, he'd been judged a fine
figure of a man, but the years had taken their toll, and after his
adored Elsa had died giving birth to Arthur, his broad shoulders had
bowed a little, and the abundant black hair had thinned even as the
waistline had thickened. At forty-nine, uneasily aware that his
character was not strong and that his gaming had brought disaster down
upon them, he had become absent-minded in some respects—such as meeting
the tuition costs for Arnold, who was at Harrow; and for Eric, reading
for his degree at Cambridge. But he was also aware that despite his
failings he was loved, and, loving in return, counted himself in many
ways a fortunate man.