The Noblest Frailty

by Patricia Veryan

  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 behavior 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 fawning 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 MacInnes 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.

  “His name’s Methy-slaw!” Josie elaborated with a shake of the head for the density of some adults.

  For a moment Yolande was unenlightened. Then, she exclaimed, “Oh—Methuselah! A biblical name.”

  Josie nodded. “Like Mr. Craig’s horse.”

  Intrigued, Yolande said, “Lazzy is short for Lazarus, then? Do you know why?”

  “It’s because when he was a wee colt, he was caught in a flood or something,” said Maisie, all importance. “He almost drowned, but Mr. Craig jumped in and got him out, and that’s why that funny Red Indian follows him all over the world, even to Waterloo.”

  Yolande blinked. Josie, incredulous, demanded, “How do you know all that?”

  “Me mum told me. She knows all about Mr. Tyndale. I heard her tell me dad that we ought to make it our business to find out—”

  “Maisie! Whatever be ye doing, child?” A thin, nervous, dark-haired little woman hurried up the path, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. MacFarlane,” called Yolande. “Will you not join us?”

  Mrs. MacFarlane not only would not join them, but was apparently most distressed. “I told ye, never to come up here, you bad girl!” she chided. “Do ye ken what happens to bairns that do nae heed their mums?”

  Beginning to cry, Maisie picked up her doll.

  Yolande stood and walked forward, pleading “Pray do not scold her, ma’am. I am the culprit, for Josie is so short of playmates I asked your daughter to stay. It would be lovely if Maisie could keep her company now and then.”

  The lady fairly clutched her child and, standing very stiff and straight, replied a frigid, “We thank ye, Miss Drummond. Is best they dinna meet.” She bit her lip and added with a sort of desperation, “And besides, we’m moving away verra soon noo. Good day tae ye.”

  She bobbed a curtsy and backed away, her attitude all but fearful.

  Josie snatched up the other doll and ran forward. “Don’t forget Lady Witherspoon,” she said sadly.

  Maisie ran to retrieve her doll. A ball that had shared the chair with “Lady Witherspoon” fell to the floor. Yolande took it up. “Catch,” she called, and threw it to Josie.

  Mrs. MacFarlane, standing just beyond the little girl, uttered a piercing shriek and sprang back, throwing up a protecting arm.

  Astonished, Yolande cried, “Oh, I do beg your pardon. Did I startle you, ma’am?”

  The distraught woman returned no answer, but burst into tears, took her frightened daughter by the hand, and all but ran back across the park.

  It was very apparent, thought Yolande, that she could expect little help from that quarter. Maybe Mrs. MacFarlane thought they were all murderers!

  “Now,” said Josie forlornly, “I got no one to play tea party with.”

  “Not only that, you have no tea party left.” Yolande nodded at Methuselah who was on the table, busily crunching the remaining biscuits, with the empty cream pitcher overturned beside him.

  “Silly creature,” Josie giggled. “There wasn’t no cream in it. And cats do not like biscu
its!”

  Yolande smiled, “I suppose no one has ever told him,” she said, thus awakening a little peal of laughter.

  As they started back towards the house together, Yolande thought, “I wonder how Mrs. MacFarlane knew so much about Craig.…”

  Chapter XII

  THE VILLAGE OF DRUMDOWNIE had seen many changes during the march of the centuries. It was thought to have been extant during the Roman military occupation, it had endured through the wars of the tribes, the Norman invasion, and a mighty battle with Norwegian hosts. It had known Robert the Bruce with pride, and Oliver Cromwell with hatred. But it had never as yet seen an Iroquois Indian clad in leathern tunic, trousers, and moccasins, and riding bareback with the demeanour of a conquering monarch. As a result, Montelongo’s progress along the cobbled old street became more a procession, with children, dogs, and a growing number of adults following in his train, many of the latter, greatly diverted, calling out eagerly to learn where was the rest of the circus.

  Ignoring the uproar, Montelongo drew his bay mare to a halt outside the blacksmith’s shop where were seated several of the village elders. He swung one leg across the mare’s back, preparatory to slipping down, but stopped as an ancient man tottered to his feet, his rheumy eyes as wide as his toothless mouth, to pipe in broad Scots, “The puir savage will be needin’ a body tae translate. Now dinna everyone press in—he’s nae tae be trusted too close, like as not!”

  Montelongo decided this old gentleman was as unintelligible as most of the other Scots he had met, and eyed him imperturbably.

  “Dinna fash ye’sel’ laddie,” urged the aged one. “Me name be Roberts an’ I ask ye tae light ye doon and open y’r budget wi’ us. How much will they be chargin’ fer tickets? And d’ye ken whar the tent will be pitched?”

  Very little of this was clear to Montelongo, but one word stood out. “Tent,” he said in his deep, resonant voice. “Where big wigwam? Where Chief?”

  Mr. Roberts cackled. “Not sae fast!” he admonished. “Show us some tricks, first.”