Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns (20 page)

''For a while." He looked thoughtful. "Till I am more sure of
where I stand.

Marietta said intuitively, "You're worried. There's something
wrong with all this, I can feel it! Dearest, if there's a danger—"

''Of course there's danger. There's always risk where large
amounts
are involved." As though her words had irritated him, he jumped up and
paced to the window and stood there, gazing broodingly into the rainy
darkness. When he spoke it was in a harsh voice she scarcely
recognized. "Did you ever think how I felt, Etta? To see my father
whistle our fortune down the wind? To watch our home, our carriages,
our horses—everything! swept away. To lounge in the calm detachment of
University life, doing nothing to help, whilst you were reduced to
living down here in poverty, scrubbing and slaving, with no servants,
no social life at all!" Returning to stand with his back to the hearth
he gave an impatient gesture that silenced Marietta's attempt to
respond. "I know how brave you are, and that you will tell me it's not
so bad here. But do you think I don't see your pretty hands? Look at
them, Etta! Work-roughened, the nails broken. Do you remember that ode
Vespa writ for you, called 'Lovely Hands That Hold my Heart'? What
would he think could he see them now?"

Marietta promptly hid the offending articles by sitting on
them. She
well remembered Jack Vespa, who had adored her. One of Wellington's
dashing captains, his grand sense of humour and a courageous ability to
pull himself up again however Fate crushed him had made him her dearest
friend and most favoured suitor. She had not, she believed, ever known
the mystical elation of being 'in love,' but she had loved Jack and
would probably have been quite content to marry him. However, his
countless offers for her hand had been sternly rejected by Papa on the
grounds that he could not support her in the manner to which she was
accustomed. She stifled a sigh. Poor Jack. He would have been even less
able to support the whole family!

''And our beautiful little sister," continued Eric. "With so
much
promise. Toiling over that stove like some hapless kitchen-maid,
instead of having a proper Season and making the brilliant match she
deserves! Gad! It fairly makes my blood boil!"

''Yes, because you are so good, and you love us and want to
help. I
honour you for that, dear. But you have only to look about Town to see
fine old families brought to ruin. Sad as it is, such tragedies happen
every day. I won't pretend it was not rather—terrible—at the time, or
that I don't miss our lovely home and the jolly life we were used to
lead. But only think how fortunate we are. This is such a lovely place,
and by exercising caution with our funds—"

''Funds?" He snorted disgustedly, "What funds? You had to sell
nearly everything we owned to pay my father's debts."

''But I've been able to put a little in the bank, and you have
worked
so hard to help with school expenses, and Aunty Dova does quite well
with her readings."

''You mean she hornswoggles the gullible into paying for her
flim-flams and fancies! That's called charlatanism, Etta!"

''No, no! Never say so! Truly, she has a gift!"

''Aye! The gift of losing herself in delusion. Even as my
father
loses himself in his foolish inventions and leaves to you the task of
struggling with the bills and somehow managing to keep us afloat!"

Distraught, she sprang up and ran to throw her arms around
him. "Do
not! Oh, Eric, you must not say such things! You know how Mama's death
broke his heart and his spirit. But he loves us, my dear one, and we
shall never be loved in just that same way by anyone else."

''I know." He sighed and kissed her, and, still holding her,
asked
gently, "And does he keep out of mischief, Etta? I stopped at the Seven
Seas before I came home, and I heard some talk of a widow with
ambitions in his direction. The lady must not be of very good ton, for
I gather she has a brother who has boasted that he holds some sort of
note from my father. Is it truth?"

''Oh, dear." She sat down again. "I'd not realized the
gossipmongers had it. That
wretched
Mr. Williard!
I admit Papa is— is not always very wise, but—"

''A masterpiece of understatement! Gaming again, is he? My
God! And I
have not the authority to stop him! Do you wonder that I search for a
way to help? I mean to see you all back in Town, Etta. In our own home,
if possible. And one way or another I'll do it, by heaven but I will!"

He looked so determined. 'He has grown up,' she thought, 'and
I
never noticed—never dreamed he was so bitter!' She said, "Not if it
means taking risks, I beg you! Besides, I have some news also. I've an
admirer, brother dear! Three, in fact! One is rich and handsome. One is
rich and—and not so handsome. And one is poor and nice-looking."

He straddled the dressing table bench and grinned at her, once
again
her youthful, fun-loving brother. "And you mean to accept the rich and
handsome one, do you? Is he the one you care for, love? Or is it a
matter of expedience?"

She blushed and said shyly, "Well, to say truth he hasn't
offered
yet. But if he does, our problems will be over, and you won't have to
worry about restoring our fortunes."

''Jolly good! Who is this young money-bags?"

''His name is Blake Coville."

''Sir Gavin Coville's heir?" His eyebrows lifted and he
whistled
softly. "Well, well! I've seen him about Town. He's quite the
non-pareil, but—lots of handkerchiefs have been dropped for that one,
Etta. 'Twould be a real feather in your cap if you could snare him.
Does he call on you down here?"

''Yes. Quite often. We hired this house from Sir Gavin's
steward, you will recall."

''So we did. I'd forgot. The owner's Lord Temple and Cloud,
though,
is he not? I wonder you haven't set your cap in that direction. Or is
he a loathesome old reprobate who lurks and leers amid his ruins?"

Marietta looked at her hands. "No, dearest. He's not a
loathesome old reprobate."

The tinkling of the little bell hanging over the door awoke
Diccon.
As always he was fully alert the instant he opened his eyes. Something
had disturbed the long cord he'd strung from the old wing all the way
to his bedchamber. Perhaps Friar Tuck was paying a nocturnal visit.
Perhaps an enterprising rat had called. Or perhaps the rat was of the
two-legged variety. And although he'd been dubbed "a revolutionary," he
was sufficiently conservative to prefer to be aware of the identity of
guests; especially those who arrived, uninvited, in the middle of the
night. Flinging back the covers, he pulled on his breeches, snatched
his new flintlock pistol from the bedside table, and hurried into
the corridor. It was very dark save for the glow of the broad
candle on the landing, and he raced towards that flame, the floorboards
icy cold against his bare feet. Unless this was one of Imre Monteil's
assassins it was unlikely that the intruder would come into the new
wing, but he paused at the top of the stairs, ears straining and eyes
narrowed against the gloom. There was no slightest movement, and not a
sound other than the occasional flurries of the wind.

The treads of the stairs were prone to creaks, but there was a
quicker method. He slid soundlessly down the banister rail and was
across the great hall running to the door leading to the old wing. It
was shut. He set the hair trigger on the pistol that Tathum and Egg had
made for him, then lifted the latch and eased the door open. The
hinges, newly oiled, did not betray him. Moving with the soundless
speed for which, in some circles, he was renowned, he was inside, down
the steps, and had flattened himself against the wall. It was doubtful
if the glow from the 'new' stairwell would have been seen when he
opened the door, but he again paused, listening intently. He heard
nothing, but his keen sense of smell detected the faintest hint of
difference in the air; the acrid scent that signalled the presence of
an oil lamp where there should be none. So his suspicions were
justified. He moved on, progressing more cautiously here, feeling his
way over the debris but swearing in soft anguish as he stubbed his bare
toe on a fallen chunk of masonry. He sensed rather than saw that he'd
reached the original great hall. At the far end a gleam of light came
and went at the top of the stairs above the minstrel gallery. Someone,
he thought grimly, was searching for
The Sigh of Saladin;
someone who was undeterred by ghostly rumours or the tales of
mysterious lights and wailings.

Faint as it was, the glow helped him to avoid the few pieces
of
furniture. He crept up the stairs, passed the minstrel gallery, and
climbed to the first floor. Now the light was moving about in one of
the upper rooms. This was the lantern he'd smelled, and the fact that
the beam was narrowed must mean the intruder was aware that the new
wing of the manor was occupied. He heard an odd, smothered sort of
snuffling, as of some large beast rooting about. A familiar sound. His
foot touched something small that rolled across the floor. The noise
was barely perceptible but at once the lantern was extinguished and the
darkness became absolute.

There was a thudding of boots, a grunting, a sense that
something
vast was rushing at him. There was no time to shout a warning. He fired
blindly, the retort shattering the silence. A howl rang out, terrifying
in its depth and fury. He was caught up in a mighty grip and swept off
his feet. The arms about him tightened savagely, driving the air from
his lungs. Struggling frantically to break free before his ribs were
crushed, he managed to strike out with the pistol and felt it connect
hard. A bestial roar and he was hurled aside. He crashed against the
wall with stunning force. From a long way off Arthur's voice echoed in
his ears. "Mrs. Gillespie seed a giant at the fair in Lewes." His last
conscious thought was a disgusted, 'Stupid! Stupid…'

The morning dawned bright and sunny with a brisk wind stirring
the
trees. Mrs. Gillespie arrived punctually for once and started work on
the windows. Eric took his sire and Arthur out for a drive in his new
chaise. Mrs. Cordova went about in a preoccupied manner and when spoken
to responded only by singing to herself and shaking her head glumly.
Fanny commandeered Marietta to help pick blackberries and the sisters
went off into the woods with their baskets.

Fanny was light-hearted and full of excitement over Eric's
arrival
and his good fortune. It was especially wonderful, she said blithely,
for little Arthur to have one of his brothers at home, and how kind of
Eric to promise he would make up for their long separation by spending
as much time as possible with the boy. Much as she loved Eric, Marietta
was under no illusions. Her eldest brother's promises, always well
meant, had a tendency to be forgotten as soon as they were uttered, and
at this particular time he had so many concerns on his mind. She said
nothing to dampen Fanny's sunny mood, however, and they spent a merry
hour gathering the ripe berries until the worn strap on Marietta's
sandal snapped, hampering her efforts. The thick blanket of pine
needles and leaves underfoot seemed soft enough, until she tried
walking on it barefoot. They used Fanny's hair ribbon as an impromptu
strap, but it proved a poor substitute and at length Marietta
reluctantly gave up. Eric's sweet tooth had offered Fanny the chance to
express her gratitude for the gifts he'd brought her, and she was
dismayed to find they had not nearly enough berries for the two pies
she hoped to bake. They solved the problem by emptying their collection
into one basket which Marietta carried off towards home while Fanny
continued to pick.

They had come farther than Marietta realized. Very soon her
sandal
became such a nuisance that she took it off again and trod cautiously
through the sun-dappled woods, wishing she'd thought to wear her
pattens. The air was fragrant with the scents of damp earth and
wildflowers; an occasional gust of wind rustled the branches sending
sparkling little showers of droplets from the leaves, and except for
the merry chirping of the birds it was so peaceful that she was sorry
to leave the canopy of the trees.

The sun was warmer now, but the thick meadow grasses were
still
damp. Limping along, she gave a yelp as she trod on something sharp. A
fallen tree-trunk offered temporary seating and she put down her basket
and investigated the damage. She had evidently stepped on a broken
branch and quite a large splinter had driven into her heel. With a
quick glance around, she removed her stocking. The splinter proved
stubborn and hurtful; working at it carefully, she was breathless when
she at last managed to extricate it and she exclaimed triumphantly, "Go
away, you vicious beast!"

''Alas," drawled a deep voice. "Once again I am
de
trop
."

Marietta's heart gave a leap, her head shot up and her bare
foot was
whipped under her skirt. She was embarrassed to realize that she'd been
too engrossed to be concerned with propriety, and her cheeks were hot
when she stammered, "Oh! M-Major Diccon! I had stepped on a splinter
you see, and—" She checked. He was riding Orpheus and he came up and
dismounted with a marked lack of his usual ease. He was pale, there was
a livid bruise down his left temple and he limped slightly. "My
goodness!" she exclaimed, standing. "Not more of the work of the
Warringtons I hope?"

He shook his head. "An uninvited caller. Nothing serious, I
promise
you. Is your splinter dealt with, Miss Marietta? May Orpheus carry you
home?"

Her foot was sore, the dower house was out of sight, and it
would be
a long and uncomfortable walk. She said, "Oh yes, if you please. I
would be most grateful. In a moment. If you would be so good as to
first turn around?"