The Noblest Frailty

by Patricia Veryan

  “Oh, of course. Maisie, wasn’t it? And she has the measles.”

  “She’s better. But Mrs. MacFarlane’s poorly. I thought she was cocking up her toes, ’cause they asked the vicar to come and see her—only they call him a minster. Next day when I went to take her a rose, she was up, and she was lots better. I was s’prised. That minster must be God’s bosom bow to make her well so quick. P’raps we should get him to come and make Major Craig better.”

  “Perhaps,” he gritted. “Was Mrs. MacFarlane cross because you went to her house?”

  “No. I thinked she would be, but she wasn’t. She was nice, even when she talked so funny.”

  “Funny?”

  “Mmmm. She asked me how Miss Yolande was, and I said I hadn’t hardly seen her, because she’s been so busy nursing of Major Craig. And she started to look all weepy and said something about how good Miss Yolande is, and now her heart is breaking ’cause her love is dying under her very eyes. I told her she’d got it all wrong, ’cause you are—” She faltered to a stop, Devenish’s suddenly bleak expression causing her own eyes to become very big indeed. “Oh … my!” she gasped. And without warning she threw her frail arms around his neck, hugging him so hard he all but choked. “Never look so, dear soul! Oh, my poor, dear soul!” she said with a sob. I’ll take care of ye. Ah—never look so!”

  Succeeding in freeing himself from her stranglehold, Devenish regarded her wonderingly. “What are these?” he smiled, removing a glittering drop from her cheek. “Tears? For me? No need, m’dear. I’m fine as fivepence, I do assure you!”

  His grin was as bright and cheerful as ever, but she was undeceived. She buried her cheek against his cravat and hugged as much of him as she could reach. “How could she?” she gulped. “Oh, how could she like him best—when she could have you?”

  Devenish’s grin took on a set look. But, after all, there was no need to dissemble with the child. “Tell you the truth,” he said wryly, “I’ve wondered as much myself. But—no accounting for tastes.” Once more, he gently disentangled himself and, looking down at her woebegone face, said, “And there really is no cause for all these high flights and tragic airs, milady elf. I wasn’t thoroughly set on getting leg-shackled. This is probably—probably better for everyone.”

  Having been deprived of throat and cravat, Josie hugged his arm and, looking worshipfully up into his face, said with a sigh, “You say that, but I know how your poor insides really feel. Anyone else, they’d be waiting for Major Craig to get up, so they could shoot a hole right through his breadbasket. But not you! He’s lucky you love him, else—”

  “Love him?” exclaimed Devenish, revolted. “I cannot abide the fellow!”

  She gave a rather watery giggle. “I know. And you’ll say you don’t give a button if he saved your life, or ’cause his dad and your dad was such fine friends. You both pretend you don’t like each other. But you fights together, and you keeps together. You didn’t run off and leave him alone at that horrid castle, however creepy it is. And I think he’s very lucky that you … cannot ’bide him. Poor Mr. Dev! You want her for your lady wife, but you’re so good you’ll probably wish her happy—even if she’s hacked your poor heart to little pieces!”

  Shattered, Devenish scrambled hurriedly to his feet. He strode to the brink of the hill and stood staring across the valley to that other hill and the great house wherein was a quiet bedchamber and a lovely lady—waiting. And he thought in stark misery, “Perhaps when my dear cousin wakes up—if he wakes up—I shall shoot a hole through his breadbasket.”

  Chapter XV

  YOLANDE CAME SWIFTLY down the stairs and hurried to the small parlour into which her unexpected guest had been shown. “Mrs. MacFarlane!” she said, walking forward, hand outstretched. “I heard you had been unwell. I am so glad you came to me. Is there some way in which I may help you?”

  The emaciated little woman sprang up to take her hand shyly and drop a curtsy. Her own fingers trembled as she said in short nervous gasps, “Ye—ye have always been sae … sae verra good tae me. I come tae find oot—how the poor gentleman goes on.”

  “How kind. Will you not sit here beside me? There, now we can be comfortable. Major Craig remains the same. There is—no change, I’m afraid.” For an instant a look of desolation crossed that beauteous face. Then Yolande bit her lip, raised her chin a little and, putting aside her own sorrow, asked, “How is your little girl?”

  “Och, sae much better, miss. She’d like fine for Miss Josie tae come and see her, if it’s nae forward tae ask it.”

  “But of course it is not.” Yolande searched her face; it seemed calmer. “Maisie is—quite better?” she asked, wondering at this new demeanour.

  “Aye. Thank you. But if ye fear Miss Josie might catch it, we could wait a wee while.”

  “No, no. I expect Josie was exposed when they played together at all events. She might already have had measles. I only wondered … you seem less, er—”

  “Troubled, Miss? Well, I am. I’ve come tae—” She drew a deep breath. Almost, thought Yolande, as though she were nerving herself for some tremendous task. “I’d not thought tae ever do this,” Mrs. MacFarlane said, gripping her bony hands. “Likely I’d nae be doing it the noo, but—ye’ve been sae good. And even with your man lying there, ye came doon, thinking I had need of ye. I felt fair horrid, and I could nae—” She broke off with a gasp, her frightened gaze darting to the open doorway.

  Yolande glanced around. Devenish stood there. His fair curls were disarrayed, and he looked out of breath as though he had come in haste, but in his eyes was an expression she had never thought to see there again, and that brought hope to brighten her heavy heart a little. So it was that for one of the very few times in her life, Yolande Drummond was so discourteous as to completely forget a visitor. She stood, saying eagerly, “Dev…? Oh, Dev—have you forgiven me, then?”

  “No,” he replied tenderly, reaching out to her. “For the only one who needs forgiveness is this hot-tempered idiot.”

  With a glad little sob, she flew to take his hands and then allow herself to be enveloped in a hug.

  Devenish closed his eyes for an instant, savouring to the full that bitter-sweet embrace. “Lord,” he said, his voice low and husky with emotion, “what an ill-grained clod I am! The most important challenge of my life, and I was so unsportsmanlike as to lose without grace—without honesty; having the unspeakable arrogance to suppose that merely because I so love you, it must follow that—”

  She put up one soft hand to silence his words, then said very gently, “I do love you, Dev. I always have. That is what made it so very hard. But—it wasn’t in … in just that very special way, do you see?”

  The same cruel lance was piercing him, but he managed a smile. “I do—now. And if I cannot have you for—my wife, I … I hope I may still have you for my friend.”

  She blinked tears away. “Always, Dev. Dear Dev. Always.”

  “It’s as well you agreed,” he said shakily. “Else I might not have told you.” Her lovely brows arched enquiringly. How he longed to kiss them.… Instead, he took his handkerchief and carefully dried her tears. “There is a curst great clod of a Colonial upstairs,” he imparted, “of whom I have, unhappily, become quite fond. That starched Amazon of a nurse tells me that—he is calling for you.”

  Yolande uttered a gasp and, paling, put a trembling hand to her throat. She searched his face and as he nodded, she sped to the door. Watching her, Devenish’s fond smile faded into a wistful sadness. He had to replace the smile very quickly when Yolande paused and spun about, but she had seen that changed expression and suffered her own pang. “Dev,” she said timidly. “Will you—come? I’m … afraid.…”

  He went at once to her side. “Silly chit,” he said.

  They entered the room together. Montelongo stood beside the bed, beaming. Craig’s eyes turned to them eagerly, but saw only Yolande. With a glad little cry she went to take the hand he raised and clasp it between both her own.
For a few moments, neither spoke a word, but looking from one rapturous face to the other, besides grief and yearning, Devenish experienced a sense of awe.

  “Oh, my dear,” breathed Yolande at length. “You have come back to me at last. How are you?”

  “I feel … splendid,” he said, faint but radiant. “Only—a touch pulled. What a clunch to have gone off like that, yesterday.”

  Devenish chuckled, and his cousin’s eyes flashed to him. “It wasn’t yesterday, gudgeon. It was eight days since. And if you doubt me, feel your chin!”

  Tyndale’s hand wavered upward. He touched the thick beard and gasped a disbelieving, “Eight … days…?”

  “Slugabed,” said Devenish, and thought, “Lord, but he looks a rail!”

  Briefly, bewilderment held sway, then remorse rushed in on Tyndale. He started up. “Dev! Yolande—what she said in the castle—I mean— There was nothing ever—She didn’t mean…” The words trailed off, and he gave a helpless gesture.

  Devenish said with a wry smile, “Do you tell me I have so nobly stepped aside for no cause? If you do not want the lady…”

  “Want her…?” Tyndale gazed at Yolande with total adoration. “There are no words. But—” Again, his hollow eyes turned to Devenish. He said with sober intensity, “I swear to you—I have done nothing—said nothing, to betray you, Devenish. Nor to bring dishonour upon her.”

  “‘I could not love thee dear so much, loved I not honour more…’?” Devenish quoted softly. He walked to the bed and looked squarely at Tyndale. “You are in that bed, cousin, because you took something meant for me. It was bravely done, and I thank you.”

  Tyndale’s thin cheek flushed. “It was not done with any thought to claim as reward your every happiness!”

  Devenish kept his eyes from Yolande and said lightly, “You rate the lady high.”

  “I do indeed. And so do you.”

  “Dear,” Yolande inserted in her most gentle voice, “I think you are talking too much. We must not allow you to tire yourself so soon.”

  The term of endearment caused his hand to tighten on hers. “No, really, I feel perfectly fit. And have so many questions, but—”

  “Aha!” cried the General, marching briskly into the room. “So our sleeper has come out from hibernation at last! Jove, but it’s good to see you with your eyes open, m’boy!” He shook Tyndale’s hand cautiously. “You did very well oot at your castle, but I surmise Devenish has told you what happened.”

  Devenish said, “I’ve not had time to—”

  “Is he awake, then?” Mrs. Drummond bustled in, followed by her sister-in-law. “Oh, my!” She fumbled for her handkerchief. “What a blessing that you did not die after all, Tyndale. We all thought you would, you know. But—”

  “But we’re powerful glad tae see ye didnae!” said Mrs. Fraser, adding with an irked glance at Arabella, “Of all the bird-witted things tae remark!”

  “Never mind, dear,” purred Mrs. Drummond. “We do not expect you to be brilliant, after all. Oh!” She blinked rapidly. “Is it not affecting? See how they gaze into each other’s eyes…”

  The General, having already noted this blissful gaze, scowled, “Pairhaps I should warn ye, Tyndale—”

  “Not now, Sir Andrew!” Mrs. Fraser inserted with a warning frown.

  Devenish said hurriedly, “The smugglers got clean away, Craig, but—”

  “But we found a damn—a dashed great stockpile o’ contraband hidden in a cellar,” the General put in, his eyes sparkling with excitement at that memory.

  “And you should have seen all the newspaper reporters…” said Mrs. Drummond.

  They all began to talk at once, so that poor Tyndale was quite bewildered and struggled to comprehend Montelongo’s kidnapping, the dramatic arrival of the rescue party, and the fact that not once was Sanguinet’s name mentioned. Watching him narrowly, the Iroquois abruptly strode forward and pronounced, “You tired. Me show door to these people.”

  The General uttered a snort of indignation, and Devenish laughed, but Yolande was relieved. “Perfectly right,” she agreed. “You must rest, Craig. We will have plenty of time to explain everything.”

  “Just one more thing, I beg of you,” he pleaded, smiling at her in a way that warmed the hearts of most of those gathered in the bedchamber. “Monty, how did you escape your two new friends?”

  “Little squaw, sir. She peep in through window.” Montelongo forgot his customary pose in the recollection of that moment, and said with enthusiasm. “It was very brave. She was shaking with fear, but she managed to find a way into the cottage and used the kitchen knife to cut me free while those two rogues snored!”

  “Goodness me!” gasped Mrs. Drummond, staring at him in astonishment. “Whenever did you learn to speak English so well?”

  The Iroquois folded his arms across his chest and assumed a characteristic stance. “Monty talk good,” he declared woodenly.

  “We were searching for the child,” said the General, impatient with this digression, “and came upon the wee lass trying to help your man, who was in a sorry plight, I do assure you. He could scarce speak at all, and the child told us there was trouble at Castle Tyndale, so we turned aboot and galloped hell-for-leather to investigate!”

  “And arrived in time to see me murder you,” said Devenish.

  Yolande flinched a little.

  Tyndale gasped, “Good God! They never thought—”

  Mrs. Drummond emitted a trill of laughter. “Well, we know better now. Though one could scarcely blame poor Alain had he indeed done so dreadful a thing.…” And she glanced coyly from the flushed Yolande to Tyndale’s enigmatic face.

  “Dinna talk such fustian!” the General barked. “Say rather, all’s well that ends well. Yon smugglers are routed; Tyndale here can live in his castle in peace and be assured of the good will of his neighbours. Or most of ’em, at least. And Yolande and Devenish can—”

  “Grandpapa!” Yolande interpolated desperately. “This is not the time or place to speak of these things.”

  “Aye, the lass is right. Tyndale, we’ll leave ye tae your slumbers. Come everyone. Oot! Oot! Devenish, ye’re welcome tae stay here wi’ us for as long as suits, but I fancy ye’ll be wishful tae escort your lady back tae London Toon, eh?”

  Devenish smiled rather bleakly; Yolande blushed and looked distressed, and Tyndale lay in helpless silence, watching them all leave. Having ushered everyone from the room, the General turned back at the last minute. He said nothing, but the warning contained in his grim stare was very obvious. Alain Devenish might be so unselfish as to step aside, but the barriers between Tyndale and his love were as insurmountable as ever.

  Outside, the westering sun laid soft shadows upon the scythed lawns. The air was warm and the summer house loomed cool, quiet, and inviting. Approaching that charming structure, Mrs. MacFarlane glanced around. There was no sign of anyone. She went timidly up the steps, remembering the last time she had been in this little house, and how kind Miss Drummond had been to her Maisie. “Puir wee lassie,” she thought, “she’ll nae have the man o’her heart, I doot.” But she had tried. It had taken days and days to gather sufficient courage to go up to the great house as she’d done today. She had tried! She directed a small, silent prayer at the cloudless heavens, apologizing for her inability to have completed her task. Leaving the summer house she began to walk across the lawns. The smell of the freshly cut grass wafted about her. The golden afternoon was like a benediction. It could only be viewed as an omen; she had been spared. With a small sigh of relief, she hurried back to her cottage.

  * * *

  At the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, off the northwest coast of Scotland, lie the islands called the Hebrides, and among them, remote and often uncharted, one small cluster is known as the Darrochs. The first three, bleak, inhospitable, and uninhabited, form a rough circle about the fourth. This, the largest, enjoys a milder climate than its fellows, being protected to an extent by a high range of hills on the easte
rn side, which cut off the freezing winds. Despite this redeeming feature, it falls far short of being a beauty spot, and no one was more surprised than the impoverished owner when, in 1812, all four islands were purchased by a Greek company, the president of which allegedly intended to make the big island—Tordarroch—his home.

  For a while, all was as before; the gulls continued to shout and circle indisturbed among the rocks and along the shore; the breakers pounded an incessant assault upon the impregnable cliffs to the east, north, and south, and on its high hill, the ancient structure called Tor Keep squatted mouldering under the chill skies, as it had done for centuries.

  Early in 1813, however, a ship put in and anchored in the western cove of Tordarroch; many men landed, and much cargo was unloaded. When the ship sailed away, most of the men remained. A week later, another ship put in, and the next day was followed by yet another. Suddenly, Tordarroch became a beehive of activity: the debris-strewn beach was cleared; the little bay was deepened and new docks were constructed; several buildings appeared; Tor Keep swarmed with workmen; new roads were built, and the face of the island changed in other ways as tall shrubs and trees that were able to withstand the harsh climate replaced the rough broom and bracken and stunted pines. The trees grew rapidly. Within two years they had formed a screen that completed the work of the eastern hills in shielding Tordarroch from any chance sailing vessel with a prying spyglass. The workmen completed their tasks, but did not depart. Instead, they moved onto first one, then another of the three outer islands, and started to labour all over again.

  It was to Tordarroch, however, that most shipping travelled, and it was to the much improved harbour that a fishing boat sailed one afternoon in early summer of 1816, and despatched a dinghy to the dock. A gentleman disembarked from the dinghy, entered a dog cart, was duly conveyed into the courtyard of Tor Keep, and thence to a magnificent chamber, part-library, part-study, where the powdered lackey bowed low and requested that Monsieur Garvey should be “à l’aise, s’il vous plaît.”