Lanterns Page 3

  A flock of starlings flew past and soared upward. How blue was the sky. Such a glorious day. If they were still in Town, she thought wistfully, she would likely be driving down to Richmond Park with Tim Van Lindsay, or Freddy Foster, or— But the past was—past. This was today, and there was much for which to be thankful. They were all together in a nice house in a very beautiful part of God’s very beautiful world. Most of the money from the sale of her own and Mama’s jewels, the London house, and their horses and carriages, had gone to Papa’s creditors, but she’d been able to salvage a little that was earning a tiny bit of interest in the bank. The hire of this house had been unexpectedly affordable. Her beloved brother Eric had sacrificed the Long Vacation to stay in Cambridge and tutor three young students, thus helping with his tuition costs. The rather surprising amount of income earned by “Madame Olympias” and her crystal ball—which she referred to as her Mystical Window Through Time—went towards Arnold’s fees at Harrow. By practicing very strict economies the wolf had been kept from the door, but for how long, Marietta dared not think.

  Not one to wallow in gloom, she straightened her shoulders. Worrying would not give them back the carefree life they had known in Town. And, after all, how many poor souls crowded into rotting, filthy slums would think the Lanterns estate and the dower house an earthly paradise?

  The sun was beginning its westward slide down the blue bowl of the sky, and she had promised to spend some time with Arthur after his nap. She avoided the side door and hurried around to the front. Aunty Dova was sure to ask her to finish “Lady Leith,” and she could not just now, for she must go and seek out the witch’s hat.

  She turned the corner of the house, and halted, staring speechlessly at the eager-eyed young gallant who was tethering two saddle horses at the foot of the terrace steps.

  Blake Coville, clad in a beautifully tailored riding coat and buckskins, snatched off his hat and hurried to meet her, smiling hopefully. “I know you’ve far more important things to do than go for a ride with me, Miss Warrington. But it’s such a lovely afternoon and—won’t you please take pity on a lonely man and let me persuade you?”

  Marietta’s tell-tale heart began to pound unevenly. Horribly conscious of her faded pink cotton work dress and crumpled apron, and equally aware that she must look hot and untidy, she stammered, “Oh! You are—very kind, but—but I’m afraid—”

  “You are too busy. How well I know it! Each time I come you are working. It will do you good to escape for a half-hour. If you care not for my own disappointment, consider the poor mare. She’s longing for a run.”

  Marietta’s eyes flashed to the ‘poor mare.’ What a splendid creature, her chestnut coat sleek and shining in the sun. And, oh, how she would love to go for a ride. She stifled a sigh and said firmly, “In this house we all have to work, Mr. Coville. Our circumstances do not allow for ‘escapes.’”

  “Oh … of course,” he said, looking crestfallen. “I was thoughtless. But—I’d hoped you might spare me just a little of your time. I’ll bid you good day, ma’am.”

  He smiled ruefully and turned away. And he was young and very good to look at, and he had been so kind as to bring that beautiful little mare. And the poor man must be so anxious about his step-mama; it surely would be heartless to refuse if she could perhaps turn his mind from that worry for a little while. Having thus cunningly circumvented conscience, “Wait!” she cried.

  Luckily, her riding habit was still stylish and fit well, although she noted that it was a trifle more tight across the bust. “You are becoming positively buxom, my dear,” she told her reflection as she dusted a hare’s foot across her nose. “A bucolic, rosy-cheeked and bosomy country wench!” Without appearing to be devastated by this assessment, she snatched up her neat hat and her riding crop, and hurried down the stairs.

  Outside, Coville stood by the horses, chatting with Fanny, who wore a simple and outmoded peach-coloured round gown, and had tied a pink scarf over her thick black tresses. Marietta smiled to herself. Little Fanny undoubtedly had given not a thought to her appearance, or, if she had, supposed herself to be a proper dowd. She would have no least notion that an old gown could not make her look anything less than the very essence of glowing, vital youth and beauty.

  Coville turned eagerly as Marietta approached. Fanny turned also and gave her sister a whimsically knowing glance, while saying lightly that she thought it most kind of Mr. Coville to bring such a dainty mare. “You cannot know, sir,” she went on, “how my sister loves a spirited horse. In Town scarce a morning passed but that she was up and riding in the park with one beau or another long before the household was awake.”

  Coville grinned and bent to cup his hands and toss Marietta into the saddle. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, walking around to mount his own tall chestnut.

  Leaning to her sister, Marietta murmured, “You saucy little rogue!”

  “I told you,” teased Fanny, her eyes sparkling.

  Marietta reined the mare around and the pretty creature frisked and curvetted, tossing her head eagerly. Briefly, Coville looked anxious, but before he could speak, a shrill cry rang out.

  “Etta!”

  Marietta’s gaze flashed to the upstairs window from which Arthur leaned, his conical wizard’s hat perched on his dark curls. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed contritely.

  “You promised!” wailed the boy.

  “Dearest, I did! I am so sorry. But I’ll just go for a short ride and then come straight back.”

  “You said I’d be Merlin an’ you’d be the wicked witch when I waked up and we’d go broomsticking an’ find goblins in the wild wood! You promised, Etta!”

  “Never mind,” said Fanny quickly. “I’ll be a witch for you, Arthur.”

  A shriek rang out from somewhere in the house. “Fanny! The muffins!”

  Fanny gave a gasp, and flew.

  “You get ready, Arthur,” called Marietta. “I’ll be home quick as quick!”

  The boy drew back from the window, looking rebellious.

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “I did promise the little fellow. Perhaps—”

  Coville said firmly, “No, ma’am. Arthur has you all day and every day. We won’t be long away, and it will not hurt him to wait a little while. You need a rest from your labours, Miss Marietta. And I need your kind and gentle company.”

  He smiled at her blindingly, then led the way along the drive-path. Hesitating, Marietta glanced back. Her aunt came to the door and waved to her. Aunty Dova was so good with the child; she’d soon restore his spirits, and, as Mr. Coville had said, they wouldn’t be out long. Marietta urged the mare to a canter and joined Coville, her sense of guilt fading as they rode side-by-side through the golden afternoon.

  He headed north into the Weald, maintaining a steady pace. They skirted picturesque Cloud Village, passed thatched cottages and occasional farms where labourers would pause to wave to them. And as they went they chatted idly of Princess Charlotte’s sad death, of the scramble of the royal dukes to marry and produce a new heir, of London and people they both knew. Time slid past, unnoticed. They were following a lane shaded by great beeches when a big black stallion galloped to the fence of his field, and cantered along beside them.

  “He wants to join us,” said Coville.

  “Yes,” agreed Marietta. “But not at this speed.”

  He grinned. “I’d thought this was the rate at which you ladies like to ride in Town.”

  “It is the rate at which we are obliged to ride, rather. But we are not in Town, are we?”

  Coville had a glimpse of her laughing face, then she was away.

  “Hi!” he cried gaily, and was after her at the gallop.

  Neck and neck they rode; along a river-bank, thundering over a rustic wooden bridge, up a rise, and down again, to follow a lush shallow valley, the wind sending the ribbons of Marietta’s hat flying out behind her and rippling the skirts of her riding habit. They passed a field of cows, brown and white, chewing placidly,
great mild eyes turning to them as they raced by. Marietta crouched lower, exhilarated by their speed and by the smooth gait of the little mare, until at length they approached a field bathed in sunlight where two haystacks rose in golden dignity.

  Coville shouted for a halt.

  “Oh!” gasped Marietta buoyantly. “How grand that was! Thank you so much!”

  He smiled at her, admiring the becoming flush on her cheeks, and the sparkle in the clear green eyes. “It is I who should thank you, ma’am. Shall we rest the hacks for a space?” He led the way through the open five-barred gate and towards the haystacks and, dismounting, lifted Marietta from the saddle. She sat on a hay bale while he loosened saddle girths and straps and secured the reins to a fence post.

  Returning to throw himself down beside her, he said, “You’re a fine rider, ma’am. But I hope you never venture such speed in Hyde Park.”

  “I would be in deep disgrace, no? Oh, how lovely it is. Look at those great woods over there. Where are we, sir? Are we liable to have someone’s keepers after us with pitchforks?”

  He chuckled. “Never fear, I’ll defend you. That is the Ashdown Forest. And I believe this is one of several farms owned by a friend of your father—a Mr. Innes Williard—so I doubt we’re in great danger of being taken for trespass.”

  Marietta’s smile faded.

  Quick to notice, he said, “Am I mistaken? Do they not cry friends? Oh, egad, one can never trust the word of a gossip!”

  “I did not say they are not friends. Though I cannot think why people should gossip about such a matter.”

  “When a gentleman has a sister who is a handsome and wealthy widow, people will always find cause for gossip, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Marietta demurely. “I’ll own my aunt is handsome, but I’d not thought her name was being bandied about.”

  Coville gave a shout of laughter, saw the faint pucker of her brows, and choked back his hilarity. “Oh, forgive me, I pray. I feel sure your aunt has—er, her share of admirers. But I must confess I referred to Mrs. Isolde Maitland. I was told she has publicly expressed her admiration for a certain … neighbour.”

  Marietta’s lips tightened. ‘Or for any man who will bring her the title she covets,’ she thought, and said coolly, “My father, in fact.”

  Leaning on one elbow and looking up at her, his eyes still dancing with laughter, he said teasingly, “Aha! And you do not care for the lady.”

  “I said no such thing!”

  “You got all starched up and said it silently. Do you not wish to see Sir Lionel re-marry?”

  “No! I mean—Oh, it is not that at all!”

  “Then it is that the widow is lovely, but a fortune hunter. Or—a shrew, perhaps?”

  “If the lady were a fortune hunter, Mr. Coville, I think she would not choose my father to admire.” Irritated, Marietta took up her riding crop. “Could we start back now? I must—”

  “Whoops,” he said teasingly. “I am desolate! I have made you cross with my nonsense. I shall win back into your good graces by offering my services.”

  She stared at him.

  “No, I mean it, Miss Marietta. You will need help. A lady who is lovely and determined and clever can be very dangerous, you know.”

  “I don’t,” she said tartly. “But I suspect you have had experience along those lines, sir.”

  Unabashed, he nodded. “Oh, yes, indeed. Sufficient that I can be a powerful ally.” He leaned closer and said in a sinister half-whisper, “I shall give you some hints that will enable you to quite defeat the widow’s machinations. Unless, of course,” he added irrepressibly, “your sire has a raging passion for the lady.”

  The picture of her shy and gentle father nourishing a raging passion, wrung a spurt of laughter from Marietta.

  Coville gave an exclamation of relief. “I think I am forgiven!”

  “And I think you are very naughty!” She tried to look stern. “And have made me speak of something I should not.”

  “You are much too kind and sweetly natured to be anything but delicious. And I am yearning to change the subject to one that really interests me. Tell me about the most lovely and fascinating lady I have ever met. Your likes, dislikes, friends, foes, where you grew up, whether you enjoy country life or miss Town, if there are other Warringtons in the neighbourhood, what you think of Lanterns, who—”

  “Mercy!” she cried, amused and touched, but throwing up her hands. “How can I answer so many questions?”

  “Then answer one for today, and I shall ask you another when I call to take you riding tomorrow morning, and another the next day, and so on.”

  He was lying on his side, head propped on one elbow, long legs stretched out, all lithe grace. With that warm smile lurking in his blue eyes, he seemed very sincere, but was she really the most fascinating and lovely lady he had ever met? She doubted it, but it was nice to hear and it was some time since any gentleman had told her such things. She had ceased to be fascinating and lovely, it appeared, when Papa ceased to be a wealthy man. The handsome Mr. Coville was an accomplished flirt, but he made her feel pretty and desirable again, and she would have been less of a woman not to enjoy his attentions. She said lightly, “You surprise me, sir! I had not supposed that you and your papa were in the district for a long stay.”

  He sighed. “Sadly, that is true. But I will be riding this way as often as I can, regardless of our present—problems. Still, perhaps we should condense my list a little. Let us have the first and the last. What are your likes—your especial likes—and what do you think of Lanterns?”

  “Hmm,” she said, wrinkling her brow. “My first especial ‘like,’ of course, is my family. I think you’ve not met my two brothers, Eric and Arnold, for Eric stays at Cambridge, and Arnold has just left us to spend the rest of the summer with friends. As for your second question, I do not know Lanterns. I’ve seen it, of course, but it looks so big and gloomy, and as if it might tumble down the cliffs at any moment.”

  “Part of the moat has already done so. Have you never gone there?”

  “Goodness, no! The ghost stories might just be true, and I would purely dislike to meet one.”

  “Should you? I’d love it! But say truth now. You must have some curiosity. I’d thought everyone in the county had poked about down there. Haven’t you seen any treasure hunters?”

  “No! Is there supposed to be buried treasure, then? How exciting! Do tell me. I’d not heard that tale.”

  “You’ve not missed anything worthwhile, for it is so much fustian. If there were a whisper of truth to the legend the treasure would have been found ages ago. That’s how old it is. Some ancestor of my step-mama is supposed to have brought it back from the Crusades.”

  “What, exactly? A chest full of gems? I’d think that would be difficult to stow away. Especially for so long a time.”

  “I agree. No, it’s supposed to be a picture. Something that belonged to—”

  “Ah!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands in triumph. “Excuse me, but I do remember! It is called The Sigh of Saladin, no?”

  “Jolly good. Not a large piece of art, so they say. But all worked in gold and gems. Worth the proverbial king’s ransom.”

  “No wonder everyone tried to find it. Why was it called The Sigh of Saladin?”

  “Lord knows. If my rascally step-brother ever shows his nose hereabouts, you can ask him. He likely knows all about it, since it was his ancestor who won the thing.”

  Marietta said, “Perhaps we should start for home, Mr. Coville. I’m afraid my little brother will be thinking I have quite forgotten about him.”

  He sighed. “Why ever is it, I wonder, that beautiful young ladies are always overly endowed with pestiferous little brothers…!”

  “It sounds as though you have suffered from that restraint very often, sir,” she said merrily. “But I promise you I would not for one instant be without my own little brother, although—” She paused, tilting her head as, faint with distance, a
church bell sent out its mellow announcement. “Three?” Startled, her eyes opened wide. “No, surely it cannot be?”

  He pulled out his pocket watch, and nodded. “It is. You have made the moments fly past. But the sun won’t go down for hours yet. We still have time to ride as far as the forest and—”

  “No! I must go back at once. I’d not dreamed we had been out so long. And only look, the sky is beginning to be hazy. If fog rolls in from the sea—oh, dear! I will be properly in Arthur’s black books, poor mite!”

  Coville helped her to her feet and said kindly, “You should not fuss over him too much, Miss Marietta. You love him, of course, but he is a boy after all. And if he’s like most small boys he has quite forgotten your plans and is by now deeply involved in some scheme of his own.”

  To an extent, Mr. Coville was correct. At that same moment Arthur had abandoned his Merlin role, but he had not at all forgotten the original program.

  “It’s ’cause she’s a girl, I ’spect,” he said mournfully. “Eric says they’re all ’like. You ’member him saying that? It was when his Everlasting Love gave him back his lock of hair, an’ it was tied up with a piece of string, ’stead of in the locket he gave her.” He took off the wizard’s hat and looked at it forlornly. “Etta promised she’d come back quick. ’N that was hours an’ hours ago.” Shedding the long robe with the half moon and the stars sewn on it, he said, “We gived her lots of chances, Friar. We waited an’ waited, din’t we?”

  Friar Tuck paused with one back leg flung over his shoulder, and peered up at the child’s wistful face, but he made no comment and resumed the business of tidying his nether regions.

  “Fanny said she’d play,” went on Arthur, “but she goed down to help Papa ’stead. An’ Aunty Dova forgot and went to her caravan.” He sighed heavily. “You can’t blame them, I ’spect. They’re all so old, an’ I’m just a little boy, an’ I’m not ’portant. Even when I tell them reelly ’portant things, they won’t listen. If I was ’portant, they’d listen. An they’d have time to play. But I’m not. So I’m goin’ to run away an’ find another boy.”