Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns (9 page)

Distracted with worry because Mr. Diccon had shown no sign of
reviving, Marietta scarcely heard him and he went off to return very
shortly with the donkey harnessed to the cart. Between them, they
managed to lift the unconscious man inside, this procedure causing Mr.
Fox to hang his head and set up a doleful braying.

Yves imparted with a confidential air, "It is that 'e worries."

He took a note from his pocket, read it over, then offered it
to the donkey, who devoured it and seemed comforted.

Arthur scrambled into the back of the cart to sit by 'Sir
Gawaine,' and Yves handed Marietta up to the seat. "Mademoiselle, she
will not to disturb 'erself," he said kindly. "This Diccon, 'e should
be dead many times. 'E not die now. I think."

She forced a smile and thanked him. Guiding Mr. Fox up the
slope, she glanced back. Yves was leading a magnificent grey horse from
the old barn. Forgetting her worries for a moment she murmured, "Oh,
what a beautiful animal!"

Arthur said, "That's Sir G'waine's charger."

She said incredulously, "Are you sure, dear? It looks to be a
very valuable animal."

"He says it's a bad-tempered rogue," said the boy. "It's
called Awful."

She couldn't imagine anyone naming a fine horse in such a way,
but she said nothing. Perhaps because dear Mama had died so soon after
he was born, little Arthur had been slow to start talking. Even now, he
tended to mispronounce or mis-use words that most five-year-olds would
have mastered. He would catch up, of course, for he was a very bright
child in many ways. Probably, he was mistaken about the horse, or
perhaps his imagination was ruling him again and it belonged to
somebody else. Certainly, it was not an animal to be owned by a poor
vagrant.

Diccon had not recovered consciousness by the time Marietta
drove into the stableyard at the dower house. Lem Bridger, their sturdy
groom and general factotum, was preparing to scythe the lawns. It was a
task he loathed and he was only too willing to abandon it. Easing
Diccon's limp figure over his shoulder, the sturdy ex-Navy tar carried
him into the ground-floor room that had, in a more affluent household,
belonged to the housekeeper. Marietta sent Arthur to fetch one of his
brother Eric's nightshirts and take it to Bridger. She was in the
kitchen, assembling hot water and medical supplies when the groom came
in to advise that he had put Mr. Diccon into the nightshirt and that he
was comfortably in bed. When she enquired anxiously if the sick man had
awoken, he shook his head, and asked if he should ride into Eastbourne
and fetch Mr. Wantage. Marietta did not much care for the apothecary,
who was very haughty and, or so she thought, of an unsympathetic
nature. When possible she preferred to consult Dr. Avebury in Brighton,
but the busy doctor would be unwilling to ride all this way, and to
take Mr. Diccon such a distance would surely worsen his condition.

She walked to the back door with Bridger and asked if her
father was out. Sir Lionel, he imparted with a twinkle, had gone for a
drive with Mrs. Maitland.

It was typical of the perversity of fate, thought Marietta,
that the handsome widow should have called while her father was alone
and unprotected. Shy in the presence of most females, and having no
least desire to marry again, Sir Lionel was well aware that Mrs.
Maitland had determined to become the new Lady Warrington. He usually
made a frantic dive for a hiding place when she arrived unexpectedly,
but he was far too well bred to be rude to her, and without sufficient
warning to escape, or the supporting presence of his family, must have
been helpless before the wiles of the pushing woman. Marietta could
only pray he would manage to get through the drive without being
manipulated into a proposal.

Starting down the scullery steps to the stableyard the groom
said he'd saddle up Spicy, their twelve-year-old chestnut mare, who
could reach quite a good speed when handled firmly. He paused then,
staring at Mr. Fox and the cart.

Marietta said, "I'll unharness the donkey after I do what I
can for Mr. Diccon. Why do you look so puzzled?"

"Well, it's not what you'd expect of a gentleman, is it?
Doesn't Mr. Diccon have a horse?"

"Why would you think he is a gentleman?"

"His clothes, Miss. Fine linen, too. It don't fit with that
cart!"

She pointed out rather impatiently that many gentlemen who had
suffered financial reverses still clung to their pride, and that of
more importance than Mr. Diccon's background was the need to bring help
to him as soon as may be. At once apologetic, Bridger ran off to the
stables.

Returning to her victim, Marietta found that his pulse was
steady, but there was no sign of a return of awareness. She decided not
to disturb her bandage and stood by the bed, regarding him worriedly.
He was not a handsome man, and yet there was something proud and
compelling about that lean face. The forehead was high, the eyebrows
heavy, the hair thickly curling and an unremarkable brown. His
complexion was clear, the skin rather sunken under the cheekbones, and
alarmingly pale at the moment. Deep lines were etched beside the thin,
high-bridged nose and between the brows. The jaw was well-defined, the
chin strong and unyielding. It was the face of a man who has known his
share of trouble, but in sleep he looked younger than she had at first
thought, and there was a weary droop to the thin lips that made him
seem less formidable and ruthless.

"So here you are!" exclaimed Sir Lionel, coming down the
corridor in a great state of agitation. "If you
knew
what I've been through with Mrs. Maitland! How you could all have
abandoned—" Drawing level with the open door at this point, his
aggrieved tirade ceased. Shocked, he cried, "What the deuce—? Why is
that horrid fellow in my house again? Are your wits gone a'begging?"

Marietta gave a hasty account of what had happened, and her
father's wrath cooled slightly. "Hum," he said, frowning down at the
unconscious man. "Well, you've no cause to blame yourself, child.
Anyone would have thought the same. It's the boy's fault. He had no
right to go traipsing down there after what happened yesterday! I
sometimes wonder if the only skill your Aunt Dova has taught him is how
to wander away. But never mind that. As soon as this fellow wakes, he
must be sent packing. By rights, he should be driven from the
neighbourhood. We want no vagrants hanging about."

"But, Papa, the poor man has been twice hurt by us. If you
knew
how hard I hit him!"

Sir Lionel grinned. "With your reticule?"

"With a music stand. But it looked to be mahogany," she added
thoughtfully. "And as I recall, it was most beautifully carven."

"Whether 'twas mahogany or bacon has nothing to say to the
matter. The fellow's a penniless rogue, I've no doubt, and—"

"And was at Waterloo, sir. The poor soul is fairly covered
with scars!"

Impressed, Sir Lionel's brows lifted. "Is that so? By Jove, if
he was one of Wellington's fine lads—" In belated comprehension, he
demanded, "How do
you
come to know of his wounds?
Be dashed if he's not wearing one of my nightshirts! Etta! You did not—"

"No, no, Papa. It is Eric's nightshirt, and Bridger undressed
Mr. Diccon and put him to bed."

"How did Bridger know he was at Waterloo? The fellow bragged
of it, I don't doubt. Not that I'd blame him."

"He said nothing of it. His friend told me. I was hoping he
would consent to stay and care for him, but Monsieur Yves had to—"

Her father interrupted sharply, "A Frenchman?"

"Yes, sir. But he seems a good sort of man. And he has a most
magnificent grey horse. Arthur thought it belonged to Mr. Diccon, and
he says it is called Awful, but I rather doubt—"

"Orpheus," corrected Diccon faintly.

"Thank heaven!" cried Marietta, hurrying to bend over him.
"How are you, now, sir?"

Diccon's head seemed to have been arranged into two pieces,
and his back was almost as spiteful, but he managed to answer, "Not as
dead… as you might wish. You are a very… violent family, I think."

"Not so," said Sir Lionel. "My daughter thought you were some
monster attacking the boy, is all. An honest mistake."

"All… in the eye of the… beholder."

Marietta's cool fingers rested on Diccon's brow. "I am truly,
truly sorry," she said. "I doubt Arthur will ever forgive me."

"I hear you've taken some wounds," said Sir Lionel. "Your
friend, Yves, said—"

At this, Diccon started up, gave a gasp, and sank back again.
"Yves
is here?"

Sir Lionel nodded. "Said you was at Waterloo. True, sir?"

"Yes. But—"

"By Jove! You've all my admiration! Your rank?"

Diccon said impatiently, "What? Oh—major. Had Yves any…
message for me?"

Marietta said, "You are hurting yourself. Try not to talk.
Your friend said something about feeding the rest, whatever that may—"

"What?"
Diccon dragged himself to one
elbow. "He can't leave them there!" he panted fretfully. "I must get
up… and—"

"Now, now," said Sir Lionel, putting an arm about his
shoulders and lying him back down. "Don't upset yourself so, poor
fellow."

Aware of her sire's intense patriotism, Marietta was still
astonished by such a transformation. One might almost think him to have
just discovered that Major Diccon was a dear friend.

"Bridger shall carry any word to your Frenchman that you
desire," went on Sir Lionel. "Ah, yes. I have you now, you rascal! I've
not seen your face in the dark of the moon, of course, but I did set
eyes on that splendid grey of yours a time or two. Now, tell me—when
shall I receive my consignment? My cellar is dashed near empty!"

With a sense of overwhelming relief and repentance, Marietta
thought, 'Old Nick, indeed! Why, he is nothing more sinister than a
free-trader!'

In the nick of time Marietta restrained the billowing sheet
and slid a clothes-peg over the sagging centre. It would be nice, she
thought, to have had Mrs. Gillespie for three days this week. With an
invalid in the house and extra wash to be done she was badly needed.
Even more badly needed, however, was her own attention to the ever
increasing pile of bills in the kitchen drawer. Her desperate juggling
of one debt against another was nerve-wracking, but she'd managed
somehow. Until now. Yesterday evening Papa had given her a bad fright.

He'd been playing chess with Major Diccon, and when laughingly
accused by his opponent of taking risks with his queen, had replied
that there were times when risk was justified. "A fellow assesses the
odds," he'd said heartily, "and if they're promising he takes the
plunge as a good sportsman should. Nothing ventured, nothing gained,
eh? Why, just last month I—" He'd cut short that remark, slanted a
guilty glance at Marietta, and laid one finger beside his nose,
grinning at Diccon in a "mum's the word" fashion. Her blood had run
cold, for it had sounded horribly like another of his disastrous
wagers, or the gaming that had swept away home and fortune and reduced
them to a less than shabby-genteel existence so far from Town and the
luxurious life they'd known.

Not that she really minded living in the country. If truth be
told, although she'd not realized it at the time, she'd begun to be
bored by the sameness of the
ton
parties, the
gossip, and the endless pursuit of pleasure. Here, instead of bricks
and hot pavements and crowded streets with grime and soot everywhere,
there were lush fields and trees and green velvet hills, and pure clean
air. And there was no time for boredom. They all were busy, and tired
at the end of the day, and they took pride in their achievements, as
she thought they deserved to do. Still, there was small chance that her
pretty little sister would find an eligible husband in this quiet
corner of Sussex, and if Papa had plunged them even deeper into debt,
heaven only knew how she was to keep them from Debtor's Prison.

She found that she was still holding the sheet, and, sighing,
released it and went to peep over the hedge that concealed the side
yard from the gardens.

Major Diccon was sleeping on the chaise Bridger had set under
the apple tree. Three days had passed since the apothecary had ruled
that he'd suffered a concussion and must not be moved for a week at
least. He had scoffed at that verdict and insisted that he would not
intrude into their lives in such a way. His attempt to leave, however,
had ended in collapse and he'd been packed back to bed again,
willy-nilly. She felt responsible for his injuries and had said firmly
that he must let them try to make amends. Fanny had complained that
they had enough to do without having to care for an invalid. Neither
Papa nor Aunty Dova had objected, however. As for herself, having had
some experience in nursing the males in her family, she had been
pleasantly surprised to find that Diccon was neither fretful nor
demanding. He was, in fact, the soul of patience, even when she
suspected that he was tired. Arthur was seldom far from his side and
would coax the invalid to talk about the people and ways of the foreign
lands he had visited. The Major spoke in a slow drawl and used words
sparingly, but his accounts were spiced with a droll humour that would
set the little boy giggling, and were so interesting that they all
would listen. Often his tales ended with Sir Lionel entering into an
intense debate with him on some aspect of the story, and Arthur
complaining to Marietta that Papa had "stolen Sir G'waine"!

Aunty Dova also chattered at their invalid, drawing him into
exchanges of Society gossip with her 'friends' that frequently became
hilarious. Diccon neither patronised the lady nor displayed the least
sign of condescension during these odd chats, but actually seemed to
find her fascinating. Only yesterday during one of their 'three-way'
discussions in which he was answering for 'Sir Freddy Foster,' Mrs.
Cordova had gone into whoops of laughter and had said merrily, "Oh, but
Major Diccon has Freddy to the
life,
Etta!
Absolutely to the life!" Fanny had responded, "Perhaps they are good
friends. Is that so, sir?" Diccon had given her his lazy smile and
murmured, "It would add enormously to my consequence if that were the
case, do not you think?"