Lanterns

by Patricia Veryan

“He’s likely gone down to Lanterns, my love.” As if reading her mind, Mrs. Cordova watched her from the hall.

  “I hope so.” Marietta came in and closed the door. “But he would have to be very desperate to go there. He’s greatly disillusioned with the Major because”—she broke off in the nick of time and rephrased—“because he was not allowed to help with the rocket signal.”

  “Perhaps.” Her aunt regarded her steadily. “But whatever else he may be, there’s no pretence about Diccon’s affection for the boy.”

  Stifling a sigh, Marietta asked, “How does Mr. Vaughan go on?”

  “He is asleep, and Fanny is sitting in the corridor keeping vigil. I left the door wide. Most improper, I know. Now I think we all will be better for a cup of tea.”

  Marietta offered to help in this endeavour, but was ordered to sit and rest while her aunt bustled about preparing the tea and exclaiming over the audacity of Monsieur Monteil.

  Listening with half an ear, Marietta’s eyes turned often to the leaden skies beyond the rain-dappled windows, and her thoughts turned to Diccon, who had not come when she so needed him. Was that because he’d seen who the uninvited callers were and, despite his ardent promises, had cared only that Eric Warrington was not among them? Or dare she hope that Aunty Dova was in the right of it? Had Arthur indeed gone down to Lanterns, and was Diccon at this very moment indulging him with cake or whatever the Lord of the Larder could provide?

  Vaughan was still sleeping and Fanny refused to leave him, so Marietta carried her tea up to her. When she went downstairs again she found that her aunt had started a fire in the drawing room, and they took their tea before the hearth together. The big room was soon warm and cosy, the crackling of the logs muting the sounds of the storm. The violent episode with Monsieur Monteil and his monstrous hireling had been more of a strain than Marietta realized, and she began to feel drowsy.…

  She awoke with a start when a log fell in half on the grate. She had slept for an hour, and was alone. Neither her aunt nor Arthur were to be found, and Fanny had dozed off in the chair outside Vaughan’s room. The storm had increased in strength, the wind lashing the trees and driving the rain in grey sheets against the house. Ever more worried about her little brother, out and alone in such dreadful weather, she peered out of the kitchen windows. There was no sign of the carriage as yet, but if Papa had gone on into Eastbourne he could not have returned already. She saw then that a note penned in her aunt’s large printing was propped against the tea-cosy. I know you promised your father not to go looking for Arthur, my love, but I did not. Miles Cameron has told me something I cannot like, so I’m going to walk down to Lanterns and see if he’s there. Arthur, I mean. Don’t worry, I’m taking the umbrella. There was a postscript: The umbrella blew inside out, silly thing, so I won’t take it. Aunty D.

  Despite her anxieties Marietta had to smile at this, and was about to go up and show it to Fanny when gloved hands came from behind to cover her eyes. Her heart leapt into her throat and she whirled, snatching up the teapot and prepared to use it as a weapon.

  “Hi!” cried Eric, throwing up one hand to fend off her attack. “I know I’m a reprehensible fugitive, but do I deserve such a welcome from my nearest and—”

  He was here! Very wet, but tall and handsome and, whatever else, so dear to her heart. Not until this moment had she realized how overwrought were her nerves. Tears choked her, and she threw herself into his arms.

  Eric hugged her, then held her away. “What’s all this? My brave girl—weeping? I’m here, love, never fret. I’ve given the hounds the slip and all’s well, at least for—”

  “But—it isn’t well,” she interrupted, dabbing angrily at her eyes. “We’ve had the most d-dreadful men here, demanding to know where that st-stupid treasure is, and breaking poor Vaughan’s head, and knocking Papa d-down, and—”

  “What? Where is he?”

  “Gone to report it all to—to Constable Davis or the military post, and to fetch—”

  Eric stiffened. “Military post?”

  “Yes. And we’ve lost Arthur again. He’s been gone since before breakfast, in all this rain and storm, and— Oh, what am I babbling at? Eric, You didn’t tell me the truth about your—your employers!”

  “I know. I wrote to you. Have you not had my letter?”

  “Yes, but a general called on Papa, and he said you’d been engaged in selling military secrets, not—not industrial sabotage, as—”

  He had paled noticeably and now again interrupted, “A general? Who? Not Smollet?”

  “Yes. And he warned Papa to be on the look out for—”

  “The devil!” He put her aside and striding quickly into the dining room took down the ginger jar. “I have to borrow this, Etta. I’m sorry, but I’ll repay. I must get out of England as quick as may be, and—”

  Heartsick, she gulped, “It is truth then? You really are … a traitor! Oh, Eric!”

  “Don’t put on such a tragedy face, for Lord’s sake!” He thrust the money into his purse and said roughly, “Traitor to whom? A stupid fat Prince who is glutting himself into the grave? Much allegiance I owe Prinny and his crew of sots and spendthrifts!”

  “You owe allegiance to England! Would you see us ruled from Versailles? Or Madrid, perhaps? How could—”

  “Have done! I’ve no time for nonsense!” He pushed past her and stalked across the corridor and into the kitchen saying in that harsh voice that was so strange to her, “My father whistled my future down the wind with his careless gaming. What prospects have I now, save by taking a risk or two? No, don’t preach at me, Etta! With luck, I could have restored our fortunes! You were glad enough to take my ill-gotten gains last time I came, but now I’m in the suds a fine thanks I get for my efforts!”

  Running after him, she tugged at his sleeve. “Wait! Eric, you know we all love you. Please listen to me! You must not—”

  He was already on the back steps, and glancing up the hill exclaimed, “A coach! And coming at the gallop! Damme, but they’re hot on my heels!” He gave her a quick kiss. “I’m sorry, Etta. You always were a good girl—”

  “Wait! You must listen! Don’t go to—”

  He ran into the rain shouting down her attempts to warn him, and swung into the saddle of the weary horse that was tethered in the lee of the barn. “Don’t worry about the brat, he’ll come home. My love to all.”

  Desperate, she ran after him, shrieking, “Don’t go to Lanterns! Diccon is an…”

  But he was gone, thundering down the hill, the skirts of his coat flying, horse and rider silhouetted against the massed black clouds that were lit by occasional flashes of lightning. Standing in the rain, watching that headlong flight, Marietta thought that Aunty Dova would have said this frightful storm was an omen. The contents of the note came into her mind. Aunty was at Lanterns now. If she saw Eric before Diccon did, she might be able to warn him. ‘Please God!’ she thought fervently, and dashing rain from her eyes, turned back to the house.

  The sounds of the team had been muffled by the storm but the carriage was coming at a neck-or-nothing pace and was almost upon her. Mud flew and she retreated to the steps. Bridger, grim-faced and soaked to the skin by the look of him, stared at her from the box. The carriage door was flung open and her father jumped out and hurried to join her.

  “Has Eric come?” he asked, following her into the kitchen. His voice was strained, his face drawn, and a look of pained bewilderment was in his eyes.

  ‘He knows,’ thought Marietta. “He just left, Papa. He thought you were—”

  “Bow Street coming after him?” He threw his hat onto the table and sat down drawing a hand across his eyes wearily. “He’s a traitor. My son—a traitor! I couldn’t believe at first, but … It’s as well your dear mama is gone. This would have broke her heart!”

  “Yes, Papa. But—”

  “You knew, I see. Am I the last to know? Where did we fail him, Etta? I brought us to this nice house. I managed to keep us together, di
dn’t I? He had a better life than thousands of other lads. How could he foul our honour and turn traitor to his own land? Surely—But, enough for that. Did he leave any message for me?”

  “His love, Papa. He was only here for a minute or two.”

  “Would that I’d been here! I’d likely have taken my horsewhip to his sides! The crazy young fool! Dragging our name through the mud! Well, they’re hard after him, just as he—as he deserves.” Sir Lionel’s voice shredded. He said hoarsely, “I collect the best we can hope for is that he gets to France so that we’re not subjected to the—the humiliation of a—a public hanging!”

  “Yes, sir. I tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen, and—”

  “Warn him of what? That your friend Diccon is a crack Intelligence Officer?”

  Her “friend Diccon.” Her beloved, rather. She flinched a little, but managed to keep her voice steady. “Yes. And that Major Diccon is ordered to take a suspected traitor if he comes this way. I did not dream it was my—my dear brother. Papa, my fear is that Eric will go to Lanterns believing that for my sake Diccon will help him leave the country.”

  Horror-stricken, Sir Lionel sprang up. “He’ll walk into a trap! You must go, Etta! Get your cloak! Quickly! Quickly! I would go with you save that I must be here if the troopers come. How could you not have told me what Diccon was? When I think of how the lying, deceitful snake wormed his way in here to spy on us, and all the while pretending— But never mind that. He loves you, no doubt of it. He’ll do anything you ask! Go to him, Etta. Plead. Beg if you must. For your brother’s life! You can’t take the coach, else they’ll wonder where it is. You’ll have to run. Here’s my pistol. Take it, and, if you have to, blow the miserable varmint’s head off!”

  * * *

  There was no sign of life when Marietta picked her way across what had once been Lanterns’ wide-spreading park. There were fallen branches everywhere and she was shocked to see that the great tree at the south end of the house was down, the roots sticking up starkly against a background of mountainous in-rushing whitecaps. The wind was so strong that it was hard to stand straight, and the booming of surf meeting cliffs shook the ground under her.

  The hollow that once had been the moat was a sea of mud and she trod across the stepping stones fighting to hold her balance against the wind that seemed determined to make her fall. The back door wasn’t locked, and she entered the scullery with a rush, then leaned back against the door, short of breath. She’d expected that MacDougall would be here, but there was no sign of anyone. Thunder growled as she hurried across the kitchen and along the corridor and lightning painted brief brilliant squares on the flags. Dreading to find the elder of her brothers here, she prayed the younger might be in the old house. She was sure that Aunty Dova was somewhere about, but although she peeped into each of the empty rooms she passed she did not see the lady. The sounds of the storm were much louder in the central single-storey hall, the rain drumming a tattoo on the roof. The heavy door of the south wing stood slightly ajar. She went down the steps slowly and with a heavy heart. This was where she’d waited to ambush Diccon with the music stand. It seemed so long ago. Who would have dreamed then that the tall quiet man would steal her heart and prove to be so treacherous? Or that she would have come here to beg for her brother’s life.

  The gale drove like a great fist against the house. The floor shook and Marietta gave a gasp as something flew into her eye. Wiping away involuntary tears, she saw that dust was filtering down from the ceiling. The moat and the south end of the drive-path had long since joined the piles of rubble on the beach far below. It was all too possible that the pounding breakers of this fierce storm would undermine the cliffs and bring the whole place tumbling down.

  As usual, it was dim and gloomy in this windowless wing and she hurried past the rows of rooms neither seeing nor hearing a sign of life, until she reached the original great hall. She saw a distant glow then, and heard a familiar voice, and her heart sank.

  Eric was saying furiously, “… inform your military masters about your free-trading! Then where will you be?”

  “No worse off than I am now.” Diccon’s quiet drawl. “I should tell you, Warrington, that free-trading was an integral part of my military activities and helped me deal with several tricky customers.”

  “Is that what I am to you? A tricky customer? You didn’t think that when you were lounging about as my father’s guest and pretending to court my trusting sister!”

  There was no answer.

  Under cover of a great crack of thunder Marietta crept across the long dark room towards the glow of a single candle. She could see Eric now, looking pale and desperate, sitting handcuffed to a rail of the stairs that led to the minstrel’s gallery and the upper floor. Diccon stood by a massive old table, lighting a lantern, the glow revealing his cold and stern expression.

  “If you ever hope to win her,” persisted Eric, “you had best give me a chance.”

  “But you seer I do not hope to win her under any circumstances. And even if I did—”

  Eric had seen his sister, and his eyes widened. Ever alert, Diccon jerked around. Marietta heard his faint gasp. Her fingers touched the horrible coldness of the steel in her pocket that seemed to match the icy fear in her heart, but she said gently, “Under any circumstances … my friend?”

  That lance went home. One of his long, sensitive hands clenched hard, but he replied quietly, “Under any circumstances, ma’am.”

  She walked closer. “Diccon, I beg you. Give him a chance. A five-minute start is all I ask.”

  “I am sorrier than I can say. But you ask the impossible.”

  Another step forward, and she pleaded, “You could claim that he stole Orpheus before you could stop him. You said no other horse could touch him.”

  He shook his head, but a small pulse was beating at his temple, and that betraying fist was very tight.

  “Do I mean nothing to you?” she murmured. “I had begun to hope there was more between us than just—friendship. Diccon, dear Diccon—he is my beloved brother. I implore you—don’t send him to a hideous death! It would break my father’s heart. And poor little Arthur adores him. Don’t destroy my family. Don’t hurt me so, my dear, I beg you.”

  He winced at that. He was paler than Eric now, perspiration shone on his brow, and his voice was strained. “You must rest that responsibility on your brother’s shoulders, Marietta. I am a serving officer. The oath I took to serve my King and my country did not contain a clause that said I could break it if I was personally affected. Please—please do not ask it of me.”

  She blinked away tears and did more than ask. She stepped even closer and sank to her knees, stretching up her hands to him while her brother watched, awed and breathless.

  Diccon groaned and shrank away. “No! Get up! For mercy’s sake, Marietta! Get up!”

  She said brokenly, “You must know that I care for you. I know you loved another lady, my dearest, and—and that you might not have much love left for me, but—”

  Anguished, he leaned to her and took her beseeching hands in his cold clasp. “For the love of God! Stop! And try to understand. If I—if I worshipped the ground you walk on. If I thought you the bravest, purest, most beautiful lady I ever saw. If you held my whole heart and soul in these lovely hands—oh, my dearest of the dear—I could not!”

  She knelt there, gazing up at him with the tears streaking her face and her pretty mouth trembling piteously. “Have you no mercy, Diccon?”

  His own eyes dim, he said, “Your brother is a traitor. I can’t turn away from that, even if it costs me my every hope of happiness.”

  “It will, you great fool!” shouted Eric wildly. “Think twice before you throw her love away! To my certain knowledge she has never loved before!”

  Diccon’s eyes did not leave Marietta. In a strained, hoarse voice he said, “During the war, my closest friend was working behind enemy lines. He was a splendid young fellow—clever, gallant, a man with a bri
lliant future and—and a fiancée who adored him. He was betrayed by a British traitor. The French took him and they tortured him … blinded him. But he would not give away the man he was working with. Me. Because of a conscienceless traitor he died in—the most frightful agony. And because of his unshakeable loyalty and courage I am alive today. I cannot do as you ask, my dearest girl. Do you see? I cannot!”

  Marietta did see. He was right. But no matter what Eric had done she still loved him. She bowed her face into her hands and wept.

  Diccon bent to her. “Come. Get up, sweet soul. As soon as Mac returns he’ll take you home.”

  Still on her knees she looked up at him. “Mac is—is not here?”

  “He was sent to the barracks to fetch a troop,” said Eric scornfully. “Your would-be suitor hadn’t the backbone to take me in himself!”

  Diccon said, “My orders were that if I encountered the fugitive I was to keep him under house arrest and send for support. The General feels that there are too many opportunities for ambush hereabouts. Especially with Monteil and his bullies lurking about. And he wants the men your brother works for.”

  Marietta thought dully, ‘So he is alone here!’

  Diccon was lifting her. She clung to him and he gazed down at her for a moment, his eyes ineffably tender, ineffably sad.

  “Don’t just look at him!” screamed Eric hysterically. “Do something, Etta! Help me!”

  She must, of course. She must try. So she said, “I had hoped I would not have to resort to this. But—you leave me no choice, Diccon. You told me once that you have never harmed any lady, least of all your mama.” He watched her steadily, but said nothing. She drew a deep breath, and, feeling slightly sick, went on: “We can prove now that you did harm the lady. Or even that you have probably d-done away with the poor soul.”

  Eric gave a triumphant whoop. “Aha! The biter bit!”

  Diccon said without expression, “I would be most interested in knowing how you expect to prove such a thing.”

  “You were seen.” Marietta’s voice sounded faint and distant in her own ears. “You and MacDougall wrapped the-the—”