“Hmm. And Sir Lionel shares those sentiments, does he?”
“You are being horrid.” Again, she met his eyes, and said softly, “And I am four and twenty, Diccon, and told you once before how I feel about—”
He interrupted hurriedly, “You must indeed think me horrid, if you fancy that I would be so gauche as to enquire about a lady’s age! Did I tell you, by the bye, that your father has been so kind as to volunteer to create several devices whereby I’ll not be such a burden to, er—my friends? A little stand, for instance, so that if I wish to read in bed I won’t have to hold the book, and small wheels for my chair which will make it easier to pull it up to table. He’s working now on a neck-cloth, already tied, that will—”
“Be useful for people to strangle you with?” She sprang up, her eyes flashing, and leant over him in such a rage that he shrank back and threw up his hand as a shield.
“Don’t hit me! I’m a frail invalid, and—”
“Do you suppose that anyone who loved you would not be eager to help with small difficulties? Do you seek to paint yourself as so helpless and infirm that I must run from you in horror, only because you lost your forearm while most gallantly saving my brother’s life? Must you be so confoundedly proud that you will reject any—”
“Marietta!” Mrs. Cordova approached, a large tray in her hands, formally spread with an embroidered cloth and holding several glasses. “You swore! How very naughty.”
“And at a helpless invalid,” confirmed Diccon reproachfully. “And now, only look, Miss Marietta is gnashing her teeth at me!”
“So she is! Goodness, child, that front one has a crack in it!”
Marietta gave a yelp and started to run in search of a mirror, then stopped as she heard their laughter. “Aunty, you great tease! If you had but heard him, you’d have gnashed at him too.”
“At my time of life, one does not dare take such chances. I have brought some lemonade instead.” Mrs. Cordova handed out glasses, then sat in the chair, clutching her tray. “Sit down do, Etta. I can recover from your naughty language, but I would purely dislike to see you fall over. You can’t have my place but Diccon can spare you a little room, can you not, dear boy?”
He agreed readily, and Marietta settled herself on the end of the chaise. “Though why you should think my balance so impaired, Aunty Dova, that I would fall—”
“Stop prattling, child. Now Diccon, I have something to say. I would have said it long since, save that I didn’t want to upset you whilst you were so ill.”
He looked at her warily, wondering if his stubborn adherence to his moral code was to be flung at him again.
“You may recall that when we were in your house during that dreadful storm,” she began, “I warned you that it was going to fall down. And it did, so I was right. At least the south end of it did. You shall have to see about having the cliff shorn up—” She frowned, and muttered, “Is that the word? Or should it be ‘shored’ up? Well—whatever—”
“Aunty,” inserted Marietta, her eyes on Diccon’s set face, “Shall we not talk about that? I think it would be better if—”
“Do you, child? Very well, we’ll make it ‘shored.’ However, my point is that your house fell on me, Diccon, whilst I was upstairs, which was not very nice. It knocked me down. Well, part of the wall did.”
“Good Lord, ma’am! I had no notion! I am very sorry. If it has resulted in an injury you must see Avebury when next he—”
“Hush, hush! Close your nice lips! Oh, why will no one let me speak, when I have waited so long and been so patient? There—that’s better. The thing is that, as usual, I was right. For I said it was with music, you see. The Mystical Window Through Time never lets me down. Or very seldom. Of course, there was that time when it said Mr. Beck’s mare had been naughty with Lord Dale’s black stallion.… What an uproar that caused! You’ll remember, Etta? And what Mr. Beck said about Madame— Well, never mind! The thing is, Diccon, that”—she handed him the flat parcel that had been underneath the tray cloth—“this also fell on my, er—limb.”
He set down his glass of lemonade, and unfolded the wrappings. He was slow and clumsy about it, but although Marietta yearned to help him, she wisely made no attempt to do so.
Succeeding at length, he became perfectly white, his hand shook convulsively, and he whispered, “Oh … Jupiter!”
The sunlight awoke a thousand dancing fires from the small but exquisite Eastern lady who stood between two trees, all depicted in sparkling jewels, and enclosed by a magnificently carven gold frame.
The glass fell from Marietta’s hand. Awed, she murmured, “So—so it really does exist, after all! Oh, how beautiful it is!”
Mrs. Cordova cried triumphantly, “The Sigh of Saladin! Your troubles are over, Diccon! It is worth a king’s ransom.”
Gazing with dazzled eyes at that ages old work of art, he thought she was very probably in the right of it.
* * *
The following evening there was a small celebration at the dower house. Young Samuel South was pressed into service in the kitchen, and Mrs. Gillespie arrived looking neat and sober and in a high state of excitement when she found that she was to assist MacDougall at table.
Among the guests were Lord and Lady Dale, and a very stiff Innes Williard and his sister. General Sir Nevin Smollet was accompanied by his prospective bride, the lady blushing furiously at each introduction but looking surprisingly attractive in a stylish evening gown of fawn brocade. Jocelyn Vaughan was dashing in regimental evening dress, and Diccon, also in his regimentals with his left sleeve pinned up, looked romantically haggard and won many admiring and sympathetic glances which reduced him to a state of abject cowardice. Marietta, a vision in pale green satin, stayed close beside him, and since he clung to her hand in a panic when the subject of Arthur’s rescue came up—as it frequently did—everyone present formed an accurate opinion of the state of affairs between them.
The Sigh of Saladin was prominently displayed on the drawing room mantelpiece, and Sir Lionel, in an expansive mood, lost no opportunity to draw it to the attention of each arriving guest and seemed never to tire of relating its history.
Drifting to Diccon’s side when the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, Vaughan murmured, “I do believe you’ve won back the old boy’s favour, Major, sir.”
Diccon repressed his own cynical thoughts on that subject, and said, “I told you I didn’t want the picture displayed tonight.”
“I relayed your message to Sir Lionel and was advised not to be a marplot, and that we mustn’t deny our neighbours a chance to rejoice in your good luck.”
“His tongue runs on wheels! The news will sweep the county by morning, and we’ve precious little in the way of guards here, you know.”
“You’re right, by George! I shall go at once and get a pistol!”
Luckily, the weapon was not required. The guests were genuinely awed by the work of art, and, with the exception of Mr. Williard and Mrs. Maitland, appeared delighted that such good fortune had come to Diccon.
“You deserve to be rewarded, be dashed if you don’t,” said Dale.
General Smollet laughed and, with a wink at Marietta, said that he rather suspected Major Paisley would win a fair reward.
Diccon appeared not to have heard.
Lying awake that night, Marietta watched the shifting shadows of the tree branches that the moonlight cast on her curtains and thought of the love that had come to her, and the power and wonder of it. She had found a gentleman she could not only love, but could honour and respect—a man to whom her children could look for inspiration and guidance.
But there would be no children if she could not overcome his foolish pride. Heaven knows she’d hinted him often enough. But now that he was suddenly wealthy, how could she manoeuvre him into offering without it seeming that she was one of those horridly pushing ladies who pursued wealth?
She thought, ‘Oh, heavens! And he has a title, as well! He’ll think I’m ju
st like the Widow Maitland!’ She moaned into the darkness.
* * *
“I got questions,” said Arthur, standing by his sister’s bed with Friar Tuck sagging over his arm playing “dead cat.”
Marietta yawned and opened one eye. “What is the time?”
He trotted round to the clock on her bedside table and imparted doubtfully. “It’s gone past nine o’clock.”
“All right, love.” Marietta sat up and stretched. You may climb on and ask your questions.”
They climbed on and without beating about the bush Arthur demanded, “When is Diccon goin’ to be my brother ’law?”
“Who told you he was?”
“He said he’d like you for a wife, and I wish you’d hurry up, Etta. I heared Mrs. Maitland say he’s full o’ juice an’ can take his pick now.”
‘Horrid cat!’ thought Marietta.
“An’ Lem says that means Diccon’s rich an’ lots of ladies want him. You’re nice, but there’s not many men like Sir G’waine, you know. He’s not pretty han’some like Mr. Blake, but he looks like a man ought to. An’ I like him lots. An’ I want him for my brother ’law, so please stir your stumps, Etta.”
“Well, I never did!” she gasped, astounded. “Wherever did you learn such terms?”
“Oh—here an’ there,” he said airily. “But when is you goin’ to tell him yes you’ll marriage him?”
She sighed. “Whenever he asks me, dearest. But you see, he hasn’t.”
“Oh. Well that’s all right. You ask him.”
She smiled forlornly. “I can’t. At least, ladies aren’t supposed to.”
“Do you got to be a lady? I’ll bet the Widow Maitland would ask him!”
Marietta laughed. “You may be right at that. But—well, you see, there are reasons why I cannot.”
“Oh. Well then, make him ask you.”
“How, you little rogue?”
He frowned, and thought for a moment. And then he told her.
CHAPTER XX
“The Regent has allowed his crest to be used on the coat of arms of the Literary Fund,” imparted Marietta, reading The Spectator aloud as she sat beside Diccon in the sunny garden.
Arthur, who was busily engaged in driving Friar Tuck mad by dangling a long peacock feather just above his nose, asked, “What’s that?”
“Probably an association to promote the teaching of reading,” answered Diccon drowsily. “That should cheer up poor Byron.”
Marietta said, “I’m sure it would. But I believe the Literary Fund was established to help financially distressed authors. Prinny has always supported it, and now he’s arranged a Charter of Incorporation for—”
“I tell you he does not wish to receive you! And that you would dare show your face here, sir, is past belief!” Sir Lionel’s outraged tones caused Marietta to stop reading and look up anxiously.
Shading his eyes against the sunlight, Diccon also looked up and swore under his breath.
His step-father, elegant as always, marched across the lawn, waving aside Sir Lionel’s objections. He was accompanied by a tall Eastern gentleman clad in a richly ornamented knee-length coat, satin trousers, high riding boots, and a flowing burnous. Three other Arabs followed, all similarly but more plainly garbed, all tall and formidable of appearance, their wide-swinging cloaks revealing the great curving blades of scimitars.
“Oh!” exclaimed Marietta, springing up in anger and indignation.
Sir Gavin stopped beside Diccon’s chaise, and said importantly, “As you see, sir, my step-son has been gravely injured, which will explain why he does not rise to greet—”
Very obviously venerated by his companions, the tall Arab silenced Coville with a gesture, then his hand moved in a graceful salaam and he spoke in a deep voice and perfect English. “Have I the honour to address Lord Temple and Cloud? My title is long and of no importance. You may call me Ibrahim.”
Diccon scanned the proud, finely etched face, the high-arched nose, the piercing eyes, and ruthless mouth, and came to his feet. He bowed slightly but with respect. “You may call me Major Paisley, my lord.”
The Arab smiled. “You know me?”
“I believe your title is Sheikh al-Balad. Will you be seated, sir?”
Coville sprang to pull up Marietta’s chair.
The sheikh said, “But I think the beautiful lady occupied this. Unless, perhaps, she is to leave us?” The thin lips smiled, but the hard, dark eyes left no doubt of his meaning.
Marietta felt a twinge of fear but said defiantly, “The lady is staying, my lord. But by all means take the chair. I will sit beside Major Paisley.”
Sir Gavin, who had intended to share the chaise, frowned and murmured, “This is a matter for gentlemen, Paisley.”
Turning to him, Diccon said acidly, “Then you had best retire, sir.”
Coville flushed scarlet.
The sheikh’s dark face was lit by a very brief flash of white teeth.
“May I present Miss Warrington, and—” Diccon glanced down, but Arthur and Friar Tuck had fled.
Marietta was accorded a polite but less flourishing salaam, and the sheikh sat down, his men at once stepping close behind the chair.
No sooner were they seated than Sir Gavin said, “Sheikh Ibrahim has come here to—”
The sheikh turned his head and looked at him and he floundered into silence.
“I am told that you have found an object that was stolen from my family,” said the sheikh uncompromisingly.
“I believe such things are called spoils of war,” countered Diccon.
The Arab’s thin lips curled. “Not in all circumstances, Major. But—no doubt you are aware of the circumstances?”
Sir Lionel said in exasperation, “It happened over six hundred years ago! How could anyone be aware of the circumstances?”
The sheikh regarded him as though he were a very strange insect then returned his attention to Diccon. “You are aware, perhaps, Major, that your ancestor, Simon, Lord Cloud, was wounded in battle and carried into the home of Salah ud-Din, sultan of Egypt, to recuperate?”
“I am aware only that Lord Cloud returned to England with The Sigh of Saladin,” said Diccon coolly.
“Which he stole while an honoured guest!”
“How do we know that?” demanded Sir Lionel, bristling. “Eh? How? And what difference does it make after all this time? Poppycock!”
Ignoring him, as he ignored Coville, the sheikh’s dark gaze never left Diccon’s face. “The Sigh of Saladin did not belong to my ancestor. It was a national treasure, considered sacred by my people. It was entrusted to the protection of Salah ud-Din during the fighting. Naturally, he did not expect a man whose life he had saved to rob him. He was deeply grieved and felt he had betrayed his trust. To the end of his days he mourned the loss.”
“War is war, sir,” said Coville with a regretful shrug. “But I am sure that when Major Paisley hears your offer—”
“So you are prepared to make an offer?” said Diccon.
“But of course.” Sheikh Ibrahim’s smile was touched with contempt. “We know the way of the western world. You invade and slaughter and destroy in the name of God, and steal in the name of greed. So—” He spread his hands. “It is a national treasure; what can I do? I am prepared to make an offer.”
“And a most generous—” began Sir Gavin.
Diccon interrupted curtly, “Then we had best have the object here for you to inspect, my lord. So that you may be sure the greedy westerners are not trying to foist off a poor imitation on you.” He turned to Marietta. “Would you be so kind, Miss Warrington?”
“I’ll come with you,” volunteered Sir Lionel hurriedly, and went off beside her, talking earnestly, snatches of his remarks drifting back to them: “… heathen savages…,” and “… all a bunch of crafty horse traders.”
“I have seen your house, Major,” said the sheikh, apparently not having heard the words which had brought a flush of embarrassment to Diccon’s thin
face. “Do you really intend to rebuild? A costly venture, I suspect.”
Diccon nodded. “Too costly for my purse at the moment, my lord.”
“Ah. You—also—hope to realize a long-cherished dream. Is that—” He broke off, staring.
There came a clanking sound. Sir Lancelot advanced, helmet firmly set, lance in one hand and sword in the other. Friar Tuck attacked the end of the lance and the knight tripped. One of the sheikh’s guards chuckled, and was the recipient of a glare from his master that wiped the mirth from his face.
Arthur marched to take up his stand beside Diccon and face the enemy with fierce determination.
Diccon said, “My lord, this is Master Arthur Warrington. Arthur, make your bow to Sheikh Ibrahim.”
Arthur managed a jerky bow.
The sheikh stood and offered his gracious salaam. “For a moment,” he said, “I had thought I faced your legendary Sir Lancelot.”
Arthur beamed his approval. “That’s right, sir! He got me right, Diccon!”
Sitting down again, the sheikh asked, “Is this the boy for whom you gave up your arm, Major?”
“I—er, that was not my intention at the time, sir.”
“It would seem you have something in common with my ancestor. You will not know it, but—”
“But Saladin had a deep love for children,” interrupted Diccon. He saw the look of astonishment on the hawk face, and said with a grin, “I know quite a lot of him. He was a most remarkable gentleman.”
Sheikh Ibrahim betrayed his Oxford education. “The devil you say!” he exclaimed, then sprang up as Marietta approached, her father, still talking earnestly, beside her.
She glanced uncertainly at Diccon. He nodded towards the sheikh, and ignoring Sir Lionel’s frantic gestures, said, “Please examine it as minutely as you wish, my lord.”
With hands that trembled the sheikh unwrapped the picture. When he held it up reverently his followers gave startled exclamations and each of them dropped to one knee. The sunlight set the gems on fire. Dazzled, the sheikh stared and stared.
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