Dedicated Villain

by Patricia Veryan

  He had come to grips with his blindness to an extent, but there were times still when he fumbled clumsily, trying to feed himself; or when fear of the future dragged him very low. He dared not let his thoughts linger in that direction, and turned them quickly to the many things for which he should be grateful.

  Most of all, of course, there was his beloved, who had proved so brave and so devoted. Next, was Muffin. The dear old curmudgeon had been magnificent throughout. How many invaluable talks they’d had, learning to know each other. The old fellow loved him—really loved him! Incroyable! Certainly, he had been forgiven, just as Lady Clorinda had demanded, and if only things had been different, he might be able to— But now … had he the right to ask Fiona to become his wife? If he was so selfish, if they should be blessed with children, he would never see their little faces …

  He lapsed, thinking with a raging bitterness, ‘Damn, damn, damn! Wasn’t the rest of it enough? Did it have to be my eyes, too?’ And then he despised himself for giving in to self-pity. True, he could no longer see, but—he had seen. He’d seen the glory of countless sunrises and sunsets over England’s varied and beautiful countryside; he’d seen his beloved Paris, so lovely at all seasons of the year. He’d seen roses, and the Spring flowers peeping up through the grass; he had seen his vision of perfection and so many of her swiftly changing expressions that could be hoarded in his mind’s eye, and—

  His musing was interrupted, the duke ushering in a most unexpected visitor, and saying with an odd note to his voice, “Mrs. Shadwell has come to see you, Roland.”

  Putting down Picayune and reaching for the cane beside him, Mathieson stood, thinking a mystified, ‘Mrs. Shadwell …?’

  He received an impression of shy hesitancy and his outstretched hand was taken by one that was bony and work-roughened. Then, a small, sweet-smelling bag of dried blossoms was thrust into his palm. A humble voice said, “Please to sit ye down, sir. Like Oi am doing. Ye saved me life, Captain. Oi’ll never ferget ye. Oi wish as Oi could bring ye more than this.”

  He remembered then, and in a flood of nostalgia, said, “Ah, yes. You are a long way from home, ma’am. How very good of you to come and bring me such a nice gift.”

  The duke intervened with an offer of tea, which the woman declined in no little embarrassment. “Oi do know as Oi’ve no right to be here, yer Grace,” she murmured. “But—Oi heard as yer young gentleman was very ill … Glad Oi do be t’see ye so … sprightly again, Captain.”

  The slight hesitation, the rather forced final words told their own story, but Mathieson thanked her again, and asked if the villagers had bothered her any more.

  “Never went back there, sir. The Folk was coming south, and Oi come with ’em. Oi thought so many times o’ what you did fer me. You and yer sweet lady.”

  “The lady is anxious to see you,” Muffin said. “And I would be most pleased to learn of what my grandson did for you, ma’am.”

  Before she could reply, Mathieson said quickly, “Mrs. Shadwell, when last we met you warned Miss Fiona ’gainst me, and said I would—er—”

  “Break her heart,” she supplied. “Oi did that, sir. Oi read yer palm, ye’ll mind? And Oi saw you would soon come to a fork in the road o’ life and—and it looked as if …”

  “As if I would make a hasty exit?”

  A brief pause, then she admitted this. “Oi bean’t alius right in me readings, thank goodness. So it looks as if the second fork will be the one you’ll be taking.”

  “The—second fork?” asked Marbury, intrigued.

  “Aye, yer Grace.” A small hesitation, then she said, “Oi’d best not say more, and Oi must not stay and tire the gentleman. Oi wanted only to see him and wish him well.”

  It sounded, thought Mathieson, as though she was keeping something from him, and he wondered if Muffin was warning her against more predictions. “I wish you will stay a little longer,” he urged. “Sir—perhaps we could ask Miss Bradford to come and …?”

  “Nay, Oi must go now, Captain,” said Mrs. Shadwell, standing again. “Me people be waiting. Now, don’t ye get up, sir, and never despair because ye cannot see. From what Oi heard, they doctors thought as ye’d die weeks an’ weeks ago, and ye’re still here. Prayer can work miracles, sir, and you’re in mine and allus shall be. Every day Oi do live!”

  Muffin went out with her. He did not at once return, probably discovering for himself the details of that involuntary rescue. For once quite alone save for Picayune who had promptly reclaimed his lap, Mathieson allowed memory to drift. During that rescue which now seemed so long ago, he’d been aided not only by the valour of the Tiny Mite, but by his incomparable and so missed Rumpelstiltskin. Even after all these weeks, that wound was still raw, the death of the stallion so keenly felt that it ranked second only to the loss of his sight in the depth of grief it caused him. Dear old Rump … He sighed, lost in recollection until the cat jumped down as the door opened, and went pattering off across the room.

  Mathieson took up his cane and stood eagerly. “Is that you, Sorri?”

  “No, dear boy. ’Tis your grandfather.”

  Stepping forward and reaching out in the uncertain groping that never failed to wring the duke’s heart, Mathieson asked, “Are we to go down, sir? Could you spare a moment before we do?”

  “Of course.” Marbury came quickly to sit beside him. “Well now, what troubles you? I saw it in your face when that kind lady was here just now. Speaking of which, by what she tells me—”

  “Oh, par grâce, no sir. Do not speak of it, for I am very sure she told you a lot of fustian. But—she did say something that—that makes me wonder … Grandpère—er, am I—well, what I mean is … Do I—Mon Dieu! how does one say this?” And in a desperate and rather jerky rush, he finished, “Is it—unpleasant for—for people to—look at me?”

  The duke winced and looked down for an instant. Then he scanned his grandson’s anxious face, and tried to be objective. Sorenson had carefully brushed the black hair into an attractive tumbling over the left side of Roland’s forehead. It partially hid the wound that had irreparably damaged his eye, and the bandages concealed the rest. The scar across his right cheekbone would fade and be no worse than a sabre cut. The welts and bruises were already gone. His nose would never again be as perfectly straight, but by some miracle the fine mouth that had been so terribly swollen and lacerated when first they’d brought him home, had healed, leaving only a white half-moon scar on his chin. Inevitably, however, his ordeal had left its mark on him; there were lines deeply graven between his brows, that had not been there before; a sprinkling of silver at his temples. He was still very thin and looked haggard, but that hopefully would change with time. Cautiously, his Grace began to describe these visible signs of his ordeal, thinking that it was as well that few people would ever see the boy’s back. “You are something changed, there can be no doubt, Roland. But—I’m not at all sure ’tis a disaster. In point of fact—I think you look—rather more manly. Now—if we’re done with your fascinations—”

  With a grin that made the duke’s heart leap with gladness, Mathieson said theatrically, “Ah, but how can you be so sans remords?”

  “I know, I know,” chuckled Marbury. “I am merciless. But—’tis very cold outside and I think we may have more snow, so I want you to come whilst there’s still time. Fiona and her grandmama are already in the Great Hall. Unless, of course,” he added whimsically, “you’d as soon not bother with—”

  “Bother! Sir, do not tease me so. I scarce can wait!”

  “Very well, but we must go slowly, and I want you to promise you’ll tell me an you tire.”

  Mathieson promised, his spirits lifting as they left the room to which he had been confined for so long. In the corridor, he sniffed the air and smelled not medicine and salves, but flowers, and beeswax and woodsmoke. “I love this house,” he said impulsively.

  Marbury experienced a pang of guilt. “Then I shall settle another of my estates on the Aynsworths. I’
m very sure Kit will under—”

  “What, and give Dominer to me? Sir, I didn’t mean that!”

  “I know you did not intend to hint. Now, you must hold to the rail, dear boy! Dominer is not entailed and if you want it, ’twould make me proud to—”

  “But I don’t want it, your Grace. Ah! How crude! Your pardon! I do love it, and I shall be happy to be here with you. But had I ever— I mean, the place I always hoped you might give to me someday, is—is Dance.”

  The duke looked at him sharply and saw the brief look of defeat. What he’d started to say was ‘had I ever married …’ Poor lad. So that was what was fretting him, which was quite understandable. “Hold to the rail at once, sir!” he said gruffly. “Else you shall be returned to your bed!”

  Mathieson laughed, but bowing to that terrible threat, he gripped the rail once more.

  “Dance …?” said Marbury curiously, as they edged their way down again, watched by at least five and twenty pairs of anxious eyes. “Why on earth would you want that run-down awful old place? Your father let it go to rack and ruin, and ’tis so marred by that ugly quarry. Why not the farm in Surrey? Or—the house at Richmond is not entailed either! Now, there’s an idea! You shall certainly have the Richmond house. ’Tis right on the Thames, and the view—” He bit his lip, cursing himself. “But—Dance …!”

  “You are too good, sir. And you’re right about Dance, of course—now. But it was where my father took Maman when first they were—or she thought they were wed. She often spoke of it, for she was so happy there. She used to say it might have been made very beautiful. I began to think of how rewarding ’twould be to work on restoring it myself. I even—drew up plans. The quarry, you know, could be made into a lake, and gardens built around it. And—” In his eagerness he stumbled.

  There were several muffled cries and a faint scream. The duke gave a gasp, steadied him, and said, “Thank heaven! Here comes Sorenson with your cloak. He’ll keep you in your place my lad!”

  When they reached the foot of the stairs Fiona came to take his hand and walk to the front doors with him. On the terrace the air was bitingly cold and stung his cheeks, but Mathieson felt invigorated and alive again. “What does it look like?” he asked.

  The voice was slightly breathless, and Sorenson, supporting him, glanced uneasily at the duke.

  “Heavy grey clouds,” said Fiona, watching her love’s eager face. “But there’s a break here and there and the sun occasionally peeps through.”

  “The trees are bare, of course,” Marbury added, “and we’ve turned off the fountains for the winter, but it’s all very pretty, just the same.”

  He would have given his entire fortune for Roland to be able to see this, but he must not rail against fate, when it was so great a blessing that the dear lad had survived at all. “Are you able to manage the terrace steps, do you think?” he asked.

  Mathieson was mildly surprised. He’d not suspected he was to be allowed to go so far, and he was already rather shaky in the knees, but he didn’t want to go inside yet, so said he could race the duke to the old stone bridge and back, and heard his grandfather chuckle as he was guided carefully down the terrace steps.

  He halted then, suddenly afraid. He’d always had a keen sense of smell, and since he had lost his sight, that sense seemed even keener. A horse was very close to him. Had Muffin bought him a new hack? He didn’t want it! He didn’t want even to touch a horse! Mon Dieu! How could they think he would want this? In a sweat of panic, he wrenched free and stepped back.

  Marbury nodded to the groom. “Take off the blindfold now.”

  His voice shaking, Mathieson said, “Sir—I don’t want to—”

  He was interrupted by a ringing whinny.

  He stood as one turned to stone. Stunned. Disbelieving. Not daring to believe. His lips formed the name, but no sound came.

  A gusty breathing. A friendly whicker. A soft mouth whuffling at his neck, shoving at him gently, making eager loving little grunts.

  “R-Rump …?” he whispered numbly. “Rump? Is—is it …?”

  Marbury said in a choked voice, “Yes, dear boy … ’Tis—Rump …”

  Mathieson gave a strangled sob, flung his arms around the stallion’s neck and buried his face against the sleek warm firmness of it.

  Fiona was overcome and the duke took her in his arms. Sorenson blew his nose vigorously, and many of the servants who had crowded onto the terrace were in tears.

  Stroking and stroking the silken side, the tossing nose, the smooth neck; so moved he could scarcely speak, Mathieson managed at length, “I—I don’t understand … How …?”

  Marbury said gruffly, “I’ll let this gentleman explain. Sergeant?”

  Another shock, compounded by a voice that brought memory flooding back devastatingly. “It’s me, Captain. Patchett. I’m the one what give you such a wallop in that damned barn.”

  Mathieson clung to the stallion dazedly. “Yes. I remember.” He drew an impatient hand across his face and fought to be sensible. “I—you must excuse my—my behaviour. ’Tis just … well, you see—I thought you’d … shot the poor old fellow.”

  “So did our lieutenant, sir. I’d like you to know I wasn’t—we all wasn’t willing parties to—that lot.”

  Still holding Fiona, the duke shook his head warningly, and the sergeant went on at once, “Me and the two chaps as went with me cornered this big fella when he made a mistake and run into a churchyard. It wasn’t easy, sir, but—cor, we couldn’t scrag something as fine as what he is! We kept him hid for a while. I’m very sorry we had to let you think— But—there wasn’t any other way. We all got families to think of, y’see, sir. Soon’s it was safe, and we found out you was here, I come and told the duke.”

  Still caressing the stallion as if he dare not let him go, Mathieson spoke to where he thought his grandfather stood. “Sir—why … why did you not tell me?”

  Watching that white twitching face, Marbury was inclined to think that even now it had been too great an emotional shock. “Well, you see—” he began.

  He had moved, and Mathieson turned to where the voice now came from. In that same instant the stallion tossed his head happily. Mathieson had no inkling. Sorenson shouted, “Look out!” even as a violent impact smashed him sideways and he staggered and tripped on the step behind him.

  Fiona screamed.

  With cries of horror the duke and Sorenson both leapt in abortive attempts to reach him.

  Confused and alarmed, Mathieson had thrown out his hands to break his fall, but he had no way of knowing where he was falling and his head struck the low wall hard.

  “Roland,” gasped the duke, falling to his knees beside his grandson’s sprawled figure. “Oh, dear lad, what have I done? Are you—”

  He stopped, appalled. Through these interminable weeks he had never seen Roland betray abject fear, not even when he was delirious and reliving those ghastly hours in the barn. Now, the thin face was twisted with terror, the teeth chattered; the mouth twitched uncontrollably; in most unheroical fashion, Roland shook from head to toe.

  Also on her knees, Fiona cried frantically, “Are you all right? Have you hurt your back again?” Her little hands went out to him, and he clutched one, starting onto an elbow, then cowered against Sorenson as the man knelt to support him.

  “’Tis a seizure,” groaned the duke. “Send for the doctor—quickly! God forgive me! I should not have—”

  “W-w-wait …” gasped Mathieson, still racked by that violent shuddering. “Sir … is—is the sun … out now?”

  Scourged by guilt, the duke glanced up. The sun was setting, and from a break in the clouds sent pink rays beaming out. “Yes, lad, but—” He met Sorenson’s stunned eyes and threw a hand to his mouth.

  Fiona, staring in awe at Mathieson’s face, whispered, “Muffin … Oh, Muffin!”

  “Grandpère …” stammered Mathieson, “Take off the bandages. P-please. I—I think … I think …”

  Marbury fumble
d with the bandage, but his hands were shaking too much to be of use.

  Sorenson drew his pocket knife and between them, he and Fiona cut through the narrow strip of linen, then unwound the bandages.

  Sick with the fear that he might be imagining things, Mathieson blinked. His left eye did not respond in the slightest. His right eye twitched open. He saw a rosy dimness that gradually brightened. Blurred at first, he began to distinguish low-hanging leaden clouds pierced by pink rays that fanned out in an awesome glory … Dazed with rapture, he saw a face come into focus. Muffin’s white face, as contorted as his own must be, and so full of love. He reached out blindly, but not blindly, and his hand was gripped crushingly and pressed against a wet cheek. Sorenson bent above Mathieson, and clutched his shoulder speechlessly, his dark features working. A vaguely anxious whinny, and Mathieson perceived a white blaze, then the great dark eyes and the magnificent head of the stallion. Turning slowly, drinking it all in, he knew that he was weeping, and he didn’t care.

  Someone else knelt close beside him. A beloved face materialized; an exquisite face, ineffably dear, the green eyes filled with tears, the features paler than he remembered, and reflecting some of the worry and strain she had lived through these past months. Overcome, he clung to her hand. “Fiona … Ah ma chèrie! My bravest Tiny Mite! You are even lovelier than I remembered.”