Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns (3 page)

Blake looked sternly at his father. "As they should."

"No!" Sir Gavin's response was vehement. "I'll
not
have my wife's name bandied about the newspapers! I'll not have a
whisper of scandal touch our family! I have hired men privately. We
shall find Lady Coville, I promise you!"

"Perhaps," muttered Blake. "Assuming my brutish stepbrother
ain't frightened the poor creature into her grave!"

Fanny gave a squeal of horror.

Sir Gavin said remorsefully, "Alas, we are alarming the
ladies. I should have known better than to confide such a terrible
story. But—" He rose and turned to Mrs. Cordova, who was carefully
rearranging 'Mrs. Hughes-Dering's' gown. "Ma'am—you seem to have some
knowledge of our trouble. If there is anything you can tell us—
anything
—we
shall be eternally in your debt."

Sir Lionel said supportively, "Now, Emma. If you really do
know anything that will help Sir Gavin, you must tell him, my dear."

Mrs. Cordova giggled, and murmured archly, "Such a handsome
man, Monica, do you not agree? Shall I help him? What is it you wish me
to tell you, sir? Is it about my radishes? Ah, lots of folk would like
to know how I grow such magnificent radishes. My late husband was very
fond of a radish now and then." Her face grew sad. "I heard you say you
had lost your wife. You have my sympathy. To lose the one you care for
is dreadful. Just dreadful."

He gazed into her kind but vacant eyes, then glanced at Sir
Lionel, who gave a gesture of helplessness. Nodding resignedly, Sir
Gavin said, "I fear we have overstayed our welcome, sir. We shall leave
you in peace."

Mrs. Cordova hurried out to alert the Covilles' coachman.

Sir Gavin looked very sad as he said his farewells. In the
large and chilly entrance hall, he asked, "Warrington, do you think
your sister really has any knowledge of my wife?"

"She might." Sir Lionel hesitated. "There's no way of telling.
Most of the time poor Emma is quite rational. She has the warmest
heart. A very good woman. Such a pity."

Following, with Marietta beside him, Blake Coville said,
"Well, now you know our dark secrets, Miss Warrington. Shall you deny
me next time I call?"

"As if I would! You have my sympathy, rather. I shall pray for
the safe return of your step-mama."

They turned into the entrance hall. The two older men had
passed outside, and Blake took Marietta's hand and drew her to a halt.
"You are too good. Dare I impose on you to keep an eye on the manor
house and let us know if you see any sign of my step-brother?"

"It would be our pleasure, sir. I only wish we could do more.
Or that I knew something that would help."

"I do!" A small, muddy, and untidy figure darted at them from
behind the thick draperies that closed off the draughty hall in cold
weather. "I know
all
about it!" declared Arthur,
jumping up and down in his excitement. "I tried to tell Bridger, but he
wouldn't listen and said I was not to 'sturb you. Friar Tuck an' me—we
saw the villins drag the lady out from the Haunted Castle of the
Sheriff of Notting—"

"Arthur, you rascal!" said Marietta, realizing belatedly that
she had neglected her small brother. "I thought you were in your room!
Have you but now come home?"

"I bin home ages 'n ages. I hided in the curtains and heard
everything what you said, an'—"

"Oh!" she gasped. "How dared you! Up to bed, young man! At
once!"

Mrs. Cordova hurried to join them and took the boy by the
hand. "He is not to blame, Marietta. We are. Come, scamp! Oh, how dirty
you are! You must have had a lovely time. No, never mind spinning any
of your tall tales, it's wash and bed for you, my lad."

"But I
did
see," he wailed. "An' I'm
hungry! I hasn't et for weeks, I 'spect!"

Watching as he was led, protesting, away, Blake said in
amusement, "An active imagination, has he?"

"Very active." Marietta held out her hand. "Good evening, Mr.
Coville. Truly, I am sorry for your trouble."

Holding that small and not very well manicured hand in both
his own, he said, "I thank you. And—I am permitted to call again? You
will like to hear if—I mean
when
we find my
step-mama, no?"

"Oh, yes indeed!"

Still holding her hand, he said, "And if your aunt
should
remember something, anything at all, may I beg that you send word? We
stay with the Dales at Downsdale Park."

Downsdale Park was probably the most palatial of the nearby
residences, and Lord and Lady Dale, extremely haughty, were said to
entertain nobody below the rank of baronet. 'How lowly our home must
seem to him,' thought Marietta. But she said, "Of course. We will
notify you at once."

She tried to disengage her hand, but he held it captive a
moment longer, half-smiling into her eyes in a way that made the breath
hurry in her throat.

"You are so kind," he said softly, and bowing his curly head
pressed a kiss on her fingers. "Truly, our steward did us an
inestimable service when he was able to interest Sir Lionel in this
property.
Adieu,
lovely Miss Warrington. I shall
count the hours to our next meeting."

Painfully aware that she was blushing, Marietta bade him
goodnight and closed the door.

Her father had to knock quite loudly before she recovered her
wits sufficiently to let him in.

The breeze set the clothes flapping on the line, and Marietta
had to struggle to settle the prop firmly. She had toiled with the wash
for most of the morning, and the thought of it falling and having to be
done again made her cringe. She was late hanging it out to dry because
Mrs. Gillespie, who should have come today, had not appeared. Probably,
she had suffered another of her 'rheumaticky spasms.' Spasms, Marietta
thought resentfully, that originated in a gin bottle. Mrs. Gillespie
was, in fact, a less than satisfactory helper, but she was willing to
come on Tuesdays and Thursdays, for a comparatively meagre sum, and
when she was not suffering from her 'spasms' worked hard and seldom
broke things.

The clothes smelled clean, and if the breeze held they should
dry nicely by sunset. Marietta stretched wearily, and straightened her
aching back. She had awoken in the night and for at least an hour had
been quite unable to go back to sleep, thinking of poor Lady Pamela
Coville and her wicked son, but with her thoughts wandering often to
the dashing Mr. Blake Coville. It seemed that each time they met she
was more attracted to the gentleman whom common sense decreed she
should dismiss from her mind. He was the beau ideal of London. Rich,
handsome, perfectly formed, the heir to a baronetcy, and as kind and
mannerly as he was well born. In other words, the target of the eagle
eyes of countless match-making mamas. When she was near him, it seemed
that his every thought was of and for her; indeed he was so obviously
admiring that Papa was becoming hopeful of his spinster daughter
finally making a match that would restore their fortunes forever. Poor,
foolish Papa. Blake Coville was a gentleman in the fullest sense of the
word, and was likely courteous and attentive to every lady he met. As
for Miss Marietta Warrington, she might be passably pretty, but she had
no fortune to recommend her. Fortune, indeed! Far from a fortune, she
had a large family to be supported and not even a small dowry to lure a
husband!

Reluctant to go back inside she stole a few minutes to wander
about and enjoy her surroundings. The dower house faced southwest and
had the advantage of the Channel view. The rear was lovely also, its
lawns and gardens blending into broad meadowland threaded by a
sparkling stream, and framed by the emerald swell of the Downs. Beyond
the cutting gardens Aunty Dova had worked miracles in what she termed
her 'food field,' and vegetables were thriving, the rows neat and
weedless. In the flower-beds the brilliance of roses was contrasted by
the bright simplicity of daisies, marigolds lifted glowing faces to the
sun, and pansies peeped shyly from the borders. The afternoon was warm
and several birds splashed and cavorted about in the bird-bath, while
Friar Tuck crouched under a stone bench, fancying himself invisible,
and preparing for another of his frequent and unfailingly futile
charges.

A flock of starlings flew past and soared upward. How blue was
the sky. Such a glorious day. If they were still in Town, she thought
wistfully, she would likely be driving down to Richmond Park with Tim
Van Lindsay, or Freddy Foster, or— But the past was—past. This was
today, and there was much tor which to be thankful. They were all
together in a nice house in a very beautiful part of God's very
beautiful world. Most of the money from the sale of her own and Mama's
jewels, the London house, and their horses and carriages, had gone to
Papa's creditors, but she'd been able to salvage a little that was
earning a tiny bit of interest in the bank. The hire of this house had
been unexpectedly affordable. Her beloved brother Eric had sacrificed
the Long Vacation to stay in Cambridge and tutor three young students,
thus helping with his tuition costs. The rather surprising amount of
income earned by "Madame Olympias" and her crystal ball—which she
referred to as her Mystical Window Through Time—went towards Arnold's
fees at Harrow. By practicing very strict economies the wolf had been
kept from the door, but for how long, Marietta dared not think.

Not one to wallow in gloom, she straightened her shoulders.
Worrying would not give them back the carefree life they had known in
Town. And, after all, how many poor souls crowded into rotting, filthy
slums would think the Lanterns estate and the dower house an earthly
paradise?

The sun was beginning its westward slide down the blue bowl of
the sky, and she had promised to spend some time with Arthur after his
nap. She avoided the side door and hurried around to the front. Aunty
Dova was sure to ask her to finish "Lady Leith," and she could not just
now, for she must go and seek out the witch's hat.

She turned the corner of the house, and halted, staring
speechlessly at the eager-eyed young gallant who was tethering two
saddle horses at the foot of the terrace steps.

Blake Coville, clad in a beautifully tailored riding coat and
buckskins, snatched off his hat and hurried to meet her, smiling
hopefully. "I know you've far more important things to do than go for a
ride with me, Miss Warrington. But it's such a lovely afternoon
and—won't you please take pity on a lonely man and let me persuade you?"

Marietta's tell-tale heart began to pound unevenly. Horribly
conscious of her faded pink cotton work dress and crumpled apron, and
equally aware that she must look hot and untidy, she stammered, "Oh!
You are—very kind, but—but I'm afraid—"

"You are too busy. How well I know it! Each time I come you
are working. It will do you good to escape for a half-hour. If you care
not for my own disappointment, consider the poor
mare. She's longing for a run."

Marietta's eyes flashed to the 'poor mare.' What a splendid
creature, her chestnut coat sleek and shining in the sun. And, oh, how
she would love to go for a ride. She stifled a sigh and said firmly,
"In this house we all have to work, Mr. Coville. Our circumstances do
not allow for 'escapes.' "

"Oh… of course," he said, looking crestfallen. "I was
thoughtless. But—I'd hoped you might spare me just a little of your
time. I'll bid you good day, ma'am."

He smiled ruefully and turned away. And he was young and very
good to look at, and he had been so kind as to bring that beautiful
little mare. And the poor man must be so anxious about his step-mama;
it surely would be heartless to refuse if she could perhaps turn his
mind from that worry for a little while. Having thus cunningly
circumvented conscience, "Wait!" she cried.

Luckily, her riding habit was still stylish and fit well,
although she noted that it was a trifle more tight across the bust.
"You are becoming positively buxom, my dear," she told her reflection
as she dusted a hare's foot across her nose. "A bucolic, rosy-cheeked
and bosomy country wench!" Without appearing to be devastated by this
assessment, she snatched up her neat hat and her riding crop, and
hurried down the stairs.

Outside, Coville stood by the horses, chatting with Fanny, who
wore a simple and outmoded peach-coloured round gown, and had tied a
pink scarf over her thick black tresses. Marietta smiled to herself.
Little Fanny undoubtedly had given not a thought to her appearance, or,
if she had, supposed herself to be a proper dowd. She would have no
least notion that an old gown could not make her look anything less
than the very essence of glowing, vital youth and beauty.

Coville turned eagerly as Marietta approached. Fanny turned
also and gave her sister a whimsically knowing glance, while saying
lightly that she thought it most kind of Mr. Coville to bring such a
dainty mare. "You cannot know, sir," she went on, "how my sister loves
a spirited horse. In Town scarce a morning passed but that she was up
and riding in the park with one beau or another long before the
household was awake."

Coville grinned and bent to cup his hands and toss Marietta
into the saddle. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, walking around to
mount his own tall chestnut.

Leaning to her sister, Marietta murmured, "You saucy little
rogue!"

"I told you," teased Fanny, her eyes sparkling.

Marietta reined the mare around and the pretty creature
frisked and curvetted, tossing her head eagerly. Briefly, Coville
looked anxious, but before he could speak, a shrill cry rang out.

"Etta!"

Marietta's gaze flashed to the upstairs window from which
Arthur leaned, his conical wizard's hat perched on his dark curls. "Oh,
my!" she exclaimed contritely.