Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 06] - The Noblest Frailty (28 page)

Tyndale and Devenish were also returning. Yolande's attempt to
speak was cut off by a savage, "You will be
silent
,
girl!" And her grandfather, tall, austere, and rigid with anger, ground
out, "So ye found the pesky creature!"

"He found us, more like, sir." Devenish grinned blithely.
"Shot down the stairs like the devil himself was after—" The tension of
the group conveyed itself to him, and he stopped speaking, looking
uncertainly from one to the other. "Something wrong? Cousin Craig and I
wasn't gone too long, was we?"

"Nae, laddie," purred Sir Andrew with an awful smile. " 'Tis
only that I'm a mite fashed that ye'd address yon deceitful upstart as
'cousin'!" His chin thrust forward. "The
son
of
the man who
murdered your sire
!" he roared.

Devenish stiffened. Tyndale, the colour receding from his
face, snapped, "There is no proof of that, sir!"

"Is there not? I am told that your father deliberately pushed
young Stuart Devenish from the battlements of yon accursed castle!" The
General threw up an authoritative hand to silence Devenish's attempted
intervention. "Donald"—his contemptuous gaze seared past Tyndale and
Devenish—"I know
you
to be an honourable
gentleman. If you will be so good as to tell me what you have heard I
shall not question the truth of it."

Tyndale clenched his hands and flushed darkly, but said
nothing. Devenish, his own colour rising, flung up his head and
frowned, waiting.

With a commendable paucity of words, Donald sketched the
tragedy that had occurred here twenty-four years earlier. And all the
time, Sir Andrew's cold gaze drifted from one to the other of the young
men standing so silently before him.

"And that," Donald concluded regretfully, "is all I know,
Andy. I might add that I only learned of it yesterday afternoon."

"Would I had done so!" said Sir Andrew, shooting a brief,
angry glance at him. "I'd have known better than to introduce these
two—individuals—to my friends, or allow either of 'em to make sheep's
eyes at my granddaughter!"

"Sir," said Tyndale, with his share of hauteur, "I can
understand your anger, but—"

"Then ye're in the wrong of it tae starrrt with! I've no anger
towards you, Tyndale. Ye've my sympathy, rather. Aye, my deepest
sympathy for the black shame that has been handed doon tae ye! No, sir!
Ye'll no speak till I give ye leave. Which is not yet!"

Tyndale subsiding, though he was white and trembling with
rage, the General turned his attention to Devenish, who fronted him
pale but proud, a slightly condescending droop to his eyelids that
served merely to further infuriate the old gentleman. "As for you,"
snorted Drummond, "what manner of man is it cries comrade with the son
of the rogue who killed his sire? I knew you for a wild young
scalliwag. I dinna ken ye were withoot honour! Ye're just like Jonas!
Ah, ye've heard
that
before, I see! Well, ye've
heard the truth on't! And had I known ye for the man ye are, ye'd no
hae set foot in my hoose! Either o' ye!" Scarlet with wrath, he spun
around to shout, "Verra well, you two skulking behind the coach there!
Come and clear this away as fast as may be!"

"Grandpapa!" Yolande began tearfully.

"By your leave, ma'am," Tyndale intervened in a voice she had
never heard. "Sir, you have judged on hearsay. I shall not. Somehow I
mean to prove my father innocent of intent to do murder. And Devenish—"

"Will speak for himself, if you please," said that individual,
his tone as cold as his cousin's. "General, my initial reaction to the
truth of my father's death was very similar to your own. I have since
discovered my cousin to be a gentleman. One to whom I probably owe my
life. I mean to help him come at the real truth of the tragedy, but
whatever comes of it has little to do with the fact that I have offered
for your granddaughter, and been given reason to believe she—"

"Well, she don't!" Drummond overrode harshly. And loftily
disremembering that two of his sons had married English-women and that
Yolande was half-English, said, "I would suggest that since ye've very
little Scot in you, sir, you hie yourself back to your homeland and wed
a girl closer to your own unfortunate background! Ladies—into the
carriages, if you please!" With sublime arrogance and a spate of
snapped-out orders, he marched towards his bay, but turned back, coming
full circle to announce, "The bairn is innocent and can stay at Steep
Drummond until you, Devenish, are ready to return to England. Then, you
may come and collect her." Not so much as glancing at Tyndale, he
finished a brittle, "Alone!" and stamped to where the grooms were
saddling his horse.

For an aching moment, Tyndale looked squarely at Yolande, then
he strode off to find Lazarus.

Wrenching her gaze from his tall, erect figure, Yolande faced
Devenish, who came to her side, one cautious eye on the General.
"Whew!" he breathed. "What a devil he can be. Bad as my own tyrant, and
worse! Understandable, I suppose, but—not entirely justified. Craig's a
good enough man, Yolande."

She smiled wanly. "He said the same of you. Dev, whatever
shall we do?"

He took her hand and gripping it with a confidence he could
not feel, said firmly, "You will do nothing. Don't let the old fellow
scare you. He's all huff and puff, you know. Chances are he'll go off
the boil and begin to think he was a shade hasty. At all events, I must
stay with Tyndale—for a while at least. When I come to get Josie,
you'll—you'll not back off from what you promised?"

Suddenly, he looked very anxious. Yolande returned the
pressure of his hand and said staunchly, "I'll not back off, dear Dev."

The skies darkened while Devenish and Tyndale were exploring
the castle, and soon rain was pattering down, the gloomy weather and
clammy chill adding to the forbidding aspect of the great, silent,
high-ceilinged rooms.

Scanning a vast bedchamber, the bed hangings and furniture
swathed in Holland covers, Devenish remarked, "You know, coz, Yolande
spoke truly—it could be jolly fine if you was to bring the place up to
style. It would cost a mountain of blunt, though." And he wondered
which of the rooms his parents had occupied, and how it had all looked
when his gentle mother was alive.

"Might be worth it," Tyndale mused. "I wonder what scared
Socrates so badly."

Following him from the room, Devenish did not voice his
thought that the scruffy hound was not alone in finding Castle Tyndale
daunting. "A cat, probably," he said lightly. "A black one, of course!"

The next corridor they came upon was dim and very chill.
Tyndale opened the first door, "Perhaps," he agreed. "I must—" He
stopped. A pleasant bedchamber was before them; a room of painted
ceilings, soaring leaded windows, a graceful canopied bed, its blue
silken hangings free of dust covers, and a fine carpet of great size
laid down in readiness for the new occupant. A stone fireplace was
between the windows, and hanging over the mantel the portrait of a
lovely fair girl, looking down with proudly tender eyes at the infant
she held: a tiny infant, richly gowned, and having tufts of golden hair
and deeply blue eyes. There were portraits of Esme Devenish at
Aspenhill, and an impressive family group at Devencourt, but this
portrait had a rare charm and warmth and, captivated, Devenish gazed up
at it. Beside him, Tyndale was again struck by the stark pathos of the
tragedy. He glanced from the radiant joy in the face of his long-dead
aunt, to the awed features of her grown son, and guilt fastened steel
claws in him. Only a short while ago he had been standing beside this
man's love, wanting nothing so much as to sweep her into his arms and
claim her for his own. The slightest encouragement from Yolande would
have been all the impetus he would have needed to speak his love and
try to win her from Devenish. Disgraceful behaviour in any man, but
especially dishonourable in his own case, to attempt to steal the
betrothed of a man who had already been so cruelly wronged, whether
deliberately or accidentally, by the Tyndales!

"Was she not lovely, coz?" breathed Devenish.

"Indeed she was. I collect the caretaker must have been told
you would wish to have this room. I suspect it was occupied by your
papa when he—" It seemed to him that he heard something odd, and he
stopped abruptly.

Devenish seized his arm and hissed, "Listen… !"

At first, the silence was absolute save for the faint drumming
of the rain on the high Gothic windows. And then, faint and stealthy,
came a soft shuffling, followed by a muted thump. Aghast, the two men
looked at one another through a moment so intensely still that the air
seemed to throb in their ears. All too soon another sound disturbed the
quiet: an echoing wail, muffled with distance, but unutterably forlorn.
The hair lifted on the back of Devenish's neck. His eyes grew dim, and
his breath was snatched away. Of a less imaginative nature, Tyndale's
calm was considerably shaken. Then, "Oh, good gad!" he exclaimed
bracingly. "It must be that fool, Montelongo! Likely having the deuce
of a time with our trunks and never dreaming his howlings would petrify
us!"

Very aware that he had betrayed terror, Devenish coloured up
and disclaimed, "I trust you apply that term to yourself, Tyndale!"

"Oh, but of course." Tyndale held open the door and bowed with
a flourish. "You were perfectly controlled." But as Devenish sauntered
past, he added mischievously, "A little green, perhaps."

His cousin's head tossed upward. "Your own colour was a trifle
off. Though I doubt you would be honest enough to admit you were
afraid."

There was a glint of anger in the blue eyes, and Tyndale made
a disarming gesture. "No, seriously, Dev. I
was
uneasy, I'll own, but I must confess I am out of charity with such
flights of fancy as shades and goblins, witches and warlocks, and their
brethren. Childish nonsense; or the promptings of an uneasy, er—" And
he checked, dismayed by the bog into which he had blundered.

"Conscience?" flashed Devenish, partly infuriated by those
tactless words, and partly sickened by a terror that, instead of
fading, became ever more compelling. "Faith, but you surprise me! Here
I had thought
your
conscience would rest less
easy than mine—in
this
place!"

Tyndale's lips tightened and for an instant he experienced a
pressing need to apply his fist to that high-held jaw. Then he shrugged
and stalked out of the room and towards the main staircase.

Montelongo was halfway up the first flight, struggling with
Tyndale's heavy trunk.

"Idiot!" his master scolded affectionately. "Small wonder you
howled. Mr. Devenish and I thought for—"

Propping the trunk, Montelongo leaned on it, panting. "I not
howl!" he denied vehemently. "I think
you
do
that!"

His blood running cold, Devenish grinned and said a forced,
"Well, that's hell's own jest!"

"Tell you what," said Tyndale. "Let us leave the trunk on the
landing for the present, and bring the rest of the paraphernalia
inside. It seems to have stopped raining—for a minute."

He helped Montelongo deposit the heavy trunk on the landing,
and they all started down the stairs. Glancing uneasily about him, the
Iroquois muttered, "Me no like big wigwam. Me sleep out. Under stars.
You too, sir."

Sighing as they crossed the great hall, Tyndale remonstrated,
"Why must you persist in using that pidgin English?"

Montelongo responded woodenly, "I shall take my rest
a
la belle étoile
."

Devenish halted, staring his astonishment.

"I engaged a tutor," Tyndale explained, "to help Monty learn
English. It turned out he has a very quick mind. Speaks fluent English,
French, and German."

With a shout of laughter, Devenish asked, "Then, why in the
deuce do you do it, Monty?"

The Iroquois shrugged. "It is expected of me. You sleep
outside, sir?"

Still chuckling, Devenish said that he might just do so.

"In that case," grunted the Iroquois, "me stay in the—er…"

"Heap big wigwam?" Tyndale offered, helpfully.

His minion's dark features broke into a broad and rare grin.

"Faker!" Tyndale scoffed and, coming to the chaise and the
groom who waited on the drivepath, he walked to the rear of the vehicle
and began to work at the straps that held the second trunk. "Devenish,"
he said softly, "there is no reason for you to remain here. Do you
prefer to return to—"

"What you are saying, I think," said Devenish, bristling, "is
that you take me for a poltroon!"

Tyndale glanced at him and ventured with caution, "I have
heard it said that certain types of men have—er, perhaps more awareness
of things that are not quite so—ah—readily apparent to—to others."

"And you do not believe one word of it!" His anger flown as
swiftly as it had come, Devenish laughed. "Jove! What a windy wallets!
My thanks for the offer of a gracious escape, but I shall stay. If you
hear a drumming sound in the night, however, it will likely not be your
Indian friend here, but my knees."

Montelongo, who had carried a large box of bedding from the
interior of the chaise and stood watching, grunted his approval, and
put down his burden.

Tyndale said, "Good man, Dev! I'd hoped you would stay.
But—tell me, do you
really
believe the old pile
haunted, or were you hoaxing me?"

Devenish hesitated. With his eyes lowered and stubbing one
boot at the uneven drive, he said slowly, "My uncle and Drummond both
say I'm the living image of your father. I—begin to fancy I do indeed
take after him—in more than looks."

"He held the castle to be an evil house." Craig nodded
thoughtfully. "Is that what you mean?"

"You will think me daft, but…"