Quarrels are much more easily avoided than made up.
S. & S. Adams, The Complete Servant
Nobody remarked upon Lord Charnly’s disappearance the following morning. It was as if he had never been with them at all. His belongings had vanished, and there was no sign of his valet either.
There was, however, a new addition to the statue garden. Down among the pebble paths and topiary hedges, the nymphs and other mythical creatures had been joined by a very different figure. It was the carving of a man in a dressing gown, his face twisted in terror, as two monstrously fanged cats sank their teeth into his booted heel. By the look of it, the statue had been there for some time, patched with moss and stained by the weather. The toe of the right boot was somewhat chipped.
‘What a curious ornament!’ remarked the Dowager Duchess, as she strolled among the roses with Miss Blunt and Miss Smith after breakfast.
‘It is certainly a fine example of the sculptor’s art,’ replied Miss Blunt. ‘Yes,’ said Miss Smith. ‘The man’s features are excessively lifelike. One might almost suppose he is ready to speak – or, rather, scream.’
Pattern overheard this exchange because she was the other side of the hedge, on her way to harvest more snowdrops. The sight of Lord Charnly’s statue made her shudder. She would never forget the icy feeling in her toes, nor the numbing stiffness in her limbs, as the stone began to creep up her body. Unfortunately, it was too late for his lordship. Although a handful of snowdrops had been enough to save her shoes, releasing the gentleman from his marble prison would likely require a whole glade of flowers.
She still intended to equip herself and Nate with as many of the blooms as she could manage. The flowers had already come to her aid in unexpected ways. Who knew what other miracles they might perform?
Her other plan had been to cut the strings of Lady Hawk’s harp, since it was the evening concerts that kept people so dazed and docile. But when Pattern had crept into the music room with her sewing scissors, she found the instrument was locked away in a painted case. In any event, even if the harp was broken, Lady Hawk could still sing and, for all Pattern knew, it was her voice rather than the harp’s music that did the mischief.
For now, the snowdrops were her best defence. Pattern would have liked to think that Mr Grey’s warnings of snakes were simply to scare people away, but she had heard William boast to Alfred of his heroics in picking the posy for Jane. He swore that he had beaten off ‘a great black-and-yellow serpent’ with a gardening rake. Alfred had laughed, shaking his head. Pattern, however, was inclined to take the story more seriously. Accordingly, she had armed herself with a toasting fork and a poisonous concoction of cleaning products. She had spent a great deal of time perfecting the recipe, and was rather looking forward to testing its effects.
However, she had only got as far as the gate at the end of the garden, when Mr Grey appeared. ‘And where might you be off to, missy?’ He was eying her basket with suspicion.
‘Well, my, ahem, throat has been rather sore, so I was going to pick some blackberry leaves to brew a tea. I heard there was a bramble bush by the wood . . .’
‘There are no brambles on this island. It is very unusual to fall ill here, for the air is remarkably healthful.’
‘None the less, sir,’ she said, as firmly as she dared, ‘my throat does hurt.’
‘Doubtless a consequence of excessive gossiping.’ His frown was a fearsome sight. ‘Never mind the blackberry leaves. You would do better to drink hot water with honey and lemon – and refrain from tittle-tattle.’
‘Thank you, sir. I will be sure to try that.’
He didn’t move. ‘Then you will find everything you require in the kitchens.’
Frustrated, Pattern had no choice but to make her way back to the house, Mr Grey following close behind. She found the servants’ hall in uproar.
‘Oh, Penny! What do you think,’ Elsie gabbled, ‘but Reverend Blunt has just insulted Mr Ladlaw, who has called him out in a duel!’
‘Great heavens! How can that be?’
‘Well, it began this morning when Mr Ladlaw read out a poem in praise of Miss Hawk’s eyes. The Reverend said its sentiments put him in mind of a Sunday School tract. Then Mr Ladlaw said the tedium of the Reverend’s sermons was enough to convert any Christian to devilry. So the Reverend—’
‘But how are they to fight? Is it to be pistols at dawn?’
‘No, they are to fence out on the lawn, and milady says that everyone may watch!’
Pattern hastened to join the servants clustering by the door and at the ground-floor windows. By wiggling to the front, she had a clear view of the ‘field of honour’. Captain Vyne was to be Mr Ladlaw’s second, and Mr Grey acted as the Reverend’s. It would be their responsibility to supervise the encounter.
For weapons, the gentlemen had taken the rapiers that had been mounted over the fireplace in the smoking room. They were both frowning as they paced about, practising thrusts. Neither had the look of natural athletes. The poet had a slight build and bony wrists, whereas his adversary, the priest, had the lumpen physique of a man far too fond of second helpings at dinner-time. Captain Vyne – who was nearly as expert a swordsman as he was a seducer – surveyed them both with a highly superior air.
The ladies were arranged on the terrace. Iced lemonade and bowls of bon-bons were on hand for their refreshment. They were all threatening to swoon at any moment, though none of them would really be so foolish as to miss any of the excitement for the sake of a faint. Pattern found it disturbing that neither the Reverend’s sister, Honoria, nor Mr Ladlaw’s former sweetheart Miss Smith seemed particularly distressed.
‘I do hope Frederick puts on a decent show,’ said Miss Blunt. ‘He was never much of a sportsman at school.’
‘There is something very splendid,’ mused Miss Smith, ‘about the gleam of sunlight on a finely honed blade.’
‘Aren’t they dashing?’ cooed the Lane sisters, as the Dowager nodded and smiled.
Meanwhile, Miss Hawk – the subject of the duel – and her mama looked entirely unmoved. Miss Hawk was petting the little pug. Lady Hawk was placidly setting out cards for a game of patience.
After the Seconds had ensured the duellists were in position, Mr Grey held a white handkerchief aloft. After a heart-stopping pause, he dropped it to signify the fighting was to begin.
A delicate and deadly dance began. The two men circled each other warily, now and again making feints and thrusts. When all of a sudden the blades clashed in earnest – snicker-snack! – the ladies gasped, and even Pattern felt a not unpleasant thrill.
With renewed speed, the duellists darted and dashed hither and thither. Steel swished through the air, meeting with a quiver and a clang. Reverend Blunt scored the first hit, scraping the point of his blade down Mr Ladlaw’s arm. A thin line of red scribbled through the poet’s white sleeve.
The audience broke into applause. One of the footmen whooped; the ladies cooed admiringly. Pattern hoped that the drawing of the first blood would signify the end of the duel, but it seemed the fight had only just begun.
‘It is . . . it is not to the death, is it?’ she asked Alfred.
He did not take his eyes off the match. ‘Who cares? I’ve never seen such good sport. It’s a deal more exciting than cock-fighting, anyways.’
Nobody seemed particularly alarmed. As for Miss Hawk, she might as well have been observing a game of bridge.
Now it was Mr Ladlaw’s turn to score. His blade slashed through the Reverend’s waistcoat, causing him to stumble and curse. However, he recovered almost instantly. Despite their physical differences, the pair were remarkably evenly matched.
Pattern was no expert, but as time wore on she was sure that there were at least two occasions when either gentlemen could have scored a disabling, if not fatal, hit. Instead, they contrived to scratch flesh or tear cloth without inflicting any serious damage. Pattern should have been relieved by this. Nobody would wish for a man to throw his life away so recklessly. Yet she did not think the duellers were deliberately holding back. Indeed, they were straining every fibre of their beings in the effort to land a killer blow. Their eyes bulged with frustration; their teeth gnashed with fury.
Dart forward, dance back.
Twist, lunge, thrust, parry.
Whisk, whisk! Snicker-snack!
Both gentlemen were sweating and panting with effort. Torn breeches flapped, sleeves were slashed, buttons sliced off and stockings shredded. Each were spotted and speckled with blood from nicks and scrapes. How much longer could they continue before one or other of them dropped to the ground from sheer exhaustion?
The ladies continued to accompany the action with tremulous oohs and ahhs and smatterings of applause. Miss Hawk popped another sugared bon-bon into her mouth, and Lady Hawk quietly attended to her game of cards. Pattern watched her turn cards over and move them about for some moments before she noticed it was a very odd version of patience, if that was indeed the game. For Lady Hawk appeared to be arranging the cards according to colour, rather than suit. It struck her that the way the red and black cards were placed might be related to the progress of the duel.
She shifted her position so she had a better view of the spread. Pattern watched Lady Hawk delicately place an ace of diamonds face down on the table, and the very next moment Mr Ladlaw cried out as the Reverend Blunt’s blade scraped his ribs. A little while along, it was a knight of clubs that was turned over, and Mr Ladlaw who scored a hit. The longer Pattern watched, the more she was convinced that the red hearts and diamonds represented the poet, while the black clubs and spades represented the clergyman.
Nate had clearly come to a similar conclusion. He worked his way round to Pattern’s side and, under cover of the general applause, muttered: ‘Like watching Punch and Judy, ain’t it? No prizes for guessing who’s the puppet-master.’
‘Or mistress, rather,’ Pattern said grimly. She picked up a jug of lemonade that William, its original server, had left on the steps. ‘I think I can put a stop to it, but I need some way of stumbling that does not look contrived.’
Nate held out a piece of bon-bon to Lady Hawk’s pug, which was snuffling for treats along the terrace. ‘Leave it to me.’
Pattern carried the jug to where the ladies were seated, on the pretence of refreshing the Dowager’s glass. When she drew near to where Lady Hawk was sitting, Nate threw a piece of the sweetmeat towards Pattern’s feet. The greedy pug immediately scrambled after the treat, and under her skirts. Pattern let out a little shriek.
She had meant to ‘accidentally’ slop lemonade on to Lady Hawk’s card game, but her intervention was more dramatic than she intended. The pug was so startled by Pattern’s yelp that it leaped into Lady Hawk’s lap and from there to the table. As the creature snuffled and scrabbled, the playing cards flew every which way about. The lady exclaimed angrily in a foreign tongue.
‘I am s-so s-sorry, milady!’ Pattern was a picture of mortification. ‘The dog – it came from nowhere – forgive me—’
Miss Jenks was already springing into action, and scolded Pattern soundly. Lady Hawk brushed dog slobber from her skirts, a look of intense displeasure on her face – but not suspicion, Pattern was relieved to see. She was even more relieved that the two duellists had abruptly ceased their fight and were sitting on the lawn, slumped over their blades, and panting.
‘I think,’ drawled Captain Vyne, ‘that we had best declare it a draw.’