Looking into what he later described as “the face of a heavenly angel,” his dark eyes grew round with admiration. He tore off a knitted stocking cap, said, “Good day, mademoiselle,” and repeated his question.
He was unmistakably French, and to judge by his great hip boots and the thick scarf knotted jauntily around his throat, was probably a fisherman. “Are you his friend?” asked Marietta prayerfully, and when he pursed his lips but gave a rather droll nod, she said, “Thank heaven you have come! Would you please help me? If we can lift him a little, and get his shirt off, I’ll tear it for a bandage.”
“Aaiee! That is where the doctors they ’ave at last take the musket ball out from ’is back!” he said as they managed to remove the shirt. Startled, Marietta jerked her head up and stared at him. “Me, I am Yves,” he said as if that explained everything. Tearing the shirt into strips, he added, “Did my Diccon, ’e fall and cause these damages? We all try and tell ’im it is too soon to come down ’ere! But you know ’ow ’e set ’is mind, just like Monsieur Fox!”
“Musket ball?” echoed Marietta. “Was he in the war, then?”
“But yes. At the great battle.” He grinned. “But then, my Diccon, ’is life it is one long battle, hein? You will know this, being—” He broke off, pausing in his efforts to eye her uneasily. “You are my Diccon’s chère—”
Her face flaming, Marietta interpolated, “I most certainly am not!”
At this point Arthur came back, clutching the water jug. He was very pale, his eyes enormous, his face tear-streaked. He glanced at the Frenchman disinterestedly. “Hasn’t Sir G’waine waked up yet? Is he killed? Your face is all red, Etta.”
Marietta had no doubt that it was. She concentrated on bathing the wound gently, and said she was sure Mr. Diccon would be all right, especially now that his friend had come to help him.
“But this Yves, ’e cannot remain, mademoiselle.” The little Frenchman propped Diccon’s sagging head against his shoulder and looked troubled. “Par grâce! You ’ave see the cut ’ere above ’is temple? And—ay! there is the most big lump! One ’opes the ’ead it is not broke.”
Marietta’s hands shook. “One hopes very much,” she said unsteadily. “But at all events, he cannot be left alone here. I’ll have to send for my father’s carriage and take him to our house.”
“But, no, mademoiselle. In this, Yves ’e can ’elp. The big one, Yves will not try. But Monsieur Fox ’ave not mind the cart, and ’e will take my Diccon to your ’ome. Yves will feed the rest while ’e can.”
Distracted with worry because Mr. Diccon had shown no sign of reviving, Marietta scarcely heard him and he went off to return very shortly with the donkey harnessed to the cart. Between them, they managed to lift the unconscious man inside, this procedure causing Mr. Fox to hang his head and set up a doleful braying.
Yves imparted with a confidential air, “It is that ’e worries.” He took a note from his pocket, read it over, then offered it to the donkey, who devoured it and seemed comforted.
Arthur scrambled into the back of the cart to sit by ‘Sir Gawaine,’ and Yves handed Marietta up to the seat. “Mademoiselle, she will not to disturb ’erself,” he said kindly. “This Diccon, ’e should be dead many times. ’E not die now. I think.”
She forced a smile and thanked him. Guiding Mr. Fox up the slope, she glanced back. Yves was leading a magnificent grey horse from the old barn. Forgetting her worries for a moment she murmured, “Oh, what a beautiful animal!”
Arthur said, “That’s Sir G’waine’s charger.”
She said incredulously, “Are you sure, dear? It looks to be a very valuable animal.”
“He says it’s a bad-tempered rogue,” said the boy. “It’s called Awful.”
She couldn’t imagine anyone naming a fine horse in such a way, but she said nothing. Perhaps because dear Mama had died so soon after he was born, little Arthur had been slow to start talking. Even now, he tended to mispronounce or misuse words that most five-year-olds would have mastered. He would catch up, of course, for he was a very bright child in many ways. Probably, he was mistaken about the horse, or perhaps his imagination was ruling him again and it belonged to somebody else. Certainly, it was not an animal to be owned by a poor vagrant.
* * *
Diccon had not recovered consciousness by the time Marietta drove into the stableyard at the dower house. Lem Bridger, their sturdy groom and general factotum, was preparing to scythe the lawns. It was a task he loathed and he was only too willing to abandon it. Easing Diccon’s limp figure over his shoulder, the sturdy ex-Navy tar carried him into the ground-floor room that had, in a more affluent household, belonged to the housekeeper.
Marietta sent Arthur to fetch one of his brother Eric’s nightshirts and take it to Bridger. She was in the kitchen, assembling hot water and medical supplies when the groom came in to advise that he had put Mr. Diccon into the nightshirt and that he was comfortably in bed. When she enquired anxiously if the sick man had awoken, he shook his head, and asked if he should ride into Eastbourne and fetch Mr. Wantage. Marietta did not much care for the apothecary, who was very haughty and, or so she thought, of an unsympathetic nature. When possible she preferred to consult Dr. Avebury in Brighton, but the busy doctor would be unwilling to ride all this way, and to take Mr. Diccon such a distance would surely worsen his condition.
She walked to the back door with Bridger and asked if her father was out. Sir Lionel, he imparted with a twinkle, had gone for a drive with Mrs. Maitland.
It was typical of the perversity of fate, thought Marietta, that the handsome widow should have called while her father was alone and unprotected. Shy in the presence of most females, and having no least desire to marry again, Sir Lionel was well aware that Mrs. Maitland had determined to become the new Lady Warrington. He usually made a frantic dive for a hiding place when she arrived unexpectedly, but he was far too well bred to be rude to her, and without sufficient warning to escape, or the supporting presence of his family, must have been helpless before the wiles of the pushing woman. Marietta could only pray he would manage to get through the drive without being manipulated into a proposal.
Starting down the scullery steps to the stableyard the groom said he’d saddle up Spicy, their twelve-year-old chestnut mare, who could reach quite a good speed when handled firmly. He paused then, staring at Mr. Fox and the cart.
Marietta said, “I’ll unharness the donkey after I do what I can for Mr. Diccon. Why do you look so puzzled?”
“Well, it’s not what you’d expect of a gentleman, is it? Doesn’t Mr. Diccon have a horse?”
“Why would you think he is a gentleman?”
“His clothes, Miss. Fine linen, too. It don’t fit with that cart!”
She pointed out rather impatiently that many gentlemen who had suffered financial reverses still clung to their pride, and that of more importance than Mr. Diccon’s background was the need to bring help to him as soon as may be. At once apologetic, Bridger ran off to the stables.
Returning to her victim, Marietta found that his pulse was steady, but there was no sign of a return of awareness. She decided not to disturb her bandage and stood by the bed, regarding him worriedly. He was not a handsome man, and yet there was something proud and compelling about that lean face. The forehead was high, the eyebrows heavy, the hair thickly curling and an unremarkable brown. His complexion was clear, the skin rather sunken under the cheekbones, and alarmingly pale at the moment. Deep lines were etched beside the thin, high-bridged nose and between the brows. The jaw was well-defined, the chin strong and unyielding. It was the face of a man who has known his share of trouble, but in sleep he looked younger than she had at first thought, and there was a weary droop to the thin lips that made him seem less formidable and ruthless.
“So here you are!” exclaimed Sir Lionel, coming down the corridor in a great state of agitation. “If you knew what I’ve been through with Mrs. Maitland! How you could all have abandoned—” Drawing lev
el with the open door at this point, his aggrieved tirade ceased. Shocked, he cried, “What the deuce—? Why is that horrid fellow in my house again? Are your wits gone a’begging?”
Marietta gave a hasty account of what had happened, and her father’s wrath cooled slightly. “Hum,” he said, frowning down at the unconscious man. “Well, you’ve no cause to blame yourself, child. Anyone would have thought the same. It’s the boy’s fault. He had no right to go traipsing down there after what happened yesterday! I sometimes wonder if the only skill your Aunt Dova has taught him is how to wander away. But never mind that. As soon as this fellow wakes, he must be sent packing. By rights, he should be driven from the neighbourhood. We want no vagrants hanging about.”
“But, Papa, the poor man has been twice hurt by us. If you knew how hard I hit him!”
Sir Lionel grinned. “With your reticule?”
“With a music stand. But it looked to be mahogany,” she added thoughtfully. “And as I recall, it was most beautifully carven.”
“Whether ’twas mahogany or bacon has nothing to say to the matter. The fellow’s a penniless rogue, I’ve no doubt, and—”
“And was at Waterloo, sir. The poor soul is fairly covered with scars!”
Impressed, Sir Lionel’s brows lifted. “Is that so? By Jove, if he was one of Wellington’s fine lads—” In belated comprehension, he demanded, “How do you come to know of his wounds? Be dashed if he’s not wearing one of my nightshirts! Etta! You did not—”
“No, no, Papa. It is Eric’s nightshirt, and Bridger undressed Mr. Diccon and put him to bed.”
“How did Bridger know he was at Waterloo? The fellow bragged of it, I don’t doubt. Not that I’d blame him.”
“He said nothing of it. His friend told me. I was hoping he would consent to stay and care for him, but Monsieur Yves had to—”
Her father interrupted sharply, “A Frenchman?”
“Yes, sir. But he seems a good sort of man. And he has a most magnificent grey horse. Arthur thought it belonged to Mr. Diccon, and he says it is called Awful, but I rather doubt—”
“Orpheus,” corrected Diccon faintly.
“Thank heaven!” cried Marietta, hurrying to bend over him. “How are you, now, sir?”
Diccon’s head seemed to have been arranged into two pieces, and his back was almost as spiteful, but he managed to answer, “Not as dead … as you might wish. You are a very … violent family, I think.”
“Not so,” said Sir Lionel. “My daughter thought you were some monster attacking the boy, is all. An honest mistake.”
“All … in the eye of the … beholder.”
Marietta’s cool fingers rested on Diccon’s brow. “I am truly, truly sorry,” she said. “I doubt Arthur will ever forgive me.”
“I hear you’ve taken some wounds,” said Sir Lionel. “Your friend, Yves, said—”
At this, Diccon started up, gave a gasp, and sank back again. “Yves is here?”
Sir Lionel nodded. “Said you was at Waterloo. True, sir?”
“Yes. But—”
“By Jove! You’ve all my admiration! Your rank?”
Diccon said impatiently, “What? Oh—major. Had Yves any … message for me?”
Marietta said, “You are hurting yourself. Try not to talk. Your friend said something about feeding the rest, whatever that may—”
“What?” Diccon dragged himself to one elbow. “He can’t leave them there!” he panted fretfully. “I must get up … and—”
“Now, now,” said Sir Lionel, putting an arm about his shoulders and lying him back down. “Don’t upset yourself so, poor fellow.”
Aware of her sire’s intense patriotism, Marietta was still astonished by such a transformation. One might almost think him to have just discovered that Major Diccon was a dear friend.
“Bridger shall carry any word to your Frenchman that you desire,” went on Sir Lionel. “Ah, yes. I have you now, you rascal! I’ve not seen your face in the dark of the moon, of course, but I did set eyes on that splendid grey of yours a time or two. Now, tell me—when shall I receive my consignment? My cellar is dashed near empty!”
With a sense of overwhelming relief and repentance, Marietta thought, ‘Old Nick, indeed! Why, he is nothing more sinister than a free-trader!’
CHAPTER V
In the nick of time Marietta restrained the billowing sheet and slid a clothes-peg over the sagging centre. It would be nice, she thought, to have had Mrs. Gillespie for three days this week. With an invalid in the house and extra wash to be done she was badly needed. Even more badly needed, however, was her own attention to the ever increasing pile of bills in the kitchen drawer. Her desperate juggling of one debt against another was nerve-wracking, but she’d managed somehow. Until now. Yesterday evening Papa had given her a bad fright.
He’d been playing chess with Major Diccon, and when laughingly accused by his opponent of taking risks with his queen, had replied that there were times when risk was justified. “A fellow assesses the odds,” he’d said heartily, “and if they’re promising he takes the plunge as a good sportsman should. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, eh? Why, just last month I—” He’d cut short that remark, slanted a guilty glance at Marietta, and laid one finger beside his nose, grinning at Diccon in a “mum’s the word” fashion. Her blood had run cold, for it had sounded horribly like another of his disastrous wagers, or the gaming that had swept away home and fortune and reduced them to a less than shabby-genteel existence so far from Town and the luxurious life they’d known.
Not that she really minded living in the country. If truth be told, although she’d not realized it at the time, she’d begun to be bored by the sameness of the ton parties, the gossip, and the endless pursuit of pleasure. Here, instead of bricks and hot pavements and crowded streets with grime and soot everywhere, there were lush fields and trees and green velvet hills, and pure clean air. And there was no time for boredom. They all were busy, and tired at the end of the day, and they took pride in their achievements, as she thought they deserved to do. Still, there was small chance that her pretty little sister would find an eligible husband in this quiet corner of Sussex, and if Papa had plunged them even deeper into debt, heaven only knew how she was to keep them from Debtor’s Prison.
She found that she was still holding the sheet, and, sighing, released it and went to peep over the hedge that concealed the side yard from the gardens.
Major Diccon was sleeping on the chaise Bridger had set under the apple tree. Three days had passed since the apothecary had ruled that he’d suffered a concussion and must not be moved for a week at least. He had scoffed at that verdict and insisted that he would not intrude into their lives in such a way. His attempt to leave, however, had ended in collapse and he’d been packed back to bed again, willy-nilly. She felt responsible for his injuries and had said firmly that he must let them try to make amends. Fanny had complained that they had enough to do without having to care for an invalid. Neither Papa nor Aunty Dova had objected, however. As for herself, having had some experience in nursing the males in her family, she had been pleasantly surprised to find that Diccon was neither fretful nor demanding. He was, in fact, the soul of patience, even when she suspected that he was tired. Arthur was seldom far from his side and would coax the invalid to talk about the people and ways of the foreign lands he had visited. The Major spoke in a slow drawl and used words sparingly, but his accounts were spiced with a droll humour that would set the little boy giggling, and were so interesting that they all would listen. Often his tales ended with Sir Lionel entering into an intense debate with him on some aspect of the story, and Arthur complaining to Marietta that Papa had “stolen Sir G’waine”!
Aunty Dova also chattered at their invalid, drawing him into exchanges of Society gossip with her ‘friends’ that frequently became hilarious. Diccon neither patronised the lady nor displayed the least sign of condescension during these odd chats, but actually seemed to find her fascinating. Only yesterday d
uring one of their ‘three-way’ discussions in which he was answering for ‘Sir Freddy Foster,’ Mrs. Cordova had gone into whoops of laughter and had said merrily, “Oh, but Major Diccon has Freddy to the life, Etta! Absolutely to the life!” Fanny had responded, “Perhaps they are good friends. Is that so, sir?” Diccon had given her his lazy smile and murmured, “It would add enormously to my consequence if that were the case, do not you think?”
Marietta turned with a start as she heard her name called. Fanny was coming to join her. She felt ridiculously flustered to have been caught watching the invalid, but Fanny said lightly that she’d come to help with the wash and to escape Arthur’s chatter. “All he does is talk about the Major. I declare the child is positively bewitched!”
Marietta smiled. “He does seem to have taken a great liking to the man. And you have not, I think.”
“I’m sorry he was hurt, but,” Fanny shrugged, “I’ll own I’ll be glad when he has gone away. He is too—too devious.”
Holding one end of another sheet, Marietta asked, “In what way?”
“In every way!” Together, they hung the sheet, and Fanny said, “Have you not noticed that whenever something comes up concerning his background, he evades? Never a straight answer. That business about Freddy Foster, for instance. I asked if he knew Sir Frederick, and instead of a simple yes or no, he managed to avoid answering altogether. I tell you, he has something to hide!”
Suspecting that what he hid was a close acquaintanceship with kegs and bales of illicit goods, Marietta refrained from comment. Irked, Fanny took a towel from the basket and snapped, “Oh, you may smile, but were I in your shoes I would make haste to depress his pretensions, for it is certain that Papa will have none of him as a suitor!”
Marietta was taken aback. “As a—what? Fan, you cannot be serious! The man has never so much as looked at me in that way!”
“Not while you face him, perhaps. But when you do not see, he can scarce tear his eyes from you, and I’ve sometimes spied an expression in those cold eyes of his that is more like fire than ice! I’ll not deny that he can be charming. But, consider dearest, he is little better than a vagrant, with not a penny to his name! It will not serve, and you know it!”
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