The Noblest Frailty

by Patricia Veryan

  “No, he did not,” he fumed. “Nor did he hand Tyndale his calling card before breaking his head! But that don’t mean he wasn’t behind everything! And if you was half as shrewd a judge of character as—”

  “Then dare I ask, O infallible judge, upon what—save your despicable suspicions—you base this wicked slander?”

  Devenish marched closer, grabbed her shoulders, and held her firm despite her struggles. “My opinion, ma’am, is based not upon suspicions, but upon something that happened whilst I was in Dinan last autumn.”

  Shock came into her eyes, and her struggles ceased abruptly. Any lover with an ounce of wisdom in the ways of women would have allowed those ominous words to sink in. Devenish, however, was as inexperienced in courtship as he was swift in temper, and swept on disastrously. “And furthermore, I have every right to be both concerned and jealous as bedamned over you! As soon as you stop playing off your coquettish airs and set a date, we will—”

  “Coquettish…!” she gasped, wrenching free. “Why, of all the—”

  “Well, dash it all, Yolande, when are you going to permit me to announce it?”

  Her heart fluttering, she said, “Perhaps never, if I must face a future in which you are ready to call out every gentleman I chance to speak to!”

  “Never? My God! You do not— Dearest girl … you never mean to cry off?”

  She felt miserable now and close to tears, and darting a glance at him saw that he was very white, a stark desolation in his face. She loved him dearly and, struck to the heart, reached out her hand. “Forgive me. That was very bad. But, you know, Dev, I have almost as—as nasty a temper as do you.”

  He clasped her hand between both his own, scanning her beloved features anxiously. She had spoken in the heat of anger, merely. She had not truly meant that she might not wed him. For a moment, the prospect of a future in which Yolande played no part had stretched out, bleak and terrible before him, but that was silliness. They were meant for each other; they always had been meant for each other. He must learn to handle her more gently was all. It was difficult sometimes, when one had grown up with a chit, to see her as anything but a pigtailed schoolgirl.… But Yolande was far from that now, and other men—too many, blast them!—saw her with far different eyes. “I’m a crazy clunch,” he said repentantly, “and you are perfectly right, I’m jealous as a link boy’s torch. I love you, you know. Very much. But—I wonder you tolerate me, much less accept me as a husband.”

  The declaration was as clumsy as it was rare. Overwhelmed, Yolande tightened her grip on his hand and smiled mistily.

  Devenish knew a great surge of relief. Her affection was plain to see. He was reprieved! Offering his arm, he said with his engaging grin, “A stroll around the riding club, m’dear?”

  She took his arm, and as they strolled along together he told her most of what had transpired. He spoke lightly, but at the finish she halted and stood regarding him in no little perplexity. “However can you laugh at it? You might very well have been killed! I can certainly understand your aversion to Mr. Garvey, and I will be honest, Dev, and admit I cannot quite like him, although I have no complaints as to his treatment of us. I assure you he made no attempt to engage my affections. He was kind and considerate, and apparently with no other object in view than to be of help to us. He said his adieux very politely when he delivered us safely here, and I’ve not seen him since. Why would he have gone to the trouble and risk of having you abducted, as you suspect, if he did not mean to try and fix his interest with me?”

  “Perhaps he had another motive.” He thought, “perhaps he was hoping to please Sanguinet,” but he knew that would sound farfetched, so said nothing more.

  Yolande eyed him uncertainly. “Are you thinking that Craig might pose a threat to him? But—how could he? Craig knows so few people over here.”

  “I wouldn’t refine overmuch on that, m’dear. That varmint knows a sight more people than he’ll admit to.”

  “Now that,—” she smiled—“sounds much more like dear Dev.”

  “How so?”

  “Why, when last I saw you it seemed only a matter of time before you two were at it with sword and dagger! Yet just now, when you were telling me of your adventures, one might have thought Craig your dearest friend.”

  “Good God! How could I give you so revolting an impression! Only because he saved my life, I’m not like to change my opinion of the rascal.”

  “Saved your life? Heavens! When?”

  “During our scuffle with Messrs. Akim and Benjo. I told you of it.”

  “You did not say your life was endangered!”

  “Oh. Well, I was downed and just for a minute or two knocked clean out of time. Old Craig stood over me when one of the louts made to kick my ribs in, and fought like a lion till I could hop up again.”

  Her eyes glowed. “How splendid!”

  “Yes. I’ll admit it was, rather. I was surprised to see how well he handled himself, for he’s such a quiet type. I was never more shocked than to hear he’d served at Waterloo.”

  “It does seem incredible. And at first he was at pains to make us think he had only just arrived in England.”

  “Well, I suppose he had. He likely joined up in Belgium. Never look so doubtful. He was at Waterloo all right, and got himself properly stove in.”

  “He was wounded? Are you sure there can be no mistake?” And she knew that there was no mistake, but that she asked purely to learn more of Craig.

  “Quite sure. For one thing, I saw the scar on his chest—beast of a thing! For another…” He frowned a little. “When we was at Longhills, Montclair’s place, you know, Craig and I were given a room to share—if you can credit it.”

  “My goodness! They must have been very full of guests.”

  “Lord, no! There was only Montclair and the Trents—and Selby was from home, thank God! But, never mind about that. The point is that Craig started to talk to me in the night—or so I thought, only it turned out he was dreaming. Had the deuce of a time with him. He kept saying that he was ‘all right’ and that they must hold their position at all costs. There wasn’t much doubt what he was re-living, and I’d judge the real thing to have been—” he kicked at a clump of dandelions—“rather grim.”

  For a moment Yolande stood silent and very still, staring also at the dandelions. Then, drawing a deep breath she said, “I see. No wonder you name him a shifty scoundrel! He deceived us all.”

  Devenish glanced up, met her smile, and grinned responsively. “Didn’t he just! Which—”

  “Mr. Dev! Oh—Mr. Dev!”

  Mounted on the back of the filly’s mother, Josie ambled towards them.

  “My Lady Fair,” Devenish laughed. “How did you manage to get up on that mighty charger?”

  “By Jove!” exclaimed Tyndale, wandering up to them with the General. “What a magnificent animal! A Belgian, sir?”

  “Clydesdale,” said Drummond, proudly. “The breed was founded in my father’s youth. That’s Molly-My-Lass you’re looking at.”

  They all walked closer to the fence, and Tyndale reached up to stroke the neck of the great horse, who suffered his caress for only a moment before moving to nuzzle at Devenish.

  Nodding at Josie, the General observed, “That must have been a large climb for you, little lady.”

  “Oh, I loves horses, sir,” said she brightly. “And they like me. Mostly. I just climbed up the fence and then hopped on. But I think I’ll come down now please, ’cause her back’s so wide it’s making me legs stretch awful!”

  Devenish put one hand on the fence, but hesitated. Craig swung with lithe ease over the bars and into the paddock, and lifted the child down.

  A part of Yolande’s mind registered the fact that poor Dev’s leg must be troubling him again, which was natural enough after so long and violent a journey. Most of her awareness was centred on Craig, however. How kind that he had moved so quickly to spare Dev any possible embarrassment. He was smiling at something Josie
had said, the wind ruffling his light hair, the sunshine bright on his face, accenting the laugh lines about his eyes.

  The filly came flirting over, and Josie made a dart for the pretty creature, but with a flaunt of her tail and a roll of saucy eyes, the filly bounced off again. Craig swept Josie up and settled her on the fence, and Devenish reached up to collect her. Climbing the rails, Craig swung one leg over the top, glanced at Yolande, and paused, struck into immobility as his eyes met hers. The clear grey gaze seemed to pierce her heart and she could not look away. Time had halted. Yolande seemed scarcely to breathe and was so entranced that it was all she could do not to move towards him, and Craig sat astride the topmost rail as one hypnotized.

  Devenish whirled Josie around, and the child’s shrill joyous squeal shattered the spell. Tyndale gasped and jumped quickly to the ground.

  Her breathing very fast and her cheeks very pink, Yolande called, “Josie, I think we should go inside now and change for luncheon.” Not daring to look at Tyndale, she asked, “Are you gentlemen coming?”

  Devenish was beside her at once. Tyndale declined, however, saying with a somewhat fixed smile that he would like to know more of the Clydesdales, if the General would be so kind as to tell him of the breed.

  Sir Andrew was more than willing. “A Dutch stallion was the founder,” he began. “They brought him up here from England, and we’ve bred many fine animals since. Molly’s one of the larger specimens—weighs in the neighbourhood of two thousand pounds. Did you mark her fetlocks, and…?”

  As she walked back towards the house, listening with only half an ear to Josie’s merry chatter, Yolande’s eyes were troubled.

  * * *

  Tyndale now found himself in the unenviable position of longing to be near Yolande, yet dreading each moment he spent in her company. In an effort to end his misery, he remarked in a casual way that he would start for the castle after luncheon. Sir Andrew, however, had taken a liking to the tall young Canadian, and was determined he should stay on, at least for a few days. In this he was abetted by his widowed daughter, Mrs. Caroline Fraser. This angular, kind-hearted, but rather sharp-tongued lady ran the Drummond household with inflexible efficiency. She mistrusted Devenish and had privately advised Yolande that no gentleman possessed of such extraordinary good looks could be expected to be a faithful husband. Mrs. Fraser had no use for “foreigners” in the general way, but Craig’s rather shy smile and gentle manner had made an impression on her. Sensing that Yolande was not indifferent to him and aware that Arabella Drummond (whom she detested) loathed him, she joyously added her own voice to that of her father in urging that both men make Steep Drummond their temporary headquarters.

  Desperate to escape, but dreading to offend, Craig suggested that he should go on alone, while Devenish remained. Mrs. Fraser brushed his hesitancy aside, and the General’s eye began to take on a frosty glare, so that Craig had no recourse but to accept the hospitality so generously offered. He did so with sufficient grace that the old gentleman’s suspicions were lulled. Delighted, he clapped him on the shoulder, admonishing, “Dinna fash ye’sel, laddie, we’ll nae demand ye don sporran and kilts!” this drawing a laugh from almost all those present. The exception was Yolande. She sensed the real reason behind Craig’s attempt to leave, and directed a sober glance at him that caused his beleaguered heart to cramp painfully.

  Contrary to what others might think, sporran and kilts were not unknown to Tyndale, but to Josie they were both new and vastly intriguing. It was the custom at Steep Drummond for the colours to be taken down with full ceremony each dusk, and when the child’s eyes first rested on one of the General’s retainers in all the glory of kilts, tartan, and bagpipes, she was speechless with awe and astonishment. They all followed to the roof and the small platform around the flagpole. The pipes rang out their unique song, the Scot marched proudly, the cold wind blew, and the kilts swung. A glint of curiosity grew in Josie’s eyes. She edged closer and, her watchfulness unrewarded, appeared to experience some continuing difficulty with her shoe. When the flags were down, folded, and being reverently borne away, the child contrived to head the small procession and was obliged to pause on the stairs and again attend to her recalcitrant shoe buckle. Craig, his mind burdened with other matters, did not notice this behavior. Devenish was both aware of and amused by it. Coming up with Josie, he gripped her elbow and propelled her along beside him.

  Scarlet, she gulped, “I was—only wondering—”

  “I know just what you were wondering,” he said sotto voce. “And—they do, so have done, wretched little elf!”

  She saw the laugh in his eyes and knew he was not angered, so accompanied him cheerfully enough, but at the foot of the stairs was evidently still fast gripped by curiosity, for she murmured, “Then they must be awful tiny not to show under that—”

  “I beg your pardon, dear?” asked Yolande.

  “I said, if that great big man wears—”

  “She—ah, said she didn’t—er, know about tartans,” Devenish blurted.

  His beloved turned an impish smile upon him. “Oh,” she said meekly.

  There were many tartans at Steep Drummond that evening. Word that the General’s lovely granddaughter was visiting him had spread lightning fast through the Scottish hills. Several dinner guests had found their sons extraordinarily willing to accompany them, and by nine o’clock a steady stream of chaises and sporting vehicles was bowling up the drive, well escorted by riders. Yolande, clad in a gown of creamy crepe, wore also the plaid of her house, held at the shoulder by a great sapphire pin. The soft blue, green, and rust of the tartan became her, lending her a dignity that enhanced her beauty. She was hemmed in by ardent young gentlemen and a few just as ardent but less youthful. Devenish was as admired by the ladies as his love was worshipped by the gentlemen. He was impatient with what he described as “doing the pretty” and parties bored him, but he was much too well mannered to show it. His pleasant laugh rang out often; he managed to convince all about him that he was thoroughly enjoying himself, and when Mrs. Fraser sat down at the pianoforte in the music room and an impromptu hop came into being, he danced politely with Yolande’s very good friend, Miss Hannah Abercrombie, who had red hair and a high-pitched giggle; and next with Miss Mary Gordon, a dark pretty girl who, harbouring a secret tendre for him, trembled so much that she succeeded in conveying her nervousness to him, so that at the first decent opportunity he contrived to wend his way to Yolande’s side.

  With equal determination, Craig stayed as far from his lovely cousin as manners would allow. Having carefully rehearsed a means of escape when he should ask her to dance, Yolande was denied the opportunity to put it to use. She knew perfectly well why he did not approach her, and told herself she should be grateful for his common sense. But she was woman enough to be disappointed. She was not alone in this. Craig fell short of being a handsome man, but no one could have denied that he was attractive, and many a feminine eye turned to the corner of the room where his tumbled fair hair could be glimpsed above the heads of the other gentlemen. He, however, was quite unaware of this attention, and had anyone told him of it, would have laughed and decried it as rank flattery. Embroiled in a discussion of the quarter horses that were gaining much popularity in Canada, he was asked by a well set-up gentleman with a fine military moustache if he had as yet seen Scotland’s Clydesdales.

  “I have,” he replied, his eyes kindling. “And they are magnificent, if I do right to judge by Molly-My-Lass.”

  “Och, ye do, laddie,” said his new acquaintance with enthusiasm. “Did ye hear that the noo, Drummond? ’Tis a bonnie braw laddie ye’ve claimed for a guest. We’ll make a good Scot oot o’ him yet, eh?”

  The General smiled and rested one hand on Craig’s broad shoulder. “I don’t know about that, Donald, but he’s a fine soldier, that I do know, He was at Waterloo. Served with—was it the Forty-Third, Tyndale?”

  An admiring crowd had gathered at these magical words. Flushing, Tyndale stamm
ered, “Thank you, but—er, that’s not quite it, sir. I was—”

  “With a line regiment, perhaps?” asked young Hamish MacInnes, who had his own aspirations for the fair Yolande’s hand and would have given his ears to have been at Waterloo.

  Tyndale said quietly, “I was with the Union Brigade.”

  MacInnes opened his eyes. The General muttered, “Were you, by God!”

  “And—your regiment, sir?” persisted Mr. Walter Donald, eagerly.

  “The Scots Greys.”

  Shouts and cheers arose. Grinding his teeth, MacInnes retreated. There was no fighting that! Tyndale was the hero of the hour. When the uproar eased a trifle, General Drummond drew the uncomfortable cause of it towards the door. “Tyndale,” he murmured. “There’s a wee favour ye can grant me—if ye’ll not find it unco’ ghastly!”

  Thus it was that, half an hour later, leaving the floor on Devenish’s arm after a country dance, Yolande was surprised by a sudden quieting in the noisy room, followed by a crashing chord from the indefatigable Mrs. Fraser.

  All eyes turned to the General, who was ushering a newcomer from the hall—a tall young Scot, with unruly fair hair, but who was elegant in his kilts and plaid and black velvet jacket, with lace foaming at throat and wrists. He halted and looked up, and Yolande stared in disbelief. It was Craig, his grey eyes flashing across that silenced room to meet her own, a tentative smile trembling at the corners of his wide mouth. She thought numbly, “Oh, how superb he is!” and, choked with pride, went to him. Never knowing how her eyes glistened, nor how fine a sight they were, the two of them, she said huskily, “My goodness, how grand you are!”

  “Aye, he is that!” The General laughed, vastly pleased with himself. “What d’ye think of our ‘good Scot’ now, Donald?”

  “Why, I think ye’re a muckle old fool, Drummond,” scoffed his friend. “Ye’ve wrapped the boy in the wrong plaid!”

  “Lord, what a sight!” Much amused, Devenish came over to them, his manner earning an irate scowl from the General. Taking Tyndale aside, he added murmurously, “You’ve won the Fairs with your boney knees, coz. But—I give your fair warning—look out for Mistress Josie Storm!”