Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 06] - The Noblest Frailty (30 page)

The familiar faces seemed to ripple before Devenish's eyes,
like reflections on the disturbed surface of a pool. "The—the
portrait…" he managed, gesturing towards it. Tyndale walked closer,
holding his candelabra higher.

Devenish saw the puzzled expression on the strong face and,
dreading to look again, turned his own gaze to the mantel.

The portrait was just as he had first seen it, his mother
smiling lovingly down at the babe she held.

Dimly, he thought, "I am going mad…"

Tyndale gave a cry of alarm, and Montelongo ran to steady
Devenish as he swayed uncertainly. Considerably unnerved, the Iroquois
demanded, "When we go home, Major? We got no haunted teepees in
Montreal!"

For many years General Sir Andrew Drummond had served his
country with distinction. He had left the military when the death of
his elder brother brought him both the title and estates and, although
he sometimes remembered the camaraderie of army life with a nostalgic
sigh, his most bitter battles had been fought and lost behind a desk in
Whitehall, so that he had never really regretted his decision to
resign. He had proven a conscientious and just landlord, a fair-minded
employer, a good neighbour, a bruising rider to hounds, and an
excellent judge of horseflesh, the which sterling qualities had won him
both liking and admiration. He was also, however, a man who drove a
hard bargain, his manner was brusque, he was impatient with foolishness
(of which he had been heard to remark the local society had more than
its share), and his temper was notorious. Further, he had an
unfortunate habit of refusing to bow to the dictates of protocol: he
attended the social functions which pleased him, rather than those to
which it was expedient to respond, and invited to his home people he
enjoyed, not necessarily those who might some day prove of use to him.
Needless to say, these praiseworthy practices had aroused a good deal
of ire, albeit subdued, in certain quarters.

Nonetheless, General Drummond was the last man one might have
suspected of improper conduct, and the entire County was astounded to
learn that he had committed a horrifying social solecism. Unsuspecting
guests, lured to his home so as to renew their acquaintanceship with
his granddaughter, had been introduced to two young gentlemen distantly
related to their host. Never dreaming that these same two men figured
prominently in a shocking scandal, trusting parents had allowed their
daughters to be presented to the newcomers and had watched indulgently
as those carefully nurtured flowers flirted, chatted, and danced with
them. Prominent citizens had greeted them cordially and had deigned to
introduce them to their own friends. And then, after four and twenty
years of lies and deceit, the sordid truth concerning the tragedy at
Castle Tyndale had exploded through the County.

When the first wave of shocked incredulity abated, it was
reasoned that the General must certainly have been aware of the
long-kept secret, and had deliberately sponsored the son of a murderer
into society. Young Tyndale had a fine military record, even if he was
a Colonial, but that was no justification for allowing him to mix with
the cream of the local gentry. His blood was tainted with the dread
stain of murder, his house was disgraced, and he must forever be a
pariah. As for Alain Devenish—surely
his
behaviour was utterly beyond the pale! By all the laws of Polite
Society, he should have faced Tyndale across twenty yards of turf,
aimed down the barrel of a duelling pistol, and done what he might to
obliterate the scion of the man who had orphaned him. Instead, he
appeared to regard his dastardly cousin with an affability that was,
opined several indignant gentlemen, sufficient to turn the stomach of
any honourable, God-fearing man!

Thus, having arrived at their variously damning conclusions,
the County, deliciously scandalized, proceeded to beat a path to the
door of the miscreant. Such honeyed sympathy was extended by reason of
his having been "hoodwinked" by the pair of young scoundrels; such
heartfelt condolences offered upon the "unfortunate proceedings" at the
castle; and such bland amazement expressed that the tragedy had been
"so artfully concealed all these years," that General Drummond became
almost purple in the face with rage, even as he parried thrust with
block, and attack with evasion. "Curse and confound the pack of 'em!"
he raged to his stoical daughter. "I canna fight back, y' ken? That's
what galls, Carrroline! I canna say a worrrd in me ain defense! And if
one more sanctimonious hypocrite comes fawing here wi' his treacly grin
and sairpents' teeth, I'll chop him tae bits and stuff him intae his
own sporran! And be damned tae him, if I dinna!"

Life at Steep Drummond was thus become a tense business of
late. Mrs. Drummond, never at ease with her father-in-law, avoided him
as much as possible and took care to say nothing at the dinner table
that might provide fodder for his simmering rage. Yolande, having
endured a thundering scold all the way back from Castle Tyndale on the
fateful day of the picnic, had since refused to discuss the matter,
regarding her grandparent with cool but respectful silence whenever he
attempted to take her to task for not having informed him of the true
state of affairs. He had, he snarled at her, written to his
bacon-brained son, and in such a way that he had no doubt but that her
father would "soon come posting up here to see what he might do to make
amends." Yolande replied calmly, "How lovely," which drove her
grandpapa into strangled choking sounds and grimaces that might have
alarmed her, did she not know the old humbug so well.

She had her own share of callers and did what she might to
point out that for whatever had occurred four and twenty years ago,
Craig was in no way responsible, and that Devenish would be a clod
indeed, if he refused to give at least a hearing to the man who had
saved his life. Not surprisingly, her most sympathetic listener was her
friend Mary Gordon, whose dark eyes would glisten with tears at the
very thought of "dear Mr. Devenish" being so unjustly accused. "How
very said it is, Yolande," she mourned. "And you just aboot to announce
your betrothal. Do you suppose your papa will be able to bring the
General about his thumb?"

Yolande said that if Sir Martin was unable to do so, her mama
would probably succeed, for Lady Louisa had so much charm her fierce
father-in-law was usually putty in her hands. "It is not that which
worries me, Mary," she confided one day, as they took tea together in
the drawing room. "There are things I simply cannot understand. The
real facts of what happened between Stuart Devenish and Jonas Tyndale
have been buried for all these years. Yet within days of the arrival of
my cousins, the entire County was fairly buzzing with it! Do you have
any notion of who set it about?"

Miss Gordon shook her sleek head. "Hamish Maclnnes told my
brother, and Jock gave him a rare setdown for spreading such vicious
gossip, I can tell you!"

"And spread it a little farther," said Yolande, dryly. "Oh,
never fret, dear. I cannot blame Jock. It's just—" She hesitated.

Miss Gordon slipped a consoling arm about her. "Of course. I
understand. You must be fair daft with worry, to have the love of your
heart dwelling in that dreadful old pile and never knowing if yon
Colonial wild man has taken it into his head to exact vengeance by
pushing poor Devenish off—"

"Do not
dare
to say such wicked things,
Mary Gordon! Or I shall positively shake you!" raged Yolande, springing
to her feet and rounding on her startled friend like a fury. "Craig is
as honourable as he is brave, and would no more attack Dev than raise
his hand against—against little Josie!"

"Oh—I'm s-sure you are perfectly right," quavered her friend,
variously frightened and elated. "Is a fine man, Major Tyndale. I never
meant aught but to console you, and pray you will forgive me for being
such a great gaby."

Yolande saw the gleam in the big eyes and knew what her friend
was thinking. Scarcely caring, she resumed her seat, apologized, was
forgiven, and sat staring miserably at the great bowl of sweet peas on
the occasional table. What were Dev and Craig doing at this moment?
Were they cold and uncomfortable, and not eating properly? Or had that
strange man of Craig's managed to find them some servants? And what
possible hope had they of ever proving Jonas Tyndale's innocence?

A warm little hand was placed over her own. Mary said softly,
"I've known you a good many years, dearest, and never seen you sae
doonhearted. Can I no help ye?"

Such warm understanding brought a lump to Yolande's throat.
She pressed her friend's hand responsively. "Cousin Craig holds his
father died swearing his innocence," she sighed. "I believe him,
but—how he can hope to prove it, after all this time…" And she sighed
again.

"Well, it certainly wouldnae hurt to try. And twenty-four
years is not sae very long, Yolande. At least, so my papa holds. The
older you get, says he, the faster pass the years." She added with
rather doubtful logic, "To people of
his
age it
likely seems no more than a year would seem to you and me."

"Yes," said Yolande dubiously. "But even so, a lot has changed
since then. The only people who have even a glimmering of knowledge
about what really happened that day are the servants who worked in the
castle. And many of them may have moved away, or gone to their reward."

"Fiddle! Who would wish tae move from Ayrshire? Or leave their
families? They are likely most of them within a few miles of here at
this very minute. At least, Major Tyndale must be of that opinion, for
he seems to have been pester—I mean—questioning everybody he can reach,
and those he misses, Devenish finds."

"Oh!" cried Yolande, encouraged. "How wonderful if they learn
something to help! Do you know if they've done so, Mary?"

"I—I hae me doots, Yolande. Sorry I am tae say it, but," she
smiled wryly, "they're a close-mouthed lot at best, and from all I can
detairmine, are not being—well, they seem to hae put up a—a wall of
silence."

Yolande's hopes died. It was no more than she had expected,
really. The Scots country folk with their fierce pride, their
unyielding sense of family, their stern adherence to proper behaviour,
had judged both Tyndale and Devenish and found them wanting. "What a
frightful mess!" she thought. "No one will help them."

Moved by her friend's despairing attitude, Miss Gordon said a
tentative, "If there is anything I can do, I'll nae hesitate. There may
be old folks knowing something of it all who would never be found by
Tyndale, but who my papa might be able to approach."

Brightening, Yolande clasped her hand tighter. "Oh, bless you,
Mary! I shall ask my Aunt Caroline, also. She is well acquainted."

"Nae—d'ye think ye should?" Mary demurred. "Will she no tell
your grandpapa?"

"Why, she's a dear, despite her gruff ways, and I feel sure…
Oh, my! It would put her into a difficult position, wouldn't it? And my
poor dear old gentleman is so upset just now. There must be
someone
I could ask…" She knit her brows, then exclaimed a triumphant, "Yes!
There's Mrs. MacFarlane, the gardener's wife. She has the dearest
little girl who sometimes plays with Josie, and I believe the family
has been here for centuries. I'll go and see her at once!" She stood,
the bloom back in her cheeks again. "Mary—how good you are! Thank you,
thank you!"

On the front steps they embraced and parted, Yolande to hurry
into the garden and walk across the park towards the copse of trees
beyond which was the gardener's cottage, and Mary to be driven home,
her pretty head full of wonderment that Yolande Drummond, whom she had
always thought a sensible girl, could have such a
tendre
for that lanky Canadian boy who was well enough in his quiet way, but
had not one jot of Alain Devenish's looks or personality.

Yolande, meanwhile, was diverted from her route when she heard
childish voices coming from the new summer house that was the General's
pride. Sure enough, Josie and her friend were inside, solemnly
conducting a tea party with two elderly dolls and a large black cat
that seemed not to mind the dress it wore.

"Miss Yolande," called Josie gaily, waving the hand of the
doll seated next to her. "Come and have a cuppa tea. These are Maisie's
dolls. That's Mrs. Crump, and mine is Lady Witherspoon. Ain't they
lovely?"

Yolande was suitably impressed with the company and, having
been presented to the cat (first) and to Maisie, said with her kind
smile, "Never look so frightened, dear. I'll not hurt your dolls."

The child, rather frail and all eyes and elbows, backed away,
remarking in a breathless fashion that she didn't mean no harm and that
"Mum said I wasna tae play wi' Miss Josie."

"No, did she? We must see if she will not relent. Meanwhile,
I'm sure she would not object if I joined you."

Fears were forgotten, and the two junior matrons welcomed
their guest and plied her with lemonade "tea" and broken biscuits. The
black cat, who went by the odd name of Mrs. Saw, considered the
newcomer at some length before deciding that she had an acceptable lap
and occupying it.

"Oh, dear!" said Maisie, alarmed. "He's kneading your pretty
dress, ma'am."

"It doesn't matter," Yolande reassured her. "I like cats, and
she's such a lovely one, aren't you, Mrs. Saw?"

"It's a 'he.' And he doesn't like nicknames," Josie corrected
primly.

A dimple peeping, Yolande said, "My apologies. But why do you
call him 'Mrs.'?"

Both girls dissolved into shrieks of laughter, and when
Yolande was at length able to enquire the reason, she learned that she
had "said it so funny."

"We
don't
call him 'Mrs.,' " giggled
Maisie.