Charlotte Louise Dolan (6 page)

* * * *

The mist was beginning to rise from the moor, although it was as yet too wispy to present a serious problem. Anne turned slowly around, scanning the horizon in all directions. There was no sign of any man-made object, whether path or shed or building. Stones jutted out of the ground at awkward angles, waiting patiently as they had done for centuries.

The twins had completely vanished. Anne sat down on the nearest stone, which had been shaped by the wind into a convenient seat. “Well, well, well, here I am, alone on the moor. Whatever shall I do?” Her voice was a bit louder than usual. “I could, of course, have the vapors and sit here all night, crying my eyes out, but that would be a bit uncomfortable, not to mention cold. On the other hand, I suppose I could retrace our steps.”

There was the merest sound of scuffling, not enough to tell the direction it was coming from or determine whether it was made by a small animal or a ten-year-old boy.

“But since we have been walking in circles for the last hour, and since it is now nearly teatime, I think I might as well return directly to Wylington Manor.” So saying, she rose to her feet and set off.

Walking south for about a hundred yards she topped a small rise and saw the chimneys of the manor house. Proceeding another fifty yards in that direction, she was joined by two boys, one on either side of her. She said nothing to indicate she was aware of their presence.

Finally, the one on her right spoke. “How did you know which way to go?”

“Skanadajiwah, who has lived for several years with my great-aunt Sidonia, is a Mohawk Indian. He taught me how to avoid getting lost. It would have been more difficult today, of course, if the sky had been overcast, but even so there are signs to watch for.”

“Would you ...”

“Could you teach us how you did it?”

“Well, I suppose, considering that I am your governess, I am actually expected to teach you any number of useful things.”

There was a sigh from the boy on her right, echoed by the boy on her left.

“Did Skanadawija—”

“Skanadaziwah,” she corrected.

“Yes, did he teach you any other things?
Useful
things.”

“What kind of things are you interested in? Things like how to build a snare and catch rabbits? How to dry meat into jerky so that you can carry a week’s worth of food in a small pouch? How to make a bow and arrows? How to tell whether bad weather is coming? How to ride a horse bareback? How to throw a tomahawk? How to catch fish without a fishhook or net? Do you mean those kinds of things?”

One boy slid his hand into her left one, then the other boy took her right hand. “How did your aunt come to have an Indian living with her?”

“Oh, she wintered over with his tribe many years ago, and when she returned to England, she invited them to come and visit her. I do not suppose she ever expected any of them to cross the ocean, since they are superstitious about such things, but one day she opened her door and there he stood. Apparently he likes England, because he has never mentioned returning home.”

“But why was she living with a tribe of Indians?”

“Her husband was a government agent, sent out to Canada for some purpose. Shortly after they arrived, the settlement he was assigned to was attacked by Indians—not Mohawks, of course, since they are our allies, but a band of Hurons, who are the mortal enemies of all the Iroquois tribes.”

“Why did her husband not protect her?”

“He was too busy saving his own skin. When the soldiers arrived a few hours later, they found him hiding in a barrel. I would imagine he looked a bit ridiculous covered with cornmeal, but he was uninjured.”

“I do not understand. A man’s duty is to protect his women. I think he should have been whipped for acting in such a cowardly way.”

“And do you agree?” Anne asked the other twin.

“Of course I agree. It was a most dishonorable thing to do.”

“Then what is your opinion of a man who would lead a woman into the wilderness and then abandon her to her fate?”

“He should be hanged by the neck until dead,” one twin replied, at the same time the other said with bloodthirsty relish, “He should be taken before a firing squad and shot.”

They looked up at her for approval, but she merely said, “And what do you think should be the punishment for two boys who lead an old woman out onto Dartmoor and abandon her, then derive amusement from her panic?”

There was a long silence, then one of the twins ventured to say, “You are not really all that old.”

“And you did not panic, not even for a minute,” the other one added.

“I was referring to Miss Jennings. She is old enough to be your mother, and I believe she was terrified out of her mind.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” Anne said firmly. “What do you think should be the punishment for men who acted in such a cowardly manner?”

There was an even longer silence. Then one twin said tentatively, “We are not actually men.”

“Yes, we are only just turned ten,” his brother added.

“I see,” Anne said thoughtfully. “Then what you are saying, is that the seedling of a thorn tree, when it is grown to full height, will magically lose its thorns and turn into a solid English oak?”

They contemplated this idea for a while, and then one twin said firmly, “There was no real danger. We did not actually go off and leave Miss Jennings.”

“No,” the other twin added. “We were just hiding behind the rocks. We would not have let her become truly lost, so it is not as bad as letting one’s wife be captured by Indians.”

Both twins looked up at her hopefully to see if she would accept that excuse, and Anne was interested to note that there was no sign of their earlier fake angelic smiles on their faces.

“So, being afraid for your life, as you were, you hid behind the rocks?”

“Oh, we were never afraid.”

“We just thought it would be funny.”

Anne stopped dead in her tracks and dropped the boys’ hands. “Funny? You think scaring women is funny? And do you also think it is funny to pull wings off butterflies and tie tin cans to puppy dogs’ tails?”

There was no answer. “Tell me, do either of you know what it is called when someone finds amusement in another’s pain?”

“Mean,” one of the twins said softly, his eyes now downcast.

“Malicious,” the other one said, moving close enough to his brother that their shoulders touched, as if needing comfort from physical contact with his twin. “Are you going to whip us?” he asked finally. “I do not think Uncle Bronson will like it if you have us hanged or shot.”

“Since you are old enough to understand right from wrong, you are also old enough to figure out what you can do to correct what you did.”

“But we can’t correct it. Miss Jennings is gone,” one twin blurted out.

Anne made no comment; she just stood there waiting patiently.

“But I am sure we can think of something,” the other twin finally said with resignation in his voice. “We are really very ingenious.”

“Yes,” his brother agreed. “Most resourceful. You did not happen to talk to Miss Sidwell before you came here, did you?”

“No, I did not. Should I have?” Anne asked, struggling to keep a smile off her face.

“Oh, no, that is quite unnecessary,” the other twin hurried to assure her.

* * * *

“I would invite you in, Leatham, but I am not yet a member of the family, and I would not like to impose unduly upon my host’s hospitality. At this hour the servants have most likely retired.”

It was well after midnight and the two men were strolling home after an evening of conviviality. They were still several doors away from the Fairgrove residence when it became obvious something was amiss there. Every window in the house blazed with light.

“Good God, someone must be ill.” Demetrius dashed up the steps two at a time.

His curiosity getting the better of him, Bronson took the liberty of following, albeit more sedately. Inside, everything was total confusion. Servants were rushing about, but to what purpose was not immediately apparent. The majority of activity, however, appeared to be focused on a room to the right of the entrance.

“What the deuce?” Demetrius was almost knocked over by a footman hurrying out the front door on some urgent assignment. “I say, Leatham, it looks as if they have all run mad.”

“Try in here. Perhaps you may find someone in authority.”

The sight that met their eyes when they pushed open the door to the anteroom was enough to make the bravest man turn coward. Sprawling half on and half off the settee was a comfortably stout lady of middling age, in the throes of the most extreme hysteria. Behind her, like a Greek chorus, three maids stood in a row, weeping and wringing their hands. Hovering over her, a white-haired man was patting her hand ineffectually while tears streamed unchecked down his cheeks.

Demetrius showed his true mettle by advancing into the room, but Bronson thought it more prudent to remain by the door. In his opinion, the woman resembled nothing so much as a whale he had once seen floundering on the beach in Greenland, whereas the man, whose gray hair was in sad disarray, looked very like a tired spaniel uncomfortably decked out in evening clothes.

Catching sight of the newcomers, the women began to wail even louder, and Bronson took an involuntary step backward.

“What has happened? Is something wrong with Diana?”

At Demetrius’s question, both of the older people began talking at the same time, each apparently trying to outshout the other. The lady hoisted herself up enough to grasp Demetrius by the lapels of his coat, pulling his face down until it nearly touched hers. She seemed to be trying to deny all responsibility for what had happened. Either that or she was indicating a desire to put a period to her existence, it was not completely clear to Bronson.

Finally the old gentleman thrust a letter into Demetrius’s hand. With the lady still dangling from his coat he endeavored to read it. His cry of “No, it cannot be!” was so loud, it momentarily shocked everyone into silence. Pulling free of the woman’s grasp, Demetrius turned and dashed from the anteroom.

Bronson followed his friend across the hall into a second room, which appeared to be a gentleman’s study. Demetrius was bent over, his back to the door, clutching the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles were white.

Bronson was deeply concerned at the apparent tragedy. Spotting some decanters on a small side table, he asked, “May I offer you some brandy?”

His friend’s shoulders shook, and in a strangled voice he said, “Just shut the door. Please.”

Closing the door, Bronson decided that brandy was definitely called for, whether his friend wished it or not.

“I did not love her enough,” Demetrius choked out. “And she ... and she ...” He seemed unable to go on.

Good God, surely the chit had not committed suicide? Bronson held out the glass of brandy to his friend. “Drink this, and do not blame yourself for what has happened.”

Demetrius turned toward him, his face reddened by his effort to control his emotion. Then laughter burst out explosively. He clapped his hand to his mouth to hide the sound, while with the other arm he hugged his ribs, shaking all over.

Tossing off the brandy himself, Bronson waited for his friend to stop laughing enough to explain.

“She eloped ... this afternoon ... with Hazelmore ... They were married by special license.... They are on their way to Italy for their honeymoon. He ... he ...” Demetrius was again laughing too hard to continue.

Bronson filled a second glass and thrust it into his friend’s hand.

Demetrius finally managed to drink some of it. Then, wiping the tears from his eyes, he said in a calmer voice, “He wrote a sonnet to her right ear and an ode to her left eyebrow, and he sleeps every night with a rose from her nosegay tucked under his pillow. She is sorry to break my heart, but he threatened to throw himself from London Bridge if she went through with our wedding. Oh, I am undone.” Laying his hand dramatically on his forehead, Demetrius fell backward into a leather-covered chair.

“The gods sometimes take pity on fools,” murmured Bronson. “But might I suggest we depart this house, ere your un-in-laws decide that it is your responsibility to follow hotfoot after the eloping pair and rescue Diana?”

“Ecod, you may be right. By morning it will be too late to do anything but send an announcement to the
Gazette
,
after which I plan to flee like the craven coward I am back to Devon. But for tonight, may I take refuge with you?”

“Of course, dunderhead, need you ask? Although the accommodations are not as grand as here, most of the rooms being in Holland covers, the company is unexceptional and not prone to having the vapors.”

“On a night like this I would be happy to sleep on a dirt floor under a sod roof. But now that I think on it, I feel not the least bit sleepy. In fact, I am quite rejuvenated. I am for celebrating my last-minute reprieve. Are you with me?”

“Till the cock crows.”

* * * *

One of the twins is left-handed, Anne realized with dawning satisfaction. The three of them were seated cross-legged on the ground inside a rough circle of stones, busily occupied with making snares to catch rabbits. Both twins were engrossed in their efforts, and their movements were amazingly identical, except reversed. It was like seeing one boy sitting beside a mirror.

“Anne?” the right-handed twin asked without looking up from his work. “You never told us who rescued your Aunt Sidonia from the Indians.”

“Oh, she rescued herself. She managed to steal a tomahawk and killed her captor. Then she walked over two hundred miles through the forest, crossing innumerable streams, eating berries and trapping small animals for food, until she finally arrived at the village where Skanadajiwah’s tribe lived. By that time it was too late in the fall for her to continue on to the nearest English settlement, so she remained with them until spring.”

“But that is impossible. You are making that up,” the left-handed twin said with assurance.

“Oh? Pray tell me why I must be making it up.”

His brother looked up from his knotting and explained. “Women can’t do things like that.”