The Noblest Frailty

by Patricia Veryan

  He frowned, but in the end, of course, was won over, and they hurried to the house together. Ten minutes later, having changed into her habit in record time, Yolande hurried downstairs, train over one arm, a dashing hat set upon her curls, and riding whip and gloves in her hand.

  Her aunts walked into the Great Hall as she descended, and Mrs. Fraser said with one of her rare smiles, “What a bonnie green that is! You look very fetching, Yolande. May one ask whither ye’re bound at this hour?”

  “I wish I knew, ma’am. Grandpapa has asked Laing to send all the men out to look for Josie. She’s wandered off somewhere, the tiresome child.”

  Snatching up Socrates and thus foiling his attempt to nip her sister-in-law’s ankle, Mrs. Drummond murmured that he was a very naughty doggie today, then expostulated, “You never mean to ride with them? Yolande, your wits are gone begging! You must let the gentlemen handle such things!”

  “I would, did I not feel so wretchedly responsible. I might have known she would try to find Devenish.”

  “Aye.” Mrs. Fraser nodded. “The poor wee mite idolizes the lad.” She looked at her niece enigmatically. “Children and dogs. He canna be all bad.”

  “Bad!” flared Yolande, her cheeks flushing. “Dev is a very fine young man! He is not at all bad!”

  “Well, you love him, of course. Your pardon, dear, I keep forgetting. I had in fact meant to ask you for the date you’ve selected.”

  The voice was mild, but Yolande’s eyes fell before her aunt’s steady gaze and, concentrating on adjusting her gloves, she answered, “We have not quite decided on the exact date, but mean to set it and make the formal announcement as soon as Dev returns.” She looked up and said gratefully, “Oh, there you are, Grandpapa. Have the men started yet?”

  “They wait for us to join them. Never fret so, girl! We’ll likely find her long before she reaches the castle.” His whiskers twitched. “I hope we do, for I’ve nae wish tae encounter that Canadian mushroom!”

  Aware that her Aunt Caroline’s covertly amused gaze was upon her, Yolande did not utter the indignant retort that trembled on her tongue, saying instead that she did not see how Josie could possibly have reached the castle by this time, even had she left at ten o’clock.

  Mrs. Drummond caressed Socrates fondly, and murmured, “Well, she did not. It was well after noon, as I recall.”

  With his hand on the doorknob, the General stiffened, glared at the panelled door, assumed a smile that might well have caused the paint to blister, and turned to his daughter-in-law. “You saw the child leave, Arabella?”

  “I suppose that is what she was doing. At the time, I merely thought she was going for a little ride.”

  “How grand in ye tae inform us of it the noo,” said Mrs. Fraser ironically.

  “Ride—ye said?” Sir Andrew snapped. “Upon what, ma’am?”

  “That great big animal. Jolly Nelly—or whatever it is called.”

  “Molly-My-Lass?” said Yolande. “Oh, Aunt! If only you had told us!”

  “But, I am telling you, my love! And I cannot think why you should go to the castle, for she never meant to go there, unless perhaps she experienced some difficulty in guiding that monster, which I own she did not seem to, as the horse moved off in quite a docile fashion.”

  His brows beetling, the General snarled, “Which way did the wee girl go?”

  “I am striving to tell you that, sir. It was not in the direction of Castle Tyndale, for to reach there one would have to take the estate road to the west, I do believe, and—Sir Andrew! Are you feeling quite the thing? Your face is alarmingly red, and—”

  “Fer losh sakes, woman!” cried Mrs. Fraser. “Put it in tae simple English if ye please! If Josie Storm dinna take the western road, which way did she go?”

  “She took the north road, my dear Caroline. As if she meant to go north, do you see? Though why, or whom she meant to visit, is more than I could say!”

  “Och-unnnh!” snorted Drummond. “At last the gem is extrrrracted! Come lassie, we must come up with the wee girl before dusk!”

  With Yolande hurrying beside him, he stalked to the hall and the stableyard, from whence he could soon be heard roaring orders to Mr. Laing.

  “Good gracious,” murmured Mrs. Drummond, nervously. “How you ever stand it here, Caroline, is quite beyond me! My father-in-law’s temperament would drive me distracted!”

  “’Tis a mutual emotion,” Mrs. Fraser informed her dourly.

  Arabella smiled. It was nice, thought she, that for once they were in accord.

  Chapter XIV

  THE SMALL STORE ROOM in the second basement was musty, icy cold, and pitch-black. From the moment they had been thrust down the short flight of steps and the great door slammed and barred upon them, the cousins had explored in frantic search of a way out, or something with which to defend themselves when the door was opened. Neither effort met with success. Now, shivering and defeated, they sat against the wooden door, shoulder to shoulder, in an attempt to keep warm.

  “They could at least,” Devenish grumbled, “have left us a lantern.”

  “Probably thought we’d burn the door down,” said Tyndale, and the faint note of strain in his cousin’s voice having been noted, asked, “That leg bothering you?”

  “Just a trifle.”

  “If you had managed to refrain from advising that nasty little weasel he was a nasty little weasel, he might not have pushed you down the steps.”

  “But he might. And I am not in the habit of grovelling to such as he.”

  “Very true, Master High and Mighty. Are you instead in the habit of escaping predicaments such as this? I gather you’ve had more experience in these matters than I have.”

  “You refer to my little jaunt with Tristram Leith?” Devenish grinned into the darkness. “What a jolly good adventure that was! I’ll say one thing for that rascally Frenchman, it was all conducted on a far more gentlemanly plane than this! We’d interfered with his plans, so he meant to kill us. But there was none of this shutting people up in haunted dungeons and then shoving ’em off the top of a … a damned great tower!”

  There was a rather heavy silence, the imminence of that horror daunting them both, if only for a moment.

  Tyndale said coolly, “I wonder if it’s dark yet.”

  “I suppose it must be. We’ve been in here at least an hour, wouldn’t you say?”

  “At least. In which case they’re liable to come for us at any minute. Dev, we must think of something!”

  “Simple. The instant they open the door, we’ll toddle out and lay about right and left. Likely they’ll not expect it, and we’ll grass the lot!”

  His optimism proved ill-founded, however. Another long hour crawled by before the door swung open, revealing the pallid features and sandy hair of the man Walter, standing well back, with a large musket aimed unerringly at Tyndale, so that Devenish’s well-planned charge was brought up short.

  “That’s a good lad,” sneered Walter.

  “You do not dare shoot,” said Devenish, his eyes flashing to the grim faces of the three who watched.

  “Oh, we wouldn’t shoot you, sir,” Fritch admitted, a sly leer illuminating his narrow features. He nodded to Tyndale. “But if you try anything, he gets snuffed. You’re going to shoot him anyway, so it could just as well be now.”

  This information, intended to terrify the helpless victims, was ill-judged. With a shout of triumph, Devenish sprang directly in front of the musket. “Go on, Craig!” he howled.

  Tyndale needed no urging. He experienced a brief sense of awe that his cousin should have the pluck to throw himself against that yawning muzzle, then he sailed into action. Simultaneously, Devenish sent a right hurtling at Walter’s jaw. His was a slender fist, even when clenched, but his slim grace had deceived men before this. When in Town, he had seen a good deal of the interior of Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon and, while he was not muscular, he was tough and wiry and had proven an apt pupil. Besides that, he w
as both angered and in the grip of the exhilaration that always seized him when action or danger beckoned. Thus, Mr. Fritch was amazed to see his cohort reel backward to bring up with a crash against the far wall of the corridor. His surprise was brief. Craig had height, reach, and solid power to complement his cousin’s steel. An uppercut to the point of Mr. Fritch’s very pointed chin sent him first to the tips of his toes, and then diving to join the crumpled Walter. Recovering from their momentary stupefaction, Messrs. Jethro and Shotten now plunged into the fray, and the narrow hall, lighted only by the flickering flames of torches set in iron brackets, was suddenly very busy indeed. Craig was jolted to his knees when Shotten rammed a large fist under his ribs. Spinning triumphantly from his encounter with Walter, Devenish was too late to block the left that Jethro smashed at him. Dazed and half blind, he struck out instinctively and, howling, his nose streaming crimson, Jethro staggered, colliding with Shotten, who had also turned his attention to Devenish. Reprieved for an instant, Devenish fought away dizziness and scooped up the fallen musket. The quarters were too close to fire it without hitting Tyndale, so he swung it instead, and Jethro went down. Tyndale, who had struggled to his feet, tapped Shotten on the shoulder and, as the bully whirled to attack, drove home a jab that dropped him like a sack of oats.

  “Hah!” panted Devenish, bruised but exuberant.

  “Come on!” cried the more practical Tyndale.

  They ran for a door at the far end of that long, descending corridor. The door burst open. A bearded man appeared; a voice shouted, “Ils se sont échappés! Alors! Alors!”

  “Whoops!” Swinging sharply about, Devenish panted, “Retreat, coz! No—ahead of me! Hurry! They don’t want a bullet in me!”

  Thus protected, they safely reached the stairs leading to the kitchen quarters. Many feet pounded behind them. Never had Tyndale mounted stairs with such desperate haste. But there must, he knew, be a rearguard action, and as they reached the landing and sprinted for the Great Hall, he gasped, “Dev. You run like hell when you—get outside. I’ll … hold the doors!”

  “Noble,” Tyndale acknowledged breathlessly. “But pointless. If either one of us … stays … he will be killed and—and the survivor accused of his murder! It’s—all or nothing, coz!”

  It appeared perilously likely to be nothing, for as they rounded the corner and headed across the Great Hall, voices could be heard on the drivepath, and one, ominously close, howled, “Something’s wrong inside. Hurry!”

  Tyndale swore.

  “The back!” gasped Devenish, and once more they wheeled about.

  They were too late. Already, their pursuers were between them and the rear corridor. A pistol in Shotten’s eager hand was pointing at Tyndale. The explosion was shattering, but he missed his shot and the ball thudded into the wall.

  “Upstairs!” Tyndale shouted, leading the way in a mad dash for the main stairs.

  Fritch howled, “We’ve got ’em! There’s no way out, and they’re goin’ where we want ’em, lads!”

  “Blast him! He’s … right!” Tyndale panted as they toiled upward.

  “We’ll set fire … to … the blasted pile!” Devenish clutched his leg painfully. “That’ll attract half the … countryside.”

  They reached the first floor balcony ahead of their pursuers. It was, thought Devenish, too close, besides which, his blasted leg was becoming too much of a nuisance for him to climb any further. Belatedly, he realized he still clutched the musket. “You—go on, coz! I’ll hold ’em while—you build … a bonfire.” Not waiting for consent, he swung around, musket levelled. “Platoon … halt!” he shouted. “Guided tour … stops here!”

  Behind him, Tyndale hesitated, but the fierce gallop had halted before the wide mouth of the musket that waved gently to and fro. “Go on, dash it all!” urged Devenish.

  Tyndale plunged into the nearest bedchamber, which chanced to be the one his cousin had occupied, and began dragging chairs, tables, draperies, into a pile before the windows. Inspired, he wrenched down the ghoulish portrait, propped it against the pile, and smashed the still burning oil lamp at it.

  A gout of fire exploded. Tyndale leapt back. The flames licked upward, reaching hungrily for the draperies. They caught, and in a trice the windows were edged with fire. Smoke began to billow out, and Tyndale, coughing, ran back to his cousin, still at bay on the balcony.

  “He done it, damn him!” howled an enraged voice. “He’s fired the blasted place. If it reaches the stores…!”

  Strong faces blanched. Murderous glares faded into unease. The rear rank began to edge downwards. “Shoot! You perishin’ fools—shoot!” raved Shotten, brandishing his empty pistol.

  The front door burst open. A new arrival ran in, shouting, “There’s a damn great bunch of riders coming!”

  “Hurrah!” Devenish exulted.

  The smugglers hesitated, exchanging scared glances. A thunder of hooves could be heard outside. Simultaneously, a great billow of smoke gushed onto the landing. It was the coup de grâce. As one man, the group on the stairs broke and ran. From the corner of his eye Tyndale saw Shotten wrest a pistol from the newcomer and turn—aiming. With a cry of warning, he leapt to push his cousin out of the line of fire. The pistol shot cracked deafeningly, even above the tumult. Tyndale staggered and clutched his shoulder. Devenish steadied himself and fired, his shot sounding as an echo to the first, the twin retorts almost simultaneous, and Shotten gave a howl, grabbed his arm and reeled away, assisted by a comrade.

  Tyndale swayed, missed his footing, and fell, tumbling limply down the precipitous stairs even as the front door was flung wide.

  General Drummond, Yolande behind him, rushed in. They halted, and stood as though rooted to the spot. Yolande gave a small, shrill scream. With an appalled groan, Devenish started to hurry to his cousin, but Yolande was before him. She flew to sink down beside Tyndale’s sprawled form, another despairing cry escaping her as she saw the blood that stained his shirt. Tearing his cravat aside, her distraught gaze flashed up to Devenish and the still-smoking pistol in his hand. “Murderous savage!” she sobbed, in fierce accusation. “Had you to try to kill him, then? Would nothing satisfy your vengeance, your insane jealousy, but his death?” And bending to investigate the wound high on Tyndale’s shoulder, she pleaded brokenly, “My darling, my darling! Oh, my dearest beloved—do not die! Please, please, do not die!”

  Two steps above her, Devenish halted and groped blindly for the banister rail. For years to come that scene would haunt him: Craig, sprawled and silent, Yolande weeping over him; the General standing as one dazed, while the grooms and stablehands from Steep Drummond crowded noisily in behind him to gaze in awed condemnation at the dramatic tableaux before them.

  “It is not true,” he thought numbly. “It cannot be true! She is mine. We are betrothed. She does not love Craig. She must not love Craig!” But Yolande’s tears, her tender efforts to help the wounded man, and above all else the bitter, accusing words that rang in his brain, left no room for doubt. She did love Craig. That terrible knowledge seared like a sword through him. Her love was forever lost. The Colonial bastard had stolen her away, and in so doing had taken every hope for the future, and all meaning in life.…

  Craig struggled feebly and came to one elbow. His eyes were full of pain, and he must have struck his head in falling, for blood was streaking down his face, but he held back Yolande’s ministering hand, his gaze fixed on his cousin. “Dev,” he gasped faintly, “Dev—I tried … not to love her, but … but I—I did not— I would … not…” And he slumped down again, Yolande supporting his fall so that his head sank into her lap. Her tears fell like bright diamonds onto his unresponsive face. She lifted her head to glare up at Devenish and demand through clenched teeth, “Are you satisfied now? Oh—may God forgive you! I never shall!”

  The General moved forward, breaking the spell that had held them all still for what seemed like a long time, yet had actually been only seconds. “Good God, man!” he breathed. “
Have you entirely lost your wits? I’d not thought to find something like this when the child said there was trouble here!”

  A door, distantly slammed, brought his head swinging around, and jolted Devenish from his personal misery. “The smugglers!” he cried.

  Montelongo staggered into the hall, saw Tyndale, and ran to him weavingly.

  The General brightened. If there were smugglers about, this tragedy might not be so black as he had at first surmised. Smoke was boiling out of one of the upper rooms. “Some of you men,” he roared, “get upstairs and put that fire out! Todd and Blake—stay with Miss Yolande. The rest of you, come with me!”

  “This way!” shouted Devenish. He sprinted to the kitchen hall and the basement stairs and with whoops of excitement, the General and his men followed. At top speed, they clattered down the stairs and raced along the hall. The door to the store room in which the cousins had been imprisoned was still open. The rear door stood wide, but as Devenish ran through it, he slowed. A large cupboard just beyond the door jutted crazily into the corridor, revealing a small aperture in the wall behind it, and a glimpse of deep-cut steps leading downwards.

  Holding up a flaming torch that he’d snatched from its bracket, the General muttered, “Have a care, lad. They may be waiting!”

  Devenish smiled without mirth. Much he cared! He stepped over the low wainscot and onto the first step. The darkness was intense, the light of the torch penetrating a very few feet ahead, but the steps wound steadily down. They were slippery and treacherous, but he went on with reckless haste, and as he went the smell of the sea came ever more clearly to his nostrils. Had not Tyndale once made some remark about the possibility of an entrance to the castle through a cave? His heart began to hammer with anticipation.

  The steps curved around a wall, and suddenly they were in an enormous chamber, one side of which was formed by the living rock of the cliff-face. Torches still burned in wall brackets, but of Sanguinet’s minions the only sign was the open door at the far side of the room, a door of solid stone, so formed as to be invisible from without once it was securely closed.