Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [18]
She had moved; and, bending forward, was holding out that rheumatoid claw to be taken and kissed. Rising, Lymond held it in his and said slowly, ‘Then I think it had better be soon.’
And the Dame de Doubtance, smiling, shook her head as he bent over her hand. ‘Despite everything, not soon enough.’ And as he straightened: ‘You and I will not meet again. You do not know it, but I have loved you. Mr Blyth …’ Jerott moved slowly forward. The jointed fingers snatched, and the little pearl crucifix he wore still, loose over his shirt, lay in her ruinous palm. ‘I tell you this, Mr Blyth, from my stall in the fair, senile though I appear. I tell you by this cross and by all you still believe that what I foretell will come true. Be my witness.’
He stood still, without speaking, his crucifix still in her hand. She had read his exact mind: he had nothing to add. But Lymond, in the unchanging quiet voice, said, ‘You have been kind, by your lights. For what you have done in the past, and what I think you believe must be done now, I am thankful.…’ He stopped, and said, ‘You have said nothing of Graham Malett. It may not matter.’
‘Evil matters. So does love. So does pity. My pilgrim,’ said the Dame de Doubtance gently, ‘you have still three bitter lessons to learn.’
For a moment she stood, the little cross flickering in the dim light in her hand; then she let it slip so that, swinging back on its chain, it found its home again on Jerott’s broad chest. Then she addressed Lymond. ‘What Mr Blyth needs is a large drink and some bawdy conversation, as quickly as possible. Can you arrange that, do you think?’
‘All Mr Blyth’s friends can arrange that,’ said Lymond gravely, and bowing, steered Jerott out and downstairs into the street. There, looming miraculously before them, was a familiar figure.
‘Oh, Onophrion,’ said Lymond, and Jerott, who had seen his face only a moment before, wondered at the pleasant, familiar pitch of his voice. ‘Onophrion, where with safety and propriety do you consider that Mr Blyth and I might go to drink ourselves senseless?’
And Onophrion, of course, knew.
In the event, the spinet took three weeks to crate and prepare for the journey. In the interval, Master Zitwitz finished outfitting the Comte de Sevigny’s party and failed finally to do the same for the Comte de Sevigny himself. And Philippa, whose sardonic brown eye had been the first to greet Jerott on his aching return from that night-long carousal, found that Mr Blyth was not after all to escort her to England, When she discovered why, her reaction was wholly characteristic. She waited until Lymond, Jerott and Onophrion Zitwitz were all safely out of the way, and then, with maid and bodyguard expostulating behind her, marched off to the Dame de Doubtance’s house.
This time it was daylight. The shutters were flung back in the shabby big bedroom and the ancient lady, whom Philippa reached with extreme rapidity, passed from servant to servant indeed like a familiar but insalubrious parcel, was sitting in a morning gown before a crackling fire, drinking something hot from a cup. ‘Ah, yes. Philippa Somerville. You’re early,’ said the Dame de Doubtance. ‘I have underestimated Mr Blyth’s capacity. Sit there.’
Philippa sat. Clearly seen, the daffodil wig Jerott had told her about was soiled and chased, here and there, with grey fluff. But the bold, bony features were far from senile, and so were the shrewd black eyes. The Dame de Doubtance said, ‘My cousin will bring you some qahveh, which you will dislike until your taste is formed. Then we shall be very pleasant: three women together. Men,’ said the Lady of Doubtance, rolling the words, ‘I find at times tiresome. Tell me: do you like melodrama?’
Philippa, her hands clamped hard in her lap, sat like a ramrod. ‘I think there’s more than enough in the world,’ she said, ‘without anyone adding to it.’
‘What!’ said the old